Summary: Your love spans across centuries... or whatever the hell that blonde French guy said.
Pairing: Lestat de Lioncourt x Time traveler!Reader
Warnings: none
I'm so sorry, I know I have a ton of stuff to work on but I've had the worst writer's block. With TVL being out I've been obsessing over Lestat. I hope this makes up for me not writing in forever.
You really didn't want to go to this concert, but Ben was just so earnest when he asked. He looked at you with those big doe eyes of his and you couldn't refuse him. You should've though. You should've told him to fuck off in a nice, gentle way since he's a nice, gentle guy and stayed home all safe and snug with your dog and the capstone project you've been cobbling together to finish up your master's.
Maybe if you'd done that you wouldn't be front row at some shitty concert where the front man stares you down like you're personally responsible for all the bad reviews the band is getting.
Seriously though.
What on Earth is this music?
It's not like you're some music snob that only listens to Mozart or Debussy or whatever the fuck. You like a good, fun, dumb pop song as much as the next person. But c'mon, dude. The Vampire Lestat is just a weird vibe. The fans eat it all up though. Ben's too busy headbanging to notice the way the blonde singer looks you up and down, irritation flaring in those terrifyingly blue eyes when each double entendre seems to fly over your head or when his hip thrusts don't leave you tingling all over like the strung out groupie on your other side.
"Isn't this awesome?" Ben screams at you over the shriek of the lead guitarists solo. You have to fight the urge to plug your ears, reminding yourself that Ben's a great guy. Him having shit taste in music can be overlooked in the grand scheme of things.
"Uh-huh!" You nod in what you hope is a fantastic attempt at enthusiasm.
Good guy.
Ben is a good guy.
Is he? Is he such a good guy?
The thought isn't your own nor is the voice that whispers the words in your mind. Last you checked you weren't a man. Or French. But fuck is that voice sinful. All low and heavy and teasing.
Thank you, ma chérie. Now tell me who this good guy is. A new lover? Should I worry?
Ben looks over at you, his brows creasing in concern. "You good?"
You open your mouth to answer but words fail.
Who is he?!
The voice is demanding, its volume growing as the rage in its tone intensifies.
"Answer me!"
This time the voice comes from the stage. It's the front man. He's staring you down in a way that makes you feel naked and exposed you want to throw up. He isn't trying to play off of the rest of the band anymore or even keep up the charade of not caring about you in a sea of millions (or, ya know, hundreds on a more realistic level). HE stares at you openly, mouth falling open and fangs-
Wait a second.
Fangs?!
You're three seconds from telling Ben thanks but I gotta get home and fleeing as quickly as you possibly can with a crowd as thick and throbbing as this one when you feel it. Well, feel it and see it. Time slows to a grinding halt. The masses pause mid-scream. Even Ben isn't moving beside you anymore. Shit, is he even breathing? You're terrified to look back at the stage, your heart hammering wildly in your chest, because you know without a doubt you'll find him still there. Still staring.
"Look at me, darling." His voice wraps around you, soft like velvet, and you're almost coaxed into listening. Almost.
Instead, you use the moment of peace to shove your way out of the crowd and into the dark night. There's no sound behind you, and that's somehow worse than if someone had come after you. You try to comfort yourself as you fumble around in your bag for your car keys. At least you're alone. At least no one came after you. And thank God Ben had some mysterious thing to do before your date and you had to drive separately. The second you get in your car you lock it once, twice, a third, and a fourth time for good measure. Your heart is still pounding and there's a thin sheet of cold sweat all over your skin.
"There was no need to run, but I do so appreciate you remembering I love a good chase." The blonde front man leans forward from your back seat, massive hand covering your mouth before you can make a sound. "I would say I've had enough screaming for one night, but we both know that isn't true."
His smile... it doesn't really match his words. He looks playful and mischievous as he grins at you, eyes twinkling and reflecting the stars outside. Nothing like a murderous psychopath.
"Who are you?" You manage to get the question out as you swallow back tears.
His face falls briefly, smile faltering and eyes dimming before he shakes his head and huffs out a laugh. "No, no, no. Don't play coy with me right now. Not after how we left things in Montreal. Not after you show up here tonight with a new little loverboy after how we left things in Montreal."
You shake your head. "I've never been to Montreal. I've never even been out of the country. Please, I... I don't know who you are."
He leans forward a bit more and rests his chin on your shoulder. This close you're overwhelmed by the scent of cinnamon and honey on his skin. You can't help but notice how handsome he is up close. Handsome but... wrong. Like he's something your meant to run from rather than allow this close. His nose bumps against your neck and he practically moans as he breathes in.
"Time is a fickle mistress," he whispers. "I've had a lifetime with you already while you've yet to start our adventure. I still don't know how you do it. Dan is looking into it for me. Give a dog a bone and he'll chew for a day. Give a vampire journalist a story and you may not see him for the next century. Of course, his new friends at the Talamasca might cut that century down to a year. Regardless, I'm done letting you slip out of my fingers. I'll see you in Auvergne, yes?"
"No?"
He sighs. "Darling, it's truly taking every ounce of my self control to keep in mind you don't have context for our relationship yet. I'm willing to forgive you for Montreal, but I need you to work with me."
"Work with you?" You scoff. What a fucking freak. The fear for your life isn't even there anymore because the dude is just delusional. "Yeah, sure, whatever."
His lips trace your throat, teeth dragging across the sensitive skin. "Do me a favor when you get home. You own a lovely chemise that stays tucked away in the back of your closet. Wear it tonight and come to me."
He kisses your cheek gently and his lips linger with an unspoken longing.
"Come to me," he repeats before disappearing.
"Come to me," you mock as you start your car. "Crazy fucking bastard. I'm never going on a date again. I'll just give up on my master's and go join a convent. Come to me. Yeah right!"
Once you get home you text Ben an apology and an excuse about food poisoning. You really hope you didn't hurt his feelings. Yeah, you might've been complaining about the music in your head, but hurting Ben isn't something you want. That front man on the other hand? He can go to hell and stay there. Come to me. What an asshole! Who does he think he is?
And why are you actually listening about the chemise thing?
Well... it's comfy. That's all. Besides, how are you supposed to even go to him if you don't know who he is? All Google tells you is that he's some dude larp-ing as a vampire from a book that came out a little while ago. Everyone has their niche, but that's not yours, and you have no desire to be involved with it.
Nope.
None whatsoever.
You toss your phone on to your nightstand and roll over, doing your best to push those haunting blue eyes out of your mind. It takes so much of your focus that you don't even notice the odd tingling and warmth blooming in the center of your body.
Might I… request a fic about Kabru and Mithrun (respectively) encountering a succubus that appeals to them by taking on the form of the reader. While the reader is standing Right There
oh my goodness this was so fun for me. However, it was only after I finished writing it that I realized what 'respectively' implied. So this did not happen respectively, I'm sorry. I think it's funnier this way, though, if that's any solace.
If you still want this prompt done for them both separately, then let me know and I'll be happy to do that!
Mithrun x Reader x Kabru (not a love triangle, no established relationship)
2000 words!
no tw except for a very mild implication
⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆
The first sign of danger was the cloying, saccharine smell that consumed every inch of the room. It was as if the air had been replaced with pure perfume created to appeal to a specific victim.
Kabru’s eyes fluttered as he recognized the scent of Utaya’s fields, especially the moments when the breeze would roll across the wheat and envelop him in a warm hug. Then, there was the hint of Milsiril’s kitchen, which wasn’t a scent he would usually describe as appealing. Yet, it sunk into his skin and made his heart clench.
To Mithrun, the petrichor was faint, but recognizable. It was just a hint in the back of his mind, bringing up a split second memory of the rainy, rolling green hills of the Northern Central Continent. Since the demon, though, he’d never been particularly sentimental of his home. As if the source of the scent read his mind and realized that, the perfume in the air gently switched to something savory, like elf cake. He didn’t care about that either. Again, the scent switched to wildflowers. He didn’t care about that either. And once more—
Succubi were so annoying, so invasive. Mithrun sighed and nudged Kabru with his elbow, “There’s monsters nearby.”
Kabru caught on almost immediately, “Succubi?” Without waiting for an answer, he glanced over his shoulder at you, of all people. His expressions weren’t as well-guarded when with you and Mithrun, and the Captain recognized the concern that flickered over his face. Mithrun’s hand twitched with the urge to grab Kabru by the hair and redirect his stare elsewhere, perhaps onto the life-sucking mosquito monsters that were slowly approaching from the shadows.
The dungeon was a collapsed ruin, but still traversable to those determined enough. You had insisted on coming with Mithrun on one of his regular explorations of the ruins. Once Kabru had discovered that you were going with Mithrun, he insisted upon coming along as well despite his obvious distaste for the place. There was some deeper reasoning behind his decision, Mithrun knew. Whether or not you knew that, though, remained to be seen.
There was rubble in the corners and moss growing between the cracks in the stones. One wrong step and the ceiling could easily fall. It was wise to have more than one person when encountering a succubi, yet all the times Mithrun had encountered them in the past had ended up in his favor. The succubi didn’t quite know what to do with him. He cast you and Kabru a wary glance, though— you two were far more susceptible.
“Just stay close,” Kabru said as he took a careful step forward. He reached out a hand behind him, grabbing for your wrist. You let him take your arm, and Mithrun felt his shoulders tense.
“The wisest thing to do would be to cover your eyes,” Mithrun mused. As he spoke, he took your other hand. In response to that, Kabru released your wrist and also held your hand. For a moment, you felt like the rope in a game of tug-of-war. It wasn’t the worst feeling, but perhaps one of the most confusing.
Mithrun and Kabru led you through the ruined room. The shadows were thick and alive with the scuffling of feet, the brushing of wings against the wall. Kabru did his best to hide his concern, but his adams apple bobbed as he swallowed down whatever he was feeling. A quick glance at Mithrun confirmed that the Captain was not at all bothered by the cloying scent of succubi, their calling card and greeting. They could strike at any moment, yet he remained calm.
“It will be fine,” Mithrun’s voice cut through the tension, “just close your eyes.”
Kabru sent him a look over his shoulder, “‘It’ll be fine’ is easy for you to say, Captain.”
“It is, the succubi have never really known what to make of me.”
You imagined a life-sucking, giant mosquito monster just staring at Mithrun as it tried to process what it was seeing. Yet, just the other day, Mithrun had expressed a small desire for a specific dish.
You snorted, “Your desires are coming back, though. You never know, it may take the form of an unseasoned elf casserole.”
Kabru put up a gloved hand to stifle his laugh, “Yeah, with boiled chicken and white rice without an ounce of salt.”
You could practically feel the heat of Mithrun’s stare on the back of your neck. “Elven cuisine is an acquired taste.”
“As in… once you actually acquire taste, you’ll move onto much better food?” You asked.
You would’ve liked to share a high-five with Kabru over that one, but the familiar buzz of a mosquito interrupted the laughter. The three of you froze as a flicker of mana filled the air. Mithrun didn’t seem worried, this succubi obviously wasn’t for him, but—
Kabru put out an arm in front of you as if to shield you from… yourself.
An exact copy of you stepped out of the shadows. Its eyes were wide with a look that could only be described as desperate desire. Its cheeks were flushed and brows furrowed, every ounce of attention focused precisely on Kabru.
Both you and Mithrun looked at him.
Kabru cleared his throat and looked away. The red on the tips of his ears was undeniable.
How were you supposed to feel about that? Flattered? There was some flattery in it, though it was mixed with mild horror at the absolutely breathless and desperate version of yourself that he apparently desired. Was that what you looked like? You were sure you never made a face like that. (You did, last week when Melini had a heatwave and Kabru had fetched you a glass of water. The memory haunted him.)
To your right, Mithrun raised a shaking hand. His shoulders trembled a little and he closed his eyes. His brows furrowed as he exhaled shakily. He looked as if he was only held together by a thin piece of string and a wad of chewing gum. The sight made your heart skip a beat in panic until you noticed the slight twitch of his lips.
He was trying not to laugh.
You choked on air. Kabru also choked on air, but for a very different reason. The succubus copy of you slowly sauntered toward him– you do not saunter like that, you would never saunter in such a manner, with that hungry look in your eyes and your lips parted ever so slightly. Horrifying. But like all good horrifying things, it also made you want to kneel over and start laughing until your stomach hurt.
“Kabru,” you gasped, barely holding yourself together, “You—”
“Shut up!” He snapped as he took several steps back, “Don’t overthink it! It’s nothing! It’s–”
Mithrun interrupted with a heavy, resigned sigh. He took a casual step forward and touched the succubus version of you on the shoulder. Its eyes widened and it tensed, but before it could react, it was gone. You were pretty sure he teleported it into a nearby wall, judging by the muffled, strangled hisses coming from nearby.
Kabru was still red, “I can explain.”
“I don’t think that requires an explanation,” Mithrun said flatly.
“You know what?” He glared, “Not everybody can be as unaffected as y—”
Another buzz, another footstep on the stone floor. The three of you froze once more as another succubus stepped out of the shadows.
It was also you.
Fortunately, this version of you was much less desperate. Yet there was something about it that reminded you of a painting in a cathedral. Perhaps it was the look in its familiar eyes, the sheer love and affection it held as it stared at Mithrun as if he was the only person who ever existed.
“That’s not mine,” Kabru said.
And it obviously wasn’t yours. Both you and Kabru looked at Mithrun.
The Captain was tense, his body taut like the string of a bow. His fingers twitched at his sides as he stared at the succubus. His good eye was wide and he kept blinking as if that might help clarify the existence of a version of you that looked at him so adoringly.
He schooled his expression and casually pointed at the love-struck succubus, “That’s not mine.”
“Of course it’s yours!” Kabru snapped, “Who else’s could it be?!”
Mithrun only shrugged. The soft tinge of pink on his cheeks betrayed his feelings.
Once again, you were at a loss of what to think. It was sweet. Your heart fluttered and emotion filled your throat. Yet, did he truly desire for you to look at him like that? Did he lie awake at night, wondering what it would feel like to have every ounce of your attention on him, to value him so dearly that you were incapable of seeing anyone else? The very idea knocked the breath from your lungs.
Except, Kabru ran a sword through the adoring, angelic version of you, and the mosquito monster screeched in a very not-you way. Mithrun only grimaced and chose to stare at the wall instead.
“Okay, so hopefully that’s the last of them,” you said. Your cheeks felt very warm. Kabru and Mithrun both desired you, though in different ways. You didn’t think that was possible. There was nothing more you wanted to do at that moment than run and hide and mull over possible explanations for what you’d just seen.
“Wait,” Mithrun stretched out an arm in front of you, “there’s one more.”
Despite his serious tone, awkwardness permeated the air. You were practically choking on it, unable to breathe normally because all your body could process was sheer embarrassment. Kabru’s ears were red. Mithrun looked more dead inside than usual. None of you would meet each other’s eyes.
The last succubus stepped out of the shadow. First, you saw a brown boot, then a familiar hand, then a familiar face.
You gasped, holding your chest as if afraid that your heart might burst through your skin. “I-It’s you…”
Mithrun and Kabru both looked at you.
“It’s…” Mithrun couldn’t finish his sentence.
But Kabru could, “Your biggest desire is… The meat pie vendor who sets up shop on the corner on Thursdays?!”
He said it as if that was a bad thing.
The meat pie vendor smiled seductively and held out a fresh, steaming hot meat pie. You took a step forward, your hand trembling as you reached for the treat.
“You don’t even want him romantically!” Kabru yelled, “You just want him to give you food!”
Once again, he said it as if that was a bad thing.
Before your hand could brush along the flaky, warm exterior of the meat pie, Kabru pulled out his sword. Mithrun grabbed a broken piece of wood from the ground. It happened too quickly. There was no time to defend your desire. You gasped as the sword ran through the beloved meat pie vendor’s stomach, and as the wood was teleported through his neck. With an inhuman screech, the succubus collapsed to the floor.
Your friends, who wanted you, had just killed the one thing you wanted… Your heart was torn in two.
It was a complete mystery why both Mithrun and Kabru stormed out of the dungeon without saying one word to you. You were the one that should’ve been mad.
Still, as you took Kabru’s hand in your left and Mithrun’s in your right, they both gave your fingers a light squeeze.
Still, “We’re never doing this again,” Kabru said.
Mithrun nodded. You grimaced. And none of you ever spoke of it again.
SYNOPSIS | love with qifrey is like having him right beside you, your hands touching. love with qifrey is something unspoken. the affection is there, like he wakes up every morning just to show you so. his eyes cannot hide the way he looks at you as if you're his everything. and yet, love with qifrey is also a curse.
NOTE | i love qifrey i swear pls get the seed + soil + root + silver tree joke pls laugh
1,921 | WARNINGS | angsty but sweet as fuck
love was the budding plague that worsens the seed growing in qifrey's heart.
everyone can see qifrey's fondness for you from the moment the two of you met at a secluded alcove in the great hall. it wasn't hard to tell or see how his mind orbits around you. there was something about the atmosphere the two of you shared. some kind of unspoken connection that can't be put into words. nor do the two for you dare to speak a word about it.
his only eye follows every movement you make.
he follows your trail, hand itching to hold yours in his, to fit all the crevices of your fingers into his. to feel the warmth of your hands.
he did it once. god, did it feel so good to have your hands in his.
it was a spur of the moment decision.
you had fallen asleep hunched over the library table, book left open and your head rested above your arm. he was too scared to wake you up from your slumber, anxious and worried for your already lack of sleep from staying up to study.
your other hand, outstretched across the table, was too inviting to resist.
his finger twitches at the sight of your open palm. the voices inside his head scream at him to turn around, ignore the desire building up from within him, slowly digging the silver roots deeper.
love will be his demise, the longer he desires for it. for a touch of your love.
before he could even get a sense of control over his thoughts, he had already intertwined your fingers with each other. his heart pounds against his chest loudly.
the headaches were particularly painful the following days.
no, he had never told you about it.
and so will the love he has for you die along with his hope, silver roots wrapped around his broken heart that's never ever uttered a single word of love for you. it feels like heartbreak, but how can his heart break if there was no beginning in the first place? when there was no confession, no exchange of ‘i love you's.
the word love builds up like vile in his throat.
but he will be damned if he doesn't show you in some kind of way.
“aren't they adorable!?” tettia quietly coos at the two adults, watching qifrey scoop up another serving of dinner for you without your say so.
“i want something like that when i grow up!”
“they're not together like that, though.” richeh trails off, a thought spiraling on her mind. “master qifrey himself said so.”
“and yet his actions don't match his words.” agott watched on as well, noting the particular way qifrey looks at you.
like you are his world, the very magic in his eye.
“wait, are they not… together?” coco tilts her head. “i assumed they were together. they seem to be so close.”
“unfortunately, master qifrey himself said so.” tettia slumps against the table with a pout. “if that's not what love looks like, then what does it look like?”
“aren't you a little too young to think of love?”
startled, the four girls turn to face you. tettia waves her hand in front of her frantically, “n-no! that's not what i meant!”
“oh ho?” qifrey comes from behind you, cheshire smile plastered on his face. “who is the lucky boy, may i ask?”
“there's no boy!” tettia whines, turning to richeh. “help me out here!”
“coco has a boy.” the girl gasped.
“no i do not!”
“who's tartah then?”
dinner was noisy that night with the girls continuing their playful banter. qifrey watched on with a fond smile, his hand unknowingly reaching out for yours. when his fingers touched yours in the slightest did he snap back to his senses, playing it off by scratching the back of his head.
he doesn't know if you felt it too, but if you did, he's relieved you did not say a word about it.
after dinner, the girls went about their rooms, bidding the two adults goodnight.
“oh, you don't have to do that.”
qifrey steps beside you at the sink, watching you cast a water spell to clean up the dishes.
“it's no problem, dear. you had a long afternoon of teaching already and you cooked dinner. at least let me help clean around.”
dear.
it felt so natural to have you call him by that nickname. like he is that word to you, dear. too domestic, no question asked. there was something about the air around you when he's within your proximity. you radiate so much peace that even he can feel it. it's an infectious thing.
and that's the problem itself.
it feels too good, too peaceful with you, that he fears the roots will take its place once again. he says nothing about everything he feels, because he knows you like the back of his hand.
he knows you love him too.
and it was the reciprocal feelings that he cannot speak about. it's risky, it's painful. oh so painful, that even if he wants to have you for himself, then the silverwood will have him in exchange.
if love is peace, why does it hurt him so?
“qifrey?”
his name sounds so sweet coming from your mouth.
“yes?”
it was then that he noticed the sudden proximity between the two of you. he could feel your warmth from this distance. he can sense the way you shudder when his breath fans along your face. he can feel the way your fingers twitch at his touch, though he wonders when had he taken your hand in his to hold? he can see your eyes so clearly, the swirling pool of color within those crystals mesmerizing, almost hypnotic in a way only magic can tell.
love is, in some way, a magical thing.
“you're beautiful.”
he hears the way your breath falters, your eyes dilating in response to his words. he traces the skin on your cheek with a delicate touch, searching your eyes for some form of misgiving towards his affection.
all of the sudden, fear gathers at the back of his throat, like a fish bone stuck to his throat stubbornly refusing to come off.
this shouldn't have happened.
he wasn't supposed to be this close to you. wasn't supposed to touch you so freely and desire to have more of you. to have you whole to himself. it shouldn't be this easy to have you succumb to his warmth, a faux comfort that hides the true horror within his heart and missing eye.
“i'm sorry, my star, i did not–” he frowns, truly questioning his feeble attempt to resist his desire.
you're too close, oh, so close.
perhaps he should erase your memory of this night?
the thought of taking something away from you, your memories, suffocates him so. but before he could lament his predicament, your hand held his palm against your cheek, a smile so sweet and gentle contrasting the swirling storm in him.
“you don't have to say anything.”
your words were final, like a stubborn stone wedge into the soil or a sword struck deep into the ground. only someone with immense strength can challenge you and qifrey was but a man powerless against all that you are.
“you don't have to tell me how you feel about me.”
your nose nuzzles into his palm, and god did his heart almost leap out of his chest and into your hands. you look at him from his palm, your lips pressed against his skin with a smile.
oh, he's about to faint.
“you don't have to say it out loud. i know what you feel about this. about us.”
“you deserve better than this.” he shook his head in denial. “you deserve someone who can proudly call you the object of their affection. not… this silence.”
he tears his gaze away from your probing ones. he can tell that just by looking at you, he's buying himself his own pot of soil.
“you mustn't chain yourself with a man who cannot even proclaim their affection towards you. what i am is a coward.”
“what you are is my qifrey.”
his heart skipped a beat, or perhaps was it the roots of silverwood piercing his heart?
“you can't just say things like that.” it almost sounded like a whine, and you giggle at how precious he looks right now. with his cheeks flushed and restless eye, looking anywhere but you.
why can't you show some mercy on this man's heart?
“you may have your reasons to keep me at arms length.” he grimaces at the intention of your words, “but i'm already at peace that you still share a part of your life with me. that i still get to stand beside you.”
you gently tug him down, pressing your forehead against his in a nuzzle.
“this… what we share between us may take forever to be spoken out loud,” you place a finger right at his lips, watching his breath grow heavier from the touch. “but i am willing to stand by you for a lifetime and more.”
you lean to kiss the finger atop of his lips, fully pulling back to see his bewildered and already reddening face.
“my dear, you look like you're about to explode.”
“you can't just do that and expect me to remain calm!”
your giggle echoes through the quiet kitchen. qifrey might be a little delirious, he could have sworn he heard the chimes of fairies favoring every sound you make with those extremely tempting lips of yours.
what do they taste like?
“fret not.” your hand caresses his cheeks, “no unspoken words can push me away from you.”
“i don't want to hurt you.” he tries to look the other way, but with your hand tilting his gaze back to you has him melting on the spot. his futile attempt to avoid your intense look has him weak on the knees.
what kind of magic did you cast on him?
“no pain exists when i am within your presence.”
“my dear…”
“shh.”
you pull him a little closer, resting your head just above his collarbone. he's trembling, whether from the promising position the two of you are in or from his fears, you don't mind. not when he's this close to you. the closest he's ever been to you. you'd do anything to preserve this moment.
“you don't have to tell me everything.”
you place a hand on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“all that matters is we're here.”
his warm and gentle hands press against the back of your waist, finally letting himself hold you in his arms.
your body fits every crevice, resting against his chest.
“i'd wait for a lifetime for you.” you whisper into his robes. “i'll remember you even in my next life.”
“you think that's possible?”
“everything's possible with magic.”
he hopes so. perhaps then, he wouldn't have to wait for another lifetime to feel this once more. to be at peace in your arms, free from all his fear.
perhaps then, he could hold your hand whenever he wants, feel the warmth of your palm against his.
perhaps then, he can tell you the words he's been dying to say. he won't have to fear the consequences of telling you he loves you, oh, so much. that he wants you to be his and him, yours.
It scuttles in under the cover of night and nibbles on the meals in his kitchen, cooked by servants who bow their heads long before he lays golden eyes upon them. It scurries away with morsels of food left as offerings and pleas for peace from his stores all while ignoring his altars and many coffers. It skitters from room to room on feet that do not go unheard and leaving behind a scent that does not go unnoticed.
Were Zhongli a thousand years younger he'd have taken such offenses as a threat to his honor and a smear upon his name. As it is, he finds himself amused. Charmed, even.
A little mouse has broken into his palace. Smart enough to go unseen. Fool enough to return.
A little mouse has snuck into his palace- and sought only to eat cheeses and fruits and sweet pastries, leaving his gold and his jewels and his untold riches untouched.
A little mouse has plundered his palace and he wonders when it will notice the claw over its head.
Is it brazenness that moves you? Or foolishness? What blinds you from the realization that the food in his kitchen goes uncovered? What keeps you from noticing when your favorite morsels begin to change their location, placed further within the many walls and rooms of his palace with each night you trespass against him?
What a foolish thing you are.
What a helpless morsel you've made of yourself.
It is a hundred nights into this charade that you get well and truly lost within the endless labyrinth of his home. Exhausted and afraid, you curl into a ball upon coins of silver and jewelry of gold. Likely more wealth than you could attain in a hundred lifetimes- but an uncomfortable nest for a creature made of such soft flesh.
He places his nose to your furrowed brow and inhales you deep. Cups your warm cheek within the ink stained cup of his palm. He smooths his thumb against the peach fuzz of your face, scales rasping almost imperceptibly as they slide across your skin.
The desire to taste, to tend, to take as he would riches and wealth and knowledge stirs in his belly.
Zhongli realizes, as he looks upon you, that were he a thousand years younger he would have devoured you whole.
You do not recognize the silk robes that cover you when you awaken, nor the scent that lingers in the air (osmanthus? here?), but you tuck the brocade all the closer as you rise to your feet. The servants turn their gaze and their steps from you, cloaked in the shed colors of their draconic lord. The walls open with each footstep and doors of crystal swing wide to guide your way out.
When you slip through the hole in the wall it is as though you slip from the coils of of a serpent. You free yourself of Zhongli's protection, leaving his robe behind steeped in your warmth and your scent.
In a dozen years in a world outside of him, this, too, could become a fairy story.
It would be best if you not get lost in his palace again, he thinks. It would be best if you did not return, whether that be for him or for you he doesn't know.
But Zhongli does not order the guards to change their rotations. He does not alert his staff to the breaches in the perimeter of the crumbling portions of the wall. He does not amend his directives to his servants to bring the cheeses and the fruit and the sweet pastries to the rooms closest to his own.
When you get lost again, it is not exhaustion that brings you to curl upon the silk sheets of his bed. It is the taste of jam upon your tongue, sweet enough to hide the bitter tang of milkwort, that coaxes you into closing your eyes.
He places a finger to you lips, stained red and rich with his spoils. His touch drifts lower, skirting along the warmth of your jaw and down the delicate column of your throat. Talon and scale and hot breath trails over your helpless form as something warm stirs in the recesses of his body.
Morax realizes, as he looks upon you, that a thousand years is really no time at all.
✎⠀⠀pairing ⦂ fire lord! zuko x wife!reader | soft angst with a pure fluff ending.
࿐ synopsis ⦂ you could wear the crown and speak the right words and smile at all the right moments; and still find yourself alone in a garden, wondering if loving the fire lord was ever supposed to feel this much like disappearing.
masterlist . . . . . ↷
they dressed you in red and gold the way they'd dress a weapon before it's presented, with a manner that had nothing to do with what you want.
you stood very still while the handmaidens work. the robes were heavy, though the pins for your hair were even heavier. a headpiece was placed at your crown, while you admired the making of you becoming someone you didn't quite recognize, in the bronze mirror.
...fire lady... the title rested in your chest, bright enough with status, but never truly feeling like it belonged to you.
ZUKO appeared in the threshold behind your reflection. he was already dressed for this kind of life... the attire of statecraft suited him differently than it once did. you can see it in the way he carried the weight of the crown with admirably acceptable that this was where he was meant to be.
his eye found yours in the mirror. "are you done here?"
for a second, you thought of honesty... of the hundred courtiers waiting beyond the doors... the ministers with their assessments in their eyes... the way every room in this palace seemed to judge you. but amongst all that worry, you still thought about how much you love him, and how that love taught you to give in to the life that was offered with him...
"yes!"
the banquet was a perfection of performance.
you smiled when you were meant to. zuko sat to your left and managed the table of highborns like he had made peace with being looked at. you watched him from the corner of your eye... he was so good at this. how was he so good at this.
you weren't any good at it...
that you knew, the moment LADY SHAN, wife to one of zuko's senior generals, asked you what you make of the proposed trade with the earth kingdom... an easy question to anybody. you opened your mouth, and the only honest answer in your tired mind, was... I haven't been spoken to, on it properly and I'm afraid of saying the wrong thing... but, you decided to let it go with carefully dragged out words that probably meant nothing to her. you held your breath as she gave a polite smile and kept on.
when the final course arrived, you were so far behind your own eyes that the candlelights were speaking to you. you smiled for the last time, waiting for it to be over.
you were trying to even out your breathing when you heard his footsteps. zuko found you perched on the garden's bench, overgrown compared to the formal ones near the audience chambers... no one has been here in years.
"you left..." he brought up, attention shared between your abandoned headpiece beside you, your unheld up hair... and finally, the way you were sitting, shoulders down, face tilted up to the midnight sky.
"I needed air."
"I know." he came to sit by your side, close in silent comfort. "I saw your face during the shan conversation."
your eyes flutter shut for a second too long. "was it obvious?"
"to me." he spoke in hushed tones. "not to her."
you glanced down at the folded hands in your lap, still wrapped in red silk. "I don't know what I'm doing in there, zuko. I know how to be... I know who I am. I know that. but I don't know how to be that in there, in that room, with all of them watching me decide what words to say before I say them." you exhaled. "I don't know how to be your fire lady in a room that already has an opinion about what your fire lady should look like."
zuko stayed quiet for long enough, that you just had to face him. his profile, in the dim light, was serious for you mattered to him and he, now had to work out what to say without destroying your bond.
"...when I became fire lord," he began, "I sat in that throne room for an entire day of petitions and I understood maybe a third of what was being asked of me. and I had trained for it. I was certain everyone in the room knew how out of place I looked."
"that's different. you're... "
"I'm what?"
... you sighed, swallowing it back... you're zuko.
"I didn't marry you because you were born for this," he said. "no one is born for this. I barely survived learning it, and I had years of it before my exile as preparation." he twisted to look you in the eyes, now. "I married you because you are... you're honest in a way that people in that room have forgotten how to be. you're kind without overthinking it. you see things." he paused. "those aren't weaknesses in a fire lady. those are exactly what the fire nation has been missing."
"I couldn't answer a question about trade policy," you deflected.
"I'll have someone fill you in on that. properly, this time .. I should have done that already. that's on me." his jaw tightened slightly at his mistake of being so caught up on having you a wife and your time, that he forgot, the both of you weren't the only two to exist in his world of duties. "I keep forgetting that I can't just throw you in and expect you to swim because I know you can. that's not how this works. you needed scaffolding and I didn't build you any and I'm sorry."
"I'm not fragile," you started. "I'm not asking you to protect me from it."
"I know you're not." zuko picked up the headpiece from beside you, tumbled it over in his hands, studying detail. "I'm asking myself to be better at the parts of this that are mine to carry. preparing you. telling you when something's going to be hard instead of assuming you'll figure it out." he set it down, gently. "we're a team in this. that means the failures are mine too."
he stared you down, waiting on you... though you weren't sure what he was waiting for... permission, correction, or simply for you to say something true .. the truth is what you chose.
"I was scared tonight," you confessed. "not all the time. there were moments I was fine. but the scared parts were very scared."
"that's allowed." his eyes, in this light, were very gold. "I was scared tonight too, for the record."
a half laugh left you. "you looked so calm."
"I've had more practice looking calm than being calm." the corner of his mouth lifted heavenward. "It's a different skill."
you spilled laughter again, properly this time, and something in your chest set free the tension that had been building since the handmaidens first pinned your hair.
zuko reached over, in search of your hand. his fingers were always fired up. "...next time," he said, "come find me before you disappear into the garden. we can leave together for a few minutes. I need the air too."
"people will notice."
"let them." his thumb swiped your knuckles, once. "I am the fire lord. If I decide my wife and I need five minutes of quiet, I think I can make that decision."
it was quietly radical in his words of my wife... you were never something as little as a title, or a trophy draped in gold to be presented to crowded rooms.
you flipped your hand over and held his the right way. "alright" you agreed. "next time."
he nodded, but neither of you moved for a while. the lantern light from the main hall was lost to the moonlight. you can hear the faint drift of a late musician still playing in the palace... you sat in the garden until the song ended. soon, Zuko fetched your headpiece, standing, and offered you his hand... it was time to return... together.
warnings/content: anaxa has a vagina and reader has a penis, semi-public sex (behind a building), oral (anaxa receiving), light bondage (anaxa's hands get tied up), a dash of breeding kink, aftercare, talk about marriage, reader is able to pick up anaxa, grammar + spelling mistakes, let me know if i forgot any!
word count: 5.2k
a/n: tumblr user boycock-boycunt-boyslut finally lives up to his name and writes about boycunt. this ended up softer than i meant it to be but who cares!! you have to eat your sappy fics before you get the rough bdsm ones
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 𓆝
If there was one word Anaxa would possibly describe you with, it'd be insatiable. For him, specifically. Whether you want to spend time with him, touch him, or fuck him, you are never fulfilled by the end of whatever you two do.
Cuddling on the couch? Even if it lasts a whole day, you still hold Anaxa as close as you can until he tells you to let him go. Don't let him even think about dealing with you in public. Mere handholding does little to hold you down. It'd be surprising if no one in all of Amphoreus knew you two were together. After all, you are practically glued to his side in public. With an arm wrapped around his waist and a grin on your face.
And this insatiability is definitely shown now, you have to admit.
It's the middle of the day, students of the Grove going here and there to get to classes or to their rooms. By this time, Anaxa should be in his own lab doing random experiments that probably end with an explosion. He, however, is not.
Instead, you have him tucked behind a building, pressed against the stone wall. His corset is loosened just enough for you to lower his pants and underwear. The distant chatter of students and faculty is complemented by the delicious pants that leave Anaxa's mouth.
"You couldn't have- waited- another moment?" Anaxa chastises you. It's hard for him to get a sentence out with you doing this.
You let out a mindful hum, watching your index and middle fingers thrust out of Anaxa's cunt. Anaxa's body shudders as your thumb swirls over his clit.
"You seem to be enjoying it as well, right?" your eyes meet his.
Anaxa holds your gaze for a while before he rolls his eye and looks to the side.
"Other students or-" his words are cut off as you thrust your fingers up harshly, hitting right at his sweet spot.
His right hand grasps at your wrist tightly, as if he wants you to stop.
You know it's quite the opposite, really.
You tilt your head at him, "what do you mean about 'other students?'" you pout your lips, "don't tell me you're still thinking about other people while I'm doing this to you."
You accentuate your words, thrusting your fingers into him again and targeting the spot that makes him moan. Anaxa isn't that loud during sex, quite the opposite. He tends to be more on the quiet side, so to really make him moan you've got to catch him off guard like this. Your thumb presses harder on Anaxa's clit, swirling around the bundle of nerves that makes his thighs shake.
Your pants feel impossibly tight as you watch Anaxa shake and moan from the combined sensations. You lean forward, your breath ghosting over Anaxa's cheek. You look into his eye as you continue to thrust your fingers in and out of him. You speed up, not wanting to deprive Anaxa of his pleasure. After all, he is an actual professor with work to do. Plus, seeing him lose himself in pleasure is something you don't want to deprive yourself of either.
Anaxa's other hand grabs onto your shoulder to stabilize himself. His pupil is blown out in lust as his head leans back. You stop him from hitting the stone wall with your free hand, cupping the back of his head and instead pushing his forehead to press against yours. You want to see his face as he comes.
"F-Fuck-" Anaxa stutters out. He moans out your name as he comes on your fingers. You slowly thrust a few times in him a few more times before pulling out your fingers.
You let out a pleased hum, pulling back a bit to examine Anaxa's release on your fingers. You separate your index and middle finger, seeing the slick coating your hands separate from itself. There's a few strings that stay attached until you pull your fingers too far apart. Anaxa can't help but feel himself heat up more at your actions.
"Oh yeah, what were you saying about the students?" you ask, licking your fingers clean from Anaxa's release. He rolls his eye at your display.
"I was going to say that the students and my peers might've been able to see us."
You let out a thoughtful hum at his words.The air around you two is more silent, the chatter of other students and faculty having quieted. You wonder if anyone saw you, not that it'd matter. Everyone already knows you're Anaxa's, and he's yours.
"No one is around anymore, at least!" you speak as you fix up Anaxa's clothes and hair, "besides, I think you actually kinda liked the risk."
You watch his eye widen before he gives a glare, you snicker in response. You finish fixing up Anaxa's clothes, adjusting his corset before looking at him again.
"I'll see you later, Naxy. Try not to miss me too much while you're working," you punctuate your words by pressing yourself up against his core. Anaxa's breath stifles as he feels your hard-on press up against him.
You give a kiss to his eyepatch before bounding away, like fingering him behind a building was the greatest thing to happen. Anaxa can't help but be filled with more want as he thinks about what will happen when he returns to you.
Later in the day, Anaxa returns home. You see him walk in looking less flustered than when you last saw him. He sets down a few scrolls on a table before turning to look at you. You sit in the common area, scrolling through your teleslate before setting it down once you see him. You stand from the spot, walking over to Anaxa.
He lets out a hum as your hands wrap around his small waist.
"How was the rest of your work? You weren't too distracted, were you?" you tease him, pressing a kiss to his eyepatch then to the corner of his lips.
Anaxa is used to your clinginess. He expects that, when he gets home, you'll be all over him as if you didn't see him in the morning. If you're both lucky, you might've popped into his study or classrooms to bother him just because of how much you "missed" him. He doesn't know whether this is a flaw of yours or something he appreciates. It's probably both.
"You'd have to do more than that to keep me distracted from my work," Anaxa huffs. He sees you smirk. "Stop looking at me like that."
You let out a sigh. Anaxa never lets you have your fun.
"But, if you were really wondering, a Venerationist student came to attend one of my lectures. They struck up a debate against me. Truly, I wish more of my own students had that courage."
You listen to Anaxa recount his day as an idea strikes you. Your arms lower to his thighs. Anaxa stops talking and raises his brow at what you're doing. His mouth opens to ask, before he is completely cut off by you picking him up.
"What in the world are you doing?" he asks, baffled by your sudden behavior. One arm comes to wrap around your shoulder reflexively, and his legs wrap around your waist.
"Nothing! Just thinking about what I want to do to you," you smile at him.
You carry Anaxa into the kitchen and set him down on the counter. Your hands immediately start to work on his corset, loosening it enough you're able to remove his pants. You hook your fingers around the waistband and slowly drag his pants down, removing his shoes with it. You kneel down before Anaxa, looking up to him as he sits on the counter. He looks unimpressed.
"You couldn't even hold back until we had eaten?"
You offer a shrug before leaning forward. You hold one of his ankles in your hand, pressing a kiss against his skin. Anaxa raises a brow, watching your actions. It's always fifty-fifty on whether you take your time or dive into whatever act you want to do with him. Though it seems like you're taking your time now.
"I'll make one of the greatest meals you've eaten after we're done?" you look up to him, your cheek squishing against Anaxa's calf.
He can't help the jolt of arousal that shoots down to his core, heat already rising up in his belly. Anaxa gives a nod, agreeing to your offer. You give him an appreciative smile.
"I hope you don't mind if I have something to eat first?" Clearly, you are not referencing any actual food. At least, you don't think Anaxa counts as literal food.
"Keep going or I'll kick you."
You stick your tongue out, muttering about how you're supposed to be the impatient one. You continue your work, peppering kisses over Anaxa's calf as you continue up. Your hands spread out Anaxa's legs, allowing you to slot yourself between them. A hand trails down from Anaxa's knee to his ankle, brushing over his skin and massaging at the muscles.
Your ears perk up as Anaxa lets out an appreciative sigh. You smile against his knee, pressing a kiss there and trailing up to his thighs. Your hands move from his legs to his upper thigh, grasping at his flesh and dragging yourself towards him. You notice a damp spot in his underwear, a sly smile playing at your lips as you look at Anaxa once again. His eye is expectant but once he sees you look from his boxers to his face, he blushes.
You chuckle, "I thought you said you weren't distracted?"
"I was able to focus just fine, thank you. I am not a simple-minded fool who only thinks of sex. I'm able to keep my desires at the back of my mind."
Was that a dig at you? You can't tell.
"Hmm… alright. I'll have to do a little more next time, then."
Your fingers hook onto the waistband of Anaxa's boxers, "Mind if I take them off?"
Anaxa lets out a breathless yes. Anticipation fills both of you as he raises his hips and you take Anaxa's underwear off of him. He stifles a moan as the cold air hits his bare cunt.
