the air in the bedroom was humid and filled with the wet sounds and- “o-oh god,” you moan, muffling your cries into the bed as he pounds into you, hips snapping into you.
“slow down-- mmph fuck…” gripping the sheets with a iron grip as droplets of sweat glide down your forehead and back
your husband leans down and tightens a arm around your neck “ f-fuck shut up and take it” pulling you back against his chest, using his other hand to run down your body and rub your tiny bud-
“take it, take it, fucking take it.” he pants into your ear,kissing down your neck
“wan-- fuck, ‘baby… w-want you to fill me up,” you babble through whines and pornographic moans .
grabbing your hair and tilting your head back “ y-yeah - you like that? ” He whispers in your ear
summary: in a dystopian future where the government enforces arranged marriages to combat plummeting birth rates, you’re assigned a husband—choi yeonjun, a stranger you’ve never met.
warnings: explicit sexual content, soft breeding kink, language, forced marriage system, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy, domestic intimacy, power imbalance due to forced pairing, first time sex, creampie, dirty talk, oral sex,
wc: 19,1k
notes: hi everyone! ✨ so recently this idea popped into my head—i’ve been wanting to write something with an arranged marriage trope but the whole cold ceo x neglected wife thing was starting to feel a bit repetitive, especially since i’ve already written something in that genre (which i still LOVE btw, but i just wanted to try something new) 🥲 then i remembered this anime called koi to uso — it’s about this dystopian world where the government assigns you a partner and yeah… i never finished it because it turned super harem-y and that’s not really my vibe AJSJHSKJJH but the concept really caught my attention, so i thought hmm maybe i should give it a try 🫣
hope you guys enjoy it!! 🫶
everything begins the day you turn twenty.
you wake up to the faint noise of birds outside your window, sunlight filtering through the pale curtains, painting quiet shadows across your bedroom floor. your mother is already in the kitchen, humming lowly, but there’s something off in her tone. a tremble, maybe. or maybe it’s just you. maybe you’re imagining it because today’s the day you have to register.
the day you officially surrender your right to choose who you’ll love.
in this country, love is not a decision. it is a number, an equation, a state-mandated obligation for survival. for years now, the country’s birth rate has been plummeting. desperate to avoid demographic collapse, the government instituted the pairing system: when you turn twenty, your data—genetic markers, temperament, emotional intelligence, compatibility rates—is run through the database. the algorithm does the rest. your match is chosen, your future locked in, and within the year, you are expected to marry and attend compulsory family planning. you have one job: produce offspring.
love is banned unless sanctioned by the state.
you walk into the government building with your hands shaking, your mother squeezing your fingers too tightly, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. she’s been crying in secret, you know. she didn’t want this for you. no one does.
and yet—there is no other choice.
the registration is swift. a photo, a signature, your blood drawn for one final compatibility cross-check. they tell you the letter will arrive in three to five business days. the envelope will be yellow. unmistakable.
“please return home and prepare for assignment.”
you try to keep your days normal after that. university lectures. cafeteria lunches. walking home with your head down, ignoring the couples holding hands across campus, each one with an official barcode tattooed on their ring fingers—a symbol of government approval. your own hand feels heavy just looking at them. branded love. manufactured desire. they never really chose each other.
sometimes you wonder if any of them are happy.
three days later, the yellow envelope is in your mailbox.
you freeze when you see it. fingers trembling, breath caught, skin going cold. the paper almost burns in your hands. you don’t open it right away. you walk straight to your room, lock the door, sit on your bed with your heart racing so violently you think you might throw up. and then, slowly, carefully, you tear the seal.
your eyes skim the top. the official logo of the bureau of demographic affairs. your name, your assigned number. and then:
assigned partner: choi yeonjun. age: 20.
a small, passport-sized photo is attached to the right side of the letter.
you stare.
he’s... beautiful.
cat-like eyes, tilted just enough to make him look a little wild. dark lashes, long and thick. a soft, upturned nose with a gentle slope that suits the elegant structure of his face. lips—full, plush, the kind that look perpetually kiss-bruised even in monochrome. his jaw is sharp but not too much, softened by a slight pout in his mouth. he’s unnervingly symmetrical. there’s a balance to his features, a harmony, like he was designed—crafted—to be attractive.
your throat feels dry.
beneath the photo, there’s a line of text confirming the date of your preliminary meeting—next friday at 2 p.m., government center, family conference room 2B. both sets of parents are expected to attend. your wedding will be planned based on that meeting’s outcome.
you lie back on the bed, letter pressed to your chest, and stare at the ceiling.
it feels... wrong to think this—but he’s attractive. unfairly so. and that terrifies you even more. because you were always taught not to feel. not to dream of fairytales or meet-cutes or falling for someone in the rain. love at first sight is a myth now. it's forbidden. it would disrupt the system. too much emotion, too much unpredictability. and yet—
yet here you are, cheeks warm, heart skipping, staring at the grayscale face of a boy you’re about to marry.
a boy you’ve never met.
friday. 2:00 p.m.government center, family conference room 2B.
you’re early.
your dress is navy, modest, but it hugs your figure in a way you wish it wouldn’t. you didn’t pick it to be pretty—you picked it because it was formal, appropriate. your mother insisted on curling your hair, and your father didn’t speak the entire ride over. only your little brother tried to smile at you, but even his usual mischief was subdued. he kept playing with the sleeves of his hoodie in the backseat, pretending not to be upset.
the building is tall and silent, cold in a way that doesn't come from the air conditioning. it's the sterility of a place that sees life as a series of documents and laws. a place that doesn’t care about dreams.
you sit on one side of the long glass table, your family beside you. your mother keeps wringing a tissue in her lap. your father’s jaw is clenched, his hands crossed tightly. this is the last time they will sit with you like this—before you are someone else's.
and then the door opens.
you hear his voice before you see him. low, warm, laughing quietly at something one of his parents said. and when he walks in, it’s—
it’s hard to breathe.
he’s wearing a black suit that fits too well. slim, tailored, crisp like a page never touched. his hair is pushed back, soft and styled, a few strands falling delicately onto his forehead. and his face—his photo didn’t do him justice. his features move with his expressions, eyes gleaming like obsidian, mouth curved just slightly at the corners as if he’s always on the edge of a smile.
choi yeonjun.
his mother is elegant, her hair in a low twist, expression unreadable. his father looks composed, dignified, already halfway through a handshake with the government official present. this isn’t their first pairing. you remember reading his file—third son. they’ve done this before.
you feel like you’re being auctioned off.
“this is my assigned partner?” yeonjun asks, voice lilting, curious—not judgmental. he’s looking straight at you. and then he bows.
you stand and bow too, polite. your voice stays caught in your throat.
“you’re pretty,” he says softly, once he straightens. “i’m glad.”
it shouldn’t affect you. it shouldn’t. and yet your stomach flutters, just for a second, before you kill the feeling dead.
you don’t say anything. not because you’re rude—but because this isn’t real. this is a performance. this is a sentence.
the government mediator begins to speak, outlining the stages of the arrangement: the preliminary meeting. the planning process. the mandatory cohabitation. the one-year marriage trial before reproduction is expected.
you zone out after a while. your mother is crying again. your father’s voice is hoarse when he answers the legal questions. your little brother won’t look at you. and across from you, yeonjun looks like he’s done this in another life. calm. collected. but not cruel.
then, the mediator clears her throat.
“now, if the parents could please give the pair some time to speak privately. it is customary.”
your mother hesitates. she squeezes your hand until her knuckles turn white. she whispers something—"don’t let them take your heart too, okay?"—and then lets go.
and just like that, you are alone with him.
just the two of you, in a silent room that smells like paper and polished wood.
yeonjun exhales once your families are gone. his shoulders relax a little.
“wow,” he says. “that was intense.”
you nod. your hands are in your lap, clutching the fabric of your dress.
“you don’t talk much, huh?”
you glance up at him. he’s watching you with a soft kind of curiosity. not the kind that pries. more like he’s observing the weather—trying to guess if rain is coming.
“i do,” you say finally, voice quiet. “just... not today.”
he smiles. “that’s fair.”
a pause. he sits across from you again, legs crossed, posture easy, like he’s not under the weight of state surveillance. like this is his decision.
“i know this is strange,” he says. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s not. they pick someone for you, give you a name and a photo, and you’re supposed to start building a future. it's... a lot.”
you say nothing. you’re watching the way his fingers tap on the edge of the table. rhythmical. patient.
“i’m not here to make this harder for you,” he says, gentler now. “i know some people get assigned to assholes. i promise i won’t be one.”
your brows knit together, surprised.
he leans forward, elbows on the table, chin resting in one palm.
“if we have to go through this, we might as well not suffer through it.”
and you look at him then, really look.
his gaze is steady. not forceful. not manipulative. he’s not trying to make you like him. he’s just... honest.
"you’re used to this,” you murmur.
his smile falters. “not really. i’ve just watched my brothers go through it. and i learned what not to do.”
there’s something about the way he says it. like he’s seen what happens when the system doesn’t pair people right. like he knows how love can die before it’s even born.
you swallow, throat tight.
“i didn’t want this,” you admit.
he nods. “me neither.”
silence settles between you again. it’s not awkward. just full. like both of you are trying to breathe in a place with no air.
“but...” he says softly, after a while. “i think you’re interesting. and you’re easy to talk to. even if you don’t say much.”
your cheeks flush, and you hate that you can feel it. he notices, of course. but he doesn’t tease you. he just smiles to himself, quiet and pleased.
“so,” he says, tilting his head. “can i know something real about you? not government data. just... you.”
you blink.
he waits.
slow burn. that’s what this is. he’s not rushing. he’s not playing pretend. he’s offering you a chance to make something human out of something cold.
and even though everything in you is screaming don’t trust it—
you speak.
you tell him a little. not much. just enough.
and he listens. attentively. sincerely.
maybe that’s how it starts. not with a kiss. not with a confession. but with someone sitting across from you, asking who you are when no one’s watching.
two weeks later.
the wedding is on a thursday.
you don’t get a white dress. there’s no music, no flowers. no ceremony beyond a document and a pen and the sterile voices of government officials making sure everything is binding and accounted for.
you wear beige.
yeonjun wears black again. no tie this time. his hair is messier, like he didn’t bother too much. he looks good anyway, like he always does. like someone who never had to try.
the room is almost identical to the one where you met: glass, steel, a flag in the corner.
your mother sobs quietly during the signing. your father doesn’t let go of her hand. your brother tries not to look, but when you lean down to hug him goodbye, he hides his face in your shoulder and mutters a broken, “please don’t forget us.”
and that’s when you finally cry.
not loud. not messy. just silent tears running down your cheeks as you sign the paper that says you no longer belong to them. your name next to yeonjun’s. your status: married. active participant in national repopulation initiative.
they even stamp it. a red seal. final. absolute.
you don't remember the ride to your new shared apartment. only the sound of the car, the blur of the buildings, your hands gripping the hem of your coat in your lap like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality.
yeonjun doesn’t speak for a while. and when he does, it’s soft. careful.
“you don’t have to pretend around me,” he says, eyes on the road. “i know this hurts.”
you don’t answer.
he pulls into a residential complex. government-provided. modern, quiet. two bedrooms, a shared kitchen, everything fully equipped. it smells like fresh paint and new plastic. not like home.
your boxes are already inside. so are his.
the apartment is... neutral. beige walls. grey couch. chrome kitchen. there’s a small balcony, but it faces another building.
you walk into your assigned bedroom and close the door without saying a word.
and to his credit, he doesn’t follow you. not right away.
but now, days pass like fog.
there’s a schedule pinned to the fridge now. a printed routine from the bureau: acclimation period, cohabitation adjustment, health preparation. underlined: mandatory hospital check-up before family planning begins.
you go to the hospital together a week later.
the nurse greets you by your couple ID number.
yeonjun jokes to break the tension—something dumb about feeling like a robot in a factory—and you don’t laugh, but you glance at him sideways. just a little. he notices.
you both go through blood work, fertility testing, infectious disease screening. the nurse asks personal questions. too personal. about cycles and hormone levels and sexual history—
you flinch.
yeonjun speaks for you when you freeze.
“she’s not comfortable,” he says simply. “ask me first.”
his voice is calm, but there's steel beneath it. the nurse adjusts her tone after that.
on the ride home, you stare out the window. he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping his thigh, nervous energy he never shows in his posture. it’s the little things you’re starting to notice.
“you didn’t have to speak for me,” you say, finally.
“i know,” he answers. “but i wanted to.”
and again—there it is.
that kindness you didn’t ask for. that warmth he keeps offering, even though you haven’t given him much back.
nights are the hardest.
you pretend to sleep early, even when your eyes stay open in the dark for hours. the room feels too still, too foreign. the bed smells like the laundry detergent they gave you in the relocation kit. the ceiling fan turns slowly, quietly. your chest feels tight, like grief has found a home inside your ribs and refuses to move out.
sometimes, you press your ear against the bedroom wall. you can’t hear much. just the occasional soft shuffle, the hum of yeonjun’s voice when he speaks on the phone in hushed tones. he never speaks long. never laughs out loud. not anymore.
you miss your mother’s voice echoing from the kitchen, your brother’s heavy footsteps running down the hallway. the scent of warm rice and grilled mackerel. the sound of your father clearing his throat before calling everyone to eat.
now, there’s only silence.
until one night, a knock.
not loud. not urgent. just... present.
“hey,” comes his voice through the door. “you don’t have to open. i just wanted to say... i know this feels like the end of everything, but it isn’t.”
you sit up slowly. your hand hovers near the handle but doesn’t reach it.
“i know we didn’t choose each other,” he continues, voice low and careful, “but maybe that doesn’t mean we can’t choose to be good to each other.”
you swallow. your throat feels raw.
after a pause, your voice comes out in a whisper, hoarse but steady. “okay.”
you don’t open the door. but you walk to it, lean your back against the cool wood. and then—almost imperceptibly—you hear the sound of him lowering himself on the other side. sitting with you. just like that. no pressure. just presence.
you stay like that for a while. breathing the same air, separated by a few centimeters and a thin barrier. but somehow... it feels closer than anything else has in weeks.
you don’t talk more that night. but when you finally slide back into bed, you sleep without crying.
that’s a first.
the next morning, there’s tea waiting on the counter.
he doesn’t say it’s from him. but he’s the only other person here, so you thank him anyway.
a nod. a tiny smile. you sip it, and it’s sweet.
from that night on, something shifts. neither of you says it aloud, but the air is different now.
you start having breakfast together. simple stuff—toast, boiled eggs, fruit. you sit across from each other at the tiny kitchen table and talk about nothing. weather. uni schedules. news updates.
one afternoon, you both arrive home soaked from the sudden rain.
you were out grocery shopping. he met you on the walk back by chance. no umbrella. you ran together. you laughed—really laughed—for the first time since being assigned. your clothes clung to your skin, your breath short from the sprint.
in the elevator, he looks at you and says, a little breathless, “you’re kind of cute when you’re mad at the rain.”
you blink at him. cheeks warm. you don't know what to say.
that night, he passes you a hairdryer through your door.
“so you don’t catch a cold.”
you murmur thanks. he lingers in the hallway a moment, like he wants to say something else. but then he leaves.
the next few nights, he knocks more often. never asks to come in. just talks through the door. sometimes you join him on the floor again, your backs pressed to opposite sides of wood. you start to open up. a little at a time.
one night, just past midnight, you both end up in the kitchen again.
you couldn’t sleep. neither could he. you make tea, he brings a packet of cookies.
the city outside is asleep. your apartment is bathed in soft fridge light.
you find yourselves sitting on the floor, backs to the counter.
he asks, voice low, “did you ever fall in love before all this?”
the question feels heavy. you stare into your cup.
“no,” you answer honestly. “i didn’t let myself. what was the point, if it was forbidden? if we were all going to be assigned anyway?”
he nods slowly. you notice the way his eyes flick toward the window, as if remembering something far away.
“i did,” he says finally.
your heart stirs.
“in high school,” he goes on, “i fell for this girl in my class. she had this ridiculous laugh and used to bring snacks for everyone. i liked her for three years. never told her. i thought... i don’t know. part of me really believed she’d be assigned to me.”
you watch the way his lips twist into something halfway between a smile and a wince.
“i used to daydream about it,” he admits, almost embarrassed. “our names printed together on the envelope. hers next to mine. like it was meant to be.”
you don’t say anything. you let him speak.
“and then she got married last year. to someone else. she posted a photo with her husband and... i laughed. like, really laughed. because it was so stupid. how much hope i’d put into something that was never mine to decide.”
you imagine it. the version of him in a classroom, heart racing every time she turned around. young, hopeful. painfully innocent.
you don’t know her name. you’ll probably never meet her.
but you hate her a little.
you hate that she had his love, his dreams, his belief. something you were too scared to even touch.
and you hate that your chest aches when he says her name without saying it.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “that it didn’t work out.”
he looks at you, and there’s something tender in the way his eyes soften. “i’m not,” he says after a beat. “i wouldn’t have met you if it had.”
the silence after that is heavy, electric.
you don’t answer.
but you stay there with him. knees almost touching. the scent of tea between you. eyes a little too full. hearts slightly ajar.
the email arrives quietly, with the mechanical ding of a notification breaking the silence of your morning. it’s nothing dramatic—just a government seal, a cold subject line: YOUTH EMPLOYMENT PROGRAM FOR NEWLYWEDS.
you’re still in your oversized sleep shirt, hair loosely tied up, your fingers wrapped around a warm mug of barley tea as you sit at the small kitchen table. the place smells like toasted bread and laundry detergent. yeonjun walks in a few minutes later, yawning, dressed in sweatpants and a faded university hoodie, a slice of toast clenched between his teeth. he glances over your shoulder to see what you're looking at.
you click the email open. it’s from the ministry of social and familial affairs—another mandatory policy. another thing the government arranges for you, like you’re pieces on a board.
“because both parties are currently enrolled in higher education,” you read aloud softly, “the government will provide access to part-time employment opportunities and offer a financial subsidy for essential living expenses during the first year of marriage.”
you don’t say anything for a long while after that. the words hover in the air, bureaucratic and impersonal. but somehow, they make this life feel more real. more permanent. like you’re not just living in a temporary dream—you’re expected to stay here. build something.
“well,” yeonjun finally says, mouth half-full, “that’s... something. we should check it out later.”
you nod, even though your stomach feels hollow.
you still think about that night. the night he told you about his first love. about how he spent three years loving her in silence, convinced she'd be the one fate would give him. the girl with snacks and a bright laugh. the one who got married last year. not to him.
and no matter how much you tell yourself it’s ridiculous, it still gnaws at you sometimes. there’s this faint, irrational heat in your chest whenever she crosses your mind. you don’t even know what she looks like. you don’t know her name. but something about the way he talked about her—with such tender resignation—makes something sour rise in your throat.
you hate that it lingers.
you hate that it hurts.
that night, the rain starts late.
it begins with a steady tapping against the glass, the kind that would normally soothe you—white noise for your thoughts. but then the wind picks up, howling through the narrow alley between your apartment and the building next door, and you know what’s coming.
the first clap of thunder makes you freeze.
your fingers curl around the blanket. your chest tightens. you try to breathe slowly, like your therapist taught you when you were younger. but then comes another one—louder, deeper. it shakes the walls. it shakes you.
you’ve always hated storms. they made you cry as a child, and when you were too old to crawl into your mother’s bed, you forced your little brother to sleep beside you just so you wouldn’t feel alone.
now you’re in a place that doesn’t smell like your mother’s laundry, that doesn’t hold your brother’s sleepy warmth.
you’re alone again. except you’re not. not really.
you don’t think. you just move.
barefoot, your steps light across the cold floor, you open your bedroom door and cross the hall. you knock on yeonjun’s door twice, already feeling embarrassed, but unable to stop.
he opens almost immediately, wearing a gray t-shirt and sleep-tousled hair. his eyes are soft when they meet yours.
“are you okay?” he asks gently, already understanding.
you hesitate. “can i… stay here tonight?”
there’s a beat of silence. he nods, stepping aside without a word, and gestures for you to come in.
his room is dim, smelling faintly of his cologne and clean linen. it’s warmer than yours. there’s a stack of books by his bed, an open laptop with half-written notes still on the screen, a navy blue hoodie slung over the chair.
he grabs an extra blanket and starts to lay it out on the floor, but you shake your head, already trembling from another rumble of thunder.
“i… don’t want to be alone,” you whisper.
yeonjun pauses. and then, slowly, he walks back toward the bed and lifts the corner of the blanket for you.
you crawl in on one side. he lies down on the other. space between you, but not coldness. not indifference.
“i’ve always been scared of storms,” you murmur into the dark. “when i was little, i’d run to my parents’ room. then i made my little brother stay with me. i thought that when i grew up, i wouldn’t be scared anymore. but i guess… i still am.”
you feel the bed shift as he turns onto his side, facing you. his voice is low, almost a hush.
“nothing’s going to break tonight.”
those five words feel like something heavier than comfort. they feel like a promise. and they make something fragile inside you twist.
you’re quiet for a long time after that. the silence is heavy but not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that lets your heartbeat slow. the kind that feels full of something new—something you don’t have a name for yet.
you fall asleep to the sound of rain and his breathing, even and steady beside you.
and when you wake up in the early morning light, his hand is resting over yours.
you slept like a baby.
it's the first thought you have when you blink your eyes open, bathed in the pale light of morning seeping through the curtains. the room smells like faint detergent and something unmistakably yeonjun—warm cotton and the slightest trace of his cologne. the air is quiet now, no more thunder shaking the walls, no rain tapping restlessly against the windows. and your chest feels… calm.
it surprises you, how rested you feel. how deep your sleep was. how safe.
you remember all those nights with your younger brother, clinging to him as the storm rattled outside, whispering stories or counting sheep until your mind shut down from exhaustion. sleep was never easy back then. it was something you wrestled for, clawed your way toward, until it finally overtook you like mercy. but last night... last night, it came softly. it held you.
and now you realize why.
yeonjun’s arms are around you.
not tightly, not possessively—just gently draped, like he forgot to move in the night, like his body instinctively curved around yours in sleep. one of his hands rests over your wrist, the other loosely against your waist, warm even through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. and his face is so close, calm and boyish, lips slightly parted, his breath even and soft against your skin.
your heart pounds immediately, panic fluttering low in your stomach—not because you’re scared, but because this is unfamiliar. because you don’t know what to do with this kind of tenderness.
you want to pull away. you should. you really, really should.
but instead you stay.
you stay because there’s something about this moment that feels too fragile to break. something inside you, some cracked place, is being filled just by existing in this quiet closeness. and you realize—though you’ve never wanted to admit it—that you’ve been touch-starved for a long time. that there’s a part of you that’s been aching for connection, for warmth, for someone.
his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep, adjusting against your hip, and your breath catches. the movement is innocent, unconscious—but your skin reacts like it’s been branded. you swallow hard, trying to still the storm inside you, even though the one outside is already gone.
you stay like that for several more minutes, listening to the soft hum of the apartment, watching the way the sunlight plays over his features. you trace the line of his brow with your eyes, the soft curve of his lashes, the shape of his lips. he looks so peaceful like this—unguarded, almost boyish. and for a second, you wonder what he’s dreaming about. if he ever dreamed of something like this.
he stirs eventually, a sleepy sound escaping his throat as he blinks slowly awake. his gaze is unfocused at first, but then it lands on you, and something warm flickers in it.
“…morning,” he mumbles, voice still gravelly from sleep.
“morning,” you whisper back, suddenly aware of how close you are, of how your bodies are still tucked together like pieces of the same story.
neither of you moves.
there’s a pause where his eyes search your face, slow and unreadable. and then, with a sleepy smile tugging at his lips, he lets out a soft breath.
“you didn’t run away in the middle of the night. that’s a good sign.”
you laugh quietly, your cheeks burning. “i slept too well to even think about moving.”
he hums, pleased. “me too. i usually toss around like crazy, but i guess… you were a good influence.”
you want to joke. to deflect. but instead you find yourself whispering something real.
“i felt safe.”
his eyes soften.
you don’t say anything else. you just lie there a while longer, not moving, not rushing. there’s a peace in the way your bodies still fit together, in how neither of you seems quite ready to let go.
but the world, eventually, pulls you back. responsibilities, the clock ticking louder in your head. breakfast. classes. life.
yeonjun stretches lazily and finally pulls back, giving you space without question, his smile sleepy but kind. “i’ll make us coffee.”
you nod, watching him slip out of bed, hair tousled, shirt riding up slightly at the back. you press your hand to where his body had been, still warm, and you sit there a little longer, your thoughts spiraling in slow, confused circles.
because even though last night was about fear and storms… this morning feels like the beginning of something else entirely.
the waiting room smells like antiseptic and soft lavender, a strange combination that doesn’t manage to calm your nerves. you sit side by side with yeonjun on a sleek government-issued bench, your fingers clasped tightly on your lap, trying not to let your knee bounce with the anxiety pressing into your chest.
he seems more composed than you are—back straight, hands relaxed, legs slightly spread in his usual confident posture—but when you glance sideways, you notice how he keeps licking his lips, how his jaw clenches just a little every few seconds.
the appointment with the planning officer had been scheduled right after your wedding—clinical, efficient, emotionless, like everything else in this system. you hadn’t talked about it. hadn’t even wanted to think about it. but now it’s here, and there’s nowhere to hide.
“choi yeonjun. choi y/n,” a nurse calls softly from the doorway, clipboard in hand. “follow me.”
you walk side by side into a white, spotless office where a woman in a pale beige suit greets you from behind a desk. she looks to be in her forties, composed, direct, her nametag reading ms. kang – reproductive health officer.
you sit across from her. the air feels heavier now.
“so,” she begins, smiling in that polite, unyielding way government workers do, “you’re about a month into your union. how’s the adjustment been?”
you blink, unsure how to answer. yeonjun speaks first.
“we’re getting used to it. slowly.”
“good,” she nods, tapping something on her tablet. “you’ve both passed the health screenings, no genetic flags or fertility concerns. so the next step is to begin trials of compatibility-based conception.”
you shift in your seat. trials.
“have you already begun your sexual relationship?” she asks, her tone calm, like she’s asking about the weather.
your breath catches. your eyes widen slightly, and your face goes hot. “uh—no. not yet,” you manage, your voice too soft, almost guilty.
yeonjun straightens a little, eyebrows twitching, his tone sharper. “we’ve only been married a few weeks. there hasn’t been time.”
ms. kang doesn’t flinch. she only nods and types something on her screen. “i see. while it’s natural for some couples to take time, we recommend initiating intimacy soon. it will help establish the rhythm of your connection and allow us to track progress for planning interventions if necessary.”
your ears are burning now. her words play back in your head like static: initiate intimacy, track progress.
you glance at yeonjun without meaning to, and he’s already looking at you—but his expression is unreadable. his jaw is tight again.
“we’ll… take that into consideration,” he says curtly.
the rest of the appointment passes in a blur. you nod and agree to things you barely hear, accept pamphlets on fertility monitoring and hormonal optimization. by the time you walk out of the clinic, your skin feels too tight for your body.
you don’t speak on the way home.
you sit beside him on the train, trying to focus on the passing buildings outside the window, but your thoughts keep circling the same place. the way she said it. the expectation of it. and worse—the idea of it.
because the thing is… you’ve thought about it. even before this meeting, in the quiet moments, in the space between shared breakfasts and brushing past each other in the kitchen, in that night you slept in his arms like you belonged there.
you’ve wondered what his mouth would feel like pressed to your neck.
you’ve wondered how his hands would move if he weren’t just offering comfort.
you’ve wondered how his voice would sound if it wasn’t so composed—if it cracked with want.
but that was all private. safe in your imagination. not something stamped into paperwork. not something tracked by government programs and fertility logs.
and now you can’t not think about it.
when you finally get home, it’s too quiet. you move around each other like magnets unsure if they should attract or repel. you both pretend you’re just tired. that it was just a long day.
but the silence drips between you, thick and unspoken.
you head to your room without a word, tossing the clinic folder on your desk like it burns. you try to sleep. but the image of yeonjun, tense and handsome in the cold clinic light, won’t leave your mind. his voice, defensive. his fingers, twitching on his knee. and most of all, the memory of his arm around your waist from that night—the heat of his skin under your palm.
an hour passes. maybe two.
you shift in bed, restless. you toss the blanket off. put it back on. stare at the ceiling. you hear footsteps in the hall.
a soft knock at your door.
you sit up, heart hammering. “come in.”
yeonjun stands there, messy hair and hoodie half-zipped, eyes unreadable in the dim light. he doesn’t come in right away. just leans against the doorframe and runs a hand through his hair.
“sorry,” he says after a moment. “about earlier. the clinic.”
you nod. “it’s okay.”
he looks at you then, longer, and something flickers in his expression—something caught between curiosity and hesitation.
“they make it sound like it’s supposed to be… mechanical,” he murmurs, crossing the room slowly. “but it’s not, right? it’s not supposed to be.”
your breath catches.
he stops by your bed. close enough for you to see the flutter of his lashes, the nervous line between his brows. close enough that you feel the heat radiating off his body.
you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s you. maybe it’s both of you at the same time. but suddenly, the space between you disappears.
his hand brushes your cheek, soft and hesitant, and you lean into it without thinking.
“i don’t want it to be just… a task,” he says quietly, voice barely a breath now. “not with you.”
you don’t answer. you just let your forehead rest against his chest, your heart beating too loudly, your breath catching in your throat.
and when he wraps his arms around you again—warm and strong and familiar—you feel the storm rising again.
but this time, it’s not outside.
it’s you. it’s him.
and it’s not fear anymore.
it’s something else entirely.
you don’t kiss that night.
you could’ve. maybe you almost do. there’s a moment where his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth and your eyes lift to meet his, and you feel it—that shift, like the world holds its breath. but then he steps back, gives you a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and says goodnight in a voice that’s too soft, too careful.
he leaves your door cracked open behind him. and somehow, that’s worse than closing it.
after that, the tension lingers—thick and quiet like smoke.
in the mornings, you find yourselves together more often than not. your coffee mugs sit side by side now. sometimes you forget whose is whose. he steals sips from yours and you pretend to scowl, but your heart trips every time your fingers brush when you both reach for the sugar at the same time.
you fall into a rhythm. not romantic. not domestic. but something else. something intimate in a quiet way.
when the job placement emails come through, you sit together on the couch, scrolling through them on your shared government-issued tablet. yeonjun lands a spot as an assistant at a community cultural center downtown—flexible hours, reasonable pay. you get placed in a local library, part-time shelving and cataloguing.
it’s not exciting. it’s not your dream. but it’s… stable.
“at least we won’t starve,” yeonjun says one evening, his arm slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you. “thanks, government.”
you snort. “maybe next year they’ll assign us a kid and a dog, too.”
he laughs—really laughs, loud and full—and something about the sound makes your chest ache. it makes you want to say something dumb just to hear it again.
but what sticks with you, what haunts you, is that night after the storm. not because of what happened—because of what didn’t.
and what happened at the clinic. what the officer said. what yeonjun said after.
you think about it too much. think about him too much.
and you think about her.
the girl he loved once. the one he talked about in that quiet, midnight voice, when the rain had softened and you were wrapped in his hoodie like armor.
you remember how his gaze turned distant as he spoke of her, how he confessed that he truly believed she’d be the one assigned to him. that he waited. that he hoped.
how the disappointment burned when he found out she wasn’t.
and you shouldn’t feel anything about it. it’s in the past. he told you that.
but sometimes, when you catch him staring into space or fiddling with that little leather bracelet he always wears, your chest twists a little. and you don’t know why.
you’re not in love.
you’re not supposed to fall in love.
yet it keeps slipping in—quiet and slow. like water through cracks.
one evening, it rains again. not a storm, just a steady drizzle that makes the air smell clean. you’re both tired from work and university, but neither of you wants to be alone in your room.
you sit on the windowsill together, knees touching, sharing a bowl of strawberries yeonjun bought on the way home. the fruit is sweet and cold against your tongue.
“i used to love the rain,” he murmurs, watching it trail down the glass. “when i was a kid, i’d sit on the porch for hours just listening. it felt like… everything else stopped for a while.”
you glance at him. his profile is soft in the dim light, his hair falling slightly over his eyes.
“it used to scare me,” you admit quietly. “storms, i mean. as you may know...”
he smiles without turning to you. “you were scared.”
“yeah.”
there’s a pause.
“you weren’t scared the other night,” he says. “not with me.”
you shrug. “you made it easy not to be.”
the silence that follows is gentle. not awkward. just… full.
“do you think it’s still possible?” he asks suddenly. “to fall for someone? even with all of this?” he gestures vaguely, and you know he means the system, the laws, the matching algorithms and fertility checkups and pre-written life paths.
you don’t answer right away. you don’t know how to.
“i think we’re not supposed to,” you say after a long pause. “but maybe… that doesn’t stop it from happening.”
his eyes find yours then, and they don’t look away.
your heart stumbles.
neither of you speaks. the air feels like it’s crackling again—not with lightning, but with something just as dangerous.
the next night, you fall asleep on the couch together. not planned. not anything.
you were watching something. you don’t even remember what. but you woke up with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, heartbeat steady against your ear.
you don’t move. you can’t move.
it feels too good. too right.
his shirt smells like laundry soap and skin. his fingers shift in his sleep, brushing lightly along your back. it makes you shiver. it makes you think about things you shouldn’t.
you stay there until the sun begins to rise.
you pretend to be asleep when he finally stirs and lifts his head slightly, blinking at your face. you feel the weight of his gaze.
but he doesn’t move either.
and neither do you.
because something’s changing. you both feel it.
you just don’t say it. not yet.
not until it’s too loud to ignore.
and maybe that moment is coming faster than either of you is ready for.
you try not to overthink the moments.
you try.
the accidental sleep on the couch becomes less accidental. the next week, it happens again—this time during a shared late-night study session. you're both exhausted, papers and notebooks strewn across the coffee table, half-finished cups of coffee gone cold.
you wake up tucked under the same blanket, the light off, the tablet blinking low battery on the floor. yeonjun is beside you, his legs tangled with yours, his breathing soft against the crown of your head.
he doesn’t say anything when you open your eyes. he’s already awake, watching you, and when he sees you stir, he whispers a faint “morning” like it’s a secret.
you nod, throat dry. “morning.”
neither of you moves.
and maybe it’s the silence. maybe it’s the way his hand is resting lightly on your hip, not possessive, not bold—just there.or maybe it’s because of the way your name sounds in his voice lately—gentler, more familiar, too intimate for two people who were supposed to be strangers made spouses.
whatever it is, it roots itself deep in your chest, wraps vines around your ribs, and refuses to let go.
but things are still complicated.
you remember the appointment at the family planning center far too clearly. how the sterile walls and uncomfortable chairs felt like a sentence being handed down. the woman at the desk, clipboard in hand, speaking in clinical terms while smiling too much. the questions.
“have you two begun sexual relations yet?”
your body stiffened so fast it hurt. you’d shaken your head, cheeks burning.
“no,” you said, barely above a whisper.
and then yeonjun.
his voice didn’t waver. didn’t shrink. but there was a hint of something—offense, maybe, or just discomfort buried beneath practiced calm.
“not yet.”
not yet.
those words echoed for hours after.
the woman nodded, unbothered, flipping her pen in one hand.
“you should consider beginning soon,” she said, checking off a box. “intimacy will help strengthen the emotional bond and allow us to begin identifying which fertility path will suit your needs. the government recommends couples begin within the first ninety days of union.”
you had never wanted to disappear more.
the walk home was silent.
yeonjun didn’t mention it. you didn’t either.
but it sat between you like a stormcloud, buzzing with electricity, waiting to crack open.
you catch him watching you more after that. not in a bad way. not in a way that makes you feel unsafe. no—it makes you feel too safe, and that’s somehow worse.
he’s careful. always. but he’s still a boy. and you’re still you. and your bodies know things your minds are afraid to say.
the small space you share only makes things more dangerous.
his cologne clings to your pillows. your lotion starts appearing on his arms. he hums the songs you listen to in the shower. he buys your favorite snack without asking.
you start wearing his shirts to sleep without realizing. you only notice the third time it happens—when he stops in the hallway and his eyes dip, linger, then flick back up with a quiet clearing of his throat.
