after your family has left you essentially alone, your cousin the wealthy Megumi agrees to take you in. You're instantly enamored with the resident butler Satoru Gojo however, with blue eyes that randomly go black. He looks almost... hungry?
pairings - Demon Butler Satoru x f! reader
warnings- kinks - manipulation/virginity loss - black butler/ jjk crossover!! - Megumi is Ciel hehe, Satoru is Sebastian Michaelis - aka a hungry, picky demon, complete smut - loss of virginity by his damn fingers, mating press, blood play, cum/blood drinking, Satoru being a freaky ahh demon, reader is adorable and just lost (r.i.p. her soul oof) - 5.6k wc
Ahhh this is the first of my six kinktober stories, starring yours truly my main baby Gojo and Sebastian melded into one fine ass demon <3
dividers by @uzmacchiato and @dividers-are-us
Present
It’s been three days since you first met that damn demon butler, the one looking at you with bright blue eyes that are fringed with long lashes, smirking over at you as he stands behind the boy he serves, your cousin Megumi Fushiguro. Orphaned himself, he has graciously asked you to come stay once a tragedy fell upon your family.
Megumi is quiet, he’s kind with a small smile, yet he does not say much, other than chide and eye roll at his most loyal six foot four butler. It was him who greeted you that windy day you stepped out of that carriage after a long trip, hair hanging just a bit over his brow, black tuxedo fitted to a body so lean and yet buff that you can’t take your eyes off him.
A butler hmm, just what sort of butler is he?
He carries this elegance about him. Megumi is of course rich, your families happen to be some of the more elite and upper crust, yet he’s just perpetually bored, grimacing at Satoru’s terrible jokes, playing chess with you just to beat you in a few moves, before huffing off bored once more.
That leaves you picking up the pieces, while Satoru eyes you carefully, a smirk on his features.
“Do you want to play, Butler?” You ask softly one night, feeling his gaze penetrating you so intently.
“Me, my lady? Oh, I do not know… would that be appropriate, me playing with you?” The insinuation as he saunters up to you has you in a furious blush, a deep chuckle resounding from his chest, he leans so low his lips are a breath away. “Do you want me to play with you, sweet girl?”
“Um…” You’re stammering then, his heat and presence are too much – you are a lady after all, you hardly can compose yourself with his scent, so crisp and clean, filling your nostrils. “Y-yes, chess is quite fun. But I fear cousin Megumi always wins.”
“Of course he does, tsk…” His satin gloved fingers dance across your cheeks. “Shall you beat me, you think?”
“I should like to try,” he chuckles and bites off a glove with his teeth, so sexy your tummy tenses, heart racing.
“Very well, let us begin.”
He elegantly tears down all your defenses during this game, though he had when you met him that first day, when he’d bent at the waist and kissed your hand.
******
"Satoru Gojo, Master Megumi’s butler," he’d announced in a deep tone, like honey sweeping across your skin. He’d extended a gloved hand for you to take, and it took you a moment before your hand joined his.
All you can remember were those eyes, less blue and more black, some glint within them that had sent a shiver down your spine as much as it made your tummy clench, your heart hammering in your chest, you watched his hand swallow your own. You had just stood there, staring up at him dumbfounded.
There's something undeniably… Well, you can’t say demonic, can you? That was utter nonsense, yet there was an intriguing thing about him that simultaneously drew you in as it terrified you.
“Hello,” you had introduced yourself carefully, taking Satoru Gojo’s hand, letting him help you down. You had almost fallen, but he’d had you firm in his grasp, smirking down at you in this way that’s madness. “Oh, forgive my clumsiness!”
“Not to worry young miss,” his huge hand burns even over your corset and bodice, making you tremble, your hands on a chest so strong it makes you feel things you never have. “Do you fancy it here?”
“I just got here,” your brows knit together, and he chuckles then, tugging you imperceptibly closer against his hard body. “Um…”
“I meant in my arms,” he’s grinning wickedly, earning your gasp. “You have not left them yet.”
“I just, I…” You pull back and almost fall once more, but this time it’s Megumi who catches your arm, sighing like he’s tired already. “Oh! Cousin…”
“Dear cousin,” he mumbles, yawning and setting you right, his dark hair slicked back, he tugs his pretty baby blue tail coat a bit, letting you go and bowing at the waist. “It’s an honor to see you again. Blah blah blah.”
“Did you just say - ‘blah blah blah’ Megumi?” You ask now, and Satoru chuckles, bowing at the waist with a gloved hand to his chest.
“What the young master means is it’s lovely to have you at our home,” Satoru looks up under snowy lashes, melting you then. “Isn’t it, Megumi?”
“Sure, whatever,” he just turns and starts heading toward the doors of the black, old mansion, something eerie just emanating from it that makes you hesitate. One side of it has vines crawling all upon it, massive and alone in the countryside, nothing for miles truly. Megumi looks back at you over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”
“Oh! Yes,” you’re grabbing a bag, but Satoru takes it from you quickly, holding out an elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Gojo.”
“Satoru, please, no need to be so formal. You’re the young Master’s family, hmm? I’ll serve you too.”
“Serve me?” You’d said those words, holding onto a strong arm and walking next to the tall butler, whose gaze sweeps over you.
“Mmhmm, I’m at your service.”
****
Present
“Do you wish to wager anything, young miss?” Satoru the butler asks, with his wicked grin, leaning forward and resting his arms on the elegant table the two of you play on, a wooden piece between his gloved fingers.
“Wager anything huh,” you’re snapped back to the present, clearing your throat now, feeling far too bold. “Are you so sure you’ll win?”
“Oh, I’ll win,” you scoff a bit, but that’s how Satoru is – seemingly more arrogant than the Master of the manor himself. “How about I’ll make sure you get good rest tonight if I win, and if you win – you help me rest.”
“Rest?” Your brows draw together in confusion, moving your rook. “Why do you think I need rest, Sir?”
His laugh is soft and dangerous, his baby blues flickering across your face, taking in the beauty that he can’t wait to deflower. A sweet little sheltered lady, yet he sees it inside you, the need for more, for him in particular, it’s written all over your features, your dilated eyes and parted lips, the flush that colors your cheeks perfectly.
Do you blush everywhere?
He’ll know soon enough.
Satoru looks hungry you think to yourself, he’s far too close, his hand precariously near brushing against your thigh, you inhale his scent – clean and fresh, filling your nostrils so intoxicating. Just in the past few days he’s awakened something inside you that you didn’t realize, just last night even you’d been so enamored you’d been soaking wet in your bed.