You kiss around Anaxa's thighs, your hands keeping a firm hold on his thighs to keep them from closing around you. You keep your kisses featherlight as your lips move to his inner thigh, kissing the sensitive skin there. You open your mouth, fingers digging into the meat of Anaxa's thigh, and bite down into his flesh.
Anaxa lets out a gasp, body tensing at the pain. You let go and lick the mark to soothe a bit of the pain. You always love to mark Anaxa. Whether that's on the outside with bite marks and bruises, or on the inside with your own cum. Just the thought of doing that makes your pants tighten and your cock twitch. You shove the thought to the side, for now you want to focus on Anaxa.
On Anaxa's inner thigh now sits a prominent bite mark that matches up with your teeth. The sight makes you giddy as you move to the other thigh, biting down again. Anaxa tenses again, but relaxes faster. He should've known this would happen. You lick over the new mark, letting out a pleased hum.
"Are you going to keep teasing me or actually get a move on?" Anaxa pants.
You rise from your spot and stand between Anaxa's legs. Your hard on presses against Anaxa's bare cunt and you can see him gasp at the feeling. Your hands reach up to cradle Anaxa's face, watching as he melts into the gentle contact.
"Feeling impatient, professor?" you aren't a student, but calling Anaxa professor is something you can't hold back on. "I just want to take care of you tonight."
Your lips press against Anaxa before you pull back and lower back between Anaxa's thighs. One of Anaxa's hands drifts down to your head, passively laying there and stroking the top of your head. You let out another pleased hum at the contact.
You press a kiss to Anaxa's thigh once again.
"May I?" you look back up to Anaxa, eyes full of love for him.
"If you don't start eating me out I will actually kick you this time."
You can't help the surprised laugh that leaves you. Shaking your head, you bring your hands to Anaxa's cunt, spreading him as your tongue licks a stripe up him. He shudders at the feeling and you smile against him. You lick at his clit, kissing the bundle of nerves before closing your lips around it and sucking. Anaxa shudders beneath you, one of your hands has to hold onto his thigh so he doesn't completely snap his legs shut around you.
You continue to alternate between sucking and licking at his clit as your other hand lowers to his hole. Your index and middle finger presses against it, the feeling makes Anaxa let out a low moan. The hand on your head tenses as your fingers press into him. The sounds of Anaxa's arousal, you fingering and eating him out fill the air. It's much more pleasant than being accompanied by the sound of other people talking around you.
Your fingers immediately seek out the spot that makes Anaxa really react. Of course, as you've mapped out his entire body in your mind, it's not hard to make Anaxa's body heat up more and feel him shudder. You hear heavy breathing above you as your fingers continue to thrust up into him. You pull away from Anaxa's clit, separating with a light pop! and move your head down. Your fingers pull out, which Anaxa voices his displeasure at with a groan.
"Be patient, Anaxa," you hum, "you know I'll always take care of you."
You bury yourself back in Anaxa's cunt, tongue teasing at his hole while your hand moves up to Anaxa's clit. You don't press on it, instead allowing Anaxa to take a break from you licking and sucking at it. You thrust your tongue into Anaxa's hole, enjoying the taste of his arousal on your tongue.
If Anaxa didn't have work as a sage and professor, you'd willingly keep yourself between his thighs for hours on end. The taste of him is simply divine on your tongue, like the finest ambrosia. He's addicting in a way that not even the best pomegranates could compare to. You're sure that even Phagousa is jealous that you have Anaxa, the greatest tasting being that has ever existed.
Anaxa's grip on you starts to tighten. He pulls your head right where you need to, not that you don't mind. You do as he wishes with no complaints. Your fingers press against his clit and with that combined with your tongue, he comes undone the second time that day.
You lap up his release like a starving animal, taking every last drop he offers you before you stand back up. Your face is wet from Anaxa's arousal. You swipe whatever was left on your face with your fingers and lick it up, not wasting a single drop of what he has to offer. Anaxa's face is flushed, his eye looking at you with need. Your hands press against his hips again and you look at him expectantly.
"Wanna take this to our room?" you cock your head to the side.
Anaxa nods, and that's all you need to pick him up once again and bring him to your shared bedroom. As you walk, Anaxa fiddles with his capelet and coat, loosening them so he can throw them off once you put him down. You unceremoniously throw him onto the bed once in the bedroom, an oof coming out of him as he hits the mattress. His gaze says he's unimpressed and you wonder how many times today he's looked at you like that.
You quickly follow Anaxa, crawling into the bed as he sits up. Your hands wander up as you take off the capelet and fully undo the corset as he removes his overcoat. It leaves Anaxa in only two layers: his shirt and his vest. You sigh at how many damn layers he wears. How does he deal with it? He laughs at your pouting.
"You look as if you don't enjoy the clothes I wear."
"Yeah- well- I only enjoy them when they aren't separating me from touching you."
"Hm? But you're already touching me, no?"
"You know what I mean, Naxy."
He chuckles once again, leaning up to give you a kiss on the lips. It's not as heated as your usual kisses during these sessions, instead soft and sensual as your lips move together. One of your hands moves to the back of his head, the other wrapping around his waist. Your tongue presses against his lips in a request, and he responds by opening his mouth for you. Your tongues meet and Anaxa can surely taste his own arousal that remains in your mouth. You moan into him, trying to drag him even closer to you as your tongues intertwine.
Anaxa pulls back first, panting and red in the face. Strings of spit still connect you two, which you break off with a quick swipe of your hand. You lean back, moving to get up.
"Going somewhere?" Anaxa asks.
You hum again, "Would you mind if I tied your wrists up?"
Anaxa leans against the headboard of the bed, seemingly thinking about it. "Of course I wouldn't."
Anaxa has always enjoyed a bit of something to spice up bedroom scenarios, whether it's something like roleplay or just either of you having your wrists tied together. You walk over to a drawer and pull out some red ribbon, soft so it doesn't rub against Anaxa's wrists too hard. You walk over to him, standing at the side of the bed. He had removed his vest, leaving him in his white shirt and nothing else.
You take one of his hands in yours, bringing it close to you and kissing his knuckles. He's always had pretty hands, that's one of the first things you ever noticed about him. That, and he has a really, really tiny waist. You take the other hand and repeat the kisses, then you bring his hands over his head, holding his wrists with one hand. You tie his wrists with the ribbon, tight enough to hold but not too tight to hurt. You lean down and press a kiss against Anaxa's wrists.
"You've been quite affectionate today," Anaxa points out. He tests the ribbon. Sure enough, it holds.
"I'm affectionate everyday?"
"What I mean is that you've been taking it slower today."
You shrug, perhaps you are. "Can you blame me? I have the most beautiful, prettiest boyfriend ever. I can't just not show how much I love him."
You begin to undress, which Anaxa instinctively tries to help with. Of course, he can't. His hands are literally tied. You remove your pants and underwear, leaving your top on.
"It's so much faster and easier to undress when you aren't wearing five layers, you know."
Anaxa rolls his eye at you.
You crawl onto the bed where Anaxa is waiting for you. His upper body is pressed against the headboard as he's sitting up. You separate his legs and slot yourself between them, looking down at his soaked cunt. A hunger rises within you, a need to be inside of him and mark him inside. You want to make him yours again, and again, and again. Filling him with your cum that one day it could take. Of course, that'll never happen. Logically it won't. But, you can't help imagining it.
Having a family with Anaxa, spending the rest of your life with him. The thought alone makes you shudder. You try not to waste any more time, taking your cock into your hands and spreading the precum that beads at the tip. You've been wanting this all day and it's hard to hold back now. You line yourself up with Anaxa's hole, looking up to him.
His eye is focused solely on you. More of your dick, but it counts. He watches with a hunger that matches your own.
"Ready?" you ask.
"Foolish question, I wouldn't do all of this only to stop at the end."
Of course that's how he replies. You shake your head, guiding your tip to his hole. You thrust up into him, and Anaxa lets out a low moan as your tip enters him. Your hands move to his waist as you feed yourself fully into him.
You press up against his pelvis once finished, staying still to allow Anaxa to adjust to the size. It's not like you're a monster or anything down there, but you'd rather not risk any harm to Anaxa. Not tonight, at least.
Anaxa's hips move, signalling that you can start moving. It's something you've learned during your time with him, sometimes he prefers non-verbal cues instead of having to say everything out loud. You pull yourself out, almost to the tip before pushing back in. You moan at the feeling of Anaxa around you, pulling back out to thrust back in. You set a steady pace, not rough or too fast.
Your hands grip at Anaxa's waist, pulling him down to lay on the bed instead of sitting up. You angle your hips so that when you thrust into him, you thrust right into hus sweet spot. Titans, you're always glad when you do. Anaxa might be quiet during sex, but when he loses himself, you get to hear a hymn that all gods should be jealous of.
Delicious moans leave Anaxa's mouth as you hit all the right places. He tightens up around you, making you moan at the feeling before you continue your rhythm. The sounds of both your skin slapping against each other complements Anaxa's moans. You lean down, your hands messing with Anaxa's shirt collar so you can open it and expose the skin of his neck and shoulders. He's flushed red even all the way down there.
You lean your head down, opening your mouth and biting into the flesh of Anaxa's neck. His eye widens and he tenses up, his hips angling up against yours as his lower body lifts off of the mattress. He sinks back down and moans lowly as you lick at the bite you left. You continue to mark him, covering his pale skin in bruises and bite marks alike. Each time you do he shudders against you, moaning when you bite hard enough against him. You kiss each wound you leave to soothe him.
You begin to speed up as you feel Anaxa shudder and shake more against you. One of your hands travels down to press up against his clit, swirling and lightly tugging to add to the pleasure he's feeling.
"Fuck- Anaxa-" you pant out as you continue moving inside him. You feel delirious as you do, losing yourself in the pleasure and feeling of being inside your lover.
Your other hand grasps and gropes at Anaxa's flesh, feeling his soft skin against your palm. Anything to reaffirm that he's there with you, even when you're feeling the deepest parts of him.
"I love you, Anaxa- Fuck you feel so damn good."
To hell with the Titans, you think. Those false gods could never compare to how Anaxa makes you feel. The love and lust within you that culminates in nights like this where you're both desperately rutting into each other. You don't care if everyone else on Amphoreus shuns both of you. As long as you get to spend the rest of your life and then some with Anaxa, you couldn't care less about what anyone else thinks.
You look down at him, one hand at the side of Anaxa's head as the other is still on his clit. His face is completely lost in pleasure. It's a rare sight to see him be so lost in sex, and it's one you savor every single time. You lean down, lips brushing against his as you continue to praise him.
"You feel so fucking good, I love you so damn much. Always so good for me, always letting me do these things to you- Fuck!"
Your head presses against Anaxa's shoulder as you feel him tighten more. His body shakes harder as he comes once again around you. He groans as he comes. A moan leaves you at the feeling of him climaxing around you. All coherent thought leaves your head as you rut into Anaxa, speeding up and chasing after your own climax. Your hands move to wrap Anaxa's legs around your waist, trying to hit him impossibly deeper.
More, more, more, you repeat to yourself. You slam your hips against Anaxa's and come. You both moan, shuddering and leaning into each other as you try to ride out your high.
With a few rolls of your hips, you pull out of Anaxa, watching your cum trickle out of his hole. You frown at the sight.
"You can fill me as much as you want another night, you dog," Anaxa says, "now untie me, please."
You smile unabashedly at him and do as told, untying his wrists and gently massaging away any pain that the ribbon could've caused.
"Wanna take a bath?" you look at Anaxa with hopeful eyes.
He gives a light nod. Of course you'd still want to be beside him even after being literally inside of him. You bound off to the bathroom, filling the tub with assorted salts and aromatics that Anaxa and you both enjoy. With the water set to as warm as it can get before getting physically painful, you prepare a few towels for both you and Anaxa.
You go back to the bedroom, wordlessly picking up Anaxa and taking him to the bath. You remove his shirt and set him down in the water. He removes his eyepatch and tosses it at you. Jerk.
"Not joining me tonight?" Anaxa looks at you, his brow turned down a bit.
"Of course I am!" you fake offense at the question, "I'm just gonna clean the bedroom a bit while you relax in the tub."
Anaxa lets out a sigh that you'd describe as relieved before nodding at your words.
You return to the bedroom. The blankets would have to go but you can clean the sheets tomorrow, right? After all, it's been quite the night for the both of you and the sheets aren't covered in fluids like the blankets are. You pull the blankets off and put them into the laundry corner, along with Anaxa’s and your clothing. You set the ribbon back where it goes in the drawer and adjust the pillows on the bed. A new set of soft, dry blankets are placed on the bed. You pick up Anaxa's dromas plushie from his nightstand and put it in the middle of the bed.
You give yourself a proud nod at the cleaned room. Before going to the bathroom, you pick up pajamas for both you and Anaxa. Dromas themed of course. As you enter the bathroom, you see Anaxa leaning against the side of the tub, his eye closed as he relaxes. His eye opens once he hears you pad into the room, setting the pajamas down then taking off your top and climbing in beside him. The warm water against your skin makes a pleased groan leave you. You adjust yours and Anaxa's position so he's sitting against your chest.
"Massage?" you offer.
He nods acceptingly. You grab soap on the side as your other hand raises Anaxa's leg. You start at his feet with massaging the skin and muscle beneath, and he lets out a pleased groan at the feeling. You continue up his calf, then to his thigh. You're careful at his sensitive areas, muttering apologies when he jolts against you. You repeat the process on the other leg.
Moments like these are the ones you treasure. Having Anaxa calm and relaxed against you. You know how much he's been through in his life and seeing him fully relaxed and comfortable beside you is something you'll treasure for the rest of your life.
You set down Anaxa's legs, working on his back now. There, he's definitely tense. You slowly massage out the knots out of his back.
"I love you, you know that?" you mutter against Anaxa's ear.
He looks back at you. "I am well aware of that."
"I know but- I love you a lot, Anaxa."
"You seem like you're hiding something from me."
"Wh- Me? Your loving, appreciative, hot, really sexy boyfriend? I would never hide something from you!"
Anaxa, once again, looks unimpressed. "Besides that show of pride, you clearly are hiding something from me. Got anything else to say?"
You chew the inside of your cheek. Your hands move to Anaxa's upper back, pressing into the knots between his shoulder blades. He presses back against your fingers to encourage you.
"I was just thinking…" you begin, "That- uh- would you want to get married, Anaxa…?"
The thought has been in your head for a while, but you hadn't had the courage to bring it up. Anaxa is a sage, a scholar, a professor, a Chrysos Heir. He's a busy man, you don't know if he's even thought about marriage as a possibility.
He hums, looking at the ceiling as he thinks. Silence stretches on for a few minutes as you move from Anaxa's back to massaging his shoulders.
"I mean I know that you're busy with all of your-"
"I wouldn't mind it," Anaxa interrupts you, "marrying you, that is."
You feel shocked. Despite that, you keep working on his arms, kneading his upper arms before continuing on.
"I- wait- really? You'd want to marry… me?"
"Of course, who else other than you?" Anaxa grabs your face with one of his hands, tugging you forward so you look directly at him.
"Well- yeah, of course- I just- are you not busy with… you know… everything…?"
He hums once again, "You practically accompany me in everything. Whether it is work as a professor or any work Chrysos Heir. Besides that, I've been thinking about it myself."
Your face feels hot as you nod. Anaxa lets you go, letting you continue your work.
You both sit in the tub together for a while. No words spoken, just soaking up each other's presence. As well as the water. Once it gets cool enough, you drain the tub and both you and Anaxa get dressed and ready to sleep.
"We'll discuss this more tomorrow," Anaxa says as he settles into the bed.
You lay beside him and nod. Before you can fully relax, you realize something.
"Wait. You didn't eat dinner," you fret.
Anaxa sighs, "if you make me the best breakfast I've ever had, I'll forgive you for forgetting to let me eat.
You nod, "alright. I'll make the best breakfast you've ever had tomorrow."
Anaxa cuddles the dromas plush close to himself and you wrap your arms around Anaxa. You feel like the thoughts of marriage- and what to feed Anaxa tomorrow- will keep you from sleeping, but you begin to drift off without realizing it.
you like to think you possess standards. one of them being not fooling around with colleagues, especially the ones you’ve spent most of your career despising. unfortunately, ifa has never shown much respect for your standards.
✦ word count. 3.8k words
✦ content. ifa x f!reader. sauro-vet reader. attempt at humor (like. only at the start LOL). co-workers with benefits. porn without plot. kind of. okay maybe there's a bit of plot (the plot being: yearning). smut. angst. idk what else to tell you man.
✦ foreword. dog eyes closed.gif
The islands that stretched between Ochkanatlan and the Quahuacan Cliff were like a series of serrated stone teeth jutting out of the open sea. With the a roaring gale and several phlogiston vents whipping through the narrow channels, it was a nightmare for anyone without a Vision or a very brave Qucusaur.
Unfortunately for you, your job sometimes requires you to be on-call in places like this.
“Hey, watch the tension on that wing-membrane!” Ifa called out, his voice straining slightly as he wrestled a thrashing Koholasaur back toward the shallow water. “You’re pinning it like a beginner, bro!”
You didn’t even look up from the Qucusaur currently nipping at your sleeve while you patch up its injuries. “I’m pinning it so he doesn’t fly off and reopen the wound, Ifa. Maybe if you spent less time gawking at me and more time dealing with your own patient, we’d be done already.”
Ifa let out a sharp huff, ducking just in time as a heavy, wet tail whistled over his head. “I’m a professional, I’ve got ‘em right where I want ‘em. Right, Cacucu?”
“Yeah! Right where it hurts, bro!” Cacucu chirped.
Perched on a nearby jagged outcrop, Chasca stood with her hands on her hips. She had spent the last hour physically prying territorial Saurians apart, only to witness the aftermath devolve into the peculiar medical comedy that followed you and Ifa like a persistent tailwind.
“I’m starting to think the brawl was quieter,” Chasca called down as she watched you deftly dodge the Qucusaur’s beak while Ifa simultaneously tried to keep that slippery Koholasaur from sliding back into the surf. “Do you two ever operate in silence, or is the constant ego-checking part of the treatment?”
“It’s called ‘verbal anesthesia’, Chasca! Distracts the patients!” Ifa shouted before turning his gaze back to you. “Though, I gotta say, your technique is looking a little... stiff today. You okay, partner?”
You finally looked up, catching the mischievous glint in his sea-green eyes. You knew exactly what he was referencing—the fact that you were sore from the “overtime” you’d spent in his clinic loft the night prior. This was supposed to be your day-off, but emergencies like this don’t really care about your schedule, or the state of your body.
“I'm fine,” you grumbled. “I just didn’t get enough sleep recently.”
Ifa’s grin widened. "Is that so? Well, as your senior—"
“We graduated in the same class.”
“—As your peer,” he corrected with a wink, “I’d say you need a thorough check-up later. Can’t have my best rival falling behind because of a little fatigue.”
“Check-up! Check-up! Can I help, bro?” Cacucu shouted, diving between the two of you.
“Absolutely not, little man,” Ifa laughed, reaching out to catch the round creature mid-air once he finally released the Koholasaur he’d been treating. “This kind of check-up wasn’t even taught to us in school! It’s a very…ah, delicate process. You’ll know when you’re older.”
Chasca cleared her throat loudly, her eyes narrowing in quiet suspicion. The air between you wasn’t just thick with the smell of medicinal salves and sea salt—it was brimming with a tension that she wasn’t quite used to dealing with as the Flower Feather Clan’s peacemaker. The sort of thing Chuychu would call a medical malpractice of the heart.
“If you’re finished consulting each other,” Chasca interjected, her tone suggesting she was starting to put the pieces together, “there’s another group of Qucusaurs by the end of the shoreline. You can both go once we’ve cleared them of any injuries.”
“Sweet!” Ifa said with a grin so boyish, it made you want to chuck a rock at his head.
The two of you had been orbiting each other since your first day of veterinary school. Back then, you’d viewed him less as a classmate and more as a giant, white-haired obstacle. Ifa was a natural—born into a lineage of sauro-vets who had his whole life ahead of him. While you spent your nights hunched over text books, memorizing every nerve ending in a Tatankasaur’s horns, Ifa would take exams after a day of fooling around, pulling top marks like a breeze.
He was gifted, well-connected, and worst of all, he was nice.
You had spent years trying to out-work his talent. You wanted to be the best, to prove that a name didn’t make the vet. But in the Flower-Feather Clan, medical paraphernalia was expensive and hard to come by unless you had a family vault to back you up. When you struggled to get your own practice off the ground, Ifa hadn’t gloated about how well-off he was.
No, what he did was much worse.
“Clinic's too big for just me and Cacucu anyway, bro. Come help me out? I'll even let you keep the 'Senior' title on Tuesdays.”
You’d accepted under the silent vow that you’d stay just long enough to save up, buy your own gear, and put his cozy little clinic out of business. But that was three years ago, and somehow, the “temporary” arrangement had turned into a life you couldn't quite imagine leaving.
You had spent years trying to maintain a cold, professional distance, constructing a mental list of all the reasons why you should resent him, but Ifa made it impossible to stay mad. He possessed a brand of genuine kindness that felt as effortless as his talent, and it chipped away at your resolve every single day.
It was hard to harbor a grudge against a man who spent his weekends giving free check-ups to the older Qucusaurs in the tribe, refusing any payment beyond a handful of honey crackers. You’d also lost count of the times you’d walked into the exam room to find him strumming his guitar, crooning custom, low-tempo songs to calm down a shivering Saurian hatchling before their vaccinations.
Worst of all, he was the one who had literally given you the sky.
Your pride had been shattered after you failed your Qucusaur flight trials twice, practically a death sentence for a member of the Flower-Feather Clan. But Ifa hadn’t let you wallow. He dragged you out to the cliffs every single morning for three weeks, guiding your movements through every sunrise with a steady hand on your back until the fear finally dissolved. Now, you banked through the clouds as effortlessly as he did, and you owed every bit of that freedom to him.
That gratitude was exactly what had landed you in trouble.
It was supposed to be a one-time thing, a moment of weakness fueled by a late-night study session and too much fermented fruit juice. You had told yourself it was just a way to blow off steam, a physical extension of the competitive friction that had defined your relationship for years.
But Ifa, being Ifa, had turned a casual mistake into a devastating routine.
It had started with lingering touches when passing each other things in the clinic. Then came the nights in the loft, where the academic debates about saurian digestion would inevitably devolve into breathless wrestling matches that had nothing to do with wrestling and everything to do with the way his calloused hands felt against your skin.
You learned that he was just as attentive in bed as he was with his patients, far too adept with both his fingers and his tongue in a way that made your resentment feel like a flickering candle in a hurricane.
Even now, several hours after the harrowing task Chasca had thrown at you, he still seemed to possess a surplus of that restless vigor he usually reserved for closed doors.
You were already sprawled across his narrow bed, sheets kicked down to the foot in a rumpled heap, tunic shoved up to your ribs, pants long gone somewhere on the floorboards. Ifa’s body was bracketed between your parted thighs, white hair falling forward to curtain his face as he looked down at you with those sea-green eyes that always went dark and glassy when he got like this.
His was breathing like he was trying not to lose control too fast. He had two thick fingers buried deep inside you, stroking that spot that made your hips jerk every time he dragged over it.
“Archons,” Ifa exhaled against your neck, lips brushing salt-slicked skin as he spoke. “You’re so tight tonight… still feeling me from last time?”
You tried to answer—something sharp, something to keep the upper hand—but he chose that exact moment to press the heel of his palm down hard against your clit, grinding in slow circles while his fingers stayed buried to the knuckle, pumping just enough to keep you fluttering around him.
A broken sound tore out of your throat instead.
Ifa groaned low in response. He dragged his open mouth up the column of your throat, sucking softly and leaving a fresh bruise right where your collar would barely cover it tomorrow. His tongue flicked out to soothe the sting, and you felt his cock twitch against the inside of your thigh.
“Always get so wet when I talk to you like this,” he murmured, lips trailing to nip the soft spot beneath your ear. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers every time I tell you how good you feel. You like knowing you’re wrecking me too?”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving half-moon marks on sweat-slick skin. “Ifa—”
“Yeah?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown so wide the green was only a thin ring. His hair stuck to his forehead; a single bead of sweat slid down his temple and dripped onto your chest. “Tell me what you need. Use your words.”
You glared up at him—or tried to. It probably looked more like a plea.
“F-Faster,” you managed to wrench out. “And—fuck—don’t stop talking.”
His grin was a sunrise coming up on a bad idea.
“Bossy even when you’re falling apart,” he rasped, but he obeyed anyway. His fingers sped up—deep, curling thrusts that hit that perfect angle over and over—while his thumb took over on your clit, rubbing firm, relentless circles that made your thighs shake. “You like that? Yeah you do. Look at you… bucking up into my hand like you can’t help it. So fucking pretty when you chase it.”
He dipped his head again, lips sealing over the pulse hammering in your throat. He sucked hard enough you’d feel it for days, while his free hand slid up under your tunic to palm your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in the same rhythm as the one between your legs.
Your back arched, pressing yourself harder into his touch. The wet sounds of his fingers working you open filled the small room, obscene and loud in the quiet night. Every time you clenched around him he let out a low, guttural sound against your skin, hips jerking forward like he was fucking into his own hand.
However, one moment, Ifa’s fingers were dragging you right to the razor’s edge. But the next, he suddenly pulled them free.
The sudden emptiness hit like a slap. Your hips chased after his hand on pure instinct, a desperate, broken whine tearing out of your throat before you could stop it. Your walls clenched around nothing, and the ache that bloomed low in your belly was so sharp it brought actual tears to the corners of your eyes.
“N-no, Ifa, please—” Your voice cracked pathetically. You were trembling, thighs shaking, slick dripping down the crease of your ass onto the sheets.
“Shh, shh. I’ve got you,” Ifa shushed you immediately. “I just want to feel you come around my cock this time. You can do that for me, yeah?”
He shifted his weight, broad shoulders blocking out the lamplight, and you felt the blunt, hot head of him nudge against your entrance. He didn’t push in right away. Instead he dragged the length of himself through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, letting you feel every ridged vein that made your hips twitch.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You did—because how could you not?—and found him watching you like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered. Sweat beaded along his collarbones, white hair plastered to his temples, lips parted around harsh breaths. The boyish, easygoing Ifa who strummed lullabies to hatchlings and handed out free check-ups was gone. In his place was this man whose eyes were alight with something dark and consuming that threatened to burn you both alive.
He lined himself up properly, then sank in with one long stroke.
Your back bowed off the bed, mouth falling open on a silent cry. He was so thick, so deep, stretching you open in a way that bordered on too much and still wasn’t enough. You felt every inch of him drag against your walls, how your body tried to pull him deeper even as he bottomed out, hips flush to yours.
“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “So perfect for me.”
Ifa didn’t give you time to adjust.
He pulled back almost all the way before snapping his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt again. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red trails he’d feel tomorrow. He hissed through his teeth as his hips stuttered before he found a steady, brutal rhythm.
You couldn’t think. You could barely even breathe. You could only cling to him as he shoved your knees up toward your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders, opening you wider so he could drive even deeper. The new angle had him hitting that spot inside you with devastating accuracy, over and over, until your vision blurred at the edges.
And through it all, Ifa never stopped looking at you.
Eyes locked on yours, drinking in every pretty little sound that left your lips. He was relentless, yet somehow still so attentive, still cataloging every reaction like you were one of his patients he refused to lose.
You remembered, in fractured flashes between thrusts, the Ifa from school: the golden boy who aced every exam without breaking a sweat, who offered help you didn’t want because he knew you’d hate needing it. You’d hated him for it—hated how effortless he made everything look, how kind he was even when you tried to freeze him out.
Now that same man was folding you in half on his bed, cock splitting you open, growling filthy praise against your mouth while he fucked you like he wanted to crawl inside your skin and live there.
Ifa’s rhythm never faltered, even as your body started to tighten around him in warning. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep the pressure building without tipping you over too soon, letting you feel every thick inch dragging out and plunging back wetly into your sopping cunt.
“That’s it,” he rasped, lips brushing yours in a ghost of a kiss. “You’re getting so close, aren’t you? Can feel you squeezing me so tight.”
Your nails scored down his shoulders again, anchoring yourself as the heat coiled tighter and tighter in your core. Every snap of his hips punched a broken sound out of you and he drank them down like they were oxygen.
“Look at me,” Ifa whispered. “Let me see it when you fall apart.”
You tried to nod, tried to hold his gaze, but the angle was merciless. Your legs shook violently over his shoulders, toes curling, and the first real tremor ripped through you.
“There you go.” A deep-seated laugh. “Let it happen—don’t fight it. I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
He kept the pace steady, grinding in tight circles at the end of every thrust so the base of him rubbed against your clit while he filled you completely. Your breath hitched into sharp, helpless whimpers; tears slipped free again, streaking down your temples into your hair.
“Feel that?” he murmured against the corner of your mouth. “That’s all for me. Come on, sweetheart, give it to me. You know you want it as badly as I do.”
The words tipped you over.
Your whole body seized—your mouth falling open on a raw, shattered cry as pleasure crashed through you in shuddering waves. Your walls clamped down around him in violent spasms, milking him so hard his rhythm stuttered for the first time, hips jerking once, twice, as he groaned low in his throat like the sensation physically hurt him in the best way.
Ifa talked you through every second of it.
“That’s it—fuck, yes, just like that. Squeeze me again—gods, you feel so good. Ride it out, I’ve got you. Let it all go.”
You were shaking, sobbing softly into his mouth as the aftershocks rolled through you, each one making your cunt flutter around his still-thrusting cock. He slowed but didn’t stop, drawing it out until you were whimpering from overstimulation, thighs quivering uncontrollably.
When your cries finally turned soft and broken, he eased up just enough to let you breathe. His lips found yours again before he pulled back barely an inch.
“Where do you want me?” he asked quietly, his breath hot against your swollen mouth. “Inside? On your stomach? Tell me.”
“Inside,” you managed. “Please… Want to feel you.”
Without another word he shifted—pulling out just long enough to ease your legs down from his shoulders. You immediately wrapped them around his waist, ankles locking at the small of his back to pull him back in with a needy tug that made him hiss.
He sank back inside you in one smooth glide, both of you groaning at the new angle. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers knotting in damp white hair as he braced himself on his forearms, caging you beneath him.
“Like this?” he murmured, starting to move again. “Want me to fill you up?”
You nodded frantically, broken little sounds spilling out every time he bottomed out and made you surge forward on the mattress. “Yes—please—Ifa—”
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, teeth grazing skin as his pace quickened again, chasing his own edge now that he’d gotten you there first.
“Gonna give it to you,” he panted against your throat. “Gonna come so deep you’ll feel me for days. Fuck… Can’t hold it— ‘m gonna—”
One last, grinding thrust and he stilled, hips flush to yours as he came with a low, guttural groan. You felt him pulse inside you—hot, thick, spilling deep until it leaked out around the base of him, slicking your thighs. He kept rocking gently through it, milking every last shudder from both of you, until he finally went still.
For long moments neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, sweat-slick skin pressed together, and hearts hammering against each other.
Even in the haze of his own release, Ifa remained the doctor who knew that every high-intensity event required a proper cooling-down period. He shifted his weight, bracing himself on his elbows to keep from crushing you, and pressed a lingering, salt-flecked kiss to your forehead.
“Hey, easy.” He pulled out slowly, the wet sound of his departure loud in the quiet room, and immediately tucked the rumpled sheets around your shivering frame.
Ifa disappeared for a moment before returning with a basin of warm water and a soft cloth. He cleaned you with a gentleness that was almost painful, his large, calloused hands moving over your thighs and stomach with a reverence that felt too much like love to be casual.
When he was done, he reached into the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a small, amber vial. It was a potent contraceptive tonic from the Masters of the Night-Wind, something he always kept stocked. He uncorked it and handed it to you.
“Drink up, partner.”
You took the vial, the bitter herbal liquid coating your tongue as you swallowed. You wanted to lean into him, to tuck your head under his chin and stay in the quiet safety of the blankets. But as you set the empty vial down, a familiar, melancholic weight began to settle in your chest.
This afterglow had a shelf life, and Ifa was the master of timing.
“Man, I really gotta head out soon,” Ifa grumbled as he started pulling on his pants. “I think my neighbor is starting to get suspicious. She keeps asking why I have so many 'emergency consultations' that require me to leave Cacucu with her until midnight.”
You forced a nod, pulling the sheet tighter around your chest. “I’m sure she understands.”
He chuckled, shrugging on a black button-up that hugged his rippling muscles as he shook out his white hair. He looked back at you, flashing that boyish grin that made everyone in the Flower-Feather Clan adore him. “Probably. She even tried to give me some food for the 'stress.' If only she knew the kind of workout I was actually getting, right?”
“Yeah. A workout…”
Ifa didn't notice the hollowness in your voice—or if he did, he was too polite to comment on it. He launched into a story about a Tepetlisaurus with a broken horn he’d seen earlier this week, gesturing with his hands as he described the way it had tried to eat his stethoscope. He was animated, charming, and entirely detached from the intimacy that had just occurred.
To Ifa, this was a perfect arrangement. Two rival colleagues blowing off steam in the most efficient way possible. He drew his boundaries with the same precision he used for surgery—never cutting too deep, never leaving a scar.
Watching him button his cuffs, you realized with a sharp, quiet pang that you were content. Or, at least, you had convinced yourself you were. You had him like this—in the dark, in the sweat-slicked sheets. You had the version of Ifa that no one else saw, even if it came with a disclaimer that it didn't mean anything.
The alternative—confessing that your “hatred” had long since curdled into a desperate, aching need for him to let you stay until morning—was a risk you weren't brave enough to take. If you asked for more, he might withdraw the offer entirely, and you couldn't go back to a sky without him in it.
“Alright, I'm off,” Ifa said, leaning over one last time to catch your chin in his hand. He gave you a quick, firm kiss—the kind a friend might give, if that friend had just spent an hour inside you. “Take as long as you need to rest before you head home! I might have to drop by the Children of Echoes before I hit the hay.”
You nodded, watching him head for the door. “Sure thing.”
As the door clicked shut and the silence of the room rushed back in, you curled into the space where he had been, breathing in the fading scent of mint and sea salt. You had him without really having him. He was yours, but not yours.
But you’ve already gotten used to that.
✦ afterword. i have nothing to say for myself aside from the fact that i've known this guy for months now but the ifa superbug has only infected me now. cest la vie. hope you enjoyed bc i wrote this in a sad horny haze LMFAO
SUMMARY: it's been three years since your betrothal with naoya fell apart, and you haven't spoken to him since. satoru, naturally, decides to meddle, and now you're faced with the unsettling realization that time has done nothing to dull... well, whatever it is the two of you are to one another.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. canon compliant (MCD accordingly, not in this part tho). i took some liberty with 1) zenin clan relationships and 2) cursed energy lore for reader’s technique. naoya is his own warning—he’s gonna give you a lot of whiplash. heavily implied abuse (naobito->naoya). toxic relationship (i stress, toxic relationship, especially in this part LOLLLL, naoya is very possessive and jealous and is an asshole about it). misogyny (obviously). moments of misandry from reader. liberal use of bitch (naoya to reader). asshole 4 asshole (naoya sucks, so does reader—the crux of their relationship is that they’re both so intolerable they can only tolerate each other). as always with my fics, reader has personality & background & cursed technique, she is a sorcerer. reader goes through it during age 20: depression, mood swings, grieving, implied suicide ideation (only one brief line).
SMUT WARNINGS: switch!reader (leaning dom in this smut), switch!naoya (leaning bratty sub in this smut LOL), choking, finger sucking, naoya as always has quite the mouth on him (bitch, slut, etc), unprotected sex.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: PART TWO AT LAST ......... i hope you guys enjoy, this is ages 18-20, and next up is going to be 21 to canon (RIP). Hopefully I'll be able to get it out next Tuesday, but I might have to push it abck a week because I already got a huge assignment for one of my classes </3 The smut kills me because that was NOT the route I was intending to go with this first smut (was supposed to be reader sub-leaning) but ykw naoya is just destined to be a bratty sub i guess LOLLLL JKKKK. I think I should stress here briefly that reader is SUPPOSED to be a mirror of Naoya. She's arrogant & entitled & her brothers have been training her since she was a kid to be a sorcerer after her cursed technique manifested, so she's everything traditional jujutsu society hates in a woman and appreciates in a man, and the whole point is that Naoya is going THROUGH IT having a full blown existential crisis (as a kid, in this part, and it finally culminates in the last part) realizing how attached he is to this woman who is 1) everything he was taught to hate in a woman, but also 2) literally him without a dick. I thought I made that really clear in the first part but maybe I didn't LOL. Also, again here is a post I made about reader’s cursed technique—it’s described in the previous part of the fic as well, but if you’re interested to read! Reblogs and comments always appreciated!!!!
SEE: MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION series masterlist
2011 | READER, AGE 18; NAOYA, AGE 20
Three years pass before you see Naoya again. You think that your father and his explicitly go out of their way to make sure there are no chances for the two of you to interact, because jujutsu society is small—there’s no reason why the two of you should’ve gone so long without seeing each other unless there was outside interference.
Or, well, there’s a second option, but you don’t want to think about that one.
You bring it up to Gojo Satoru one day when the two of you are lounging in the training grounds at your clan’s estate.
“Do you think it’s weird that Naoya and I haven’t bumped into each other once since our fathers broke off the engagement?”
“You’re so rude bringing up other men when you’re here with me,” Satoru complains, tilting his head to the side to look at you. “You tryna make me jealous or something?”
You think the only good thing that came from the end of your arrangement with Naoya is your friendship with Satoru. He became a constant in the years that followed—the only person you could call a friend after you lost whatever it was you had with Zenin Naoya.
At first, he was just there—very loud and very persistent, and very impossible to ignore. He’d taken an interest in you early on, partially because he was bored, partially because he likes anyone who makes the old traditionalists of jujutsu society uncomfortable, and you think mostly because you don’t treat him like he’s untouchable. You correct him when he gets things wrong, insult him when he’s annoying, and you’ve come to realize over the last three years that Satoru is lonely. He doesn’t like being surrounded by people who worship him, and, like you, he seems to be dealing with the loss of someone dear to him. You heard through the grapevine that his closest friend from Jujutsu High turned coat and became a curse user during their third year. He doesn’t talk about it with you, and you don’t ask, but you’re pretty sure it’s part of the reason why he’s so quick to cling to you. He wants to be distracted, and you were the perfect one handed right to him, since both of your clans jumped on the opportunity to try to get the two of you betrothed after your arrangement with Naoya fell apart.
Over time, distraction became friendship and friendship became something more. Love, maybe, but not the kind people write songs about or build futures around. You don’t love Satoru the way your father and the Gojo clan elders want you to love him, and he doesn’t love you that way either. But when the two of you are alone, he lets you be sharp and stubborn and angry without trying to fix you, and you let him be Gojo Satoru, the person, instead of Gojo Satoru, the strongest.
He listens when you complain, even when your complaints circle back to the same names and the same old frustrations. He pushes you to be better and stronger, showing up at your estate to spar with you and your brothers every chance he can get, and he fought tooth and nail for you when the higher-ups tried to spitefully block your petition for Special Grade One last year. When the topic of marriage comes up between your clan and his, he shuts it down immediately, making it clear that he isn’t going to let either of you be forced into a life you didn’t choose. He never talks down to you, never tries to scare you into obedience, and when the whispers started about how you’re difficult and reckless and how the Zenin clan was smart to end the engagement between you and Naoya, he laughs them off like they’re jokes not worth remembering, and somehow, that makes them feel smaller.
And all of this without the need for the threat of mutually assured destruction, you think bitterly, eyes sliding shut when your thoughts, as always, inexplicably draw back to a certain Zenin.
Gojo Satoru is good to you. Really good to you.
And still, despite all of that, Naoya never quite leaves you alone. He always crosses your mind as soon as you let your guard down and your thoughts start to drift. He shows up in the way your body still anticipates certain movements in a sparring match, stepping where someone else would’ve been, correcting habits you learned fighting him and no one else. Sometimes, you can almost hear his voice in your head, harsh and irritated as he complains about your bullshit hacks while the two of you relax at your clan’s estate after a long day of training, and you find your lips curling up into a smile before you remember that the two of you aren’t on speaking terms anymore.
You don’t really talk about him with Satoru either, and Satoru never brings him up. You’re grateful for that. But there are too many nights when you lie awake and wonder how Naoya took the ending of the betrothal. You wonder if he hates you for disappearing—not that it was your choice—or if he was relieved, or if, worse, he simply moved on without sparing you a second thought, and that’s why he hasn’t bothered to talk to you again.
It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, as you always do.
“Oh yeah,” you agree. “Definitely. Is it working?”
“It is,” he agrees solemnly. “I’m so jealous. I should go run to the clan elders and tell them that you’ve shattered my heart beyond repair.”
You laugh, the sound comes easy despite the heaviness in your heart.
Satoru shifts to sit more comfortably. He leans back on his hands, glasses sliding down his nose so he can look at you directly.
“For what it’s worth,” he says casually, “yeah. It’s weird.”
“You think?” you ask quietly, chest tightening just a little.
He shrugs lazily. “Jujutsu society’s not that big,” he says exactly what you’ve been thinking. “You don’t just not run into someone like him for three years unless people are trying very hard. You try texting him? You know we’re in the twenty-first century, right?”
Your gaze lowers. “They don’t go through,” you say quietly. “My texts.”
“Ah,” Satoru replies, voice soft. He doesn’t say what you know he’s thinking—that second option you didn’t want to consider, that there might not be any outside influence, Naoya might be the one avoiding you. But that wouldn’t be fair. It wasn’t your decision to end the engagement; it was his clan that made the call. “Well, want me to find out for you?”
You look at him quickly. “Can you?”