“is that mine?”
you glance down at yourself. it’s an old oversized gray tee. soft. worn. familiar. his scent baked into the fabric like sunlight.
“uh… yeah. sorry. it was just on the chair and—”
“keep it,” he says, not letting you finish. “looks better on you.”
you go to bed that night with your skin buzzing.
and things only build from there.
he starts cooking more, pulling you into the kitchen with an easy “help me” that really means just stand here while i talk to you. you lean on the counter while he cuts vegetables, while he stirs sauces, while he tells you about his classes and how boring statistics is, how he almost fell asleep mid-lecture. you laugh and call him dramatic. he grins and tells you it’s your fault for not waking him up when he left.
“you’re supposed to be my wife now. you have responsibilities.”
he says it like a joke. you laugh like it is one.
but your heart stutters anyway.
one night, it rains again. not a storm, just heavy and constant, soft thunder echoing in the distance. you find yourself awake at midnight again, restless, curled on the couch in the living room with your knees tucked to your chest.
yeonjun finds you there.
he doesn’t say anything—just sits beside you, close but not touching, and watches the rain drip down the windows.
“can’t sleep?” he asks.
you shake your head. “not really.”
“you okay?”
you nod, even though you’re not sure.
the air between you hums. it’s familiar now. this closeness. this heavy, unsaid thing growing slowly between shared silences and sidelong glances.
you lean your head on his shoulder, unsure why. maybe it’s because the rain feels lonelier tonight. maybe it’s because it feels like something is shifting again.
his breath hitches almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t move away.
“do you think they’re watching us?” you ask softly. “the government, i mean. checking how fast we fall in love. how fast we sleep together.”
he’s quiet for a moment.
“maybe,” he says finally. “but they can’t measure the parts that matter.”
“like what?”
he tilts his head toward yours. “like this.”
you feel the words like fingertips down your spine.
you close your eyes, and his shoulder under your cheek feels like solid ground.
this is the moment where maybe everything could change.
but you don’t kiss. not yet.
you breathe in together.
and for now, that’s enough.
the power cuts out a little after ten. it happens suddenly—an abrupt flicker, followed by darkness swallowing the apartment whole.
you blink, heart skipping, your body already tightening with reflex from the sound, from the silence that follows too quickly.
then the soft sound of rain begins again.
but unlike the last time, this one is gentle. no thunder, no flashes of light through the windows. just rain, steady and calm like fingers tapping against glass. it’s the kind of rain that makes the night feel softer than usual. quieter.
yeonjun lights a candle he keeps in the drawer near the kitchen, its flame swaying in the center of the living room table, casting shadows on the walls. he brings it over to the couch where you sit curled up under a blanket, your knees pressed to your chest, already waiting.
he joins you without asking.
“guess we’ll have to pretend we’re in the 1800s,” he murmurs, glancing at the candle.
you laugh softly. “at least you’re not reading me poetry.”
“don’t tempt me,” he grins.
the silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. it rarely is now. something about the rain, the flicker of light, the way you’re seated side by side with your shoulders barely touching, it all feels… close.
your gaze drifts to the window, where the raindrops race each other down the glass. and before you can stop yourself, your thoughts start circling again. you’ve been doing that more and more—ever since that night. ever since yeonjun told you about her. the girl he loved in high school. the one he thought would be assigned to him.
you swallow. your chest tightens, not with pain exactly—more like an unfamiliar ache. something raw you haven’t named yet.
“can i ask you something?” you say, voice quiet.
yeonjun hums, eyes still on the candlelight. “of course.”
“i haven’t stopped thinking about her.”
he turns to you, brows faintly furrowed. “who?”
“the girl you were in love with.”
his expression doesn’t change much. he just blinks slowly, watching you. “why?”
you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “i don’t know. maybe because… i’m jealous of her.”
that makes him laugh—soft, surprised. “jealous?”
you nod, heart pounding. “yeah. i guess it’s stupid. but… she got to be your first love. she got all of you when it meant something. and now, i’m just—”
“my wife?” he cuts in, still smiling, trying to lighten the air. “you’re my wife now. kind of a win, don’t you think?”
but you don’t smile back.
you turn to face him, the dim light catching on your lashes, your jaw tight. “it’s not the same,” you say softly. “i know this is supposed to be a marriage, but it doesn’t feel right… hearing about your past like that. it’s not fair. it’s not fair that i have to be the one who came after.”
yeonjun’s smile fades. the playfulness drains from his face, replaced by something heavier. something slower. he looks at you like he’s really seeing you now—like maybe he’s been seeing you all along but didn’t know how close you were to unraveling.
“hey,” he says quietly, voice low and careful. “you’re not after anyone.”
you try to look away, but he catches your chin between two fingers, guiding your eyes back to his.
“she’s the past,” he murmurs. “but you—you’re the present. you’re the one who’s here. who sleeps beside me. who leaves hair ties on the bathroom sink and wears my shirts and steals my side of the bed.”
your lips part, but no sound comes out.
“don’t do that to yourself,” he whispers. “don’t compare. it’s not the same because this is real. and growing. and you—”
he leans closer.
“you make me forget her name.”
you blink, breath catching. the air feels different now. the candlelight flickers between you, but you can barely see it. all you can see is him—his face inches from yours, his voice warm and deep and trembling just enough to make your pulse race.
“yeonjun…”
“can i kiss you?” he breathes.
you nod.
slowly, his hand slides to your jaw, his thumb brushing the soft skin beneath your cheekbone. he closes the space between you inch by inch, giving you time to pull away, but you don’t. you lean in.
when his lips finally meet yours, it’s not fireworks. it’s gravity.
you sink into it, into him, into the warmth and tenderness of it. it’s careful, at first—testing, soft, a question asked in the silence. but then you tilt your head, fingers finding the collar of his shirt, and he answers with a deeper kiss, one that pulls a sound from the back of your throat you didn’t expect.
it’s too much. it’s not enough. it’s everything all at once.
when you finally part, you’re breathless.
he presses his forehead to yours. the candle crackles gently nearby. the rain keeps falling.
“i’m sorry,” you whisper.
“don’t be,” he says, brushing his nose against yours. “i should’ve known. i should’ve said something sooner.”
you shake your head. “no. i needed to feel it. to say it. i think i’ve been holding everything back since this marriage started.”
“me too.”
you both fall quiet again, but this time, it’s different.
you’re not two strangers trying to survive a system anymore.
you’re two people finally reaching across the space that was never meant to last.
and outside, the rain sings soft lullabies to the city, and the candle flickers like a heartbeat, and in his arms, you no longer feel like a second choice.
you feel chosen.
the next morning, something has changed.
it’s subtle. nothing overt. not at first.
you wake up earlier than him and find yourself just… watching him for a moment. the soft rise and fall of his chest. the curve of his lashes against his cheek. how he frowns slightly in his sleep, like he’s still half in a dream. you should look away—you’ve always looked away before—but now your eyes linger.
when he stirs, blinking against the light, he sees you watching. he doesn’t flinch. he just smiles, sleep-warm and real, and your heart does something uncomfortable and sweet in your chest.
“morning,” he murmurs, voice rough.
“morning,” you whisper back, your voice catching a little.
he reaches out lazily, his fingers brushing your arm beneath the blanket, and even though it’s nothing, just that, your breath hitches. you tell yourself it’s the closeness. the aftermath of the kiss. but the warmth in your chest says something else.
and then the day goes on—but not quite the same.
at breakfast, he sits closer than usual. your elbows touch when you both reach for the sugar. he doesn’t apologize like before. doesn’t pull away. just grins and bumps your shoulder on purpose this time.
you roll your eyes. “you’re annoying.”
“you kissed me last night,” he says, way too casually. “you don’t get to call me annoying anymore.”
“you asked first.”
“still counts.”
the banter is light, teasing, familiar. but under it, there’s a new current. an awareness. every glance feels heavier. every touch lingers a second longer than it should. when he hands you a dish, his fingers brush yours, and neither of you lets go right away.
the silence between you becomes something else entirely. no longer filled with obligation or awkwardness. now it feels like a question that neither of you is brave enough to answer out loud.
until it happens again. in the kitchen, late at night, as you’re washing dishes and he comes up behind you. at first it’s innocent—he says something dumb, you laugh—but then his hand finds the small of your back, and you freeze, not because it’s wrong but because it’s not. it feels too good. too natural.
you turn, slowly, water dripping from your hands, and he’s already looking at you like he wants to kiss you again.
he doesn’t. not yet. he just leans in and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers graze your cheek, his eyes drop to your lips, and then—he walks away.
you stand there for a moment, heart pounding, wondering how the hell he keeps doing this to you.
a few days later, you’re invited to visit your family.
it’s your first time back since the marriage. your parents had called to check in, of course, had even video called once or twice, but nothing replaces being home. your mother’s cooking. your father’s quiet warmth. your brother’s chaotic energy.
the moment you walk through the door, your mom pulls you into a hug so tight you almost cry again. your dad claps yeonjun’s shoulder, awkward but trying. your brother, now twelve, looks like he’s grown taller.
he eyes yeonjun up and down, squints a little, then smirks at you.
“so, are you pregnant yet?”
you freeze.
your dad chokes on his tea. your mother lets out a gasp so sharp it could cut metal. yeonjun’s eyes go wide—like someone just yanked the floor out from under him.
“yoonho!” your mom yells, already reaching for the nearest dish towel like it’s a weapon. “you can’t ask that!”
“what?” your brother yells as he runs from her, laughing like a maniac. “i just wanted to know if the government system’s working!”
your dad is still coughing. you’re standing there redder than a tomato. burning with mortification.
yeonjun, after a stunned beat, laughs. really laughs. full chest, head-tilted-back laughter that’s so contagious you can’t help but giggle through your hands.
“don’t encourage him,” you say, smacking his arm lightly.
he grins down at you, eyes sparkling. “i’m sorry, that was—really something.”
“he’s an idiot,” you mutter, still mortified.
“he’s your idiot,” he says, voice softer now.
you glance up at him and smile, something warm spreading in your chest. it surprises you, just how much that smile feels like home.
and even after the chaos settles, even after your mom manages to drag your brother back by the collar to apologize properly, even when you sit around the table laughing and eating and telling stories—there’s a small, secret current running beneath it all.
the way yeonjun’s hand grazes your lower back when he leans past you to grab a dish. the way you lean into him just slightly when your mom starts talking about your childhood, and he listens like he wants to know everything.
and when the night ends, and you both return to your apartment, it’s quieter—but it’s a good quiet. that kind of peace you only feel when someone’s truly, finally getting under your skin.
the drive back home is quiet, but not in a bad way. it’s the kind of silence that lingers after too much laughter, after too much emotion crammed into too little time. the windows are fogged slightly from your breaths, and the hum of the road is the only sound between you. outside, the city lights blur in soft halos, the streets wet from the rain earlier in the day, reflecting neon and moonlight.
you’re leaning against the car door, eyes heavy, body full from dinner, from memories, from everything. your family had insisted you stay the night, but you knew it would’ve made leaving harder. too emotional. too permanent. so you thanked them, smiled through the tightness in your throat, and left.
and now, here you are, beside him. yeonjun’s one hand is on the wheel, the other resting between the seats, fingers tapping idly against the console. you glance at it once. then again. his profile is calm, a faint curve to his lips like he’s still smiling at your brother’s chaos.
you break the silence first.
“sorry about today… my family can be a lot.”
he lets out a soft chuckle. “i liked it.”
you turn to him, a little surprised.
“really?”
he nods. “they’re… warm. chaotic, yeah, but it felt real. like they love you so much they don’t even try to hide it.”
you press your lips together, looking down at your lap, suddenly blinking back something stinging in your eyes. you weren’t expecting that answer. or maybe you were, but not the way it made your chest ache so gently.
“thanks,” you whisper.
you don’t realize you’re still staring at him until he speaks again, this time softer.
“and your brother…” he smirks a little. “i can’t believe he said that.”
you groan, hiding your face in your hands. “please don’t remind me.”
“i’m serious,” he laughs, and then looks over at you, his gaze lingering longer this time, “you were so red.”
“because it was embarrassing,” you shoot back, but your voice is lighter, warm with the trace of a smile.
his eyes flick down to your lips.
“you’re cute when you blush,” he murmurs, and it’s so quiet you’re not even sure he meant to say it out loud.
your breath catches. your heart stutters. suddenly the space between you feels smaller. the console is no longer an arm’s length—it’s a breath. the air is thicker. hotter.
you look at him, really look at him—his jaw sharp in the glow of passing streetlamps, the tendons in his neck tense, his grip on the wheel a little tighter now. he looks back, just briefly, but it’s enough. something electric pulses between you.
and then he pulls over.
not far from your building, not quite home yet—but enough to be alone. enough to pause. the engine hums low, a steady heartbeat in the silence. he doesn’t look at you right away, just stares forward, fingers tightening, loosening, tightening again on the wheel.
you feel your pulse in your throat.
“i…” he starts, then stops. he turns to you, eyes darker than before. clearer. “can i ask you something?”
you nod, heart racing.
“why did it bother you?” he asks quietly. “about the girl i told you about.”
you stare at him. that familiar heat returns to your chest, crawling up your neck. you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.
“i don’t know,” you lie at first. but then, you sigh. “maybe because it was real for you. maybe because… you had someone you wanted, once. and i never did. and now i’m supposed to just… live with that. pretend like i’m not wondering if she would’ve made you happier.”
he watches you for a long moment, expression unreadable. then, finally, he leans a little closer, voice low.
“do you think i’m not happy?”
your throat dries.
“are you?” you whisper.
he exhales slowly, shaking his head like he can’t believe he’s about to do this. and then he shifts, fully turning toward you. his fingers reach up, brushing lightly against your chin, lifting your face to his.
“you’re not her,” he says. “you’re you.”
and then, without waiting, without asking again—he kisses you.
it’s not urgent. not rough. it’s slow, deliberate, tender with something sharp hidden beneath. like he’s been holding it back for too long and now that it’s happening, he’s pouring everything into it. his hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. your lips part before you even realize, and his tongue grazes yours, soft, testing, like he’s still asking if this is okay even now.
you melt into it.
your hand slides up his arm, gripping his bicep, grounding yourself as heat spreads through your veins. your bodies don’t move much, still confined by seatbelts and space, but it’s intimate. intense. and when he finally pulls back, breathing harder than before, he rests his forehead against yours.
“you’re not her,” he whispers again. “and thank god for that.”
you sit there, breaths mingling, skin flushed, hearts racing in tandem. your hand is still on his arm. his thumb is still tracing your cheek.
and this time, neither of you says a word. because you both know—something just changed again.
you’re not lovers. not yet.
but your hands brush again on the way to bed. he holds your gaze a little longer. and when you lie down, back to back, you find yourself pressing closer, just enough that your spine feels the heat of his chest.
you fall asleep like that.
and neither of you says a word.
you both had an appointment early in the morning. the ministry of civil labor had sent a formal notice last week, listing the available part-time positions for couples still enrolled in university, and now you were seated across from an administrative worker who barely looked up from her screen as she explained the contracts. yeonjun was placed in a logistics department for a government-run supply chain—something with inventory and system inputs. you were assigned to a small local archival center where they'd digitize old birth and marriage records, which felt ironic in a way that made your stomach twist.
“you’ll receive your first schedule by the end of the week,” the woman said without emotion, and you both nodded, signing at the bottom of the page, pens scratching the paper in tandem.
walking out of the building, yeonjun nudged your shoulder with his and whispered, “look at us. signing contracts like a real married couple.” and you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile pulling at your lips.
“you mean we weren’t real before?” you asked, raising a brow.
he smirked, unlocking the car and opening your door. “we were married on paper. now we’re married... and employed.”
you both laughed, climbing into the vehicle, and the warmth lingered even after the engine hummed to life. it was a quiet kind of happiness, soft and simple, like the feeling of your bare thighs against the leather seat, like the sun warming the dashboard. you wore a dress that day—casual, nothing too fancy, but it clung lightly to your frame in the breeze when you walked out earlier, and you caught the way yeonjun had looked at you from the corner of your eye. not blatant. just... noticing.
the road was mostly empty. the hum of tires on pavement filled the silence as the laughter faded, replaced by something thicker. something weightier.
at a red light, he stopped the car smoothly, one hand still on the steering wheel. the other lifted, slowly, casually, and without looking at you, he placed it on your thigh.
he didn’t squeeze. he didn’t slide his fingers higher. just let his palm rest there, warm and firm, like it belonged.
your breath hitched.
you tried not to move, tried not to tense up, but the sensation crawled up your spine like wildfire. it was such a simple touch, so ordinary, but it landed somewhere deep in your belly—hot, twisting, coiling. your skin tingled where his fingers barely pressed into the flesh, and your thighs felt suddenly, achingly aware of how little separated them from him.
he said nothing.
neither did you.
but your body betrayed you—the way your chest rose a little faster, the way your knees shifted slightly, as if trying to find an answer to the question that touch had asked.
the light turned green.
he drove on.
his hand didn’t move.
the silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. it was charged. heavy with something that neither of you dared name yet.
you exhaled, slow and shaky, and he glanced at you briefly, lips curving—not into a smirk, but something softer. something fond. he rubbed his thumb in a slow arc, barely there, and your fingers curled around the hem of your dress to keep from shaking.
by the time you got home, the tension had woven itself into your skin like a second layer. you both stepped out of the car and walked toward the apartment quietly, but the air buzzed with every step.
inside, the routine resumed—shoes off, bags down, water poured into glasses—but your thoughts were nowhere near the surface. every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence more than you saw him. every brush of his hand, every graze of his arm felt like a firestarter.
you stood near the sink, rinsing the cups, when he came up behind you. didn’t touch you. just stood close enough that you felt the heat of his chest on your back, close enough that your breathing stuttered.
“need help?” he murmured, voice low, mouth near your ear.
you shook your head, but your body leaned slightly into him anyway. traitorously.
his hands didn’t move—not yet—but his presence surrounded you, a quiet pressure that built with every second. you turned your head slightly to glance at him, and the proximity was enough to make you both pause. your lips weren’t touching, but they could’ve. your noses almost brushed.
and then he reached for the cup beside you, taking it slowly, deliberately, his fingers brushing yours. your breath caught again.
“thanks,” he said, voice still low.
you watched him walk away, your hands trembling under the water, and you knew—tonight, you wouldn’t be able to pretend this tension didn’t exist. it was burning its way into your bones.
that night, everything felt like it was humming. the silence between you wasn’t really silence—it was full of what hadn’t been said, of what hadn’t been done but nearly was. the ghost of yeonjun’s hand on your thigh still lingered, burned into your skin. your legs still tingled from the pressure, the weight, the heat. and when he brushed past you in the kitchen again after dinner, it felt deliberate. or maybe you just wanted it to be.
your heart hadn’t settled since the drive home.
later, after you’d both changed into your sleep clothes, you met again in the hallway, the light above you casting a golden hue that made his skin look warm and soft. you paused at the same time, eyes locking. your breath caught in your throat, because he wasn’t just looking at you—he was seeing you. seeing the hem of your shirt, the way it clung slightly to your waist. seeing the bare stretch of your legs, your collarbone, the fine line of your neck.
you thought he’d say something.
he didn’t.
he just stepped past you, heading to the shared living room like usual. the storm from earlier had passed, leaving a cool breeze in its wake. you followed, drawn to him like always. you both sat on the couch, feet tucked beneath you, shoulders close but not quite touching. it was dark. the power had gone out temporarily again, only the soft blue emergency lights casting faint shadows across his face.
“you’re quiet,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“just thinking,” he replied, his tone low, almost distant.
you turned your head toward him. “about what?”
he hesitated. “about earlier... the car. and how it felt.”
you sucked in a soft breath. “me too.”
silence again.
and then, slowly, as if guided by instinct, he reached over and touched your hand. fingers brushing the back of yours. the contact was small. barely anything. but it was enough to pull the air from your lungs. you turned your palm and laced your fingers with his.
it felt dangerous.
he looked at your joined hands like he didn’t recognize his own, and then back at you—his eyes darker than usual, hooded, like he was holding back a tide. you weren’t sure who moved first. maybe it was him. maybe it was you. but one second you were sitting apart, and the next your bodies were angled toward each other, your knees brushing, your breaths tangled. his hand cupped your jaw gently, fingers trembling against your skin, and he leaned in, close enough that his lips nearly grazed yours.
your pulse roared in your ears.
his mouth touched yours like a whisper—featherlight, testing.
you responded before you could think, lips parting for him, heat blooming low in your stomach like wildfire. the kiss deepened slowly, wet and slow and dizzying. his tongue brushed yours, cautious at first, then more certain, like he needed to taste you, like he was starved. your hand curled into his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groaned softly into your mouth, deep and breathless.
his hand slid down your side, fingers skating over the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, and you gasped when they reached your hip. he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling him, bodies pressed together too close to ignore. the heat between you crackled—your hips shifted without thinking, and you felt the hardness of him, solid and hot beneath you.
his lips broke from yours for a second, his breathing rough. “fuck... y/n...”
his hands gripped your thighs, sliding up, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. you whimpered, pressing closer, grinding down gently. it was heady. dizzying. perfect.
and then—
his phone rang.
the sound shattered the moment like glass.
you both froze.
you were on his lap, panting, trembling, your lips swollen from the kiss, your heart pounding like a war drum. he didn’t move for a second. then he cursed under his breath and gently lifted you off him, muttering a strained apology as he reached for the phone. his voice cracked when he answered, trying to sound normal.
you stood there, stunned, breathing hard, still tasting him on your tongue.
after the call, which only lasted a few seconds, he didn’t look at you.
“i think... i’ll sleep in my room tonight,” he said quietly.
you blinked. “oh.”
he didn’t explain.
he just walked away.
and something cold settled in your chest.
you crawled into your bed alone, wrapping the blanket around yourself tightly, but you couldn’t sleep. not when you still felt the ghost of his hands on your body. not when your lips were still tingling from the kiss. not when he had looked at you like he needed you, and then walked away without a word.
you turned over. again. again. and again. your heart ached with confusion. was it too much? did he regret it? had you done something wrong?
you couldn’t take it anymore.
you got up, padded down the hall to his room, and raised your fist to knock.
but then you froze.
because you heard it.
soft, muffled sounds, irregular breathing. your eyes widened.
a low groan, deep and drawn out.
then a quiet, wet sound—rhythmic, unmistakable.
your breath caught.
you didn’t mean to listen. but you couldn’t move.
then, you heard it.
“y/n...”
your name, moaned out—quiet but desperate. raw. like a confession.
your knees weakened.
another moan, louder this time, almost a whimper.
and then—your name again, breathless, almost broken, followed by the sound of skin slapping softly against skin, faster now.
he was close.
he was touching himself.
thinking of you.
you pressed your palm to your mouth, trying not to make a sound, cheeks burning, body trembling. you shouldn’t be here. you shouldn’t hear this. but your legs wouldn’t move. your breath came in shaky gasps, your heart thundering as heat rushed between your thighs, pooling heavy and hot.
you didn’t know what this meant.
but you knew one thing.
he wanted you.
and now, you didn’t think you could ever look at him the same again.
you didn’t mean to lean closer.
you didn’t mean to press your ear too tightly against the door.
but your balance faltered—just a second too long standing on your toes, your weight shifting, your breath too shallow—and suddenly your foot slipped on the edge of the smooth hallway floor. a soft, startled sound escaped your throat as your body tilted sideways, your hand fumbling for the wall, failing.
and then—thud.
a soft crash, your hip hitting the floor, your palms slapping down just in time to soften the fall. you gasped and quickly clamped your hand over your mouth, praying he hadn’t heard, that you hadn’t been loud enough—but inside, panic bloomed like fire. your chest heaved as you tried to stay perfectly still, your cheeks on fire, the oversized t-shirt—his t-shirt—riding high around your waist from the fall.
then you heard the shuffle. footsteps. hurried. a sudden rush from the other side.
“y/n?” his voice was sharp. worried. confused.
before you could react, the door swung open.
and there he was.
yeonjun.
bare-chested, sweat clinging to his collarbones, his hair disheveled, lips swollen and flushed, his hand still adjusting the waistband of his boxers as if he hadn’t had time to fix himself. and then he saw you.
on the floor.
his shirt up around your waist.
your bare thighs. your panties exposed.
your hand covering your mouth, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights.
time froze.
he stared at you, blinking once, then again. his mouth parted, but no words came out. his gaze dropped—just for a heartbeat—but you saw it. the flicker. the hunger. the tension that snapped into existence like a spark to gasoline.
you scrambled to tug the shirt down, cheeks burning, breath caught.
“i—i slipped, i wasn’t—i mean—”
“were you listening?” his voice came out low. rough.
you opened your mouth, then shut it. your throat tightened. your heart was pounding so violently you felt it behind your eyes.
“y/n…” he whispered, stepping closer.
your breath hitched.
“i heard you,” he said, his voice strained now. “outside the door. you… you heard me too, didn’t you?”
you nodded slowly, like it was all you could manage.
he knelt beside you without thinking, his hands hovering for a moment before one slid to the small of your back, the other cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin gently, eyes searching yours. “you heard me… say your name.”
you couldn’t speak.
“fuck,” he whispered. “i didn’t mean for you to know. i tried to walk away because i couldn’t control it. i thought... if i gave us space—”
“why?” your voice cracked. “why did you walk away after kissing me like that?”
his jaw clenched. “because i wanted more. i wanted too much.”
your lips trembled. “me too.”
something inside him snapped.
he surged forward, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that was no longer restrained. this wasn’t careful. this wasn’t gentle. this was weeks of stolen glances and soft touches and building need exploding all at once. his mouth was hot, possessive, his hand slipping to your thigh, then gripping, pulling you into him as you moaned against his lips.
you tasted everything—desperation, desire, the salt on his skin from sweat, the sound of his breath ragged and wild. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his bare shoulders as he leaned you back slowly onto the hallway floor, his body covering yours, fitting against you perfectly. your thighs opened for him without thought, welcoming the pressure of his hips between them, the hardness of him pressing directly against the wet heat soaking your panties.
“fuck, y/n,” he groaned against your mouth, “you have no idea what you do to me.”
his hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—the one you wore to sleep every night, the one that smelled like him. his palm caressed your waist, your ribs, then cupped your breast softly over the fabric of your bra, his thumb teasing the sensitive peak until you whimpered, arching up into him.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he rasped, but didn’t stop. “i’m trying so hard to do this right. to be careful.”
“then don’t,” you whispered back, your voice broken, needful. “don’t be careful.”
his eyes burned into yours.
his lips kissed down your jaw, your neck, biting softly at the tender skin just below your ear. “you’re gonna make me lose it,” he growled.
“maybe i want you to.”
his hand slipped lower, over your stomach, fingers grazing the band of your panties—when suddenly—
a sharp knock on the front door shattered the moment.
you both froze.
his chest rose and fell against yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
another knock. then a voice from outside.
“government delivery. lights restored. system check.”
“fuck,” he hissed.
he helped you sit up, both of you breathing like you’d just run miles.
you looked at each other.
your lips swollen. your skin flushed. your bodies aching.
you wanted to scream.
but instead you swallowed it down, tugged the shirt over your thighs, stood on shaky legs. he followed you in silence, running a hand through his messy hair, still visibly hard, still clearly affected.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered.
you didn’t respond.
because you weren’t sure you wanted him to be.
you weren’t sure what you expected when you whispered, maybe i want you to. maybe you thought he would pull away, maybe he’d laugh and tell you to go to bed, that you were just talking nonsense, caught up in the tension of it all. but he didn’t. instead, the room stayed still, save for the thrum of the rain against the windows and the sound of his breathing, which was slow, deep, heavier now, as he looked down at you with something dark and burning in his eyes.
his voice was low, but not soft. "do you know what you're saying?" he asked, barely above a whisper. you nodded, your throat too tight to speak. you could feel his body, warm and solid, pressed against yours as he leaned in again, and this time the kiss wasn’t tentative. it was hungry, deeper, drawn out, and you could taste the restraint in him, the way he held himself back even as his hand gripped your waist tighter.
you barely noticed how he guided you back onto the mattress until your head hit the pillow. your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt, the same one you'd stolen from him to sleep in, and now it was twisted between your hands as he kissed you again and again, lips trailing down the line of your jaw, the hollow of your throat, your pulse fluttering under his mouth.
every touch was slow, deliberate. when his hands slid under the hem of the shirt you wore, it wasn’t rushed—it was reverent. he looked at you like you were something sacred, something he’d been aching for, something forbidden and now finally his. his fingers traced the line of your hip, the soft skin just beneath your navel, pausing just above the waistband of your panties. you shivered beneath him, your body responding before your mind could catch up.
"tell me if you want me to stop," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. you shook your head immediately, a breathy no escaping your lips before you could second guess it. and something in him broke. or maybe it snapped into place. he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive, his hands roaming, learning the shape of you, the softness of your thighs, the arch of your back as you gasped under his touch.
he took his time. he whispered how beautiful you were, how long he had wanted you like this, how the thought of you in his bed had driven him insane since that first night the storm pushed you into his arms. every kiss lower was met with a pause, a glance, asking, confirming, cherishing. his hands didn’t fumble; they explored, gentle and firm, his mouth hot against your skin.
you had never felt like this before. it was more than arousal—it was a kind of unraveling, a melting of all the fear and restraint you had carried for so long. the rules, the systems, the cold logic of the world outside—none of it existed here. here, in his arms, you were just a girl wanting a boy. no laws. no assignments. no duties.
just him. just you.
and when he finally touched you, really touched you, the moan that escaped you was soft, stunned, your fingers digging into his shoulder as he kissed the side of your neck. you were wet, aching, needy in a way you hadn’t even known your body could feel, and yeonjun seemed to know exactly how to handle you—teasing, stroking, whispering your name like it was a prayer.
his own self-control was fraying at the edges. you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, the way his voice broke when he groaned your name against your collarbone, the way his hips rocked against your thigh without even realizing it.
"you make me crazy," he whispered, biting gently at your shoulder. "since that kiss. since that first night. fuck—i think about you all the time. you wearing my shirt, you laughing in the kitchen, you sleeping next to me—"
"yeonjun," you gasped, your back arching as his fingers slid beneath your panties, finally, finally touching you where you needed him most. he cursed under his breath, kissing you again as your legs parted naturally for him.
he kept you on the edge, slow, patient, as if he was memorizing every sound you made, every breath you took. he didn’t rush to have you—not yet. this was still the prelude, the first taste, the careful unraveling. but you were close. too close.
and then.
he leaned over you again, lips brushing your ear, his voice hoarse. "can i make love to you?"
you nodded, heart pounding. "yes. please."
every movement after that was reverent, every sigh swallowed into a kiss, every tremble in your limbs steadied by his hands. he helped you out of your panties, gently, and shed his own clothes with a kind of urgency that was quiet, controlled, but full of need. when he settled between your legs, he paused, eyes meeting yours with a question so full of tenderness it made your chest ache.
his hand wrapped around himself, and your breath caught in your throat. he was thick, long—too much. your eyes widened without meaning to, and he noticed, chuckling softly as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
“it’s okay,” he whispered, but your voice came out shaky when you murmured. “it won’t fit…” he hushed you gently, his palm stroking down your thigh.
“we’ll go slow,” he promised, though the way his jaw clenched told you even he was struggling to hold back.
the stretch was new, unfamiliar, but he moved slowly, letting you adjust, kissing you through the discomfort, murmuring praises against your lips. he held you like you were fragile, like the world would stop spinning if he hurt you, and when you finally relaxed around him, he moved with a rhythm that spoke of restraint and reverence, yet underneath it burned a fire he could barely contain.
it was gentle, yes, but not shy. it was soft, but not without heat. the way he groaned when your nails scraped down his back, the way he whispered your name like it anchored him—it was everything. his hands never stopped touching you, his mouth never far from yours, and the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the center of the universe.
the pace picked up only slightly, but the angle shifted when he gently maneuvered your body, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder before whispering, “turn around for me, baby.” your heart skipped as you obeyed, rolling onto your stomach, your cheek resting against his pillow, flushed and dazed, breath hot against the fabric. he settled behind you, large hands caressing the curve of your hips, his voice low and rough against your ear. “you look so good like this… fuck, i could lose my mind.”
you felt him guide himself back in, slower this time, deeper, and the gasp that left you was nothing short of a whimper, your back arching instinctively. the new position had him hitting that spot—the spot—with a precision that made your eyes roll back, your mouth dropping open against the pillow. “yeonjun—oh my god—” you choked, voice muffled, and he groaned above you, one hand gripping your waist as the other gently turned your face just enough so he could kiss your parted lips. “look at you,” he breathed, panting, watching your blissed-out expression with dark, desperate eyes. “you feel so fucking good—so tight around me… you were made for me, weren’t you?”
your voice came out broken, shaking. “it feels s-so good… i can’t—yeonjun, i—” but you didn’t need to finish. he could feel it. your body clenching around him with every slow, deep thrust. he bent over you, chest pressed to your back, skin to skin, and whispered filth in your ear in between kisses down your spine. “such a good girl,” he rasped, “taking me so well… fuck, i’m close. i can’t—i need to pull out…”
you nodded weakly, barely able to breathe, trembling as he gave one more thrust, then another—and with a strangled moan of your name, he pulled out and spilled his release onto the dip of your lower back, hot and heavy against your skin, dripping down to your ass. he groaned, his forehead against your shoulder, panting hard as he tried to come down from the high. “fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmured, voice ragged. “so fucking perfect.”
when he collapsed beside you, he didn’t pull away. his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you still catching your breath. the rain still tapped gently against the windows, the room now full of the scent of sweat and skin, of something new, something sacred.
"i’ve wanted you for so long," he murmured against your hair.
"i know," you whispered back, curling into him.
and for once, you didn’t feel cold. you didn’t feel alone. you didn’t feel like someone forced into something by a cruel system. you felt wanted. chosen.
his.
yours.
the morning came too quickly, the sun bleeding gently through the curtains, casting a golden warmth across the tangled sheets. your body still ached in the most delicious ways, and your skin was marked with soft reminders of his mouth, his hands, the way he held you like you were breakable and wanted all at once. you hadn’t said much when you woke. yeonjun had only kissed your forehead, helped you get dressed, and now you were sitting in the waiting room of the ministry’s planning clinic, the air sterile and overly bright.
the doctor, a warm-looking woman with gentle eyes and an enthusiastic tone, greeted you both like old friends. “ah! newlyweds,” she smiled, scanning her clipboard. “i see you’ve finally started your sexual life together. that’s wonderful news!”
your cheeks flamed immediately, and beside you, yeonjun coughed, suddenly fascinated by a poster about prenatal vitamins on the wall. “uh, yeah,” you mumbled, barely able to meet her gaze.
“good, good,” she said brightly, motioning for you to follow her behind a curtain for a quick checkup. “we need to make sure everything’s healthy and progressing normally. it’s still early, but we want to optimize for fertility, yes?”
you nodded, letting her guide you onto the examination table. her hands were professional, but the whole thing still made your stomach twist. you were sore—still a little tender—and she noticed, humming under her breath.
“you’re fine,” she reassured you, adjusting her gloves. “some sensitivity is natural after a first experience. but you’re healthy, everything looks good.” she smiled. “do you track your cycle, darling?”
you nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “yes… i keep a calendar.”
“perfect. when was your last period?”
you told her, and she did some quick math on her tablet before her smile brightened. “then your most fertile window should be starting in about four days. if you’re trying to conceive—and you should be, of course—it’s best to be active every other day during that period. that increases the chances significantly.”
you wanted to sink into the floor. “o-oh.”