“I take it you’re not sleeping, sweet girl,” he tuts his tongue a bit, brushing your cheek right under your eyes where dark circles reign. “You had quite a long trip, and have been through much. Perhaps you need a release, hmm?”
“A release…” You repeat, while he moves his rook, studying those always gloved hands and wondering what they looked like, felt like.
“Indeed, miss, a release.”
“And do you need one?” Your words catch him then, cock leaky and throbbing from fucking playing chess.
Satoru the butler was hungry.
His deal with Megumi was that he’d wait until he was ready to be devoured, as his soul was one of those rare tasty ones – and Satoru was a connoisseur of them, he would not just consume common souls. Of course, he also fed from sex, so at times he’d go to take just a little bit of energy from the beauties in the city, but none had a soul tasty as yours.
Bright, it’s bright and brilliant – too good for him, yet he’d love to corrupt it just a bit, to make sure you’re tasty and ripe enough, mix that bright white with some of his darkness. Satoru’s hair and eyes may be bright, but his heart was black, even black as it was your brightness screamed to it since he first laid eyes on you.
Master Megumi forbade him from touching you, he may not show his care, but he does in his own ways, in the ways a boy that’s been through hell can care. He was already a little fond of you after a few days of you trying to get to know him, though he didn’t show it, Satoru caught his little smile.
Satoru’s grown fond of Megumi over the years of being his butler, not so fond as to break their contract, it was Megumi’s choice after all, he’d summoned Satoru. Yet, at times he wavered as his annoying human side started to make him care for humans. Only a select few, however, were deemed tolerable.
You were above that.
Impeccable.
The thought of tasting your pretty little cunt right along with your pretty little soul tortures him, he’s just going to have to defy Master Megumi this once.
“I could indeed use a release, what do you wager, hmm?”
“So if I win you give me a release?” You ask softly, he grins, eyes crinkling the tiniest bit at the corners.
“Because that would be most enjoyable for me.”
“You’re odd. Oh!?”
Satoru’s laughing at that, just shaking his head, moving his piece to capture your bishop. “You really have no idea how odd I am.”
*****
That first night, Satoru had taken you up to your room, holding a lantern as you both ascended the dark halls of the manor. He’d walked you up with a gentle hand guiding the small of your back, he’d already given you a meal that was possibly the tastiest thing you’ve ever had, a quiet dinner with your cousin Megumi.
You’d follow him up the stairs and a glimpse of his well defined backside, accentuated by the tight fit of his black trousers under that split tail coat, and you swear he caught you looking. “Anything wrong, miss?”
“No!?” He’d just grinned, so handsome, you felt heat burning your cheeks, and you quickly averted your gaze, wondering at the strange stirrings within you.
They just got worse when he tucked you in.
He had made sure your accommodations were comfortable, bending over and reaching out to adjust the covers, to fluff your pillows underneath your head, his fingers brushing against your skin on accident. Just that alone had sent jolts of desire through your body.
You had watched him, utterly transfixed, as he leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over your ear.
"Do you need anything else, young miss?"
You almost said yes – ‘your mouth’. Almost dragged him in for a kiss. You, an innocent young lady!
“N-no, nothing sir.” He’d just smiled, brushing his fingers down your cheek, the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains and illuminating his lithe form.
“Then good night, sweet girl.”
You’d touched yourself for the first time that night.
Satoru could sense it, smiling against the door and leaning his head back, listening to the sounds of you, waiting for the moment he can get you all to himself and taste your soul, your very essence. He runs his tongue along his lips, palming his cock with one hand, the lantern in the other, ear against the old wooden door – just listening to you struggle to pleasure yourself.
He’d help you soon.
“Give it a little longer, young miss,” he murmurs to himself, but also to you, before leaning off the door, leaving you a frustrated mess.
*****
Present
“Blast it,” you curse softly, the memories of that touch creep in, clumsy fingers trying to touch your own soaking wetness, something you’ve never done.
“Losing? Don’t worry, it’s natural, I am an exceptional chess player.”
“What aren’t you good at, Satoru?”
“Hmm,” he taps his chin, before shrugging a shoulder. “I’m quite proficient at everything I’m afraid. Especially…”
You glare when he gets you in check.
“Playing with you is so fun,” he says teasingly, leaning so close you feel his hot breath against your neck. “Do you like me playing with you?”
“Perhaps,” you’re a little elusive with your answer, but once he wins, he stands then, hands on the table, taking your king piece, and using the cool wood of it to brush across your breasts, heaving up and down. “Sir…”
“I won, so it’s your chambers.”
You’re nervously following him moments later, wondering just what the bloody hell you have gotten yourself into, but at first it’s him getting you out of your corset, working the ties so fast he’s quicker than any handmaid ever could be. He’s working diligently to get you into your night gown that’s underneath, eyeing you in the mirror, kissing a bare shoulder.
“Go sit, hmm?” You do as he bids, and then Satoru is giving you a massage, in your settee, leaning back and exhaling, as it feels so good.
Too good.
“Ah, young miss,” Satoru chuckles, walking around to face you and kneeling, whispering between your thighs. Long fingers pressing against your skin, trailing underneath your dress ever so slowly - achingly slow in fact. “Is this how you need to relax, not a cup of tea?”
You’re flushing furiously, teeth sinking down into your lower lip, you can swear his eyes flicker such bright blue it’s like the hottest flames, fans of his breath drifting across your skin. He fingers the garters of your pretty white stockings, smiling lazily, like he has all the time in the world to work you, unhurried kisses working their way over the thin material.
“You’re a most insolent butler,” you whisper out, gasping when he shoves your night dress all the way up to your hips. “Impudent, one would say.”
“I’m simply one hell of a butler,” he murmurs, raising a brow and eyeing your bare cunt now, exhaling. “I’m the best, you know, at everything.”
“Arrogant too,” your voice is a soft cry, as he groans, the breath tickling you where you’re most intimate. “You think you’re the best at everything, really?”
“I know I am, sweet girl,” he chuckles again, a gloved finger brushing down your slit, soaking the material. “I win at anything.”
“I’ll get you in chess next time,” you murmur, he presses your thighs up now, until you’re damn near bent in half. “Ah!”
“Young master Megumi told me not to go near you,” his tongue flicks out, defying orders of his contract has never felt so fucking good. “Mnh, but I’d say a taste of you is worth it.”
“You’re… tasting me? You - oh!” Satoru’s filthy with it, groaning when your slick dribbles from your little hole.
“No one’s touched you, I can practically taste the innocence,” he chuckles now, grinning at you, swiping that wetness all around his pretty pink lips. His eyes are black then, terrifying yet pulling you closer. “I will relish in taking it, but do you really want me to? I won't let go of what’s mine ever.”