Satoru snorts, giving you a too-smug grin. “I’m Gojo Satoru. I can do anything.”
“I don’t want him to know you’re snooping around for me,” you say firmly.
“Relax,” he drawls. “I know how to be discreet.”
You’re not sure Satoru actually knows what that word means, but for the first time since your father broke the news of Zenin Naobito’s decision, something close to hope flutters in your chest.
————————
Satoru keeps his word. Within a week of your conversation with him, you learn that the Zenin clan has been a trainwreck since the engagement fell apart. They’ve been doing their best to keep it under wraps, but once Satoru starts snooping, everything unveils itself quickly. Servants quit without notice, getting as far away from the estate as they possibly can, and Zenin representatives show up to meetings even more high strung than they usually are, one wrong word from snapping. Even the Hei and Kukuru try to keep away from the estate, finding any reason to take on missions.
Naoya’s name comes up again and again, always paired with the same words: volatile, cruel, and out of control.
In the months that follow the dissolution, he becomes unbearable even by Zenin standards. He terrorizes servants over imagined slights, lashes out at cousins and uncles and brothers alike, and humiliates anyone unfortunate enough to be near him when his temper snaps. Satoru claims that even Naobito starts keeping his distance from his youngest son.
Satoru found it hard to believe, because the Naoya he’s always encountered has always been the opposite of these descriptions: arrogant and flippant, never caring about anything enough to bother with an argument, because it’s all beneath him. You believe it though. You can see it, have seen it dozens of times before—Naoya, crueler and more aggressive, burning himself out on spite and fury.
(“No, he’s always been like this,” you say, more to yourself than to Satoru. “He loses control and explodes. Doesn’t care what he brings down with him.”
“I guess,” Satoru agrees. “And losing you—” he pauses, correcting himself, “—losing the engagement with you probably didn’t help then.”)
According to Satoru, the Zenin clan elders try to rein him in at first. Then they try threatening him. Then they try ignoring him. None of it works. Satoru tells you that at one point, they even tried to pacify him by setting up another engagement, thinking he was angry because something was ‘stolen from him,’ but Naoya went off the rails, refusing to even see the girl. No matter what they do, his temper only worsens.
(“I don’t understand why he won’t just fucking talk to me then,” you snap, frustrated. “Why won’t he answer my texts? He’s so fucking stubborn.”
Satoru doesn’t say what you’re both thinking: that the only reason Naoya would be so adamant against speaking to you is that he blames you.)
Two months after Satoru does his snooping and informs you of the Zenin state of affairs, you’re given a mission from the higher-ups to exorcise what’s presumed to be an unregistered Special Grade cursed spirit wreaking havoc in Kagoshima. You’re told that your partner will meet you on-site, no name given, just coordinates and an arrival window, and you accept without much thought
You should’ve realized this was Satoru’s meddling, but you don’t until it’s too late.
————————
“This is fucking ridiculous,” you mutter as you lean against the wall, phone pressed to your ear as you bitch to Satoru. “This guy still isn’t here. The designated meeting time was thirty-five minutes ago. I’m about to go in on my own. I don’t give a damn anymore.”
“What’s that? You’re breaking up, I can’t—” You hear Satoru say on the opposite line, and then something crinkling obnoxiously near the speaker.
“Did you just crinkle a fucking bag of potato chips pretending it’s static?” you demand furiously, but Satoru has already hung up, clearly not wanting to be bothered while he’s ‘on vacation.’ You mutter bitterly, “Douchebag,” and shove your phone back into your pocket, crossing your arms over your chest.
Your gaze flicks up to the clear sky, watching as clouds roll in from the west. You let out a heavy sigh. You’d hoped to be done with this before the summer storm hit; you weren’t trying to be stuck in Kagoshima for the next three days, but since your asshole partner clearly doesn’t care to be on time, you’re definitely not going to be able to get out of the city before it hits. You text Satoru to tell him to make himself useful and book you a hotel room, and you hardly get the chance to read his response: one bed or two? :P before a familiar voice around the corner forces your spine straight and your eyes wide.
“Let’s make one thing clear—I’m not here to babysit some second-rate,” Zenin Naoya snaps from around the corner, voice clipped and impatient. “So, stay out of my way, and don’t slow me down or—”
He rounds the corner mid-sentence, and the rest of the words die in his throat. For a split second, before he registers that it’s you standing in front of him, his expression is contemptuous, locked and loaded, ready to unleash his displeasure onto whichever poor soul has the misfortune of being partnered with him. Then the contempt shifts into surprise, which he is quick to try to smooth out into an apathetic expression.
“... You,” he says flatly.
“Your hair,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, staring at where familiar black is now replaced with dyed blonde. He’s taller now, shoulders broader, and piercings line his left ear. “Your ear.”
Naoya is…
“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice harsh as he looks down at you, a sneer on his face. “This is a special grade operation.”
… as insufferable as ever
“Huh?” you demand, pushing yourself off the wall to stand straight. He still towers over you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Naoya?”
“Zenin to you,” he corrects, lip curling up. You blink, irritation beginning to prick at your chest—maybe something else, too. Zenin, is he serious? “It means exactly what ya think it means. You shouldn’t be here. You’ll get in my way.”
“You’ve gotten dumber since we last saw each other, Naoya,” you say, watching frustration flash through his face when you deliberately use his given name anyway. “Or maybe you just missed the news. We’re the same grade now, and I actually got my promotion on the first try, unlike someone. If I shouldn’t be here, you definitely shouldn’t.”
The jab lands exactly where you want it to. You knew it would. You can see him grinding his teeth as he glares down at you furiously. You don’t know what bothers him more: the idea of you being on equal grounds with him, or the reminder of his failure three years ago. Not even two minutes in his presence, and your blood feels hot, and there’s a dull pressure in the back of your head. You can’t believe that you were actually missing this bastard.
“Oh, I heard,” he drawls, smile sharp in a way that warns you he’s about to say something particularly vile. “Everyone did. Hard not to, when you’ve got Gojo Satoru singing your praises.” His mouth twists. “Funny how fast doors open when you’re on your back for the right man. I should commend you, really. It was a smart move, trading up the way you did. There’s only one rung above me, and ya managed to get your foot right on it once I stopped being useful to you. Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Your body moves before your mind even fully registers what it is that he said, driving your fist forward into his face. He dodges, of course, leaning back and appearing at your left side in the split second that Projection Sorcery needs to activate. Naoya underestimates you, as always, and you don’t even need to use your own technique to anticipate where he’s going to appear, kicking your foot out to drive it into his gut the moment he does. He lets out a ‘oof’ as his back slams against the brick wall you’d just been leaning on, and you dart forward to grab his collar, this time successfully putting your fist in his teeth before you yank him down so that he’s eye level with you.
He’s unrepentant as he stares down at you, jaw tight, blood trickling down his chin, and hatred blazing in his eyes.
“Fuck you,” you say, head clouded with rage and heart beating furiously in your chest.
Naoya smiles as though his blood isn’t smeared across his teeth and his lip isn’t split in two. “If I’d known you were so quick to spread your legs, I would’ve done that a long time ago. You don’t interest me anymore now that you’re Gojo Satoru’s sloppy seconds—so, it’s a hard pass. Maybe try with one of my brothers, or a Kamo, if you’re collecting—”
Your grip twists on his collar, and you drive your fist into his face a second time. A third. Almost a fourth, but you stop yourself when you realize he’s not even trying to break free or block the blows. You let out a loud scoff and shove him back again, taking a step away from him as he leans back against the wall and wipes the blood from his face.
“Same vicious beast you were three years ago,” he mutters scornfully. “Did the strongest tame you, or d’ya treat him like this, too?”
“Same douchebag you were three years ago,” you bite back. “The fuck is the matter with you? You jealous or something? Why do you keep bringing up Satoru?”
“Satoru,” he echoes with a bark of laughter.
Your eyebrows shoot upward. “Oh,” you say, the realization hitting hard enough to cut through your anger. You laugh, loud and mocking. “You are jealous.”
He lets out an ugly noise. “Don’t get it twisted. You’re not worth being jealous over.”
“Get over yourself, Naoya,” you scoff furiously. “You don’t get to treat me like shit because you’re jealous over something th—”
“I’m not jealous,” he interrupts, voice rising as he pushes himself up to stand straight. “I don’t care about who you decide to fuck.”
“You’re sure acting like it.”
He steps into your space suddenly, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, the anger vibrating under his skin. “Well, I’m not. I’m not fuckin’ jealous. I’m pissed. You made me look stupid, standing around wondering if you’d come back while you were off playing favored pet to Gojo Satoru.”
Your eye twitches—what is he even talking about?
“That’s not fair,” you say through gritted teeth. “I—”
He laughs in your face. “Fair?” he asks, voice low and mocking. “You vanish without a word, and fair is what you wanna talk about now? That’s rich.”
Your expression twists. “I tried to talk to you, Naoya. You ignored me.”
“Because you made your choice,” he scoffs, turning his back on you. “You don’t get to walk away from someone and expect them to sit there waiting for you. I—”
“I didn’t walk away from you, Naoya,” you tell him, voice rising in frustration. You shove his back when he turns it on you, but there’s no force behind it this time. “The Zenins pulled the plug, not me. Said they had no use for the alliance, and found a better match for you.”
Naoya looks back at you, gold eyes flickering with uncertainty for a moment before they shift into doubt. “Bullshit,” he says coldly, raising his chin to look down at you. “My father told me the truth. Your clan pulled the plug because they saw more use in an alliance with the Gojo clan—you were the one who pushed your father to it.”
You roll your eyes so obnoxiously that Naoya looks like he wants to rip them out of your head.
“You are so fucking stupid, sometimes I doubt you have a single working brain cell in that puny head of yours,” you spit, watching how his expression shifts into outrage at the insult. You press on before he can snap something back. “Your father,” you add sarcastically, chest tight, “known for his honesty and kindness, isn’t he?”
“He wouldn’t lie to me,” Naoya disagrees, jaw tight, nails digging into his palms at his side. “Not about this.”
“Yeah? Why not?”
“Because—” he starts to say, and then he shakes his head, looking away. He clicks his tongue sharply as he drags a hand through his hair, smearing blood further across his face and staining his blonde hair. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not my problem anymore. Leave me the fuck alone, let’s just get this done. Stay outta my way.”
You only have the chance to roll your eyes before the ground starts trembling beneath your feet. A distorted pressure rolls through the air, cursed energy surging all around you. You and Naoya straighten instantly, instincts snapping back into place. Your anger and his… well, whatever it is he’s feeling, gets shoved deep down, buried under duty. He glances toward the abandoned building, lips curving up.
“Perfect timing.”
“Technically, you were late,” you mutter, wiping your knuckles against your sleeve, pulse still racing. “Try not to dodge into my foot again.”
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “Don’t get cocky.”
You give him a smug smirk as you shove your hands into your pockets and make your way into the building. He trails behind you, uncharacteristically quiet. The air inside the building is damp and heavy; your stomach twists in disgust when you breathe in and realize you can taste death on your tongue. Broken glass crunches softly beneath your boots, and you squint as you peer into the dark lobby of the building. The cursed energy is thick and disgusting—whatever cursed spirit made this place its home, it's been nesting here for a while.
Naoya comes to stand next to you, close enough that your shoulder brushes his upper arm. He nods his chin over to the right, and you grimace when you see corpses half-melted into the tiled floors. Your expression twists in disgust as you say, “Gross.”
Naoya hums, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you, blonde hair falling in his eyes. “Try to keep up, yeah?”
You scoff, lips instinctively curling up into a smile. “Only one in the world who can.”
————————
Three years apart should have left rust or uncertainty somewhere. Instead, the moment you and Naoya fall back in step, it’s like no time has passed at all. Whatever distance you put between yourselves, all of the hurt you buried beneath anger and pride, your bodies remember everything your minds wanted you to forget.
You don’t have such a lack of self-awareness to deny the fact that you’d been missing Naoya’s presence in your life over the past three years, but you think that you didn’t realize just how much until the two of you were back side-by-side again, bantering and arguing like the two of you are teenagers wandering the gardens of the Zenin estate again.
The cursed spirit doesn’t announce itself right away. At first, it almost feels underwhelming, like the reports might’ve been exaggerating its threat, but the deeper you push into the building, the more the atmosphere becomes heavy and malignant. The air thickens until every breath feels thick and labored, and you’re exchanging looks with Naoya, wondering when it will finally reveal itself.
As always with the two of you, the bickering never really stops, just dips and surges. You’re halfway through mocking his new hair color when the cursed spirit finally makes itself known, lunging out of the shadows straight for his throat.
(“Oh—” you start, too late, watching as Naoya barely dodges an attack from the left, half-tripping over a piece of concrete. You burst into laughter when he gives you a furious look, twisting out of the way as the cursed spirit’s claws rake air instead of flesh. “Whoops.”
“The hell?” he snaps, driving a kick through its torso hard enough to send it skidding back down the hall. “What’s your problem? You said you would watch the left. See, this is why—”
He cuts himself off, giving you a furious look. Your lips curl up.
“Sorry, I was too distracted by the—” You wave your hand around your hair and then motion over to him. “Are you going through, like, a rebellious phase or something? Dye and piercings? Those old fucks must be going crazy.”
Naoya’s eye twitches in irritation. “Are you done, or are you planning to keep yapping while it tears this place apart?”
“I like it,” you say, stepping back as the cursed spirit launches itself at you. “It suits you.”
Naoya pauses and looks at you. He asks, “You think so?” and then promptly gets a claw through his upper bicep because he’s too busy waiting for your response.
“Yeah,” you answer. “How about you focus on the fight instead of compliment fishing, yeah? Wouldn’t wanna mess up the little prince’s pretty face with scars, would we?”
“Fuck you.”)
The fight continues on before you can make a snide comment back. The curse howls, slamming itself into the corridor with renewed violence, and you split without speaking—one left, one right, the opening already accounted for. There’s no hesitation, you move as you’ve always had, and it’s… uncomfortably intimate, considering it highlights just how well the two of you know one another. Combat strips away all the bitterness and old wounds, forcing you to acknowledge what your pride has refused to accept these past three years: you still know him like the back of your hand, and he still knows you the same.
The realization hits you mid-fight, and it nearly costs you your life. Glass explodes along the wall as the cursed spirit shrieks in pain when one of Naoya’s attacks finally lands. You stand there, blinking twice, staring at Naoya after he flawlessly recognized what your plan was without you having to say a word. He spits out a curse when he sees you standing there like an idiot, using his technique to get over to you and push you out of the way before a stray shard rips through your throat.
(“I don’t care if you’re sloppy seconds, by the way,” Naoya tells you as he steadies you a few feet away. You give him a terrible side eye, because is that supposed to be a fucking apology? “I figure I should tell ya now, just in case you get yourself killed. You’re barely keeping up. This is why women shouldn’t—”
“Fuck you, dog,” you cut him off before he can finish, letting him get hit by a stray piece of rubble while he’s outraged, gaping at how you address him. “Apologize properly if you’re going to apologize. On your knees, preferably, with a few tears if you’re feeling generous. Maybe then I’ll consider forgiving you.”
He sneers at you from the ground. His gaze drags over you once, and then he says, “How the hell has your mouth gotten even worse over the last three years? Fuckin’ waste of a woman, you are.”
You let out a scoff, driving your foot into his side when you step over him. He doesn’t apologize, never does, but a week later, a box sits outside the door of your apartment. No sender listed, just a velvet box sitting unassumingly on your doormat. You stand there for a long moment, staring at it suspiciously, but eventually curiosity wins. Inside is a pretty bracelet set with diamonds—one that three years ago, you told him you wanted in passing on one of those lazy Sundays at the Zenin estate. He laughed in your face and told you that hell would freeze over before he drops a hundred million yen on you.
With it is a single note, unsigned:
Don’t read into this.)
The rest of the fight grinds on without much ceremony. The curse is dangerous and violent, but its movements grow frantic and sloppy, while you and Naoya only become quicker and more confident.
The two of you never fought together before the engagement fell apart, but you fought against each other enough to know how the other moves better than your own breathing. You adjust without thinking, already anticipating the path he’ll take before he commits to it, stepping where he needs you to be, leaving openings he can exploit and closing the ones he doesn’t see coming.
Later, once the two of you have parted ways, you think that if anyone else had been sent as your partner, it might not have been such a clean victory. You almost don’t like how easy it was, how natural it felt to move with him again, to trust him without thinking, to let him have your back like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You don’t like how your body never once questioned whether he’d be where you needed him to be, and you especially don’t like that the feeling seemed to be mutual.
(“Satoru and I aren’t betrothed, you know?” you say suddenly, positioning yourself close to the spirit to give Naoya the chance to deliver a lethal blow. You don’t know why you feel the need to tell him this, but it’s been itching at the back of your head since he made his comments about the two of you. Naoya pauses at your words, and then lets out a frustrated string of curses when it only shrieks at him, coming way too close to slashing your throat when he fails to exorcise it on the first try. The two of you regroup a few feet back, and you say, “You’ve gotten slower. That was embarrassing to watch.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Just saying. Three years ago, you would’ve had that. You been slacking off on training ‘cause of all your meltdowns?” you ask with a goading smile. He whirls on you furiously, and you raise your eyebrows innocently.
“How do you even—” he starts to demand, and then pauses, lips curling up into a smug smile. Instantly, you know you’ve made a mistake. “So it was you who sent Gojo Satoru snooping into Zenin affairs. How cute, ya really missed me that much?”
Mortified, you gape at him. “I told him to be discreet!”
“He’s about as discreet as a bomb,” Naoya snorts, pushing back his hair. You click your tongue, rolling your eyes because you knew sending Satoru was a bad idea, but you had faith in him anyway. Naoya’s head lolls to the side so he can look you in the eye, his gaze intense enough to make you pause. “For real?”
“For real, what?”
“You’re not with him.”
“Oh,” you say quietly, swallowing thickly as you look away. “Yeah, for real.”
You think you hear him say good, but the cursed spirit is coming back at the two of you before you can figure out if he actually did.)
When you part ways, it’s quiet and awkward in a way that’s very unlike either of you. There are no insults or snide comments, just a brief, loaded pause as you stare at each other before you turn in opposite directions, pretending that something fundamental didn’t just resurface between the two of you. You almost call after him, almost ask him if he wants to stay over at the hotel room you had Satoru book for you, but you don’t.
That night, he texts you for the first time in three years: you up?
You snort and reply: Wow. Finally unblocked me.
Then you add while he’s still typing: You tryna hit or smth? Why are you texting me so late?
The typing bubbles pop up and disappear several times before he finally responds: there’s something seriously wrong with you. why can’t you ever be normal?
You laugh, rolling onto your back.
Things go back to normal—ish—and a piece of you that you hadn’t realized slid out of place in the three years of separation clicks back in. Sundays aren’t spent at the Zenin estate anymore, because you don’t think you’re allowed back there, but Naoya has an apartment in Osaka that he bought when Naobito pissed him off, so the two of you go there to relax instead. Fridays aren’t spent at your family’s estate, because you think your father would lose his mind if he knew you were back to spending your free time with Zenin Naoya again when he’s trying to get you to marry Gojo Satoru, so you guys go to your apartment instead, sometimes to a park on the outskirts of the city where you can spar until you’re too exhausted to move.
Satoru makes a dry comment one day about how if he’d known getting you back in contact with Zenin Naoya would make you less of a raging bitch, he would’ve done it three years ago. You tell him to go to hell, but he just can’t leave it alone.
(“Seriously, I really don’t know how you do it,” he says one afternoon, distastefully watching Naoya sneer down at some poor attendant of the higher-ups while the three of you await news to bring back to your respective clans. “I mean that sincerely. I deal with him for what, five minutes at a meeting every couple of months, and I’m already considering homicide. You put up with him on a regular basis—enjoy it, even.”
“Don’t be annoying, Satoru.”
“I’m serious, he’s a textbook douchebag. Arrogant, sexist, unpleasant to look at—”
“Unpleasant to look at?” you echo, voice riddled with disbelief. “That’s a lie, and you know it. Also—arrogant? Stones in glass houses, Satoru.”
Satoru pauses, slowly turning to look at you. “So you think he’s attractive, then?” he asks with a slow smile. You shove him hard. He lets you, laughing. “Kidding, kidding. Just saying, if I had to deal with him every day, I’d snap. You, on the other hand, somehow come out of it calmer. Less stabby. It’s deeply unsettling.”
“Screw off, would you?” you complain.
He hums, eyes flicking to your wrist where the bracelet Naoya got you catches the light. His smile turns a little knowing, maybe a little sadder too. “Guess we all got that one person we’ll tolerate more bullshit from than anyone else.”)
You become used to this—you and Naoya, you and Satoru. Things are easy, and you’re happy. You find yourself wishing, a little desperately, that things could stay like this forever.
————————
2012 | READER, AGE 19; NAOYA, AGE 21
You find out quickly that your wish was wildly idealized, because within a year, you realize that Satoru and Naoya only seem to tolerate each other when they’re making your life a living hell.
For the better part of the year, Satoru does his best to avoid ever running into Naoya—for your sake, not his, Satoru tells you, because running into him at clan meetings once every couple of months is already pushing his tolerance threshold. Naoya pretends he couldn’t care less, and when you call him out on it, he throws a hissy fit, but he sulks whenever Satoru’s name comes up, and acts like the world has personally offended him whenever he visits and Satoru isn’t in the room. Sometimes you think he comes to see you in Tokyo just on the off chance of getting to see Satoru, and it seriously makes you roll your eyes.
The problem is that the two of them seem to share a very specific overlap in interests: ruining your dating life.
(“You seriously have a date?” Naoya asks through his teeth as you blow-dry your hair. He’s in Okinawa for the week on a mission, and you have no one else to get an opinion from besides Satoru, who you haven’t been able to get a hold of all day. You thought Naoya would just pick an outfit and tell you to fuck off, but you’ve been getting grilled by him since you called. “With who? Why? What the fuck?”
You glance down at your phone, giving him an annoyed look, because why does he have to say it like that? You put the blowdryer down and cross your arms over your chest. “Yeah, I do. Why the hell do you sound so shocked?”
Naoya doesn’t respond for a moment, lips pinched and eyes unreadable, and then he snaps, “‘cause who the hell would wanna date your ass?” He looks seriously irritated as he adds, “You barely qualify for a woman on a good day.”
“You’re an asshole,” you mutter, more offput by his words than you usually would be. You’ll never admit it out loud, but you’re a bit nervous. You’ve had your fair share of one-night stands, but you’ve never dated before. “Don’t know why I even called you.”
“I’m serious. You dress like a man, you don’t act right, and you sure as hell don’t know how to behave. What, you plannin’ on insulting him ‘til he runs off?” Naoya doubles down, lips pressed together and brows drawn tight.
“Fuck off, Naoya,” you say. “Are you gonna tell me your opinion or what?”
“I’ll tell you my opinion—cancel the date and save yourself the embarrassment.”
“Whatever,” you snap, jaw tight and more hurt than you expected. “Screw you.”
“I’m only tryna help,” Naoya says defensively, unrepentant. “Guys won’t stick around for a woman like you. Will just use you for an easy fuck and then—”
You hang up before he can finish the sentence, burying your face in your hands and letting out a heavy sigh.)
You don’t talk to Naoya for two weeks after that, but he shows up at your apartment Friday night with takeout when you’re already half-drunk, and you give in, because he was right—the guy ghosted you after the second date. You find out much later that the only reason he ghosted you was because Naoya threatened to break both of his arms if he ever came near you again, but in that moment, you’re just bitter and upset and you want to spend the night trying to make yourself feel better because you hate being bitter and upset over a man. And no one’s better than Naoya when it comes to dragging people through the mud, so the two of you spend the whole night lounging in your bed with the guy’s social media pulled up, belittling him for everything from his face to the captions on his photos.
You think, later on, that Naoya was probably hoping one bad experience would lead you to stop seeking out other people, but unfortunately for him, it only made you more determined to get yourself a date.
And so begins eight months of canceled plans and ghosted messages.
You don’t know how Naoya managed to rope Satoru into his schemes, considering Satoru goes out of his way to avoid ever interacting with him, but he did. It all starts small enough that you don’t realize they’re conspiring. A casual mention to Satoru that you’re meeting a non-sorcerer for drinks turns into Satoru accidentally showing up at the same bar—and he is annoying enough that you think he would do something like that on his own. You only start to side-eye him when he starts making ominous comments about how dangerous your job is and how fragile civilians tend to be. He frames it like a joke after. He’ll sling an arm around your shoulders and ask, mock-innocent, if the date went well, as if he didn’t spend the evening subtly implying that getting involved with you comes with a nonnegotiable risk of violent death.
You trust in Satoru’s dislike of Naoya so completely that you don’t suspect his involvement until you’re literally faced with proof of it when the three of you are sent up to Hokkaido to deal with the higher-ups. You walk in on the two of them talking quietly with one another after you step out of the room to call your father. You only catch “—date Friday,” but it’s more than enough for you to realize that they’re talking about you and the plans you made with a sorcerer you met the other day. They immediately step away from one another and pretend they weren’t talking, which pisses you off because do they seriously think you’re that stupid?
(“What was that about?” you ask, putting your phone back in your pocket and crossing your arms over your chest.
“Nothing,” Naoya says, gaze flitting to the side as he turns his head away.
Satoru gives you an easy smile. “Plotting your untimely death. Do you prefer poison or fire?”
“Poison,” you answer flatly, gaze narrowing on Naoya. You ask again, “What was that about?”
Naoya sneers at you. “Why the hell are you looking at me? I told you. It was nothing. We were talkin’ about how his gramps is about to croak, and he’s gonna take over the Gojo clan. Happy?”
His gaze flits away as he speaks. Again.
“Liar,” you accuse, voice rising. Naoya’s attention snaps back toward you, glaring. “You’re lying to me. You always look away when you lie.”
“I do not,” Naoya snaps, furious. “You’re full of shit.”
“You do,” you hiss. “I knew you two were working together. I fucking knew it was suspicious when Satoru started getting involved. You’re conspiring against me to screw up all my dates!”
Naoya barks out a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself?” he scoffs. “Something doesn’t work out, and suddenly it’s everyone else’s fault, yeah? Fuckin’ women and their paranoia. Not everything’s about you.”
“Don’t gaslight me!” you spit.
“Oh, now she’s throwing around the buzz words,” Naoya says with an obnoxious roll of his eyes. “You really think we’re sitting around talking about your sad little love life? Get over yourself.”
He pointedly tries to hold your gaze this time, but halfway through ‘yourself,’ he glances away. His jaw tightens immediately, realizing what he did, and you gape at his audacity, almost too stunned to reply.
“You’re such a fucking douchebag,” you say breathlessly. “Both of you—”
“Don’t group me with him,” Satoru immediately complains, but you ignore him. “It was all his idea.”
Naoya gives Satoru a furious look, but he only whistles and looks away.
“Both of you! Are you kidding me? What’s your fucking problem?” You hate that your voice cracks over the word. Satoru has the decency to look ashamed as he averts his gaze, but Naoya is unrepentant as ever. “I’ve thought for months that—”
You cut yourself off before you can finish that sentence, suddenly far more upset than you are angry. You don’t want to admit to them that you’ve been anxious for months that something is just seriously wrong with you, so you just tighten your jaw and shake your head.
“Fuck you. Both of you. Just leave me the hell alone.”)
Satoru folds instantly after that. He gives you a few days of space before he shows up at your apartment with an obnoxious bouquet of flowers, takeout from your favorite restaurant, and a sheepish smile. He offers to take you on a date himself, just so you can experience one without his or Naoya’s meddling, and you tell him you would rather eat glass, so the two of you spend the night watching shitty romcons instead. The interference stops on his part after that. He still teases you, still raises an eyebrow when you mention seeing someone new, but he values you too much to keep pushing when it’s clearly upsetting you.
Naoya, on the other hand, doubles down. If anything, Satoru stepping back only seems to embolden him. Naoya makes no effort to mask it after your confrontation in Hokkaido, and doesn’t give a damn when you’re upset or angry.
(“You attract weak men,” he says dismissively when you confront him again. “That’s not your fault, but it is my problem.”
“Screw off, Naoya! Stay the fuck out of my business!”)
Two more months pass before you finally snap.
————————
For the first time in four years, you stand outside the Zenin estate, arms crossed over your chest, irritation rolling off you in waves. It’s four in the morning, and the servant working at the gates is caught between a rock and a hard place, because you have not been invited, you’re clearly in an antagonistic mood, and you’re pretty sure Zenin Naobito has forbidden you from entering the estate. You don’t care—you’re about to break the gates down if you’re not let in within the next two minutes.
“Miss—” the poor boy starts to say, and your eye twitches.
“Miss? Did the Zenins stop training their servants how to address people properly? Or are you trying to insult me?” you bark, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth as you try to rein in your temper. It’s not this boy’s fault that Zenin Naoya is a piece of shit who needs his teeth knocked out. “Bring me Naoya now.”
“Sorry, my lady. I meant no disrespect,” the boy splutters, and you can hear his voice dip as he bows, even though you can’t see him. “I’ll send word for Naoya-sama, just—”
“Hah?! What’s going on over here?” Naoya’s irritating voice calls from within the Zenin estate. “Whe—”
“Naoya!” you raise your voice, making sure he knows you’re pissed. “Get out here!”
There’s a long pause, and then the gates to the estate open. Naoya steps out, an annoyed expression on his face, arms crossed over his chest, dressed casually in a black t-shirt and sweats—probably his pajamas. You’re so aggravated that there’s not even a fleeting thought about how he looks good dressed casually.
“The hell is your problem, ya mad cow?” Naoya demands, tipping his head back as he looks down at you. “You know how early it is?”
You don’t speak before you swing, too angry to even bother using your technique. Naoya’s eyes widen briefly as he spits out a curse, dodging backward; your momentum carries you forward, and you go to slam your other fist into his gut. He grabs your wrist before you can make contact, clicking his tongue, irritation flaring. Gravel scatters beneath both of your feet as you lift your leg to drive your heel into his upper thigh.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snaps, grabbing your ankle to knock you off balance and shoving you hard. Your back hits the outer wall of the estate hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and he’s on you in a second, knee shoved between your legs, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and pressing his forearm against your chest to hold you still. “Enough! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
You struggle against him once, trying to wiggle free, but he’s stronger and faster than you—once he’s got you, he’s got you. Belatedly, you realize you should’ve used your technique, but you stop struggling, jaw tight with frustration.
“Get off me,” you say through your teeth. “You know exactly why I’m here.”
Naoya scoffs and pointedly doesn’t get off of you. “Do I now?”
“Yeah, you do, you mangy fucking mutt,” you spit. His lip curls up in irritation at the insult, but you press on before he can say anything. “I actually liked this guy. I told my father about him, and what do you know? Two days later, he ghosts me and then finally tells me that he can’t keep seeing me because a Zenin dog threatened to kill him if he continued. I’m sick of this shit. What is your fucking problem?”
Naoya’s expression twists, irritated. “That idiot called me a dog?”
Your eye twitches. That’s what he’s concerned about?
“He did, and I broke a glass over his head because only I get to call you a dog, dog,” you snap. Before he can look too satisfied, you continue, “And then I came right here, because what is your deal? It’s been eight months of this bullshit, give it a fucking rest.”
“He was a loser,” he says simply, unrepentant. “Clan’s broke, no technique worth mentioning. Honestly, did ya a favor. You should be thankin’ me instead of acting like a wild animal.”
“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, sharp and incredulous. You twist against the wall again, trying to break free, but Naoya leans in, pressing his arm harder against your chest and using his hips to stop you from wiggling around. You bare your teeth at him in irritation, hating that he’s so much stronger than you; you hate even more that it only seems to make him more smug. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“Course I do,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Someone’s gotta think for you when you don’t. You’ve got terrible taste.”
“No, you don’t, you entitled piece of shit.”
“I do. They’re not worth your time,” he continues. “Why would ya even date losers like him anyway? They’ve all been trash, every single one of ‘em. They don’t know you. Can’t keep up with you. They’ll only slow you down. I’m not watchin’ that, it’ll piss me off.”
What the hell is his problem?
“You sound fucking deranged, Naoya,” you say, teeth grinding so bad that you feel a headache coming on. “Is this how it’s gonna be the rest of our lives? You’re gonna scare off any guy I show interest in?”
“If I gotta.”
What the fuck? You almost want to rip out your hair. You let out another laugh, almost stunned to the point of speechlessness.
“You’re such a bastard. Then who is worth my time? So I can save us both the trouble. You? Is that what this is all about?”
You’re mostly mocking him, hoping to get a rise out of him so that he steps backward and lets out a scoff of disgust at the mere thought of being with you, but Naoya doesn’t respond right away, and suddenly you’re all too aware of the position you’re in—his body pressed against yours, arm against your chest, fingers curled around your wrist. His face is so close to yours that you can see the golden flecks in his eyes, and the way the corners of his mouth pinch at your words, like he isn’t sure how to respond. He stays silent long enough for you to realize what his answer is, and you let out a shaky breath, chest fluttering, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy.
This is not happening right now.
“Let go of me,” you tell him, voice tight, and Naoya’s expression twists, but he lets go of your wrist and lets his arm drop back down to his side, stepping away. “Stop butting into my business, Naoya. We’re not kids anymore. You’re seriously starting to piss me off.”
You don’t get three steps away before he’s reaching out to grab your wrist, forcing you to turn back to him.
“What’s your—” Your lips part in shock when you feel his fingers curl around your throat, grip just stopping short of painful. He yanks you back toward him, and you stumble into his chest, hardly able to regain your footing before he’s tilting your face up toward his. “Naoya—”
You don’t know what you’re about to say. His name comes out too breathy to be a protest, and your pulse spikes, but not with fear. He leans down to press his lips against yours before you can get out your sentence anyway. You let out a surprised noise into his mouth, hands coming up to his wrists, but not to push him away.
Naoya kisses you like he’s starving. It’s rough and unrestrained, all teeth and heat and pent-up frustration. His mouth crashes into yours without any care for gentleness, and his hand stays at your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw to tilt your head exactly where he wants it, forcing the kiss deeper. You taste blood—maybe his, maybe yours—and heat curls low in your stomach.
You should pull back, you think, because you came here to yell at him, and these are dangerous waters that you’re not ready to tread yet, but you don’t move. His other hand comes down to your waist, sliding behind you to your lower back, hauling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your back is up against the wall again, and his body is pressed into yours, and you feel so dizzy that you might pass out.
You realize belatedly that you’re kissing him back, lashes fluttering shut as your hands slide up to his biceps, nails digging into his skin. He drags his tongue against the roof of your mouth, fingers tightening slightly around your neck, and you let a sinful noise into his mouth. You kiss him until your lungs burn and your vision dots, and even then, you kiss him still, lips sliding messily against his, breath hitching as his hand drops to your thigh to hike your leg around his waist.
You part your lips from his just long enough to take in a sharp, raspy gulp of air to fill your lungs. You breathe out, “I can’t fucking stand you,” and then you press your lips against his again.
Your hands come up to the back of his head, fingers twisting in the dyed blonde, and he lets out a low groan into your mouth, hips instinctively jerking to grind against you. Your head drops back against the wall as his lips slide from yours to your jaw down the column of your throat.
“Ya drive me fuckin’ insane,” he mutters against your skin. “Was only ever me. I’m the only one worth your time, who knows you, can keep up with you. Even Gojo Satoru—he don’t know you like I do.”
“Yeah? How are you so sure about that?” you scoff, biting back a whine when he pointedly bites down over your pulse. “Careful.”
“‘Cause you’re an awful bitch, and you only show how awful you are to me since you know I’m worse,” Naoya laughs harshly against your throat, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t move for… five seconds.”
“What—”
You yelp when you realize he’s activated his technique, staying carefully still because you don’t want to get yourself trapped in one of his stupid frames, and before you know it, your back is flat against his futon, and Naoya’s hovering above you, arms braced on either side of your head.
You squint slightly as a thought passes through your mind, and then you say, “Naoya, we should try that when we’re sent on missions together.”
Naoya blinks. “What?”
“I think I could take advantage of the 24 FPS rule,” you explain, starting to sit up a little as soon as the idea crosses through your head, excited. Naoya stares at you blankly. “Listen, okay? I would know when you’re about to touch me and activate it, right? So what if I could give myself a—”
You let out a noise of complaint when he presses his palm over your mouth to silence you and pushes you back down flat against his futon, an irritated expression on his face. “Something is seriously wrong with ya,” he mutters. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“Just saying,” you say, muffled against his palm, but you sigh when he presses his lips back to your skin. His palm leaves your mouth just long enough for you to inhale, and he pulls back just enough to let his gaze flick down to watch the way your chest rises sharply beneath him.
“... You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rough, more hoarse than insulting. It doesn’t have the bite it usually does—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost think he sounds fond. He kisses you again, slower this time, mouth moving against yours almost chastely before he kisses your jaw, your cheek, lingering at your throat. “Such a fuckin’ bitch. You were tryna piss me off, weren’t you? Wanted me to snap. How many losers were ya gonna make me chase off?”
“You’re so full of yourself,” you respond, a bit breathless. How did this even happen? You came here to beat the shit out of him, and now—now your breath hitches as Naoya’s hands slide beneath your shirt, warm and soft against your skin, wrapping around your waist, and your back arches slightly into his touch. “I actually liked them, you asshole.”
“Bullshit,” he replies, so confidently that you want to knock the smug smirk right off his face with your fist. “You’ve always wanted me.”
“You need a reality check,” you scoff, hands sliding down to his hips, using your leg as leverage to push him onto his back so you can straddle his waist. His back hits the ground with an oof, and he scowls up at you, but his pupils are blown wide. His hands instinctively find your thighs to flip the two of you back over, but you grab his wrists before he can, leaning over him as you pin them on either side of his head. “I don’t know if I should gag you or just knock your teeth out.”
“Violent beast,” he says instinctively, as though you can’t feel his cock pressing hard against your thigh and his lips aren’t curled up into a smile that’s softer than it is smug. “Sometimes I really doubt you’re actually a woman.”
This is—this is crazy, you think, mind whirling as your hips rock slightly, and Naoya lets out a ragged noise caught between a moan and a gasp.
This is Naoya—this is shitty, insufferable Zenin Naoya, the boy you punched in the face and shoved into the koi pond more times than you can count for being an ass, the one who you bullied into keeping quiet by telling him only a girl would go crying to her father the way he threatened to, the one who used to pull your hair and push you into the dirt whenever the adults weren’t looking. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who spent years insisting that women had no place in the jujutsu world except as wives, who mocked every ambition you ever voiced like it was a joke he was tired of hearing, who has made your life a living hell the past eight months because he was jealous.
Shitty, insufferable Naoya who—who always put himself between you and his brothers, or you and his father, or you and anyone the moment he thought things may turn ugly, even though he knew firsthand you could handle yourself, who covered for you whenever you broke decorum, taking the blame with a scowl like it annoyed him more than it ever actually did, who bought you obscenely expensive gifts he swore meant nothing. Shitty, insufferable Naoya who never asks you to be smaller or quieter or more palatable, even when he’s complaining and calling you a beast or a menace or telling you you’re not fit to be a proper wife, who takes every ugly part of you head-on and throws it right back at you, who knows how awful you can be and meets you there every time, never once making you feel like you have to pretend you’re better than you are.
Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who has you straddling his hips with your pulse roaring in your ears and hands tight around his wrists. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who has made countless snide comments about how a woman’s place is beneath a man and yet is content beneath you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide—he could overpower you and flip the two of you around in a second, but chooses not to. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who you kiss again, deeper this time, gasping into his mouth when he grinds his hips up against yours.
“I catch you staring at my tits enough to know you know damn well I’m a woman,” you say, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, relishing in the way he lets out a low groan, “but if you really need proof…”
You yank one of his hands to your lower body, sliding both yours and his into the waistband of your pants and pressing his fingers against your damp panties. His lips part, eyes widening, and he breathes out a choked, “Shit.”
You let go of his hand and kiss him again—once, twice, and then you press your nose against his cheek, biting back a whimper when he slips his fingers into your panties, dragging them between your folds before he presses his thumb over your clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles over that make your thighs tremble.
“You’re fuckin’ drenched,” he says, and you think he means for it to come out mocking, but his voice is way too strained for that. “Fuck, knew ya wanted me, knew—”
He chokes over the fingers you stuff in his mouth before he can finish whatever obnoxious thing he was about to say. He gives you an outraged look, but it's seriously diluted with how he’s busy trying not to gag on your fingers, gold eyes pricking with tears when you press down hard on his tongue.
“You’re much prettier like this, y’know?” you murmur against his skin, kissing down his jaw, “beneath me… silent… almost like a proper wife, aren’t you, Naoya?”
Naoya’s breath hitches around your fingers, eyes widening in shock at your words, and you pause, knowing him well enough to realize there was something about that comment he liked, but before you can say anything, his pride gets the better of him, and he pushes two fingers deep into your cunt. You bite down on his neck to muffle the moan that almost spills out of you, rocking your hips against his hand. You slip your fingers out of his mouth just long enough to kiss him again, rolling his bottom lip between your teeth before you trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth, distracting yourself as his fingers drag against your walls, stretching you out.
“Slut,” he bites out when you finally break your lips from his, breath catching as he pulls his fingers out from inside you, focusing on sliding your pants off instead. You give him a flinty look, but there’s no heat in his eyes or derision laced in the word. He’s frowning slightly, looks unsure of himself for a short second. “Probably don’t even need to prep ya—should be grateful that I am. Ain’t I so generous? How many men have you been with, huh? Tell me.”
You pinch his cheeks between your thumb and forefinger. “And upset the little prince?” you mock. “I think I’ll keep that bit of information to myself. Anyway, I thought I told you that I prefer you silent. Why are you talking to me?”
His lip curls up into an irritated sneer, but before he can say something else to piss you off, you lean down to press your lips against his again, hand slipping behind his head to thread your fingers into his blonde hair. He lets out a soft sigh into your mouth, his hips jerking up once he gets his cock free, and you exhale shakily when you feel his tip slide between your wet folds.