“don’t be shy. this is natural.” she patted your knee, then stood. “you’re young and healthy. your compatibility score is ideal. You just need to be consistent now. and relaxed. it should be something enjoyable.”
you weren’t sure what your face looked like when you stepped out, but yeonjun blinked and stood instantly. the doctor gave him a little wink and whispered something about keeping the environment fun, and you could practically feel the tension coil between your ribs as you exited the building together.
the ride home was quiet for a while. the hum of the engine, the soft buzz of traffic, the way your thighs were pressed together beneath your dress. he tapped the wheel with his fingers, sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye.
finally, you exhaled. “she said i’m entering my fertile window soon.”
his hands stilled on the steering wheel.
“in four days,” you added, your voice too high, too soft.
“oh.”
another silence.
“and she said we should—uh—every other day. during that window. for higher chances.”
“right.” he adjusted his grip again. “makes sense.”
but neither of you looked at each other. because the thing was, last night hadn’t felt like a scheduled duty. it hadn’t felt like a requirement, or a step in a plan designed by the state. it had felt messy, desperate, slow, sweet, and hungry. it had felt human.
and now the idea of doing it again, like you were just checking off boxes on a clinical list, felt… weird.
“does it feel weird?” you blurted, staring out the window.
yeonjun looked at you, startled. “what?”
“this. talking about it. like it’s a chore or something. when last night—” you trailed off, cheeks heating.
he nodded slowly. “it feels weird because it wasn’t just about the system. it was… about us.” his voice was quiet, unsure, but honest.
you twisted your fingers in your lap, the weight of his words settling between your thighs like the lingering ache from last night. you didn’t know how to act now—how to go from that kind of vulnerability to pretending you were just following instructions.
“i want to do it again,” you admitted, so softly it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. “but not because of the calendar. because… i liked how it felt. with you.”
his knuckles tightened on the wheel, his jaw clenching as he looked at you again. something in his eyes flickered—warm, molten, restrained. “good,” he said roughly. “because i haven’t stopped thinking about it since i woke up.”
your breath caught.
the red light ahead turned green, but neither of you were breathing normally anymore.
this wasn’t just about reproduction.
not anymore.
and neither of you knew how to navigate that yet—but the thought of exploring it again?
set your blood on fire.
you didn’t even make it past the front door.
as soon as it clicked shut behind you, he turned to you like something had snapped loose inside him—like the silence in the car, the weight of what had been said at the clinic, the image of you squirming in your seat all flushed and embarrassed, had pushed him past the edge. his hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you in with a force that made your breath stutter, his lips crashing into yours with none of the hesitation from the night before. it was need—pure, undiluted need—and you melted into it like you’d been waiting all day.
your back hit the wall, your fingers clawing at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up over his abs while he kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him alive. his hands found your thighs, lifted you slightly, pressing your hips together in a rhythm already too hungry for the softness of conversation.
you moaned into his mouth, and that was it—he growled low in his throat, carrying you the few messy steps to the living room, collapsing with you onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and breathless gasps. you straddled him instinctively, the dress you wore bunching at your hips, and the way you ground down against him made him curse under his breath, hands tightening on your waist.
"fuck, baby, you're driving me insane," he muttered, kissing down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging the straps of your dress off your shoulders as his thumbs traced soft, dizzying circles into your skin.
"then do something about it," you whispered, breathless, rocking your hips again just to feel him buck up into you, so hard already it made your mouth go dry.
he didn't need more encouragement.
he kissed down your chest, taking his time, pulling down the top of your dress to reveal more skin, his mouth hot and greedy as he licked and sucked at your breasts, tongue flicking over your nipple until you were gasping his name. his fingers pushed the fabric higher, baring your panties and the damp patch growing darker by the second, and he groaned, burying his face between your thighs like he needed to taste you just to stay sane.
you cried out, your hands tangled in his hair, legs shaking as his tongue worked slow, devastating circles against your clit, sucking gently, teasing you with the edge of release only to pull away. “so wet for me already,” he whispered, voice thick, lips glistening. “you’ve been thinking about this since the car, haven’t you?”
you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, and he rewarded you by sucking harder, his fingers slipping inside to stretch you just right, his other hand holding your hips down while you rode the edge again and again until you whimpered, begging, thighs trembling.
“please, yeonjun… i need you, now.”
he didn’t make you ask twice.
he pulled you onto his lap again, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips. and then he stood, shifting you onto the couch, turning your body gently, hands guiding your knees onto the cushions, your chest pressed to the armrest, your ass up for him—offered, exposed, throbbing.
"you’re so fucking perfect like this," he whispered, one hand sliding up your spine, the other gripping your hip as he positioned himself behind you, dragging the tip of his cock along your slit, teasing, wet and hot.
you whimpered, pushing back slightly, and when he slid in, inch by inch, you gasped—eyes rolling back, the stretch sharp and addictive all over again.
“fuck, you feel even tighter like this,” he groaned, sinking in all the way until your ass met his hips. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
he started to move slowly, the position letting him hit deeper, every thrust punching little moans from your lips. the slap of skin against skin echoed through the room, his hands gripping your waist, your thighs, your hair. and still, he kissed your spine, leaned over you, whispered filth against your neck.
“you like this, baby? you like being fucked like this?”
“yes—yes, fuck, yeonjun—it feels so good—”
he reached around, rubbed slow circles against your clit as he fucked into you deeper, faster, making you cry out into the pillow, your body arching under him, thighs shaking again.
"let me see your face," he panted, one hand turning your head slightly so he could kiss you, so he could see your expression—your flushed cheeks, your lips parted, eyes unfocused.
“you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he growled. “you’re gonna make me come just looking at you.”
you felt it building again, heat coiling low in your belly, your body tightening, trembling, your moans turning desperate as he kept you right on the edge, hitting that perfect spot inside you over and over.
“yeonjun—i’m gonna—”
“me too—fuck—i need to pull out—”
but you reached back, grabbing his hand, voice shaking. “don’t. please. come inside.”
he choked on a moan, hips stuttering, and then he was spilling into you with a groan so deep it made your toes curl, holding you tight as he filled you completely, shaking from the force of it. your own climax hit just seconds later, white-hot and blinding, and you collapsed onto the couch, boneless, his body draped over yours, both of you gasping for air.
his come dripped slowly down your thighs, warmth spreading between them, and he didn’t move—just pressed gentle kisses to your shoulder, your back, your spine, whispering your name like it was the only word he knew.
neither of you said anything for a long time.
but you both knew.
there was no going back.
the following days slipped into a blur of aching need and restless nights. you both tried to keep the doctor’s advice in mind, to space out your moments, to give your bodies time to recover, but desire doesn’t listen to calendars or rules. every morning, before you left for university, you found yourselves tangled together, breathless and desperate, fingers tracing familiar curves as if memorizing every inch again and again. afternoons after classes weren’t any different; the moment you closed the door behind you, yeonjun’s hands were already on your waist, pulling you close, his lips claiming yours with the same fierce hunger that never dulled.
the days were a patchwork of stolen touches and whispered promises, of quick, heated moments before rushing to your part-time jobs—him with the university’s cultural center, tutoring students in language and literature, and you at a small café nearby, pouring coffee and smiling through the haze of exhaustion and longing. you came home exhausted but your body still hummed with anticipation, the ache of missing him settling low and deep, urging you back into his arms. your skin grew sensitive, your senses sharper; even the smallest brush of fingers sparked a fire beneath your skin.
and every time he pulled you close, you let him come inside you—every time—forgetting the cautious rhythm the doctor had suggested, letting your bodies rewrite the rules in the heat of the moment. the cool logic of planning was swallowed whole by your hunger, your need to be closer, to feel him deeper, to lose yourselves entirely in the mess and sweetness of this forbidden, stolen intimacy.
sometimes you’d catch yourself wondering if the doctor would be surprised—or scandalized—to know how little control you really had, how much your hearts raced and how your bodies begged for more. but in those moments, all that mattered was yeonjun’s warm breath against your neck, the way his hands shaped you like a secret only he was meant to know, and the way your own voice trembled when you whispered his name.
it was messy, it was frantic, but it was yours. and for the first time since everything began, it felt like freedom.
you were wiping down the counter when one of your coworkers, a woman named hana, leaned over with a gentle smile. she was older than you, maybe 35, and had a quiet confidence about her that made people listen. she lowered her voice just a little, as if sharing a secret.
“you know, i was assigned a husband too. i thought it would be awful, honestly. i was scared. but it turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. at first, i wasn’t sure if i could love him, or if he even cared. but slowly, i saw who he really was. and now, i’m so happy. we have two kids, and we’re thinking about a third. it’s scary, getting older, but i go to family planning a lot, trying to make sure it’s possible. the government even recognized me for wanting to keep repopulating. it’s strange, isn’t it? how these arrangements can lead to something real.”
you nodded, the thought settling deep inside your chest. could yeonjun and you be like that someday? sure, you cared for him. he was your husband, your partner in this harsh world. you pictured mornings waking up next to him, the soft light catching his face, the two of you building a life, maybe even raising children together. but love — real love? you had never felt it before, not like this. the feeling was foreign, like a story you’d read but never lived. still, yeonjun was everything to you, and that was enough for now.
later that day, when your shift ended, yeonjun was waiting by the door like always, leaning casually against his car. you slipped inside and immediately started talking about your day, the small victories, the tiring moments. he listened, eyes bright, then shared his own stories, laughter in his voice. the rhythm of your lives syncing quietly, comfortably.
and then, on a quiet street, just as the light ahead turned red, you suddenly blurted out, “do you love me?”
the car jerked slightly as yeonjun slammed on the brakes, both of you moving forward with the momentum. the question hung between you, heavy and unexpected.
he was silent for a moment, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and you could almost see the weight of the thought pressing on him. love was a strange word, loaded with promises and fears. but then his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, steady and sure.
“i do,” he said slowly, voice low but certain. “maybe not like the stories you hear — wild and all-consuming — but i love you. from the moment i saw you, from that first kiss in the storm, from every day since. every laugh, every touch, every quiet moment. it’s real. and it will only grow.”
your heart fluttered in a way that was both new and familiar, and when the light turned green, he eased forward, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.
back at the apartment, the world outside disappeared as yeonjun pulled you close. the night was gentle but full of fire, his hands exploring with a tenderness that spoke of trust and deep desire. lips brushed your skin with reverence, soft whispers mingling with quiet moans. you traced the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. every touch was a promise, every kiss a new discovery.
he took his time, patient and caring, making sure you felt cherished, safe. the moments stretched between you, slow and delicious, as if the world had paused just for this — for the two of you, tangled in sheets and warmth, sharing something sacred.
and as you finally melted into him, the love he had spoken of filled the space between your bodies, unspoken but undeniable.
“congratulations,” the doctor said, her voice warm, glowing even, as if she had just handed you the entire sky. “you’re pregnant.”
the world stilled.
you blinked, lips parting, heartbeat stuttering in your chest. yeonjun, who had just stepped inside the room after waiting anxiously outside, froze beside you. his eyes darted from your stunned face to the doctor and back again, like he was trying to make sure he’d heard correctly.
“what?” you breathed, voice barely there.
the doctor smiled, gentle and knowing, like this was her favorite kind of moment to deliver. “you’re about six weeks along. everything looks good so far. the symptoms you’ve been experiencing — the nausea, the cravings, the mood swings — they all point to a healthy early pregnancy. we’ll begin prenatal care from today.”
you felt yeonjun’s fingers slip into yours, holding tight, like he needed to anchor himself. like you were both floating. he didn’t say anything right away — his throat worked around words he couldn’t seem to find — but his hand trembled slightly in yours.
the tears came slowly, not from fear or sadness, but from something else entirely. wonder. disbelief. awe.
a baby.
your baby.
with him.
“i…” you started, then shook your head with a small, breathless laugh. “i thought it was just stress. i didn’t want to hope.”
“and yet, here we are,” the doctor said kindly. “your next steps will be regular checkups, nutrition monitoring, and continued intimacy when you feel comfortable. you’re doing great already.”
you could hardly focus after that — her voice faded to a background hum as your eyes lifted to meet yeonjun’s. he was already looking at you, completely undone. his gaze was soft, watery, reverent. like you were something holy.
he squeezed your hand. “we’re going to be parents,” he whispered, like saying it out loud would make it real.
and it did.
you nodded, blinking away fresh tears. “we’re going to be a family.”
the drive home was quiet, but not empty. yeonjun kept stealing glances at you at every stoplight, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real — like he couldn’t believe the little life beginning inside you was real. his hand never left yours on the console between you, thumb tracing absent-minded circles over your knuckles.
when you stepped into the apartment, he didn’t let go. he guided you gently to the couch, like you might break if he wasn’t careful. and then he was kneeling in front of you, both hands now on your stomach, even though there was nothing visible yet — just warmth. just possibility.
“thank you,” he whispered. “for this. for you. for everything.”
you touched his hair, carding your fingers through the soft strands, heart swelling. “i didn’t do this alone, junnie.”
he leaned forward, lips brushing your still-flat belly, and then rested his forehead there, breathing slow and deep. “i’m gonna do everything i can to be good to you. to them. we didn’t choose this world, but i’ll choose you every day in it.”
you’d never felt more seen. more loved.
later that night, he held you closer than ever in bed, your back to his chest, one hand cradling your stomach, the other tangled with yours. the rain tapped gently against the window again, just like it had the night everything between you shifted.
and now it had shifted again.
you weren’t just husband and wife anymore.
you were parents.
you were a beginning.
and wrapped in his arms, with his heartbeat pressed against your spine, you let yourself dream — not of what the government wanted, not of duty or numbers, but of soft mornings and tiny fingers, of lullabies and laughter echoing through the walls.
of a future you hadn’t dared imagine.
but now, it was here.
growing inside you.
growing between you.
and it was love.
the apartment smelled of cake and laughter. pink balloons were tied to every chair, streamers hung slightly lopsided from the ceiling, and tiny frosting handprints decorated the corners of the tablecloth. your baby girl — chaeyeon — had turned one.
she was currently asleep in your arms, a little drool soaking into your blouse, her tiny chest rising and falling in perfect rhythm. you'd never seen her smile so much in one day, or so determined to wobble around on her chubby legs while everyone clapped for her.
your parents had cried. yeonjun’s mother had brought enough food to feed an entire village. your brother had looked absolutely horrified when asked to hold chaeyeon and had instead stood frozen like she was made of glass. yeonjun’s older brothers had been more relaxed — juggling their own kids, swapping parenting tips with you and yeonjun, their wives giggling over how much yeonjun had softened in just a year.
it was a blur of love. of family. of a happiness you never expected from a life that had once felt forced upon you.
now it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
when the door closed behind the last guest, you let out a long breath and leaned against it. yeonjun was on his knees collecting bits of wrapping paper and cupcake crumbs, his sleeves rolled up and his hair a bit messy from carrying hana all afternoon.
“i think i have frosting in places i didn’t know were possible,” he muttered.
you giggled and padded over, gently placing a hand on his head. “she’s finally asleep. like… deep asleep. miracle of miracles.”
he looked up at you and smiled, slow and soft. “we survived our first birthday party.”
“barely.”
you both laughed, exhausted but giddy, and after tidying up the last of the chaos, you shuffled into your shared bedroom — the one that now held a rocking chair, a baby monitor, and the scent of lavender oil and baby lotion.
you sat on the bed, back against the headboard, and looked at yeonjun as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. his skin glowed faintly from the sweat of the day, and his eyes were crinkled with something tender when he looked at you.
“hard to believe we’ve made it here,” you murmured.
“i know.” he crawled onto the bed beside you, resting his head against your shoulder. “long time ago we were just trying to figure out how to be in the same room without losing our minds.”
“or jumping each other.”
he snorted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “that too.”
you fell quiet for a moment, fingers brushing through his hair. “when they told me we were being assigned… i hated it. the system felt so cruel. mechanical. like love didn’t matter.”
“me too,” he admitted, voice low. “i kept wondering who you’d be. if you’d hate me. if i’d hate you.”
“and now… i can’t imagine waking up without you next to me.” you turned your face into his hair, breathing him in. “you’ve become everything.”
he lifted his head, eyes dark with something more than just love. “you gave me a family. you gave me her.”
“we gave her to each other,” you whispered, lips brushing his.
he kissed you then — slow, deep, familiar in a way that made your toes curl. and when he pulled back, eyes half-lidded, he murmured, “i need you.”
“then take me,” you breathed.
you barely finished speaking before he was on you, lips claiming yours again, more urgent this time, tongue teasing, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. you gasped, arching into his touch as he rolled a thumb over your nipple.
“fuck, i love how sensitive you still are,” he muttered against your neck, biting softly before soothing the skin with kisses. “you get wet the second i touch you, don’t you?”
you nodded, already trembling as he dragged your panties down your thighs, fingers grazing your slick folds. “you make me like this… only you.”
he groaned, dipping two fingers inside you, curling them just right, his thumb circling your clit until your hips were grinding against his hand.
“look at you,” he said, voice rough, “needy little wife. always so eager for me. i could fuck you for hours and it still wouldn’t be enough, would it?”
“never enough,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders. “please, junnie—”
he flipped you onto your stomach, lifting your hips until you were on all fours, head turned into the pillow. “you know what this does to me, seeing you like this,” he growled, running the head of his cock through your folds before slowly pushing in. “fuck, still so tight for me.”
you moaned, face burying into the pillow as he filled you to the hilt, rocking his hips with slow, brutal precision. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you back to meet each thrust, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision blur.
“tell me how good i make you feel,” he said through gritted teeth, fucking you deeper.
“so good—oh god, junnie—right there,” you whimpered. “you fuck me like you own me.”
“because i do,” he hissed. “you’re mine. every inch. every breath. and this pussy? fuck—this was made for me.”
your cries were muffled into the pillow, tears prickling at your eyes from the pleasure building impossibly fast. he bent over you, pressing kisses to your back, your shoulder, your neck, never stopping his rhythm.
“gonna come, baby?” he whispered in your ear. “cream on my cock like you always do?”
you nodded desperately, clenching around him, your orgasm ripping through you with a strangled moan.
he followed right after, cursing low and dark, emptying himself inside you with a final thrust. “fuck—gonna fill you up again. maybe give chaeyeon a little sibling.”
you both collapsed onto the bed, boneless and breathless, his arms wrapping tight around you from behind.
and in that moment, as the warmth of him settled over your back and your heartbeat steadied with his, you smiled.
because this was the life you never asked for — and yet, it was everything.
and now, there was no one else you’d rather be loved by.
nerdjo’s high maintenance gf is his prettiest distraction !
I. DISTRACTION #1: NO KISSING IN THE LECTURE HALLS !
time: 8:46 am location: Curtis Lecture Hall I (CLH-I)
gojo satoru is typing one handed because his other hand is pressed between your thighs.
not that he minds. 8AM thursday means excel sheets & a cup of hot coffee to keep his bleary eyes open. gojo satoru is trying—trying to focus, but his pretty girl is talking a mile a minute and he’ll be damned if he didn’t reply to your every word.
“it was so hard getting out of bed today, toru,” you pout up at him, chin on his shoulder & gloss sticky on his sleeve. “i told kento to stop by and wake me up on his way to class. can you believe he didn’t?”
“i’m very proud of you for getting out of bed regardless.”
“thank you. it was very hard.”
you sigh against his shoulder. “he’s probably still mad i cussed him out,” you huff, reaching up to twirl the hairs on his nape. “all because i put him on cherry crush and he tried to act like he discovered it first.”
satoru’s eyes are still on his screen, so you squeeze his palm between your thighs to bring him back to you. “he’s so petty, toru.”
“very petty, baby.”
you frown. it’s been exactly thirteen minutes and forty-two seconds since satoru looked at you last. he’s been on this stupid spreadsheet since class started, and it’s really starting to piss you off.
so you block his view.
“look at my fingers, toru,” you breathe, lifting your hand in front of his face. “i was in such a rush i forgot my rings. my hand looks so ugly.”
he lifts his head—just slightly, just enough that he can focus on the screen & not your hand in front of him—& replies without a beat. “looks pretty, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the back of your hand. “so gorgeous.”
oh, that’s enough.
“toru.”
“hm, baby?”
“kiss me.”
gojo satoru chokes on his tongue. he freezes, blue eyes leaving the screen only to dart around the crowded lecture hall in alarm. he lets his eyes drop to you, and perhaps he shouldn’t have, because you’re looking up at him with glossy lips & too-big eyes & lashes that flutter in that way that means trouble. gojo gulps.
“we can’t do that right now, sweetheart,” his voice catches. you’re pouting up at him but satoru only cups your cheek and tries to reason with you. “we’re in public. can you wait for me, angel?”
your brows furrow, lips wobbling into that pout that only spells out gojo’s demise.
“are you ashamed to kiss me in public?” you croak, fake sniffling. “am i that ugly?”
you’re not ugly. you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you know it, satoru knows it, & he also knows you’re doing this on purpose. but your eyes are so glossy. your breathing’s all hitched. your shoulders shake like you’re about to sob—
gojo satoru folds under zero pressure.
he cups your face, thumb brushing faux tears off your lashes as he presses his lips to yours. you taste like strawberry candy & something too sweet to have a name. gojo sighs into your mouth. cocks his head. pulls back just to lean in again when your lashes flutter up at him all pretty. he lets his thumb tug your lip and tongue lick your teeth and—
“ahem.”
you both freeze.
in the row in front of you the nanami kento is there, frown on his face & completely unamused. there are pens littered on his desk & his laptop is wide open—is he reading semantic error?
he eyes you both, lips curled in disgust.
“this is not a love nest.”
you & satoru are blinking in disbelief when nanami turns back to his laptop. he slams it shut in embarrassment when he’s met with an inappropriate panel onscreen.
II. DISTRACTION #2: NETWORKING ❌ NOT WORKING ✅
time: 7:14 pm. location: Bergeron Center for Engineering Excellence
⎚-⎚
gojo satoru has five minutes until the most important meeting of his life.
an opportunity to pitch one of his latest projects to some high-class engineering recruiters—lucky him! he’s in a private office with his speech in his hands, and his beautiful girlfriend kicking her feet on the office table.
you’re supposed to be his supportive plus-one. and gojo does feel supported—how could he not when the love of his life is here for him, dressed up like a midsummer dream? but gojo thinks he’d feel even more supported if you weren’t bracketing his thighs & tugging on his tie every time he tries to speak.
“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity—“
“satoruu,” you coo. “i miss you.”
gojo satoru knows better than to sigh. he does it anyway, collapsing into your neck in resignation as he squeezes your hips. you’re pressing a glossy kiss to his jaw. “i’m right here, sweetheart,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “will you let me focus?”
you nod sweetly, patting his cheek dismissively when he presses a kiss to your neck in thanks.
“thank you all for coming. i’m honored to have this opportunity to present—“
“satoruu,”
thirteen words this time. fairs.
“yes, sweetheart.”
“my feet hurt,” you state, kicking your feet up to show him. for once, you’re not being totally dramatic. even with your heels on satoru can see the sides of your feet reddening, flushed & slightly swollen against the material. his brows furrow. “how’d this happen, angel…?”
he kneels down to slip your heels off. you pout: “i got new heels so i’d look pretty for your presentation. now my feet hurt and i’ve ruined everything.”
satoru frowns, but you’re still spiraling. dramatic as always, talking like it’s the end of the world with your eyes glossy & nose wrinkled in lament. but gojo’s heart only goes sticky in his chest. how could you possibly ruin everything when you are everything?
he reaches up to wipe a tear off your cheek. “look at me, baby,” he murmurs, other hand rubbing circles on your ankles. he looks devastating like this—hair messy, tie loose from all your tugging & knees on the floor for you even though he’s in his finest dress pants. “you didn’t ruin anything, okay baby? look.”
he slips off your heels, then his own leather shoes, & laces them onto your bare feet. “wear these.”
you blink as he lifts you off the table, kneeling back down to adjust the shoes better. you wiggle your toes. your feet don’t even reach the middle, and you almost fall trying to walk two steps, but the gesture alone has you beaming. you turn to him with your lips bent in a clumsy smile.
“they’re huge, toru,” you tease, twirling around for him to watch. satoru only smiles. his heart goes sticky in his throat. he pulls you into a soft kiss because trying to speak might make his chest hurt.
knock knock.
one of satoru’s classmates—nerd #1—peeks his head in, expression slightly terrified. “uh, gojo? they’re ready for you in the boardroom,” he gulps. “you’re up.”
satoru nods, gathers his speech papers. you’re practicing walking around in his shoes now, arms stretched out to help you balance as you strut around with a grin on your face. gojo satoru looks down at his feet. they’re in nothing but a pair of socks.
right.
he sucks in a breath, then turns to kiss your forehead. “stay here where it’s warm, okay?”
you’re still admiring yourself in his shoes, but you chirp out an okay! regardless. satoru bites his lip. it’s showtime.
——
the faculty is looking at satoru like he’s grown two heads.
have they never seen a shoeless man before? how rude. he’s standing on the boardroom’s stage now, clipboard in hand, projector lighting up the board behind him. some of the recruiters are nodding. the others are trying not to look at his feet so they can’t be accused of classism. gojo satoru is not even poor. a glance at his suit should tell you that.
but gojo doesn’t care. he presents without issue—even though the entire time, his mind is on you.
the boardroom door has a center made of glass. through the pane, satoru can see you back in the office—you’ve somehow found music controls for the office’s boombox, and you’re dancing—oh god, you’re dancing—twirling around with a clumsy smile & laughing when you stumble in his much larger shoes.
satoru’s heart swells. his lip twitches.
gojo turns his focus back to his presentation. he’ll work hard to keep you smiling for the rest of your life.
III. DISTRACTION #3 : WHY IS MY GIRLFRIEND IMMUNE TO TUTORING…
time: 6:14 PM location: The Quad, Satoru’s Apartment.
⎚-⎚
“who discovered the americas ?”
“Martin Luther King.”
You are going to fail this exam.
“that’s enough general history today,” gojo mutters, voice croaking in alarm when you give your answer. you’re tucked in his lap, fingers curled in his collar, nose in his neck & completely unbothered. your perfume is sticky in his lungs. “let’s try math. you like math, baby?”
“mhm,” you kiss his jaw. “love it.”
no you don’t. gojo flips open a book with one hand, the other rubbing circles on your thigh. “let’s practice some integration…” he scans the page for questions while you twirl the hairs on his nape. “okay, this one. can you try this for me, princess?”
your lips tug into a bored frown. “okay,” you lean up to glance at the page, “done.”
he blinks, “done?”
“yes,” you flop back against him, soft & pretty & tired & his. “i solved it in my head.”
satoru bites his lip, brows knit in concern. “baby, you can’t solve integrals in your head.”
“i have a very strong brain.”
satoru prays for some strength of his own. okay—okay. he purses his lip. “so strong, baby. do you want to walk me through your process?”
you frown in his neck.
“first of all,” you tug his collar, lashes fluttering, “i looked at the numbers.”
“good job.”
“then,” you tug his earlobe, “i got bored.”
“oh.”
satoru sighs—of course you did. he purses his lip, blue eyes flitting across the page as his spoiled pretty angel hugs his neck; dreary and tired and ‘bored’ in his lap. finals are coming up and things are not looking good for you. he prays for strength (again).
you seem to have found some strength of your own. gojo’s not sure when you pick up your phone (which he had confiscated from you earlier), but while he stares into the distance and laments your guaranteed failure, you scroll through your phone with a grin on your lips.
“toru, look at this bag,” you coo, pushing the bright screen to his face. “it’s so pink and pretty, just like me.”
“just like you,” he repeats, still staring into the distance.
“wow, nine-hundred-and-fifty dollars,” you kick your feet in his lap. “baby, can i buy it?” you coo, voice sweet.
satoru blinks out of his daze. he glances at the phone screen—then at you, suddenly sweet & bright & brimming with energy. his thumb brushes your inner thigh. “baby, you’re supposed to be studying.”
“i am studying,” you frown, and gojo wants to kiss it off again. “i’m studying consumer behavior. can i have your card?”
there are three reasons gojo satoru should not give you his card.
you are going to fail your exams.
you haven’t double-checked if the price is in CAD or USD.
you are going to fail your exams.
gojo lets you have his card.
you squeal, hopping off his lap to retrieve his wallet in the other room. satoru leans back against his desk chair. in front of him, his desk is a mess of opened books & littered pencils, a ‘get good grades!’ subliminal playing on your mini speaker because you insisted the whispered affirmations would guarantee your success. gojo sighs.
“thank you, toru!” you sing as you pad back into the room, a skip in your step. you lean down to kiss his cheek & flop onto his bed to open his laptop. you have his wallet in your hands, and gojo satoru already knows you will not double check the currency.
gojo closes your textbook with a sigh. better luck next time.
ac: (see alt text!) @ to00fu
DISTRACTIONS, end.
HEARTKAJI. do not steal, copy, edit, translate or reupload.
pairings. bowser!sukuna x princesspeach!reader x mario!satoru
summary. you’ve been “kidnapped” by sukuna again—but the castle’s luxurious, you’re not exactly restrained, and every time satoru storms in to “rescue” you, you’re a little less willing to leave. they think they’re fighting over you… but you’ve always liked being in the middle.
content warnings. 7.1k words (super mario if it was peak), explicit sexual content, threesome, sukuna tops satoru AND YES THEY KISS yay!, power imbalance, possessive behavior, jealousy themes, bratty reader, light dubcon/kidnapping roleplay, oral sex, fingering, face sitting, creampie, spit sharing, degradation and praise kink, voyeurism, competitive bickering during sex, mild humiliation, overstimulation, spit roasting, lowkey dom-ish reader?, emotional manipulation played for comedy, lowkey crack so don't take this super srs.
author's note. got violently high last night and watched the super mario movie w my boyfie then this was born (my excuse to write yaoi)
you don’t know how this keeps happening, except you do. it’s always the same: the soft pull of teleportation magic or whatever the fuck he calls it now, the slow blink of disorientation, and then pink silk sheets or marble floors or a three-person bath sunk into the center of the room like a stage.
the castle is always the same, too—lavish in a way that feels intentional, like it’s been redecorated for you, like someone keeps hitting “reset” and changing the theme just enough to pretend it’s not a pattern.
last time it was rose petals. the time before that, champagne on ice. this time it’s cherries. purple and cold and split in half like he knew you’d complain about the seeds. there’s a gold tray floating nearby, embossed with little star motifs that glow faintly when the steam rolls over them.
“open,” he says, and of course you fucking do.
the bath is hot enough to sting. the steam’s curling your hair at the edges. your face is tight with that honey-clay-fancy-shit mask he special ordered from the capital, some absurd royal apothecary with a logo shaped like a mushroom crown, and there are cucumbers on your eyes that you didn’t ask for but now can’t remove without effort, so here you are.
dripping wet. blind. mouth open. being hand-fed by the most dangerous man in the empire. again.
this isn’t a rescue mission. it’s a spa day.
there’s a small brass bell by the tub, too. he told you it was decorative. you rang it once. servants appeared instantly. you’ve never touched it again.
and yet—if satoru gojo kicks down the castle door one more time while you’re soaking in a three-foot-deep lavender salt bath, you are going to commit an act of treason yourself.
“chew princess,” sukuna says lazily, and you chew, because arguing while topless in cucumber-blindness never works out in your favor. his fingers graze your lips. cold and wet. it doesn’t feel like a fruit offering. it feels like a game. a game you’re pretty sure he keeps winning on purpose.
“i should lock the door this time,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “fucking idiot’s probably already scaling the south wall.”
you snort. inelegant. a sound unbecoming of a captive princess. “you say that every time.”
“and every time, you let him ruin our date.”
you flick one cucumber slice off. barely crack an eye. he’s sprawled by the edge of the bath, arm balanced on the porcelain, hair up, chest bare, tattoos coiling, like this is his personal brothel and you’re the treat he summoned.
there’s a throne in the corner of the room you’ve never seen him sit on. he prefers this instead. he pops a cherry into his own mouth and chews like he invented the concept of pleasure. he probably thinks he did.
“i wouldn’t call it a date,” you mutter, and he tilts his head.
“you’re naked. i’m feeding you. he’s jealous. feels like a date.”
somewhere far below, a pipe groans as magic reroutes through the castle, like it’s bracing for impact.
you roll your eyes and sink deeper, the water sloshing over your collarbones. the tub is too big. the room is too warm. the air smells like fruit and whatever spell he always sneaks in when he thinks you’re not paying attention—the one that makes your legs feel floaty and your mouth dry. the one that makes you stay.
“he’s not jealous,” you lie.
sukuna laughs like you’re adorable. or pathetic. you’re not sure which one is worse.
you hear the splash before you realize he’s serious.
one thick leg, then the other. the water sloshes violently like the bath itself is trying to escape, and you almost lose one of the cucumbers off your eye again, but you don’t move—won’t give him the satisfaction. you lay there, blank-faced, toes wrinkling, cucumber-blind and bath-drunk while the warlord of five provinces and serial homewrecker of your peace slides into the tub like he fucking owns it.
because he does. because this castle was built to keep people out, and redesigned to keep you in.
“you have no boundaries,” you mumble, voice thick from heat and honey-mask goo and emotional exhaustion.
he hums. does not disagree. doesn’t say anything at all, actually—just settles in at the foot of the tub, lounging like it’s a throne, arms spread along the rim like he’s posing for a painting, and stares at you like he’s about to ruin something again.
you’re pretty sure this is how he waits between boss fights.
"this was supposed to be me time,” you mutter. more for yourself than him.
“it is,” he says, “i’m here.”
like that helps.
somewhere, a distant alarm chimes once. not loud. not urgent. just enough to say someone has entered the level.
you feel him hook one finger under your ankle and drag your leg toward him slow, indulgent, like he’s hauling in a catch, like your foot is a prize he won. the water parts, slick against your skin, and suddenly it’s his lap your heel’s resting in. he starts. thumb to arch. palm to sole. pressure applied just shy of pain. and you hate him for how good it is immediately.
"relax," he says, all fake-softness and amused mockery, "you act like i’ve never touched you before."
“you’ve never touched my feet before.”
he squeezes the ball of your foot just right and makes you groan through gritted teeth. “maybe that’s your problem. ungrateful. high-strung. too busy pretending you don’t love it here to let yourself enjoy anything.”
"i enjoy silence."
"never met a brat who didn’t lie for sport."
you hate that he's good at this. hate that you didn't know he could be good at this. hate that you’re not stopping him. that the bath is still hot, that his hands are still rough, that your other foot is already twitching in anticipation and he hasn't even touched it yet.
“yeah,” he mutters, low and satisfied, “there it is.”
"if you're gonna rub my feet like this every time, you should just kidnap me more often," you mutter, trying to sound bored and failing spectacularly.
"princess," he says, digging his thumbs in deeper, "you say that like you're not the one who keeps showing up."
his hands drift.
not immediately. he massages your other foot like he’s not planning anything—like he’s just being generous, like the ache melting from your calves isn’t calculated, like the bath isn’t a trap he set and walked straight into with a hard-on and a god complex.
but then his thumbs start creeping up. past your ankles. into your shins. up the backs of your calves where your skin’s the most sensitive. and you're still laid out, stretched and floaty, letting it happen. he's rubbing slow, like he has all night, like no one's coming to save you.
which they aren’t.
not yet.
you’ve been here enough to know the stages: the soak. the rubdown. the corruption. the bonus round.
his hands slide higher. up to your knees. your thighs. a palm braces against the bend of one leg and eases it open under the water, like that’s normal, like this is a trust exercise and not the prelude to filth. your cunt clenches like it knows what’s coming and wants to pregame the panic.
"i don't think this is in the massage manual," you say, voice dry, throat hotter than the bathwater.
he doesn’t answer. just leans forward. plants one lazy kiss on the inside of your knee like you’re something worshipped. like you’re a feast. like he’s already decided how you’ll taste.
and you—god help you—you don’t stop him.
you should. you know that. you should sit up and slap him and demand to be returned to your kingdom of overpriced skincare and mediocre royal suitors. but instead you let your legs fall a little wider. let him shift forward in the water. let him hook your knees over his shoulders like he’s done this before—has done this before—and let him drag you down the sloped edge of the bath until your ass is half out of the water and his mouth is hovering right there.