“You act as if it’s some sort of contract,” you whisper, his tongue flicks you once more, achingly slow up your slit, tapping your clit now. “I do not wish to be m-married, Sir…”
“That’s perfect,” he muses softly, spreading your lips and watching your eager hole just twitch. “You can be all mine then.”
You’re arching up for him, cunt slipping against his face, he hungrily sucks your clit into his hot, eager mouth, moaning and making it vibrate against the twitchy little pearl. You’re screaming out so lewdly he pulls back and chuckles, the black eyes against the white fringe of lashes terrifying in how fucking insane they are, the contrast of white and black.
“Do you wish your cousin to hear us?” He gently smacks your cunt with his now bare hand, and you see his black nails, a symbol on the back of his hand. “Keep down just a bit, hmm?”
“W-what’s this?” You murmur, brushing the glowing spot on the back of his hand, Satoru just chuckles again, leaning over you and kissing your lips, letting your own arousal slip into it.
Your first kiss is full of dripping arousal.
“Mnh!” You’re clinging to his strong biceps over his tail coat, pressing against the thick, expensive black material, and Satoru is running two long fingers up and down you, watching you twitch with a little delighted smirk.
“I hope you can take me,” he whispers, before slipping both in, groaning at how tight you are. “You shouldn’t make bets with a demon, sweetheart.”
“Demon,” you’re too lost now, cunt pulsing around those long fingers, gasping at the sharp pain of the insertion. “Too much, too much!”
“Tiny little cunt, tsk…” He pulls back his fingers now, and you gasp out in horror, even as you’re drooling from his three pumps, he pulls them back and they’re coated in crimson.
“I am not on my… w-what…”
“No, not your cycle,” he runs that blood between his fingers, eyeing you wickedly, as if he’s pleased. “That was your innocence, I suppose that will make my cock easier to take then.”
This demon butler Satoru just took your virginity with his stupidly long fingers!?
Your mouth opens, then closes, cheeks heating up. “That’s my…”
“Mmm, yes sweet girl,” he sucks the blood off his fingers, moaning now, cheeks hollowing, his eyes flutter shut while he just drinks the remnants of your innocence like it’s the sweetest treat. “Oh you’re so fucking delicious, it will be so difficult not to just devour all of you.”
“Devour me?” He’s pressing a kiss on your cunt, lapping up the sweetness of the virginity that was so stupidly easy to break, chuckling.
“You’re tiny, but so wet, you’ll take me I think,” he stands then, thumb brushing that blood off his chin, lapping more of it up, while he slips off his tail coat, neatly folding it up on the little side table. “Little Kitten… yes, I’ll call you kitten.”
“Kitten?” You whisper, eyes hungrily taking in him unbuttoning that white dress shirt, revealing his toned abdomen, cut with muscles flexing, his chest with his flat pink nipples so strong, shoulders broad and flexing.
“Yes, you’re like a sweet little kitten,” he determines, eyeing you with something akin to affection. Demons don’t feel love like humans really, but he does feel lust – and he’s never felt whatever this is. “I love kittens, you know.”
This man – demon!? – is having a casual conversation as he undoes his belt, and you eye the white trail of hair under his flat belly button, the veins pressing up against the thin skin, faint blue against the v cuts on his pelvis. Your cunt gushes, and he tilts his head, as if to take notice, exhaling.
“Undress, sweet kitten.”
It’s like a command, like he has you hypnotized, you do just that, standing shakily and undressing for him, he eyes your body and moans audibly, you’d hide but the way he studies you? There’s no need to, him stepping closer, brushing his hands along the swells of your breasts, making your nipples taut.
“Perfect little human,” he murmurs almost reverently, sighing and cupping your face. “I really want you to survive.”
You swallow again, a hand trailing down his hard chest, the sting of his long fingers still burning, yet your core is tightened, aching for more. “If I’ll survive you say, do you find my constitution so weak?”
“No, not at all,” he murmurs, cupping your face almost delicately, like he’s studying your features carefully. “I want you to make it.”
Satoru lifts you up by your hips, like you’re nothing, carrying you so quickly over to the bed, glittering with blacks and reds, kissing down your neck while his hands, still glinting with a bit of your crimson, brush down your skin. Satoru’s hungry as he works over you, sucking a nipple into his mouth and sinking sharp teeth right above one, marking you and moaning softly.
“Look at that,” he whispers, watching the bruise blossom on your skin, cock leaking pre thinking of being inside your perfect little cunt. “I fear you already belong to me now.”
You want to be irritated, want to say or do anything other than what you do, which is taking his hair in your hand and gripping it, arching your back and whining out for more. You’re lost in every kiss, like a fiery brand on your skin, his fingers slipping down your waist and sinking in, making you melt with every movement like his lips are designed to ruin you.
It’s dark in the room, despite the fire crackling in the hearth, which dances and reflects in his dark eyes with a swirling blue ring, fires dancing while he looks down at you, white teeth flashing a smile. Why is it so dark, swirling around you, the shadows cast along the walls, one of a predator and his prey.
Long fingers with black long nails coming for your throat, a tall body so lithe working over you until your shadow is taken, it’s just the butler on you, between your thighs, hot and heavy cock pressing against your slit, tip pressing along your slit. He leans up on his hands above you, silvery white hair falling over a brow, fingers gripping a thigh still clad in stockings.
“I quite like these,” he murmurs lazily, pressing just a bit inside your hole, you’re clinging to his shoulders, nails pressing in, whining out at the sensation. “You are so tiny, are you sure she can take me?”
“Y-yes,” he smirks, as if that’s just the answer he needed, leaning down with his lips against your ear.
“I don’t like to let my toys go, and I don’t like to share,” his tip enters now, the ridge popping in, you’re so sensitive from his mouth and so tight you feel every ridge in your slick walls. “You’re all mine now, you see? Mine to fuck, mine to breed – any time that I wish to.”
You should be terrified of him, but you just helplessly nod, underneath whatever Satoru Gojo is, you're lost in him, craving more and more. He moans against your neck, sinking deeper, the initial pain of his fingers takes the sting away so it’s just this delicious fucking stretch, making you gush down his length, slipping all the way down to the bed and dripping.
“Do you agree to be mine?” He asks now, your cunt is gripping him so good he has to pause, holding himself up and tilting your face towards him, squeezing your chin so hard it hurts. “Speak, kitten, when asked a question.”
“Y-yes, I agree.”