You sink down on his cock, lashes fluttering as his tip bullies deep, deep inside of you. A fleeting thought crosses your mind about how it’s unfair that Naoya can be such a piece of shit and have a nice cock, but before you can even register it, his hands drop to your waist to hold you in place, and he snaps his hips up, ripping the breath right out of your lungs. Your hand immediately drops to his throat, the same way he dragged you in for a kiss earlier, except where he only used it as leverage to pull you in, your grip tightens, cutting off his airflow.
His lips part in shock, eyes wide as he stares up at you, hand leaving your waist to grab your wrist hard. Your lips curl up into an amused smile when you see how his face starts to turn red, and how his nails scrape against your skin. You tell him, “My pace,” and then you let go, watching as his chest heaves as he gasps for air.
“Crazy bitch,” he hisses, voice hoarse, but his pupils are blown wide, and his cock is painfully hard inside you, twitching needily. He pushes himself up into his elbows, still way too smug as he looks up at you, lips wet and swollen, gaze half-lidded. “Go on then. If you’re so confident, show me what ya can do.”
Your lip curls up in irritation. “What part of preferring you silent do you not understand?” you scoff, reaching for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. You raise your eyebrows slightly in amusement when you see how his gaze immediately drops to your chest, nostrils flaring as he inhales. “Put your mouth to good use, or I really will gag you.”
Naoya doesn’t even bother with another snide comment, sitting up, one arm slinking around your waist as he mouths at the underside of your jaw, moaning into your skin when you finally begin to rock your hips. You think it’s downright fucking cruel how perfectly Naoya’s cock fills up your cunt—you’ve been with your fair share of men and women over the last two years, but none have left your pussy weeping the way he is. Your head feels hot and heavy, eyes half-rolled back, each bounce of your hips drives his cock deeper inside of you; your nails tear across his shoulders, leaving deep red lines in their wake, and Naoya moans into your skin, breath ragged. He drags his tongue from your neck down to your collarbone, sucking at your clavicle, fingers fisting the ends of your hair to yank your head back before his lips close around one of your nipples, free hand coming up to grope your other tit.
His eyes flick up to focus on your face, and your head lolls to the side so you can catch his gaze, giving him a breathless, lazy smile. “Good boy,” you tell him, and his eyes flash—you can’t tell if it’s with irritation or something else—teeth grazing your nipple, but you pull his hair hard. “Uh-uh, no teeth.”
You hate how quickly you can feel your abdomen tightening. Naoya pulls back just enough to look down, a choked moan ripping from his lips as he watches you bounce on his cock, and you lift your free hand to shove your fingers back into his mouth. His gaze snaps back up toward you, surprised, and you say, “Get them wet, then put your mouth back to work.”
You can see the sneer on his face even with his mouth stuffed, but he does as you ask, tongue swirling around your fingers, slicking them up with his saliva. As soon as you pull your fingers free, you slide your hand between your bodies to rub circles on your clit, and Naoya leans his head back down to seal his lips around your other nipple, arm tightening around your waist to pull you closer to him.
“Ah, fuck,” you gasp, head falling back and eyes rolling slightly up as you twist your hips to switch up the angle, jaw falling slack when it’s enough to hit the spot inside you to make you see stars. “Fuck—ngh, fuck, Naoya—”
Naoya lets out a muffled moan against your chest when you say his name, and you choke when his hips jerk up, stuttering once before he cums deep inside you. You almost wish you weren’t as close to finishing as you are, because you’d kill to hear him whine and whimper as you fuck yourself on his spent cock, but once you feel his cum hot and thick inside you, smearing across your thighs, dripping down his length, you’re letting out a pitched moan of his name, hips stuttering, head tipping back again as you cum on his cock. Naoya lets out a string of curses when he feels your walls tightening around his sensitive cock, body jerking, fingers pressing deep into your skin, and you let out a breathless laugh, running your fingers through his hair.
“If I’d known you were such a decent fuck, I would’ve fucked you ages ago,” you say, tilting his head back with a smug smile to brush your lips against his.
Naoya’s gaze is half-lidded, and he’s uncharacteristically subdued, face leaning into your palm. Your chest aches as he looks up at you, something unusually soft in the golds of his eyes. Dangerous, you think, swallowing thickly—a quick fuck is one thing, whatever this is… Well, you’re not ready to take that step yet.
You slide off his lap, grabbing his black shirt to wipe the cum off your thighs. He doesn’t budge from where he’s sitting on his futon until he catches you moving from the corner of his eye, and then he squints at you, realizing what you’re using his shirt for. You wink at him, and he rolls his eyes.
“Where’d ya learn to fuck like that, huh?” he demands after a few moments, glaring at you.
You push him down to lie on the futon, ignoring the question, and giving him a languid smile, draping an arm across his shoulders, sliding your leg between his. You press your nose into his cheek before sighing and settling against him, feeling far too at ease with his arm tucked around you. You tell him, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”
“The fuck does that mean?”
“Exactly what you think it does.”
————————
Neither of you speaks about what happened that night after the fact. Things stay the same, for the most part, and you prefer it that way. You don’t need or want labels. You and Naoya are just… you and Naoya. You don’t need to talk about things like this—they just are what they are. That’s how the two of you work.
He comes to your place on Fridays, and you train until your muscles give out; the two of you end those days sporting new bruises and bloody lips, and with his head between your thighs. You go to his places on Sundays, and you complain about your father and the higher-ups while he bitches about his own and Zenin clan politics, all the while his fingers or cock are stuffed deep in your cunt.
Sometimes the two of you go to the Zenin estate when he can’t get himself out of whatever obligations he has, and when you point out that you’re pretty sure his father doesn’t want you there, he sneers and shrugs it off. You’re doubtful, at first, but no one stops him when he drags you through the halls like you belong there. Servants and cousins alike avert their eyes when doors close behind you that shouldn’t. You’re a problem they don’t want to deal with, and he’s one they can’t afford to challenge.
(“Who’s gonna stop me?” he says, like it means he can do whatever the hell he wants. “Just come, yeah? I have to spend the whole weekend dealing with those old fucks. Least you can do is warm my cock with your mouth when it’s over.”
You slap him for that, but when he comes back to his bedroom, aggravated and clearly upset over something he refuses to explain, you decide to indulge him.)
You enjoy going to the Zenin estate now. Mostly because you’re not supposed to be there, and nothing pleases you more than watching members of the clan squirm in your presence, knowing that you shouldn’t be walking the estate the way you are, but unable to do a damn thing about it when it’s Naoya who insists on you being there. The place feels smaller than it ever did when you were a kid, stripped of the weight it once held over you. Back then, the estate made your skin crawl. Even when you started to enjoy your visits to Naoya, the Zenins themselves were suffocating, and the knowledge that you were meant to marry into that world only made the walls close in tighter.
Now, it’s different. You walk through the estate without shrinking or having to brace yourself, and Naoya never asks you to behave or pretend now. Where he once obsessed over appearances in front of his father and brothers, he now seems to revel in the trouble of it all—bringing you somewhere forbidden simply because he can, letting you walk at his side as the two of you talk, knowing that all the elders are watching and furious.
He’s the heir; none of his worthless brothers can hope to compete with him for the title anymore. Now that you understand that, you think you get your answer to the question you asked back when you first reunited—it’s not so much a rebellious phase as it is him flaunting the fact that he’s untouchable. He can dye his hair, pierce his ears, bring you around the estate whenever he wants, and nobody can do a damn thing. The rules no longer apply to him and he makes it abundantly clear that he won’t let them apply to you either.
A part of you is concerned, because the Zenins are prideful and they don’t take well to being embarrassed, or defied, or being made to look weak. They don’t forget slights—you know this better than anyone—and you notice the way conversation dies when you pass by and how their eyes linger when you walk with Naoya. You have to remind yourself that Naoya isn’t untouchable, not really, not until his father is dead and the will is read. So, you can’t fully push away the unease, but you tell yourself that Naoya is… well, Naoya. Head of Hei, heir of Zenin, to be Twenty-Seventh Clan Head, and it would take something far more egregious than parading you around the estate for his father to rip away his title at this point.
(“Sometimes I think you only bring me here to use me to piss off your father and the rest of the old assholes in your clan,” you tell him one day, lounging between his legs in the inner courtyard of the Zenin estate as you light a cigarette. Servants and cousins alike pass by the two of you, all casting lingering looks before they rush off to whatever they’re doing, none sticking around long enough to risk Naoya’s ire.
“Stop smoking that shit,” Naoya tells you, and you tip your head back to give him an egregious side eye before taking a long drag of the cigarette. “Bitch,” he mutters, and then adds, “and I do. They hate you.”
“Yeah, I’ve gathered that,” you snort, resting your head back against his abdomen, eyes sliding shut. “Can’t imagine why. I’m perfect.”
“A perfect nightmare, maybe,” Naoya agrees, and you can picture the sharp grin on his face without opening your eyes. His voice is unusually reserved as he adds, “It’s not the only reason, though, no.”
“Oh? Why else, then?” you ask with a hum, lashes fluttering open only when you feel his fingers absently brush through your hair. You barely catch the contemplative expression on his face as he stares down at you before he masks it with an irritated one.
“Why’re you so nosy, woman, damn?” he asks, aggravated, and then tugs your hair like a child.
“Seriously? You’re the one who said something.”)
You also like going to the Zenin estate because of the two little brats who start to hang around you when Naoya’s busy. Maki and Mai, they call themselves—Naoya’s kid cousins, only ten years old, twins. They have the same green hair and the same gold eyes; the only reason you can tell them apart is that Maki has no cursed energy. She’s the bolder of the two, constantly approaching you, curious as to who you are and why you’re at the Zenin estate, considering you’re the walking antithesis of all the traditions the clan values. She interrogates you about how you became a sorcerer, if your clan tried to force you to become a servant, and most importantly, why the hell you spend your time with Naoya. Mai stands with her, more subdued, but just as curious, at least about the latter question. Neither of them likes Naoya, and when you tell them that you barely like him on good days, they both giggle.
(“So then why do you hang out with him all the time?” Maki asks, leaning forward with furrowed brows and a frown. She keeps casting concerned looks back at the door—probably worried her parents are going to show up and find her and Mai talking to you. Nobody in the clan is supposed to acknowledge your presence in the estate. “You say you don’t like him, but I see you smiling with him all the time.”
“Not many people smile around Naoya-sama,” Mai agrees quietly, gaze lowered.
“It’s complicated,” you tell them, because it is.
You don’t know how to describe what it is you feel for Zenin Naoya. You hate his guts some days, but most days, you can’t see a life without him. One minute, you want to make him hurt just to see the way his face twists and gets red with anger, and the next, you’re laughing at something awful he’s said, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. You recognize the cadence of his footsteps and the patterns of his breathing, how his voice sharpens when he’s in public and lowers when he’s alone with you. You understand exactly how cruel he can be, but you also can tell the difference between when he’s posturing and when he means it, the shift in his eyes from when he’s angry to when he’s cornered. You know him better than you know yourself, and he knows you the same—a shared glance between the two of you speaks more than words ever could, and you move together without meaning to, orbiting to the same spaces, never too far apart from one another.
With him, nothing has ever really needed to be explained, because the best and worst parts of you recognize each other instinctively.
Later that evening, you ask Naoya, “Do you believe in soulmates?”
“What corny shit are you about to hit me with, huh?” he complains, tilting his head to the side to look at you and raising his eyebrows. “You better not make me throw up, I just ate.”
You roll your eyes. “Forget it.”
“No, now you have to tell me,” he disagrees, sitting up straight and leaning forward. He gives you a sharp, mocking grin. “You think I’m yours or something? Knew ya loved me.”
“I do,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. “Think you’re mine, that is. I don’t love you.”
“How are you going to call me your soulmate and say you don’t love me in the same breath? That’s fucked up, ya know?” Naoya scowls, but his voice is softer than it usually is, and you can feel him staring at you from across the room.
“I’m being serious,” you tell him. “I’m not talking about sappy romance bullshit. I mean you and me—whatever it is we are—we know each other. Nobody knows us like we know each other. Doesn’t it kind of feel like fate, or something?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says after a moment. Then he adds, “Shit luck that we got stuck with each other, huh?”
You laugh. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”)
You become used to this.
You shouldn’t have.
————————
You don’t usually get involved in Naoya’s issues with his older brothers.
He doesn’t like it when you do, and you don’t want to waste your time arguing with idiots. Luckily, as you all got older and Naoya grew into his role as heir, becoming crueler and less prone to falling for their provocation, they spent less and less time at the Zenin estate. Where Naoya would once rise to their bait, making him look juvenile and unstable, he started letting their words slide past him, watching them with a raised eyebrow or a slow, unimpressed glance. He learned quickly how to make people feel small without ever saying much at all, and he doesn’t need or want you jumping to his defense.
Still, there are some topics that get under his skin more than others.
Namely, his mother, whom you’ve known was a sensitive topic since the two of you were kids. Her name still changes the air in the room. His posture stiffens, mouth flattening into something unreadable, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite lands the way he expects it to. He never talks about her unless he’s already angry, and even then, it’s all contempt and dismissal, nothing that sounds like grief or longing, but you know him well enough to know it doesn’t mean he’s not upset, so you try not to be as harsh with him those days. You’ve seen how his brothers use it against him—casual mentions, jokes meant to needle, questions asked just loud enough to be overheard. Naoya never reacts the way they want him to, but the tension is always there.
But also, you, and you are infinitely worse. Not because they can use you against him directly, they’ve already learned that gets them nowhere, but because your presence reminds them that he isn’t as isolated as they’d like him to be, and because he’s not isolated, he’s not as easy to antagonize into making mistakes. They make comments about distraction and weakness anyway, but Naoya shuts them down fast with a roll of his eyes and a snide comment about how it “speaks volumes” to their own incompetence that Naoya is still so many leagues above them even with “distraction” and “weakness.”
Once, they tried to get you alone while Naoya was busy with his father. Started badgering you about what makes you stick with Naoya when he’s cruel and arrogant and so clearly doomed to walk down the same path as the men who raised him. You hadn’t risen to it—told them to fuck off and find something better to do than give you a headache, that what you and Naoya had was none of their business and beyond the capacity of their puny brains to comprehend. Naoya had been waiting around the corner, and you realized that they were trying to get you to say something cruel about him while he was within earshot, so they could ruin whatever companionship he had found in you. Their words might not phase him anymore, but yours would. That was the first time you were almost pushed to physical confrontation with them, but Naoya grabbed your arm and told you that the trash wasn’t worth the effort.
This is the second time, and Naoya does not seem as keen on stopping you again.
You stare at the older man, gaze shifting over to a bemused Naoya briefly before you raise your eyebrows dubiously. “You want to spar me? You?” you ask Zenin Naotaka, voice riddled with derision. “Is this some sort of humiliation kink or something? ‘Cause if so, I’m not interested. You’re not my type.”
Of all of Naoya’s brothers, you think this one is your least favorite. Naotaka is sneaky and snide, and he makes it painfully obvious that he doesn’t think Naoya is cut out to be the next clan head. Most of Naoya’s brothers have taken a stpe back over the years as each attempt to make him look unfit was squandered by his lack of reaction, but Naotaka has only doubled down, and that aggravates Naoya more than the attempts themselves.
Naoya snorts, and Naotaka’s eyes flash with irritation, but he masks it with a quick smile and upturned eyes. He says, “No, no. I’m just curious. You know, a lot of rumors were circulating around the estate when you were first promoted—”
“Watch your mouth,” Naoya interrupts, suddenly not as amused when he realizes what Naotaka is about to say. His eyes flick over to you, but he can’t hold your gaze. You barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes—like you don’t already know all of this from him. “Since when does garbage have the right to start asking questions?”
“It’s fine, Naoya,” you say, lips curled up into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze shifts over to Naotaka. “I see you didn’t take my advice back then—still gossiping about your betters instead of improving yourself. You wanna spar with me? Then let’s spar—it’s your funeral. Try not to bore me too much, would you?”
Naotaka looks too pleased as he makes his way over to the sandy training grounds, and you stare after him for a moment before taking a step forward. This is a test, you realize, but for who? You or Naoya? You think it has to be Naoya, but how are they trying to use you this time? You can’t figure it out.
Naoya grabs your wrist when you move to follow him.
“You don’t have to entertain his bullshit,” he tells you, expression all twisted. “I can deal with him.”
“I don’t need you fighting my battles,” you tell him, pulling your arm free.
“It’s not your battle,” Naoya says through gritted teeth. “He’s tryin’ to get to me through you.”
Yeah, that’s probably what it is, you agree silently, but how is he planning to do it? He can’t actually think he’s going to beat you in a spar, right? There must be something else going on here, but what is it? Your gaze flicks around, noticing that several of Naoya’s other brothers are also in the area, most of the Kukuru unit, and several of the Hei. Naobito is walking through the inner courtyard with Jinichi and Ogi in the near distance—they’ll probably wander over to watch the commotion.
More eyes than usual, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary, really.
Whatever, you think. Naoya’s not a dumb kid anymore—well, he’s still dumb, but not in this regard, at least. He already knows that this is some sort of attempt to get him to slip up, he won’t fall for it.
You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Naoya. Or are you really gonna insult me and tell me you’re worried your useless brother will actually beat me?”
Naoya exhales through his nose, giving you a long look before he lets go of your arm. You follow after Naotaka, hopping down off the engawa into the sand.
“Your technique—it has to do with future sight, doesn’t it?” Naotaka asks you curiously as you stand across from him in the training yard. Your lip curls up in irrtitation, and you give Naoya an annoyed look over your shoulder—did he seriously tell his asshole brother? “He didn’t tell me. I was watching the two of you spar a couple of weeks ago. I figured it out from how you were anticipating his attacks.”
“Yeah,” you tell him. “Don’t worry. I won’t use it—don’t need it for this.”
Naotaka lets out a breath caught between a scoff and a laugh, like he doesn’t want to be shocked by how confident you are in yourself, but still is. He gives you a snide smile as he answers, “You might.”
That’s interesting.
You squint at him for a second, gaze flicking back to where Naoya stands at the edge of the engawa, arms folded over his chest, brows furrowed.
Whatever, you think again, focusing back on Naotaka. If he’s got something planned, you’ll figure it out before it matters.
You tilt your head to the side with a lazy smile and say, “Well, c’mon then, ladies first. I’ll give you first move, since I’m so generous.”
You suppose, in Naotaka’s defense, he isn’t weak. In any other clan, he might’ve been considered an elite sorcerer—he’s fast, his strikes are decently strong, and he has good foundational knowledge. But he’s not in any other clan. He is a Zenin, so he is mediocre at best, and subpar at worst, and you are used to sparring the likes of your brothers and Zenin Naoya and Gojo Satoru. You don’t even have to really use your technique to keep ahead of him, hands behind your back as you shift to the side to avoid a blow to the gut, you bend your head down slightly so he goes stumbling when he misses your cheek, and you seriously piss him off when you look back at Naoya to exchange an amused look with him instead of taking him seriously.
“Smug bitch,” Naotaka says through gritted teeth.
Naotaka lunges forward again, this time losing the practiced form of the Kukuru, anger bleeding into his every movement. You let him get close, closer than you have so far, just to let him think he’s finally landed something, and then you sweep his legs out from under him.
It’s quick and unceremonious. Your heel hooks behind his ankle, a sharp twist of your hips knocking his balance clean out from under him. He hits the ground hard, breath ripped from his lungs in a startled grunt. You look down at him and say, “I told you. Didn’t even have to use my technique. Naoya told me you were trash, but you’re even worse than I expected.”
You step over him and look up at Naoya with a smug curve of your lips—told you so, you say without saying anything. He rolls his eyes and turns around, starting to make his way out of the training yard into the inner courtyard, expecting you to follow him.
You sense the cursed energy before you realize what’s happening. You pivot, eyes widening slightly as you activate your technique—you watch as a path visualizes before your eyes. Zenin Naotaka lunges forward again, this time with a cursed tool in hand, and he drives it through your lower spine and twists it.
This is his play? You think, outraged, he’s trying to get Naoya to fuck up by—by killing you? Is he fucking stupid? He must understand that this will have major backlash on the Zenins, he can’t possibly think—no, he’s not trying to kill you, you realize as soon as the thought crosses your mind. He knows you’ll dodge. This is why he asked about your technique; this is why he chose to do it with so many people around. The Zenins will cover it up to avoid political backlash, but Naoya—Naoya will—
Fucker. You don’t have time to think, twisting to the side before he can make contact, the blade slashing through your shirt instead of bone, skimming past you. You grab his wrist and elbow to hold it in place, and then you drive your knee up into his forearm, breaking the bone in two. His blood splatters against your face as the bone snaps upward through his skin.
“Attacking someone from behind only works if you’re fast enough to kill them,” you tell him, trying to sound amused, but your voice is strained. “You really are a loser.”
Naoya will fucking kill him. You need to—
To his credit, he goes in for a second attempt, dropping the cursed tool into his free hand and stabbing upward toward your thigh. You could dodge it, and Naotaka expects you to, but…
You pause. It won’t kill you, and it’ll hurt like a bitch… but it might be good for your father to have some leverage over the Zenins. If you get hurt by a Zenin son, on Zenin property… Well, it’ll look really bad for Naobito, and it’ll be much harder for them to cover it up if you return to your estate with a visible wound. Plus, Naobito and the elders will be more focused on not letting this escalate than whatever Naoya’s apocalyptic reaction is going to be. So, it’ll be good for you and your clan, and for him.
Before you can make a decision, someone grabs his other wrist. You think it’s Naoya, and you brace yourself to stop him from doing something he can’t take back, but your eyes widen slightly when you realize Zenin Naobito is standing at your side instead.
“Worthless boy,” the Zenin clan head says coldly, but his gray eyes are cold with disappointment. Disappointed at the fact that Naotaka would try something so openly and boldly against you, knowing it would have direct consequences for the rest of the clan, or disappointed in the fact that he failed, you’re not sure. Probably both, if you’re being honest. You let out a breath through your nose as Naobito backhands his son hard, sending him sprawling into the dirt. He points at a nearby member of the Hei. “Throw him in the disciplinary pit.”
“Father,” one of Naoya’s other brothers says hesitantly, stepping forward. “His arm—”
“Fuck his arm,” Naoya spits, cutting him off. His face burns red with fury. You turn toward him, shaking your head, but Naoya ignores you. “He just tried to kill—”
“Enough,” Naobito tells Naoya harshly. Naoya’s gold eyes cut over to his father, outraged. “They were sparring. Things got heated, that’s all.”
As you expected, Zenin Ogi chimes in without missing a beat. “Yes, poor form, surely, but this is what happens when you let emotions get the better of you during training. He’ll be properly disciplined.”
“But he—” Naoya insists through his teeth, furious as he looks around to see if anyone will back him. His gaze catches yours, and you shake your head again, signaling him not to continue, and he cuts himself off, furious.
“If you finish that sentence,” Naobito says coldly, “you will join him in the pit.”
Naoya’s jaw tightens, but he looks away, fists so tight at his sides that you’re sure his nails are drawing blood. Naobito turns his attention back to you, gaze flicking over the torn fabric of your shirt, the blood on your face, and the cursed tool lying abandoned on the ground.
“You defended yourself,” he says curtly. Not a question—he’s telling you what happened, getting the story straight so you can’t rush off and claim otherwise. Asshole. He knows you won’t contest it. It’ll be your word versus all of the Zenins, and you can’t afford to give Naoya the chance to take your side. “Training accidents happen, especially when weak sorcerers overestimate themselves.”
“It’s true,” you say, inclining your head slightly with a cool smile. “I’ve become used to sparring with Naoya. I didn’t realize how underwhelming your other sons were in comparison. If that’s all, Zenin-sama.”
You turn to leave, making your way over to Naoya, but you pause when he clears his throat, looking at him over your shoulder.
“I didn’t dismiss you, girl,” he says, an unreadable expression on his face, eyes half-lidded as he looks you over. “You were going to take that second strike, weren’t you?”
You know better than to answer that question, but your silence is an answer in itself. To your surprise, Naobito barks out a loud laugh, tilting his head to the side as though he’s studying you under a new light.
“You’re a useless daughter,” he says firmly, and you barely bite back a scoff as his hand lands on your shoulder, “but I see now why your father indulges you the way he does. You would’ve made the perfect son. You should’ve been born a boy. Smart, with a stronger spine than any of the worthless idiots I have to settle for. What a waste you are.”
You press your tongue to the back of your teeth. “Thank you, Zenin-sama,” you force out as he walks past you without another word or glance.
“Girl,” Naobito says, drawing your attention one last time before he leaves. He doesn’t turn to look at you this time. “Tell your father to tread carefully with the Kamos. He’ll have Zenin support, if he gets to the point of needing it.”
Something dark and foreboding settles in your stomach as you stare at Naobito’s retreating back. You try to shake it off and lift your gaze to Naoya, who looks uncharacteristically subdued as he stares down at the ground—you’re sure he overheard Naobito’s comment about him and his brothers. You make your way over to him, and his eyes finally shift over to you.
You ask quietly, “Wanna go to my place for the weekend?”
His jaw is still tight, but he nods once, reaching out to slide his arm around your waist, guiding you away from the yard without a word. His grip on you is tighter than usual, borderline possessive; usually, you should shove him away and tell him to quit being clingy, but today, you only settle against him, drained from the day's events and deeply unsettled by Naobito’s last comment.
When the two of you are out of sight, Naoya stops walking, only so he can hook a finger under the torn edge of your shirt and tug it forward, hard enough to make his point.
“You were going to let him stab you,” he says, voice low and flat. “Don’t lie to me. You weren’t going to dodge that second attack. Why?”
“To buy my family some leverage over yours,” you say honestly. There’s no reason to lie—Naoya’s not as dumb as you like to tease him, you’re sure he’s probably already put it together. “It wouldn’t have killed me. Only would’ve hurt a bit.”
His lips press into a thin line, and for a second, you think he might snap and say something to piss you off. Instead, he exhales slowly, forcing the anger back down.
“If that blade touched you, I woulda killed him,” he tells you. “I still might if he manages to come out of the disciplinary pit alive. Y’know how messy that’ll be for me?”
You don’t flinch because you’ve heard him say worse for less, and you expected this. In fact, you’re almost surprised by how tame the comment is, but there’s something about the certainty behind his words that makes your hair stand on end. Usually, when Naoya spits out his threats, he’s posturing—this is not posturing. He would’ve killed Naotaka if he’d managed to put that knife into you. He still might just for trying it.
You tell him, “You can’t do that.”
Naoya lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’ll find that I absolutely can.”
“You can’t, Naoya,” you say, voice strained. “That’s what he wants you to do—”
“Yeah? If that piece of garbage has a suicide wish, I’ll indulge it,” he interrupts, teeth grinding together.
“You can’t kill a Zenin for an outsider,” you say, reaching up to grab his cheeks between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. “Do you know how fucking quickly your father will remove you as heir if you step out of line like that? It’s one thing bringing me around here, but I’m not a Zenin, you can’t kill one of your brothers, not for me, o—”
“You should’ve been,” Naoya cuts you off, furious, ripping his face from your hand. “And I fuckin’ run shit around here now. That old fuck knows better than to mess with my birthright. They don’t get to use you as bait to see how far I’ll go.”
“You cannot cross this line, Naoya,” you hiss as it dawns on you just how serious he is right now. “You’re smarter than this. You know you’re not untouchable until your father is dead and his will is read, so—”
“He tried to kill you,” Naoya says loudly, silencing you immediately. “He tried to do it right in front of me.”
His hand is still hooked in your shirt, knuckles white. Up close, you can see it now—how his temper is stretched thin, the fury wound so tight it’s vibrating beneath his skin. A warm feeling settles in your chest, and to his irritation, your lips curl up into a small smile. You and Naoya hardly know what the word gentle means—you fuck rough, fighting ends in blood and bruises, even your words are sharp and cutting, but you’re gentle with him now as you lift your hands up to cradle his face between them. Instead of yanking away again and scoffing at you, Naoya’s lashes flutter briefly, and he leans slightly into your touch.
“I’m fine,” you tell him. “I had it all under control. He wasn’t going to kill me—he knew I was going to dodge, he asked about my technique before we started sparring. He was just trying to antagonize you into making a mistake you can’t undo, so don’t give him what he wants.”
He exhales deeply through his nose. “I don’t care. Don’t ever do that again. You don’t use yourself like a bargaining chip. That’s fuckin’ sloppy. It’s beneath you.”
You raise a brow, deciding against commenting on the irony of him saying that to you. “It’s sweet how upset you are on my behalf.”
“Tch. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more pissed he had the audacity to try it right in front of me.” His grip tightens anyway. “Don’t do it again.”
You consider it, and then you say, “I won’t make a habit of it.”
“Not good enough.”
“Best you’re gonna get.”
Naoya rolls his eyes. “You can never make anything easy, can you? Fuckin’ pain in the ass,” he mutters, but the insult is dulled by something dangerously close to fondness. “Move. I’m hungry.”
“Wouldn’t be us if I did,” you tell him with a grin. “Let’s get food on the way there. You pay, since your brother tried to kill me.”
“As if you ever pay for anything, woman.”
————————
2013 | READER, AGE 20; NAOYA, AGE 22
Your clan is massacred by an unregistered special grade cursed spirit in the middle of the night, two days after your twentieth birthday. You’re not at the estate when it happens—you’re partying with Satoru and his friend, Shoko, while your brothers and father are butchered in their sleep, before they even have time to properly understand what’s happening.
The Zenins are the first on the scene, since their estate is closest to your clan’s, but the damage is done, and your family is dead by the time they get there. All they can do is send the Hei after the cursed spirit—Naoya taking the lead on the hunt, driven by blind rage on your behalf, even if you don’t know what’s happened yet. You only know something is wrong when Zenin Ogi shows up at the club you’re at with Satoru and Shoko, telling you that you need to come with him.
The Zenins are uncharacteristically thoughtful in how they deal with the incident. Even Naoya’s asshole brothers are there doing what they can, because the clan can’t stand you, but your father and your brothers were important, politically useful. The betrothal between you and Naoya fell apart, but the alliance between your clans never did—Naobito and your father worked together frequently to push agendas at meetings with the higher-ups, and your friendship with Satoru and the potential betrothal led your father to be bridge between the two clans, working against the Kamos.
By the time you get there, all of the corpses are covered with white blankets, and your brothers’ and father’s remains have been put back together as best they could. Shoko is the first to sober up, immediately rushing to see if there are any survivors who need help—she’s able to save one of your uncles, four of your younger cousins, three of your older cousins, and two attendants. Satoru is the next to sober up, a furious expression crossing his face before he disappears to catch up with the Hei.
You are left alone in the middle of your estate, still drunk, not fully processing what’s happening around you, staring at the familiar wristwatch face down in the dirt near the front steps. It takes a second for you to recognize it as your brother’s. The glass is shattered, the hands stopped at 2:17 a.m., flecked with blood that has already begun to darken. You stare at it dumbly, brain skidding uselessly around the edges of the thought instead of landing on it. Your vision swims. The world tilts. A hand drops hard on your shoulder.
“Pull yourself together, girl. There’s no time for missteps right now,” Zenin Naobito tells you, an unusually grim expression on his face as he looks around the carnage.
“This was the Kamos,” you say, too inebriated to understand the weight of your accusation. Anger eclipses grief, intoxication eclipses rationality. Your voice rises, “This was the Kamos. Our estate was protected by a barrier—cursed spirits, even special grades, they wouldn’t be able to come through unless let in. They would’ve been alerted, they wouldn’t have been asleep. My father invited that old fuck and two other Kamo representatives for tea not even a week ago. They—”
Your vision knocks white, and pain spreads hot and quick through the side of your face. You stumble to the side, knees hitting the bloody grass, stunned as you stare down at the ground, trying to figure out what just happened. You look up, eyes wide. Naobito’s arm is still extended, hand curled into a fist. The surrounding Zenins, still trying to clean up the mess that’s become of your estate, avert their eyes, pretending not to see what just happened.
Did he just backhand you?
“You’re lucky that I’m the only one who heard that, girl,” Naobito tells you, voice cold. “I’ll assume grief loosened your tongue, but if anyone else heard an accusation like that, you wouldn’t be able to take it back. The barrier failed—that happens. Rarely, yes, but it happens. An unregistered special grade explains this well enough for now.”
Your fingers curl into the grass, hands slick with blood that isn’t yours. “But—”
“No,” he interrupts. He grabs your chin and forces your face up, fingers digging into your cheeks. “You will listen. You’re drunk, grieving, and right now, you’re a liability—to your clan, to my clan and to the Gojo clan. If you go around claiming the Kamo clan orchestrated this without evidence, they’ll demand retribution for the insult, and they’ll drag my clan and the Gojos into it. Everything your father has been working for will be destroyed. Is that what you want?”
You exhale, and he lets go of you. Your face drops down again, staring at the grass. The rage drains from you, and you’re left feeling terribly cold and empty. Your fingers are trembling in your lap; you have to forcibly still them against your thighs.
“You said for now,” you say before the Zenin clan head can turn to leave. “You said it explains it well enough for now.”
Naobito scoffs, glancing at you over his shoulder. “If you ever decide to repeat that accusation, make sure you’re sober, and make sure you can prove it, and maybe you’ll have our backing against the Kamos.”
————————
Naoya doesn’t return for… well, you’re not sure how much time has passed, but you haven’t budged from your spot on the ground. You can see the sun over the horizon, and the dawn feels cruel in its insistence on rising when you lost everything in the night. The light catches on the blood-soaked grass, glints off the white sheets, the broken lanterns, and the shattered watch still lying where it fell. The estate looks smaller in daylight; you can almost imagine your brothers arguing with each other as they shove each other into the inner courtyard, heading over to the training grounds.
Your limbs feel heavy and disconnected, as though they belong to someone else. At some point, the alcohol drained from your system, leaving only a hollow ache in your chest and a headache that throbs in the back of your head. You’re painfully aware of every sensation now—the chill in the morning air, the stiffness in your knees, the sticky warmth drying on your hands.
Your gaze lifts when you hear footsteps coming from the main gates, dull eyes landing on the Hei as they return from their hunt. They are covered in the blood of curses, purples and blues and greens, some are sporting wounds, none look accomplished. You know, before any of them says anything, that they were not able to find the curse that did this. Satoru is with them, standing off to the side, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He shifts like he’s about to move toward you, but before he can, Shoko stops him, saying something quietly.
Naoya stands at the head of them, gaze trained on you even as Naobito makes his way over to him. Focusing on him is easier than the carnage around you—the rising sun halos his head, and his gold eyes are filled with an emotion you can’t quite name.
Inexplicably, you want him to leave. You don’t want him to see you like this, on your knees and crippled with grief and uncertainty. The Zenins, the Gojos, representatives of the higher-ups, and Grade One sorcerers from the schools are all here now trying to figure out what happened. They keep looking at you, whispering to one another, some are confused, some are horrified, many are pleased. Your father has been a thorn in the higher-ups’ side for two years now—they’re glad to be rid of him, and they’re just as glad his arrogant, untouchable daughter has been brought to her knees for all of jujutsu society to bear witness. Humiliation curdles low in your stomach, but even that’s not enough to outweigh the numbness spreading through your limbs.
Naoya pushes past his father while he’s mid-sentence, ignoring the sharp call of his name as Naobito tells him to get back over to him. He makes his way over to you, shoulders tense and jaw tight.
Go away, you try to tell him with your eyes, because your lips refuse to cooperate. Just go away.
Fuck you, he replies without replying at all, coming to a stop right in front of you.
His eyes are ablaze as he stares down at you. Up close, you can see the blood splattered on his face and the rage plain in his eyes—not at you, you know him well enough to know that much, but at everything else. The audacity of representatives of the higher-ups to be here when they likely had something to do with this; the nerve of them to stare at you, reveling in your grief. They are humiliating you after they’ve taken everything from you, and just like you couldn’t stand there years ago and watch his family make a spectacle out of him at his lowest, he refuses to stand here and watch the higher-ups do the same to you. His hands are fisted so tightly at his sides that you can see the whiteness of his knuckles and blood drawn and dripping between his fingers.
“Not here,” he tells you. “Get up.”
Only four words.
You get up.
————————
You become clan head that day. It was a position that was never supposed to be yours—there were four brothers before you who should’ve taken it, and they are all dead.
Your clan was never a particularly large one, not like the Kamos or the Zenins, who numbered in the hundreds, but it wasn’t small. A little over a hundred people lived on the estate under your father’s reign as clan head. Two hundred becomes less than fifteen under yours. The estate is too big and too quiet and far too empty. Most of your younger cousins don’t speak. Your surviving uncle had his throat slashed and can’t speak. Your older cousins do their best to help where they can, but one turned to alcohol, another to drugs, and the third spends all of his time on missions trying to find the cursed spirit that butchered everyone.
You are left alone to deal with the fallout.
Politics, funerary rites, ensuring your fourteen-year-old cousin doesn’t succeed in throwing herself into the ravine in the forest outside of the estate, as though you don’t want to do the same most days. You leave the estate before the sun rises, sometimes having to drag along a stubborn and grieving fourteen-year-old who needs to be surveilled 24/7, and you don’t get home until the moon settles high in the sky.
You’re tired, and angry, trapped in a corner, forced to sit across the table with the man who ordered the massacre because you have no proof that he did. One of your younger cousins—the only one who does speak—accuses you of being cold and heartless: you haven’t even cried, she screams at you, what’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? You sit there and let her scream, because it’s better she screams at you than tries to slit her wrists, but the gaping hole in your chest only gets bigger with each passing day.
Satoru tries to distract you. He starts coming to clan head meetings along with his grandfather, where he used to ardently avoid them. He sits next to you and tries to make you smile with snide commentary and mocking remarks, and he succeeds sometimes, but most times, his expression falters when your gaze only lowers down to the table. He tells you, one day, that he thinks he wants to become a teacher at Jujutsu High.
(“For real?” you ask him, after a particularly rough meeting between representatives of the higher-ups, you, his grandfather, Zenin Naobito, and Kamo Norihide. “Why?”
Satoru’s expression twists as he looks back at the room the two of you just left. “It’s all a load of shit, isn’t it?” he replies with a scoff. “All of the politics, all of their traditions. I don’t want the younger generation of sorcerers growing up following them.”
“You make us sound ancient,” you tell him with a dry smile. “Younger generation. I’m only twenty, you asshole.”
He knocks his shoulder against yours. “You know what I mean,” he says, but there’s a pensive expression on his face, like he’s waiting for you to say something.
“I think you should,” you tell him. “I think you’d do well.”
“You think so?” he asks, head tilted up to the night sky. There’s a dubious tone laced in his words, so unlike the Satoru you’ve known for years that it makes you pause. For a man who’s succeeded in everything he’s ever applied himself to, he sounds terribly unsure.
“Yeah, I do,” you say. “I was kind of like your trial run, wasn’t I? You taught and trained me, and I’m perfect.”
Satoru’s lips curve up into a genuine smile. “True.”)
You become closer to his friend, Shoko, too. She stops by the estate frequently to check on your younger cousins, and she’ll sit and drink with you when you get back from meetings early, keeping you company on nights you thought you’d be left alone with your thoughts.
(“She doesn’t mean the things she says to you, you know?” Shoko tells you one night when you’re sitting alone on the engawa with a bottle of gin, staring up at the stars. She sits down next to you, beckoning you to pass over the bottle, and she takes a long swig when you do. “She cries about it as soon as you leave. Feels bad.”
“I know,” you reply. “It’s better that it’s me she takes it out on than one of her brothers. I can deal with it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Shoko tells you after a minute. You can feel her looking at you, but you keep your gaze trained to the sky. “People handle grief differently, y’know? And you’re doing what you have to do to keep things from falling apart.”
You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I know,” you say again. “Thanks, Shoko.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” Shoko says, leaning back on her hands. “I know you didn’t listen to a word I just said. I don’t like that look in your eyes. Just… don’t lose your way, ‘kay? Me and that idiot Satoru are here. You can rely on us. I don’t wanna see you going down a path that… Ah, never mind. I’m just rambling now. Give me some more gin.”)
And you appreciate them—you do—but they are not who you want nor need when the nights become too dark, and your chest aches with that hollowness you can’t seem to push away. They understand that, too, you think, because they never point out when your mind seems to drift mid-conversation.
You don’t see Naoya for three months after the massacre.
Later, you learn his absence was not of his own volition; Naobito sent him away because he didn’t want his son to fuck up an already volatile political situation. The Zenins had their own agenda to complete after your father’s death; your clan wasn’t part of the big three, but it acted as a bridge between the Zenins and Gojos when they had aligned interests, and it had enough political influence that your father’s death left a vacuum that the Kamos were desperately trying to take advantage of. The Zenins were trying to prevent that by preparing you to fill your father’s shoes before his corpse was cold in the ground. Naobito needed you to be composed, attentive, and above all, present—and he needed Naoya elsewhere, so that he could not be a distraction.
So, he was sent on an extended mission—three months up north in Tohoku to deal with a horde of cursed spirits that developed after an earthquake two months ago. You don’t even get the chance to say goodbye to him before he’s shipped off, and you don’t have time to call or text him throughout the months.
Once a week, you get a: you alive still?
You respond with a: Yeah.
And life continues on.
You force yourself to get used to it. There’s no time for hesitation.
A part of you can’t help but wonder if it’s for the best.
Neither you nor Naoya have ever been gentle people. Empathy doesn’t come easy to either of you, and in the months after the massacre, you’re barely holding the line between rage and grief as it is. Your anger is sharp and directionless. You find yourself losing your temper on people who don’t deserve it, and his temper has always been hair-trigger, quick to turn destructive when it has nowhere to go. You can see how things might’ve gone if he’d stayed. Words meant to hurt, instead of comfort; damage done in moments of exhaustion and fury that no apology could fully undo.