"say please,” he says, because of course he does. “go on. be cute for me.”
he grins, and then—boom.
the door slams open with enough force to shake steam off the walls.
the lock was enchanted. doesn’t matter. the hero always finds a way.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—!”
you don’t even lift your head. just sigh, high and long and put-upon, like your favorite face mask just got interrupted by a meteor. again.
“hello, satoru,” you say flatly. “nice of you to warp in after the cherries this time.”
there’s a faint squelch behind him as the castle seals the pipe he must’ve dropped out of. the scent of ash and ozone lingers in the air.
sukuna laughs. satoru is already halfway into the bath chamber with his stupid sword glowing and his white hair damp from rain and his eyes wide and horrified like he just walked in on a war crime.
and to be fair, he kind of did.
your legs are still over sukuna’s shoulders. your throat is still tight. your cunt is still pulsing like a fire alarm. and sukuna doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t retreat. just flicks his tongue out once, once, against the softest, most humiliating spot of you—as punctuation.
“oh,” he says, lazily. “you’re early.”
“you kidnapped her again,” satoru snaps, storming fully into the room like he pays the rent here, like he didn’t just walk in on you spread open in a royal bath.
“i invited her,” sukuna says.
“you never asked—”
“she never says no.”
“he’s got you under a spell,” satoru gasps, like this isn’t the eighth fucking time. “he’s—he’s doing something to you. you would never stay here willingly—”
“she asked for a refill,” sukuna says, not even glancing up from your inner thigh. “and a massage.”
“that’s not what this looks like.”
you bolt upright, peel the other cucumber slice off your face, dripping and humiliated and pissed off in five different directions now.
“oh my god,” you mutter, voice raw from heat and water and the whiplash of almost getting your pussy eaten into the astral plane. “both of you—shut the fuck up.”
sukuna doesn’t move. still lounging. big and broad like a final boss screen, steam curling around his tattooed chest like smoke from a fire-breath trigger, gold rings glinting at his fingers like coins from a chest you weren’t supposed to open. his shoulders are sharp. his jaw sharper. there’s something beast-shaped about the way he takes up space—even wet and lazy in the bath, he looks like he could wreck half the kingdom if you gave him a reason.
you shove sukuna off and stand. the bathwater crashes back into place. you step out, dripping, glistening, glowing with leftover soap and fresh vengeance, and snatch your robe off the heated hook like you’re the only adult in this cursed castle.
“you’re not rescuing me,” you snap at gojo, tying the sash. “you’re not corrupting me,” you shoot at sukuna. “you’re both just horny and dramatic and in love with the sound of your own arguments.”
satoru sputters. “i—i care about you—”
“you want to win me,” you correct. “like a sword duel or a fucking cake contest.”
“not everything is about your pussy,” sukuna drawls from the water, licking your taste off his lips like a challenge.
his tongue is sharp when it flicks out, forked at the tip like some kind of demon king parody of affection. his eyes glow just slightly—red and cruel—like he’s gearing up for his next form. like if you say the wrong thing, he’ll shift. claws, maybe. a shell. something ancient that drags you into him no matter how many times you run.
the castle hums again, and for a second, you swear the tub jets pulse in sync with your heartbeat.
“but you always make it about that,” you bite back. “so what’s the truth, huh? one of you wants to save me. the other wants to ruin me. but both of you are stuck in this dumb, pathetic tug-of-war and i’m the only one smart enough to say it.”
they’re both quiet now. dripping. wet. steaming in different ways.
you cross your arms.
“you don’t want to fight over me.”
you pause. drop your voice.
“you want to share.”
the silence is heavy.
you step forward, slow. drip across the floor. eyes locked on satoru first, then sukuna. neither of them flinch. neither of them breathe.
“and maybe if you two would stop acting like enemies and admit what you really want,” you murmur, “you’d both get to cum.”
sukuna stands.
and god, it’s a final boss animation.
he rises from the bath like he was spawned, not born—huge and horned at the shoulders with muscle and menace, black tattoos flaring like molten paths across his chest, glowing faintly gold under the water like lava veins. his aura crackles. the air bends. if he roared, you’d flinch. if he laughed, you’d cum. his dick is out like it belongs on a pedestal, and you’re not entirely convinced it doesn’t breathe fire.
you stare. satoru stares harder.
"what the fuck are you doing," satoru blurts, instinctively taking a step back like the sheer audacity is contagious.
“what’s it look like?” sukuna shrugs, climbing out completely, no towel, no shame, not even a flicker of modesty. he walks across the marble like he was born to stalk enemies and lovers barefoot and naked in his own castle. “i’m giving the lady what she asked for.”
he even leaves scorch marks in the water where he stood. not literal ones. just hot enough that your skin remembers them.
“she said kiss,” satoru says, face full panic, eyes full don’t make this real. “not—whatever this is.”
“you scared?” sukuna smirks. “it’s not gay if it’s for her.”
“that’s literally the most gay justification I’ve ever—”
“do you want to fuck her or not?” sukuna snaps, suddenly louder, stepping into his space, wet and steaming and mean. “because if we’re gonna fuck her, we’re doing it my way.”
he’s close enough now to smell like fire. not smoke. fire. heat from the source. it clings to him like sweat, like magic, like a dragon-shaped threat that decided it wanted you instead of treasure.
satoru's mouth opens. closes. twitches at the corners like he’s trying to glitch out of the conversation entirely. like if he blinks fast enough, he’ll wake up in a normal situation where he hasn’t just been pressured into gay chicken by the demon lord of wet arrogance.
"this is coercion," satoru mutters.
"this is teamwork," sukuna corrects.
you lean against the wall. robe loose. "tick-tock," you sing, "someone kiss someone or i’m going back in the bath, alone."
sukuna doesn’t break eye contact.
he steps in closer.
his hand curls around the back of satoru's neck, slow and tight like a threat dressed in silk. satoru flinches. exhales. and stares at sukuna’s mouth like it’s a moving target.
“just a kiss,” sukuna murmurs, voice low. “then you can pretend you hated it.”
his fangs flash. not cute little vampire points. canine. beast. prehistoric.
you’ve seen him bite before. once, during a sparring match, a rival ended up with puncture marks through enchanted armor. that rival never came back.
satoru doesn’t mean to do it. that’s what he’ll tell himself later.
he didn’t want to. didn’t plan to. didn’t lean in.
sukuna did. sukuna always does.
but his mouth is right there—wet and hot from the bath, and his hand’s already on satoru’s neck like he owns it, like he could snap it or kiss it or both—and there’s something about the way he says just a kiss that makes it feel like a dare.
so satoru folds.
he doesn’t tilt his head, doesn’t breathe, just stands there frozen while sukuna leans in—and kisses him like he’s trying to win something.
and fuck, does he.
it’s not sweet. not gentle. not curious.
it’s filthy.
it’s tongues first, lips second. teeth clacking, spit everywhere, heat rolling off both of them like a second bath was summoned just from the sheer friction of hate-fucking a kiss into place. satoru grunts, shocked and breathless and already grabbing at sukuna’s arm like he’s going to shove him off, like he should, but his hand stays. fingers digging into wet muscle, other hand on sukuna’s hip like maybe he needs to keep him steady, like maybe he wants more leverage.
sukuna groans into it. obscene. hands everywhere—cupping satoru’s jaw, dragging down his ribs, gripping his waist and pulling like he wants to fuse them. he kisses like it’s combat. like he’s breaking satoru’s mouth in. like he wants you to watch.
and you do.
robe open. chest heaving. eyes wide and wet and locked on the way satoru’s knees are buckling slightly, the way he breathes like he forgot how to, the way he moans when sukuna sucks his tongue just to be mean.
satoru gasps. sukuna doesn’t let him go.
hand in his hair now. tongue deep in his mouth. hips angled forward like if this keeps up he’s going to grind on him, and maybe he is, maybe that’s the point, maybe he wants to be rutting up against his rival’s thigh while you stand there wet and smug and choosing which one of them you’re gonna ride first.
when sukuna finally pulls back—strings of spit between them, both of them flushed and panting and glassy-eyed like they just got head in a thunderstorm—he laughs.
"see?" he pants, mouth red. “teamwork.”
satoru stares at him. you stare at them. no one says anything for a second.
“again,” you say, eyes bright, mouth sticky-sweet with command. “this time—on my bed. chop chop.”
you clap your hands once, like they’re stable boys and you’re the duchess of debauchery, and then turn on your heel like you expect to be followed.
they do. of course they do.
sukuna grabs a towel off the bath hook like it’s a weapon and slings it low over his hips, still smirking, still red in the mouth like he just fed on something divine. the towel looks absurdly small on him. more like a concession than coverage. like if he flexed wrong it’d be gone.
sukuna follows last. heavy footsteps that make the stone beneath the rugs shift like the castle’s recalibrating for his weight. every torch along the corridor flares brighter as he passes, flames bending inward like they recognize their source. the air stays warmer behind him, heat lingering like a warning sign you ignore on purpose.
you lead them barefoot through the hallway, robe swinging open, dripping water on the tile floors of the castle like a trail of sins you dare someone to mop up. the room you step into is ridiculous. all blush pink and soft textures and filigree mirrors. a bed so fluffy it looks like it would absorb a body whole. silk pillows with lace trim. a plush throw with your initials embroidered in gold thread.
sukuna scoffs. satoru blinks. you climb up onto the mattress like a throne.
“both of you,” you say, voice light, like you’re calling dogs to heel. “on your knees.”
they hesitate. for half a second. then obey.
sukuna throws the towel. satoru swallows like his soul’s leaving his body. and then they’re there—crawling up the edge of the bed, one on each side, eyes locked on your legs like they’re being drawn in by gravity.
you spread them.
you don’t even have to say it. they both move at the same time.
sukuna’s mouth goes to your inner thigh, tongue dragging slow and cruel up the softest skin, teeth brushing just enough to make you jolt. satoru kisses the other side, open-mouthed and reverent, like he’s trying to cancel out every filthy thing sukuna’s ever done to you with sweetness.
but it’s not about balance. it’s about devastation.
their mouths meet in the middle.
tongues brushing. lips sticky. spit mixing against your cunt like you’re the altar and they’re fighting for prayer rights. one sucks your clit. the other fucks you with his tongue. and then they switch. again and again. passing you back and forth like a dare, like a game, like if one of them makes you cum first it means something bigger than it should.
sukuna groans when you grab his hair. satoru moans when your thighs twitch around his ears. neither of them can breathe and neither of them care. they’re loud. messy. competitive. syncing up without meaning to.
you whimper. they grunt. you twitch. they dig in deeper.
you are dripping. soaking the sheets. arching into both of them like a spoiled royal, and they like it. they want it. they want to make you cum while staring at each other across your cunt just to prove they can do it better.
and you? you let them.
of course you do.
they’re exactly where they belong.
it hits you all at once, the way you’re being devoured, the way their tongues never stop, the way sukuna grips your thighs like he’s trying to carve his name into the bones underneath while satoru makes these fucking noises like he’s praying into your cunt. they don’t stop. they don’t breathe. they act like this is the final round of a competition neither of them wants to lose.
and you let them go until your hips stutter, until your fingers clutch the sheets, until your voice breaks in that perfect little way that makes them both glance up like they just heard the bell ring.
“switch,” you gasp.
they blink.
“want both of you,” you breathe, dragging one arm behind you, looking over your shoulder, “in me. now.”
it’s not a request. it’s a fact.
and god, do they scramble.
sukuna grabs your hips first. of course he does. palms you like he’s measuring the curve for fit, like he’s already imagining the drag of his cock inside you. satoru moves to the front, eyes wide and stunned and already hard like he knew this was coming and still wasn’t ready.
“on your knees,” you murmur, breath shallow, voice fucked-out and full of authority you didn’t earn but own anyway. “both of you.”
you turn over. press your face into the pillows. arch your back like an offering.
you feel sukuna’s cock drag through your folds first—slow, like he wants you to remember every inch. and satoru’s in front of you now, hand in your hair, cock flushed and leaking and twitching under your breath.
"open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just before you do. and then his cock is pushing past your lips, warm and salty and soaked, like he’s been ready to fuck your throat since the moment you told them to kiss.
sukuna sinks in at the same time.
you choke around satoru’s cock the moment sukuna bottoms out.
both of them groan. like your body was built for this. like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to ruin you together.
you can’t breathe.
you don’t want to.
there’s no rhythm, just need. sukuna’s hips slap against your ass, unforgiving, relentless, fucking you deep like he owns you. satoru holds your head like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go, fucking your mouth with this desperate, whimpering pace like he’s sorry but also not stopping.
it’s spit. and heat. and suction. it’s tears down your face and drool down your chin and the brutal, gorgeous fullness of being used by both of them at once. your hands grip the sheets. sukuna’s fingers dig into your waist. satoru moans when you gag, tells you you’re doing so good, so fucking good, fuck—just like that.
you are choking. soaking.
and you never want it to end.
you can feel them in stereo.
sukuna buried in your cunt, hips snapping like a weapon, groaning every time you clench down like your pussy’s trying to keep him. satoru fucking your throat in short, desperate thrusts, hand curled tight in your hair, saying your name like a prayer he’s breaking on.
you’re dripping. crying. choking. perfect.
you don’t even have to look up to know they’re watching each other. you can feel it—the tension, the breathless, biting rivalry still simmering under all the moaning. they’re trying to pretend this isn’t what it is.
you ruin it.
you pull your mouth off satoru’s cock with a wet gasp, drool stringing from your lip to the head of him, your voice wrecked and raw and still smug when you gasp:
“kiss again.”
satoru blinks. panting. flushed to his ears.
sukuna doesn’t stop fucking you.
“she likes it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “go on. be a good boy. give her a show.”
satoru groans. confused. humiliated. hard as fuck.
“what, you don’t want to kiss me when your dick’s in her throat?”
you swallow him again on instinct, just to watch him twitch. he gasps.
“you’re such an asshole,” satoru pants.
“then kiss me like you mean it.”
and he does. god, he does.
it’s brutal. hot. confusing and primal and way too much spit, but their mouths crash together over your body like it’s a battlefield, like they’re using each other’s tongues to claim you without saying it out loud.
you’re drooling around satoru’s cock again, the moan in your throat vibrating against him as sukuna fucks into you harder, deeper, one hand tangled in satoru’s white hair now, pulling him in to keep the kiss going.
they’re kissing over you while you’re getting fucked within an inch of your life.
spit and teeth and groans, tongues sliding, lips parted, their bodies rutting into yours at perfect opposite angles and still finding the time to moan into each other’s mouths like it’s a contest.
your cunt is clenching so tight it makes sukuna swear, low and hot, like he’s about to break.
and you? you’re soaking the sheets.
you wanted this. all of it.
and now you’re watching them fall apart for you. together.
you pull off satoru’s cock again with a gasp—spit trailing down your chin, your cunt dripping down your thighs, breathless and soaked and ready to be worshipped—and you look up at him like you’re about to give him his final test.
but before you can say a word, sukuna speaks behind you.
“lay down.”
and satoru does.
no hesitation. no backtalk. just drops back onto the mattress like his bones dissolved, like the command short-circuited something in his brain. his cock bounces against his stomach, red and wet and aching, and he looks up at you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.
sukuna catches your wrist. leans in close.
“sit on his face.”
he says it like it’s nothing. like it’s inevitable.
and you move like you were waiting to be told.
satoru blinks up at you, already sprawled on the mattress, already halfway gone, cock flushed and twitching, lips wet from the last time he kissed sukuna like he forgot how to hate him.
“wait,” he breathes. “what are you—”
you crawl up. your knees land on either side of his head, and you hover—just long enough for him to look right at your pussy, glistening and dripping and open for him, so close he could lick it without moving.
“what are you…” he tries again, voice cracking now. “what are you doing—”
and then you sit.
his tongue doesn’t even wait.
it lunges.
like he can’t help it. like you just landed on a pressure point and released something primal. he groans—loud—mouth already open, tongue licking up your slit like he’s parched, like he’s sorry, like he’ll make up for every mistake he’s ever made if you just keep grinding down like that.
you moan. roll your hips. grab the headboard for balance.
and in front of you—you hear sukuna laugh.
a hand wraps around your waist. the other grabs satoru by the hip.
“don’t stop licking,” sukuna mutters again. “or i stop fucking.”
“wait—what—” satoru tries, voice muffled under your pussy, tongue still twitching, mouth still moving, breath already shaking.
sukuna doesn’t wait.
he never does.
sukuna grabs a fistful of satoru’s ass like he owns it. spreads him open. wide. rough. mean. just enough to make satoru twitch under you like he knows what’s coming and it’s already too much.
“you wanna eat her out so bad?” sukuna growls, breath hot across your spine. “do it with my cock in you.”
you hear it more than you see it.
the spit.
wet. thick. dragged right from the back of his throat and hawked down directly onto satoru’s hole like it’s a claim. loud and disrespectful, like he’s not even trying to be subtle about it, like this hole was made for him, and he’s just taking back what was already his.
it lands with a wet splat, stringy and hot.
satoru moans into your pussy. like it turned him on. like he hates that it did.
“fucking tight,” sukuna mutters, spreading his cheeks wider with both hands now, spit glistening on that perfect pink ring, watching it flex like it’s trying to run and take at the same time.
you don’t stop grinding. your thighs are shaking. your cunt’s soaked. satoru’s tongue keeps twitching under you like he can’t focus, like he’s trying to eat you out while processing the spit sliding down his crack, pooling where he’s already so sensitive it hurts.
sukuna spits again. harder.
watches it drip down. watches it stick.
then he lines himself up.
no warning.
just one filthy, stretched-out second of silence—then the slick, press of the head of his cock right against that spit-slick hole.
satoru gasps. tries to lift his hips. can’t. you’re on his face. sukuna’s got his ass spread wide like a fucking offering plate.
then sukuna starts to push.
you feel the way satoru shakes beneath you. feel the tremble in his hands on your thighs. feel the moan rip out of his chest and into your cunt, his tongue fluttering against your clit like he doesn’t know if he’s overwhelmed or about to cum untouched or both.
sukuna hisses through his teeth. forces himself deeper. grabs satoru’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock like he’s shoving the last piece of something perfect into place.
“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you feel that, princess? this tight little bitch clenching around me while he eats you out?”
you moan. it’s not a word anymore. not even a sound with meaning. just a shudder dragged from your ribs because satoru won’t stop licking, won’t stop moaning into your pussy while sukuna ruins him from behind like he was made for it.
sukuna leans in.
his hand comes up your spine, slow and steady, and then across your chest, fingers rough and wet from satoru’s skin, trailing up to your jaw to pull your mouth to his. he’s panting. flushed. still thrusting into satoru in long, brutal strokes. and then he kisses you.
wet. loud. hungry.
he kisses you like he owns the air between your teeth. like he wants to eat the sounds right out of your throat. you kiss him back with your whole body—mouth sticky, tongue filthy, your hips grinding harder on satoru’s face because you want him to feel it while sukuna devours your mouth.
“look at him,” sukuna growls, breaking the kiss, voice wrecked. “fuck, look.”
he grabs your chin. turns your head down.
and you do.
satoru’s face is soaked in your slick. lips swollen. nose shiny. tongue still out. his eyes are wet, desperate, fluttering like he’s already on the edge. you can feel his moans inside you, against you, vibrating straight up your spine.
you slide off his mouth slowly. his lips chase you for a second—instinct—but you’re already shifting down, dragging your cunt over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his face. sukuna keeps fucking him, cock slamming in deeper, rhythm rougher now that you’re watching.
you lean in.
satoru gasps, eyes wide, and you kiss him.
you kiss him like he’s already lost, like the only thing left is how thoroughly. your mouth is still wet from him, from sukuna, from everything, and when your tongue slides in he makes this broken little sound in his throat like he didn’t expect you to want him after all that.
you do.
your hand slips down between your bodies. wraps around his length. he’s hot and slick and so hard it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s been holding himself together on sheer adrenaline and your approval alone. you jerk him slow at first, thumb brushing the slit just to feel him twitch.
he moans into your mouth.
and that’s when his hands come up—hesitant for half a second, like he’s checking if he’s allowed—and then he pinches your nipples between his fingers, not mean. not gentle. just enough to make you gasp against his lips and grind your hips down without realizing you did it.
“fuck,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at him.
he looks wrecked. pupils blown. mouth open. chest heaving. still being fucked, sukuna’s hips snapping in a rhythm that never stops, never slows, like a reminder that satoru doesn’t get to forget where he is or what he’s being used for.
you jerk him harder now. faster. wrist flexing. spit-slick sounds filling the room. he whines—actually whines—and pinches you again, thumbs rolling like he’s trying to hold onto something, like the sensation is the only thing anchoring him.
“don’t stop,” he says, voice cracked, stupid, desperate.
you smile.
“i wasn’t planning to.”
you kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth bumping, tongues sliding, your hand working him steadily while sukuna fucks him deep enough to make his whole body rock. he’s trapped between it all—your mouth, your hand, sukuna’s cock—and it shows. his breathing is wrecked. his hips keep trying to thrust up into your grip even though he can’t go anywhere.
you pull back just enough to look at him again.
then you shift.
not fully. not yet. just enough to line yourself up, to let the head of him brush against you, to feel that hot, stupid pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers dig in harder.
“look at you,” you murmur. “so fucked out already.”
his eyes flutter.
and you start to climb.
you do it like it’s yours to take. like his cock belongs to you, and you’re just coming back for it. you slide up and over him, knees planted firm on either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other still slick and wrapped around his shaft. you line him up. tease. not because he needs it—but because he can’t do anything about it.
you’re dripping.
you’re still open from earlier, still twitching, still needy, and the second the head of his cock catches on your entrance, you feel him twitch under you.
“fuck—” satoru pants, voice high. “please—i—”
you cut him off with a moan of your own.
and then you sink.
slow. tight. wet.
you feel every inch. you make him feel it. the way you clench down just to see his jaw lock. the way his breath stops in his throat halfway through. he tries to lift his hips—instinct—but he’s still full of sukuna, still being fucked, still being used, and he can’t do shit except take it.
you bottom out.
his eyes roll back.
you sit fully on him, hands planted on his chest, the weight of your body and the stretch of his cock and sukuna’s cock inside him making him shake like he’s about to cum untouched.
and sukuna—he grunts behind you, still buried in his ass, pace faltering just slightly.
“fuck, look at him,” he growls. “he’s gonna cum just from this.”
you roll your hips. slow.
satoru chokes on a moan.
“you like that, huh?” you murmur, leaning in close, your cunt pulsing around him. “being split open, used like a toy.”
he nods. once. quick. like he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. like it’ll make it worse if he says yes and you believe him.
his mouth opens. nothing comes out.
sukuna fucks into him harder.
your whole body jolts from the force of it, your hips sliding down, satoru’s cock pressing deeper inside you just as he lets out this little choked-off gasp against your mouth, like he doesn’t know how to hold it anymore. his hands are trembling where they cling to your waist, his chest rising too fast under yours, his eyes wide and wet and full of it—heat and pressure and disbelief. he’s shaking. so are you.
you kiss him again. open-mouthed and soaking in it, tongue messy, noses bumping, the two of you completely unraveling against each other while sukuna ruins him from behind.
“he’s gonna cum,” sukuna grits out from somewhere close, the sound of skin on skin louder now, sharper, his hand gripping your waist again, fucking into satoru like he can’t stop even if he wanted to. “he’s gonna fucking cum like this. you feel him?”
you do.
you feel everything. the way satoru’s cock kicks inside you, leaking and twitching, every muscle in his stomach flexing like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. the way his moans have gone quiet now—small, desperate, breathless little exhalations against your cheek like he can’t catch a full one anymore. he’s crying a little. you think. or sweating. or just overwhelmed. it doesn’t matter. he’s close. you can feel it in your spine.
you grind down on him harder. not even bouncing anymore—just moving in slow, tight circles, keeping him deep, dragging out the friction, letting the rhythm build slow and cruel and perfect while sukuna keeps fucking into his ass like he owns it.
your voice breaks before you mean it to.
“cum,” you whisper. not loud. not sweet. just necessary. like a spell you know will work.
and he does.
so hard it punches a sound out of him that he’s never made before. his whole body spasms under you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. his cock throbs inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep while you’re still pulsing around him, still grinding down, still clenching like you need it to keep going just a second longer.
it’s enough.
your orgasm hits like a wave slamming into concrete.
you shake. full-body. your mouth open but no sound coming out now, not really, not when you’re gushing around him, cunt fluttering, thighs locking up around his waist like you’re trying to drown him in it. your head drops to his shoulder. you don’t even know if you’re breathing.
behind you, sukuna groans. it’s low. fucked-out. the sound of a man hitting the edge with no brakes.
he grabs your hips—hard—and drives into satoru one last time, deep enough to shove satoru back up into you, your body jolting on top of him as sukuna growls and spills inside him with a hiss.
you can feel it. the way satoru flinches. the heat. the mess. the way he groans through it, lips brushing your jaw, body still twitching.
nobody moves.
sukuna stays there, cock still buried in satoru’s ass, chest pressed against your back, breath ragged. satoru is wrecked beneath you, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, lips wet and open. your body’s still twitching. your cunt still fluttering every time he shifts under you, too sensitive now, too full.
you don’t say anything.
you just stay like that.
you roll your hips once more. slow. indulgent. squeeze him just to feel him twitch. sukuna hasn’t pulled out yet. satoru’s cock is soft inside you now, slick with his own cum and sweat and whatever’s still leaking out of him from behind. everyone’s breathing hard. everyone’s quiet.
you blink down at him. stretch your spine. adjust your hips like you’re just getting comfortable.
“you’re both so easy it’s disgusting.”
satoru twitches. sukuna snorts.
“the fuck does that mean,” satoru wheezes, voice cracked, hands still shaking on your thighs. “i just got spitroasted for like an hour—”
“and you liked it,” you mutter, already reaching for the nearest towel. “you fucking loved it.”
“she’s not wrong,” sukuna grins, pulling out of him slow, messy, mean, one hand dragging down your spine like he knows he’s about to say something that’ll start another fight. “you were moaning like a little bitch the whole time.”
“you kissed me first,” satoru snaps.
“you came while i kissed you,” sukuna snaps back.
satoru’s whole body jerks like someone slapped him with a wet cloth. “i came because she was riding me—”
“with my cock inside you,” sukuna interrupts, smug. “say it slower.”
“that’s not—no—that’s not what happened, you manipulated the timing—”
“oh my god,” you groan, flopping back against the mattress. “are you seriously arguing about whether or not that was gay now?”
“it wasn’t,” satoru insists immediately. “it was about her.”
“you tongue-fucked me.”
“you grabbed my face.”
you blink at the ceiling. “you literally moaned into each other’s mouths while i came. like.”
“okay but that’s not gay, that’s—” satoru starts, voice a little too high.
“oh my god,” you mutter, flat on your back now, towel draped over your stomach, one hand over your eyes. “can you both shut the fuck up.”
they don’t.
you know they won’t.
satoru’s already gesturing with one limp arm, trying to make a point about tongue placement and emotional sabotage. sukuna’s flexing like he didn’t almost fall over two minutes ago. you’re pretty sure there’s still cum drying on the sheets. no one’s moving.
“guess we have to go through this again.”
the room goes quiet.
you peek through your fingers.
they’re both staring at you.
satoru’s mouth is open like he forgot how to argue. sukuna tilts his head, eyes already darkening again.
trigger/warning. ex’s father, ex’s dad, daddy kink, revenge sex, corrective sex, l desperate sex, rough sex, slow deep sex, breeding kink, creampie, cüm inside/cüm dump/cüm inflation, dirty talk/heavy dirty talk, degradation kink, verbal degradation, praise kink, size kink, huge cock, manhandling, possessive sex, overstimulation, multiple orgäsms, sqüirting, wet and messy, sloppy sëx, pü$$y juice, scissoring, tribbing, desk sëx/wall sëx/shower sëx, full nelson, college au, dorm room sëx, older man/younger woman, age difference, loud sëx, risk of getting caught; trying to be quiet/hand over mouth/muffled moans, sleep deprived sëx, married sëx, pü$$y drunk, cöck drunk, mind break, dumbification, corruption, ruined orgäsm, creämpie eating, belly bulge, cervix fücking, womb fücking
A/N DADDYYYYY KINKKKKK
Gojo Satoru
the flash goes off, harsh and bright in the dim lamplight of his bedroom, catching the way his large hand splays possessively over the curve of your hip, the way your back arches off the rumpled sheets, the way his silver hair falls messily across his forehead, eyes half-lidded and focused entirely on the place where your bodies meet. the phone is heavy in your shaky grip, but your smile is sharp, a razor's edge of triumph as you tap out the message to the contact labeled simply "ex (do not answer)". the image attached is obscene, a perfect capture of satoru's thick cock splitting you open, your wetness glistening on his shaft, his mouth pressed to the hinge of your jaw in a lazy, claiming kiss. you hit send before the wave of pleasure cresting inside you can make you drop the device, letting it tumble onto the mattress beside your head as a breathless, vindictive laugh escapes your throat.
"already distracted, sweetheart? here i thought i was doing a good job," his voice is a low, amused rumble against your skin, the words vibrating through your bones. he doesn't stop the slow, grinding roll of his hips, a languid rhythm that feels like he has all the time in the world to ruin you, to reshape your insides to the exact mold of his cock. he's not fucking you fast or frantic; he's fucking you deep, each push a deliberate invasion that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with a thick, syrupy heat that pools low in your belly. his weight is a warm, solid blanket pinning you to the bed, and you feel so small underneath him, so utterly consumed. "did you get a good angle? i'd hate for him to miss the look on my face when i'm this deep inside his ex-girlfriend's tight little cunt."
you whimper, your hands coming up to clutch at the broad expanse of his shoulders, nails digging into the corded muscle there. the sheer audacity of it all, the wrongness of it, makes your head spin just as much as the perfect, constant pressure of his cock dragging against your g spot. he's your ex's father, a widower of ten years, a man you'd only ever seen in stiff family portraits and the occasional polite, distant conversation at a holiday dinner. but when you'd shown up at his door, tears long since dried into tracks of spite on your cheeks, clutching a bottle of his late wife's favorite whiskey and the incriminating screenshots of his son with another woman, something in his icy blue eyes had shifted. it wasn't pity. it was recognition. a shared, cold fury at being discarded by the same selfish man. one drink turned into three, your bitter rant turned into a charged silence, and then his hand had found the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and he'd asked, calm as still water, "do you want to make him feel as small as he made us feel?"
and god, did you.
"n-no, it's perfect," you gasp out, your voice wrecked and high-pitched, nothing like the confident woman who'd just sent a sext to her cheating ex. under satoru's touch, you became this—a pliant, whimpering mess, brain dribbling out of your ears along with the slick that was coating the insides of your thighs and his heavy balls. "he's gonna see it. he's gonna see how his daddy fucks me so much better."
"that's my good girl," he praises, the words a dark, honeyed whisper against your lips before he catches them in a messy, open-mouthed kiss that's all tongue and teeth and shared breath. he groans into your mouth, a sound of pure male satisfaction as he pushes in even deeper, grinding his pubic bone against your swollen clit. "using your words so pretty. but i think we can do better, don't you? i think my son needs to hear more than just a picture. he needs to hear how stupid you get on my cock."
his hips pull back, leaving you achingly empty for a terrifying second, the cool air of the room a shock against your soaked folds. before you can even whine at the loss, he's pushing back in, a single, devastating thrust that punches a ragged "ah—fuck!" from your throat. his pace is still unhurried, a leisurely in-and-out drag designed to make you feel every single ridge and vein of his heavy cock. he's thick, so much thicker than his son ever was, and the stretch is a constant, burning pleasure that borders on overwhelming.
"look at you," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look down at where his body meets yours. his silver hair falls forward, tickling your forehead. "can barely keep those pretty eyes open. you feel that, angel? feel how deep daddy is?" he punctuates the word daddy with a sharp nudge of his hips, making you cry out. "my ungrateful brat of a son had this—had this perfect, tight little pussy—and he threw it away for some cheap, loose hole. didn't know how to appreciate it. didn't know you need to be fucked slow and deep until you forget your own fucking name."
"i—nnngh—i forget," you babble, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him involuntarily. his words are like a drug, short-circuiting every rational thought. the age gap, the taboo, the absolute filthiness of the situation—it all melts into a haze of pure, unadulterated lust. your legs are spread wide, hooked limply over his forearms as he holds himself above you, your body completely open and vulnerable to his leisurely assault. "s'too much... daddy..."
"shhh, i know it is," he coos, his tone dripping with condescending affection that only makes your cunt clench harder. he leans down to press a soft, almost chaste kiss to your sweaty temple. "it's supposed to be too much for that little brain of yours. you don't have to think anymore. that's my job now. my job is to just fill this needy little hole up and make you feel good. you just have to lie there and take it, isn't that right? be my pretty little cocksleeve for the night."
you nod frantically, your words devolving into a stream of broken moans and whines as he resumes his slow, deep rhythm. the wet, obscene squelch of your pussy taking him fills the quiet room, a soundtrack to your ruin that's more damning than any photo could ever be. your phone buzzes somewhere near your head—once, twice, a frantic series of vibrations that you know is your ex's panicked calls and texts. the sound only makes satoru smile, a slow, predatory curve of his lips.
"seems like he got the message," satoru muses, his voice as calm and unbothered as if he were commenting on the weather. his eyes don't leave yours, holding your gaze captive as he continues to fuck you with that maddening, leisurely pace. "you think he's crying yet? you think he's picturing his father's cock buried in the sweet cunt he used to have? the one he's never getting back?" his thumb finds your clit, pressing down on the slick, puffy bud with just enough pressure to make you see stars. he starts rubbing slow, tight circles that are perfectly in time with his thrusts. "go on, baby. tell me. does it make you feel good, knowing you've ruined him? knowing you're up here, getting your brains fucked out by a better man?"
"yes, fuck, yes, daddy, s'good," you slur, your back bowing off the bed as the dual stimulation of his cock hitting deep and his thumb on your clit sends sharp bolts of electricity through your nervous system. every nerve ending is alight, focused entirely on the point of connection between your bodies. you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of, high-pitched and desperate and completely shameless. "he never... he never fucked me like this... never made me feel this full..."
"of course he didn't," satoru scoffs, a hint of genuine disdain for his son bleeding through the lazy affection in his tone. "he's a boy playing at being a man. doesn't know a woman like you needs a firm hand and a thick cock and a man who knows how to take his time. you need to be appreciated, don't you, sweetheart? need to be told how good you're being, how perfectly this greedy little pussy takes every inch of me."
he shifts his angle, hiking your leg up higher over his arm, spreading you even wider, and the next thrust has him rubbing against a spot so deep inside you that your vision whites out for a second. a loud, broken sob of his name tears from your lips. "oh god, right there, daddy, please—"
"right there?" he repeats, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. he stays there, grinding against that devastatingly sensitive patch of nerves with a steady, unrelenting pressure that makes you feel like you're going to shake apart at the seams. "this little spot right here that makes your eyes roll back? the one that makes your mouth just hang open and drool? yeah, i know it. i'm gonna stay right here, baby. gonna rub my cock against this spot until you're a completely blank slate. until the only word left in that pretty head is my name."
your response is an unintelligible garble of moans and pleas. the world has narrowed to the smell of his cologne and sex, the feel of his hot skin against yours, the sound of his dirty, affectionate words in your ear, and the devastating, constant pressure in your core. you're not a person anymore; you're just a body for him to play with, a vessel for his pleasure and yours, and it's the most liberated you've ever felt. your ex's frantic buzzing has faded into background noise, as insignificant as a fly against a window. all that exists is satoru's heavy, languid weight and his cock reshaping you from the inside out.