You’re stupid, right? So easily handing yourself away to this man, yet when he pulls back and slams back in, and you shatter, it’s an easy decision, whatever ecstasy this was – it’s addictive. How Satoru looks at you, moaning softly and starting to grip your thighs, pressing them up and dragging you even further down on a thick, lengthy cock.
“I won’t take it easy on you,” his words are soft, his eyes glowing blue once more around the round black pupils, exhaling and almost pulling his cock fully out. “Hang on to me, pretty kitten.”
Your nails dig in.
“And she has claws,” he loves it, your nails digging in so much they try to leave scratches that just instantly heal, and Satoru begins to move. He’s slamming his cock so deep it fills you full, tummy bulging with him he’s so big, gummy walls quivering around him as you get slippery from how wet you are. “That’s it, claw at me all you want.”
“Sir…”
“Satoru,” his lips dance across yours, before leaning up, hand wrapping your throat, licking his lower lip and groaning. “Ready?”
You nod once more, and Satoru begins to fuck into you, filthy slaps of skin in your slick cunt, so tiny around him yet she sucks him in greedy.
“Don't even know what breeding is,” he murmurs, squeezing your neck tighter. “Yet here you are, milking me for all my seed, you can't help it, can you?”
You're too fucked out and sensitive, every smack of his heavy balls on your ass dripping with arousal is loud in the elegant, quiet chambers. It echoes off the walls, off the stone floor beneath those rugs, mixed with his soft groans and his whispers of your name like a devotion.
“Fuck you're gonna take me like this your first time?” He eyes your tummy, the way it moves with his cock, groaning at the sight. “Look how big I am, sweet kitten. Pathetic little cunt trying so hard.”
“Ngh!” You're close to shattering, his hot body working you, cock stretching you beyond your means. He's on his knees, abs flexing, eyes so bright they hurt to focus on, he sees more crimson leaking with your arousal slipping down his veiny cock. It mixes with his pre, milky and messy as he shoves it back so deep into you.
He's lost at the sight of it dripping in rivulets down your skin, possessive nature ripping through him.
“Oh kitten, look at you,” He takes the mixture of blood and cum and sucks on it, eyes fluttering shut. “I'm destroying you, hah – and you love it. Don't you?”
“Mhm,” you’re depraved, debauched surely, when he starts folding you in half and fucking you so hard you cry out. You drool, letting him choke the air out of you while he fills you so deep until it's him, all him. “So much, so much!”
“Aw, you're close,” He's simply relishing every grip of tacky, gummy walls, every hit of his curved tip against your smooth cervix. “Go ahead, get your release, let me feel your cum all over my cock.”
“Ngh, S-satoru!” You cling to him desperately, feeling yourself closer and closer, and he does not relent.
No, he doesn’t stop the filthy strokes, folding your body in a mating press with your knees damn near brushing the mattress, huge cock splitting you in half. He doesn't let you breathe with those fingers squeezing your throat, doesn't let you rest or adjust, lost now, turning more demon than human as he fucks into you.
Your head tilts to the side in pleasure, while his tip rubs on that spot over and over, you’re gushing so much it’s slippery and messy, when your eyes fluttering in and out of focus hit the mirror. That’s when you really see him, his reflection over you. He’s just a huge, black shadow entity in that reflection.
He chuckles, looking over at it with you, only his brilliant blue eyes and the sheer shape of him alluding to this form, you’re stammering, looking back up at him now, he pauses for a moment.
“Scared, sweetheart?”
You swallow and look once more, but then cup his face, feeling perfect smooth skin under your touch. “No.”
“You are the most delicious soul I’ve ever come across,” he breathes in admiration, then he loses himself.
His cock is slamming into you so hard you feel like you're breaking, the slickness of your cunt only helping so much with his huge, thick cock pounding so deep. You’re trembling, thighs gripping his hips, as he folds them even further. He pins your hips down with bruising force, pace frantic, he’s indeed not taking it easy on you, yet you’re shattering underneath him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, his eyes are locked on yours, lips parted and a flush across his face as he watches you unravel beneath him. “You’re close.”
“I think?” He’s grinning at how cute you are. “So much pressure…”
“Taking me so well, like you were made for this.”
“Mnh!” His hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your air just enough to make your vision blur at the edges, your head feels fuzzy, every stroke even harder, slamming your cervix and bruising it.
“Ah, can’t talk like this hmm?” He releases your throat, leaning low, letting you claw again at his arms, leaving bloody scratches that heal right under your nails. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. "Beg for it," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. "Beg for my seed to fill you."
You're sobbing now, so overwhelmed from pleasure, pain, fear and… fuck you love being pounded into, tears streaming down your face as pleasure and pain mix into something that has you a trembling mess, unable to form a thought. “Can’t think.”
“Hah, that’s good,” he slows down for a moment, rolling his hips and pressing his hands on your thighs, making you hurt with how deep he slams, up on his knees and prone so he can pump deeper. “Only think about the pleasure.”
You swallow nervously, cunt pulsing, thighs shoved against your breasts. "P-please, I need it.”
“Need what, to cum?”
“For you to fill me up."
“Oh fuck,” it’s his turn to lose himself – him, Satoru Gojo, the demon butler – lost in the young lady letting him take her utterly and completely. “You’re being such a good little kitten," he purrs those fucking words, his free hand that was choking you sliding down to rub rough circles on your clit.
“Ah!” You jolt from the sensation, he uses one arm to press your thighs down, cock pumping slow, brutal thrusts.
“That’s it, fall apart just for me."
Your orgasm slams you with such pleasure it hurts, this all consuming shattering of not just your body, but your soul, the one he’s so hungry for, like he’s stealing some of it while your cunt clamps down. It’s spasming around his length – thickening – milking him for every bit of that seed as you scream his name, eyes rolling back, gasping for any breath.
“Hmm, you’re this slutty the first time? Perfect… All mine, all mine,” he whispers, his thrusts turning erratic and so quick you can’t function or think, before he buries himself and bottoms out in your small little cunt. “F-fuck, feel this, huh? Feel every bit I have to give you, to fill you with.”
You’re sobbing fully, tears spilling, tears that make him cum harder, spurting hot, thick pulses of his sticky seed deep inside you, filling you until it spills over. He eases out, looking at the mess, pulling out with a filthy pop and exhaling, rubbing his tip up and down where cum pours in creamy rivulets, mixed with streaks of your blood and gossamer strands of your release.
“You bled so much,” he sounds thrilled by this, chuckling as he lays on top of you for a moment, letting your thighs gently fall to the sides, you’re trembling and slick with sweat. “Let me clean you, young miss.”