And you think you might not have survived losing him, too.
————————
You’re still awake when an attendant rushes into your office.
It’s four in the morning, and you’ve hardly gotten halfway through the paperwork you need to finish by morning. Your eyes burn, your shoulders ache, and the thought of standing makes you want to scream, but when she says that Zenin-sama is waiting for you at the estate gates, fatigue gives way to a cold, familiar dread. Naobito wouldn’t show up at this time of night unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
So, you rise, smoothing your sleeves out of habit, and make your way out of the building toward the front gates, mind already racing with possibilities, trying to figure out what’s the next disaster you’ll have to absorb without flinching.
You’re halfway through, “You better have a damn good reason for—” when you realize that it’s not Naobito standing at the front gates.
“Naoya,” you breathe out, his name leaving you before you can stop it. Your hands fall uselessly to your sides, heart thudding painfully slow in your chest. For a split second, you think you might be hallucinating, tired and desperate, seeking out the one person you’ve wanted with you this whole time. “You’re back.”
He looks wrecked. Dark circles carve deep shadows beneath his eyes, and blood stains the hem of his hakama, dried and fresh both. There’s a familiar tension in the way he holds himself, like he hasn’t quite come down from a fight yet. You wonder if he came right here from finishing whatever his last mission was up in Tohoku.
His gaze trails across your face, and his lips curve up into a half-smile.
“You look like shit,” he tells you.
Somehow, despite everything, you laugh for the first time in months.
————————
Neither you nor Naoya have ever been gentle people. Empathy doesn’t come easy to either of you, and in the months after the massacre, you’re barely holding the line between rage and grief as it is.
You half expect Naoya to fuck off and leave once he realizes how unstable you are—a part of you wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. You’re not worth the trouble to deal with as you are. But he never does. Even on the really bad days, the ones when your vision is red with rage at the sheer unfairness of your situation, and you’re purposely driving him away because you want to sink alone, he digs his heels in and grits his teeth, letting you scream at him and shove him until your rage drains into exhaustion. Or, more commonly, he gets frustrated and snaps back until it ‘sinks into your thick skull’ that he’s not going anywhere, so you should stop ‘giving him a headache’ with your bitching. He argues with you until you’re too tired to keep fighting and too stubborn to admit he’s right.
It’s not gentle, and it’s not empathetic, but it’s you, and it’s Naoya, and you find comfort in that consistency—in knowing that no matter how badly everything falls apart and reshapes itself around you, that this will remain the same. You can lose a clan, a father, brothers, and a future you thought you understood, but you won’t lose him. Everything else in your life will change, but you two never will.
(“Why don’t you just go?” you demand, scoffing at him and shaking your head as you turn away. “Fuck off, Naoya. We both know you don’t want to be here.”
“What is your problem?” Naoya hisses, jaw tight, hands fisted at his sides. “You think I crossed half the country because I didn’t want to see ya? That I went through three months of hell and rushed back here just to leave ‘cause you’re being a bitch? Newsflash, you’ve been a bitch since the moment we met—nothing’s changed. So quit it with the woe is me, nobody wants me bullshit. Sit down and watch the fuckin’ show with me.”
“It’s not the same.” You whirl on him, raising your voice. “Nothing is the fucking same, Naoya! So go find some girl to get your dick wet and leave me the hell al—”
You let out a muffled noise of complaint when he shoves his hand over your mouth, stopping you from finishing the sentence. You immediately move to elbow him, but he doesn’t even flinch, dragging you over to the couch and all but throwing you down onto it before he takes a seat next to you. You give him an accusing look, but he only scowls at you.
“Unless that’s you offering to wet my dick, I’d stop talking,” he tells you, and then reaches forward to turn on the TV. “I been waiting to watch since I got back. Either be quiet or put your mouth to better use, will you?”
“You’re so disgusting,” you mutter, but you push yourself into a sitting position and pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, losing the will to keep fighting in an instant when he refuses to entertain your anger. “What show is it?”)
Sometimes you’re quieter, and the rage that usually keeps you upright never comes. You’re left with grief sitting heavy in your chest, struggling to even continue breathing, and Naoya doesn’t know what to do with that version of you. The first few times he catches you like that, he does what he always does. He antagonizes. Picks fights. Makes snide comments to try to get you to snap back at him, seeing if he can drag you back into familiar territory where he knows how to operate.
(“Why’re you staring at the garden like that, huh?” he snaps one day, coming up behind you after you had to deal with a long day of meetings with his father. “You’re creeping me out.”
You don’t respond, and you hear him scoff, pacing.
“Seriously? You’re just ignoring me now?”
Your lips part to say something—maybe tell him you’re not in the mood, even trying to muster up the energy to fight with him and tell him to leave you alone, but nothing comes. You let out an inaudible sigh, and your shoulders slump.
“Tch.” You hear him click his tongue, dropping down beside you harder than necessary, knee knocking into yours to get your attention. “Say somethin’.”
“I just want to sleep,” you find yourself saying, voice weaker than you intend for it to be.
Naoya opens his mouth, and you wonder if he’s going to try again to antagonize you with something sharp and dismissive, but he pauses. You feel him looking at you, studying the dull expression on your face, and the way your shoulders are curled inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.
All he says is, “Oh,” and settles beside you. Then he adds, “Then sleep,” and, like he can’t help himself, “I’ll tire you out, if ya want?”
You find a small smile curling at your lips despite yourself. “You’re so annoying,” you murmur, gaze lifting up slightly. “The cherry blossoms are in bloom early this year.”
Naoya’s gaze follows yours up to the pink petals. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Good sign, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”)
Naoya doesn’t know how to comfort you. He doesn’t understand grief in the way you’re experiencing it, he can’t understand mourning family when his relationship with his own is as terrible as it is, and he doesn’t know what to do with the crushing sadness that settles in when your anger burns out. He’s used to problems he can hit or insult, so when you go quiet instead of loud, he’s visibly at a loss, irritation and unease written plainly across his face as he searches for something to say and comes up empty.
He struggles to stay in those moments. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, and how his gaze flicks anywhere but your face. He doesn’t know how to reach you, and it frustrates him, but he forces himself to stay anyway. He shoves a blanket at you and tells you not to get snot everywhere. He sits close enough that your knees brush and pretends not to notice when you lean into him. He puts on some stupid show that he insists is “actually good” when you’re staring off into the distance not doing anything and then, he complains the entire time about the pacing and bad acting. You cry in front of him once when he puts on a movie that hits too close to home, and he short-circuits so badly that it nearly has your eyes drying instantly.
(You feel him staring at you before you even realize that you’re crying. It goes on for at least five minutes before you finally turn to him, annoyed, and ask, “What, Naoya?”
Instead of snapping at you, he blinks and says, “You’re…” and then motions to your face, then to his own, drawing a path from his eye down his cheeks, “um.”
You lift your hand to your face, and you’re mortified when you realize that your cheeks are wet. You rub your face angrily, embarrassed, but you can’t seem to stop the tears from rolling down. “Just ignore it.”
He hesitates, glancing at the screen, back at you, to the screen again. He shifts so that he’s looking forward again, and you try to focus on stopping yourself from crying. You stiffen when you feel him place his arm around your shoulder. It’s awkward and kind of uncomfortable, and when you look at him from the corner of his eye, his face is so twisted that he almost looks like he’s in pain.
Your shoulders shake slightly as you try not to laugh. It’s so… Naoya of him to be uncomfortable with innocent comfort like this, even though the two of you have fucked in just about every way imaginable. Violence and sex and shouting, those he handles just fine, but an arm around your shoulder? Agonizing.
He gives you an offended look when he sees you laughing, and he goes to draw his arm back, but you grab his wrist before he can, pulling it back down around your shoulder and settling into his side, resting your head against his bicep.
“This movie sucks,” you tell him, eyes sliding shut when you feel him tracing absent patterns against your upper arm.
“Yeah, kinda, want me to switch?”
“Yeah.”)
As time passes, you think that you might love Naoya, and just as quickly as the thought crosses your mind, you dismiss it.
Love feels too pedestrian, too clean of a word to describe whatever it is you feel for him, because what you feel isn’t soft or hopeful or anything that someone would associate with that word. There are no butterflies in your stomach when you look at him, and you don’t dream about futures with white dresses and fluffy promises like most people do.
What you feel is ugly and intense, something that digs its fingers deep under your ribs and refuses to let go—the line of love and hatred is never so thin as it is when it comes to the two of you. He doesn’t soften himself around you, doesn’t become kinder or better or easier to be around. If anything, he’s worse—sharper and unapologetically cruel to everyone who isn’t you—and sometimes you wonder if it should drive you away, but it doesn’t, because you always find yourself meeting him there halfway instead. He doesn’t lie to you about who he is and what he’s capable of. He tells you exactly how awful he can be, and he proves it over and over again with the casual certainty of someone who has never been punished for it. It irritates you to no end, and yet, you still find comfort in the fact that nothing ever changes with the two of you. He’ll always choose you in defiance of every rule he was raised with, and you’ll always choose him in spite of everything you know he is.
It doesn’t feel romantic, not like how love is supposed to be. His presence is just something that slots into your life like it was always meant to belong there, and his absence feels wrong in a way you can’t really articulate without sounding dramatic or unhinged. Your lives have entwined so thoroughly that you can’t see yourself living yours without him. The world has proven that it can take everything from you, and it has taken most of what it can—you can imagine losing everything you have left along with it, but you can never imagine losing him.
That’s why love doesn’t fit. Love implies a beginning you can point to and an end you might survive, and the idea that something so vast and all-consuming could be reduced to a word people toss around so easily leaves you deeply unsettled.
(“What would you have done if I had died with them that night?” you ask him one night, voice quiet.
“You wouldn’t have,” Naoya replies immediately, an irritated look crossing his face. “The fuck? Why would you ask me somethin’ like that?”
“Hypothetically, though. If I did. What would you have done?” you press.
Naoya stares at you for a long moment, like you’ve asked him something in a language he doesn’t understand. He looks away, jaw tightening, eyes fixed somewhere past you, like he’s calculating the answer whether he wants to or not.
Finally, he exhales through his nose.
“I would’ve killed whatever did it,” he says flatly, “and everyone involved. Happy now? Are ya gonna let me fuckin’ sleep or d’ya have more dumb questions?”
“What about after?”
Naoya’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks genuinely lost for a second, like he’s reached the edge of something he’s never had to imagine before. His gaze drifts back up to you, and there’s something helpless that briefly flashes through his eyes that tells you everything you need to know.
He doesn’t end up answering the question, snapping at you to stop saying such stupid shit to him unless you’re trying to piss him off, but he doesn’t have to.
Summary: There's something wrong about Tamsy. A strangeness that you can't quite place. It's always made you wary. So it's fitting that a dust storm would leave you two trapped alone together. Miles away from civilization, where not even the walls around you are enough to make you feel safe.
Contents: 16.7k words. MDNI. 18+, AFAB, fem pronouns. enemies to lovers-ish (more like reader is incredibly suspicious of Tamsy but ignores the red flags anyway). Tamsy has a jacobs ladder piercing because it's canon. PinV, creampie, choking, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, pussy slapping, biting, degradation, praise, naked female/clothed male, mild dubcon (she's into it, this tag is just here as a precaution), a dash of aftercare.
Notes: he's taken over my brain. Gif made by @ianime0, divider by @pixopix
This day could hardly get any worse, though you're almost paranoid to even have the thought, lest the universe throw a curve ball in your direction just to prove you wrong. That it could indeed get so, so much worse than it is now. Maybe you should count your blessings. You are still alive. That's always a plus — well, you feel mostly alive. Your bones ache, knees pulsing with the dull throb of exertion, and you know that as soon as you make it back to the safety of HQ that you're going straight to bed to pass out.
The trash beasts you had to deal with had been particularly nasty today. Persistent bastards, and they refused to go down. You would have been impressed if the entire ordeal hadn't been so incredibly frustrating. Formidable monsters, made almost impossible to ward off by their scale and ferocity alone. They'd tanked the first barrage of your fire as though the twisting pyres had been nothing. Barreling straight through the heat like the inferno had been flies bouncing from their armored bodies and nothing more.
It had only served to piss you off really. This entire day had gone down the drain as soon as you had managed to track them down. They weren't exactly difficult to find, having wandered a little too close to Hole Town for comfort. Four hulking beasts, all big enough to make the ground tremble whenever they took a step. Team Eager had been assigned to deal with them before they could do any damage, and by Team Eager you mean yourself and Tamsy, because Delmon had requested the day off. To do what exactly, you aren't sure. As far as you know, the guy doesn't even have friends outside of work (not like any of you do, honestly), so you don't have the faintest clue as to what he could be doing.
Knowing him he's out trying to buy exotic plants on the black market again.
It's not the fact that he's gone that's the problem. You can manage trash beasts just fine on your own. You have before and you'll have to in the future. It's the fact that Delmon's absence has left you alone with him.
You could say that it's a blessing in a way. It can get grating, listening to Tamsy's irritated huffing when Delmon projects his voice a little too loudly — which is near constantly. His absence offered a reprieve from that. But on the flip side of the coin, it also meant that you would be alone. Just you and Tamsy. With no other soul around for miles.
You'd think after all of this time in Team Eager, you would have grown used to him by now. But there's always been something strange about him. Something that you've never been able to properly place. It settles around him like an invisible veil, an undercurrent, projected around his body in a field that no one seems to be able to peek through. It prickles at your skin, the kind of primal unease that happens when you're in the sights of something that you can't properly comprehend. Dangerous. Like a predator lying in wait, anticipating the moment it can flash its fangs and bite.
Paranoid.
That's what you've come to call yourself. Or maybe a little crazy. It's the pollution probably. The fumes have finally gone to your head. Realistically, he's given you no reason to assume anything insidious. He's always been kind. Welcoming to you even when you were brought into HQ clad in torn clothes, soot and grime and blood smeared across your face.
A supportive teammate. That's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Tamsy. He's aloof, always walking around with an air of placid reticence, but as much as he unsettles you, he's reliable. That's an aspect of his nature that can't be denied. He's proven that he's tactful, a mindful comrade out on the field time and time again and today was no different. He was always there to back you up, seamlessly slotting himself within the line of danger when the beasts had weaved outside the path of your fire.
All it had taken was for him to bind a pair of them in place, the wide scope of his thread slicing through the thick atmosphere with a speed and agility that's always left you a little breathless. In the blink of an eye, he had them trapped where they stood, living garbage and rusted steel left to struggle as any caught animal would. They were as good as dead once they were arrested within his grasp, two insects twitching flutily on the adhesive silk of a spider's web.
It had given you a good opening with your attention and power reduced from four beasts to a more manageable pair. You didn't have to worry that he wouldn't be able to handle the other two. You knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had them right where he wanted them, and now that they had been spun within Tokushin's threads, you were able to focus your attention into a more narrow scope.
Your flames had become more direct, more focused with your targets decreased to a smaller number, and the fire that spilt from your vital instrument had burned hotter; it licked and swept wide and high. In a burst of a lashing gold and searing red, they had been gone. Obliterated, eaten away by heat as though they never existed at all. Reduced to ash and fragmented rubble that glowed like embers, winking dimly before completely dying out on the parched, toxic earth.
And it was all thanks to Tamsy's help.
It sets your teeth on edge.
But the universe wasn't finished in its goal to irritate you.
A damned dust storm of all things had swept up. You swear that bastard on the TV hadn't mentioned anything about it, but it was there. A thin, but blatant bruise on the blank horizon. Dark and troubling, like a warning of what was to come. You knew what it was as soon as you'd seen it. You've spent enough time out in the field to notice the subtle shifts in things. You both have. There wasn't any denying what it was that you were looking at. It had seemed miles away, but the speed that it was moving at was quicker than the eye could properly track, growing larger — closer by the second.
It wasn't anywhere near as brutal as the damage that a Trash Storm could dish out, but dust storms still hold enough violent force to flay through skin. And it would only be minutes before howling wind and dust would be upon you, spitting air so wildly that the fine sand blowing through the storm would be lethal enough to rip through your clothes like bullets.
Hole Town couldn't have been more than ten miles away, but without a vehicle close by, it might as well as been in an entirely different dimension. You two would die long before you'd ever reach it. But it was by sheer luck that you had passed an old scattering of dilapidated buildings earlier. An odd cluster of them far outside the limits of Hole Town, and they couldn't have been more than a few miles off. Sure, they had looked like they were being held together by hopes and dreams, but they were the most viable option for shelter against the oncoming storm.
You were able to see them with your naked eye, tiny and in the far distance, dark dots on the dunes ahead. Torn, flimsy shanties, but they'd be better protection than just the clothes on your backs. If you hesitated any longer, you'd both be dead. Torn apart by sand and shrieking wind.
You hadn't spared a single though when you had snatched ahold of Tamsy by the back of his coat, scuffing him like a cat with a hasty, "We've gotta get the hell out of here Tams."
He didn't have time to properly spit out a complaint, only a clipped "What are you do—" before you were flicking your lighter open behind you. Fire had spilt from the Zippo in a powerful stream, heat and energy spilling out like thrusters. In a single breath you two were being hurtled through the air in a smooth arch, fast enough that you would narrowly escape the dust storm before it could sweep you up inside of its reach.
It sounds angry outside now. A relentless wail. Shrill as it claws across the structure of the shack, tearing at the shutters, heaving at the metal panels that create the roof like it wants to tear it apart. The building groans from the weight of the storm. Shifting with metallic sighs and groans. The entire structure wobbles around you, rusted walls flexing like a spasming throat, thrumming from a scream that it longs to release. A pained wail like the badgering of the tempest physically pains it.
You feel as though you're being swallowed whole. Eaten alive. But you aren't sure if it's the storm that you should blame for that, or him.
He's seated himself on the other end of the shack, legs crossed at the ankles, back slumped against the tattered cushion of an old, collapsed sofa. His eyes are shut, expression calm and unbothered, as though he can't hear the wind howling outside. He looks peaceful despite the circumstances. His chest rises and falls, gentle beneath the layers of his uniform, a steady rhythm that softly lifts his hands from where he's folded them across his stomach. You could almost let yourself believe that he'd fallen asleep, but you know better.
The room is dark; any possibility of light having been mostly blotted out by the storm outside. The only scraps of it that exist come from your Zippo. And the glow of it blinks in and out of existence from how you listlessly flick the lid open, thumb catching on the flint wheel long enough to spark a flame only for you to snuff it out second later with the flick of your wrist. The lid snaps shut with a thin noise, but a split second later you jerk it back open, over and over again.
A small fire gutters on its hidden wick, tiny but bright. Bobbing around in place, blue and amber. The shine it casts spills across the room, creating shadows in the corners, painting the walls an oily hue. It swathes over him, tracing over his shape in warm strokes, catching on the strands of his hair in muted flecks of gold. If you allowed yourself to think of it for longer the necessary, you'd even go as far as to acknowledge that he actually looks pretty with that tranquil look on his face. The shape of his mouth settled in a relaxed pout, lashes thick and heavy against the ridge of his cheek bones.
You find yourself staring at him like this more and more now, like some kind of freak. It happens without you being aware of it, like your mind is trying to figure him out on some subconscious level. That if you study him enough, the answer might reveal itself to you in some microexpression playing across his face. You swear that you've noticed hints of what lies beneath the surface before —or at least you've convinced yourself that you have. A glimpse behind the curtain in the form of kind smiles that are a little too strained around the edges or words that are too clipped to be truly noble. But really, it's his eyes that betray the most.
You see slivers of emotions break through the façade. Blink and you'll miss it glimmers so fleeting that half the time you believe that you've completely imagined them. And maybe you have.
Tamsy is an enigma in his own right. His entire existence is a mystery to you, held far beyond your reach, and nothing seems to encapsulate that daunting feeling more than his eyes. After all of this time, you still haven't quite been able to figure out what color they are, analyzing them from a distance as best as you possibly can, but you haven't been quite able to nail it yet.
More often than not, they seem like some kind of shade of yellow, but on occasion, you swear you've seen them shift with fragments of gray. The color of metal, cold and detached, the silver flash of a blade caught within the expanse of a muted amber. But when he uses his jinki, they become something else entirely. Bright and electric blue scintillating within the rings of fiery irises.
A kaleidoscope of hues. Sunlight trickling through stain glass.
"Would you please stop fiddling with that thing."
Of course, he has to go and ruin the moment.
He didn't yell, but he doesn't have to. Tamsy isn't the type to shout, and even when he reprimands someone, the pitch his voice reaches could hardly be considered aggressive. His tone was raised certainty, only by a small scale, but the firmness behind it has you going still. When you sweep your attention back over to his corner of the room, his expression has hardly changed except for the subtle furrow that's wedged between his brows. Though he hasn't bothered to open his eyes to look at you, you can feel his annoyance, scattered across the space between your bodies, prickling like an itch.
"Alright, damn. There's no need to bite my head off," you snap, venomous and exasperated. It left you more aggressively than you intended, but the following apology never leaves your lips. Instead you close your Zippo shut with a sharp twitch of your wrist, and when it snaps closed this time, you don't flick it back open again. You leave the room in darkness, and the only thing that keeps it from drowning in a horrible silence is the wind screeching outside.
"You aren't subtle." It's said softly, but the accusation hangs heavy in the air.
"Hmm? What do you mean?" You tilt your head to look at him as best as you can through the shadows that eclipse the shack. It takes a second for your vision to adjust to the dark, but once it does you can make out the outline of his body, a vague silhouette still perched on the sofa, hair pale underneath the gloom.
"Staring at me like that. You do it quite often. Is there something on your mind that you'd like to share?"
You're actually glad now that your lighter isn't on, because you don't know if you'd be able to handle it if he opened his eyes and looked at you right now. Not to be dramatic, but you're pretty sure that you'd die on the spot. You should have expected this, really. Not much slips past Tamsy. He's exceptionally perceptive, it's one of the things that makes him such a valuable teammate to have out on the field. All sharp wit and cunning.
You've been kidding yourself this entire time to think that he hadn't noticed. Or maybe you'd just been too caught up in your own mind to truly try and be discreet about it. Now that you've been caught, you struggle to formulate a proper response. You could be honest about the entire thing. You are on the same team after all; there's not much use in having secrets. But what the hell are you supposed to tell him? That his vibe his off? That he seems a little weird to you for absolutely no reason and so you've been watching him like some kind of creep?
Your face cringes, mouth twisting in a grimace as though you've swallowed something bitter and you're thankful that he can't actually see it.
You feel words forming on your tongue, but they don't actually take a proper shape. Not enough for them to be pronounced, to make it out from the trap of your teeth. You just sit, back tense from where it's pressed against the uncomfortable support of the wooden chair you've been resting on. The rails dig into your spine, harsh and biting through the layer of your clothes.
You know that he's waiting for a proper response, patient and relaxed on his corner of the shack while you're busy tussling with your internal struggle.
"Your eyes."
That's the explanation you spit out instead of the truth. But it's not technically a lie. It borders on honesty just enough that maybe he won't be able to tell that you aren't entirely being candid with him. You almost feel silly for it. That strange instinct to hold your suspicions close to your chest. (Suspicions of what, exactly?) They're so inexplicable that you aren't sure yourself. It's only an urge, deep seeded, rooted somewhere down in your marrow that keeps the confession from slipping free. You feel that odd paranoia creep up the back of your neck, like fingers tracing over the flesh there to raise your hair on end.
Your voice catches in your throat and you sweep the pad of your thumb over your lighter to collect yourself, tracing the familiar grooves of the engravings on your skin. You've known Tamsy for a while, long enough to become intimate with the kind of person he is. You've spent free time with him and Delmon, chatting amongst yourselves inside the booth of some hole-in-the-wall restaurant, laughing and recounting missions while you eat. You've gone out of your way to tease him, joking and prodding at him all out of the intention to get under his skin, to see his lips tug into a bothered frown. And despite all of that, it never fails for that odd worry to creep its way inside of your head like a cold draft sweeping inside a house. Drifting in though the cracks and crevices.
Tamsy is a paradox. Pleasantly familiar and yet completely other. Like a stranger wearing the face of a loved one you never had.
"What about them?" He asks. His voice is as gentle as it always is. Gliding through the bleak atmosphere with an almost hypnotic quality.
"I've never been able to really figure out what color they are. Whenever I think I've finally pinned down the shade, it's like they go and shift into something completely different. It's frustrating."
He hums, not in agreement or rebuff, just acknowledgement. It sounds almost musical. Bells chiming in the distance. But what he says next is more comparable to a bomb detonating. You feel the impact of it explode inside of your chest.
"If you're really that curious, you could come in for a closer look."
He says it was no consequence. As if it was nothing. Now you actually hate that it's dark, that the storm outside has shunned even the most delicate scraps of light because you wish that you could properly see him. Though you're sure that his expression probably hasn't changed. He's probably just as serene as before, eyes closed, hands draped over his stomach.
You can somewhat make out the shape of his body, and he hasn't so much as twitched since this entire interaction has begun. You see the hair that he has done up despite the dark, vaguely visible through the shadows from the pale color of its tresses. The long, blond strands spanned out to frame his head like great antlers or the plumage of a striking bird.
You've never exactly put Tamsy above you. In talent regarding his handling vital instrument, absolutely, but in terms of being a teammate, you're both equals. But right now, he seems so far beyond you, shrouded in shadows. A figure from a myth, past basic human understanding. You've hardly felt like you've been in control this whole day, but whatever confidence you were holding onto has been singlehandedly tugged out from beneath your feet with nothing more than a few words from him. Worse than all of that, is that you're not entirely sure if that was his intention. If he only means to tease or if he's being authentic.
"Are you being serious?"
He has to be joking.
"Come now, we've been co-workers long enough, it's nothing embarrassing." You hate how polite he sounds, like he's genuinely entertaining your inquisitiveness. No taunting or underhanded intentions, just pure cordiality. "I have no problem in indulging your little fascination with me."
"Ugh, you make it sound so weird."
"Do I?"
He actually sounds surprised and somehow that's so much worse than if he was mocking you. This whole thing is stupid. There's no reason why this situation in particular has you tripped up. You've been in circumstances so much more compromising than this. You've literally sat in his lap before, your group and Team Akuta all smashed into the same vehicle, contained within the walls like peaches packed inside a can. You'd be uncomfortably wedged between Tamsy and Zanka, and when the car had abruptly swerved over a rough patch of terrain thanks to Enjin's exceptional driving, the jerk of the wheel had sent you careening into his space (not that you hadn't already been in it, technically).
You hadn't realized that you'd gripped onto his thigh in an effort to stabilize yourself, but before you could attempt to right yourself and fit your body back between the sliver made from his and Zanka's shoulders, Tamsy had grabbed onto your waist. His hands were just there. Firm around the shape of your hips and then he was guiding you onto the seat of his lap, voice brushing against your ear and purring out a low, "Is this okay?" that you had struggled to respond to. You all but forced yourself to practically spit out the confirmation that it was, breath catching on the rapid pulse of your heart.
You awkwardly sat there on his thighs, trying desperately not to focus on how he felt beneath your body. How good he smelt, perfumed by something light and fresh. You especially tried not to notice how Zanka had passed you looks from the corner of his eyes, brows furrowed like he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was truly happening. You were just thankful that Rudo had been passed out, slumped and drooling against the door and that Enjin was too focused on driving to glance back in the rear-view mirror. You never would have heard the end of it if either of them had they noticed how you were curled against Tamsy's chest, his hands still holding onto your waist.
You swear that his fingers had swept over you, tracing vague shapes over the fabric of your uniform. Absentminded, but terribly intimate.
But this somehow has you on edge. Maybe it's how he offered it. All casually, voice stretching out in the soothing hum, as though it was nothing. It would be easier to believe that he was only teasing you, and you almost hoped that he was.
"The wide-eyed, ignorant look doesn't suit you Tamsy." The accusation slips from you before you can fully process it. Low but heated around the edges. You grip onto your lighter harder, squeezing it within your palm in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. It doesn't work.
The quiet that follows is uncomfortable. Well, as silent as it can be with the squall outside screaming and tearing at the shack like it might be able to rip its way inside if its persistent enough. Maybe you'd let it put you out of your misery if it did. Allow it to snatch you up within its current and cut you down to the bone. That would be more merciful than whatever the hell this is.
Your paranoia is a chill, and it had crept in since day one. He was so pleasant when you'd first met, welcoming you onto the team with a warmth that had unsettled you, that you had been convinced had been fake. But you had assumed that everyone at the Cleaners HQ had simply been luring you in to a false sense of security. They had all urged you into the fold with little fanfare, no hoops to jump through or grueling tests. All it had taken was a simple evaluating glance from Semiu and it had been done. You were one of them.
You hadn't believed it at first. You expected some sort of catch. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and kindness wasn't bestowed freely. But they'd given you a roof over your head, a place to call home, a family, and Tamsy had been there to guide you through it all. He and Delmon were the two people who had taken care to show you the ropes, to assist you in getting your footing in the new territory that had been set out before you, and they did so with incredible patience.
But as nice as Tamsy has always been to you, there was something to him that you never could quite place. His kind words, his tender smiles, the way that he's always there to rush in at the first sign of danger to push you out of its path. You think that it all just may be hollow. But you can never come up with a solid reason as to why and it's maddening. There's nothing more than that tingling along your spine, a persistent flutter behind your ribs that urges you to stay vigilant. To look out for a threat that you know isn't really there.
Tamsy has only ever been a good teammate to you. Diligent, reliable. He's a familiar comfort, the kind of person that you'd follow into a fight without hesitation. It makes the uncertainty that's creeping down your back feel like a betrayal. As though you've somehow harmed his trust by just thinking that maybe there's something lurking beneath the surface, right behind his eyes. A danger that you know doesn't exist, but your subconscious demands that it does anyway.
You're going insane and there's nothing you can do about it.
"You know, I've always had the feeling that you've never liked me all that much," Tamsy reveals. No warning, no preamble.
Your skin crawls. "What makes you say that?"
You see the outline of him shift in the dark, the slightest tilt of his head but it makes you feel trapped all the same. As though you've foolishly stumbled into the direct path of a predator.
"You say that wide-eyed ignorance doesn't suit me, well it certainly doesn't suit you either. Don't play coy." His voice is calm. Hitting the same steady notes that it always does, placid and amiable, but there's something else there beneath the veneer. Something sharp. Like a bite. But it's subtle, so minute that maybe you've only just imagined it.
"I don't hate you Tamsy," you answer and it tastes like ash on your tongue. But you don't hate him. Not really. You've tried to, keeping yourself off at an arms length, hiding the tenderness you feel for him behind snide comments and sarcasm. You think that might just be impossible with how important he's become for you. He's a permanent fixture in your life. The ground beneath your feet, a hand guiding you forward. And maybe that's what this all is. It's fear. A fear for the worst. That maybe, he'll turn out like all the others. That he's only here to use and discard, a carrion picking meat from a bone. That once he's used you for all of your worth, he'll discard you. Toss you away like all the other garbage down here.
"No? Then what is it?" He presses, tone flowing like the soft trickle of water.
"I, uh. . . " you sigh lowly and shrug. "It's nothing really. Just personal shit. Dumb stuff." Your reassurances feel flimsy, even to you. Weak on your tongue. But you try to salvage it as best as you can, hoping that he won't be able to sniff out your trepidation. You will yourself to smile, instinctively shaping your expression into one of joy; your voice comes out teasing. "I mean come on, you know you're my favorite team member."
"Oh, really? Well don't let Delmon hear that, you'll break his heart."
For a moment, it's nice. This casual back and forth. The sort that you're used to engaging with him, and you're almost able to forget your paranoia entirely. For a split second, it flickers, water sprinkled on a small flame, and you're able to sit and enjoy his presence unencumbered. And you've been like this before with him. Sometimes you find yourself sitting at the bar on base with him, unplanned. Two creatures in the night, silent, lost within your own worlds but only feet apart. Connected by proximity only. Quiet, solitary, all while everyone else sleeps soundly within their rooms.
And the two of you will just sit, idle beneath the warm lights and burning neon. Something about it feels private. A secret only for you both. An indulgence that you weren't entirely aware you've been committing.
You rarely ever speak and yet a connection has tethered between you, translating far more than words ever could. A hushed, reluctant companionship. An ease that you've been hesitant to name, much less acknowledge. The simplicity and assurance that comes with just sitting with someone, hearing the gentle rise and fall of their breath, feeling the low brush of their body heat seeping past the barrier of your clothes. No expectations, no promises, just the presence of another.
Damn, he's dug his way past your skin, and you hadn't even realized it until now.
You hardly notice he's moving until you register the hushed shuffle of footsteps brushing along the floor, the wooden boards creak lowly under their moving weight, barely discernable beneath the shriek of the storm. You can hardly see him at all in the dark; there's only the sound of his approach, diluted from the wind that tugs and rips at the corners of the shack, making the metal whine like a wounded beast.
You're an animal that's fallen inside a snare. Made as still as a statue while you wait for him to come closer, lungs motionless within the cavity of your chest. It's only once he's directly in front of you that you're finally able to make out his shape, traced over in scant, muted brushes of light. His stare locks onto yours through the cover of the shadows, appraising and weighted, like he's searching for something, and it strips you bare. He's so close that you can feel the heft of his coat press against your knees. You have to angle your head back to properly see him from where you're sitting, but it only feels like you're baring your throat.
He just stands there, a figure looming in the dark.
"You good Tams? You're being kind of creepy."
He doesn't respond. He lets you stew in the silence. In the anticipation. Of what, you aren't sure, but it's there, thrumming inside of your bones and veins like a second heartbeat.
And then he's lowering himself, hunching himself over until he's balanced only on the balls of his feet, crouched so that now he's the one who's looking up at you. Despite the shift in perspectives, you still feel as though you're being stared down upon, not him. Even in the dark, the way he's watching you is flaying. It's like his gaze has locked you in place, an insect pinned down on a cork, exoskeleton carefully dissected to display its delicate insides. It makes your skin prickle, nerves flaring with cold and heat, a conflicting reaction that has your breath snagging in your throat.
"Spark your vital instrument."
His order coils through the atmosphere, almost melodic. Your hand seems to take on a life of its own to heed the command, thumb slipping up to nudge the lid from its place with a metallic click. You can't manage to tear your focus from his face, not with how intently he's observing you. Attention narrowed down and settled on you with a weight of its own. It seems to glide over you, murmuring over your flesh like soft hands mapping over the shape of your body.
When you strike the flint wheel, the flame flares to life and dances. Wobbling on its wick, and as it twitches, the glow spills over the room like gold paint spreading across a worn canvas.
His eyes are there in the shadows. Made incandescent from the small fire. They graze over somewhere close to your soul. Too deep, pressing where they shouldn't. A place that's too vulnerable, one that you want to pretend doesn't exist. But now, it's like you're forced to confront it. That hesitant warmth that rests within the pit of your chest, delicate and saccharine, humming like a second pulse. It expands against your will, fluttering and molten, shifting like a roused animal beckoned by the weight of his stare.
He's unfairly pretty. Made of rounded edges, almost cherubic in nature. You can't help but admire the soft shape of his cheeks and the pronounced swoop of his nose; eyes framed with lashes that are unnecessarily thick. You've always been jealous of them, as long and full as they are. Just another part of him that's stupidly beautiful.
The scar on his face isn't enough to mar how attractive he is. It's just another thing that makes him more of a mystery to you. For as long as you've known him, you've never bothered to ask about it. And he's never attempted to divulge, to share what had harmed him, or who. But you know that he has more scars than just one. Gnarled, pink flesh peeks out past the collar of his button-up, raised with old and damaged tissue. The fringes of it, just like the one that spills down the right side of his face, are jagged and broken, like glass that's been dropped and shattered.
You almost dare to ask him about it now, but decorum keeps the question from slipping free. You can't be sure if he's insecure about the wounds, if being reminded of them would dredge up hurtful memories. He's never struck you as particularly ashamed of them. He doesn't shy away when people gawk or stare. There's been a number of times while ambling down packed street corners or interacting with civilians from neighboring towns that he's been openly goggled at. Mostly by children, too young to understand that what they're doing could be perceived as rude. But he's never shied from the attention, never wavered or flinched like it made him uncomfortable inside his own skin.
Still . . . you can't manage to ask. The very notion of it feels like too much. Like if you dared to prod at the mystery, if you went digging for answers that weren't freely given to you, then you might not like what you'd find.
The flame sways on its wick unsteadily, caught within a fleeting draft sneaking in from the outside storm. It wobbles unsteadily, like it might just tip over from where it burns and vanish. But it doesn't. It persists, still bright, bathing the ramshackle space in a dusky radiance.
The light of it reflects in his eyes, and finally you can see them so clearly from the aid of your proximity. His irises are a motley of shades. An almost cosmic burst of champagne, pale and mesmerizing, broken up by scattered fragments of gray and dusty brown. The two hues that you've always struggled to nail down, trying to guess if it was one or the other, but it's actually both. Delicate flecks of silver and muted bronze. It's like the cosmos are held within in his eyes, nebulous, stardust and sunlight, caught within the cradle of his skull.
Just like the rest of him, his eyes are pretty. So, so pretty—
A burn bites at the edge of your thumb, and were you not used to it, you might have dropped your lighter. The pain douses you with reality. You snap back into yourself, and it's with a cold realization that you become aware of how close you've leaned within Tamsy's proximity. So close that the point of your nose is separated from him by only a few scant inches, close enough that if you angled your head by a hair or two, they'd brush against each other.
You flick your Zippo shut with an abrupt jerk of your wrist. The noise cuts across the atmosphere, seeming to sever through whatever spell clouded your judgement and made you tilt towards him, back bowed like a flower straining to reach the sun.
The dark engulfs the shack once again, and while under its cover you allow yourself to lean back. The chair groans with the shifting of your weight, a punched out, thin noise. Your palm squeezes tight around your vital instrument, fingers sweeping over the engravings made into the metal, the familiar texture of scales and the shallow lines that make flared wings felt beneath your thumb.
You don't hold onto it for much longer even though letting it go feels like giving up a lifeline. You slip it down safely inside the front pocket of your pants, and you cherish the weight of it on your thigh.
The shadows aren't enough to protect you. They can't make you feel unseen. You're terribly exposed, stuck underneath the persistent hold of his stare. But it's the subtle press of his knees against the front of your legs that give you no other option but to be aware of how near he is.
"Did you finally figure it out."
It creeps out lowly through the dark, satin gliding, rich and delicate. The sound of his voice makes you motionless. As angelic as it is, something about it makes ice scatter over your flesh, goose bumps raising; unsettled and captivated all at once.
"What?" You ask dumbly.
"My eyes, remember?" He clarifies, and he almost sounds amused. "You wanted to know what they looked like."
"Oh, yeah." You adjust on your seat again. A simple attempt to keep your mind centered on something that isn't him. He's so close that you can smell him, clean musk and resin. Far more mouthwatering than he has any right being considering that he spends his days fighting sentient garbage piles.
"You seem nervous."
There's barely any light to properly see. It's all vague outlines and silhouettes and yet he's still able to see you so clearly. You're sure he can hear it, the wariness held inside of your voice, the way it trembles around its fringes.
"I do?" You're playing dumb now. Like feigning ignorance might save you from wherever this interaction is heading. You already know that it's a lost cause. Worse than the need to stay afloat, to try and keep ahead of whatever this conversation is, is that you don't think you'd actually mind getting swept under it. Not really.
"You do," he replies. Point blank, blunt. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you? We are teammates after all. It's important that we're able to speak to each other about things that might make us uncomfortable."
His amiability chills you to the bone for reasons you can't name, not even after all this time. But it makes that stupid, starved thing inside your chest grow bigger, throbbing like a hunger pain. You like it when he gets like this, caring, gentle. It makes the paranoia that haunts the corners of your mind go numb. The longing that you've been carrying with you, an open chasm, a wound torn behind the protection of your ribs cage, is placated. Soothed by words that you've always wanted to hear.
It's awful, more than a little pathetic how deeply you want him.
You really are hopeless.
"I know—"
You don't get the opportunity to try and save yourself. To make excuses and pull yourself back together, because the chance is stolen from you before you could take it.
His hand cups the side of your face. You stop breathing.
This isn't the first time he's touched you. It's pretty common to sustain injuries on the job, and on occasion you've all helped each other as best as you can while out on the field. As a team, you're all familiar with the motions of cleaning lacerations made by trash beasts or making temporary braces for sprained ankles and wrists while out on the field. You've done it for Delmon and Tamsy before and they've done it for you. Caring for each other is all second nature, as easy as breathing, and the skin-on-skin contact is obligatory.
But this is so much different. This isn't done out of necessity. He already had your attention and he knows that, and yet he's gone out of his way to hold you anyway. His palm is warm, fingers spanning around your ear, thumb moving in a short caress over the swell of your cheekbone. A gesture so small it almost didn't seem real.
It leaves you stuck. Seized under the tender weight of his hand.
When he speaks next, it's said softly. Like he's making a confession that he only trusts you with. "You know, you worried me earlier today, trying to take on all of those trash beasts all at once. It's been a while since you've been so impulsive. If I'm being honest, it worried me a bit."
Suddenly you're stripped bare. Exposed in a way that you haven't been in a long time. And he is right. You haven't been so reckless in a while, not since you'd first become a Cleaner. Back when you were a little younger and had something to prove. When you would run directly into the fray without bothering to properly gauge the situation before you did. You didn't worry about danger, or death. All that mattered was that you would become stronger, that your worth to the team would be solidified. Made undeniable.
But today hadn't been that. You were trying to outrun your own thoughts, and combat, the heat of your fire scorching earth and breathing metal, is the surest way to do that. You hadn't bothered heeding Tamsy's warning from where it rose out behind you. You only acted, ignoring him because it was easy, because it got under his skin. Charging in towards monolithic jaws flashing with jagged, steel teeth, flames pouring from your instrument in a blaze. It was all to try and escape the pandemonium inside your head. To shake free of the voice that murmurs and chants that you can't trust him, you never could.