"that's it," he groans, his own composure starting to fray at the edges. his thrusts, while still deep and controlled, gain a new intensity, a hint of the raw power he's been holding back. his breathing is ragged against your neck. "squeeze me just like that, angel. milking my cock so good. you love being filled up by your ex's daddy, don't you? love being my little secret, my dirty girl. say it. say you're my dirty girl."
"i'm your dirty girl," you echo mindlessly, the words tumbling from your lips without a second thought. your hands scramble for purchase on the slick skin of his back, nails raking down, leaving red welts in their wake. he hisses in pleasure at the sting. "i'm yours, daddy, all yours, fuck, he can't have this pussy back, it's yours—"
"damn right it's mine," he snarls softly, his hips snapping forward a fraction harder, a fraction faster, breaking his own slowburn rule. the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, a lewd counterpoint to your incoherent cries. "this cunt belongs to me now. i'm the one who's gonna take care of it. i'm the one who's gonna fuck it full whenever i want. my son can look at the pictures and cry himself to sleep knowing his father is the one making his girl scream."
he pulls his face back just to look at you again, drinking in the sight of your debauched, blissed-out expression. his thumb swipes across your slack lower lip, collecting the drool that's escaped, and he pushes it into your mouth. you suck on it greedily, your tongue swirling around the digit as he continues to pound into you with that slow, brutal precision. his blue eyes are blown wide with lust, but there's a deep, possessive satisfaction in them too. he's not just fucking you for revenge. he's claiming you. and you're letting him.
"good girl," he praises again, his voice a ragged whisper. "just like that. don't think. just feel. feel how deep i am. feel how your body opens up for me, like it was made for me. this is what you needed, wasn't it? not some boy who doesn't know what he has. a man who will take his time and worship this perfect little body until you're too dumb to even remember his son's name." he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his next words a hot, filthy promise that seals your fate. "from now on, whenever you feel empty, you come to me. and i'll spend all night filling you back up, nice and slow, until you can't walk straight. understand?"
you can only nod, your body a live wire of pure sensation, every nerve ending singing for him. the buzz of the phone is a distant, forgotten memory. the only thing that matters is the heavy, perfect fullness of him moving inside you, the hot brand of his skin on yours, and the dark, possessive affection in his voice as he continues to murmur filthy, praising things against your skin, breaking you down and building you back up into something that is utterly, irrevocably his.
Geto Suguru
the vibration of your phone against the rumpled sheets is what makes you smile, a slow curving of your lips that suguru geto catches from where he's buried deep inside you, his broad chest pressed to your back, one large hand splayed possessively over the soft give of your belly to keep you flush against him. he’s not even thrusting, just rocking, a lazy grind of his hips that has the thick, leaking head of his cock nudging incessantly at that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges. you can feel every inch of him, the heavy weight of his sac pressed warm and full against the slick curve of your ass, the coarse, trimmed hair at his base scratching your sensitive skin in a way that just adds to the overwhelming, filthy heat of it all.
“is that him, sweetheart?” his voice is a low, amused rumble in your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of the whiskey you’d both shared an hour ago when he’d opened the door, looking so devastatingly handsome in a simple black sweater that you’d almost forgotten the real reason you came over. almost. “your pathetic ex-boyfriend texting to ask why you’re not answering his calls?”
you manage a hum, your throat tight, words failing as he shifts his weight, pulling his hips back just a fraction before easing forward again with a wet, sucking sound that makes your inner walls clench down around him involuntarily. “mmhmm,” you gasp, your fingers tightening around the phone. the screen lights up with another string of frantic messages from kenji. where are you? we need to talk. i can explain about her. it was a mistake. the audacity of it makes you snort, a derisive sound that dissolves into a broken little whimper as geto chooses that exact moment to rotate his hips in a slow, deep circle.
“don’t ignore me now,” he chides softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his tone dripping with that infuriatingly gentle condescension that makes your cunt flutter helplessly around his intrusion. “you came to my doorstep with those pretty eyes all red-rimmed, telling me my son was a fool. and you know what i thought? i thought, ‘he must be an even bigger fool than i raised, to let something this sweet and tight slip through his fingers.’” he punctuates the statement with a sharper roll of his hips, a tiny grunt escaping his own throat as your wetness coats him anew, making the glide even easier, even more obscene. “is this what you wanted? for his father to fill up this needy little hole while he panics?”
your back arches involuntarily, pressing your ass more firmly into the cradle of his hips. he’s so big, so thick, not just in length but in sheer girth, stretching you open in a way that borders on overwhelming even with how soaked and ready you are. he’d spent the first twenty minutes just playing with you, his long, elegant fingers sinking into your mouth to wet them before dragging them through your folds, circling your clit with a lazy, expert pressure while murmuring the dirtiest, sweetest praise against your throat. “such a sensitive thing,” he’d said, watching your face contort with pleasure. “kenji never knew how to touch this, did he? always in a rush. boys have no appreciation for the instrument they’re given.” now, with the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, you understand the difference between a boy's fumbling eagerness and a man's knowing, deliberate possession.
“i want to send him a picture,” you finally manage to whisper, your voice wrecked and breathy. you tilt the phone so the camera faces the long mirror on his closet door, the one that reflects the debauched tableau of you both. you can see your own face, flushed and slack with a pleasure you can’t control, your lips parted and wet. and you can see geto behind you, a few strands of his long black hair stuck to the side of his neck with a thin sheen of sweat, his dark eyes half-lidded and fixed on the reflection of your joined bodies. the sweater is rucked up just enough to show the base of him where he’s buried inside you, the rest of you both still mostly clothed in the frantic urgency of the moment, and somehow that’s dirtier than being fully naked.
a low, appreciative chuckle vibrates through his chest and into your spine. “go on then,” he encourages, his hand sliding up from your belly to cup the weight of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, his thumb finding the stiff peak of your nipple and rolling it lazily. “show him what he lost. show him who’s taking care of you now. make sure you get a good angle, baby. i want him to see how deep his father’s cock is buried in that sweet little pussy he took for granted.”
your fingers tremble as you angle the phone, capturing the image in the mirror: the long line of his body draped over yours, the possessive clamp of his hand on your chest, and the undeniable, graphic connection where his groin meets the curve of your rear. it’s lewd, it’s explicit, and it’s the most satisfying thing you’ve ever seen. you attach it to the chat with kenji, your thumb hovering over the send button for only a second of delicious anticipation. then you press it. sent.
geto’s reaction is immediate and primal. the second he hears the soft whoosh sound of the message sending, his hips snap forward with a force he hadn’t used yet, punching a sharp, startled cry from your lungs. “there,” he grunts, the single word thick with satisfaction. “now he knows. now he gets to feel a fraction of the humiliation you felt when you saw him with that girl. let him chew on that image while his father fucks this tight, perfect cunt stupid.”
he sets a new rhythm, not frantic, but deep and thorough, each stroke pulling a wet gasp from your throat. his cock drags along your inner walls with a deliberate friction that has your mind going hazy, the edges of your thoughts softening into a warm, pulsing fog. you can’t form a coherent sentence anymore, just a stream of “uh, uh, uh,” sounds that match the cadence of his thrusts, your mouth hanging open and slack against the pillow. he loves it, you can tell by the way his breathing hitches and his grip on your hip tightens, fingers dimpling the soft flesh.
“that’s it,” he coos, his voice a dark, hypnotic melody in the dim light of the room. “let all those smart thoughts just drip right out of your head. you don’t need to think, do you? just need to feel. need to be stretched open on a thick, patient cock that knows how to treat you. kenji never did this, did he? never made this tight little belly feel so full it aches?”
you shake your head frantically, a mindless motion of agreement, because he’s right. kenji was all quick, clumsy fumbling, a few minutes of in-and-out before he was done, leaving you frustrated and aching. but this… this was a slow, relentless claiming. geto’s body was a heavy, warm blanket over you, his movements a lazy, rolling tide that just kept pulling you further and further out to sea. the angle was devastating, his cockhead kissing your cervix with a blunt pressure that was just this side of painful, but wrapped in so much slick, slick pleasure that it made your toes curl and uncurl in the sheets.
“you make the prettiest sounds,” he murmurs, his lips tracing a wet path down the column of your neck. “little mindless whimpers. a wet, hungry little noise every time i push back in. it’s like your cunt is trying to talk to me, telling me it doesn’t want me to ever stop. and i won’t, sweetheart. i’ll just keep you here, keep you full, keep this perfect pussy warm for me all night long. you’d like that, wouldn’t you? being my little cockwarmer?”
a pathetic, desperate “please” is all you can manage, the word slurring into a moan as he shifts his angle slightly, his pelvis grinding against the swell of your ass with a dirty, circular motion that rubs his pubic bone right against your clit. it’s an indirect, teasing pressure that has sparks shooting up your spine, your inner muscles fluttering in a series of uncontrolled, greedy spasms around him. he groans in response, a deep, guttural sound of pure male appreciation.
“fuck, you grip me so tight when i do that,” he observes, a note of genuine awe in his otherwise filthy tone. “like you’re trying to pull me deeper. greedy little thing. don’t worry, daddy’s got you. daddy’s going to keep this snug little hole stuffed just the way you need it.”
he slows his hips even more, the thrusts becoming a lazy, barely-there rocking that is somehow more intimate and more intense than anything else. you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, the slight curve that lets him hit that perfect spot inside you with unerring accuracy. it’s a constant, building pressure, a low hum of pleasure that’s become the entire world. your phone, lying forgotten on the sheets, buzzes again with a series of frantic notifications—kenji, no doubt, his world imploding—but the sound is distant and unimportant, a buzzing fly against the thick, soundproof glass of the pleasure cocoon geto has woven around you.
“ignore it,” he instructs softly, reading your mind. “he’s irrelevant now. you’re here with me. and i’m not done with you.” his hand leaves your breast to slide up and gently cup your jaw, turning your face towards his. his dark eyes are intense, pupils blown wide with lust, but there’s a soft, almost affectionate curve to his lips. “look at you. so fucking pretty when you’re dumb on my cock. eyes all glassy, mouth all wet. this is where you belong, isn’t it? right here, under me, getting your sweet little brains fucked to mush.”
you can only nod, a tear of pure, overwhelming sensation leaking from the corner of your eye to trail down your temple. he kisses it away, the gesture so unexpectedly tender that it makes your heart clench even as your cunt does the same around him. his hips continue their slow, devastating grind, the wet sounds of your joining filling the quiet room—a slick, lewd symphony of your arousal and his steady, possessive rhythm.
“you feel so good, baby,” he breathes against your cheek. “so tight and hot and wet. like you were made just to take my cock. made to be filled up nice and slow. we’ve got all night. and i’m going to use every minute of it to make sure you feel appreciated in ways my idiot son could never even comprehend. i’m going to keep you right on this edge, just feeling full and stretched and used, until you forget your own name. all you’ll know is my weight, my scent, the feeling of my cock keeping you open.”
his words are a drug, seeping into your bloodstream and turning everything to a warm, liquid haze. the world narrows to the heavy press of his body, the deep, steady intrusion of his cock, the rough whisper of his sweater against your bare back, and the wet, messy sounds of his unhurried possession. there’s no climax in sight, just this endless, perfect plateau of sensation. it’s a lazy, luxurious, filthy fuck that’s more about the act of being filled and owned than any frantic race to a finish. it’s a deliberate, exquisite ruination, and as you sink further into the mattress under his patient, grinding weight, you realize you never want it to end. the phone buzzes again, a frantic, helpless sound, and you smile a slow, dumb, blissed-out smile against the pillow, letting the vibration of geto’s approving chuckle in your ear be the only thing that matters.
Toji Fushiguro
you never thought you'd be here, spread out on toji fushiguro's unmade bed with your ex-boyfriend's father's mouth attached to your throat like he's trying to suck the soul right out of you, his enormous scarred hand wrapped around the meat of your thigh to keep it hiked up over his hip while he rolls his clothed erection against the damp heat of your cunt through your ruined panties, and the whole time your phone is propped up on the nightstand recording a video that you're absolutely going to send to his worthless son the second you remember how to breathe properly, which isn't going to be any time soon because toji just ground down against your clit with the thick ridge of his cock through his sweatpants and you made a sound that didn't even sound human, more like something wounded and desperate and absolutely pathetic in the best possible way.
“yeah, that's it, let me hear you,” toji murmurs against the hinge of your jaw, his voice all low and gravelly and dripping with this lazy sort of arrogance that makes your stomach flip inside out, and he doesn't even have the decency to sound winded even though he's been grinding you into his mattress for the past ten minutes like he's got all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of rushing a single second of ruining you for anyone else, his free hand sliding up under the oversized shirt you're wearing, the one that used to belong to his son, the one you deliberately wore tonight just to twist the knife a little deeper, and his calloused palm scrapes over your bare stomach in a way that makes your muscles jump and clench and your cunt leak through the thin cotton barrier still separating you from what you actually came here for. “little thing like you coming into my house smelling like him, wearing his clothes, looking at me like you wanted to be split open on my cock before you even got through the front door. you think i didn't notice? you think i didn't know exactly what you were doing the second you texted me asking if i was home alone?”
his fingers find the underside of your breast and he doesn't grab, doesn't squeeze, just traces the weight of it with the backs of his knuckles in a way that feels almost contemplative, like he's admiring the view, like he's got you exactly where he wants you and he's savoring the anticipation of what comes next, and the worst part, the absolute worst most infuriating part, is that you can feel his mouth curl into a smirk against your skin because he can feel how wet you are, can probably smell it, can definitely feel the way your hips keep twitching up to meet the slow filthy grind of his cock against your covered cunt like your body is trying to fuck itself on him through two layers of fabric and failing miserably.
“fuck, toji,” you gasp out, and your voice is already wrecked and you haven't even gotten him inside you yet, haven't even seen the thing that made his son, and that thought alone makes your cunt clench down on nothing so hard it almost hurts, makes your back arch up off the mattress and your nails dig into the scarred expanse of his shoulders where his shirt has ridden up, and he laughs, the bastard actually laughs, a low rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours and makes your nipples tighten into hard aching peaks that he hasn't even touched yet.
“what's the matter, sweetheart? getting impatient?” his thumb hooks into the waistband of your panties and drags it down just enough to expose the jut of your hipbone, and then he's pressing his mouth there, tongue tracing the ridge of it while his eyes stay locked on yours, dark and half-lidded and so fucking smug that you want to slap him and beg him to ruin you in equal measure, and when he speaks again his lips brush against your skin with every word, “you came all the way over here to get back at my idiot son, least you could do is let me take my time with you. don't you think you deserve to be savored a little? don't you think you deserve to be fucked by someone who actually knows what he's doing?”
his teeth scrape over your hip and you keen, actually keen, a high reedy sound that you've never made in your life and that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassed with, but toji's fingers have slipped lower, finally, thank fuck, finally, and he's pushing your panties to the side with a rough careless motion that makes the fabric dig into the crease of your thigh and then his fingers are sliding through your folds and he groans, a deep satisfied sound that rumbles out of his chest like a purr, and you watch his eyes flutter shut for just a second like he's savoring the feel of you, like you're something to be tasted and enjoyed and devoured at his leisure.
“soaked,” he says, and it's not a question, it's an observation, a statement of fact delivered in that same lazy drawl like he's commenting on the weather, and then he's pushing two fingers inside you without any preamble, no teasing, no working you up to it, just the sudden blunt stretch of his knuckles breaching you and curling up into that spot that makes your vision white out around the edges and your mouth drop open on a silent scream, and he holds them there, not moving, just letting you feel how full you are with just his fingers and how much fuller you're about to be when he finally gives you what you came here for. “this all for me? or is some of this still for him? you thinking about his face when he sees what his daddy's doing to his little girlfriend? you thinking about how he's gonna cry when he realizes he threw away the best thing he ever had and now she's spread out on my bed with my fingers in her cunt and my name on her lips?”
“both,” you admit, and it comes out breathless and wrecked and honest in a way you didn't mean it to, and toji's eyes flash with something dark and satisfied and hungry, and he starts moving his fingers then, slow deep strokes that drag against your walls and make your hips roll up to meet him without your permission, your body chasing the pleasure like it's got a mind of its own and that mind is entirely focused on getting more of whatever toji fushiguro is willing to give it. “both, fuck, toji, please, i need—”
“i know what you need,” he cuts you off, and his voice is softer now, almost gentle, which is somehow worse than the arrogance because it makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the orgasm building low in your belly, and he withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, making you feel every inch of the drag until you're empty and aching and clenching around nothing, and then he's sitting back on his heels and pulling his shirt over his head and you forget how to breathe for a solid three seconds because you've seen him before, of course you have, you dated his son for two years, but you've never seen him like this, in the low lamplight of his bedroom with his hair mussed and his pupils blown wide and the scar at the corner of his mouth pulling tight with the smirk he's giving you as he watches you watch him.
“take a picture,” he says, and it takes you a second to realize he's not talking to you, he's gesturing at your phone still recording on the nightstand, and then he's looking back down at you with that same lazy predatory smile and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, and your mouth actually waters, which is disgusting and humiliating and completely involuntary and you don't care even a little bit because toji fushiguro's cock is thick and heavy and flushed dark at the tip and there's a bead of precum already gathering at the slit that you want to lick off so badly your tongue actually aches with it. “go on, sweetheart. send him a preview. let him see what he's missing. let him see his daddy's cock about to split open his girl's pretty little cunt.”
your hand is shaking when you reach for the phone, but you manage to stop the recording and pull up your ex's contact, and toji watches you do it with this look on his face like he's never been more proud of anything in his life, and then you're hitting send on a clip that shows the last thirty seconds of him grinding against you and the sound of you moaning his name and the way he looked when he pulled his cock out, and you don't even have time to feel the full weight of what you've just done before toji is taking the phone from your hand and tossing it somewhere across the room and positioning himself between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's been waiting to be there, like this was always where you were going to end up from the moment you first walked into his house two years ago and shook his hand and felt something crackle up your arm like static electricity.
“eyes on me,” he says, and his voice has gone low and rough and commanding in a way that makes your cunt clench and your breath catch and your whole body go pliant and waiting beneath him, and then he's notching the head of his cock against your entrance and pushing in, just the tip, just enough to make you feel how wide you're going to have to stretch to take him, and you make a sound that's half moan and half whimper and entirely desperate, your hands flying up to grip his biceps because you need something to hold onto, something to ground you, something to keep you from floating away on the sensation of being filled so slowly and so deliberately by a man who is taking his time with you like you're something precious and not just his son's ex-girlfriend looking for revenge. “there you go, take it, that's my good girl, just like that, let me feel that tight little cunt stretch around me, fuck, you feel that? you feel how deep i am? you think he ever got this deep? you think he ever made you feel this full?”
“no,” you gasp, and it's true, it's so pathetically true, your ex never made you feel anything close to this, never made your toes curl and your back arch and your nails dig into his skin like you're trying to crawl inside him, never made words spill out of your mouth like water, broken little pleas and curses and his name, his father's name, over and over again like a prayer, “toji, toji, oh fuck, toji, please, more, i need more, i need—”
“i know what you need,” he says again, and this time it's against your mouth, his lips brushing yours with every word as he finally, finally bottoms out, his hips flush against yours and his cock seated so deep inside you that you can feel him in your throat, or maybe that's just the moan you're choking on, and he stays there for a long moment, not moving, just letting you feel the weight and the heat and the impossible stretch of him, letting your body adjust to the intrusion, letting you marinate in the knowledge that you're impaled on your ex-boyfriend's father's cock and you've never been more turned on in your entire life. “you need someone to take care of you. someone who knows how to fuck you right. someone who's gonna make you forget you ever let my useless son put his hands on you. that's what you need, isn't it, sweetheart? that's why you came to me.”
he starts moving then, and it's not fast, it's not rough, it's this slow deep grind that rubs the head of his cock against your cervix with every thrust and makes your eyes roll back in your head and your mouth fall open on a continuous stream of sound that you couldn't stop even if you wanted to, little broken uh uh uhs punched out of you with every roll of his hips, and his mouth is everywhere, on your throat and your collarbone and the swell of your breast where he's finally pushed your shirt up far enough to get his mouth on your nipple, sucking hard and then soothing it with his tongue while his hand palms your other breast with that same lazy possessive grip, like he's claiming you, like he's marking you, like he's making sure you'll feel him on every inch of your skin for days.
“that's it, let it out, wanna hear every pretty little sound you make,” he murmurs against the spit-slick skin of your chest, and his hips never stop moving, that same relentless rhythm that's driving you slowly out of your mind, making you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, making you acutely aware of how much bigger he is than his son, how much thicker, how much better he fits inside you like your body was made to take him specifically. “you sound so fucking sweet when you're getting fucked right. bet he never heard you like this. bet he never made you sound like this. bet he never knew what to do with a pretty little thing like you once he had you.”
your phone buzzes somewhere across the room, probably your ex seeing the video, probably him losing his mind, probably exactly the reaction you wanted when you set out to do this, but you can't bring yourself to care anymore, can't bring yourself to think about him at all when toji is fucking you like this, slow and deep and thorough, like he's memorizing the inside of you, like he's learning every spot that makes you gasp and every angle that makes you clench and every rhythm that makes your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist.
“you're gonna come on my cock,” he tells you, and it's not a question, it's not even a command, it's just a statement of fact delivered in that same low lazy drawl like he's telling you the sky is blue or water is wet or you're going to fall apart around him because it's inevitable, because it's the only possible outcome of him fucking you like this, and his hand slides down between your bodies to find your clit, his thumb pressing against it in slow tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips, and the dual sensation makes your whole body seize up and your mouth drop open on a sound that might be his name and might be a sob and might be both. “gonna feel you squeeze my cock, gonna feel this pretty little cunt milking me dry, and then i'm gonna keep fucking you, sweetheart, i'm gonna keep you right here on my cock until you can't remember your own name, let alone his, you understand me?”
you understand him perfectly, and your body is already obeying, already tightening and fluttering around him, already racing toward the edge he's pushing you toward with every slow devastating thrust of his hips and every lazy circle of his thumb and every filthy word that falls from his mouth like he's got an endless supply of them, like he could talk you through this for hours and never run out of ways to tell you how good you feel, how tight you are, how much better you take him than anyone ever has, how he knew from the first moment he saw you that you'd end up right here, spread out beneath him with his cock buried inside you and his name on your lips and his son's world crumbling to pieces somewhere far away where neither of you can be bothered to care about it anymore.
Nanami Kento
"you're so much tighter. . ." kento nanami murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice that same low, measured baritone he uses when discussing stock portfolios or the weather, but now it's frayed at the edges, roughened by exertion and something far more primal, his hips never once faltering in their slow, devastating grind as he keeps you folded nearly in half on the expensive leather of his home office couch, your knees pressed back toward your own shoulders by the broad, unyielding weight of his palms on the backs of your thighs, and the sheer audacity of the statement, the casual dismissal of his own son's ex-girlfriend, the boy who had the audacity to cheat on you with a barista who makes less in a month than nanami spends on cufflinks, makes your inner walls clench down around the thick, veiny length of him so hard he actually hisses, a sharp intake of breath through his perfect teeth.
the sound is almost as satisfying as the filthy squelch of your own arousal coating his cock every time he withdraws just enough to let you feel the flared ridge of his head dragging against that spongy, desperate spot inside you before he sinks back in to the hilt, a lazy, possessive rhythm that speaks of a man who knows he owns this cunt now, who knows he's rewriting every memory you ever had of his disappointing offspring with every single inch of his superior, older cock, and you can feel the vibration of your phone against the small of your back where it's wedged between your sweat-slicked skin and the cool leather.
the screen still lit up with the last text you sent, a blurry, artfully angled shot of nanami's broad, suit-clad shoulders and the unmistakable glint of his rolex as his hand splayed possessively over the curve of your bare ass, captioned simply with a single emoji, the smirking devil face, and you know the little read receipt has popped up by now, you know your ex is staring at it, his stomach dropping out through his fucking feet, and the thought makes you roll your hips up to meet nanami's next thrust with a wet, needy little whimper.
"that's it," he praises, and the word is a balm and a brand all at once, his hips stilling for a moment just to grind against your cervix in a slow, mean circle that makes your vision blur at the edges, "let me feel that greedy little pussy thank me for giving her what she actually needs, a real man's attention, not a boy fumbling around in the dark with someone else's barista," and his tone is so infuriatingly calm, so conversational, as if he isn't balls deep in a woman half his age.
a woman his son used to bring to sunday dinner, a woman who is now making a complete mess of his expensive trousers which are only shoved down just enough to free his cock because he'd been too impatient, too focused on bending you over the arm of this very couch the second you'd walked through the door of his high-rise apartment with that wicked, vengeful glint in your eye, to bother with the formality of fully undressing.
he shifts then, a subtle adjustment of his grip on your thighs that has him pulling out until just the very tip of him is nestled inside your fluttering entrance, and you make a sound that's half protest, half desperate keen, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the starched cotton of his dress shirt where it's still buttoned all the way up to his collar, the knot of his tie only slightly loosened, and he watches you with those tired, knowing brown eyes, a faint sheen of perspiration at his temples the only outward sign of his own arousal, "no, no, don't get grabby now, sweetheart," he chastises, but the corner of his mouth twitches.
"you wanted to be a brat, you wanted to send him a picture, now you're going to let me use this perfect little pussy exactly how i want to, aren't you? you're going to lie there and take it like a good girl while daddy fucks all that frustration out of you," and the question isn't really a question, it's a statement of fact, a decree, and you nod frantically, your throat too tight with lust and vindication to form actual words beyond a garbled, "uh-huh, uh-huh, daddy, please."
the word slips out, unbidden, and you feel the way his cock twitches violently inside you, a hot pulse of approval, and his composure cracks just a fraction, his nostrils flaring, "that's right," he grits out, and then he's moving again, not with any more speed but with a renewed, deliberate force, each thrust a deep, claiming plunge that pushes the air from your lungs in breathy, punched-out little moans.
"that's exactly right, i'm your daddy now, the one who actually knows how to fill this needy cunt up, the one who isn't going to run off with the first pair of tight jeans that smiles at him because i know the value of a thing when i have it," and his hand leaves your thigh to come up and grip your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to angle your face toward the large window overlooking the city skyline, the lights of tokyo blurring in your peripheral vision as he forces you to look at the reflection of the two of you, the image of his fully clothed, powerful form looming over your half-naked, pliant body, his cock disappearing into you over and over again in the darkened glass.
"look at that," he commands, his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, parting it from your teeth, "look at who's fucking you, look at whose name you're going to be moaning into his son's pillow the next time you find yourself in that shithole apartment he shares with three roommates, look at the man who is going to ruin you for anyone younger than forty," and the visual is obscene, the contrast between his controlled, tailored presence and your own desperate, writhing form so stark it makes your cunt gush around him.
a fresh wave of slickness making the slide of him in and out of you even filthier, even louder, a wet, rhythmic clapping sound that fills the quiet, refined space of his office, and you can see in the reflection the way your own eyes are glassy and unfocused, your mouth hanging open, a single strand of drool escaping from the corner where his thumb is still holding your lip down, and you look completely and utterly dumb on his cock, every coherent thought replaced by the heavy, dragging fullness of him.
"is he blowing up your phone yet?" nanami asks, his pace finally beginning to lose some of its lazy restraint, his hips snapping forward with a sharper, more possessive edge, and you can feel the thick head of him kissing your cervix with every stroke now, a deep, dull ache that borders on too much but never quite crosses the line, it just makes your legs tremble harder in his grip, "is he sending you paragraphs of pathetic, misspelled rage? is he finally realizing what he threw away, what he was too much of a fool to appreciate?"
and his words are punctuated by the increasing force of his thrusts, the couch creaking softly beneath the shifting weight of you both, and you manage to whine out a broken, "y-yes, feels s'good, daddy, feels so much bigger than him, can't even compare," and the admission makes his hips stutter for the first time, a genuine, guttural groan ripping from deep in his chest, a sound you've never heard him make before, not even when you'd first sunk down onto his cock with a triumphant little smirk on your face not fifteen minutes ago.
he shifts again, pulling out completely this time, and the sudden emptiness is a cold, aching loss that makes you sob in protest, your hips chasing his retreating warmth, but he's already manhandling you, his strong hands flipping you over onto your stomach with an ease that makes you feel weightless and completely owned, and he drags your hips up until your knees are tucked under you and your cheek is pressed into the cool leather.
your back arched in a deep, presenting curve that puts your soaked, puffy cunt on full display for him, and you hear the soft, wet sound of him stroking his own cock, slicking it with your juices, before the broad, blunt head of him is notching back at your entrance, and this time he doesn't tease, he just sinks home in one long, relentless push that has you keening into the cushion, your fingers twisting uselessly in the leather.
"this," he grunts, draping himself over your back, the fine wool of his suit jacket scratching against your bare, sweat-slicked skin, his mouth hot and wet against the nape of your neck, "this is where you belong, isn't it? face down, ass up, waiting for me to fill you up because you know i'm the only one who can, you know that little boy of mine never had a clue what to do with all this."
one of his hands snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your neglected, throbbing clit with unerring accuracy, and he doesn't rub, doesn't circle, he just presses down, a hard, steady pressure right on top of the swollen nub that makes your entire body seize up, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your cunt milks his cock in a series of violent, involuntary spasms.
"you wanted revenge," he breathes against your ear, his hips starting up a new rhythm, this one deeper, meaner, a grinding, circular motion that rubs the entire length of him against every sensitive, aching spot inside you while his finger stays pressed firmly against your clit, turning the world into a tunnel of white-hot, consuming sensation.
"this is it, this is the revenge, this is you getting absolutely ruined on his father's cock, and you're going to send him another picture, aren't you? you're going to show him how pretty you look with my handprint on your ass and my come dripping out of you, and he's going to know, he's going to know for the rest of his pathetic little life that daddy fucks better than he ever could, that his girl is gone, she belongs to the man of the house now," and his words are a filthy, possessive litany against your skin, his voice growing more and more ragged with every roll of his hips, his usually so carefully constructed composure finally crumbling into something raw and animalistic and completely, utterly yours.
the pressure of his finger on your clit is relentless, a maddening constant that doesn't let up even as he fucks into you with those deep, possessive grinds, and you can hear yourself making the most pathetic, desperate sounds, little broken moans and whimpers that you would be embarrassed of if you had any higher brain function left, but all you can do is feel, feel the impossible stretch of him, feel the way his body covers yours like a heavy, protective blanket, feel the scratch of his trousers against the backs of your thighs, feel the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing into your ass cheek with every thrust, and you know, you just know that your ex is probably calling you right now, the call going straight to voicemail because you'd put your phone on do not disturb the second nanami had pushed you up against the wall in his foyer, and the thought of him listening to this, to the wet sounds of his father fucking you, to the creak of the leather couch and your own desperate, muffled moans, is almost enough to send you spiraling.
"good girl," nanami grits out, the praise a dark, honeyed thing that drips down your spine, and he rears back, sitting up on his knees behind you, and the new angle is devastating, his cock hitting something so deep and so good that you sob out a garbled version of his name, "k-kento, oh fuck, oh fuck, right there, daddy, please, please," and he doesn't answer with words, he just grips your hips with both hands.
his thumbs digging into the dimples just above the swell of your ass, and he starts to fuck you properly, long, hard, purposeful strokes that have the couch inching across the polished hardwood floor with the force of them, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every forward surge, and the sound is obscene, a wet, rhythmic clapping that fills the room and drowns out the distant hum of the city below.
"do you think he can hear you?" nanami muses, his voice a strained, dark rumble, "do you think he's picturing this right now? his sweet little ex-girlfriend getting her brains fucked out by his own father? does he know how wet you get for me? how easily you open up for a real cock?" and each question is punctuated by a particularly brutal thrust that shoves you further up the couch.
your nipples dragging against the cool leather, and all you can do is moan and take it, your body completely pliant and receptive, molded to his will, and you think you might be drooling again, a damp spot forming under your cheek on the cushion, and you don't even care, you're so far gone on the feeling of him, on the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with sex, on the sound of his ragged breathing and your own desperate, high-pitched keens.
his hand slides up from your hip, over the curve of your waist, to press down firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you even more completely to the couch, and the feeling of being trapped, of being held down and used so thoroughly by this powerful, older man, is the final nail in the coffin of your sanity, and you let go completely, your mind going blissfully, wonderfully blank as he fucks you with a single-minded intensity, his grunts turning into low, animalistic growls every time your fluttering walls clamp down around him, and the world narrows to just this, just the feeling of his cock splitting you open, just the sound of his voice calling you his good girl, just the knowledge that somewhere out there, your ex is losing his fucking mind, and it's all because you're here, getting absolutely wrecked by the one man he could never, ever measure up to.
Ryomen Sukuna
you didn't plan for it to feel this good, not really, not when the whole thing started as a razor-edged scheme born from the sting of betrayal and the cold fury that settled in your chest when you saw those text messages lighting up your ex's phone. revenge was supposed to be sweet, a dish served with a side of smug satisfaction and a photographic receipt sent straight to his gutless son. but now, with your knees digging into the expensive, rumpled sheets of ryomen sukuna's bed and your cheek pressed against the cool leather of his headboard.
you're starting to realize that revenge might just be the most exquisite, filthy, full-bodied thing you've ever tasted and it tastes exactly like him, like expensive whiskey and smoky cedar and pure, unapologetic dominance. his large, calloused hand is splayed across the small of your back, fingers dimpling the soft flesh just above the swell of your ass, holding you in place with an effortless, almost lazy kind of strength that makes your cunt clench helplessly around the thick, veiny intrusion of his cock.
he's not even moving, not really, just buried to the hilt in one slow, devastating stroke that left you gasping and seeing stars behind your eyelids, and he's letting you feel it, letting you marinate in the obscene stretch of him splitting you open while his other hand scrolls through your phone with a casual disinterest that is somehow more infuriating and more arousing than anything else.
“hold still, little thing,” his voice is a low, subterranean rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine, a sound that feels less like speech and more like the earth shifting under your feet. “you wanted a picture to send to my idiot son, didn't you? then stop squirming. or do you want him to see just how much of a sloppy mess his daddy's cock is already making you before the camera even clicks?” he shifts his hips then, just a micro-movement, a barely-there rotation that grinds the broad.
blunt head of his dick right up against that spongy, devastating spot deep inside you, and the sound that tears from your throat is a broken, wet “aahn— f-fuck, daddy, please,” that you don't even recognize as your own. it's high and reedy and utterly pathetic, a noise that belongs to some brainless little cocksleeve, not a woman who walked into this penthouse with a plan and a chip on her shoulder the size of his bank account. the plan is dissolving now, melting like sugar on your tongue, replaced by a heavy, languid heat that pools low in your belly and turns your limbs to water. you can hear the faint click of the phone's camera, a sound so clinical and mundane in contrast to the primal, wet squelch of your pussy gripping him like a vice every time you breathe.
“there,” he grunts, tossing the phone onto the mattress beside your hip, the screen still glowing with the damning image of his thick, tattooed forearm braced beside your head, his hips flush against the curve of your ass, and your face—god, your face—twisted in a mask of slack-jawed, eye-rolling ecstasy.
“caption it. i'm not doing all the work here. tell the little shit who you belong to now.” but you can't form words, not when he finally starts to move with a deep, rolling grind of his hips that pushes you further up the headboard, your nails scrabbling uselessly against the smooth leather. his pace isn't frantic or punishing; it's the opposite, a slow, possessive drag that pulls him almost all the way out, leaving you feeling cavernously empty and whimpering at the loss, before he sinks back in with a heavy, grunting exhale that stirs the fine hairs at the nape of your neck.
“that's it,” he coos, the condescension in his tone dripping like warm honey over your frayed nerves. “look at you, all that big talk about revenge and ruining my son's life, and you can't even keep your thoughts straight once you've got a real man's cock stirring up this needy little cunt. is that what it is, sweetheart? you needed a daddy to come in here and fuck the thoughts right out of that pretty, empty head of yours?” his hand slides from your back, up your spine, and tangles in the hair at the base of your skull, not pulling hard, just fisting it firmly to tilt your head back and arch your spine into a deeper, more submissive curve. it changes the angle, makes every lazy thrust feel like he's trying to carve a space for himself inside your very core, and the wet, rhythmic shlick shlick shlick of your arousal coating his length fills the vast, shadowed room.