You couldn’t be more shocked by the man who slips down your body, keeping your thighs pressed high and pulling your now puffy, swollen lips apart, watching the mess spill. “Satoru… you… ah!”
He lowers his face between them, silky hair tickling your inner thighs, and his tongue is hot and thirsty as he laps at the mess he's made of you. Not just your cunt no, your blood, his seed that’s pouring in this mix of white and red that stirs pink. “Fuck, your flavor and mine? Exquisite, sweetheart.”
“S-senstive!” You’re tugging at him, but he’s lost. Satoru Gojo the butler is devouring the filthy mess of fluids like a starving man.
Or a demon.
He’s groaning at the taste, his eyes glowing brighter blue with each swipe, a color to his face that wasn’t there, like you’ve fed him. His lips are dripping blood and slick, while he tenderly looks at your swollen cunt, pressing a kiss and relishing in how you jerk in pain. "Mine, all mine."
He keeps at it, lapping you up, swallowing as much of your cum and his as he can, every speck of your innocence gone, and you can’t even move anymore. Everything starts to spin, your limbs get so heavy like they’re weighed down, eyelids threatening to close.
You barely register him leaving and coming back, already drifting in and out of a weak sleep, while he cleans you, slipping your stockings down ever so gently. You feel the warmth of a damp washcloth gliding over your skin, cleaning away the evidence of your surrender, of what he’s taken so hungrily.
From what you can comprehend while you’re wondering if this all was a dream, he’s being tender and easy, he eases a thin silky slip on you, planting a kiss on lips gone slack, torn between yawns and fading out of consciousness. “Satoru… are you really a demon?”
Your sleepy question has him smiling just a bit, as he tucks the blankets around you. "Just sleep, kitten," he whispers, brushing a kiss to your forehead now, his voice is addictive, soothing like the warmest tea. “Don’t ask such questions.”
“Are you… staying?” Your sweet little question makes even the most demonic heart feel with an annoying tenderness.
“I’ll stay, sweet girl, why wouldn’t I want to watch over what’s mine?” He says softly, brushing your hair back. “And what will stay mine for eternity.
Darkness pulls you under before you can hear him, before you can try to have any self preservation, and Satoru Gojo – the resident demon butler – can’t wait to fulfill your contract together.
“Pretty, foolish kitten.”
You’ll fit in so well at the manor.
Hehehe next up is incubus sylus! rbs and comments appreciated if you enjoy the beginning of kinktober!
Patreon (kinktober fics coming there too!) <3 Kofi/Commissions
at morning you’re at the hotel breakfast buffet, delicately stabbing at a piece of buttery french toast, the pleasant ache between your legs a lingering reminder of your 'celebration' for exorcising a semi-grade 1 curse. you barely had a wink of sleep, but no regrets whatsoever. when a sleep-deprived shoko bluntly asks how exactly you managed to go at it all night. it’s a shock, really—you’d been fairly certain the adjoining rooms had decent soundproofing—but the smirk suguru hides behind his teacup tells you otherwise. apparently, the walls weren’t doing their job as well as you’d hoped. and then all three pairs of eyes land on one of the two instigators: your 6'3" tall boyfriend satoru, hiding behind you, big blue eyes peeking over your shoulder.
Satoru, who’s clearly studied what makes women take a second glance and executes it perfectly. He’s performative, the epitome of performative.
The same Satoru you’ve briefly met and saw go into the same record store twice this week.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about how the music industry really failed female artists in the seventies,” Satoru says, not looking up from the Fleetwood Mac record he’s examining with theatrical concentration. His wired earbuds dangling perfectly against his jacket, the black one that makes his shoulders look more enticingly broad.
You don’t look up from the r&b section, not batting an eye. “Have you now.”
“Like, take Stevie Nicks. Great songwriter, but she was constantly overshadowed by the guys of the band. It’s systemic, really.” He runs his fingers through his hair, fixing a couple strands in such a practiced way it makes your jaw clench.
“Mhm.” You flip aggressively through the vinyls.
“I actually just finished reading Michelle Obama’s autobiography–”
“Oh my god.” you finally turn to face him. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?”
He blinks, not a coherent thought forming in his head. “Practice what?”
“This whole…” You gesture vaguely at his entire frame. “The feminist awakening bit.” That’s when you do a once over at what he’s wearing.
And Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s wearing a Carthartt jacket over a flannel shirt, light blue almost-baggy jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of clogs that tie it all together. You look up at him and his wired earbuds with scorn that it almost makes him think you’re going to choke him with it.
“Did you google ‘how to appeal to women’?”
His mouth quirks up. “Are you saying it’s working?”
The worst part is the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he can see right through your irritation and the sound of the fluttering in your chest when he’d bent over earlier to reach the top of a poster shelf.
“I’m saying you’re a fraud.”
“Fraud,” he repeats, stepping closer. The Fleetwood Mac record still in his hands. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m shopping.”
“You bought that Revoal record twenty minutes ago,” His eyes flick to the bag by your feet. “But you’re still browsing. Still listening to me talk about systemic oppression in the music industry.”
Your face heats. “Maybe I just really like r&b.”
“Maybe.” he’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne–something expensive and subtle that he definitely researched.
The record store suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The soft music playing overhead seems louder.
You look at him, really look. The practiced charm, the calculated aesthetic, the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to read your mind. All of it designed to make women want him. That he’s different.
The terrible thing is, it’s working.
“You’re insufferable,” you say finally.
“Look, I know what this is. You know what this is. But I also know seventeen different musical and state of the art things we can talk about, and I tip really well at restaurants.”
You snort despite yourself. “Wow. What a catch.”
“Right?” He leans against the poster bin. “What do you say? Let me take you to dinner.”
You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your options. He stares back at you, completely shameless. He knows your answer.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“One dinner. If you bring up the wage gap before appetizers get to the table, I’m leaving.”
Satoru's grin widens. But he makes no promises about dessert.
cw: 18+ only, smut, grinding, fingering, praising, drinking, drunk sex, a little praising, public (technically hidden) sex, riding, quickie, etc.
Minors DNI.
The reception had thinned into soft laughters, you and Gojo’s mutual friends celebrating their marriage gleefully as they spewed their way into the dancefloor. You smile, face obvious in a drunken stupor as you step outside. And there he was, his tie draped around his neck like he couldn’t be bothered, eyes glassy from too much champaign.
"Promise me you'll at least try to have fun tonight," the bride, your friend pleaded, tugging your wrist like she's worried you'll fade into thin air if she lets go. Her lipstick is a little smudged at the corners, her veil pinned lopsided from being kissed too hard and far too many times. "And don't leave and ghost me before we get to the dessert, I swear-"
You smile, the kind that doesn't quite reach your eyes, fading ingenuity. "I won't. Go have fun."