That can't be the truth though, can it? He's here now, crouched in front of you, holding onto your cheek as though you're something fragile and important. Like you could break if he handled you too roughly, and he's trying to diligently to keep that from happening.
You've encountered manipulative people all your life. Those who only wanted to use and pick you clean for all you were worth, demoting you down to little more than a tool. A thing to be used and cast aside once your purpose had been fulfilled. Murderers, petty thieves, the lowest of the low who feed on the weak and indulge in cruelty, they all have the same look in their eyes. And Tamsy isn't one of them. You know this, and yet that little voice, the very one that kept you alive when you'd lurk within grimy alleyways and fight inside blood-soaked basements for money, won't shut up.
It screams from the sidelines, demanding to be heard. But for the first time in what seems like forever, you choose to ignore it.
You draw in a tight breath, all but willing your lungs to expand in order to draw in a gulp of oxygen, and you hope that it will help clear your head. All you want to do now is lean into him. To bask in the warmth his skin provides.
"You're right," you admit. "It was dumb of me. I don't know what I was thinking."
"You weren't." The tension that seeps into his tone surprises you. The faintest traces of irritation coiling underneath his usual placidity in an undercurrent. A riptide you didn't realize you were wading towards. A tremble skips down your spine, but it isn't out of fear. It's a different animal entirely. One that you always knew was there, pacing around the corners of your subconscious, but one you never dared to confront. But it's here now, and with him so close, the traces of his body heat and scent curling around you, you have to see it for what it is.
Maybe it's the darkness the storm provides that emboldens you, but something that feels a lot like courage ignites deep in your gut, white-hot and vibrant. You're no stranger to having disagreements with Tamsy. You're both able to go from squabbling to being cordial at the flip of a switch, a phenomenon that not even you understand. But it's so common that the occasional back and forth's have long since become a facet of your dynamic that everyone back at HQ has accepted. And whatever this is — this new, unexplored territory that's expanding out in front of you, seems a lot like that. It's perilous but also perfectly familiar, an intoxicating blend that nearly blindsides you with how much you like it.
You lips shape into a smile, one that he must feel more than he sees. The corner of your mouth twitching beneath the heel of his palm. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?"
He actually leans closer to you. You hear the rustle of fabric as he moves, and your eyes struggle to track the vague outline of his body when he tilts his head up to properly assess you. He watches you through the shadows, eyes narrowed. But it's not aggressive. It's the heavy-lidded look that comes from someone who's intrigued. Who's been surprised and pleased with an outcome they didn't expect.
His breath sweeps over your face and the hand on your face flexes like he's tempted to squeeze. Like he might sink his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises while he pulls you in closer.
"No."
All of a sudden, you're standing in front of a yawning precipice. A chasm that runs deep. One that if you dare to step forward and plummet, you might not come back out the same. But the trepidation that might have held you back once seems to thaw. Snow bared to smoldering coals.
"Is there some way that you might be able to forgive me?"
You hardly recognize yourself. The voice that reaches your ears is hardly your own. You've teased him before but never like this. All of the taunts that you've snubbed at him in the past have been out of irritation or a playful malice, but this is provocative. Saturated with something hungry and wanting. You don't even know what you're doing at this point. But that's a complete lie isn't it. You know exactly what you're doing, you just don't want to admit it. To confront how debased you've become by nothing more than the weight of his hand.
For one dreadful minute, he's silent. It makes your stomach drop. You second guess everything in a matter of seconds. Terrified that maybe you've stupidly misread the signals you though he was sending. That you were seeing things that weren't really there — that you've gone and made a damned fool of yourself.
You almost pull away entirely, jerk out from his grasp, but then you feel it. His thumb moves. A light glide, dragging over your cheek, navigating softly. It's almost agonizing how slowly he trails it over your face, as though he's memorizing the feel of your skin, leaving fire in its wake. And then his thumb settles, right there along the corner of your mouth to tease over the shape of your lower lip. Feeling you in a way he never has before. Intimately. With a quiet admiration.
It's not even intentional when your jaw parts open, tongue lapping like he might actually let you taste him, but the press of his thumb doesn't move from where he's left it. It leaves you starved for it. Longing for the simple taste of his skin.
This whole thing has gotten out of control. You aren't sure how you've even managed to find yourself here, but all of your shame has apparently left your body because you hardly care. There's no humiliation stinging at your cheeks, no worry shrieking from the fringes of your mind. There's only him.
"Is that what you'd like to do?" He asks, and it's layered in mockery. Scathing in that gentle way of his. It makes your body burn. "Apologize properly?"
You have no idea what 'properly' entails, but it your imagination runs wild with the possibilities. Each one lewder and filthier than the last. It should cloud you with mortification, but it doesn't. Because this isn't the first time your mind has been flooded with obscene images, all revolving around Tamsy, the very guy that you've been futilely trying to convince yourself to hate. Endlessly feeding yourself the unfounded notion that he can't be trusted. And yet nearly every night, while you're alone and too awake to properly fall asleep, the fantasies always creep in. Involuntary and pornographic. You can't even get yourself off anymore without picturing that it's his hands coasting over your body, playing with you just right and not your own.
You don't fight it. Not like you used to. You tried hard in the past not to visualize him. It used to feel dirty and wrong, imagining your co-worker while you had yourself spread open on your bed, fingers working deep inside of your cunt, but it couldn't be helped. An incurable sickness. One that couldn't be shaken by reason or denial. The guilt, the shame was never enough to keep your mind from taunting you, bleaching images of him across your eyes. Always him.
So you shouldn't be surprised that you've found yourself here. Maybe this was always bound to happen. You were just resisting the inevitable, fighting an uphill battle all this time.
"Yes," you answer. Something inside you seems to fall loose at the admittance. A strip of armor cracking and falling, exposing the tender sinew that lies beneath.
His eyes are there, even in the dark, made visible only by how near he is to you. His attention has a weight of its own. He's studying you, watching like you're the most fascinating thing in the world, pinned under his palm. When his thumb begins to move again, slipping around the center of your bottom lip, you feel as though you're being tested. Like he's waiting to see if you'll flinch or yield. But you don't.
You meet his stare through the shadows, and lean into the pressure of his touch. A challenge going unsaid. A soft noise leaves him, something like a sigh, barely heard under the wailing of the storm and the metallic whine of the shack shifting and breathing beneath its angry squalling. But you manage to hear it regardless, the anticipation held inside the sound of it.
His thumb pushes in your mouth, and all of your thoughts draw down into a blank. The weight of it drags over your tongue, the traces of salt on his skin spreading across your palate. Your jaw drops further, letting him press it in deeper until the second knuckle sits right against your lips, and then he just holds it there. His other fingers are still spanned across your face, curling around the hinge of your jaw to keep you still. Not that you have any desire to slip away from him now.
Something about him like this, thumb held in your mouth, staring at you with an intensity that burrows down into your bones makes you realize how alone you are out here. It's just you and him, hidden underneath the cover of a violent storm. He could do whatever he wanted to you out here, and no none would be able to save you. It's a thought that would have haunted you before, it still might deep down, but in a way that's completely twisted, it's also thrilling.
You can't keep yourself from sealing your lips around his thumb and sucking. Lapping the tip of your tongue around the length of it with a contented hum.
He doesn't so much as twitch. He remains composed, annoying unaffected. But you can see the faintest glimmer of it in the dark. Smoldering in his stare, lurking within his flat stare. Hunger.
"Are you actually going to listen? You didn't earlier today, running headfirst into danger like a common idiot."
The thumb in your mouth presses down more, almost painful in its pinch, the pressure sitting right on the edge of being uncomfortable, but you don't allow yourself to jerk beneath it. You stay firm, suctioning your mouth around it as best as you can, your throat bobbing while you swallow down the spit that's begun to pool behind your teeth.
"You deserve to be reprimanded, don't you think." But it isn't a question. He's not really asking at all. It's embarrassing how it makes the nerves across your body light up, pale tension coiling deep inside the base of your stomach. Whatever shred of resistance your psyche might have been holding onto evaporates, tugged easily from the back of your mind like the threads of sun-bleached satin clutched in a controlling grip. Roots plucked from soil.
You don't remove your mouth from his thumb, you keep it there. Opting instead to answer him in an agreeing hum, nodding your head in confirmation, and the motion has your lips dragging up and down the finger in a lazy glide. Softly fucking it on your tongue like you would a cock.
His eyes blaze despite the schooled expression on his face. The only indication that you've had any impact on him at all. It has satisfaction curling around your spine, smoky and languid.
"We could keep this mouth of yours busy," he supplies conversationally, but it's mean spirited. All mockery because he's still got your mouth occupied, stuffed full around the gag of his thumb. "But something tells me you'd enjoy that too much. It would make a lousy punishment for someone so desperate."
The point of his thumb bears down on the flat of your tongue. Enough that pain smarts, darting across the sensitive nerves, bright and sharp. You almost wince, tears threatening to well up along the corner of your vision, but you level yourself through the sting. Determined to keep your composure, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing you tremble.
"Wouldn't it?" He asks, tilting his head inquisitively. He doesn't wait for you to even attempt to answer. He does that for you, using the leverage of the grip his still has around your face to nod your head for you.
It's sadistic. Arrogant. A side of Tamsy that you've never witnessed. Even during your little spats he's hardly been comparable to something like this. He may get annoyed, voice clipped and strained with exasperation, but he'd never been so needlessly cruel.
And somehow, you like it. You actually like it.
"Hmm." His voice glides out, silk coasting on air. It makes you thrum with anticipation, every ounce of you electrified with what he might possibly do to you, but then he's retracting his thumb from your mouth, intentionally smearing spit across your lips as he does it. You feel dazed, and it has you struggling to track him once he moves, abruptly standing up from how he was crouched in front of you. His body unfurls in the dark, the pale hue of his dual-toned hair shifting from how he cocks his head and appraises you.
You probably look pathetic. Eyes glazed over, mouth parted from how you pant around your stuttering breath. You're thankful once again that it's too gloomy in here to properly see all the proper details because you must be a dazed mess, and he hasn't done anything to you yet.
"Stand up." That all he says to you before he steps away, footsteps brushing along the floor as he returns back over the other side of the room, reclaiming his seat on the tattered sofa.
You just sit there, for a second or a few minutes, you can't exactly tell. Time seems to blur into an undefined circle. A thought forms, temporary, as delicate as mist. Are you really going to do this?
Once you open this door, once you step past its threshold, there will be no going back. You won't be able to turn around a pretend that it never happened. When it's done, it's done. You'll have to live with the truth of it. That you've seen Tamsy in a way that you've never imagined you actually would. Remembering how his skin tasted on your tongue, the heat of it, how his voice sounded in your ears, degrading and smooth. That's all it takes for you to have your answer. To make a decision. You shed the final remnants of your hesitation and stand.
You cross the space dividing you carefully. Treading slowly as though he's a threat that might strike. But he remains poised, trained on you as you draw closer. You don't let yourself stop until you're directly in front of him.
He considers you for a moment, lashes low while he stares, a lazy kind of focus. Unbothered and appeased. Like a predator that's convinced its prey to walk directly into its open maw.
"You're going to strip yourself of your clothes and then you're going to lie down across my lap." It's matter of fact, delivered as though it's a future that's already been done. As though he's managed to peek inside of your mind and found that you won't resist him. That for all of your bite, all of the petty arguments you've entertained in the past, here and now, he's got you pliant. Or that's what he believes, at least.
"And if I don't?" You challenge, brows raising even though he probably isn't able to fully see it.
"Then you get nothing." And with that he snuffs out whatever little bit of superiority you had. Out like a light. It's not cold per say, it's just said with the briskness of someone who's already made their mind up. A person who won't be dissuaded and you hate it because you know that Tamsy isn't the kind of individual who relents easily. You'll have to play by his rules or not at all.
"I always knew you wanted to get me naked, Tamsy." You're reaching for security at this point, falling back into the safety of your usual dynamic to try and keep yourself from feeling so unmoored.
"Well, the same could be said about you, couldn't it? After all, our rooms are right next each other, and the walls seem so terribly thin sometimes, don't they."
You think your heart quits beating. It's pulse hiccupping inside of your chest before flatlining all together. Horror drapes over your body like a second skin, too tight and itching, made worse by the embarrassment that sinks down to your gut like a rock.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He's smiling now, the bastard. "Oh, was I not supposed to hear? What a shame, you sounded so pretty saying my name like that. And here I thought you were putting on a show just for me." He pretends to be hurt, voice raising in a playful but biting lilt.
Your mouth opens to defend yourself, to call him out on being a pervert, but the words never leave your mouth. It would be another case of the pot calling the kettle black. You realistically couldn't accuse him of being a creep without owning the fact that you really weren't any different, getting yourself off to thought of a co-worker who you had assumed was ignorant to your perversions. But it makes you both a little depraved, doesn't it. Dirty. And you like it, knowing that the each time you've been in your room, toying with your own body, pumping your fingers inside of yourself, he's been on the other side of the wall. Hanging onto each sound and muffled moan, just as eager and wanting.
He pats his lap invitingly, the soft thump of fabric on fabric rustling beneath the wailing tempest. "Come one now, there's no need to be shy."
You don't allow yourself to hesitate, fueled only by the desire to prove to him that you aren't some timid thing that he can humiliate and back into a corner. You make steady work of your uniform, working on your coat first, shedding it from your shoulders and allowing it to fall to the floor behind you. It meets the wooden boards with a dull thump. The tight fit of your undershirt comes next. Slipped over your head and discarded alongside your coat.
You're emboldened by the dark. To him, you must be nearly undiscernible, made from shadows and the weak traces of light that have been begun to peek through the barricaded windows. You don't waver or worry about how your body might look; you only focus on your current goal.
You work your boots off next, sliding them to side with the nudge of your foot so that your pants will be able to pool down freely around your ankles once you unzip them. You thumb them off alongside your underwear, hooking your fingers through the elastic band and the belt loops to aid you in rucking them past the shape of your hips. Once they're around your feet, you slip them from around your ankles and step out of them.
Now you're completely naked. Bare with only the exception of your choker, the temperature cold on your neck. His blood is housed inside the cord, clasped directly around your throat, and the thought of that alone turns you on more than it should. Carrying a piece of him always, secure around your flesh.
You don't give yourself the chance to think any longer. If you think, you'll hesitate, and there's no place for that now.
He pulls his arms from his lap when you lean over him, allowing you to plant one of your knees on the sofa, using the support to begin settling yourself over his thighs. You hold your breath when you stretch yourself over him, stomach balled into knots with the suspense of it all, the vulnerability of it. You're right on top of him, so close that your body thrums with the proximity. Everything in you is pulled taut, muscles bunched, lungs tight.
He gives you the curtesy of getting comfortable at your own pace. Remaining silent as you settle on your knees and elbows, smoothing your body downward until your stomach is stretched flat upon his lap, snug within the cradle of his thighs and torso. You fold your arms over the other, using it as a way to rest and prop your head, cheek pillowed on the length of your forearms.
He hums like he's content once you go still. A syrupy sound that pours from him like honey. The graze of his hand follows soon after, the curl of his knuckles and thumb gliding exploratorily down back of your neck to tease across the divot of your spine. It's the kind of touch that someone would hold something delicate with, porcelain or fine glass. Handled with reverence, as though you might shatter into a thousand tiny shards if he were to be too harsh. And it continues downward, sweeping low until he's curiously palming the swell of your ass. Somehow, it doesn't even feel sexual. It's appreciative, like an artist molding clay with their fingertips.
It has something guarded but soft splitting apart inside of you, weeping open with the desire to be held and cradled. A gasp escapes you without you meaning for it to happen, shuddering and dim. As though even your body was reluctant to release it, but it couldn't be contained. The warmth of his palm sweeps over you, fingertips tracing over your hips and ass, tensing to grope and squeeze at the fat.
You didn't expect to be handled this carefully, and if you weren't in the right head space, it might have broken you.
"How many do you think we should do." It's murmured in a way that you know isn't truly directed at you, a musing only for himself. Coasting over the form of your body like satin. "How about four. One for each beast you tried to face without thinking. Hm, no. That seems too easy." His pats you on your right cheek, deceptively gentle considering what he has in store for you. "Let's double it then. Eight strikes in total for misbehaving. You'll be able to handle that, won't you?"
You're already wet and it's humiliating. Arousal damp, leaving your pussy to clench around nothing.
"Yes, I can handle it," you choke out.
"Really. Let's test that, shall we."
You don't get to linger on how the tone of his voice spikes, raising the slightest degree with what sounds suspiciously like delight. You hear the impact before you feel it. A sharp, pronounced crack that splits across the heady air like kindling being broken over a knee. And then comes the pain. White-hot, doused over your nerves in a rush that throbs.
It has you more shocked than anything. You expected him to take things slow, to work you up into it, but maybe you were just being delusional for trying to convince yourself of that. The way he had dug his thumb onto your tongue earlier should have proof enough that he wasn't going to be sweet. He's bearing his full weight into his arm. Hitting you strongly enough that you know you'll be tender after this, skin inflamed and sore. Covered with bruises that will take weeks to heal.
"What the fuck, Tamsy—"
"Is it too much for you?" He asks, but there isn't an ounce of care to heard. It's all mockery. Gloating sadism.
"No," you grit through clenched teeth.
"Good. Then start counting."
You center yourself with a deep breath, stilling yourself as the flare of pain decreases and melts into a raw pleasure. Violent but blissful in its own right.
"One— "
He doesn't let you get the first number out before he's striking you with the second blow, palm flat and harsh, brought down directly over the same cheek that he's already hit. Absolutely determined to leave you tender, wracked with pain and pleasure. It makes you toes curl, muscles flexing as the hurt sears through you.
"Two." You spit it out like its toxic and dig your nails into the sofa's worn fabric in a feeble attempt to brace yourself.
"There you go," he coos. "So you can be good. You just need a little directing. A firm hand to keep you in check."
His words, as much as they piss you off, reach some needy part of you. The one that longs to please, to be wanted and kept. Captured and embraced. A feeble thing, starved for attention. The musical cadence drips inside your ear like sap, saccharin and intoxicating. You find yourself arching your back, spine bowing to press it against the palm of his hand when he sweeps it over your ass, soothing and irritating your screaming nerves all at once.
His sweetness is temporary. In a blink, he draws his arm back and brings it down where you're still raw, one, two strikes in quick succession. It douses you in liquid fire, a burn that has more cum smearing down your inner thighs, soaked and shameless. It ebbs through in deep, vibrant rolls, cresting over the other, and you have to concentrate to breathe through it. Manually urging your lungs to expand and contract around the air.
Through the haze you just barely remember to count the two hits. You breathe around your voice, a trembling noise that sounds pathetic to your own ears, but your mind has become too muddled for you to truly care about things like pride. Your ego having been weighed down, buried underneath the brutal ecstasy boiling through your veins, clouding your skull in an intoxicating vapor.
"Look at you, you're already halfway there," he says, managing to praise and degrade you in a single purr. "Such a pretty thing for me."
You moan without meaning to. The sound is more of hitch. A strangled whine, but it pours out you anyway, lewd and punched out. Everything about it is jarring. The noises coming out of you, the sting of his hand, this entire interaction. It's all unexpected. Never in a million years would you have imagined that you would actually end up here, naked and laid out on Tamsy's lap in the middle of sandstorm. It almost makes you laugh, delirious, but you swallow it down before it can escape.
He's like a juxtaposition. Balanced dangerously between tender and malicious. He's usually so soft spoken and demure, you should have known he'd be a sadist—
He traces a finger over your pussy, gliding it down over your entrance to soak it in your arousal. It's dirty how he smears it, a second finger joining in to crudely slip over your clit and then back up again. Back and forth, over and over, feeling the way you involuntarily clench around nothing when he circles the tips over your hole, spreading you open. You're so soaked that you can hear it, how wet it is.
You nearly get lost in it, hips lifting on their own to chase after the pleasure, but you should have known better. You should have expected it. His fingers leave you, and you aren't able to mourn the loss, to complain like you want to. He touches you again, but it isn't with a hand that gives. It isn't gentle or rewarding. It's an open palm, flat and firm, brought down directly against your cunt.
It's molten. Light explodes behind your eyelids — you hadn't realized you'd squeezed them shut from the impact — bright and searing, the blaze of a thousand suns. The hit seems to reverberate through you, sparking through your blood and setting your skin ablaze in a confused torrent of a rapturous torment. It is painful, but truly it's the surprise of it that really gets you, muddling every thought in your brain, burning them down into ash, insignificant. Leaving you dazed and helpless, caught within the cage of his body while everything seems to roll through your entire being.
You're tempted to lash out at him, to call him out for neglecting to at least give you a proper head's up, but the words melt on your tongue, turning into another useless whine.
". . . asshole." That's all you can manage. A weak insult on a shuddering breath.
His free hand settles on the back of your neck, fingers looping around your choker and gripping it until the cord hugs your throat, making your lungs feel tight, airways shallowly restricted from the pressure. It makes you lightheaded.
"No, I don't think that's the word you're looking for. Did you forget to keep count?" He taunts. Sharp teeth disguised behind the veil of geniality. "If you can't remember, then maybe we should start over all again. Give you the chance to get it right."
Alarm reaches you despite the haze, lighting splitting through fog. Your head tries to tilt, just enough for you to glare at him from over your shoulder but the press of his hand on your choker keeps you pinned. Cheek held down on the couch from where it's slipped off of the folded support of your forearms, skin shoved on worn polyester. You can just barely make him out from the corner of your peripheral vision if you strain enough, and your eyes meet his over the slope of your shoulder. They're just as tranquil and unfazed as they always are, pale in the darkness, watching you with the relaxed satisfaction of a predator that's got its pray trapped between its claws.
A taunt is right there, on the tip of your tongue. Burning hot like the point of a heated poker, but the insult never comes. Instead, there's a shaky exhale, and then: "Five."
Disappointment echoes through you, scathing like a venom, but it's vanquished just as quickly as it appeared. Extinguished underneath the tide of pleasure that froths up when you see how gratified he looks when you give him the response he wanted. He's smiling, like the smarmy jack ass he is. It's one you've never seen on him before. There's an element about it that's alarming, lips pulled just a bit too wide to seem normal. Stretched to a degree that hangs on the fringes of the uncanny valley. Gloating, arrogant, inhuman. Eyes glinting with a fervid contentment. The expression of someone who's relishing in the sight of you vulnerable, quaking from the rousing blend of pleasure and pain.
You've seen him smile before, of course, but never anything like this. They're always soft, pleasant, showing a kind of quiet restraint and manners. Nothing like this, all sharp edged and cruel spirited. But some twisted little part of you, small and buried deep behind your ribcage, seated between the crevice of your lungs and sinew, likes it. It would creep you out — it should, but you're already a lost cause. You were since the moment he held your face with his hand. Probably further than that, honestly. All those quiet moments in the bar, sipping on bad booze and lazing in each other's company, every time he's protected you against trash beasts and traffickers, have all lead to this and you were just too blind to see it.
He had you from the very start.
His fingers caress between the apex of your thighs, calming the sting he made. The cool temperature of them is a balm on the ache, and you can't help the way your eyelashes flutter, how you sigh in relief when deft fingertips trace low to circle your clit. The pleasure melts through you, draining the tension from your muscles. You go lax across his lap instantly, turned docile with only a few nimble strokes of his fingertips.
"See. This is how things can be when you don't act like a brat."
You hum in response. The scowl you meant to flash him ruined by how your eyes squeeze shut instead. Lulled into a stupor by the way he's still pulling at the choker around your neck, keeping it firm around the base of your throat, and the steady rhythm of his fingers on your clit has your reasoning turning liquid.
"But you've only got three more to go. Keep being good for me, and I might just reward you after." He leans in just a little then. Enough that you can feel the strands of his navy hair tickle over the flat of your back, drawing out a shudder that trembles through your bones. "Do you think you can manage that?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
Your brows cinch close, lips parting dumbly. It's instinctual to want to snark back. And there's bubbling under the surface, and you can tell he can see what you're contemplating. Recognition dances in his eyes. It isn't frustrated but delighted. Like the prospect of you defying him would only entertain him. The temptation to oppose him is there. To offer some scathing jibe.
But it doesn't come. You're shocked by the discovery, how the vexed heat beneath your skin simmers and dies. You're tired of the constant fighting. The resistance, the battle you've been ceaselessly struggling against. For just this once, if only for an hour or few minutes, you'd like to simply exist. You don't want to think, you want to feel.
Your gaze softens, the fire in your eyes reduced to sparks that extinguish into cinder. You swallow unsteadily around the saliva that's pooled inside your mouth, and the flex of your throat strains against the restriction of the choker. "Yes, sir."
"There's my good girl. I knew she was in there, buried down behind all of those petty insults, the stupid fighting. You really needed this, didn't you?" Something like a laugh puffs from him then, pleased with himself. "Well, I suppose I don't have to ask that. I already know you did with how often I got to hear you moaning my name like some cheap slut late at night. All worked up over your fingers. I wonder what you'll sound like on mine."
Of course that's when he chooses to slip them inside of you, two at once, agile and long, stretching you open. You gasp into the sofa, a ragged moan, drawn out like you've been wounded breaks from you. Your cunt spasms at the abruptness of it but ultimately yields to the intrusion. You're so wet already that they slide in without any resistance, your body giving in. Your hips move on their own, gingerly rolling to try and build the pleasure deeper.
He's hard. You can feel him right there against your stomach, prodding at you through the thick layers of his clothes, and you can't help but to loathe the fact that he's still wearing them. You don't want to get your hopes up, but he feels heavy, long based on how the length of his cock spans along the shape of your abdomen.
Your jaw drops when he curls his fingers and strokes them in further, and it feels so good. Each brush and crook building up a delicious euphoria that flows through you, thick and smoky. Every drag earns another noise, low and thin, but you can't keep them back. It all floods from you uninhibited, spilling like wine from a tipped over chalice. And it makes you greedy, spine bowing into a bigger arch, arms lifting as much as he'll allow to push yourself back on the stretch of his fingers. When you moan this time, it's not another insult, but his name. Spoken out on the foggy atmosphere as though it were a prayer.
"Knew you'd sound prettier like this," he hums. "Those pathetic fingers of yours just weren't cutting it, were they."
But his generosity is temporary; it always comes at a price. His fingers are gone, slipped out of you without a single warning, and the gutted sob that leaves you is pitiful. There's no chance to mourn the loss or to curse him for it. The weight of his palm connects with the swell of your ass with a sharp impact, one that leaves you reeling, nails clawing at the sofa to cling for a shred of stability.
"Six," you hiccup. The word leaves you without a single thought, as though it's become instinct. Second nature.
"Very good." Simple praise, but you're suspended on it.
The next comes just as swift, just as brutal as the previous. Except it hits lower, right there over the back of your pussy where he still has your thighs spread open. It makes your teeth clench, involuntarily writhing as the affects of it lash through you, making your eyes roll when you shudder. The grip he has on your choker keeps you centered through the barrage. The fingers he has around the cord release so that he can sweep them over the nape of your neck, reverent in its touch.
"Seven."
Anticipation draws up in the pit of your belly, it pools down between your thighs, and you want it so badly. The hurt is rapturous, the ache made from the first blow merging and growing when he delivers the final hit. It lands directly over your cunt, the splay of his fingers sparking a heat over your clit that's so intense, you swear you almost come.
You body clenches like it just might, pleasure lapping through your marrow, twisting like a hot coil in the cradle of your hips, but the release never crests. It just stays there, holding you in an awful limbo. One with no beginning or end. You're stuck, right on the precipice of ecstasy. So close that you can taste it, vivid and bright, but just outside of your reach.
"Eight," you manage. Watery from unshed tears. You don't even realize that you've started begging until you feel your voice reverberating through your throat, airy and desperate. A string of, "Please, Tamsy. Please, I wan' it."
"You do, do you?" He asks, but it's performative. Meant to humiliate you more than you already are. But you can't manage to be humiliated at all with how starved you become for it, soaked and aching. "You want me fuck you. Think you've earned it?"
You're nodding, no contemplating, no hesitation. "Yes. Yes, please. I'll be good. I swear."
It's quiet for too long, and his hands don't move. Firm around your neck, the other traces unintelligible shapes and symbols on your ass, making the tender flesh more sensitive, aggravating the nerves. You hiss at the throb, but you don't flinch. You're too focused on the moment, of the feel of him under you, the steady fluctuation of his chest rising and falling, the warmth of him. Grounding, pleasant. And yet it manages to slip your notice that his hands have shifted until it's too late.
In a disorienting blur he's shoving you further up the couch, using the gap between your bodies to lift himself out from underneath you. The material of his uniform rustles and drags over the sofa, the heavy drape of his coat framing your waist as he leans over your back. His hands are hot and rigid when they close around your hips, latching onto you with the strength of steel bands, enabling him to use the leverage to jerk them up. Guiding your spine into a pronounced arch, giving you no option but to hold yourself up on the support of your knees so that you don't completely collapse in a lust drunk sprawl.
He completely folds himself over you, nudging his head next yours, tracing the point of his nose against your temple. An action so tender that it makes you ache far more than his hand did. His cock drags against your pussy, bare and thick — when the hell did he even pull down his pants? — smearing your arousal over its length. Getting it wet and sloppy, and teasing you all at once.
"If you want it so badly," he pants. "Then take it." His teeth nip at your ear just as he lines up the tip with your pussy and sinks in until his hips are flush with the backs of your thighs. He's so much bigger than you expected, stretching you open, spreading you thin on the length of him. And then you feel it — or them, rather. The rounded points of three individual bars, smooth metal, rubbing across the tight clench of your cunt as he drives himself inside of you, so deep that it robs you of oxygen.
Piercings.
Of course he has his dick pierced.
They feel far better than they have any right to be, providing a texture that you didn't think you ever needed. He fucks himself into you in heavy strokes. Driving so deep that you frantically search for something to hold onto, a single hand blindly reaching in the dark, fingers grasping for anything to hold. When his hand finds yours, straying from the vice grip it has your waist to hold your palm, it's unexpected. Too intimate for whatever this is, but you cling to him regardless, unable to resist.
"Tamsy, I— fuck."
"Just like that, pretty girl." His voice sinks in, hypnotic, tantalizing. "Be good for me and take every inch just like a good slut should."
He fucks you like he's angry. Quick, brutal thrusts as though he's trying to carve himself inside of you. Wet sounds echo throughout the shack, loud and filthy over the howl of the wind. Filling your ears with the crude smack of skin on skin — a damp plap, plap, plap, accompanied by his panting and your unrestrained moans. All of it reverberates off of the metal walls, a ceaseless echo. It's all you can hear, all you can feel is him, inside of you, around you. You still taste the salt of his skin on your tongue, and it makes you crave more.
Your hips lift, greedy to meet the pace he's set, to bring you both pleasure. Pain flares across the tender skin of your ass each time he drives into you, the press of his body amplifying the raw heat sizzling over the inflamed flesh. But the ache of it also intensifies the pleasure. It has it twisting in your stomach, an unforgiving knot, lightning spiraling in taut loops.
You aren't going to last long. You know you aren't; you can feel it. He's worked you up so much already. Shoved you close to that delicious edge with every strike he left on your ass. The bruises that are forming, the tender skin, it all licks through you. The rawness of it hums at your clit. It's like you're being consumed. Eaten alive by the pleasure and pain that seems to douse every inch of you. He has you eclipsed inside of him, the bliss he feeds you, the curl of his body over yours. It's almost too much, but also not enough, and yet you can already feel the orgasm welling up inside of you, blazing, picking you apart piece by piece.
You try to stave it off as best as you can. You don't want it. Not yet. Not so soon, but it's persistent, pooling inside of you like molten honey pouring through your blood stream. Your fingers clench around his hand like it might save you.
"Tamsy, wait, I don't — not yet, please."
"You gonna come?" His voice curls in your ear, condescending and smooth like silk. "But we just started. So pitiful, baby."
He's so cruel, you should have expected it as soon as the hand around your waist vanished. It's back on you less than a second later, shoved directly between your thighs, fingers pressed on your clit.
"Wait," you plead. But he doesn't stop, and it's too late.
You're wound up so tight that all it takes is a few sweeps of those fingertips, the vigorous thrust of his cock splitting you open, the press of his piercings dragging over your walls. You get taken under without any time to brace for it. Abrupt and violent. Everything in you seizes as though you've been electrified, muscles bunching up viciously. Your pussy clenches around him in a vice grip, squeezing to wring out every ounce of bliss from your body, and it makes your lungs too tense to properly breathe. Stars cloud your vision, iridescent and flashing against the dark. Vibrant from how floaty your head has become, thoughts muffled.
Still, you notice through it all, that he's not stopping. He hasn't come yet.
The pleasure is dulling, and what takes its place is too tender and sharp. He's merciless, fucking you despite your hypersensitivity, relentless even when your hips writhe in an impulsive attempt to try and escape the onslaught.
"It's too much."
He lets go of your hand, prying it from your fingers and that makes you whine more than the mean way he's toying with your clit. There's no opportunity to gulp down a proper breath, to plead or beg him for reprieve. His free arm hooks around your ribs, as giving as a band of iron, to haul you up and onto your knees. Fully drawing you into the press of his chest, pinning you onto his body while he drives up into you. No where to run or move. There's not an ounce of give within his hold on you. All you can do is take it, reduced to little more than a doll for him to fuck.
His chin hooks over your shoulder, nose dragging over your cheek when the fervor behind his thrusts jostles you both. Something about the angle has him brushing a little deeper, and the head of his cock strikes that debilitating spot inside of you. The one that makes your spine bow and toes curl.
"You'll come as many times as I want you to." He angles his head lower, lips tracing over sweat-damp skin, and then his jaw is parting open. Teeth sink into flesh. The agony that rips through your split nerves is so awful that the way your pussy clenches tight around his cock almost seems like a betrayal. It shouldn't feel good. You shouldn't like how it throbs with hurt, but you do. The euphoria of it simmers in your stomach, it splashes like a galaxy behind your eyelids, and you whine liked you've been gutted open.
There's a reprimand in the strength of his bite. A claim too, unspoken and hedonistic. It feels like he's cutting his name into you, making a pact with blood and teeth. It confronts you with a reality that you hadn't bothered to ponder until now. What comes after this. How things will be when the high is over and you're both left to face the consequences of what you've done. It leaves you with the horrendous truth that you don't think you'll be able to pretend that this never happened. Now that you've had him like this, breathless in your ears, covered in a sheen of sweat, speaking words to you that you've only ever imagined, there's no way you'll be able to forget it. This. Him.
Your neck goes slack, head lolling onto his shoulder. Your arm feels shaky when you lift it, bones gone lax and useless but you don't let it stop you from raising it up to thread your fingers through his hair. It twines through your grasp like silken threads, water spilling through a tense palm. You don't think when you nudge at his head, urging him to release the pinch of his jaw from around your shoulder. Thankfully he relents, allowing you to guide his head at an angle, and you lean your own so that you can press your lips to his blood stained mouth.
He groans. A throaty noise that tapers off into what could have been a whine. He doesn't pull away like some tiny part of you, briefly ignored by your impulses, had feared. He leans into it, matching your fervent rhythm and then surpassing it, dominating the metallic kiss through an exchange of nipping teeth and the sweep of tongue. Licking into your mouth as though he wants to drink you down. It's sloppy, a little crazed. It's not the kind of kiss you would have initially expected from Tamsy. You always imagined a reverential restraint, prim and gentle, lightly teasing. But this is sybaritic and ravenous.
There's a violence to it, as though you're both trying to consume the other, sinking your teeth into the plush of the others lips. Determined to leave a mark. To stake a claim on each other's bodies. Unified by animalistic desperation. But under the frenzy of it, there is an adoration. It's worship made from the scrape of canines and the smear of spit. It's raw, unrestrained, and in the display of unrestricted lust, is true devotion.
The weight of it splits you apart from the inside. It caves your chest in, turns you vulnerable and bare. But you can't stop. Can't shy away or flee within the safety of yourself. You let it all spill over you, the piety and the affection you feel, as dangerous and startling as it is. Even if it destroys you from the inside out, eats you like a disease, you know you won't stop wanting him now.
You're not in love with him. Not yet, but you're already somewhere hazardously close to it. Balanced precariously on the fringes. One misstep or push and you'll collapse right into its unforgiving embrace.
You want him to devour you whole. You want to swallow him down until you bleed into each other.
The grip you have weaved through his hair tightens, nails clawing down his scalp enough that it must sting. He hisses into your mouth, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he kisses you deeper, his hips drive into you harder, splitting you open on his cock like he wants to wedge himself inside of you permanently.
"Tamsy," you slur, tongue stolen by how he traces it with his own. "Please, I wanna come again. I need it, I want you to fill me up."
"Is that what you want," he murmurs against your lips, the chilled metal of his piercing a shock on your heated, bitten mouth. "But I thought you couldn't handle it. 'It's too much.'" It's a patronizing mimicry of your voice, pitched high and whiney. But you can hear it, how equally affected he is. Breathless and trembling.
It's difficult to be annoyed by his mockery, irritation dwindling into nothing when he draws his fingers around your clit in tight loops, reducing your thoughts into incomprehensible mush. You jerk, still teetering between a limbo of hypersensitivity and the need for more. More friction, more pleasure, more pain, more him.
"I know," you gasp, ribs shuddering from the full body tremble he wrangles from you, keeping you full and spread thin on his girth. The three piercings lined down his cock drag inside of you, brushing up against tender spots, places you didn't realize you had and your eyes nearly go cross from it. "I didn't mean it. I need you, need you to make me come, please." You pepper kisses along the cushion of his lips, soft and adoring, tilting your head back a little further to trail them over and past the corner of his mouth, feeling the texture of his scars. The angle is hell on your neck, straining the muscles, but you can't be bothered to care. Your voice trickles out, a hushed, shameless stream of "Please, please, please, please."
"Should have known you'd be this way. All that snark you always like to give me; you just needed to have it fucked out of you." He groans when your fingers snag at his hair, his hips twitch. "I should keep you like this all the time, pinned down on my cock. Maybe I'd even use Tokushin on you. Have you all bound up and pretty for me."
Your cunt seizes tight around him, muscles flexing while you moan. The thought of it and the persistent strum of his fingers, the roll and grind of his hips has you going dumb.
"Of course you'd like that. You'd let me do anything I wanted to you."
You nod, the movement sluggish and loose, like a bobble head.
"Go on then. Let me see how pretty you are when you come."
It tears through you then, inevitable, bigger than the previous. It engulfs you in its scope, sweeps you under, stronger than the storm raging outside. Your hips jerk, spine arching while you squirm against the band of his arm around your torso. It keeps you trapped. Forced to feel every ounce of pleasure, every inch of his cock as it fucks up into you.
You hear yourself sob from it all. A warbled cry of his name as the ecstasy shreds through you. He groans when your pussy bears down on him, locking him inside to draw out your pleasure. And he doesn't stop either, urging you through your orgasm while chasing after his own. You can hear how wrecked he is, just barely concealing his fracturing composure behind tight gasps and thin whines. Whispering in your ear to guide you through it, hushed praises of "Let yourself have it" and "Keep going. Keep fucking yourself on it, pretty girl."
His fingertips keep stroking over your clit, steady circles that have you seeing stars, making your cunt tighter and sloppy with your cum. And then his hips are lurching, pace made choppy, bouncing you up and down on his length to chase after his own end. He reaches it just as yours begins to ebb, coming deep inside of you with a guttural moan that fades in a hitched whimper. The warmth of his release pulses through you, reaching deep and settling at the seat of your stomach, pooling inside.
He grinds into you, drawing out your shared pleasure for as long as he can, keeping you both floating and intoxicated on the high of it. He stops only once it becomes uncomfortable, the blissful heat fading into something that's too much, too raw for either of you to handle. Both of his arms draw close, encircling your middle, and he drops his head to scatter open mouthed kisses over the wound on your shoulder. Apologetic, doting.
You're too exhausted to move. Panting and loose-limbed, sated with a satisfaction that's rooted in bone deep. You don't resist when he slips himself from you, though it's uncomfortable to enough to make you hiss. The combination of your cum drips from you, smearing down the inside of your thighs, wet and filthy, but you don't voice any complaints. You don't care to despite how gross it feels. You're still happy regardless, shrouded in a fine mist of your elation, body thrumming with balmy aftershocks.
You half expect for the atmosphere between you to turn stale and awkward. For him to nudge you away from him, indifferent now that he's gotten off, but he doesn't. Instead he's drawing you closer while he shifts to settle you both down, sorting out the curl of his limbs until he's able to comfortably splay them out. Carefully directing you until you're both reclined on the sofa, legs tangled, skin slick with sweat, curled into each other like you're the only things in the entire universe that matter anymore.
It's a reflex for your mind to try and take off with what happens next. How this will impact your dynamic, but you shut down that stream of thoughts before they can get out of hand. Sealing them like the tightening of a valve on a faucet. You don't want face reality yet. To stress and concern yourself with the what ifs. For now, you just want to exist. To indulge in the moment, to laze in the warmth of his body against yours, even if it won't last forever. Your neck pulses with the pain of his bite, but there's no anger over the bloodied mark, just peace. The kind of calm that comes with being claimed, accepted.
For now you can just be and bask in each other's presence, consequences be damned.
Right now, there's only you and him. The absentminded glide of his fingers tracing down the divot of your spine, the warmth of his breath caressing the crown of your head, his heart beating vigorously under your ear. Within this pocket of space you've made for yourselves, the wind outside doesn't sound so monstrous. It's no longer the wailing of a lonely animal but a song. One made just for the both of you.
When he speaks next, satin-soft, it's a salve on an open wound. The relief of water flowing down a parched throat, embodied as a hum caressing against your heated skin. "Let's stay like this for now. At least until the storm passes."