“y-yes, daddy,” you babble, the words slurring together as your eyes flutter shut, a single tear of overstimulation leaking from the corner of your eye to track a hot path down your temple. “s'good... 's too much... he never... never made me feel...” you can't even finish the sentence, your mind a blank canvas painted only with the feeling of him, the weight of him, the sheer, overwhelming presence of ryomen sukuna buried so deep inside you that you swear you can taste him in the back of your throat. he laughs, a low, cruel sound that holds no real malice, only a deep, satisfied amusement at your unraveling.
“of course he didn't. that boy wouldn't know what to do with a pussy this sweet if it came with an instruction manual and a map. all he knows how to do is fumble around and then run off to find something easier to play with. pathetic.” he punctuates the word with a sharper, deeper thrust that jolts your whole body and makes you keen, a high-pitched “nnggh—fuck!” that echoes off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tokyo skyline.
you're a mess, drool starting to pool at the corner of your mouth, your thighs trembling with the effort of just staying up on your knees, and he's barely broken a sweat. he's fucking you like he has all the time in the world, like your tight, wet heat is his own personal toy to warm his cock in, a lazy afternoon diversion.
“reach back,” he commands, his voice a low rasp against your ear. “grab your ass. spread yourself open for me. i want to see this greedy little hole swallowing every inch of daddy's cock.” your hands move before your brain can even catch up, clumsy and trembling, reaching back to grip your own cheeks and pull them apart, giving him an even filthier, more obscene view of where your bodies are joined. the cool air of the room hits the stretched, slick skin of your pussy and you whimper, feeling impossibly exposed, impossibly vulnerable.
“such a good girl for me,” he praises, the words dark and rich and sending a fresh flood of slick dripping down your thighs to stain his expensive sheets. “so much better than any other little slut who's ever tried to warm my bed. you've got that look in your eye, you know. the look of a woman who's been starving without even knowing it. and now you've finally found a man who knows how to feed this insatiable little appetite of yours.”
he pulls out of you completely then, and the sudden emptiness is a physical ache, a bereft whimper tearing from your lips. you barely have time to protest before his strong hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your back with a casual display of strength that makes your head spin. the sheets are cool against your heated skin, and you look up at him, this forty-five-year-old man who looks like a vengeful god carved from granite and sin.
his hair is a tousled mess, pink and black strands falling into eyes that gleam with a predatory, lazy satisfaction in the dim light. he's still fully dressed in his black slacks and unbuttoned white dress shirt, the fabric hanging open to reveal the hard, scarred planes of his chest and stomach, the dark lines of his tattoos snaking across his skin. the contrast of his clothed power against your complete, naked vulnerability makes your cunt clench around nothing, a fresh wave of desperation washing over you.
“daddy, please,” you beg, your voice a ragged whisper, reaching for him with grasping hands. “need you back inside... please, i'll be so good, i'll do anything...” he just looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, bending you nearly in half with a flexibility you didn't know you possessed. the new position is even more intimate, more vulnerable, his cock nudging against your slick, puffy folds, painting them with your own wetness.
“look at you begging,” he murmurs, his tone one of pure, indulgent condescension. “you came here to use me, to get your little revenge, and now you're the one who's been used up and broken in. my son's dumb little ex-girlfriend, spread out on my bed, begging for my cock like it's the only thing that makes sense in her pretty, empty world. isn't that right, baby? isn't this all your dumb little cunt is good for now?”
he sinks back in with a slow, relentless pressure that steals the breath from your lungs, a long, guttural “ohhh—fuuuck—daddy—” drawn from the deepest part of you as he bottoms out. this angle is different, deeper, more intense. every slow grind of his hips rubs against your clit with a maddening friction, and your eyes roll back in your head, your hands flying up to grip his forearms, your nails biting into the corded muscle and dark ink.
he sets a rhythm that is nothing short of torturous bliss. it's not a race to the finish; it's a long, drawn-out journey of pure, hedonistic pleasure. he fucks you slow and deep and filthy, his hips rolling in a continuous, lazy circle that has your inner walls fluttering and gripping him in a desperate, rhythmic massage.
“that's my girl,” he grunts, his eyes locked on the sight of your face contorting in pleasure, your mouth hanging open on a constant stream of wordless moans and broken syllables. “nngh— ah— aahn— oh god, daddy, right there— s-so deep—” you're babbling, completely lost to the sensation, your earlier plans of revenge a distant, laughable memory.
all that exists is this, him, the heavy weight of his body pinning you down, the slick, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your sopping cunt, and the filthy, degrading praise that falls from his lips like a benediction.
“you feel that?” he asks, his voice a strained, husky whisper against your lips. he doesn't kiss you, just hovers there, his breath mingling with your own ragged pants. “feel how deep daddy is? feel him in your tummy? that's a real cock, baby. not a boy's toy. and this greedy little pussy is going to learn to take it whenever i want, however i want, for as long as i want. you understand me?” you nod frantically, words completely beyond you now.
your entire world has narrowed to the slick, tight channel of your cunt and the massive, relentless intrusion filling it again and again. the pressure builds slowly, a low, simmering fire in your core that he stokes with every deliberate, grinding thrust. you're making sounds you've never made before, high-pitched, breathy little “uh-uh-uh” noises that are punched out of you with every push of his hips. you're drooling, tears are streaming from the corners of your eyes, your whole body is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and you have never, ever felt more beautiful, more wanted, more completely and utterly claimed.
“the next time that little shitbag son of mine sees this picture,” he growls, his pace never faltering, that same lazy, devastating rhythm continuing as if he could do this for hours, “i want him to know. i want him to see that look on your face. that's the look of a woman being properly fucked for the first time in her pathetic life. and i want him to know that it's my cock she's drooling for, my name she's screaming, my bed she's ruining with her sweet, messy little cunt. you're not his anything anymore. you're daddy's little mess now.”
he shifts his weight, moving one hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies to press his thumb down hard on your swollen, throbbing clit, rubbing tight, lazy circles in perfect counterpoint to the slow drag of his cock inside you. the dual sensation is explosive, your back arching off the bed, a sharp, keening wail of “daddy—daddy—pleasepleaseplease—” tearing from your raw throat. you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore. for him to stop? for him to never, ever stop? for him to fuck you so deep and so good that you forget your own name, forget the boy who broke your heart, forget everything but the sound of his low, approving grunts and the feeling of being so utterly, blissfully owned?
Higuruma Hiromi
"arch your back a little more for me, sweetheart—yeah, just like that, fuck, you're such a pretty little thing taking me so deep like this, aren't you?"
his voice is a low, syrupy rasp against the shell of your ear, each syllable punctuated by the slow, devastating roll of his hips. you're on all fours on his massive bed, the expensive sheets a tangled ruin beneath your trembling knees and the palms of your hands. higuruma hiromi, your cheating ex-boyfriend's widower father, is draped over your back like a second skin, his chest hair scraping pleasantly against your sweat-slicked spine.
he's not fucking you fast; he's fucking you thoroughly, like he's memorizing the exact shape and clutch of your cunt with the fat, leaking head of his cock. he pulls back until just the tip is stretching your rim, making you whine and clench down on nothing but aching emptiness, before he sinks back in with a wet, obscene shllick that echoes in the dimly lit room. it's lazy, it's affectionate, and it's the filthiest, most degrading thing you've ever done, and you're loving every single second of it.
"h-hiromi, please," you gasp, your voice already wrecked and cracking despite this only being the start of the long, drawn-out revenge plot you'd orchestrated. your arms are shaking, and he notices immediately, because of course he does. he's a defense attorney, a man who notices every flinch, every micro-expression, every little tell. he notices when you're about to collapse, and he fucking loves it.
"shhh, i've got you, baby," he coos, the term of endearment a stark, dizzying contrast to the way he's splitting you open on his thick, aged dick. one of his large, veined hands leaves the dip of your waist and slides up your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly.
he presses down firmly, and you both moan at the same time—you because you can feel the hard outline of him moving inside you from the outside, and him because he can feel his own intrusion through the plush give of your tummy. "feel that? feel how deep daddy is in this tight little pussy? your ex could never get this deep, could he? too busy trying to be quick and quiet when he wasn't out sticking his dick in other girls. such a waste of a pretty girl."
you clench down involuntarily, a fresh gush of slick making the slide even filthier, even louder. he chuckles, a dark, breathy sound right by your ear. "oh, you like that, don't you? you like being reminded that my son is an incompetent fool who couldn't keep a treasure like you satisfied. he's out there with that bottle-blonde barista, and i'm in here, in his childhood home, rearranging his ex-girlfriend's guts while she sobs on my cock. that's my good girl."
he shifts his weight, and you hear the faint, distinct sound of a phone camera shutter. you don't even need to look; you know he's taken another one. his phone is propped up on the pillow next to your head, the screen facing away from you but you know the camera app is open, ready to capture this beautiful, messy act of vengeance. "smile for me, princess," he murmurs, his voice dripping with condescending affection. "let's make sure my boy sees exactly how a real man treats what's his."
you force your eyes open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of pleasure and pure, spiteful glee. you look directly at the lens, your mouth falling open in a perfect 'o' of exaggerated bliss just as he snaps his hips forward a little harder, a little meaner, jarring a real, guttural moan from your throat. click. that one's going in the text thread.
you can already picture your ex's face, the shock, the fury, the sheer, pathetic disbelief. "ngh, fuck, hiromi, that's—you're so big, it's too much," you whine, playing up the dumb little victim act even though your inner walls are fluttering and sucking him in greedily.
"too much?" he parrots, pulling out slowly until his cock springs free with a lewd pop, leaving your hole gaping and twitching for him. he sits back on his haunches, grabbing a handful of your ass and spreading you open wide so the cold air hits your soaked, puffy lips. "this cunt doesn't seem to think it's too much. look at it trying to suck me back in. it's weeping for me, sweetheart. such a sloppy, desperate little thing."
before you can even think of a reply, he's manhandling you, his grip firm and unyielding. he flips you over like you weigh nothing, your back bouncing against the cool sheets. "up," he commands, hooking his hands under your knees and pressing them up towards your chest, folding you nearly in half. "hold your legs. show daddy how much you want him back inside."
your hands scramble to obey, gripping the backs of your thighs. the new position is obscenely vulnerable; you're completely exposed, your dripping cunt presented to him like an offering. he looms over you, his silver-streaked hair falling into his sharp, intelligent eyes.
at forty-five, higuruma hiromi is a masterpiece of lean muscle and weary experience, his body honed by years of stress and a stubborn dedication to keeping in shape. the scars of his profession are etched into the lines around his eyes, but right now, those eyes are fixed solely on the wet, willing mess between your legs.
"good girl," he praises, the words a hot, heavy blanket over your senses. he doesn't just thrust back in. he guides the fat, ruddy head of his cock through your slick folds, painting your clit with your own arousal, making you jerk and sob. "so wet for an old man like me. it's flattering, really. or maybe it's just that you're a filthy little thing who gets off on fucking her ex's dad. which one is it, baby? use your words."
"b-both," you stammer out, your mind going blank, hazy, blissfully empty of anything but the feeling of him teasing your entrance. "i'm a filthy little thing, hiromi, please, please just fuck me again, i need it, need your cock, need daddy to fill me up—"
that's all the permission he needs. he pushes in with one long, relentless glide, and your back arches off the bed as a loud, broken keen tears from your throat. "uuuunnngh, yes, yes, like that, oh fuck, hiromi—"
"that's it," he grunts, setting a new pace. it's not the lazy, deep grind from before. this is something else entirely. it's slow, yes, but it's a deep, purposeful rocking motion, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every downward stroke. he's not just fucking you; he's claiming you, molding your insides to the shape of him.
his mouth descends on yours, his kiss sloppy and wet, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your moans and feeding you his own guttural sounds of pleasure. "take it. take every inch, sweetheart. you're doing so well for me. such a perfect little hole. he never deserved to see you like this, spread out and desperate and so fucking beautiful."
he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw, your neck, biting down on the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your throat. you feel his other hand snake between your bodies, his thumb finding your neglected clit and pressing down in tight, unforgiving circles. "ah! ah, ah, ah—hiromi, that's—"
"look at me," he interrupts, his voice a low growl. you force your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. "i want you to look at me while i'm inside you. not him. me. i want you to remember this is me making you feel this way. hiromi. say my name."
"hiromi," you whimper, your voice small and trembling. "hiromi, hiromi, hiromi—"
he groans, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. he picks up his phone again, holding it above you both. this time, it's a video. you can see the little red recording light in your peripheral vision. "tell my son what a good job his father is doing," he instructs, his tone utterly calm and conversational even as he's drilling into you with that devastating, clit-grinding precision. "tell him."
you turn your head towards the camera, your expression one of pure, unadulterated rapture, tears streaming from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. "your dad," you pant out, each word hitching on a moan. "ngh, fuck, your dad fucks me so—ah!—so much better than you ever could. he's s-so deep, i can feel him in my throat. and he's so, so nice to me after he makes me cry on his big, fat cock."
higuruma laughs, a genuine, delighted sound, and it's the sexiest thing you've ever heard. "that's my sweet, dumb little girl," he murmurs, ending the video and tossing the phone carelessly to the side. "revenge looks so pretty on you."
he shifts again, pulling out of you and leaving you empty and aching. a frustrated cry escapes your lips, but he just shushes you, manhandling you onto your side. he spoons up behind you, his chest to your back, his cock nudging insistently at your soaked entrance from behind.
he hooks his arm under your top leg, lifting it up and back to rest over his hip, opening you up completely. he slides back in with a wet, contented sigh, and you both moan in unison at the new, impossibly deep angle.
"this is my favorite," he confesses into your hair, his voice a low, lazy rumble. "feels like we're just two puzzle pieces finally fitting together the right way." he starts moving again, a slow, syrupy grind that has you seeing stars.
his free hand roams your body possessively, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then sliding down to rub your clit again with the same slow, lazy rhythm as his hips. it's not frantic, it's not a race to the finish. it's a long, drawn-out exploration of pleasure, and he's the one holding the map.
"feel good, sweetheart? just a nice, slow fuck from your ex's daddy?" his breath is hot on your neck. "you can be as loud as you want, you know. the whole house is empty. scream for me. let the neighbors know who's making you feel this good."
and you do. you let every whimper, every moan, every broken sob fall from your lips uncensored, the sounds filling the room and mixing with the wet, rhythmic squelch of him sliding in and out of your sloppy cunt. "hiii-rooo-miiii," you cry, dragging out the syllables of his name, your voice warbling with pleasure. "it's s-so good, so deep, you're in my stomach, i swear, oh fuck—"
"i know, baby, i know," he coos, his hips never faltering. "just let it all go. let daddy take care of everything. you don't have to think, you just have to lay here and let me use this perfect little pussy. that's all you need to do. can you be a good, pretty little toy for me? can you just let yourself feel good?"
you nod frantically, your mind a complete blank. he chuckles, kissing your shoulder blade. "good girl. that's my good, dumb girl." he continues the slow, devastating grind, his cock stroking places inside you that you didn't even know existed, his fingers a constant, steady pressure on your clit. the pleasure is a rising tide, all-encompassing, washing away every thought of your shitty ex, the heartbreak, the anger. there's only hiromi, his body, his voice, the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly filled.
he whispers a litany of filthy, affectionate praise against your skin, telling you how tight you are, how wet, how perfect, how he's never had a cunt that fits him so well, how you're such a good girl for taking him so deep, how you were wasted on his pathetic son.
each word is a fresh wave of heat, a new layer of dizzying pleasure. his pace remains that same, unyielding slow roll, drawing out the feeling, making it last for what feels like hours. the world narrows to the slick slide of his cock, the hot press of his body, the steady thrum of pleasure building and building in your core, a taut, aching pressure that has you clawing at the sheets and babbling nonsense.
he never speeds up, never gets rough. it's the ultimate form of control, this lazy, affectionate, devastatingly deep fucking. he's showing you, with every slow, deliberate stroke, exactly what you've been missing. he's proving his point with patience and precision, not force. and as you lay there, held open and pinned in place by his body and his cock, you realize you're not just getting revenge anymore.
you're getting ruined for anyone else, and the smug, possessive sound of hiromi's breathing in your ear tells you he knows it, too. this was never just about a text message; it was about him claiming a piece of you his son was too stupid to keep. and you're letting him, whimpering and moaning and being such a good, dumb, little girl for him, for as long as he wants to keep you right here, on the edge of everything, full of nothing but him.
Shiu Kong
"stay just like that, sweetheart, fuck—right there, milking me so fuckin' good," shiu's voice rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest, gravelly and low, as his big hands flex against the globes of your ass, fingers spreading you open even wider around his thick cock buried to the hilt inside you from behind, and you can feel every single inch of him pulsing against your slick walls, the stretch so obscene and perfect that your thighs are already trembling where you're bent over the expensive mahogany desk in his home office.
the same desk where you'd seen family photos of his cheating son just weeks ago before you'd hatched this whole delicious plan, your cheek pressed flat against the cool wood as you arch your back even deeper, pushing your hips back to meet his lazy, grinding thrusts because that's exactly what this is—lazy, slow, punishing in the most indulgent way possible, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin you and he intends to use every second of it.
"your boy know you get this wet for his old man?" shiu murmurs, one hand sliding up the curve of your spine, fingers pressing into the dip of your lower back to keep you arched and presented for him, and his other hand snakes around your hip, thick fingers finding your swollen clit with practiced ease, circling the sensitive nub in slow, devastating strokes that have you keening into the desk, your mouth falling open on a wet gasp that fogs the polished surface beneath your cheek, "nah, bet he doesn't, bet that ungrateful little shit had no idea what he was throwing away when he decided to stick his dick in someone else, huh, sweetheart? his loss, my fuckin' gain."
you try to respond, try to form words around the desperate, punched-out sounds escaping your throat every time he rolls his hips forward, the head of his cock kissing something deep and devastating inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges, but all that comes out is a broken, "d-daddy—" and you feel his whole body shudder behind you, a rough groan vibrating through his chest and into your back where he leans over you, his salt-and-pepper hair brushing against your shoulder as his lips find the shell of your ear.
"yeah, that's it, call me daddy, since my son couldn't act like a fuckin' man, let his daddy show you how a real man treats a pretty little thing like you," his breath is hot and damp against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he pulls back just enough to watch the way his cock disappears into your soaked cunt, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filling the quiet room every time he pulls out just an inch before sinking back in, slow and deep and so fucking thorough, like he's trying to memorize the feeling of you from the inside out.
"look at you, takin' all of me so easy, like this pretty pussy was made just for my cock, hmm? so fuckin' tight, sweetheart, grippin' me so good, you gonna let daddy take care of you now? gonna let me stretch this little hole whenever i want?"
your fingers scramble for purchase against the smooth wood, nails scraping uselessly as he shifts his angle just slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk, a high, reedy moan tearing from your throat as your inner walls flutter and clench around him involuntarily, and shiu laughs, low and dark and so fucking pleased with himself, his thumb pressing harder against your clit in retaliation.
"oh, there it is, right fuckin' there, huh? that's my good girl, lettin' me know exactly where she needs it, so fuckin' responsive for me, baby, shit—" his hips pick up a fraction of speed, still lazy, still controlled, but there's a new intensity behind each roll of his pelvis, each deep grind that has your toes curling in your heels and your back bowing impossibly further.
he pulls out slow, deliberate, until just the thick, flared head of his cock is stretching your entrance, and you whine at the loss, your hips chasing him on instinct, but his hand on your lower back holds you steady, keeps you right where he wants you, "uh-uh, greedy little thing, daddy's gonna give it to you, don't worry, just wanna feel this tight cunt suck me back in."
and then he's pushing forward again, one long, smooth stroke that fills you so completely you can feel him in your throat, your mouth dropping open on a silent scream as your eyes roll back, and shiu groans like he's the one being wrecked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade for just a moment before he's straightening up again, both hands moving to grip your hips hard enough to bruise.
"fuckin' hell, sweetheart, you feel that? feel how deep daddy is inside this pretty little pussy?" he pulls you back onto his cock with each lazy thrust now, using your hips like handles, and the new angle has you seeing stars, your clit rubbing against the edge of the desk with every forward motion while his cock punches against your cervix with every pull back.
it's too much and not enough all at once, and you're babbling now, incoherent pleas and moans spilling from your lips as he takes you apart piece by piece, "yeah, that's it, let it all out, let daddy hear how good he's makin' you feel, bet my worthless son never had you soundin' like this, bet he never made this tight little cunt weep all over his cock like you're doin' for me right now."
his words are filthy, dripping with smug satisfaction and something darker, something possessive that makes your cunt clench even tighter around him, and he hisses, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he recovers with a breathless laugh, "oh, you like that, don't you? like hearin' how much better daddy is at fuckin' this sweet pussy? such a dirty little thing, fuckin' your ex's father, lettin' an old man bend you over his desk and ruin you, and you're lovin' every second of it, aren't you, baby? can feel you gettin' wetter every time i talk, such a fuckin' slut for daddy's cock."
you're nodding frantically against the desk, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, and you manage to gasp out, "yes, yes, daddy, love it, love your cock, love how you fuck me so much better—" and the words are barely out of your mouth before he's pulling out completely, flipping you onto your back with a strength that makes your head spin, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders before you can even process the change in position.
the new angle is devastating, his cock sliding back into you in one smooth thrust that has you crying out, your hands flying up to grip his forearms where they bracket your head, and shiu is looking down at you with hooded eyes, his expression a mixture of pure male satisfaction and something softer, something almost tender that makes your chest ache even as he's splitting you open on his cock.
"there she is, wanted to see that pretty face while i fuck you, sweetheart, wanted to watch those eyes go all dumb and crossed while daddy stretches this little cunt out," and he punctuates the words with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that has you keening, your back arching off the desk as your nails dig into his skin.
"so fuckin' beautiful like this," he murmurs, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip before pressing into your mouth, and you suck on it greedily, your tongue laving over the rough pad of his finger as he watches you with dark, intense eyes, "yeah, just like that, good girl, suck on daddy's thumb while he fucks this sweet pussy, look so fuckin' pretty with your mouth full and your legs spread for me."
his pace is still lazy, still unhurried, but the depth is punishing, each thrust pushing so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy taking him over and over fill the room like a filthy symphony, mixing with your muffled moans around his thumb and his own low, rough groans of pleasure.
"can't believe my own flesh and blood was stupid enough to let this go," he says, almost to himself, his hips never faltering in their slow, devastating rhythm, "can't believe he had this tight, perfect little cunt waitin' for him at home and he still went and fucked around, what a fuckin' idiot, but i guess i should thank him, shouldn't i, sweetheart? should thank my dumbass son for givin' his daddy the best pussy he's ever had."
he pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, replacing it with two fingers that press down on your tongue, and you moan around them, your eyes fluttering as he fucks into you deeper, harder, still slow but with more force behind each stroke, "that's it, take it, take all of daddy's cock, let me feel this greedy little hole milk me dry, fuck—"
his composure cracks for just a moment, his hips stuttering as your inner walls clamp down around him, and he laughs, breathless and rough, "oh, you like that, huh? like when daddy loses control a little? yeah, you do, i can feel this pussy flutterin' every time i slip up, such a fuckin' tease, gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."
he shifts again, pulling out just long enough to manhandle you onto your side, one of your legs pushed up toward your chest while the other is trapped between his thighs, and when he slides back in, the new angle has you seeing stars, your mouth dropping open on a silent scream as he hits something deep and devastating that makes your whole body shake, "yeah, there we go, found it, didn't i, sweetheart? found that spot that makes you go all dumb and stupid on daddy's cock, look at you, can't even talk now, can you? just a pretty little hole for me to fuck, that's all you are right now, isn't it, baby?"
you can only nod, tears streaming down your temples now as the pleasure builds and builds, your mind going hazy and blank except for the feeling of his thick cock dragging against your walls, the wet sounds of your pussy sucking him in, the low, rough timbre of his voice as he talks you through it, "that's okay, sweetheart, daddy don't need you to think right now, just need you to feel, just need you to let me take care of this sweet little cunt, fuck—you're so fuckin' tight like this, grippin' me so good, shit—"
his hand comes down to grip the meat of your thigh, holding you open and spread for him as his hips roll in that same lazy, devastating rhythm, and you're nothing but a mess of moans and pleas and broken sobs of "daddy, daddy, please—" even though you don't know what you're begging for, don't know if you want him to stop or never stop, just know that you're drowning in the feeling of him, in the way he's taking you apart so slowly and thoroughly, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin you for anyone else.
"please what, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice a low, teasing rumble, and his thumb finds your clit again, pressing down in slow, tight circles that have your hips jerking against his grip, "use your words, baby, tell daddy what you need, tell me how good i'm makin' you feel, come on, i know you can do it, even with this dumb little pussy brain you got right now, just focus on daddy's voice and tell me."
"feels—feels so good, daddy," you manage to gasp out, your voice wrecked and trembling, "your cock is so big, fills me up so good, better than—better than anyone, better than your son, please don't stop, please keep fucking me, daddy, please—"
his groan is almost pained, his forehead dropping to yours as his hips speed up just slightly, still lazy but with a new edge of desperation, "fuck, sweetheart, you can't just—can't just say shit like that, gonna make me lose my fuckin' mind, you know that? tellin' me i fuck you better than my own son, such a dirty fuckin' girl, love it, love this nasty little mouth on you, love this tight, perfect cunt, love every fuckin' thing about you, shit—"
he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin as he mutters filth into your ear, his hips never faltering in their steady, devastating rhythm, "gonna keep you, sweetheart, you know that? gonna keep this pussy all to myself, gonna fuck you whenever i want, wherever i want, gonna bend you over every surface in this house and remind you who you belong to now, not my worthless fuckin' son, no, you're daddy's now, aren't you, baby? this sweet cunt is daddy's, this pretty mouth is daddy's, every fuckin' inch of you is mine now."
and all you can do is nod and moan and cling to him, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper hair as he fucks you slow and deep and thorough, the obscene sounds of your joining filling the room along with his rough praises and your broken cries, and somewhere in the back of your hazy, pleasure-drunk mind, you remember your phone, remember the pictures you'd taken earlier, remember the smug, vindictive satisfaction of sending them to your ex, but none of that matters now, not when shiu is buried so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins, not when he's murmuring "good girl, my good fuckin' girl, takin' daddy's cock so well" against your skin like a prayer.
the world narrows down to the feeling of him, the sound of him, the weight of him pressing you into the desk as he takes and takes and takes, and you give it all to him willingly, greedily, your body arching into every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it never wants to let him go, and maybe it doesn't.
maybe this is exactly where you were always meant to end up, spread open and wrecked on your ex's father's cock, being fucked so slow and good that you can't remember your own name, only his, only "daddy, daddy, daddy" spilling from your lips like a litany.
"that's it, sweetheart," shiu groans, his hips grinding deep, his voice wrecked and reverent, "just like that, just keep takin' daddy's cock, don't stop, don't ever fuckin' stop—" and you don't, you can't, you're lost in the lazy, devastating rhythm of him, in the way he's ruining you so slowly and completely, and you never want it to end.
SYNOPSIS 𓏲𝄢 Being a blind girl in a bustling village is not easy— especially when nobody was willing to be of help. You've heard stories about a curse frequently roaming around the outskirts of town. A folklore passed down from generations to generations of family inside the village, though nobody has seen this "curse" in person before, the stories were still told like it first surfaced. However, the night when the said curse finally emerged from the thick trees and vaporized the village, you were left behind to fend on your own.
PAIRING ✶ trueform! sukuna x blind! reader
CONTENT ✶ sukuna is a dick, what's new . uraume is also . . . mean here, but they will change . no smut . long oneshot . ik it is said that sukuna doesn't have concubines nor sexual partners, but there will be mentions of concubines in this fic . uraume cameo . ik sukuna probably doesn't eat human food too but it's said here that he does (begrudgingly) . reader gets hurt a lot (minor wounds like a cut or scratch) . mentions of blood . mentions of sex . derogatory terms for women . sukuna gets soft but denies it . a little angst if u realize . fluff ending (gosh im not one for angst rn)
NOTE ✶ divider creds to @/mieluno . it's been so long since i posted here omg. my first draft is almost done, surprisingly. saw how my blind! reader and trueform sukuna fic previously got so much love, i thought why not make another one. probably gonna dip again after this for a bit, then come back again. also, thank you so much for 4k while i was gone, i appreciate it so much. and i hope you guys like this one mwhehe :>
"My mother told me the curse arrives every decade to choose a woman of his choice," this is stupid, you thought.
Your ears twitched lightly at the gossip— the folklore has been around for many decades and it was still spread around like wildfire. Frankly speaking, you didn't think it was right, just something made by worried parents to get their kids tucked safely behind doors on time as the sun falls under the horizon.
For many years, you've heard people speak of the same curse around; but never did the curse showed itself to anyone also over the years, you've heard many different things about the curse:
One, it was said that the "curse" comes by every decade to choose a woman of his choice to be a concubine, or even worse, a wife. However, none of the women here has been chosen by him, nor did the curse ever did come by.
Two, it was said that the curse marries a woman, make her conceive a child, then eats her. Which . . . makes absolutely zero sense at all to you, do curses even engage in . . . bodily intercourse at all?
Three, it was said that when the curse comes, he chooses, and vaporizes the others, and leave. Which also . . . makes absolutely zero sense!
Clearly this was something made by people who felt like it was fun to be passed down for generations. You were born with no vision, so the wonders of the world are all held back in blotches of black, it wasn't the most handy in this life where you do labor for everything.
"Do you think he has disgusting features . . ? Maybe two heads . . . Oh, or four legs, like a deer. Maybe he's a deer curse since he ventures the forest," you wanted to chuckle hearing them speak— it has always been them, you had no sense of time which was pretty horrible in a way you'd need someone to actually remind you it's night while you were out.
And by "someone" it's the owl hooting and hollering loudly, announcing the beginning of its hunt. Along with the crickets by the evening. Oh, don't forget the sounds of doors clicking harshly into their locks or the windows slamming shut in fear that the "curse" would get them.
You have felt intense fear in life. For example, recalling back to the time you'd lost footing in a stream and had the ladies there help you from drowning only to receive a lecture on how you should be more careful. Second, this was pure hypocrisy, however when you tend to stay out after dark, the rustling that comes behind trees and snaps of branches sent shivers down your spine.
Because as much as you try to deny the possibility of the curse roaming around the outskirts of the village, somewhere deep inside you, a little part couldn't help but to indulge into the folklore like these people.
Your eyelids slammed open, the drumming in your heart was getting louder and louder. This wasn't a dream, you were sure of it. So, why the hell were people screaming and hollering outside? Your fingertips grazed over the wooden desk as you guided yourself out of bed, heart racing and the impending doom bubbling right under your chest— people don't scream like this unless something was happening.
Was there another break in? Or were the Shakkin-tori back? They weren't supposed to be back until next year (or so you heard).
Your fingers curled on the door handle and you twisted it slowly, the lock clicking under your command. The air outside felt humid— no, hot even. It felt like the sun had decided to come a little bit closer.
And it smells . . . Awful. Utterly, awful. It smells like charcoal. Were the kids burning wood again? The second your foot stepped out, you were on the ground. Someone had sped past you frantically, screaming bloody murder, and hence, you decided that this wasn't just Shakkin-tori nor a normal forest bandit visit— this was actually real. And you weren't sure what to make do of the lack of information.
"Hello—" Your voice was futile, drowned under the crackles of wood and the mix of agony wafting around.
Your head turned frantically, hoping for anyone, anyone to just notice you this one time. But to no avail, nobody came to your aid as they were also busy with themselves. Families running, clutching onto their little ones as they fled the village only to be a cluttered, lifeless mess the second they try to escape any further.
The smell of metal whiffed into your nostrils, it doesn’t take two and two to conclude that it was blood that you were currently smelling. Especially with this whole fiesta, you’d think blood might have been the first thing you could smell instead of burning wood.
You could make out kids crying beneath all the terrified screams and crackles of burning wood growing louder. It was bound to happen to your safe haven so you stopped yourself from getting back inside— navigating your way outside all based on pure memories and instinct. Your movements were ran by adrenaline at this point, and you disregard the bumping made to the corner of your shoulders, refusing to let it push you down this time.
“Anyone?” You call out, your fingers grasping the air, quietly hoping for someone’s hand to hold yours and bring you to safety.
But nothing came. And you were left to be alone, walking down with your arms stretched out, you felt like a fool.
You stumbled over the hem of your kimono slightly and cursed under your breath, using one hand to grip the fabric and pulling it up slightly so you could step better. However, the lack of stretched arms to navigate your way only allowed you to crash into a wall— no, it sure felt like a wall, but you aren’t stupid enough to know that walls don’t make noises.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out meek and careful, a bit relieved that this was someone you could ask for help from, “What is happening? Hello?”
“Uraume.”
Who is Uraume? You don’t recognize that name anywhere and you surely don’t recognize anyone with that name inside the village. You staggered back, they must be the perpetrators. You turned on your heels and tried to rush away, only for a force to tug you back by your forearm.
“My Lord?”
“Seize her.”
Seize? You try to pull your arm away— keyword: try. When it failed under the touch of the person named “Uraume”, you reason out, “I’m afraid I do not understand what that means, what is happening right now?”
“My Lord, she lacks the knowledge of seizing. She is quite unlettered,” your jaw dropped in offense at the words strewn about you, “shall I discard her away and search for a different woman for you—?”
“I am not unlettered! Forgive me for lacking the vision to see what is revolving around me right now,” you muttered under your breath.
“Seize her. Drag her back to the shrine.”
“Ow,” you wince out, your hair pulled back roughly.
“Hold still,” you didn’t dare move at the annoyance lacing in her tone— you still have yet to know what was happening and who “Uraume” and “My Lord” is.
They had dragged you here without much fight from you. As much as you tried to stop them, their touch roughly screamed out strong and you weren’t brave enough to fight back. Not currently, to keep it short, “Uraume” had commanded a woman to hurl you into a quick bath so you’d look presentable.
“Why have they decided to bring in a blind girl? This is so troublesome,” she spat out, despite that, her fingers worked inside your hair, scrubbing it roughly, pulling the strands back.
Your wince and hisses of pain had gone unbothered by her. And you’d assume she worked under “Uraume” and “My Lord”. By her complaints, she’d rather be doing something else rather than bathing you. Mind you, you had the ability to clean yourself without help!
Don’t even start with the drying. She had used a rough fabric you couldn’t make out, it prickled your skin like needles; you try not to rip the fabric out of her grasp to do it yourself, but the curses she spat under her breath made you endure it. She had dressed you in a kimono, you assumed. The process equaled to the one you do everyday.
Although she had pulled the obijime tighter than how you do it, deliberately cutting the air slightly that you struggled to walk.
She pulled you along. No, she dragged you along her side and you complied. Before then, you’d stumble over wooden stairs she doesn’t inform you of until the sound the traditional shoji door sliding made you shudder. Once the door opened, the aura from the other side made your body felt lightweight.
The woman, you assumed, dragged you inside the room. Her hand lands on the top of your head, pushing it down. Your forehead kissed the rough tatami mat harshly at the force, and she murmurs under her breath; all hostility from before dissipating into one of fear and caution, “My Lord, she has been cleaned up like you assigned.”
“You may leave.”
Her hand disappeared from the top of your head and the footsteps fled, you internally screamed for her to bring you along. But, she doesn’t. The shoji door slid shut and you were left inside the room, on your knees. Slowly you brought your head back up from the mat, palms growing clammy at the silence.
“What is happening—?” Your question doesn’t vary from when they had found you roaming around like headless chicken.
“Silence. You are as of to shut your mouth when not given the permission,” someone solicited.