She disappears into the swirl of white petals and ecstatic laughter, the music thumping beneath your heels as you watch her vanish into the dance floor. She looks radiant, she's happy, blissed out and whole.
You haven't felt whole in a while. Not that you wanna make it about you. But you needed what she had, not out of jealousy, but of a pure and longing and very much needed connection.
The server strides over to your table with glasses of champaign, and they multiply on your table like rabbits. Everyone's having a good time. You can't even remember how many glasses you've had - enough to feel extremely warm, but not on the brink of vomiting. You felt floaty, but not quite liberated from your thoughts. People drift around you, faces glowing with sweat and wine. You catch glimpses of friends you used to be close with. Now, they're all just strangers wearing the same black-and-cream palette. All of them dancing in that golden, hazy joy weddings supposedly carry.
You laugh when someone proposes a toast. They're obviously drunk, they're having fun, and they almost break their hip trying to balance themselves. You clap when they raise their glass, you clap when the bride and groom kiss, but you've never once let go of your clutch. You check on it constantly, wondering when is the right time to step outside and take out the box of cigarettes you've been parched on for hours.
Eventually, you slip outside, leaving your half-eaten slice of cake behind.
The air outside is colder than you expected, it was sharp, but it was relieving considering how stuffy the venue was. You grab the pack of cigarettes and dig out your lighter, leaning against the railing overlooking the city. Your dress rides up a little as the breeze quickens, one strap slipping off your shoulder. You're buzzed, warm but cold, and aching somewhere beneath your ribs.
You flick the lighter once. It clicks. Another flick. Again. The wind keeps stealing the flame.
You sigh and press the cigarettes to your lips anyway, determined to get at least one smoke before heading back inside.
"You still smoke when you're sad?"
His voice slips past the darkness like it was meant to.
You don't turn to face him, at least not right away. You knew he was there. No one else sounds like that. No one else resonated with your brain and your heart more.
Gojo Satoru.
When you do face him, he's already standing next to you. Tall and loose-limbed in a tux he doesn't bother to keep neat. His white hair tousling in the wind, his collar and tie loose and undone, the top few buttons of his dress shirt opened, I get why he is what he looks like. Weddings can be exhausting, and it can also get emotionally draining.
Champagne glitters in the glass dangling between his two careless and scrawny fingers.
You arch a brow. "Still sticking your nose where it doesn't belong?"
He reaches a hand out and plucks the cigarette straight from your mouth, and without blinking, tosses it over the railing and into the water it goes.
"Yeah, I've really stayed on brand."
You stare at him, mouth open and brows furrowed.
"Gojo-"
"Satoru," He corrects, grinning hazily. "We're outside the formal part of the wedding. let's not pretend we haven't made out before."
You exhale through your nose, folding your arms, trying to ignore the flush rising up your cheeks. "That was years ago."
"And yet you still keep kissing cancer sticks."
"And you still think you're the one and only guy in the world."
He only smirks.
The silence that follows isn't awkward, it's familiar. Charged. Heavy.
You haven't seen him in what feels like forever. Not since you took that job and moved to a different city. Not since he missed your birthday. Not since he sent a drunk text at 3 in the morning and you never replied.
He sips his champagne and lets his shoulders brush yours like it's nothing. Like it always was.
"So," he utters eventually, "how's the job?"
You tell him. You're a journalist now. You live alone. You eat takeout. Sometimes you delete and redownload the same dating apps only to find no one that suits you. You don't say the last part.
You look away. "How about you?"
He shrugs. "Still standing. But I think I missed something more important something along the way."
You don't ask what. You're scared of the answer. You're scared it's the sam thing you missed, too. But both of you just never admit it.
When the breeze shrills once again and a shiver runs up your spine, he notices.
"Let's go somewhere warmer," he says, voice low.
You let him lead the way without asking where.
The reception is still going, muffled laughter and disco lights spinning through the very big glass windows. But you don't want to go back in, not just yet. Neither does he.
You follow him down the narrow path beside the venue, past the flower beds and the caterers and servers.
His car is unlocked. It smells faintly of cologne and those disgusting cinnamon gun packs he's addicted to. The leather seats are cold against your skin, but you curl into them anyway, hitching your dress up around your thighs and leaning back indignantly with a sigh.
Gojo slides in beside you in the back seat. He kicks his shoe off. Loosens his tie further. Then he leans back with his hands behind his head like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"You ever think about how it could've gone?" he asks.
You don't answer right away. Not because you don't know, but because you both know. You both think about it, too often than not.
You glance sideways. He's watching you look out the window.
Your voice is barely there, "Yeah. I think about it."
He turns toward you, expression very clearly readable. His face yearning.
You don't move. He doesn't break the silence. He just watches you. No hint of teasing, no hint of cockiness. You feel a heat making it's way up to your chest, making your thighs press together without meaning to.
You glance at him now, fully meeting his eyes. Maybe you're drunk, maybe you just don't know whats wrong with you.
"I think about it too much," you admit, barely coaxing out a voice. You were incoherent, but he understood you.
He leans closer. Just a little. Enough that his knee brushes yours.
"Then stop thinking."
He kisses you. No warning. No hesitation. Just his palm on the crook of your neck pulling you closer.
Your breath hitches. It's not careful, it's not slow. Satoru isn't polite. It's him, all of him, pressed against your mouth like he's scared you'll leave and vanish if he doesn't take as much of you as he can.
Your hands slide into his hair, fingers curling against his scalp as you both deepens the kiss. He groans softly when your teeth catch his lower lip. He tastes like champagne.
The wedding festivities continued outside, but here, it was just the two of you and the lingering taste of champagne flowing freely in your mouths.
You don't remember moving, but now you're on his lap, straddling him in the backseat, your dress riding up around your hips, his hand already at your thighs, worshipping every inch of you.
"Look at you, looking so good tonight." he breathes, lips traveling his way down to the nape of your neck. "You always do. You kill me."
Your nails dig into his shoulders. His jacket off already, your chest pressed against his as he sucks a bruise into the soft skin beneath your ear. You arch into him as his calloused fingers brush up against your thigh, his hands, callused and warm as they find the edges of your underwear.
"Tell me to stop," he whispers, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "If you don't want this."
You shake your head.
"I don't want you to stop."
That's all he needed.
His fingers slide under the thin fabric, and your lips buck as he finds you already wet, already so eager to feel his touch. He curses in your ear lowly, mouth hot against your skin as he works open his fingers inside you slowly, expertly, like he memorized every single pattern of you.