You don't argue or resist. You settle, going lax, body curving to fit with his own. You can't help but to smile, your agreement going unsaid but definitely felt by how you tuck yourself into him, turning your face into the cradle of his neck, breathing in his scent.
You can't imagine anywhere else you'd rather be right now.
You don't notice the unsettled chill that creeps up your spine.
𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 — Where you hate Tamsy’s guts. The fact that you two have had a prior… backa-and-forth, doesn't mean you’ll suddenly like your fellow Cleaner. You wish he would just shut up, though… regrettably, he's more adept at shutting you up in all the wrong ways.
warnings - 𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢 𝟏𝟖+ porn (fingering) with plot. Tamsy & Reader are ‘something’ with benefits (they have violent tension), Cleaner!reader, gn!reader, female genitalia described, fingering(receiving), clit slapping, rope bondage, edging, implied dubcon, light degradation mixed with patronizing praise (it’s Tamsy), spoilers for Gachiakuta manga.
𝐁𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 - Hello, hello, and welcome! This is my first fic on this blog, so thanks so much for reading it, and it wouldn't have been possible without my editor and peer reviewer @kanapods, who literally read this and gave me enough encouragement to post it, so…here we are! Huge kudos and shoutouts to them, and I hope you enjoy the fic; more to come soon (thinking about an August one next)!
Word count (𝐰𝐜) - 4.5k words
It took Tamsy 2.5 seconds. One moment, you were on the ground rummaging through his things…within good reason…
Next, a violent yank sent you flailing midair, trying to swim through nothing as something coiled around your ankle. A familiar creak as his rope pulled taut, and in an instant, it bound your arms and legs. Leaving you hanging there, helpless and stretched out aloft.
Tamsy looked at your inconvenience, his index finger curled to rest against his chin as he cocked his head slightly. In his other hand, he held the wooden staff of Tokushin at his hip. Strands of navy blue yarn extend from the skein winder like elastic.
Dragging his gaze lazily across the cords that lead to your caught body, his eyes narrow with predatory interest that's borderline feline. The stubble flex of the muscles in the back of your thigh makes his grin lopsided in derision.
“Well, well, well…” He drawled, the hint of his amusement not lost on your ears nor your eyes, despite not being able to see him to know that familiar curl of his lips is gracing his features. Which only makes your annoyance grow despite the best efforts to subdue it.
“What do I have here?” He dragged the words out as he stared intently at the way the blue coils of rope tightened against the deep shades of mahogany skin. It suited you well and made you appear far more timeless and pliant than you previously were.
Catching his lidded gaze as he comes into your view, it burns your cheeks hot. Perhaps it was the embarrassment from being vulnerable under his sadistic inspection or the plain fact that you're caught up in his web. “What are you doing here?” You grit the words out.
His shoes click wordlessly in reply as he pauses at your waist. His eyes lingered on the skin of your wrist as your sleeves slumped down due to your position, dragging upward, swallowing you in his yellow pupilless eyes before he finally answered.
“Here?” He parrots your words sardonically. “I live here, obviously, little bird.” He mocks with candor as he smiles at you, which is less genuine than a ‘fuck you’ from a Raider, which feels more polite than this does.
Bastard.
It bothers you how much he succeeds in always getting under your skin, and it bothers you even more that you like it. Tamsy is a constant pain in your ass, and not only that, you've always been suspicious of his character.
“What were you doing in my room?” His voice cuts through your thoughts, twisting through your ears and pulling tight around your brain.
“Nothing.” You answer, distancing your gaze from him.
“Liar.” He cooed, taking his finger and coiling it around a piece of his blonde hair, rolling it around the pads of his fingers boredly. “Try again.”
“Excuse m—”
“Try. Again.” He interrupts, speaking more slowly as if you hadn't comprehended his request in the first place.
You glare into his eyes; they're like corrupted pieces of gold, once beautiful, now warped and menacing, and you feel a familiar heat crawl up your spine, coiling malevolently in your core and spreading to your legs.
Barking out a laugh, you scoff. “Fuck. You.” You delay your answer with crude words. You couldn't tell him you were looking for that damn book.
Tamsy’s smile curved as he stroked his thumb against his hairline, brushing against the scar on his face. “You get more adorable every time I see you, little bird.”
Adorable. The words are cemented deep in the crevices of your brain. He couldn't be serious, could he? Your stare slits as you watch him, his hair untied from that godawfully large bun, now cascading blonde and navy blue streaks over his shoulders.
His focus peers back to your concentration, catching your eye. Your fingers itch, and despite knowing it's futile, you try to wrench your body from the rope.
Charmed by your sudden exuberance, Tamsy steps back, making a show of admiring your foolish endeavors. As if wriggling like this is more amusing than anything else he's seen in ages, and it's true. He wasn't lying when he called you adorable; you occupied a good part of his thoughts. He'd even praise you for it if he weren't so certain you'd exploit that truth.
He watches the rope dig into your skin, leaving burns. He tuts; as much as he enjoyed watching you fail, that didn't mean he wanted to see you destroy yourself in the process.
With a flick of his wrist holding the Tokushin, your world spins, and your heart lurches. A navy thread snakes out, coiling sinuously around your forearms and snapping them behind your back. The sudden movement makes your heart lurch, and your knuckles press harshly against the small of your back. You lurch forward, pulled until his face is just inches from yours. Your breath catches in your throat, but before you can speak, more strings shoot out, snatching your shins. Your body is hoisted, your back arching delicately, as your world tips upside down.
“Ha. Ha. Ha," you say dryly, staring into the smug smile plastered on his lips.
His gaze lingers on you before tracking the spot he’d caught you snooping. The corner of his mouth ticks up, but there's no warmth in his eyes. He wasn't distracted; his so-called "cute nuisance" wasn't getting away with anything. He knew you were up to no good, and Tamsy would figure it out before the night was over. His eyes snap back to yours, pinning you in place. "I'll ask you again, dear." His fingers trace his distaff idly. "What were you doing in my room?"
You meet his gaze from your upside-down position, unflinching. His pleasant smile strains and thins at your audacity, and with a burst of sarcastic exasperation, he tosses his hands up in mock surrender.
“Fine, your loss. I was considering giving you an easy out.” He shrugs languidly as he closes the distance between you both further. “I know ways to make you talk to me, little bird.” His fingertips abruptly glide, cold and promising, over your thigh. You jerk against the ropes, which cut into you—instantly your face is hot with a feeling you won't dare name. “I’ve done it before; you know I can do it again.”
His words pull your brain into a haze, and you hate that he is right about that fact. “Fuck you,” you repeat, gaze snapping to where you feel the ropes dig against your skin the most. Each strand was meticulously pulled to keep you subdued, like a fly caught in a spider's web.
He purred, "Such foul language, little bird." His fingers spread and pressed against your pelvis, making you take a sharp, shuddering breath through your nose, his name leaving your lips as your back bows.
Grinding the heel of his palm against your lower abdomen, he watches you stifle sounds. “What’s this? Nothing else to spit at me? If I recall properly, you enjoyed this—" The words don't leave him fast enough to catch you craning your head up and spitting on him.
His eyes darken as he regards the liquid trailing down his cheek. Deliberately maintaining your gaze, his tongue flicks out, catching the spittle as he wets his lips. His smile hits you low, and your muscles coil tight before you can stop them. You try to shift your legs; a flicker of instinct sends your thighs clenching, but the movement dies. The rough ropes bite, a cruel reminder that your body is immobile.
Sphereites above, you loathed him sometimes. You squint at his appearance. You figured he’d be out longer, given this was a requested day off, but, like most of your theories, that came to him. This one was wrong. “Where’d you go?” You asked, tipping your chin in his direction.
“You aren't even going to apologize for spitting on me?” He asked curiously, his eyebrows raising as he wiped his thumb around the glossy remnants.
“You enjoyed it, I’m sure.” Your voice is louder, eyes glaring; as if on cue, he places his thumb against his lips, the tip of his tongue catching the remains of your saliva. It bristles you instantly as your face twists in disgust. The previous annoyance has melted, but the clipped edges remain. “I could get seriously injured if you keep me like this too long.” You remark, letting your head fall back to place.
“You enjoy it, I’m sure.” Tamsy mimicked your earlier retort, making you huff. You could only stare up at his face—a serene mask. He looks up, thinking about your question now. “However, since you must know. I went out. I bought a cake.” He stated simply.
Your gaze tries to find the cake he mentions, but as your eyes dart around his person and his desk, you find none. “I shared it with a friend.” He mused simply, grinning to himself as if there were some joke you didn't find.
“Ugh, what the shit, Tamsy—” It’s his turn to silence you; chilled palms rubbed soft, soothing circles along the exposed skin of your inner thighs as he felt the plushness beneath his fingers, his nails skimmed the edges of your skin, watching you shiver.
“Now, now. I answered your question, sweetheart. I think you should indulge me now; that’s fair, isn’t it?” He leans in, whispering against the shell of your ear, causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. He watches from his periphery the way you bite down on your lip, your eyes squeezing shut as your lips tremble. “Absolutely adorable…” He whispered, his lips skimming against your shoulder blade.
Your face heats up at his touch as you glance toward his bookshelf. Various worn covers peek out from the wooden shelf; most of them seem unimportant, but you’re sure that hiding in plain sight is the volume you want. You glance back at him, and he's already been staring at you—his gaze travels toward his bookshelf, and he hums.
“My, my, my. Was the little bird flying too close to the sun?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at you as he looked down at you. Burying his fingers through the strands of your hair, he forces you to stare up at him. “Be good; I quite enjoy your company above anyone else. I’d hate for someone as precious as you to find yourself burned.” His words were cryptic as he sighed.
“You’d burn me?” You ask.
“Never.” He answers almost immediately, before his face wrinkles, annoyed at his own quickness. A flash of something indescribable passes against your eyes as if catching his sudden vulnerability, and he huffs. “Behave.”
“Make me.”
The words fall from your lips like the Holy Grail. It's Tamsy’s turn to shudder, but to the untrained eye, it looks as if he hadn't batted an eye at the bold statement.
“Little brat.” He grits despite himself; there's an enraptured smile forming on his lips. He tilts your chin up, his thumb traces the curve of your lip, dragging the plush flesh of your lower lip down slightly before he leans in. Your breath shortens as you take him in, granted… You were… are here for serious reasons, but he makes your head spin and your thoughts jumble.
You can never focus on your goal with him around, and it seems neither can he. He relishes your gasp as your lips briefly touch their air around you, lost in the polished amber of his gaze. You hadn't noticed his hand gliding beneath your waistband until you felt his fingers sliding against your heat, feeling the wetness there as he dipped his index finger to trail along your slit.
“You’re soaked, little bird.” He announced, pulling his hand away as he stared at his glistening finger, an amused puff leaving his lips, his gaze dropping to the fabric that covers your squirming body. Your arousal bubbles over as he stares at you. Tamsy knew you were right about one thing: you’d certainly get injured if he kept you suspended like this for long.
He makes a decisive tap of the Tokushin staff end to the ground; your body is weightless as gravity shifts, forcing the ropes to contort unyieldingly in your release; your head cocks back as you feel the soft presence of his shoulder cradling the back of your head.
Your gaze flickers up to him, then to your spread thighs. Your breath catches in your throat as you watch transfixed, your thighs itch to open wider—desperate for more than just his temptation. But admitting that means he’d win again. And you aren't in the business to see him pleased with that. So, you let your head fall back to rest against his shoulder, jaw working as you bite down on your tongue to suppress your need.
“You haven't complained yet, so I'm assuming you're trying to see how long you’ll last?” Tamsy teased, "The cold metal of his piercing makes your head spin."
“Will you shut up and put your fingers back in?” You blurt, and you hear him mutter something about it being just one finger—but it doesn't register as you feel his grip hoisting your thighs apart. His cold stare falls to the junction of your thighs while his lower right hand moves to the hem of your attire and takes hold of it. His eyes return to your heavy-lidded ones, and the fabric begins to lift.
Your sense of vulnerability causes your breathing to quicken, drawing in the thick scent of him. A wave of need crashes into you; watching his fingers slither back over you, the ropes against your body pull tighter as your shoulders twitch. You shiver and let out a soft whimper, instinctively trying to shift him closer. However, his grip on your thighs is a vise.
You watch as he slowly continues to pull your pants down, exposing your hips, then legs. His vision follows the movement with unwavering focus, eventually settling on your cunt. His gaze intensifies at the sight with unwavering interest. Pulling your underwear to the side, he watches as the wetness clings to the fabric before hooking his fingers against the damp cloth and pulling them aside.
“Deprived thing, aren’t you?” His voice is smooth as he runs his thumb along your slit. His index and middle fingers graze your wetness before he dips his fingers between your soaking folds.
You exhale with a soft whine.
Angled fingers nestle briefly inside; he drags them with leisure. In and out… the rhythm shocks your body in tandem. The first touch sends your spine jolting as you fight the urge to grind into his fingers; your knuckles curl against the rope digging into the small of your back.
Drenched in your slick, his fingers churn inside of you before withdrawing them—circling your clit in lazy circles. Tamsy watches your mouth fall agape, sadistic pride swirling in his chest. This wasn't a part of his plan, to have such a distraction as you. His nose brushes into the thick ringlets of your hair, breathing your scent in.
Arousal-coated fingers are guided back to you. Stretching you on your back, you lift your head from his shoulder to watch as he presses his fingers against your navel, then slowly drags them down to your folds, leaving a sticky trail behind.
He pauses there, his fingers poised against your entrance. Maintaining unbending eye contact. “Go on, beg me.”
Your mind races trying to pin down exactly what he said.
This wasn't supposed to be happening again; you were here for the Watchman book. You weren't here to—you don't even know what's happening anymore. But, you know it isn't supposed to happen.
His palm presses flat to your sensitive flesh as he slowly starts to press his middle finger in. Making your back arch, “Tamsy—” You quiver, and he coos at your tremble.
He slides his fingers in deep, filling your cunt completely. A cry breaks from your throat, and your forearms dig into your restraints. With bawled hands jerking to the rope for leverage, Tamay groans at the way you clench against his finger. He feels your head fall slack against his shoulder. “Little bird, I haven't even started yet and you’re already squeezing me.” He twists his finger playfully for emphasis. “Don’t tell me you are that desperate for my touch again?”
Asshole.
He still has time to make fun of you with his finger buried inside you? Of course he does. His thumb finds its way to your aching clit, and with one subtle swipe, your body reacts, hips fighting to snap up for more, though a feeble attempt to try his cords has you exactly where he wanted you. His eyes smolder at seeing you like this, unraveling for him. Yearning to be touched. And ironically enough, from the man you claim to hate.
“You’re so…” The words are lost on his tongue as his eyes find yours, half-lidded and salacious. Your eyes had always been a traitorous give. Tamsy leans in, breathing in your need as he feels you stiffen before melting into him. Easing you against him slowly, he feels the coiled spirals of your hair brush his forehead, nuzzling into him. “Tight. So tight for me, little bird.” He finishes his thought, the tease wavering into devotion.
Your gaze wavers to his lips; as if catching the cue, he leans further into you. His lips brush against your soft skin, against your own as you shudder. He's thought about kissing you again for months, and now it's happening, and Tamsy is going to savor it.
Cold metal touches your bottom lip, and tension coils in your body, shaking your shoulders. His lips press against your own, a tense, breathless kiss. Tentatively, you meet his tongue with yours, and for a moment you'd forgotten everything except the kiss, forgotten about his drenched fingertips poised at your entrance…
He snaps them in deep, filling your cunt again without hesitation.
A loud cry breaks from your throat, muffled against his lips, and you dig your restrained hands into the small of your back, the ropes creaking with your jerked movement. Your head wrenches back, your lips trembling, writhing against the stretch. Tamsy bites his cheek, containing his groan at how you feel around him. He lets out a breathless chuckle as he watches you, “Hush, now sweetheart… You're doing so well.”
He barely gives you time to adjust, letting you feel how his fingers fit into you before pulling out and pushing back in, back out, back in, back out.
Faster. Harder.
Your whines do little to curb his interest, if anything entertaining him further. His manic eyes swallow your scrunched face as he curls his fingers again; he continues driving into you, spearing you faster, setting a brutal pace.
The spectacle is so immense you feel like you’re drowning in it. In him. Your thighs tremble with the ropes coiling against the plush flesh, snapping them back in place. You whine from the ache, clamping and squeezing down on his fingers. You can hear the absurd sounds of your wetness squelching beneath his fingertips, making your ears ring and pulse around them.
Your hips buck against his curled fingers, struggling against your moans. Tamsy watches you choke on them. “Really? Fighting me still, little bird?” He grunts as he leans in. “No use in that regard. Let me hear you.” Your faces are so close, his nose almost touches yours as his intense scrutiny ravages your pleasured expression.
In an instant you rebel, shaking your head and jerking your head away. You can hear him audibly click his tongue as his closeness leaves you slightly. “Such a brat.” He forced an annoyed chuckle, punctuating the words as he drove his fingers in and out, making the burn turn into a raging inferno.
“S-Shut up,” you grunt, struggling to keep up and unable to hold his eyes any longer. You quickly turn your head away, your shallow breathing rapid as you try to contain your arousal.
“I’m getting bored with that line.” He scoffs; he looks down between your spread legs. “For a cleaner, you have poor manners.” He mentions enjoying seeing you seated.
Guiding his fingers back, he feels you flutter around them as he drags his knuckles through your folds, coating his fingers with your essence as he nudges your clit. The sensation makes you quiver as you try to arch your body into his touch, desperate for more.
“Fuck—” Catching you off guard as he pulled his hand back again, landing a smack to your slit as you cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. Tamsy smiles cruelly. “I should shut that pretty little mouth of yours for good,” he purrs, dragging his thumb over your clit in dangerously slow and tight circles.
You're so close… You open your mouth, preparing for what you believe the relief of an orgasm would wash over you.
Tamsy pulls his fingers from your weeping sex, spreading them apart with his fingers so he can see the clear strings of your fluids connecting the pads of his fingers to you before he crudely slaps his hand down on your quivering pussy.
Immediately his index and middle fingertips find your clit, rubbing the pain away. He doesn’t waste time. He presses down on the pulsing nub, drawing slow, steady circles that have you crying.
“Tell me what you need,” his voice drops, becoming softer. “Use your words for me, angel.” The endearment is biting as you jerk against your restraints; your mind can't seem to function. Words bubble before fading on your tongue quickly, but the way he stares at you with a merciless fixation. He wants an answer.
“Wanna cum.” "Is all you say," breathlessly, a little unsure of yourself, and loathing the need in your tone.
“Oh? That's what you want. For me to make you cum?” He pesters, reveling in your desire as he grins with manic thrill; basking in the sight of you, he leans in closer. His head dipped down to get a better look at your crumbled pride. The way your eyes droop, glossy with tears, and your lips are bitten and bruised. “Could you be more helpless?” he mocks.
You hate him. It's annoying how he had this ability to have you completely at his mercy with the slightest of touches, your body caving completely with barely any contact.
You whined, fresh tears clinging to your lashes as you tried to close your thighs, the rope too tight. His fingers deliberately push your pelvis as he continues his movements, building up the pressure inside you.
Your hips twitch, trying to shift back and forth in tandem with the motion of his fingers.
He hummed, “That’s it, sweetheart. Show me how much you like that.”
Vexingly enough, his praise motivated you as your hips buck slightly, the pain of the rope exhilarating now. You nod eagerly, unable to form words, earning you a devious smile that makes you clench. His movements start to sway in sync with yours as he adds more pressure, fingers moving faster.
Low in your stomach, a warmth coils and constricts, tightening in anticipation.
With no warning, he gives your overstimulated clit another small swat that almost knocks you out but instead has you convulsing under him.
Your inner walls pulsate around nothing, your clit throbbing. Your head feels as if it were engulfed by the sea; disoriented, your head tips back as your restrained hands dig into your body with such intensity that your nails dig into the small of your back.
“D-don’t stop, don’t stop,” you babble, eyes rolling back as you grind your hips into his wet fingers.
“Desperate little whore,” he teased, nuzzling his face into your neck; his piercing grazes your clavicle. He licks away sweat that beads there, fingers working faster, strumming back and forth against your sensitive nub. Something wet splatters and drips onto the floor below you.
The sound of your wetness gushing onto him and you and to your inner thighs is so loud. You can hear him laughing at your descent, and your gaze snaps toward him. “Don’t look at me like that, sweetheart. If anything, you should thank me; you've been pent up,” he mumbles as he kisses below your ear.
“Fuck, I hate you!” You whine.
The pleasure you denied yourself for so long crashes down on you. On a deep guttural moan, your orgasm rips you apart violently as you choke against the sounds.
“Tamsy!” His name coming from your lips is depraved, and he responds with a low hum.
“I’m here, little bird,” he coos, observing how effortlessly you fall apart.
Your head spins, your hand tightens around the bind's nails digging into skin. As everything surges and rises, your cunt clenches.
He withdraws his fingers from your clit slowly, watching slick tendrils cling to him. He bites back a snort as he places his fingers flat on his palm, slightly nestling his knuckles against your quivering pussy. The way you throb and pulse for him makes his fingers clench as he watches you jerk into it, rolling your hips.
“So cute. See, you were just pent up.” His voice is saccharine and crude, which makes you grind harder against him. Mesmerized by your undulating hips, he starts rubbing his palm into the wet release pooling at your entrance.
You can’t stop moaning, can’t stop shaking. Both of your bodies writhe together, milking your release. Your breathing labored as his fan against your skin.
Slowly, your hips relax, his palm stops rubbing, and both of you become still.
Silence envelops his room, broken only by the sound of breathing.
“Shit.” You huff, your voice hoarse as your head falls back. His shoulder no longer buffers you; your back arches as your blood pools to your head. “What are you doing?” you pant, watching as he steps away from you and moves throughout his room.
His footsteps are wordless as he reaches for a familiar worn volume at his bookshelf, flipping through various pages before one he's grown accustomed to using peeks through. He glances at it before looking at you. “Nothing.” He lies, obviously.
Your eyes widen as you catch the upside-down logo, a set of two rings, the inner one branded by 3 circles, and the outer one by three triangles. You haul your head up. “You better not—” You threaten as he steps closer to you.
Maybe he's going to burn you a little bit. It isn't his fault that he has to do this to you; after all, you’re the one who flew too close to the sun. He's only protecting you from sticking your nose too far; besides, if he's planning on letting you get close, then he shouldn't allow it. He might as well keep you obedient. Many people do worse things for love; after all, his acts are… sensible.
• SUMMARY: Enjin wants you — really, really, really badly. But you’re one hell of an elusive woman, and he’s not the first man to fall under your spell. Led by you like a dog on a leash, he finally gets his chance with you after the accidental injury you cause him.
• CONTAINS: maneater!cleaner!reader, reader ragebating Enjin, love/hate relationship, reader dresses and behaves in a feminine fashion, she/her pronouns and reader being called a woman, desperate Enjin, pussy inspections, just the tip trope that turns into full sex, switch Enjin, wet dreams, talk about bad sex experiences for reader, riding+prone bone+headlock, light choking, unprotected sex, tears licking, the author has only watched anime up to the 15th episode (possible spoilers), injuries, there’s some plot and fluff, bad jokes. WORD COUNT: 11,9k.
• NOTE: This is my first story for Gachiakuta. Definitely was not meant to be this long in the first intention, but I fell in love with Enjin badly, like he did himself with reader’s allure. Despite how hot he might be, I think I adore his character the most 💕. I promise I will catch up with manga soon, and until then, I’m hoping I kept Enjin at least somewhat in character. Divider is by @/cursed-carmine. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
“You’re really cut from a different cloth…”
Enjin’s voice redirects your focus from rolling the lipstick between your fingers onto him. Lazily draped over the common room’s sofa, legs crossed as if you are ready to conquer more than just the makeup you surely tricked some bastard into getting for you — that stuff isn’t easy to find. You're smart enough to use a few words to have a guy whipping out his wallet. And he likes smart chicks — until they’re annoying like you’re easily earning the title.
In any case, he despises the fact some dude is getting what he can only dream of, no matter how much he’s sweating blood for the cause of earning your favor.
“What could you possibly mean, Enjin?” you answer casually, serving him a disinterested look already. No one should be fooled by it, as he knows it’s just a deceiving calm before the storm. What has begun as him chasing a pretty lady, initially unaware of her viciousness, has been turned — involuntarily to him— into the game of push and pull.
Involuntarily, if he weren’t giving you advantage voluntarily, unable to stay away from the source of excitement you bring. Flaunting yourself when you can, but withdrawing yourself away from him the second he think he’s about to get it. Entertaining his flirting attempts, but never turning them into more. Not to mention, teasing him so relentlessly he could believe you’ve been sent to punish and humiliate him; especially when it’s his honorary job to be a jerk.
Yup, so far you’ve been exceeding anyone else about being a pain in his ass. And Enjin — he is constantly forced to question what he could be possibly lacking, if you’re not falling straight into his arms… or lap. He’s handsome, tall, funny, charming, knows how to make someone feel special, and is definitely capable of appreciating a good woman.
“I see you put your claws on another guy. Is it a nice shade, at least?” Speaking condescendingly, he plops himself next to you and throws a casual arm across the space behind your head. Your eyes narrow, knowing he’s playing it cool as his shoulder brushes yours and there’s no apologies.
Inwardly, he’s already locating a shop that would sell better lipstick he could get for you.
“It’s decent,” you smile, turning your head to be gazing at him with slow blinks. Fluttering your lashes so he’s not able to look away, right before you’d throw him into another spiral of restlessness. He digs in, eyeing your pretty features up and down. Would you notice if he moved his face an inch closer? “Why, you jealous?” you taunt.
He snickers, as if unable to find such notion possible. Jealousy implies some sort of care about a chosen person. It’s not that he likes more than your body… even if he vies for your attention, trying to prove what a better guy he’d be. Not could — would be. Just ridiculous of him, who’s anxious at the though of lying his heart in someone else’s hands, or who thinks he’s stronger than a petty emotion envy is. It must have been that masculine need to compete, not a crush or anything…
He’s literally twenty-eight!
“Sweetheart, I could be many things you want me to be, but jealous ain’t one of them,” he grins, trying to sell you his confidence.
You don’t buy it. “Possessive, then?” It’s you who moves closer first, until he has to press his head really snugly to the furniture’s back. He tries his best to look at your lips, as if reciprocating the flirt and not getting all sweaty with a stressed heart. How does one woman make him fumble this much?
“Nope,” he pops his lips at the p letter to accentuate his conviction. “Though, I could see why some folk would be mad over you…” he says lowly. He winks and draws away.
You relax in your seat too. You’ll have to see if someone can repair the common room’s couch again. It’s nice, if you ignore the holes in the green fabric. Many things around are falling apart in general, and they barely fill any space of the yellow-wallled room as well; but it’s home sweet home. “Glad to know you don’t mind me seeing other men…” here you go, provoking him properly and swiftly.
As suspected, his head yanks up with offense, staring at you with “don’t you dare”, thinking he’d hate the idea; he puts on another nonchalant mask when he realizes he exposed himself a second later. “Wipe that smirk off. I don’t care what you’re doing with other guys. I have plenty of eyes on me too, you know.” He puffs out his chest a little.
“Oh, I know,” you flirt, not meaning it much, even if he gives you a look of interest at your sweet tone. However, you still didn’t expect him to last so long. Most men become aggressive or leave after you’ve kept them hanging in suspense for months. But Enjin? He’s damn hooked, desperate to finally lay his hands on you, he just keeps playing your game like moth drawn to the flame you are. At this point, he might even attempt to kiss you all softly until you’re swooning for him too — gross romanticism, if he must.
One thing is sure in his horny brain: you know how to frustrate the man. He can never tell if you're playing hard to get or are hard to get. You certainly enjoy spilling cruelties on his emotions and ego for your own enjoyment, as if you’re some sort of sadist.
“Good. Keep it mind. Maybe you’ll be the one to be jealous the next time you see me with some hot lady in the nearest settlement,” he says proudly, tapping his fingers behind your head.
“We should get a double date while we’re at that, cause I’d probably be with some hunk myself,” your smirk widens, with you enjoying the way his mouth open in protest too fast to call it nonchalance.
Enjin groans and hits the couch with his head dramatically.
“Must you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?” You pop the lipstick open and close it to make him more agitated with the sound of plastic. His eyelid twitches.
“Not letting the man have even a tiny bit of you and all.” He’s the man in question. Talking about himself in the third person makes things less embarrassing. “It makes me wonder, what do I have to do to earn a chance with you?”
What does the mantra go like? Enjin doesn't chase — he attracts. Well, he always chased women, but they also have been coming to him on their own! With you, he does the chase solely himself; probably until his poor body will collapse from exhaustion, apparently. He wants to believe it makes him a virile guy who knows what he wants, who will be this lion king to pull the best woman around and crow about it, but who is he kidding…
You’ve been the one throwing curveballs. And it’s not some longlasting banter, if it’s an entire war on his pride, sanity, and confidence — or even masculinity.
“You were trying to earn a chance with me?” Your obviously feigned innocence pulls an even louder groan out of him, making you laugh.
It’s fun to tease people, see them stress over his words or get shy, but when he’s being subjected to it, especially by you… he just wants to strangle you. He almost pities everyone else he had ever taunted, finding himself in their shoes. Or rather, he has it much worse than they had it with him — you’re this spider crushing a cheap player’s ego. He’s supposed to be the one beguiling the other side, like he used to do so with women.
“Come on. I’ve heard that juicy gossip in the Canvas Town. Apparently, you putting men to their knees is every Friday’s special,” his tone turns more serious, which to you, is rather theatrical when you can’t care much. He hates both you chasing other men — it is jealousy like you said — and being another one on your list to check and abandon.
Demanding some payoff, he finally allows himself to play with your hair, gathering it to the side. When you let him expose your neck (surely a deliberate and well-thought move from your side), seeing your skin has his mouth water at the idea of putting his lips here. Staring intensely, he imagines leaving a nasty hickey on there, one that would deter other men away from approaching you until it healed.
“Being a cleaner is stressful. A girl must relax somehow. You do something about that too, I’ve been told by Semiu,” you reply apathetically to his possessiveness. Men use women all the time — you cannot be much worse. No one gets genuinely hurt, at least.
He snickers dryly, puffing out an air of astonishment. It’s nearly amusement by how ridiculous you sound to him. “You find using men relaxing?”
When you shrug, he’s reminded that he is still there, regardless of your misbehavior towards his gender. He’s just another fool for you to play with, but, fit for a fool, he likes to believe he’s doing better than the rest and there’s something awaiting him at the end of the rainbow. He’s still there, so isn’t that a sign he’s keeping you interested? You didn’t get bored so far, which counts for something — he has to be a worthy opponent.
“I guess it’s fair. Men do that with women all the time,” he comes up with the answer he’d expect to hear from you. Earning some brownie points, right as he drapes some of your hair further down your neck, almost cupping your entire throat with his hand.
Your pulse is steady under his fingertips. He hates that.
“Oh? So you are agreeing with me, not defending your sex? Or are you just trying to flatter me?” your inquiry is uttered with a lilted sound — you would have seen through him. Enjin is a tougher opponent in comparison to other men in your long past with them, yet you know how to disarm him nonetheless.
“Would that even change things for you,” he deflects brusquely. He’s finally acting on those impulsive demands of his body, unnerved — pressing his lips on your nape, spreading a kinder type of kiss first to see some shivers such delicate touch would have caused.
“Mm… eager,” you murmur, tilting your head back. No shivers.
Even though you’re letting him smooch you, he’s not sure if he’s doing you good — you giggle and shit, but it’s more you having fun than arousal. You might as well getting him hopeful for no reason, knowing you.
He looks up at you, still attached to your neck. You’re grinning down at him, not much rattled by his skilled mouth.
He doesn’t even bother to try again and takes some distance; he dramatically slumps his body until his head is hanging off the couch, and rubs his face. Good luck there’s no one in the room to witness his loss. “You’re so cold. Are you really into men?” he speaks more into the air, refusing to face you again. He doesn't need to hear your victory. Or entertaining the paranoia he’s not your type. That would be tragic.
“I am. I just am not sure I should let you get this ahead. You're trying to fuck me,” you say in a clipped voice. “I’m not interested in becoming a bed warmer for you.”
Which is hypocritical, considering you do fuck men for pleasure, often having him willing to do anything for more promised. However, you have a good reason to avoid hitting his bed specifically — sleeping between Cleaners sounds like a terrible idea. Besides, you think Enjin has enough ego without being able to touch you, one you don’t wish to reward. Secretly, or not so secretly, you hate men like him — all suave. You only respect him for who he is as a Cleaner and a friend, recognizing his importance to the symbiosis of everyone around.
He pouts, moving his lower lip to the front, again looking at you with something naughty. “Ah, but how do you know I don't want a date instead?”
“A date that would serve as a foreplay, you mean?” you chuckle.
He grumbles about you being coy under his nose and pulls you close, squeezing you so close to his big chest you feel your bones creaking. You make a sour face at his cologne overwhelming your nostrils. “Oh, come on, don’t be shy! You’ll have plenty of fun with me!” he laughs wolfishly, the sound’s vibrations purring between your huddled bodies.
Struggling to breathe and free yourself from the boa arms, you defend yourself verbally, “I’m pretty sure I’m not being shy.” You finally place enough strength on his shoulders to push yourself away, until you can inhale and fix your tousled hair. “You don’t know what I could do to you,” you tease too, still breathlessly. You smile; in that enticing way where your eyes sparkle, your eyelids lower into the bedroom look, and you’re meeting him from below your lashes. Once again, providing material for his mind to imagine beautiful things, but not being willing to materialize any of his dirty fantasies.
He spreads his legs wider to get more comfortable, needing to adjust himself. He imagines you on your knees between them, licking him up — oh, but you probably wouldn’t go there, and if you would, it’d be to pull out the most mortifying and slutty reactions from him. If anything, it’d be him being used by you. He doesn’t even go down there, being submissive or whatever, and yet…
As embarrassing he finds it, he probably would grant you some space for becoming your toy. Screw it, at this point, he’d take anything that’s equivalent to sexual. “Well, you can always fuck me instead. You probably would call it as that anyway, yeah? Taking charge and all?” He mocks, more self-deprecatingly about that he’s actually acknowledging the possibility. “So I guess this dick is all yours.” He motions his hand over his crotch.
“You mean the one between your legs, or yourself?” you grin slyly.
Not you calling him dick too. “Ugh, smartass woman… I guess both.”
This is what liking women smarter than him costs him.
One of the innumerable issues with you is that you wear work clothes that refuse to pronounce your real body shape. Yeah, your skin catching dust from the polluted zone is definitely yucky, but you’re going to get yourself washed after anyway. He’s seen you with your bust and ass out only once, in a tiny neon-pink dress reserved for going out to the colorful Canvas Town — unfortunately, as hard the sight had gotten him, it was as quickly ruined with you hanging on some man’s shoulder.
Enjin, regardless of his discontentment with your long jeans skirt and trashy-cheetah-print hoodie, is still a horny prick. You covering yourself only gets him excited about there has to be underneath — his mind tries to come up with the idea of what you could look like bare and on your fours, drawing the hottest visions to his mind.
Where he’d like to lay his hands on the most. How your body curves and fills the contours. Where his hands would rest the most comfortably when fucking you. What’s slappable, what’s grippable. Anything x you naked.
Of course, the fate had it that he are to be paired with you for the next cleaning. In fact, you make quite a good duo when you place your tension aside — not that you need to hear that from his lips.
It’s you you walking side by side by him through the trash-desert, whistling to yourself and swinging your vital instrument back and forth, while he tries to not side-ogle your body like a creep. As long as he doesn't angle his head excessively, the gas mask shall expose none… “So, you had a good sleep today?” he asks with a yawn.
You look up at him, already forming a taunting smile. Naturally, your face is covered by the mask, but he can gauge that expression with the expertise that was forced into him for the sake of surviving this one special woman. “Are you trying a new pickup line? It’s quite lame, to be honest.”
He shakes his head with exasperation. He’ll go gray prematurely because of you. Is chasing you even worth it at this point? Maybe he's just stubborn; no, he has to be. He hates annoying women, and yet, here he is. “No, I actually care about you being rested. Insane, I know. A man who’s into you also wants you rested.”
“So I can keep up with him in bed?”
“No!” he raises his voice out of frustration, then curses under his nose at the blunder — he’s ought to alert some beasts if he’s loud. It’s a loss of cool aura in front of you too. You just know how to provoke him, more than the brats around the HQ do. It's straight eight in the morning, too early to be baited by you. “No,” he tries again, quiet this time. “Because he’s being nice.” He forces a smile underneath his mask, barely keeping his sanity.
As your eye wrinkles keep up in mischief, he thinks that maybe you’re not done playing with his nerves. Thankfully, your answer comes out relatively normal. “Oh, then, it was good. Thanks for asking. You slept well too?”
“Yeah,” he throws casually, scratching the back of his head. Yeah, if he were to exclude the vivid dreams about you, or waking up with a boner in the middle of the night, lamenting you’re not there to take care of it. But you definitely shouldn’t know that — that’s giving you a loaded gun for free. “As much as those tiny beds allow. I’m a big guy, vertically and horizontally.” He flexes his arm under his trench coat, hoping to impress you.
You’re better than being bought by muscles, and worse as a human being. “I’ve seen taller,” you just had to drop the bomb, stopping him in tracks amid the sandy storm.
Enjin tries to keep his cool. He tells himself to remain calm, staring at his shoes. He acknowledges the fact there’s always a taller man; obviously, that’s logical. However, you didn’t need to make him sound short, especially when he takes pride in his broadness — playing the role of a peacock flaunting and spreading his feathers for you, his potential mate. He’s been hoping you find him tall enough!
“Excuse me?! If I’m barely fitting a standard bed, I think that’s tall enough!” he throws his hands and Umbreaker into the air dramatically, until the latter opens as dramatically. Forget being nonchalant. He gets efficient enough excuses to be emotional around you.
You stop your stroll, turning around to meet him with innocence. “Oh, but I didn’t say you’re not tall enough. Just stating the fact there are men taller than you, to highlight you still have it light compared to their struggle…” you chide him, smirking sideways.
He realizes how he allowed you to provoke him again. You didn’t even call him short directly; he fell for that because you know where to dig at his ego’s spectrum. “But… that applies to everything…” he says quietly to himself, itching to yell at you until you say sorry.
You’re stealing his job. He’s supposed to be taunting people. He’s supposed to be flirting with you, and you are supposed to be giggling all prettily at him, saying how great Enjin is.
You’re making him lose his mind instead. The worst gamble he took in his entire life is trying to win you over.
He makes a decision in order to save his mental health. “Wait here. I need a cigarette,” he grumbles.
You hit the sand with your instrument. “Huh? You crazy? You can’t take your mask off here.” He won’t kick the bucket if he will be fast enough with smoking, although, ending up with a sick lung isn’t a fun idea to spend your free time with.
“Oh, you’re worrying about me all of a sudden?” he scoffs. “I’ll smoke in the car. Put the filter on.”
“Must you? I just wanna get done with our job!” You give him pleading eyes through the windows of your mask — in the soft way he knows other men would fold under. It gets his knees week also.
Fortunately, he’s still capable of recognizing his own shortcomings. There’s leftover crumbs of this quality, ones he plans to use when he’s being violently abused by your mindgames.
“Well, your fault, darling. You pissed me off again,” he says almost cockily, unable to believe he didn't give in under pressure.
Until you take on revenge, fussy that you were denied for once by him. “Tsk. Then go on, leave me waiting. Though let me tell you — you smoking is funny. Cigarettes already are a poison, but smoking them when you're already being slowly poisoned by trash… it’s just you giving a helping hand to the process of killing yourself.”
His umbrella almost snaps under the grip on the handle.
“No, you’ve got this, Enjin. She’s just showing she’s at you,” he thinks.
“The doll is being worried about my health. I’m charmed,” he exaggerates with a hand on his chest. “Yeah, I guess you need to pick your vice. And some damn cigarette is the least I deserve for risking my life everyday. Or for dealing with annoying kids… or women,” he says the last in a petty way, and turns his back around to walk away back to the car.
“Whatever. I’ll stay here and try to not be eaten by a trash beast,” you bark back at him, grumpily. Your eyes scavenge for any moving things in the dusty, beige-rock horizon.
“You do you!” he calls chirpily from behind his shoulder. Hearing you complain a bit has him feeling smug, tasting the victory on his tongue. Finally, for once in his predicament, you’re not having things go your ways. His walk is full of swagger, with Enjin thinking about how one cigarette might turn into two or three. He’s eager to keep you waiting and all; he’s resting easy at the notion you can defend yourself until he’s back.
Though, he’s worried he might start missing you again, and stuck with his thoughts alone, he’ll think about you bouncing on his dick in the car, the car bumping along the rhythm of you two, and—
He hears your scream, right as he’s about to climb the mound the car was parked on for a better chance to find it later amid the storm. “Enjin, help me!”
One thing about you is that you don’t ever have it bad enough with trash beasts to be screaming so helplessly — it’s only in his head, when he pretends you’re creaming on his cock.
Wielding his umbrella, he quickly turns around, forgetting about the smoke break, as he’s ready to protect his object of desire — a precious Cleaner companion too, he’d dare say. “Girl, what’s wrong?!”
He scans the area, looking for the source of danger. It’s weird, he didn’t hear any rustle of beasts… and now, he sees nothing. No you or the beast. “Huh? What the hell…”
You take advantage of his distraction to sneak into your car and hide the cigarettes, in order to frustrate him some more. You don't plan to spend entire day here because an emotional dude wants his cigs. You open the door, hoping to work in earned time.
In the same moment, he turns around towards the car again with lingering confusion, searching for something in another direction.
With the height the door is placed at, you end up hitting something.
Then you hear a thump, something heavy falling on the sand moving under its weight. Your eyes widen in terror when you see him knocked out.