Again. You were offended. Surely they could have said it in a nicer manner, you fisted your hands on top of your lap. First, they had dragged you here. Second, made you shower with a woman who clearly doesn’t want to do it. Third, tell you to shut it when you needed closure.
“I have been stolen against my will,” you told in a matter of fact tone.
“Kidnap, I believe is the right term.”
“Yes. This is a crime. A felony. You will be severely punished for this,” you mutter under your breath, furrowing your brows, “they will put your head up on spikes and present it to the whole village!”
“Surely they wouldn’t go against someone who had vaporized your village,” you gasped in surprise, “and I made sure to leave the adults choked on their own blood. Who will have whose heads on spikes? I’d say not the adults.”
“I can’t tell if your naivety is laughable or pathetic,” the new voice, deeper, and hoarse made your head cast down slowly, “why so scared now? Where has that courage gone off to?”
The words were blown out of your mind. Whoever this was right in front of you smells of great danger and you weren't ready to deal with this until you've gotten your way around. A low chuckle escaped his lips at the sight of you so meek, "Uraume, show her the chambers."
Chambers? Your head snapped up, "Chambers? I will be detained?"
"Sleeping chambers," Uraume clarify.
You felt Uraume brush against you as they walked, you stood up slowly, trying to follow their footsteps; only to plant your face into the shoji door. A heads up would have been wonderful, you mumbled to yourself internally. Uraume kept his silence, watching you struggle with the fact that the Shoji door was on your way— they pushed the door wider for you to step out, and you did. our foot caught onto the sill of the door and your body jolted forwards slightly.
You would think that Uraume at least had the basic decency to guide you to follow them, but they had took a few steps ahead. No worries, you'd rely on your hearing for so long that you have grown accustomed to this kind of behavior. Your fingers laced against each other, following their steps and making sure that you hadn't lost them along the way.
"When you address him by 'My Lord', what is he? King of the forest? Head of village? Owner of a shrine?" You questioned in confusion, "And who was that lady? She could have been nicer to my hair."
"We do not do nice here. Be glad that My Lord has decided to spare your measly life unlike the adults there . . ." Uraume muttered back, turning around the corner.
Which you didn't hear. Hence, the loud 'thud' your body made as you fell off the end of the engawa, unknown about the sharp corner. Your palm dug onto the ground, little pebbles irritated the surface of your skin, digging into your flesh. A loud hiss escaped your lips at the sting and Uraume's footsteps close in, "This is quite troublesome."
"It would not have been if you had told me about that corner, Waraume."
"Uraume," they corrected.
"Uraume," you fixed.
They didn't help you up. You kept yourself stranded on the ground, one of the zori sandals you wore came off when you took a tumble and you had no idea where it had landed. After seconds, you brushed your palms onto the fabric of the kimono, tapping the ground to find the missing piece of footwear. This is humiliating.
When your fingertips grazed over it, you cheered internally, placing it upright. Uraume grunted, "Be quick, I do not have all the time in this world to wait for your tardiness."
"Tardiness? I am not being tardy. I need help, and nobody is willing to give me the help I needed," you grumbled under your breath, putting the sandal back on begrudgingly.
Uraume shuffled back onto the engawa, letting you climb back on yourself. This time, you try to keep quiet and put all ears up to listen to their footsteps, and you did. Horribly.
Uraume stopped right in front of a shoji door. Their fingers gripped onto the back of your obi, pulling you into a halt. They slid the door open widely this time, "This is where you will reside. You are to consume three meals a day —breakfast, lunch, and dinner— in the Ooku with the other concubines. They can be . . . distasteful, so keep your mouth shut at all times."
You stood there, "Ooku? Concubines? Surely your Lord wouldn't want a blind concubine, no?"
"He has not said anything about you being a concubine, a command is a command."
Uraume ushered you inside the chamber, "But I do not know when breakfast, lunch, or dinner is," your voice was timid, but Uraume isn't there anymore— They had walked away the moment you stepped inside the chamber, with your arms stretched out, you try to find your way around the room. It was spacious, maybe even bigger than your house in the village.
There is the cabinet. A dresser. A few tokonoma hung on the walls. An ikebana vase rested on the cabinet gingerly, and you hummed. Your fingers touched a circular handle and you slid it open— the oshiire, this was where the fluffy futon was tucked inside. And you touched the soft cotton based bedding, this was better than the thin mattress you used back at home.
Walking around the room, your shin bumped onto a small desk by the corner, a loud groan escaped in between your lips and you rubbed the area in the middle of your leg, "Who puts a table in the corner?" What a poor planning.
Like the usual, you only recognized it is nightfall by the time an owl began hooting right outside your chamber. The gargling in your stomach made you huddle down in pain, when was dinner? Right as you began laying down on the tatami, the door slid open.
"You are late for dinner."
"I don't know what is night. Or day. Or time at all. For one, the owls have been my night radar for . . . ever now," you muttered out, clutching on your stomach, "and I have no sense of direction. I do not know where the Ooku lays beneath all these walls and engawa. Nor do I know where the engawa ends," the reminder of the fall you took earlier made you grow annoyed.
Uraume blow out a soft sigh, they walked inside and lit the lantern by the corner of the room, "My Lord is requesting for your presence. The other concubines are not allowed to eat unless your presence is there."
"Is he supposed to eat with the concubines?"
" . . . Not usually," Uraume grappled onto your bicep, tugging you up, "it is an exception just for today."
"Why isn't he dining with his empress—"
"My Lord has no empress."
"Consorts?"
"No."
The walk to the Ooku is quiet. Uraume walked with purpose, often stopping to make sure you hadn't fall off the engawa like earlier— every time you fall back, Uraume stepped their foot once to notify his presence. You followed them down. And when the two of you reached the Ooku, Uraume took a good look at you.
"Make yourself look presentable."
"Do I not look presentable?"
"You look a mess."
"I am still presentable, am I not here to dine? I have no wants to woo your Lord," you smooth down the fabric of your kimono, puckering your lips slightly at how harsh their words are, "I am starving. I hope you served deer meat."
"Fish."
"Fish is delicious as well."
Uraume pulled the shoji door open, and the smell of food immediately caressed your nostrils. The smell made your stomach gargle even more, but you don't dare step inside— not when the whispers of the concubines made your stomach drop in a way not even the dread from the village did. You swallowed the lump in your throat, waiting for Uraume's next command.
"Step inside."
"Where?" Your whisper made Uraume grunt, they slowly grip the corner of your fingers, dragging you along the room. The tatami mat seemed to dig under your foot more as you walked. Before you could process it, they had helped you sit on the fluffy zabuton, right behind the table full of plates and bowls.
Sukuna's eyes watched you cautiously. He kept his mouth sealed, eyeing the way you sat on your knees on top of the zabuton, tucked to the right where a high ranked concubine should have been sitting. Instead, he had requested for you today. And his request was accepted in begrudging acceptance from the concubines.
Inside the Ooku, you sat there awkwardly. The whispers continue and you grumbled under your breath, you just wanted to dine in peace. A low voice came from your left side, "Eat."
The same voice you heard before. 'My Lord', you mumbled inside your mind. Bowls clanked, and you look around, tapping the table in search of your utensils. This was already humiliating as it is, but the fact that all these people have to wait for you to finish eating before being able to leave was even more humiliating— you end up discarding a lot of food just to make it all stop.
Uraume guided you back to your chambers under Sukuna's command.
You guessed a month passed by in a whim. You kept track of it, every single time the owls made their noise, you try to carve the walls of the chambers with a piece of sharp wood. The deep carve helped you counted the days you have been sitting here inside the chambers. It was ridiculous— the days passed by and every single thing in a day was always the same. Wake up, try to fold the futon, shove it back inside the oshiire as much as it could fit, shut the door and hope it doesn't bust, wait for Uraume to bring you to the Ooku for breakfast, bathe, dilly-dally, lunch, more dilly-dallying, dinner, bathe, bed.
"Dinner is served."
The walk to the Ooku was no longer awkward, you had accepted the fact that this will be your life from now on. 'My Lord'— or Sukuna Ryomen, you heard has made no attempt to talk to you at all, and you were glad. He was clearly occupied with the higher rank concubines, or that's what you assumed.
Exception for tonight, Uraume said. And Sukuna had been dining in the Ooku since you arrived here. Also, that explains why these ladies haven't been the nicest to you. By all means. Bath time was the worst, you wouldn't be surprised when one of your kimono pieces go missing, or your sandals, your socks. Even the soap. Or the wooden bucket you use frequently for water.
The constant bumps on your shoulder when you walked by the engawa, or the way you constantly trip on someone's foot as you walked by. They were doing a pretty damn good job at making you feel like chopped liver, not that you feel at home here anyways. You had no plan to get them to stop, nor do you want to be involved with the higher ranked concubines.
"Eat," Sukuna muttered like the usual.
Your fingers grasped the wooden chopsticks. You weren't a food connoisseur, but the cooks seemed to be in a mood to get married today— the salt made your throat ache, but you swallowed it nonetheless. At least the rice was delicious and it killed the over salty . . . everything.
"Uraume."
Every movement inside the dining hall collapsed. The silence is deafening and your movements stopped along with the others when Sukuna suddenly piqued out for Uraume, "Yes, My Lord?"
"Call the dokumiyaku."
The woman to your right speaks up, "Is there a problem with the food, My Lord?" her soft voice was wonderful— one of the kind you'd expect from a noble woman, although it would have been nice if her attitude matches the softness of her voice, "I'd say it tastes quite exquisite today."
Uraume went off and hoisted a dokumiyaku into the Ooku; you sat there, ready to shove your face inside the food, but your chopsticks were stolen right from your grasp at the last second, "I had not command you to eat, did I?" Sukuna's voice glowered.
You couldn't see his expression, but you stayed quiet. Sukuna faced the poison taster standing in fear right by the shoji, and he spoke out, "Taste this woman's food," he commanded.
And by woman, he meant yours. Everyone's eyes panned towards your platter of food. The only thing about this was somehow you were the only one unknown of all this, but you waited. You felt a presence right to your side and you scoot away in response.
"My Lord, there seems to be no problem with anything . . . Though," and then it hits you that the man was trying your food, your food. Sukuna had called a poison taster for your food for whatever reason he believed, "it is quite salty. A little more than . . . usual, and too much salt can cause complications to the body—"
"Hence, it is poison?"
" . . . If digested too much, yes."
"Uraume, discard the platter."
"My food," you mumbled, "surely I will be getting another platter, right?"
Sukuna grunts. He took a look at Uraume, gesturing to his platter as a hint to hand it to you, Sukuna hates human food anyways. Uraume complied, moving the platter onto your table. The concubines brows furrowed at the sight of his generosity— this was the first time Sukuna had done something as humane as this. The jealousy that had been brewing inside their heart boiled even more at the sight, the silence was there, but their hearts were noisy; sending knowing glances at each other as if to make sure every single one of them inside that room saw what just happened.
After Sukuna's command to continue eating, everyone continued. You chowed down the better tasting food and finished everything. How come he had notice something was wrong? Were your expressions saying too much?
Deespite that, you were thankful enough to finish the platter. Also, why does he have a poison taster? Aren’t curses immune to them?
A few months passed by slow, the concubines were being miserable. Especially the higher ranked ones, you would have thought mentions of them being pure evil were just myths— but they were right. You had been miserable all these months.
It started off small like a few months ago. Bath time problems. Missing clothing. Then it escalates to tampered foods, light framing. For example, last month, you had gotten framed for breaking one of the concubine's priced jewelry she custom made from one of the rarest gem in all of Japan. You took the judgement like a rock, with pointed fingers at you, you don't bother at all. Sukuna dismissed the problem, he doesn't sound like he cared enough to be bothered by a broken gem.
Or the other time another high ranked concubine told Sukuna about you somehow being a spy sent by your village to put an end to him. Sukuna blatantly shut down the ridiculous statement by saying he had killed every single person in that village and the said concubine was sent to the chamber . . . not for sleeping ones.
Sukuna doesn’t bother with measly troubles as this. Perhaps it’s the fact he was bounded to these women with lust— he has no problem throwing them away when they get too troublesome. Although, he did have to admit, you had done nothing but be troublesome for him.
Yet, you piqued his interest to the brim. Perhaps it is also the fact that you couldn’t see him that you were not spewing out words of disbelief. Most of his concubines fear him, they feared death. But you? You act like this was another trip around the village and lived life to the fullest.
He loathes dining in the Ooku, the concubines there —most of them— acted insufferable. The tone of their voice differ from the way they spoke to people of lower ranks. Now, Sukuna doesn’t bother with how they acted to the shrine maids or the workers, though his ears twitched every time he overhears them talking about you like you were just a hindrance to them.
The first time Sukuna laid his eyes upon your figure, he had been itching to kill you. To just slice you open and watch the crimson paint the ground like he did to every other people in the village that night, it took him by surprise that he had even commanded Uraume to bring you here.
These concubines were chosen by him, personally. Either that or . . . They had rightfully given themselves by their own want. Sukuna fixed his black hakama as he sat down inside his chambers, the darkness consumed him; and the only light were from the lanterns Uraume had forced inside the room.
“Uraume.”
“Have the concubines been giving that woman a hard time?” Sukuna questioned, shutting his eyes, “They will stop at nothing to get rid of that woman from the shrine.”
“Seems like the concubines are a bit . . . Envious.”
“Envy?” Sukuna questioned in amusement, he stared up the ceiling of his chambers, “Of what?”
“You seem to be favoring her.”
“That blind wench? Favoring? I’m just merely toying with her.” He scoffed.
“Mm.”
Sukuna grunted, “There will be time when I get rid of her— she’s utterly irrelevant and useless.”
Uraume hums softly, “She has no manners, no class, is never on time, takes long baths, mismtaches her outfits often, unable to take care of her looks, and is just . . . Terrible to look after. She is quite troublesome, I’d appreciate if you do get rid of that woman,” they finished in annoyance, “she go on about falling off the engawa and blamed it on me. How rude.”
“She lacks the vision.”
“And common sense.”
Sukuna leaned his chin onto one of his knuckles, his thought reeled back to the way you seemed to be all smiles despite the wrong-doings of the other concubines. He was right, you put no mind into the stuff that revolved around you right now and lived life like you always do— clearly, it shows how much you had been through to be able to accept these kinds of doings with open heart.
Uraume grumbled under their breath, “She lacks the knowledge of time. She lacks the knowledge of etiquette. She is quite the messy eater that even the maids get tired of scrubbing her outfits, it is about time that you get rid of her, My Lord.”
“It will come.”
A sliver of smile appeared on Uraume’s lips and they bowed their head down, “I will be waiting.”
You held back a light sneeze, idle on the futon. Your sleepwear tangled lightly, wondering how you were supposed to be sleeping in such complex materials— you thought of discarding them and sleep with just your skin on, but it would be shameful for Uraume to see first thing in the morning if you hadn’t wake up.
Your eyes were wide open, blinking. The darkness that covered your vision felt suffocating, and you breathe in softly and let the air back out loudly. Your back ached as the rough tatami dug into the futon. Today had been a bad day, you had managed to fall off the engawa once more when one of the concubines, you assume, had tripped you while you walked by.
Two, you spilled your grilled fish and didn’t get another one as change. You tried to complain to anyone. And three, someone had taken your obijime during bath time and you had nothing to hold your obi up. So, you walked towards your chambers holding up the piece of clothing your limbs turning into a makeshift obijime.
This was childish, you thought.
You stood up, the kosode faltering a bit and the oversized hakama Uraume gave to you were annoying. Not only were they too big, they had refused to change anything to fit you.
You slowly slid out of the room, tapping on the walls to navigate your way out. In all honesty, you were not supposed to be roaming out after dark. Uraume frequently goes on to check, but they stop after a certain amount of time— you walked down the hall, finding your way turning corners after corners trying to remember the directions to the garden you came across while exploring alone the other month.
“Running away so soon?”
You stumbled over your foot at the sudden voice and fell face first onto the wooden engawa, the pain registering seconds later into your nose and forehead. A hiss escaped your lips as you scoot aside, sitting on your knees, “Who is speaking?”
“Your Lord.”
“Sukuna?” You confirmed.
The no answer was an answer and you sighed, “How may I be as of help, My Lord?” You murmured out, rubbing the tip of your nose.
“You? Think I need help?”
“You might, which is why I am asking,” an amused scoff went past your lips and he raised a brow at your words, nobody dared to say that to him. Not even Uraume, “I was . . . Heading to the restroom.”
“Wrong direction.”
You freeze. He owned this place, of course he knew everything, a nervous laugh rumbled from the deepest part of your body, “Oh, it seems like I have made a mistake. Please, excuse me then, My Lord.”
He drawls out again, “You are quite the bad liar, wench.”
You retaliate, “Excuse me?” Had he just insulted you? Wench? Oh my goodness, if he weren’t so powerful, you would have your fist all the way up his bottom that it shows up when he opens his mouth! “Do not address me as such. I am not a wench.”
He scoffed, “You’re pitiful.”
“I am not.”
“All smiles under peer pressure, my concubines are giving you a hard time, are they not?” He hummed in amusement, adjusting his black colored kosode hanging by his broad shoulders, “I do not know whether you are being brave or foolish. You are a mere toy for me to enjoy, and until that enjoyment ends, I am to keep you alive and breathing.”
“And once it ends?”
“You will be discarded like every other person,” he spoke with such ease that it made vomit pile in your throat, you were kept here for the sake of his amusement while you were trying to stay alive, “nobody would choose a blind wench, not even humans. You would serve as nothing but a toy to anyone out there, surely you’d be appreciative of the royalty I give you?”
You gasped in horrid, “Appreciative? Over this?! You are insufferable, and terrible. Yes, you are terrible and disgusting.”
He barks out a rancid laugh, “That so?”
“Disgusting!”
You lift your hakama to prevent tripping and walked forwards only to step over . . . Nothing. And the tumble sent you face first into the ground below. Damn that engawa!
“Fool.”
Sukuna’s heavy footsteps began echoing as he walked around the corner, leaving you to complain on your own, blaming the hakama over your fall. The soil stuck beneath your nails as you pushed yourself up, holding the hakama in embarrassment. All that talk and you fall after, shame!
You stood there. The tremble in your legs stood you up there for a moment, graveling in your own shame. After a moment, you found yourself climbing back up onto the engawa, sauntering down the hall in continue to find the garden you accidentally came across some time ago.
Unlike the other concubines, you don’t care about that fiend. Fiend is the right word, he is now a fiend since you are a wench to him. How dare he degrade you like that? Even if nobody was there to witness it— still, how terrible of him. Maybe the folklore was right, maybe he is as terrible.
Ugh. You stomp your foot down on the engawa in annoyance. Not only did he manage to foul your already foul mood, you also did not find the garden even after an hour of roaming around endless corners, slowly lowering yourself onto grounds just to pat over the ground seeking for the familiar feeling of the bushes you touched and seeking for the slick rock that stopped you from toppling over the small pond.
You end up tangled under the blankets of your futon, angrily tugging on the warm sheet like your life depends on it. No, actually, you were channeling your anger towards Sukuna to the poor thing, cursing it under your breath as you kicked your legs in annoyance.
Before then, you had fallen asleep in fits of rage. The crease in between your brows deepened in your sleep, Sukuna plaguing your dreams. You woke up early like a fresh bucket of water had dampen you, earlier than usual. You slip out of your room with a towel and a change of kimono the maids had packed in sets so you wouldn’t mix the colors up— a warm bath without any of the concubines up felt like a breath of fresh air, you tied the obijime just right.
No missing sandals. No mismatched socks. You walked back to your chambers, tidying up the futon and shoving it into the oshiire as much as it could fit in. A low rumble of hunger reverberated and you held your tummy, sitting on your knees, waiting for Uraume to come fetch you.
And when they did, they were fairly surprised to see you up and dressed well. You feel their fingers curl around yours, pulling you out of the chambers. You trudged alongside them, entering the Ooku proudly. Chest puffed up, like you hadn’t been loudly cursing the pink haired curse into the sheets of your futon.
Sukuna’s many eyes panned to you, scoffing under his breath when you sat on your usual spot. Already reaching out for the chopsticks, “Had I given permission for you to eat?”
“I do not need anybody’s permission to eat,” yes, that was great, you thought already poking on the white fluffy rice in an attempt to rile him up.
And you sure did.
His brows deepened, “You dare defy me?”
“I dare!”
His concubines gasp in shock, surely Sukuna wouldn’t let you out of this alive. His maids and servants have died for various reasons— even the little ones, his outfit folded in a wrong way. Death. His room slightly dirty. Death. Caught shit talking him. Death.
Sukuna stared down at you, riled up. All while you were blissfully feeding yourself the warm rice. A delightful moan vibrating inside you, “This is delicious rice.”
Uraume blinked their eyes in surprise before actively trying to stop you. However, Sukuna waves one of his hand towards them, “Leave us.”
Uraume wastes no time ushering out the other concubines— some of them stifling laughter of satisfaction knowing you were in deep trouble after your stunt. They walked out elegantly, bowing down to Sukuna. You were blissfully unaware of the tremble on his shoulders, the way his nostrils fumed at your action.
“You dare shame me in front of my people?”
“In no way am I trying to shame you, I was just simply dining and appreciating how delicious this food is,” his arm swerved, hurling his platter of food aside. The loud crash echoed in the dining hall and you froze.
What the fuck just happened?
Your chopsticks hovered over the pickled radish on the side, the air blown out of you at the noise. Sure you were planning to rile him up, not to this extent though. You couldn’t see but the ominous aura he pushed out of him made you shudder in fear, the pressure on your shoulders added tenfold when his hand lands on your nape.
Oh, no. Is this the moment he crushed your neck and you die? Or is the moment he hurled you like he did to that platter? Or—
“You have the guts for someone who lacks the vision,” he spat out in annoyance, tone deep and brooding, “do you understand the position you are in? Know your place.”
“Respect is earned, if you do not respect me, I will not respect you,” you muttered out through gritted teeth, your chopsticks trembled from how hard you were holding it and you breath in heavily, “you dare address me as a wench, you do not know me.”
“I said, know your place.”
“I refuse.”
His hand clamped tighter on your nape, pulling your head back. You widened your eyes, “You dare—?!”
“Shut your mouth.”
You clamped your lips tightly shut at his command, briefly realizing how overpowerful this man is. You weren’t sure even 100 men could go against him. Sukuna leans in, his lips touching your earlobe, “You dare defy me?”
“ . . . No, My Lord.”
“Know your place.”
You stayed silent because you weren’t sure if you were to agree, you’d be able to keep your mouth shut next time. He’d surely have forgotten about this in a bit, no?
No. He doesn’t forget.
Patience and Sukuna don’t make a great pair, he has no time for patience. If he doesn’t like something, he gets rid of it quickly. Including humans, he has no single care for them. For him, they’re useless.
It was unnerving every time meal time rolled in because he has no idea what kind of stunt you’re planning. The concubines were surprised to see you still standing, they had even prepared tear works and nicely arranged compliments after the news of your death pass by. But, it never came.
Much like you did the other day, you continue to test his short string of patient. Sukuna waved at Uraume to drag you out of the dining hall before he takes a leave to blow his own steam off. Gosh, how can one measly human be so infuriating?
You have continuously succeeded in making him a fool out of himself. It was frustrating, at the same time, Sukuna couldn’t kill you. Not now anyways.
Hence the reason why he had arranged your meal time privately with him from today on. The concubines weren’t elated at the fact that Sukuna has yet again retracted back from eating with them— the reason he came in the first place was to keep his eyes on you anyways. None of the concubines mattered to him.
You were guided into his chambers, “Uraume? Are you sure you are guiding me to the dining hall? The walk today feels longer.”
“Shut it.”
“No. This is a felony.”
“What about everything in here is not?” Uraume snaps, sliding the door open and Sukuna was already inside, one leg up and his hand leaned onto his knee
You were sat next to Sukuna, reaching out for the chopsticks. Once again, that devious smile on your face plays out, “You never cease to annoy your Lord.”
“I do not understand you.”
“You are very stupid that you make animals look smart to me,” Sukuna rumbled, he watched you shove rice into your mouth happily in an attempt to rile him up, “you do understand that from now on you are to dine under my watch and my watch only?”
You froze. And he smiled in satisfaction, “Nobody would be there to assist you.”
A few moments pass by and you suddenly scrambled up, only to be tugged back down, one of his hands clamped onto your wrist, the other onto your ankle. They tugged you back ominously slow into a sitting position, you try to calm yourself in that fleeting second, “Why so scared now? Surely the courage is still left there as when you always shame me in front of the concubines?”
“Fiend!”
He rolled his tongue behind his lips in victory, “What is new?”
“Monster!”
“I have heard worse.”
“Ugly!”
“You are blind,” he deliberately copied a yawn out of people, leaning back to relax himself.
“I don’t need to see to be able to judge that you are ugly!” You point your finger accusingly towards him— no, to the space beside him that Sukuna coaxed himself to look at the space you pointed at slowly. A lopsided grin forming onto his lips, “You are wretched!”
One of his lower eyes shifted towards you, unnerving. And even if you couldn’t see, the shudder strikes you down once more, “Please, kill me now.”
“Careful of your wish, little wench.”
“Do it.”
“I’ll be your guest.”
You waited for the pain to hit, shutting your eyes. But it never did, and you looked around, it was still dark everywhere, of course. Had the action been so quick that you couldn’t decipher the pain before dying? Or had he not done it?
“For someone who dare to defy me, you seem pretty intent on dying, huh?”
How dare he! You narrow your eyes, “You are pulling laughter out of this,” he scoffed at your hypocrisy, he was doing what you were doing, “shut your mouth.”
“Or what?”
“Wretched fiend!”
He hums, “I heard you the first time you told me.”
Sukuna wanted to keep you for the fun of it longer, this was amusing.
“Uraume, does Lord Sukuna eat humans for a meal?” You questioned them.
“Yes.”
“ . . . Is blood equivalent to water for him?”
“Yes. Very much so.”
“What a disgusting fiend,” Uraume’s head snapped so fast towards your way that they could only let their jaw clench as they guided you down the hall, towards Sukuna’s chambers.
Nothing had change much for the past few months, you continue to pull at his string and he continues getting angry. But he has made no attempts to kill nor to get rid of you, “My Lord,” Uraume greets softly, sliding the door open for you to walk in.
You no longer fear Sukuna. Sure, he was a menace at times, testing your waters of fear. But strangely, you had gotten used to that practical that it doesn’t bother you anymore— he can try all he wants to be scary, it will never work.
“Tell me, are you a virgin?”
You sputter out the rice towards . . . God knows where. Cheeks warming at the sudden question, “What kind of indecent question is that? I suggest you to shut your mouth this instant,” you scolded in embarrassment.
“I have two. Which one?”
Two!? You would have thought that a curse being not so folklore was shocking enough, but he has two mouths. No wonder he eats humans for a living and slurps blood like a vampire, “That’s . . . Odd. In a very displeasing way.”
Sukuna grunt, “I have four arms.”
“Four!? What else? Two heads and nose?”
“Four eyes.”
“What?”
He grumbled, “You are not deaf, no?”
“So you are a monster,” it wouldn’t have been the first time Sukuna has heard the term, he could care less about it, because he himself agreed to it. He is a monster, what is there to be ashamed of?
“That is right,” he boasts out, chest puffed out.
“You sound proud.”
“I am proud.”
“Nobody would be,” you mumbled, wiping your lips with the sleeve of your kimono in a way that made Sukuna groan out, “what are you groaning about?”
“Even I, a monster, have better manners.”
“I don’t care.”
“You are doing terrific at pulling the end of me,” he tells you, watching you eat your food soundly like another walk around the estate. Your eyes shut in delight as you took a bite out of the grilled fish, Uraume serves them everyday but you don’t seem to be bored of it— unlike the concubines who has the time to complain about it every time Sukuna was not around.
Every single one Sukuna has heard. He doesn’t bother to indulge in it.
“Also.”
His ears twitched, already annoyed, “Speak.”
“Why do you have a poison taster?”
“According to the name—” you cut him off immediately.
“I understand what they do, though, I’m curious because are you not immune to poison?” Sukuna blinked, you were right. He is indeed immune to poisons, he has no idea how long that poison taster has been living inside the estate.
All he knew was that he had one. Apparently, Uraume had hired one to look after the concubines, it would be a nuisance to get rid of every single body all at once.
“I leave Uruaume do the estate handling.”
“So,” you conclude, “you are lazy.”
Sukuna raised a brow, your appearance has trained him patience. Something he has not been fond of for as long as he lived, the way your words nonchalantly flow out as you cocked your head to the side, “No. I simply cannot be bothered to do all that, why should I do such things when I can lay back?”
“Lazy and deluded.”
“Virgin.”
You stammer out, “I did not answer that!”
“You are defensive enough to tell me the truth,” he plays your game, “virgin.”
“Stop saying such things!” You slammed the table, letting the dishes clatter against each other in unison, “And why are we speaking of my sexual experience!?”
“Curiosity.”
You angrily asked, “And if I am not a virgin?”
“No man would want a blind significant other, not only are you a burden— you are too deluded to realize you are a burden,” he points out and you got offended at his words because clearly it hits close to home. Once realizing the effect, he smirks, “and no infant would be honored to grow in that wretched womb of yours.”
You clenched your fists. “If I am such burden, then I should leave. Have a good day, My Lord.”
The lack of “terms of endearment” from you made Sukuna wonder, has he finally pulled your strings? He smiled in victory watching you stumble out of his chambers like a chased fugitive, walking away, even leaving the shoji door open widely. How adorable.
You walked down the engawa in annoyance, the indescribable ache in your heart bloomed even more. No infant would be honored to grow in that wretched womb of yours. How could he say that? If he were to talk about your lack of vision, you would have retaliated because it is something you couldn’t change— but to say something so harsh.
It was to be expected from someone like him. Still, it aches.
A few days pass by. You blatantly refused to come out of your chambers, Uraume doesn’t bother, less work for them to do. You sat there facing the doors, you had been doing some thinking. Maybe if you declined meals, Sukuna would eventually get tired and throw you out. Or even better, end it all for you!
Despite the growing hunger, you kept yourself sane. Sitting on the same spot, dressed in the same kimono, not moving an inch. Days go by, you’d go out every once in a while to fetch water and leftovers to feed inside the privacy of your chambers. Sukuna hasn’t said a thing about the lack of your appearance.
Of course he hasn’t. He’s a monster, he cares of no one but himself! What were you expecting, (Name)? For him to come by, drop to his knees, and start apologizing for his wrongs?
He’s a curse for gosh sake.
You crossed your arms over your chest. And you hear the shoji door to your room slide open, you part your lips, speaking the default sentence you have told Uraume for the past few days, “Uraume, I do not want to—”
“I am not Uraume.”
You blinked, “You don’t sound like them.”
His voice trickles calmly, “You don’t wish to dine in my chambers? As you wish. From today on, we will dine right here in your chambers,” your jaw slacks and clenched over and over at the conclusion he made, “any denial?”
“I refuse. This is my chamber.”
“This is my estate.”
“Still!” You complained like a petulant little brat, “I do not wish to dine with a monster. I wish to dine in this humble abode myself.”
“Denied.”
You gasped, “You selfish—”
“Uraume, dinner,” Sukuna commanded boredly with a yawn, waving one of his arms.”
“Uraume, no dinner!”
Anxiety tightens in your body. He had blatantly ignored your request and you felt assaulted, your safe space was getting bombarded by his ruthless tendency! You stood up, “I command you to leave my chambers this instant,” you point your finger out, body taut.
Sukuna glowered, “You dare command your Lord?”
“You are not my Lord.”
Sukuna stepped towards you, his fingers curled against your wrist into a lock. And your facade falters against his touch, this was back to square one in a flesh— when you had anger him for the first time. The heaviness weighing in your throat grew and then you blow into fits of coughs, all the words caught up in a second. Sukuna pushed your wrist away from pointing at him, “You will dine with me, whether you want it or not. I will force feed you like a bird.”
“No.”
“You are confident the second my touch disappear,” he points out, his hand already hovering right above your throat, ready to pounce, “have the courage to say something with my touch.”
“I can too.”
And his fingers curled over your throat, pressing the sides of it tight enough for you to start gasping for air, “Let me go,” you manage to choke out before he lets go of your throat with a low chuckle, “you are sick in the head, Sukuna.”
“My Lord,” he corrects.
You blurt out, “You are no Lord of mine.”
Sukuna again, chuckles at the answer. Never in his years of life have he ever met someone as stubborn as a mule like you— oddly enough, he couldn’t find the heart to slice you open like he does to anybody else. The heart. What an odd thing to say, he doesn’t have a heart at all.
He’s utter crazy. If crazy had a definition written out, you’d see his name as an example. You stood there before sitting down on your knees. Sukuna sat down next to you; awfully close to you, the musky smell of earth clung onto him, and for once, you wondered if he bathes constantly or if it is just how he smells daily.
No men could smell that good with no bath. Right?
“Are you going to feed yourself or do I need to do the feeding for you?” He questioned, too daring. You know everything that comes out of his mouth was practically something he would do, and you somehow tested the waters once more.
“I am not hungry.”
“I can hear your stomach growling from three rooms away.”
“Do you have four ears too?” You annoyedly asked him, keeping your hands glued onto your lap.
Sukuna shuffled slightly on his spot. He notices the devilish crinkle by the corner of your eyes, as you shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly, “Do I?” He hums softly. Puckering his lips, Sukuna stared down at you.
The way your feet shifted constantly under your weight, the way your fingers curled and uncurled. Or the way your eyelids flutter slowly, lashes batting against your skin. Your lips pucker and pulled back, waiting for his next move.
Gosh, Sukunq has never felt this annoyed. He’s a curse, he shouldn’t have feelings. For a mortal at that— he wiped his palm over his face, sobering himself up from the plaguing thoughts of you, “Eat or I will force it in you.”
“I said, I am not hungry.”
Your lips part to utter more complaints to him, but before the words could leave the tip of your tongue, Sukuna shoved a piece of radish into your mouth. Your jaw clamped shut, and you began crunching on it. The sour sensation bursts in your mouth like an explosion, it’s been days since you took a bite out of the pickled radish.
“It’s . . . Delicious.”
Sukuna scoffed, “Uraume is a good cook.”
“You made them cook?”
“For us. The concubines has too much time to tamper on your food,” he muttered under his breath, “are you going to dine yourself or do I have to feed you?”
“I don’t know,” you tease, “I do not feel like eating myself.”
Sukuna scowled, “You are making a fool out of me.”
“You gave the choice. I answered. You made a fool out of yourself,” you nonchalantly replied, “also, oh no, I struggle with my chopsticks. I think I will need help.”
“Uraume,” Sukuna calls out.
You stopped him, “I can eat by myself, My Lord.”
“I thought so.”
The fact that you’re still alive right now is a miracle. Sukuna had been stuck to your side for ages now— counting 6 months, according to Uraume. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem to mind your presence at all.
Meals have been more relaxed. The teasing added up (on your side). Sukuna hadn’t let his concubines get away with fucking with you, his four eyes have come in handy with keeping tabs on you. Especially during bath time. He doesn’t follow you in, you had reprimanded him once for trying and he stopped.
Surprise.
From then on, he stood outside the bathe house. Arms crossed, concubines wonder what business he had waiting here. And were quite surprised when they find out you were the one he was waiting for— Sukuna commanded Uraume to get you the finest jewelries from all around, the finest fabrics to tailor into home wear, and the finest dine in experience.
“My Lord, do you not think that you are giving too much attention to that blind bitch?” One of the higher ranked concubines questioned in a sultry tone, her slender fingers rubbing Sukuna’s shoulder in a way he doesn’t enjoy.
In fact, he hasn’t been in bodily contact with any of his concubines even if they had indirectly suggested so. He brushed them off like they don’t matter more than a leaf on the ground, “Dare to repeat that?”
“We are neglected,” the other spoke, red kimono flowing elegantly along the tatami mat, “it is quite unfair for her to receive all your attention, and she isn’t even a concubine. Surely, you wouldn’t want to make love with . . . That.”