Your breath comes in broken and whimpering gasps. The windows fog, the music from the reception a distant blur as a ring of pleasure instantly takes your ears.
He takes a hold of the straps on your shoulders, with a sharp tug, he pulled them down your shoulders, watching with hungry and rapt attention as the bodice of your gown began to slip. The swells of your breasts emerged inch by inch, until the dress pooled around your waist.
Satoru drank in every reveal, eyes darkening with yearning and hunger as he took in the sight of your bra cradling your chest. He unclasped the back of your bra and the garment fell open, allowing your breasts to spill open freely. He groaned, and reached out a hand to cup them.
He teased your nipples, rolling and pinching between his fingers until they tightened and perked underneath his touch. He scraped his teeth over your chest, before fully taking in one of your tits into his mouth, placing open mouthed kisses on each one of them, leaving you desperate and aching for more.
"Satoru..." you gasped, the pleasure sparking through you as he nestled his face in between your breasts.
"You're perfect," he whispers against your skin, you almost couldn't hear it.
His fingers dug deep into your ass as he gripped your hips, the heat of his cock pressing persistently against your core.
Arousal flooded both of you, unable to wait any longer, you rose up to your knees and positioned yourself above him. You could feel the swell of his tip nudging against you. With a single roll of your hips, you sank down onto him with one smooth motion.
"Shit," he murmured under his breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave bruises. He stretched you and you could only whimper in response, walls fluttering and clenching around him.
You began to move, lifting yourself up until just his tip remained inside before going back down. You rode him, your drunken self losing every bit of shame and dignity in your body.
It doesn't matter if you left all those years ago, it wouldn't have made a difference. You wanted him back then, and you wanted him still.
Satoru groaned, his head thrown back in pleasure as you rode him over and over. The pleasure was overwhelming, your climax building with each roll of your hip.
Satoru felt you tightening around him, he knew you were close. "That's it," he urged, voice tight with rapture. "Ride me just like that. Fuck, that feels good."
You could only moan in response, too lost in the throes of your own pleasure and your increasing climax. Your movements came more quickly, your hips jerking and spasming as the pleasure finally made its way though your body.
With a sharp moan, you came undone. Your orgasm ripping through you and reverberating throughout your entire form. Wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, and Satoru followed.
With one final thrust, Satoru buried himself deep inside you. His cock jerking and pulsing as he came. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise as he followed the rhythm of your body.
Before you could climb your way off from him he sits you back down so you're still sitting on his lap straddling him.
He buries his face in your hair.
"Say you missed me." he murmurs.
"I missed you." you say, and he kisses you like that's all he ever wanted from this night.
But you don't leave the reception, not yet.
Not when your dress is wrinkled and your thighs are sore and in the brink of cramping. Satoru is still looking at you, your forehead rests against his, breaths still uneven.
Eventually, the thump of bass from the reception finally makes its way back up to your brain. You realize that the wedding isn't over. Almost. You'd slip away long enough to go by unnoticed.
"We should get back." your voice hoarse.
Satoru hums low in his throat, leaning back as you climb off of his lap. He's quick to zip himself up, fixing the buttons of his shirt before reaching for his jacket and draping it over your restrapped shoulders.
You both climb out of the car door, you didn't notice how stuffy it got until the fresh breeze enveloped your face.
As you both step back into the venue, you felt okay. More than okay. As if he read your mind as soon as you stepped out into the balcony.
The music thumps beneath you again. Someone clinks their glass as everyone gets on the dance floor.
"Stick with me," he says, leaning down to make sure you hear him.
The gun barrel against your skull feels cold and unforgiving. You can smell the oil on the metal, and there’s a slight tremor in his hand that tells you he’s excited, that he’s been looking forward to this for God knows how long.
“Easy now,” Eren says, his voice carefully neutral. His hands are visible, palms out, but you can see the tension coiling in his shoulders. “Let’s not drag this out, yeah?”
The man behind you laughs, tightening his hold on the gun. You close your eyes, breath shallow. “This is business. Pure and simple.”
“What kind of business?” Eren asks, taking a careful step closer.
The pressure against your head increases slightly. “This one here owes some people quite a bit of money. And when people don’t pay what they’re due..”
“How much?” Eren’s question cuts through.
“Pardon?”
“The debt. How much does she owe?”
You shut your eyes even tighter, feeling sick. This is where Eren realizes you’re more trouble than your worth, more trouble than you let him on. This is it. This is where he steps aside and lets them take you.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” the man says, and you feel Eren’s surprise ripple through the air between you. “Plus interest,” he quips with a smug grin. “Plus penalties for making us look for her.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eren breathes.
“My mother’s medical bills,” you hiccup a half-breathed whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. “I thought I could help. I thought I could fix it.”
The man behind you makes a tsking sound. “Borrowing money, she swore she could pay off, specifically. Turns out this girl here thought she could just run away and wander off. Thought she could just leave.”
“I was desperate,” you say, hating how small your voice sounds. “She was dying, and the insurance wouldn’t cover her treatments. I just needed–”
“You don’t need anything,” the man interrupts. “You’re coming with me.”
But before he could move, Eren stepped toward you.
“She’s with me,” he says, his voice carrying an authority that gives you the smallest bit of hope. “Whatever she owes, we can work something out.”
The man’s laugh is sharper this time. “That so? What exactly do you think you can offer, hmm? You’re gonna give me the money? It’s too late for that, boss wants to see her.”
“Forty-eight hours,” Eren says. “Give us two days to come up with a payment plan.” Eren gestures around the infrastructure behind him. “You understand investments, don’t you?”
You feel the gun barrel shift slightly as the man considers this. “And why would I agree to that?”
“Because she’s more valuable to you alive and working than dead in a ditch somewhere.” Eren’s eyes lock with yours. “She made it this far, didn’t she?”
The silence stretches long enough that you start to wonder if you’ve stopped breathing entirely. Then the gun pulls back reluctantly from your head, but you can still feel the man’s presence behind you.
“Forty-eight hours,” he says finally. “If she runs again–”
“She won’t run.” Eren’s voice is certain, even though you’ve given him no reason to trust you.
“See that she doesn’t.” The man steps back, and you finally turn to see his face properly. He’s old, with graying hair and a look in his eyes that he isn’t taking this seriously, or anything at all, for that matter.
Then he’s off, clicking his tongue expectantly before leaving. Your breath is shaky, and you look at Eren with shame. He sees your expression and sighs.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Eren whistles. “Plus interest.”
“I know.”