“Enjin, no!” you jump off the mound, crouching down next to the unconscious man. “Why were you just standing there!”
As he doesn't wake up, you shake on his shoulder. Sure, you hit him pretty hard, you carry some strength, but you would have thought he’s more sturdy. “Enjin, you frog-looking bastard!” You sit down on the sand next to him, all resigned. There’s no bleeding or crack in his skull, so he must have been hit with the force of your swing instead.
The beasts that soon finds you, you have to defeat on your own. Then drag this big inconvenience to the car and drive back to the headquarters on your own.
You didn’t expect Enjin to ever be capable of causing you to feel something like honest guilt. Really, everything that has taken place in the zone was no more than an accident, as even your cigarette thievery wasn’t meant to hurt him. The fuel is added when you think about how he was ready to protect you, with no hesitation to jump in to help you.
You added to poor Eishia’s worries too. She thought you killed the man everyone depends on.
You’ve been out of his space ever since bringing him back, and now are standing in front of the hospital room, trying to cherry-pick any anger in Enjin’s voice after he finally woke up.
“Ouch, ow, can't you be more careful, kiddo…” he’s complaining about something to Rudo already foaming in his mouth.
“I brought you food! I’m adjusting your pillow too! You asked me to! That’s just ungrateful!”
“Hey, I was just saying—”
You knock on the open door, willing to interrupt a possible volcano eruption. “Hey, Enjin. I’m glad you’re awake,” you greet humbly for yourself.
To your surprise, or lack thereof when you know him well, he’s immediately quieter, straightening his body on the bed too, as if no pain was ever bothering him. Wearing on nonchalance to not lose your respect. A head concussion? Nah, he had it worse in the past. It's merely a bit of headache. He might be butthurt about you trying to deprive him of his cigarettes, though. “Yeah, yea. You can go, Rudo. I’ll be fine, kiddo.”
“Hey! You told me you want me to—” Rudo’s mouth is being covered, not letting the boy take away his chance of being with you alone.
“I did. But the new help’s here, exempting you of work,” he nods over at you. Rudo makes a disgruntled noise and leaves, not without spilling few insults. Enjin has wasted his time, but at least he doesn’t have to look after the older guy.
“How are you feeling?” you ask placidly, no tease or hidden intention for the sake of your regret. When he eyes you with suspicion, you move closer and sit on the edge of his bed, conceiving the need for an earnest talk.
His pupils dilate at the sight of you, regardless of him having been a bit mad at you. He tries to express his dissatisfaction at what happened with pursed lips, only to feel more like a child desperate for attention. Eishia filled him on why was his head brutalized by you, but somehow, he’s feeling petty about the idea of being mad at you. Special treatment he’s been brewing from his little crush.
“As good as a man with a head concussion can feel. All of this because you tried to hide my cigarettes. And here I thought you were in genuine danger…” he sounds whiny already. Not without giving you tiny glances about whether his trick works on you. You just look so caring and it gets to his head, and he’ll be lying to say he’s not irritated by being defeated by something as stupid as you hitting him with a car door, enough to need some TLC.
Except, you're not that easy. “What happened to your bravado?”
Right. He’s supposed to be tough in front of you, not a spineless loser. Even if you have made your point a long time ago — usual tactics do nothing to impress you, especially if it’s forced masculinity or platitudes. “It’s right there alright. I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” he shrugs his shoulders too insistently on being chill, only to wince at his headache going down his spine under the movement.
“Oh ho,” you shake your head with pitying smile. You shouldn’t be so soft, in his opinion — he doesn’t like his feelings being touched. “You can tell me if something is wrong, you know. It’s my fault you’re here. I didn’t mean to have you injured, but…” you speak in a tone meant to be comforting. You even place your hand on his bicep, rubbing his instantly tightening muscles.
Only exciting him. Fantasizing about your hands on him is one thing. It’s a minuscule part of the issue, when your rare softness is working its way into his heart.
Oh no. You’re going to be all sentimental — you looking at him with worry and regret of a puppy, as if aware you did something wrong is the manifestation of it — and he won't know how to deal with that.
He quickly opens his mouth, also adjusting his body after it tingled from your touch. “Don’t try to apolo—” “I’m sorry,” you interrupt, solemnly. “Seriously. That was stupid of me.”
“You just had to…” he sighs deeply, rubbing his temple. Now that you two are here, he’ll have to be frank with you just to move on. “I know you didn’t want to hurt me. I'm just a bit pissed at you, but I doubt you’re that cruel to hit me deliberately, despite what you’re doing to me.”
Your tense shoulders relax, relieved he’s not considering killing you for your prank went wrong. “Oh? And what am I doing to you?” you tease, more so to lift his spirits than irritate.
“Don’t get me started,” he laughs off nervously, peeking at your hand on him.
Right as it moves up to his shoulder. You scooch closer to begin massaging him, the least you can do — as if able to tell he needs it. It feels so good on his stressed body, a groan leaves his lips and he wants to close his eyes. “Chin up. At least I won’t find the strength in me to torment you when you’re in this state,” you remark humorously.
He’d disagree. Not with the way your hands skillfully knead his muscles and make him further descend into being your fool. Your attention is on him, you smell nice with whatever perfume you were gifted, and your pretty face is right there for his tired eyes — literally a sight for sore eyes. But he’ll digress — you’re actually being innocent with your touch for once. It’s only the body knows what it wants.
“Yeah? You’ll hand-feed me too?” he mocks with a small grin.
“I just might. Whatever the patient needs,” you mention, digging your fingertips into his muscles until he winces at the knot being undone.
He gets hit with the realization you mean your words, feeling responsible for him. “… Don’t. I need to maintain my reputation.”
“Suit yourself.”
Eventually, he relaxes his heart tremors enough to close his eyes and submit himself to your soothing touch. He even manages to not make it weird, just therapeutic for his body and soul.
Then he suddenly remembers, his eyes snapping open, directed with accusation at you. “You called me a frog looking bastard!”
“Huh?” you play dumb. You didn’t know he was still lingering in consciousness when you said that at the time. “No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did!” He sits up straight, stopping your motion. He gives you a stink eye. Your insults was so abysmal, of course he memorized it even through the fog of his mind.
“Enjin, you must have been hallucinating after you hit your head,” you pat his shoulder patronizingly.
There's no way he’ll settle at that version. He has to defend his handsome looks. “Is it my big, tired eyes? Because women love it—”
You laugh, then switch to scolding when he visibly winces from pain. “Calm your tits. Let’s focus on you getting better first. Eishia might have fixed most of your head trouble, but you still need a good day of rest.”
“Great, now you’re being maternal,” he grumbles. He’d like to prove you wrong, but in battle of wits, you’ll dim his enthusiasm anyway — so he turns on his side, away from you, sulky.
Silence follows. Regardless of his mood, you place your hand on his shoulder again. “Seriously, Enjin, is there something I can do to make up for almost cracking your skull?”
He perks up, looking at you over his shoulder with interest. Oh, there’s many things he’d love to receive. Being cracked instead of his skull, for example. But he has enough decorum and decency to refuse to be the nasty man who uses your body by weaponizing your guilt. “Nah. Don’t mention it.” He lies down again, wrapping himself snugly in a blanket.
But you see it; the way he tenses under your touch and it definitely isn’t discomfort. You have always noticed his desperation and thirst for you, you simply didn’t act on that need of his.
Today, feeling guilty and mostly worried, you actually feel like doing something about it… although, it’s not really the sense of being indebted that has you considering doing more. It’s an excuse to have some fun, on another level of tormenting him for your indulgence. You’ve been worried about crossing the lines your job would have drawn; except, they were long tarnished when you didn’t put a clear stop to his chase months ago.
You’ve been craving him for quite a while now. So you ask again, implying your true intention with a lower tone. “Are you sure?”
His head whips up immediately, turning to look at you. “Huh? Yeah.” He nods rapidly, more so to ground himself in his certainty.
“Hm…” your hand wanders up his tattooed neck and he gulps, eyes full of surprise at your unexpected eagerness. Every nerve awakens with your touch, sending pleasure coding to his brain. “But I can make you feel better.”
He’s sitting up fully, glad his blanket pools around his growing need. “WHA— no, no, wait. I don’t want you to forcing yourself for my sake. I’m not that much of a bastard to take advantage of you,” his protest is anxious, coming from the need to protect you. He scratches the back of his head, observing your hand for any more suspicious move, wondering why you don’t seem uncomfortable — are you seriously being into the perks of doing more with him, or are being a good actress? He would have though all that happened for the past months was no more than a game to you.
“Who said you’d be taking advantage of me?” you purr. When he looks at you as if you just have told him cigarettes were banned, unable to comprehend the idea of you finally doing something to him V O L U N T A R I L Y, you roll your eyes with a mocking disappointment. Wanting to light up the bulb in his head, you add, “What if I want you too?”
“You- you do?” he forces out with gaping eyes. Perhaps, you’re leading him on again. Why the change? Although, he doubts you’re gullible enough to offer yourself out of pity — you must want him somewhere. No forgiving type you are.
You click your tongue at his slowness. “Well, of course, I wouldn’t let you sleep with me or anything.” No, that would be allowing him to win a jackpot. “But, hopefully the sight of my body should make you feel better?” You play with a Choker around his neck, slipping your fingers under until you hit the dip between his collarbones. He gulps.
Enjin of course would have preferred if he could outright fuck you, further motivated by your ongoing touch. But at this stage of your game, he’d take anything and it’d still be much more than he ever could have bargained for.
The sole obstacle in his way is his pride. It’s not as if you don’t know how desperate he is, but he still wants to maintain some illusion of control in front of you two. Besides, he remembers how you reacted to him denying you your request in the desert — your frustration was delightful to witness. “I don’t need that. I can ask any woman to do that for me. There’s like ten of them in my phone.”
But you don’t play bullshit, challenging him with suddenly cutting his supply of your touch. You stand up from his bed. “Should we call them now? I can call one for you. Tell her poor Enjin needs to see some nice tits to get better.”
“I—” his face flushes. What you describe sounds on brand for character; he’s simply not used to women putting his lust bluntly. Nor does he want to lose the chance to see you naked FOR ONCE.
Who is he trying to fool, playing coy and unavailable? He’s conscious about the fact he’d regret saying no. “How much?” he mumbles through his lips.
“Hm?” You raise your brow.
“How much would you let me get away with?” he repeats, louder.
“You can look… you can touch… just no trying to shove your dick in me,” you bat your lashes at him.
As expected. He rubs his brow, foggily calculating the consequences of lying in bed with you. There’s many coming to his mind, actually, but he’s thinking with his dick. “Well, the least we can do is move over to my room…” He looks around. The ugly hospital hall’s beds are empty, thought you never know when someone might storm in.
Not to mention, he’d be revolved and angry in case someone sees what’s meant for his eyes only — in his non-humble opinion.
“Go on. I allowed you that much, didn’t I?” you smile coquettishly under him. You’ve been ready to be on top and give him a little show, but he insisted on being above you, promising his head will be fine as long as he’s not too vigorous. Though with the music he decided to blast in another bland and empty bedroom of the headquarters, supposedly to set a good mood, a headache is promised.
His big arms are trapping you by the sides of your head, on his own bed. Your legs rest on the side of his as he’s kneeling between yours, getting him horny at how close your groins are.
Although, staring at you, your body spread for him like a gift and beautifying his plain bedsheets, being allowed to finally have some taste… he’s nervous, not dominating you with his energy or any of such. It’s too good to be true to have you here, nor does he need to fall even more fixated with you. For a man with some buildup experience, he’s not sure where he should begin with ‘unwrapping’ you. Any move could be read as wrong by you.
It’s too hot in this room.
“I know… I’m just… not taking your reward for granted.” His spacious palms hesitantly move to the button of your jeans skirt, unzipping it after — he manages to do it last second before you’d have to help him, shunning the same. You watching out for any slip up definitely didn’t make it easier.
He sees the black lacy panties peeking underneath the zipline and his cock throbs in his pants. To get such nice ones, a small bow to make it pretty and all, he doesn’t doubt your ability you encouraged some man in the town to buy them for you. Just this layer between him and your pussy, he’s already panting like a desperate dog. “Okay, now…”
You’re being nice to him, lifting your hips for him, silently observing his actions. The lower the skirt leaves, the more it opens the view on your thighs and hips. The moment the clothing is gone, he’s immediately gripping them — fuck him, they rest so good in his hands. “You might just be a goddess, sent to torment me…” he remarks quietly, pitying himself. You're soft too, using whatever lotion bottle you found after people from the above dropped it down still half-filled.
He ogles you shamelessly, burning the image of you, as well as the palpable feeling, on his mind. He omits your pussy, wanting to leave the dessert for the end.
“I take it you like it?” you chuckle, wiggling your body a bit on purpose.
“That’s an understatement…” he pinches your thigh a little to see your flesh plumped, until you're serving him a pout from the tiny pain he springs into life.
“Be gentle with me. That body is important,” you tease.
He scoffs. “Wouldn’t I know that...” You and your hunt on men… “Lift your arms for me, darling.”
You obey. The moment your hoodie is paired with the skirt on the floor, he inhales sharply through his teeth.
There was no bra all along, so he’s drooling at the sight of your breasts hitting his vision immediately. His eyes could fall out of his sockets. “Really?”
“I’m comfy.” You just don’t like wearing one around the headquarters, finding it bothersome to cage your breasts for the majority of work already.
He’s on you immediately, fondling the jiggly between his fingers, cupping them entirely. Gawking at them, all starved and willing to pounce on you the millisecond you allow.
You'd love to bully him over that, but his fingers roll your nipples between them, the honey in his eyes darkening when your buds poke back at him. You shiver, annoyed when he grins at your sensitive vulnerability shown. “Finally something else than leading me on, huh?” he taunts smugly.
“I can feel your boner against my leg, Enjin,” you bite back, grinning as he scrunches his nose in irritation — of course, you’re terribly right. You still can't believe you’re letting him this far, so some taunting is due.
Deciding he wants to explore more possibilities of your reaction, and most importantly, needing your pussy for dear life, he grabs the band of your panties. There’s an itch to be a brute and rip off your panties, something he knows other women would find hot, and then… but you’d hate him for that. No waste is allowed and that jazz. “Screw that, you’re right. I’m hopeless with you and you feast on that shit. Satisfied?” he sighs.
So to calm himself, he glides your underwear down your legs, on a slower side to see if you’ll collect some anticipation in you as well.
You both fix your gazes at each other, not willing to break the condensing tension with divided eye-contact. You’re watching him intensely, noting every desperation for your enjoyment. He’s throbbing harder under being scrutinized, and yet, he can still your breath hitch to have some power over you. Good — you’re not immune to his touch.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this…” Of course you do. You made the wait happen. He needs for it to be said for the sake of releasing the intoxication you’ve been inculcating in his mind and loins. It’s invigorating.
“Only you get the pain of it, huh?” you rest your hands over his knees twitching occasionally.
Once your panties are good and your pussy is there for his display, he stops moving to take a deep breath in, shiver spreading down his whole body at this visage finally given to him. You’re the vision to haunt him forever especially down here.
He doesn't miss the way your thighs tremble over his, as if waiting for something or someone to sink their fangs into you properly. He has to oblige.
Your hand trails his knee, brushing over his pants to let him know it’s all very much real.
He prays for himself. “And I really can…?” Getting hurt by you was definitely worth it, considering everything that’s playing out right now. Wet dreams coming true. You’re naked as the way you were born like you’re some nymph, while he’s still fully in his clothes and it doesn’t even feel like having control over you.
“Yeah, Enjin, you can.” He doesn’t waste time after the reminder still keeping him on the Ground. His fingers brush between your folds, zeroing in on the way they part for him. What he’d do to be able to rub his cock here, surely big enough to be taking up all the space here.
You squirm from the inevitable pleasure, angling your hips into a better position.
“Mm, how’s the view?”
Enjin doesn’t look away from your cunt for even a second. He taps his finger on your clit next, watching as it twitches, as if he’s some expert on your body. Sparking small sensitivity in you, you’re suddenly acutely aware of the ache growing in your groin. You whimper, drawing out a satisfied sigh from him. “She’s pretty. You’re pretty…” he comments dreamily.
“Thank you— she?” you ask with both sense of being flattered and amusement.
“Your pussy. I bet she tastes sweet too,” he groans at the thought.
That man. It’s amazing his dirty tongue doesn’t turn off when he’s anxious; though, that’s what the horny does. Now your head is filled with thoughts of what destruction he’d bring with his tongue once you let him between your legs. Perhaps that’s the plan for another day…
“I do. I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to pull you away from me,” you tease.
“And I bet you're right on the money,” he smiles knowingly at you in the peripheral vision.
Your body tremors when he then spits on your hole to see it glisten, before he’s spreading your vulva with two fingers. “Damn…” he could taste how tightly you’d wrap around him. How much you’d soak his cock. “I know you said no fucking… but I can use my finger, right? Just to see what you feel like…” he pleads, eyes darting at you with a need.
You weight your option, staring at his huge hand fitting well between your legs. Those fingers would fill you so nicely, wouldn’t they? It’s no more than your feeding curiosity, you try to tell yourself. You end up nodding, not without your stomach clenching at the thought of him breaching your hole beyond previously highlighted line.
“Bless you,” he says with gratitude. He pushes his index finger inside along with his saliva, feeling the way your walls immediately trap around him in a suffocating fashion. He can tell you’ve been wet already, and he’s right, as his spit fuses with your slick into juices being rushed back and forth. Enjin memorizes the grip of your hole to replay in his head later; your tiny gasp at the stretch as well. “Ugh, so tight too… can’t even hate you properly with a body like this.
Can’t even imagine what it’d be like to have you warming my cock instead.”
He feels it — you instantly clamping on his digit shallowly thrusting. You moan too, unable to repel the dizzying thought of being split by him. His throat tightens, as he’s half-considering asking you for more. You haven’t pushed him away so far, and your pussy cooperates with his strokes.
He feels like a jerk asking for it, yet no guilt hits him when his bulge pulses and demands in his boxers. “Aren’t you curious too…?” he suggest lowly. He curls his finger, wiggling around to find some nice spot that would have you reconsider every limitations you have placed on him.
“E-Enjin…” you whine a little, puffing out air at the small sparks of pleasure he’s stirring. “You know we shouldn’t…”
Oh, he knows it for sure — Cleaners’ conflict of interests and all. But just a small dip inside shouldn’t hurt, right? “We don’t have to fuck. Simply check our compatibility,” he jokes, regardless of staring at you with what he’d consider way outside what his pride would allow. Any traces of nonchalance are entirely wiped. “Just the tip, I promise.”
Your mind conjectures the image in your head, ghosts your hole with it too — you believe just the tip would be a lot with what he’s hiding in his pants. And you find yourself drooling at the fantasy, any inhibitions are being spontaneously thaw out. “But really just the tip?” the hesitation in your voice is just a decoration.
“Really,” he says, biting his lip until it goes white. Now more confident, he moves his hip to the front so he can grind his bulge against you and coax you into agreeing. The friction has you moaning, not to mention the size, with you crumpling his bedsheets under your hands. “You see what you’re doing to me?”
You certainly feel it. You nod.
Then he takes it one step further, moving his red shirt over his head, which soon joins your clothes. Your mouth goes dry at the image of his muscular torso, painted in black and red lines of his tattoo. He has you right there, feeling good about himself in front of you for once.
“Alright, alright…” The sparkle in his eyes at your yes has you bout to regret your choice.
The coil snaps. Wasting no time, he’s shoving his pants and boxers down with nearly an inhuman speed, revealing anything you have ever dreamed of in the man.
He is huge. His clothes often turn his body shapeless, and while he has some nice waist on him, his cock remains big. Standing up and resting against his abdomen, leaking fat beads of pre-cum from the furious red of the tip about to grace your body. He tries not to smile at your stare.
“Scared?”
“You think I can’t take it?” You want to take every inch, no drama or complaining.
“We’ll see about that,” he smirks, hoping for a bit of struggle for the ego stroking value.
Back between your legs, he spreads them with those also huge hands, before pushing a finger into you again.
“You said just the tip,” you whine at the repeated stretch, holding onto his thigh. Your long nails scratch him on purpose, watching goosebumps awake.
“I know I did, pretty girl. But I have to stretch you a bit or you might get hurt.” This one is not an excuse served by him; though it does give him a perfect opportunity to fondle you for extended period of time, by other hand over your hips.
Though you foolishly want to challenge yourself and prove him wrong, you still appreciate him being considerate. You’re certainly not complaining, as just his hand on you is wonderful. You let a pretty mewl pass your lips. Those he wanted to kiss forever.
Hoping asking for a kiss is no worse than anything else happening at the moment, he lowers his face until his forehead and nose bump yours. There’s no stopping, but adding another finger inside — you want to cry from how full it has you already. You both gasp at his cock laying itself over your thigh in this angle — you almost from the terror, he from the contact.
He’s pretty in this proximity; he thinks you’re even prettier. He doesn't look away, nor do you, ghosting his face by ventilating breath in an upbeat manner. It’s you who kisses first, softly at the start, then twisting it into heated after the months of denial of your own desire for him.
Both of you bite at each other's lips, shoving your tongues in as far as they can go. He overwhelms you a bit more, pressing your head into the pillow with his lips moving to the sides as if to swallow you entirely, leaving the track of saliva all over your face. He's skillful, having you whimper into his mouth; you’re delicious, you have him groaning for more, especially when he grinds himself into your leg.
But on the other sides of things, he remains mindful with you, not jamming his digit like a brute who thinks it’ll have you screaming in anything else other than pain. It’s hard to stay indifferent, nor do you want to be ungrateful when he’s working hard for your pleasure.
Resurfacing for breath, he keeps his forehead while fucking you on his fingers, with a deep stare. You’re licking your swollen lips and he think he’s the luckiest man alive, as he is the stupidest to be here.
“No complaints for once, vixen?” he laughs lightly, handsomely raspy.
“Well, yeah… you're being tender and that’s already something.” You smile and tilt your head, comfortably dizzy at the tingles between your thighs.
His brows furrow in worry at what you’re implying. “You’re saying other men are being too rough with you?”
You tense up a little. “I mean, some think just pounding a woman away is a way to go. Rough is nice, but not when they lack any sensuality or carefulness.”
He closes his eyes, trying to not let irritation get to him in the best moment of his life. The idea of some douchebag being inconsiderate with you or other ladies is disgusting. He’s not saying he’s a saint and perfect guy — by any chance — and likes being surrounded by hot chicks a whole bunch, while also being emotionally repressed, but he does try to make everyone’s experience worth the attention they give him.
Seeing the dilemma, you soothe it. “Don't worry. This is why I don't let most men do more than buy me a drink. Despite what you think, I don't sleep around that much. And if I do and something goes wrong, most men don’t see my fist coming.”
He raises his brow. A femme fatale and… although, he assumes it's mostly about playing men, not fucking them unless you think they are tasty enough. You enjoy the psychological aspects of things first and foremost, and you don’t lack in intelligence to gain something without having to let some man into your pants’ way.
You’re not totally fair towards these folks, though it’s now evident some for sure deserve it. And in times like this, you have to survive somehow.
Then, among his judgments of you, it’s this selfish relief painting itself. That not many men can touch you in general is great, but especially when this neatly like he does is rare.
“That’s good to know. If you need any man beaten up, you know where to find me.”
You laugh, dispersing any heavy energy, and raising his heart with a cute melody. When he places his thumb on your clit with enough pressure, it’s rewarded with a highest moan so far. You’re gorgeous when you're relaxed like this, it has him warm in a lightness he doesn't like.
“Thanks. Still, I can show you how to please me,” you tease to raise a reaction, rolling your hips under his fingers hastening their thrusts. They're so deep into your guts.
“Huh? But I know how to touch a woman?” he scoffs.
“But do you know how to touch me?”
“Why? You come with some sort of manufacture instructions or som—”
When your knee kicks at his thigh, he winces and shuts up about trying to one up you. “Anything you say. I know, I’m being pathetic, but at this point, I’ll take anything you’re willing to give.” He speaks in that “what’s even my life?” tone. He pulls out his fingers, despite wanting to redo his work at your disappointed noise, looking at the wetness coating it. Without much hesitation, he puts them in his mouth and licks, looking you straight in the eye.
Your stomach twists, enamored with his handsomeness being amplified by that dirty move. You throw in a disgusted look to be yourself.
“I was right.”
“Huh?”
“You’re delicious,” he grins at you and leans away slightly. “You ready for more? I feel like you barely survived my fingers,” he moves his hands down to stroke himself, sighing — he’s grown so neglected, the sensitivity is a bitch.
“As if.”
“Mhm, I guess you do have to stay alive to take my cock...”
“So foul-mouthed for what…”
“No more back talk,” Enjin, holding himself, pushes your legs apart some more with his other hand. None of you is able to hide your anticipation, breathing heavily in the room drowned in fast music beat.
Able to admit it to himself, he’s scared of what he’s about to do — of how good it'll feel, as once he gets the taste of you on him, he might never experience something akin to that bliss again. If you’ll ruin other women for him, he’ll blame you for the rest of his life.
“You better hold tight, sweetheart…” he warns, not knowing what’s about to hit him.
“Hold?” You’re suddenly pushing him onto his back, drawing out a surprised gasp from him.
“So that’s how’re playing. I didn’t expect any less from you,” he smiles wryly, immediately landing his hands on your hips after you straddle his lap, frozen in the air. Another loss for him, but at least the view is out of this world — he’ll jerk off to your body memory for days after.
“Can’t have you thinking you’ll get more than this…” you mock, grabbing his leaking dick; he hisses. Even your hand on him feels phenomenal.
Fixing your form above him, you lower your body until it’s his blunt head at your entrance. You mewl quietly, as it's still pulling you apart no matter how prepped you might be.
And Enjin is losing his mind already. His tip is most sensitive, so just the shallow depth is killing him when you're squeezing him as if begging to push in further. He strangles your hips. “Fuck…!” his curse comes out thickly.
He’s girthy, and now that you experienced it first hand, you can engrave that fact into your mind. “You don't deserve all that…” you whine.
“D-don’t deserve what?” he asks pussy-dumbly. His legs start to shake more than yours are from the strain of hanging above him.
“Being so big. You're too egotistical for that,” your own voice falters too. You should be now removing yourself from his body, but the need to sink down onto him fully keeps you in place.
“Hm, that’s the closest to a compliment from you, so I’ll take it…” he laughs through you squeezing the soul out of him. Before you’d decide to pull away, he navigates his hand to your back, playing with your ass, weighing it in his grip — he loves it too.
You stay like this for a few seconds, before you offer him a communicative look. “We should…” you start quietly, but don’t move.
“Yeah, you should,” he agrees with disappointment, even if he’s staring at you with all the hope he could muster.
As if you could stop now. Too late, and none of you is thinking straight. Knowing what the both of you need, you're shoving your hips down.
When Enjin notices the slight movement at first, he tries to stop in yours and his name. “Wait—”, but he’s already deep in your guts before he could throw you off. His head throws back so hard it sends a spell of pain, quickly forgotten by focusing his senses on you warming his cock entirely. “Holy fuck… that’s a murder attempt…”
You’re barely holding up on top of him, hanging with your mouth open in a silent shock — there’s nasty sting on your hole, after you overestimated taking his size. Right as he think he accidentally broke you, or that you broke yourself on him, you raise your hips and lower them again, too aroused to let some pain stop you. “I really hate you, Enjin,” you finally say, all high-pitched. “You think too highly of yourself to my tastes.”
The words barely translate themselves in his pussy-addled head, but once he remembers to breathe again, he’s helping you to fuck yourself on him, making indents on your ass. He needs that fast and rough desperately. “Yeah? Imagine what I had to go through because of you. All these months of torture…”
You circle your hips, angling his cock in you that he almost bites his tongue off. There’s no way in hell you’d let him do as he pleases, and he begrudgingly has to admit he loves it.
He finishes his thought. “I guess they were worth it, in the end. Though, you better ruin me properly while you're at it…” he mocks, just to provoke you, despite the fact he’s seeing stars and his cock wants to spill inside you already.
You pull out entirely he nearly makes a shameful whine at the loss, then moans like a whore when you take him back entirely in one, sharp thrust. You're no better, crying out as he hits your cervix.
It’s a whole fight at this point — him trying to control the pace, while you're torturing him with different types of tactics. Then you put your hands on your breasts, fondling them and pulling on your nipples with coos of breath at the sensation.
“H-hey, go easy on this guy…” he lets go of your hips to hold at the bars of his bed, basically shaking under you. He should be scared of you and your pussy, in fact.
“You told me to show you all I have,” you laugh breathlessly through the way he’s stretching you, keeping up a faster tempo now that you’ve adjusted to his size. You cry out as you occasionally graze your sweet post, one hand falling down to hold yourself with his thigh.
“I bit more than I could chew, sweetie. Spare me,” he complains at himself, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Has there been something he didn’t know about himself? He’s not fussy about being below you as much as he’d have assumed he would.
For a moment, he lets you do everything on your own. It’s no break just because he’s lying and taking it — the friction is unbearable, you’re sucking him inside with every thrust, and you're so wet it tickles at his sensitivity. He tries to enjoy the view of your tits bouncing, your ass bracketing his hips, and the most beautiful look of your face both having fun and being lost in pleasure with lips gasping for air. Your eye-contact doesn’t falter, pulling him in with obsessive need to make sure those sweet meetings will keep happening, as long as he keeps letting you use him.
The sound of your song itself could make him burst right here.
That would be the course of action if you don’t then throw the line reminding him of his lame position, so in character for you but clearly digging at him, “I expected a little more from you, Enjin,” you pout.
He’s moving despite his legs have been growing limp.
You feel the shift in his energy the moment the groans he leaves is far more aggressive than you have ever heard from him, but then you're made to feel it when he’s shoving you face down into the mattress, knocking your legs apart too.
“You had your fun. Now it’s time to settle a score. And yes, it is very personal.”
You feebly turn your head to the side, watching as he lays his tattooed body over yours entirely, squashing you down and putting faith in your Cleaner’s strength to handle him.
“What the fuck, Enjin…” you flail your legs under him. You try to push him away from you so you can reestablish your prior command, but he’s leashing his arms under you to lock you in place. With his cock nestled between your asscheeks and grazing your sensitive slit, one goes under your tits, the other one under your neck and Choker till you have to lift your head, locking you in his grip entirely.
“You bitch—”
“You’ll take it anyway,” he says cockily, on a sterner note, and shuts you up by thrusting back into you in one, wet glide.
Taking matters into his own hands, everything is made much more intense in this position. His weight is stealing your breath, his dick is reaching everywhere, especially with the gravity shoving him inside; every push is met with his balls grinding and slapping at your clit. Enjin is being brisk from the start, hitting your thighs with his every half-second.
Your throat is turning sore from how loud he’s turning you. “What the…” your lashes catch moisture. “Enjin… you’re gonna kill me…” you say desperately through the loop on your neck restricting your talk. Your Choker is digging into your throat additionally.
“Not gonna kill...” he groans, tortured by the way you're even tighter in this position. He laps at your shoulder, leaving an ugly hickey for another man to see and turn away his head from you. “But I will leave you in pieces for sure.”
The promise goes straight to your pussy, having it squeezing harder at him ruining you from the inside. “Fuck… you’re annoying even when I’m fucking you…” he growls in his throat.
Your legs kick at him again, as your hands scratch ahead of you. Enjin clutches your breast, before rubbing your nipple between his thick fingers. Your head slumps over his forearm, unable to take more of stimulation with this level of fight. His cock and hips are relentless, quickly pushing you into something that will leave your muscles weak for a week straight, regardless of his own legs trembling on yours.
“Just like that… finally being a good girl for me…” he mutters a praise into nape he hides his face into. Still, his fingers pry at your mouth, pushing a finger inside you mindlessly begin sucking at. So hot you are.
Enjin picks up his pace into a merciless one, creating a loud echo in the room and drawing your orgasm closer and closer by hitting your clit with his heavy balls; loosening the screws in his poor bed rattling under you and he hitting a tempo of the lively beat he put on in the background. There’s no space not being stretched back and forth inside of you, and you’re crying into the pillow, staying close to the edge of him turning pounding you into painful. The soreness building up is not wasted, as what he’s doing to you is ecstatic to feel.
His own moans are falling straight into your ear, driving you even more mad. “Mercy, Enjin… I’m gonna…”
“You think you can?” he taunts and lifts his head to bite your ear point, tickling the piercing there. He’s about to fill you up nicely himself, feeling himself twitch inside your heat, but he’d like to upkeep some control he established over you.
Still finding some defiance and will in yourself, you make a threat he knows to not downplay. “Deny me and you’re never touching me again,” you mumble into the pillow, snarlingly.
“Can't win against you…” he clicks his tongue, tightening his arm below your neck until your vision is swimming in lightheadness. It’s not as if he could have handled denying himself by doing that to you in the first place, so he submits to the pleasure you're forcing.
“But you’re still gonna take all that I will give you, won’t you, sweetheart? Be nice to me?” he says softly to your ear, soothing your anger.
You nod, desperately. You’ll think about taking something after — as for now, you can’t end your recompensing session without him creaming your pussy. “Please, Enjin, I need it…” you angle your hand awkwardly to the back to pull on his hair like a leash, drawing out a wince.
“Dammit…” he curses quietly at your wanton utterance of his name, hiding his face in you again. He’s glad you can’t see it — you wouldn't let his promiscuous look live down after. “Come on, cum on me, pretty girl. I’ll give it to you.”
One, two, three thrusts later and you're screaming into the pillow, feeling your muscles tighten and throb around him. “Fuck, fuck, Enjin, Enjin, don't stop—” your entire body shaking.
Music to his ears.
“Shh, I’ve got you, lovely. Just ride it out, I’ll help you…” he whispers into your skin, not letting on his grip over you; he only slows down, aiding you in coming down.
“Just a bit more… just a bit…” he grunts. You’re spent and sweaty under him your bodies almost separate, and he feels like he should hurry — not that he can last much longer, his legs turning jelly. He lifts his head from your shoulder and licks at your tears with weird fascination at your rare vulnerability, before kissing you with your salty taste, chasing his climax until he’s bursting his load into you.
His vessels threaten to pop from how enormously his high hits him, emptying everything from his balls with the meanest of peaks. His moans are barely muffled, but you can’t hear much post-orgasm anyway, lazily following his lips, hazy-eyed.
His head collapses on the side of yours, with him relaxing his grip too, desperately trying to circle some air back into his lungs. Enjin groans inwardly at the thought of letting his load spill out, so keeps crushing you. “I think you did it…”
“Hm…?” you barely make a sound, incoherent.
“Ruined me for other women. Ruined women for me. How will I fuck others after that?”
Your vein pulses in annoyance already. “Get off me, you heavy man,” you mumble, regaining blood back in its rightful place.
Enjin sticks his tongue at you, before he’s rolling to the side and forming a starfish from how fucked out he feels — he, the man who fucks. He wasn’t aware a strong orgasm can leave a man unable to walk too — he can't move. “Man…”
“Man indeed…” you agree, turning your sore body onto your back, shivering when his cum runs down your thigh. “I think you made me overdid the thank you part,” you grumble, as if it was his fault.
“I did?” he takes offense, somehow managing to prop himself on his side. “Don’t get your panties in a twist. You did this all with malice and being insufferable.”
“Oh, I can be much more insufferable. Just wait ten minutes,” you smirk.
His eyes widen. “Really?” He’s getting another round with you? Although, maybe he should be worried…
“Why? Was I that bad?” you prod.
“Nah. Best pussy I ever had. Ten out of ten. Type of pussy that—”
You throw a pillow at him. He ruffles your hair, before pulling you close with a content smile.
It doesn’t last long.
“Oh, fuck me!” he suddenly winces. Both of you totally forgot about his injury, and now its debilitating pain was returning with twice strength. You’re sitting up, worried you might have fucked his brains out literally.
The evening after, he’s found walking into the hospital room with a limp in his legs and exhaustion painted all over his face. If Eishia’s temper was different, she’d be screaming at him instead of panicking for him being that careless with a head concussion.
Gris visits him soon post hearing from Eishia, concerned by the sudden degradation in his state. “Woah! Are you doing good, man? Do you need anything?” he asks with worry shortly into entering the room, unaware of the truth.
“Nah. Don’t save me. I'm where I want to be,” Enjin snickers to himself.
After all, he has a date with you this Friday. For the excruciating presence he tends to be in your life, he earned the chance to prove he could be more than your fuck-and-cuddle buddy. Womanizer and maneater is a duo no one has seen coming.
Afternote: Idk if he’s that much of a womanizer, but I’ll pretend he is for the sake of contrasting his character with reader’s…. Hope you had fun reading!
He’s seen you in a ton of different situations. When you’re (reluctantly) listening to orders and (somewhat) following them through. When you’re bored and have nothing to do. When you're busy as can be and stumbling around like a chicken with their head cut off. When you’re absolutely stupid with bravery due to too much liquid courage. When you think you’re the most powerful man on this side of the planet. When you are the most powerful man on this side of the planet. He’s seen you in a lot of different situations. He’s seen you act in a lot of different ways.
But in all his time traveling with you, you’ve never been this easy for him. Never.
And it has everything to do with the fact that you’re high as a kite and fast asleep on him right now.
“Fuck,” Spike curses softly under his breath, careful not to make too much noise. You’re lying on the couch with him, legs tangled in a big type of mess he never saw himself getting in with you. Your head is in his lap, and his fingers are absently brushing through your hair as you let out soft little snores in your slumber. You seem so innocent like this. So sweet, so normal, so likable. And nothing like the insufferable asshole he knows you’ll be the second you’re awake, the mushrooms are fully out of your system. One that is fully deserving and completely vulnerable to a good punch in the teeth right now if Spike wanted to give you one. And he really, really, really wants to give you one. “What are you doing to me…?”
But he also…doesn’t want to do that. At all. Not when you’re being so good for him, right now.
He found you like this. Sort of. He doesn’t remember just how many of those weird mushrooms he must have had from that pile Ed supplied the crew with, but he knows it must have been fewer than you. Because a little after the fog in Spike's mind had cleared and the rest of him finally started to come to, he stumbled upon you as you wandered the halls like a lost little lamb.
Stupid and uncharacteristically soft and pliable little you.
Your eyes were vacant, and your legs were shaky whenever you stood or tried to walk on them. Your hair and clothes made you look like you got into a fight that you ultimately lost, but walked out completely unscathed. But it was still you. It was still you. But just a little less so at the moment.
Instead of having something snarky or coy to spit out at him when he got near, you would mumble something incoherent and blink up at him almost sweetly every time Spike tried to call your name and speak to you. Instead of rolling your eyes and being the most insufferable man he has ever had the displeasure of working with (let alone meeting), you’d just get frustrated and whiny with him whenever it seemed you understood him but couldn’t seem to move your lips in a way that allowed you to make words that Spike could understand as well. You’d pout and you’d huff and you’d be a little pathetic thing for him. But you wouldn’t put up much of a fight whenever Spike would take matters into his own hands.
You let him pull you around, push you to sit down on the couch, and drink the water being pushed up to your lips. You let him speak without too many interruptions. You let him feel your forehead for a fever. You let him pull your face towards him so he can see your eyes better. You let him do all that. You let him get really close. You let him pull you in real close.
And most surprisingly of all, you let him touch you. Touch you, touch you. Like, Spike’s hand around your waist as he noses the side of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only piece of air left on this ship. All while you get so comfortable with all the attention and care that you start to doze off in his arms, like the good, good, good boy Spike knows you can be.
Spike shouldn’t be doing this. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it.
But you’re vulnerable right now. He loves how you fight. He loves how you keep him on his toes and make things interesting. He loves how you never make things easy and always make him work for the bare minimum- the crumbs you almost refuse to give him.
But right now, Spike can’t help but think you’re so fucking pretty when you’re vulnerable.
He knows if he had kissed you at any different time, he’d have to deal with the more wild version of you. The version of you that’s cocky to the point of being unbearable. The version of you that is convinced you can’t be tamed or broken in or anything. The version of you that would fight back with all your strength just to be the one to control the kiss, just because you wanted to. The version of you that would probably be spending every break in between kisses, making fun of him for being too excited, too happy at the chance of kissing you. A chance he kept refusing to take due to his own pride.
But like this, you wouldn’t put up much of a fight or fuss. You’d probably wake up with a sluggish start before your consciousness starts to catch up, little by little. You’d probably whine a pretty sound right into his mouth. You’d probably let him pin you to the couch and kiss you even stupider. You’d probably let him do a lot of things.
Perhaps even all things you’ve been teasing Spike with- tempting Spike with- for the past who-knows-how-long-at-this-point.
It makes his mouth water just to think about it. You’d be so easy to deal with. So easy to hold, mold, and have. Almost as easy as you’re being right now. Because right now, you’re just being a good, good boy, lying your head in Spike's lap and getting your nice little nap in.
But he can’t. He won’t.
You’re not you when you’re like this. You’re a lot of things right now, sure. But like this, you wouldn’t be the pretty boy he’s so enamoured with. You wouldn’t be the asshole he lets tease him and walk right over him because fuck he enjoys it when you do. You wouldn’t be any of those things.
“What are you doing to me, pretty boy? What are you doing to me…”
But he can still have you. He can still have you just like this. Sleepy. Soft. Sweet.
He can have you just like this.
And when you wake up, Spike can hold this over your head. He can remind you of just how obedient you can be when you’re fixed up right. He can remind you of just how easy you are to work with the second your defenses are down, because that's when you start acting like a good boy. He can remind you of this moment. He can hold it over your head. He can tease you with these memories. And until then?
He can hold you. He can play with your hair. He can let you lie on his lap. And he can let you sleep and dream to your little heart’s content.
“Just wait a little longer, pretty boy. We’ll have what we both want soon enough.”
Just so long as you keep being good and letting him dream about the day he finally decides to give in and kiss you.