The way they spoke of you made his blood boil, but he kept his composure calm. Sitting there with two of them latched by his side, fingers tracing the shape of his chest languidly— their eyes screaming ‘make love to me, My Lord’. However, he paid no interest to them. Their fingers traced lower than he liked them to, and with a simple shrug, they were strewn off.
“I have no interest in making love with any of you.”
“My Lord—”
There was one thing he hates more than humans and that is weak humans like such. With a flick of his hand, the hall was blood filled. No screams of agony were fit in before these women’s lifeless bodies dropped loudly. Sukuna brushed his outfit, the splatter tattered his hakama, eliciting an annoyed grunt.
He wastes no time walking out of the chaos, Uraume eyed the condition of the room and instantly understood, “Get rid of them.”
“Understood, My Lord.”
“Inform me of (Name)’s presence.”
“She’s currently in her chambers, she had requested to be brought to the garden today . . .” Uraume bows his head down, retreating into the bloody hall. It wasn’t the first time they had to clean over Sukuna’s mess, and they know it wouldn’t be the last. To think that his Lord would do such things for a mortal was surprising, even surprising is an understatement.
“I will assist her,” Sukuna grabbed the napking Uraume offered, “get rid of the living concubines as well, I have no need for them anymore.”
“Get rid of them?”
“Kill them all.”
Sukuna took the fabric in between fingers, scrubbing off remnants of blood that etched onto his skin. His thundering footsteps echoed along the hall, the engawa shuddered under his weight as he sauntered down towards your chamber. He cleared his throat, sliding the door open.
There you were, sitting in the middle of the room. On your knees and fingers laced against each one of the other, he huffs at the pitiful sight, “Do you await for Uraume’s presence in that position?”
Hearing his voice made a small smile pop up on your face, your head bobs slowly, “I occasionally bump onto the furnitures here, and it doesn’t leave the most un-painful marks. I would rather sit here and wait.”
“Surely, you could have said something.”
“And bother Uraume? As much as I love bothering them with my constant nagging, I do feel somehow . . . Emphatic,” Sukuna blinked, his bottom pair of eyes looking around the room. Neatly made up, he had commanded Uraume to have the maids clean your room every morning during breakfast, “where is Uraume anyway? They are supposed to be assisting me to the garden.”
“Uraume is caught up in . . . An important matter as of currently,” the lie smoothly rolled out, “so, I will be assisting you today.”
“Really? I do not take you for a garden type of person— curse,” you correct yourself last second with a teasing smile.
Sukuna couldn’t hide the tug of his lips, he cleared his throat, “Shall we then?”
The invitation elicits a question, “Do you have your hand out? Because if I must remind you of the lack of vision once more, I will walk out by myself into the garden.”
“And fall off the engawa again?”
“I haven’t fall off in a long time,” you rolled your eyes, trying to find his hand, “and nobody cared to give me precautions over the estate’s turns. Am I supposed to learn everything by a miracle?”
“I would not let you fall.”
“How can I trust a curse?”
“By letting this curse prove you so,” you hummed when the warmth of his hand engulfed yours, slowly pulling you up onto your feet, “shall we?”
“I am unused to you acting so . . . Humane, it is quite odd,” you whisper out so softly that you couldn’t even hear it, almost.
His hand, so rough. Used to kill, used for the negatives of the world, now felt so little under your touch. The lingering warmth he felt under your fingertips made his chest flutter— he is a curse, he should not be getting attached to a mortal. In a way, he was signing up for heartbreak and heartbreak means weakness.
Sukuna and weakness don’t sit well together.
He averted his gaze out to the greens of his estate, guiding you around the corner, making sure your steps aren’t overlapping each other. Despite the brewing dilemma, he still handled you with care. Care. Odd feeling, his lower pair of eyes discreetly pan towards your form. Your dull eyes staring forward. If he thought about it, somehow be would love to thank your lack of vision.
Sukuna isn’t entirely attractive. To humans, at least. Two pair of eyes, two pair of arms, two mouths? For all he knows, even the concubines spoke ill of his appearance— they fear for their lives, and in his eyes they were just a flock of chicken prying for safety by going with the flow. The disarray look they had when he chose them proved enough. Pathetic.
"We have arrived," he announces out loud, "watch your step."
You took small steps on the wooden stairs leading down into the garden, his fingers curled against yours as guidance, "My Lord."
"Yes?" So soft, so unsuiting. He thought to himself, but the sight of you just made it come out.
"I do not know much about curses and their . . . Bathing schedules, do you not realize that you awfully smell of . . . Blood today?" Ah, yes. He swallowed slowly, his thumb caressed the back of your hand unconsciously, "do not get me wrong, usually you reek off earth and incense. Today however?"
"I heard you the first time, do not elaborate further," he hushed you in annoyance, "I killed the concubines."
You freeze. "Why?"
"That is what I do," he lied again, looking up at the sky. It was already a big blow to his ego that he dissected his concubines because they spoke ill of you— he does not need to elaborate further than that, no?
"I am sensing lies," Sukuna tightened his grip on your hand, "I don't want to pry."
Curse this. "They spoke ill of you," he fessed up, looking around the estate, "nobody speaks ill of you, but me."
"You are weird." So weird.
Sukuna grunt, "Am I now?" The teasing in his voice echoed softly into your ears. This is so unlike him at all that it scares you, the warmth in his voice differs from months before and you inhaled softly.
"I am a bit scared."
"Of me?"
"The new you."
Sukuna watches you step deeper into the garden, his steps followed behind yours slowly. Two pairs of eyes constantly looking left and right for any danger that lurked even in the estate, "Why do you attract yourself to such places as this? Quite boresome."
"It smells nice in here."
"Nice?" The sweet smell of flowers made his throat ache, it us anything but nice in here. But he held himself back from ruining the moment, arms crossed tightly.
You took small steps along the path, limbs stretched out to touch every single thing around the garden. Even if you have been here so many times, you were still one curious being, "Do you know what flower this is? Any knowledge?"
Sukuna spared a glance at the flower, "That is . . . A pink flower," he answered.
"I understand if you do not know the name of it, it has a funny shape," you touched the soft petals of it, and Sukuna's jaw slacked at the shame of not knowing his own flowers, "I like this one. I like this flower. Uraume is also quite clueless about the flowers around the estate. And they get pretty annoyed when I ask about it all the time."
You inhaled close to the flower, "Although I find it odd that it has no particular fragrance like other flowers."
Sukuna watched you from a good distance, the delicate touch against those flowers. And he took a good look at himself, the bloodied hakama, the way he looked. Surely, you wouldn't like how he looks . . . He remembered the shock on your face when he told you about the extra features. Monster. Fiend. Disgusting. It should have not bothered him that much, it didn't back then. But now that he's seen you in a different light, it does bother him to no end.
"My Lord."
"Mm?"
"I am ready to head back now, I think I'll ask Uraume to plant more of these flowers," you mumbled the first part to him and the rest to yourself, trying to find yourself back to him.
Sukuna lets you navigate on your own. And when you grasp his girthy arms, he felt himself relax, "Then we shall head back," he muttered, hiding the lower pair of his arms behind his back.
“Uraume.”
“My Lord?”
Sukuna looks out the window, grunting out softly, “I need a re-decor on that woman’s room, she keeps getting herself into trouble,” he muttered out, his eyes tracking down the birds flying around the estate, “and that pink flower in the garden. Plant more of those.”
Uraume raised their brow, “A re-decor?”
“A re-decor is what I said,” Uraume nods their head, unable to fight back. They had felt the softness that shaped around Sukuna gradually along the months, and as much as Sukuna tries to keep his sharp facade around you, Uruame isn’t stupid. They didn’t need long to put two and two together.
The curse, Sukuna Ryomen is in love with a mortal. Sukuna and love don’t go together, everyone knows that.
“I understand, I will have someone do a re-decor on her room,” they retracted away from Sukuna’s chambers, “and the flowers.”
Uraume lifted their gaze, the estate has been serene. Sukuna has not been furious once ever since you, he has been . . . Patient. Everything Sukuna isn’t— well, he is now. And it’s extremely odd! Swallowing back their words, they walked down the hall, feet slowly bringing themselves towards your chambers.
Following Sukuna’s orders, they had got rid of any living concubines from the estate. So, the estate was void of anyone besides the maids and well . . . You. Though, you were clueless of it. But you do wonder where all the concubines have went since you haven’t been exactly losing anything in particular.
Uraume slid the door open, expecting you inside. However, your chambers void of your figure, usually sat neatly in the middle waiting for them. Uraume furrowed their brows, “(Name)?”
“Uraume?”
Your voice came from outside. They tracked you down immediately, finding your form hunched over a bush, “I have fallen and I need help,” you tell them. Uraume took a good look at you hunched over the thick bush, green leaves stuck to your hair and outfit, you were a mess.
“How long have you been stuck there?” Uraume swallowed back a laugh.
“I do not know,” voice ripe with sheepishness, you wiggled your legs, “I cannot tell, I have lost count of it. I felt the need to guide myself to the garden alone today, but of course, this happens.”
“How have you managed to take a tumble?”
“I have fallen off the edge of the engawa yet again.”
Uraume had wasted no time informing of the matter to Sukuna right after they helped you up, brushed the leaves off your kimono, and made sure you spent a good time in the garden.
“(Name) has taken a tumble.”
Sukuna’s head panned up. He was quiet briefly, “The engawa, again?”
Uraume hums softly. “Yes.”
“Re-decor the whole estate,” he bluntly spoke, surprising Uraume mildly, “as fast as possible.”
So the whole redecorating begins, and as much as the maids and Uraume tries to keep their mouth shut about it. There will come the time when you find out the strongest curse has told the whole estate to shut their mouth about redecorating everything to favor you.
“Uraume,” you call out. Oddly enough, Uraume had moved you to a different chamber, much emptier, futon neatly folded and there weren’t any sharp corners at all. However, they did tell you this would be temporary.
It all started making sense when the maids would announce you about being careful around new things around the estate you do not remember anything of, “Mm?”
“Why has the estate change?”
You started the interrogation slowly, wanting Uraume to think you were this stupid and clueless woman asking innocent questions. Uraume grunted softly, “My Lord thought it needed some . . . Changes.”
“It is very (Name) friendly.”
“There is no point in fooling her anymore, she is not stupid.”
Mustering all the courage, Uraume turns their back to face Sukuna. His black hakama hung loose. Bare body, thundering footsteps, “Fooling me? You have been fooling me?” You gasped dramatically, throwing your hand over your mouth.
Sukuna glances towards Uraume, signaling for them to leave. And so leave they did, rushed footsteps leaving you behind. Sukuna’s hand brushed against the small of your back, guiding you back to your chambers. Your newly re-decorated chambers— very you, very carefully made, “I assumed you have done something to my chamber?”
“You assumed right.”
You blinked, “Tell me what is new.”
Sukuna’s eyes traveled around the new chamber, “Everything is new.”
“Which are . . ?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw before he spoke, “I made them rid of what could have been dangerous for you. Which were everything, the oshiire stays in the same place— I have made the maids search for the finest futon. They installed cabinets right here,” Sukuna’s hand brushed against yours, pulling your hand to touch the cabinet, “the corners are dull, hence, you would not hurt yourself,” he was right, the corners are dull, so dull that it made you stood there in awe.
“I had them move further into the chamber, so you would bump into them less, I hope.”
“You are quite kind.”
“Kind?” He scoffed, only to you.
A hum came from you, less convinced. You began making your way around the chamber, “Why?” Your one word question managed to rent the curse speechless, because he was internally asking himself the same thing, “Why do you go out your way to do this for me?”
“Courtesy.”
“Since when do you care about courtesy?” You questioned slyly, “The Sukuna caring about courtesy? I would think that you are excusing yourself, but truth to be told, I had not expect to still be alive by now.”
“Why would you think as such?”
“You said so, once I put up no use— I am a gone woman.”
The atmosphere shifts, he remembers clear as day. The words. Everything he told you in the past, “I misjudged you then,” he spoke, clearing his throat awkwardly, “it feels odd . . . Doing such things for a mortal. Believe me.”
“I believe you.”
Sukuna lets out a low chuckle, “Fool.”
“The garden has changed as well.”
“I commanded Uraume to plant a lot of the flowers you seem to like,” Sukuna replied, “I have learnt about it. They are called camellia. Do not question where I inherited that information.”
“Where have you inherited that information from, My Lord?” You asked him anyways.
“From the scrolls.”
“You ventured the scrolls for me,” your conclusion made his body jolt. His fingers tightened a fraction around yours, “that is very nice of you.”
Sukuna huffed, “I am a monster, I am not nice.”
“Did they tell you that?”
Sukuna raised a brow, “I announce myself as such,” he dragged his hand up towards your arm, “I am quite glad that you lack the vision to see me. I am hideous.”
“Do you announce yourself as hideous too?”
“The mortals address me as such,” he scoffed, “at least I am powerful.”
Your smile faltered. For a beat, you were quiet, unknown of what to say. But you start parting your lips, “May I touch your face? I’d like to feel what my kind concludes as hideous.”
Sukuna freezes. He contemplates, but at the end, he hunches himself in front of you slightly, “I suppose,” it comes out a timid whisper and you pat down his hair first— the thick strands of his hair, the maids spoke of how thick they are and how beautiful his hair is. It is soft under your touch, and your fingers grazed over his forehead.
“Big forehead,” you bluntly spoke, “people of my village wanted their offspring to have big foreheads because they symbolized high intelligence. I suppose they are right about it.”
Then your fingers grazed over his shut eyes, you remembered his revelation about having four eyes. Two of them smaller than the others and located on a hard structure protruding from the right side of his face . . . A bone? Or wood perhaps, “What color are your eyes?”
“Red.”
“I do not know, but it sounds suiting,” you comment again as bluntly as possible, his warm breath pushed into your palm. And your fingers traced the outlines of his lips slowly— tugged into a frown, typical of him, “I think you should smile,” and the corners of his lips began tugging upwards slightly.
Your hand pats down his face, down to his neck, “Thick neck, okay,” you remind him, “very muscle filled. That’s nice, you must work out a lot.”
Do not even start, his muscles were just wonderful. The outline of his bicep that you trace slowly made your stomach flip, “Are you shirtless?”
“I am always shirtless.”
“Creep.”
“You seem to enjoy touching my muscles,” he teased, letting your fingers traced onto his wrist, “what about my wrist now?”
“Big arms. Signifies strength,” and then you began patting the air around him.
Which for a bit, confused him, “What is it you are seeking for, woman?”
“Four arms.”
Ah. Sukuna tried his best to hide the two pair of arms but now that you had asked for it, he couldn’t help but to help guide your hands onto the bottom pair of arms, “It feels odd, no?” You elicit a giggle out of you, “What is so worthy of a laugh right now?”
“I can only feel two arms.”
Sukuna begrudgingly tucked the collar of your kimono neatly, covering your collarbone, and your hand shoots out to grab his hand, “Three.”
With the last hand, he grabbed your free hand, “Four. It feels disgusting, no?”
“You have an extra pair, where is the problem at that? I’d say you would work faster labor,” you whisper, wiggling your fingers gently as his fingers circled around your wrist, gently stroking your skin like a delicate glass, “I do not find any monstrosity on you, hence, you are not hideous.”
He stares you down. He isn’t hideous to the only human that matters, that is more than anything else. Sukuna swallowed the rest of his unknown insecurities inside. How funny, the curse, proclaimed strongest. Never had he felt insecure about his look until you— a blind mortal decided to drop by out of the blue, all of a sudden everything mattered more than usual.
“That so?”
“Mhm.”
He released your hand, “Then you are blind—” he stops himself, looking down at you. Who currently had a cheshire smile on your face, “Apologies. I seemed to have forgotten.”
“You? Apologized?” Only to you. Only to his woman.
“I did. We speak no more of that.”
“I will speak of it to Uraume.”
“Especially not Uraume.”
“I want to venture beyond the estate.”
Sukuna eyed you incredulously, you were safer behind the gates, right here with him. Why would you choose to venture out straight into the dangers of the world? He has made it clear to everyone that you belonged to him, here you were tucked inside the safety behind his arms, and you were asking such . . . Odd questions.
“Beyond? Elaborate.”
“I want to go outside and have fun,” you spoke out with such happiness that his heart swaggered, “I can take Uraume for precautions. I want to explore the world more, I do not want to be stuck here like a bird in a cage.”
“Why take Uraume when you can take me?”
“Uraume seems more loose on schedule.”
“I do not have schedules.”
You coaxed yourself to look up, “You do not? I would have thought royalty—”
“I am no royal.”
“You are king of curses, that is royalty,” your opinion flows out like an argument, he sighs at your stubborn tone, “victory is mine yet again.”
“Yes, yes. Why would you possibly want to put yourself in danger beyond the estate when you are safer in here?” You were stuck in the belly of his shrine, cringing from how frequent you walked down the engawa that you had remembered every route by now. You wanted more. The thrill of it, the fun, “I am not letting you step foot out of the estate.”
His lower pair of arms curled around your torso, pulling you back onto his chest. You sulked, “It is not the same, you are being selfish.”
“I am protecting you.”
“From what?”
“Humans. Predators. You do not know what is out there,” he spoke, tone laced with impatience, “I do not wish for you to get hurt, is that too hard to understand?”
“I will be fine, I am always fine.”
He should have known you, you have always been a rebel since the first time he commanded Uraume to drag you back here. So, it wasn’t a surprise when Uraume told him that you were not located in your chambers, “Locate her, Uraume. Surely she hasn’t gone too far.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Sukuna stood up, a black haori hanging on his shoulders loosely. He stood up, should have known, you don’t back down. That’s one of the reasons why he had gotten so attached to you, “Prepare to set out, Uraume.”
You had taken a broom out, using the stick as a navigator. So far, you had successfully entered into biomes of trees outside the estate and you couldn’t tell how far you had gotten. The stick of the broom prevented you from bumping into the rough tree barks and tumbling over bushes. Uraume should make a stick like this for you, how could you not think of this?
A soft tune echoed in a form of a hum from you, curious fingers touching every single thing. Burying your nose into different things you could touch, “Mm,” you moaned, plucking the wild flower and shoving it into the obi of your kimono to show Uraume later.
What a vast mistake this is. No sense of direction, you should have brought a maid along with you. Every turn you took seemed the same, trees and bushes. Occasionally wet patches on the ground made your sandals sink slightly. When the owls began sounding their loud horns, a wave of panic washes over you.
The itch on your arms made you groan, fingernails digging to cease the feeling. Your brows pinched together, trying to find anything that could be of help, “Hello?” You call out.
But the trees are endless, every time you call out for anyone, your voice bounced back to you. And you were beginning to grow restless, the feeling of uneasiness creeping into your body. Your kimono felt heavier, and your sandals felt wobbly now. You cursed, you should have listened to Sukuna. You should have asked Uraume to come along to guide you.
On the other hand, Sukuna walks calmly through the trees, Uraume walking ahead. The darkness was his forte, he loves it. But he had lost track of the hours he spent walking around what seemed to be similar places, “Where has that woman off to? I tell her one time that she is safer inside that estate and she flees.”
“There are bandits residing in this forest, we should locate her quickly, My Lord.”
Bandits. Sukuna scoffed, they could never compare to him— but you? You were as defenseless as a newborn calf. And now that it was dark, the bandits were surely on the move to find income. And God knows what they could do to you. Sukuna grunted, crossing his arms.
You ran into the trees. Unknown of what was currently chasing you deeper, the adrenaline striking inside you made you lose your broom and all you could rely on was your limbs. You could make out the crude laughter from . . . People? Or were they animals?
A loud yelp escaped you when your foot dug into what seemed to be a trap, the pain dug into your ankle. No, no, no. You chant, this couldn’t be happening right now, your fingers dug onto the wet soil, trying to find the power to continue running, “There!” Ah, so they were humans.
Bandits. You assume. Back when you lived in the village, bandits frequently dropped by and chaos ensued. But there were so many people fighting back, now? It was just you.
“She’s dressed grand, surely she has a few dimes on her,” one of them spoke, the bushes rustling to your right and you clutch onto your hands in fear. Moving slowly backwards, crawling on the ground hopelessly, “her necklace looks pricy.”
“Just get anything that looks grand. We’ll get a price outta whatever.”
You shook your head, “Please,” your plead fell into deaf ears when you feel someone pull on the necklace Sukuna made for you, the string snapping under the force and you grasp the air, “no, anything but that. It means a lot to me, please.”
Your head snapped to the side, your cheek seared. Had one of them just striked you? You whimpered in pain, muddy hand flying up to touch the burning spot. They laughed. How could they laugh at the expense of you!?
“Get the hairpin. Looks like gold.”
You grabbed it before they could, “No,” you clutched it into your chest, another one of Sukuna’s gift from not too long ago, “this is precious to me.”
“Unfortunately, we do not care.”
The gems ripped into your skin when they forcefully grabbed it. You lunged forwards, grabbing onto whatever belonged to them you could hold onto, “Give that back to me,” you mutter out.
“Let go of me, you blind bitch!”
The hits delivered to you were relentless. Then again, these were bandits, they don’t care about anything but money. You held onto one of them tightly, the pain slowly registering into every place they hit— punches, kicks. One of them tried to wiggle their leg out of your grasp, pulling your hair back in annoyance, “I’ll kill you, you prude!”
And then just like that. Silence ensued.
You felt the leg go limp and you breathe heavily, what was happening? Sukuna emerged from behind the trees, annoyance written on every crease on his face as he approaches you. And the second his eyes landed on your battered figure, he glowered out, grabbing your arm tightly, “Why did you not call for help!?”
The surprise from before lingered, and you stuttered out, “My Lord—”
“Look at this,” he loudly said, clamping your jaw tightly, the cuts on your face registered into his mind, “and this,” he pulled your leg.
“I . . .”
“Shut your mouth.”
Once you were settled back inside the estate, Uraume helped you draw a warm bath. Scrubbing the mud stuck to your hair, your kimono was left for the maids to scrub, your wounds were taken care of quickly. The bandages wrapped around your ankle a constant reminder of your stupidity, and once all of that was settled, Uraume helped you into Sukuna’s chambers.
He was not happy. He was far from that.
The door slid shut softly and Uraume walked away. Sukuna steps closer to you, “I give you everything you wanted. You ask me for a bigger garden, I commanded them to reconstruct it,” he drawls out calmly, his fingers thrusting to your shoulder gently, “you ask me for deer meat and I commanded Uraume to hunt the finest deers. I have complied to you every single time.”
“You ask me for the finest fabrics and I have the maids venture out from village to village to earn it, you ask me for a new hairpin and I have provided, you ask me for everything I have complied,” his voice grew louder, “I ask for one thing. For you to stay inside the estate, in safety, and you chose the danger outside.”
Your head fell in shame, “I just . . .”
“You are stupid.”
Your brows pinched, “I am not . . .”
“You track back on what had happened, is it not caused by your stupidity? You claim to be smarter than a curse and here I am saving you from a scenario you created on your own,” he shook your body in anger, “and if Uraume and I hadn’t been there on time? You would have died!”
You snapped back, “Why do you care!? You are just a curse, you do not have feelings!”
“To hell with that!” He yelled back, “I hate admitting but I do care for you. Only you, haven’t I made it clear?”
“You’ll get rid of me nonetheless!”
“Do not put words into my mouth, woman,” he muttered out, clenching his fists in anger, “don’t you dare say I do not care because every complies I did was for you. I did this for you. I lowered my ego for you. Is that not enough? Tell me then, tell me what makes it enough for you to digest that I, king of curses, Sukuna Ryomen do care for a human.”
You stammered, “I . . . You are lying.”
“I lie occasionally to people, yes. Have I ever lied to you?”
“Probably!”
“Mention it to me,” Sukuna growled, “mention one time I have spat out a lie to you.”
“I . . .” You left the gap open.
And Sukuna filled it in, “You do not know? Because I have never done that to you,” he muttered, releasing your shoulders. His heart burnt in anger, but he kept his mouth shut.
You clenched your fists, your anger turned into tears. The crystals slowly dribbled out and you sniffled, “I just wanted to explore.”
“Alone? You are out of your damn mind.”
“You wouldn’t have agreed.”
Sukuna scoffed loudly, “You have a habit of putting the words into my mouth,” he scowled under his breath, looking down at you. The harder your tears fall, the more he becomes annoyed, “stop crying. I command you to stop crying this instant, your tears won’t stop my fury.”
Sliding your arm over your eyes, you striked a hand blindly towards his presence. Which managed to land along the side of his neck, “You dare strike me?”
“I hate you!”
Sukuna hummed, “You are angry.”
“I will never be able to love someone like you, you are a monster. You do not let me do anything, I feel like a prisoner here,” you sobbed. The feelings were not like that— his words made the ticking time bomb blew and you were pulling at his strings, “I hate you. I loathe you. I wish for you to disappear.”
Sukuna stepped back, his hand hovered over his lips. He wanted to say much, but stopped. And he shuts the conversation down, “Understandable. Get out of my sight.”
As the night draws on. You laid on your futon, your chest heavy, you had been lying awake there since . . . hours ago. Your own words eating you up, knowing they weren’t right. The anger speaking for you, just for the victory because he made you angry. But now it was eating you alive.
Your emotions were divided. One side, you were angry at yourself for saying that. And the other part of you just felt sad that you had pushed him away; to think that you told him he was a monster too. Another tear slipped from your eye, and you sat up.
You brought yourself to the front of his chamber, for a bit you wondered if he was in the mood to see you right now. But, you shook your head, clamping your hand onto the shoji door before sliding it open, “What business do you have in here?”
You try to pinpoint his position. Teeth sinking onto your bottom lip, “I need to apologize.”
“For speaking the truth?”
“For speaking of lies.”
Sukuna grunts, “Does not sound like lies.”
You stomp your foot, “Those are lies, you are not a monster. And I am too immature to realize that you were just protecting me . . . I was too prideful to admit my own mistakes. I do not hate you, I do not loathe you, and I do not wish for you to disappear . . .” Your voice cracked at the end and you pursed your lips tightly.
Sukuna turns to look at you. How pitiful and small you looked right now, “That so? You spoke of not being able to love a monster like me—”
You cut him off, “I still love you anyways. I do not care if people view you as one, I love you. I have always do,” your voice broke into wrecked sobs, fingers dug into your own hakama, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry for saying that.”
Sukuna watches your body tremble from the sobs, one of his hand tugged on your arm and you fell into his lap. He huffs loudly, “Watch your tongue next time.”
You bury your face into the crook of his neck. He lets you have your time, sitting there, unmoving.
Sukuna blows out a sigh, “Are you finished with the waterworks?”
“If it means that you will stop holding me like this, no I am not done,” you muffled out. Sukuna held your nape, peeling you gently away from your hiding spot. Snotty nose, red nose, tear stricken. You looked terrible, he thought, “what?”
He leans in, his tongue stretched out scooping a tear and his lips touched your eyelids. Sukuna shuts his eyes, “You say that but I never stopped you from touching me, do I?” His lips moved against your skin.
“You . . .” You began to say, but he stopped you, lips tracing down your cheek and he stopped right at the corner of your lips, “do not tease me.”
“Your reactions are amusing.”
“It is not,” you whisper in shame, brows already drawn together in embarrassment. Sukuna cuts the embarrassment short, his lips molded into yours slowly— you slowly relaxed under his touch, brows relaxing and you shut your eyes, leaning into the kiss.
For a curse, his movements were gentle. Like he feared that his own hand would hurt you, one of his hand tucked right behind your head gently tangled into your hair as his lips moved against yours slowly. He pulled back briefly, muttering out, “We do not speak of this to Uraume.”
“I will tell them all about it.”
“Is that so?” Sukuna asks, you nodded.
“Then tell them all about this, yes?” He sealed back the kiss, lips moving with fervor that you whimper into his mouth. He swallowed your noises, tongue caressing your plump lips slowly that you couldn’t help but to part them in a trance, his arms held you so close that your chest pressed against his, but Sukuna pulls back the moment he realized you sucking in a breath, “I have gone too far. Apologies. Are you alright?”
You bob your head, covering your face. He used a set of his hands to peel your hands away, “Surely Uraume would not mind the details, no? Or shall I elaborate more?”
“N . . . No, that was enough details.”
Sukuna’s thumb traced over your lips, his iron hands used to do all the wrongs in the world. Now, clasped in sets of velvet gloves, just for you.
In which you jump out of a moving car to spite Boyfriend!Sukuna
“—because he was just making conversation!”
Sukuna scoffs, knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the steering wheel. “Bullshit. That guy wanted to fuck you.”
“Oh my god. So what!” you yell. “It’s not like I was gonna fucking let him!”
“Coulda fooled me.”
Just like that, your angry face, which matches his, warps into one of calm decision. With speed he doesn’t see coming, you unbuckle your seatbelt, push open the passenger door and jump out of the moving car into the dead of night.
The car screeches to a halt not even a second later.
You’re pushing yourself up and testing the soreness in your ankle when a car door slams shut and Sukuna comes marching over to you. “You crazy, fucking bitch!” he snaps. Sukuna grabs your face, growling when you try to pull away. He inspects every inch of you, brows furrowed, and piercings glinting under the streetlights. “What the fuck is wrong with you!”
“I got a bitch ass boyfriend, that’s what’s wrong with me,” you grumble.
He ignores that. “You break anything? Wrist? Ankle? Dislocated your shoulder?” You shake your head. “Well, that’s a fucking shame.” Though as he says that, he can’t quite hide the tremors in his hands. Quieter now, he mutters with a tight frown, “Scratched your pretty face up. Fuck. Lost your one redeeming quality.”
“Okay, so I’m gonna walk home,” you say, deadpan. “I’ll see you around, asshole.”
Sukuna runs a hand through his hair with a frustrated noise. Then he smacks his lips against yours before you can actually start walking away (not that he’d let you get very far). “Alright, alright. You fucking win. Congrats. Christ. Get back in the car — we’re going to the hospital to get you checked out. Fucking dumbass.”
A hospital visit later, you’re in bed with him, cuddled up like nothing happened. It’s how arguments with him tend to go; neither of you really hold grudges against each other. Not when you’ve fucked any grievances out after. The last mention of today’s incident, however, comes in his sleepy mumble against the top of your head: “push me out instead.”
“Hmm?”
Sukuna’s hold around your body tightens, threatening to suffocate you with his hard chest. “Don’t jump out of the car. It’s stupid. Your body’s weak. Skin bruises easily. Cuts easily too. Just kick me out instead. I deserve it, I know... bonus points if it's into oncoming traffic.”
P ✰SSY EATER mdni. starring boyfriend!sukuna x toxic!reader
“you whore.”
in the years you’d been dating, you called sukuna a lot of things. but whore? that was a new one.
“the fuck are you talking about, brat?” he grimaced, a flicker of something not-quite nervous stirring in his stomach when he glanced up from his phone to see you scowling at him like you were about to throw yours.
as if he didn’t just have to replace the air fryer three weeks ago the last time you tossed an object at him.
“this,” you hissed at him, shoving your phone in his face instead.
to his surprise, it was a video of him.
more precisely, a fucking tiktok of him scarfing down a cup of pudding in public, sitting on a park bench and squinting as he polished the last of it off, thick tongue scraping the bottom of it before tracing its rim in a few long strokes.
kind of creepy, sure, but he’d just been there yesterday afternoon stuck babysitting his dumb nephew - which you already knew about.
“what’s the problem?” he scoffed back, about to hand it back before you huffed at him like he only had half a brain.
“open the comments,” you demanded, crossing your arms as your cute lips pushed together in your scariest pout.
g0jod1ckmuncher7: god i wish that was me
getosleftpinkytoe: if he's hungry i'm available
shit.
yeah, he was fucked.
"were you watching yuji or trying to advertise your fucking services?" you snapped at him, snatching your phone back and scrolling through more of the comment section.
"i-"
he shut up with a single look from you, the mouth that had gotten him into mess closing before more than a single syllable could escape.
"it has a million fucking likes," you scolded him, irritation glittering in your eyes as you rolled them at him. "that's like, a million people who want to fuck you."
he tossed his own phone on the cushion next to him, grunting as he pushed himself up off it next, knowing that he should probably nip this in the bud now instead of letting you look around for another household item to hurl at him. easily picking you up while you were still coming up with another protest, hands on your ass as he hoisted you up and started carrying you back to the bedroom.
"i only want to fuck you," he reminded you, even though that only earned him another angry scoff.
"so i'm just a sex toy to you?" you haughtily asked, deliberately ignoring what he was trying to say. trying to make him mad too, to pick an argument so you could yell at him more.
"yeah, that's definitely why i've stayed with you for four fuckin' years," he sarcastically commented, nudging the door open with his foot before throwing you on the bed, watching you bounce a little before he was pulling your thighs down to the edge of it. tugging your tiny little shorts you wore just to tease him off, your body melting into his touch even when your mouth only wanted to fight.
"yeah, four years without a ring," you murmured under your breath, still glaring down at him as you propped yourself up on your elbows.
"if you want a stupid ring, you should've just asked," he grunted back, his dark eyes greedily gazing at the damp patch on your panties, spit preemptively pooling in the back of his mouth as his fingers hooked around the thin band to yank them down too.
"that's your job."
he doubted he'd make a better husband than a boyfriend. but the idea of you dumping him to find a different one was enough to make him want to murder the imaginary man his mind conjured up that you'd leave him for - and he couldn't exactly hold it against you for hating other women wanting him too.
pettiness surging inside him as he buried his face between your thighs, trying to prove that his services were all reserved for you.
pumping his tongue in-and-out of your pretty pussy, feeling you tense and squeeze as he swirled it around, his thumb digging into your soft flesh to hold you still as he devoured you this time.
he was always starving for you after all.
an ounce of your affection in the sea of your attitude.
you tasted way fucking better than that shitty pudding cup anyway.
he could snack on your moans all day long, satisfied just at the way you squirmed and shuddered as he lapped at your slick folds. painting greedy circles over your clit, watching you shiver when his sharp canines grazed over the sensitive bud.
his favorite buffet was watching you orgasm, tasting it on his tongue as you shuddered and let his name slip from your lips in broken gasps, manicured nails raking across his scalp.
"will you marry me?" he asked after you finished, lips glossy with your slick, glancing up as your fingers sifted through his soft hair.
you tilted your head thoughtfully to the side, exhaling softly like your thighs weren't trembling.
"no."
a/n: for my angel @yenayaps ily happy belated bday this is technically a part two to toxic
reblogs + comments are always appreciated adore you all :3
the air in the bedroom was humid and filled with the wet sounds and- “o-oh god,” you moan, muffling your cries into the bed as he pounds into you, hips snapping into you.
“slow down-- mmph fuck…” gripping the sheets with a iron grip as droplets of sweat glide down your forehead and back
your husband leans down and tightens a arm around your neck “ f-fuck shut up and take it” pulling you back against his chest, using his other hand to run down your body and rub your tiny bud-
“take it, take it, fucking take it.” he pants into your ear,kissing down your neck
“wan-- fuck, ‘baby… w-want you to fill me up,” you babble through whines and pornographic moans .
grabbing your hair and tilting your head back “ y-yeah - you like that? ” He whispers in your ear
the air in the bedroom was humid and filled with the wet sounds and- “o-oh god,” you moan, muffling your cries into the bed as he pounds into you, hips snapping into you.
“slow down-- mmph fuck…” gripping the sheets with a iron grip as droplets of sweat glide down your forehead and back
your husband leans down and tightens a arm around your neck “ f-fuck shut up and take it” pulling you back against his chest, using his other hand to run down your body and rub your tiny bud-
“take it, take it, fucking take it.” he pants into your ear,kissing down your neck
“wan-- fuck, ‘baby… w-want you to fill me up,” you babble through whines and pornographic moans .
grabbing your hair and tilting your head back “ y-yeah - you like that? ” He whispers in your ear
jbbartram-illu
dailybridgerton
vaporwave
janainaart
jacobvanloon
germansingergirl