“That’s not cleanup money.”
“I know that too.”
He studies your face in the dim orange light filtering through the dirty street lights above. “You’re going to have to get in the ring.”
The words hit you, almost like a punch in your gut. “What?”
“Fighting pays more than cleaning. A lot more. It’s the only way you’ll make enough money to even start paying that down.”
“I can’t fight. I don’t know how to–”
“This is your problem to fix.” The indifference in his voice stops your protests cold. He steps closer, close enough that you aren’t able to muster up the courage to go anywhere. He makes you feel small; the slightest bit of courage coiling in your stomach makes you wince.
You force yourself to look at him, hands trembling. You weren’t sure what you wanted to say, but you’re not even prepared. Not even the slightest bit. But you have no other choice.
“I’ll teach you.”
-
The next thirty-six hours are a symphony of pure agony. Eren trains you in the room where you scrub Marco’s blood off the concrete. You could almost laugh at the irony.
“Keep your fucking hands up,” he snarls for the hundredth time, slapping your wrists hard enough to sting when your guard drops. “You drop your hands, you eat fist. You eat enough fists, you die.”
Your arms feel like they’re filled with lead, muscles screaming from holding the same position for hours. Sweat pours down your face, stinging your eyes and mixing with the blood from the split on your lips. But you don’t dare lower your hands.
“Again,” Eren commands, throwing a punch toward your face with enough force to cave in your skull if it connects. He’s not gentle with you; he’s not training you for anything other than the fact that you’re going to fight for your life.
You duck and weave like he taught you, but your legs are shaking, unable to settle on which direction to go or when to bend. Your foot catches on the uneven concrete, and you stumble, barely catching yourself before you hit the tailbone first on the floor.
“Fuck,” you gasp, hands on your knees as you try to force air into your lungs.
“Your form is terrible.” Eren spits out at you, but there’s no heat in it. “You think too much. This isn’t strategic, it’s all instinct.”
“I don’t have instincts,” you pant.
“Then we need to get your shit together.” he crouches down in front of you, waiting until you meet his eyes. “Tell me about the day you left home.”
“What?”
“The day you decided to leave when your mother died. What happened that day?”
The question tears through you like shrapnel. “That’s not– I didn’t–”
“Yes, you did.” His voice is gentle, but it’s what he wants you to hear. “Was it the only choice you had left when all the good choices were dead and buried? Was leaving after your mother died a good choice?” Eren stands, extending his hand to help you up.
You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. You don’t answer him. You don’t need to. Because he knows, he knows that when all is said and done that the only logical reasoning would be to run away, act like you’re dead, pretend as if nothing ever happened. But you’re here now, you’re in this situation now, there’s no more pretending.
“One more round.”
This time, when he comes at you, something inside you shifts. Maybe it’s the exhaustion burning away everything but the core of you, maybe it’s the pure frustration after the nonstop training, and you just want to get it over with, maybe it’s the desperation finally growing teeth, but you stop trying to think and just react.
When his fist comes toward your face, you slide to the side and drive your elbow toward his ribs with pent-up force.
He blocks it, but barely, and you see a genuine surprise flash across his features before it’s replaced by something that might be pride.
“Again.”
You lose track of time after that. The world narrows to movement and reaction, to the burn in your muscles and throat, and the sharp focus that comes with everything else falls away. You’re relentless, and you might even be ready.
But nobody ever feels ready to die, don’t they? You catch sight of yourself in the broken mirror leaning against the wall. You look different, you’re hollowed out. Like the past few days have carved away everything soft and left only the sharp edges of you behind.
Maybe you are ready.
-
The crowd tonight is rabid and hungry. Word has spread that there’s a new fighter, some desperate cunt who thinks she can survive in the ring, and they’ve come to see that.
You’re in the back room, trying to wrap your hands with strips of cloth while your fingers shake. Every time you try to wind the fabric around your knuckles, it slips and unravels, making you start all over again.
You click your tongue in frustration, throwing the cloth down.
“Here,” Eren takes your hands and picks up the strips. “Let me.”
He winds the fabric around your knuckles, being careful not to wrap it too tightly or too loosely. You watch his face as he works, noting the concentration in his features; his jaw is tight.
“Like what you see?” he asks without looking up, fighting the urge to smirk. He knows you’re analyzing him.
You look away, not even bothering to reply, taking your hands off his hold once he finishes.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says quietly, voice raspy from the copious amounts of yelling he did to you earlier. He looks down at you; he’s analyzing you now.
“You might not have a choice.”
“I always have a choice.” He raises your chin to meet his gaze, and there’s something possessive in them that makes the heat pool low in your belly despite everything. “Always.”
“Time!” comes a voice from the doorway.
Eren’s hands fall away like he’s been caught, and the moment shatters. “Ready?”
You nod, not trusting your voice.
The walk to the ring feels like a death march. The crowd parts as you pass, and their voices snicker at you.
Your opponent is already waiting in the ring, and the sight of her makes your bowels clench. She’s older than you, by far, maybe mid-thirties, with scars that speak of years spent fighting like she lives for it. And maybe she does.
“In this corner,” the announcer bellows over the crowd’s bloodlust, “with twelve straight kills–Ymir Fritz!”
The crowd erupts in approval.
“And in this corner,” the announcer continues to introduce you, his voice dripping with mocking uncertainty. The crowd boos so loud it feels like the first wave of a hit. Someone throws a bottle that shatters near your feet, spraying glass and beer across your legs.
You look toward Eren, standing at ringside with his arms crossed, and he nods only once.
The bell rings.
Ymir, like a train, comes at you. There’s no testing, no feeling out, just pure fucking violence. Her first punch catches you square in the ribs, and you hear something crack. The air leaves your lungs in a rush, and you stumble back, tasting blood.
You gasp. You’re okay. You’re fine.
She doesn’t give you time to recover. Her next punch comes at your face, and you barely get your guard up in time. The impact rattles your teeth and sends your gaze spinning, ruining your vision.
She’s fast and experienced, and she wants to hurt you. Every punch is thrown with the intent to break something–anything.
A hook to your kidney sends fire racing up your spine. An uppercut nearly lifts you off your feet, your vision graying at the edges.
The crow is screaming for your death, and Ymir is happy to give it to them.
“Move!” Eren’s voice cuts through the noise. “Stop letting her fucking butcher you!”
But you’re already behind, already hurt. Blood streams from your nose steadily. You could hear Ymir enjoying every single bit of this, with enough force of her fists driving to your stomach, it almost makes you vomit. She brings her knee up toward your face hard enough to give you a concussion.
Time slows to a painful crawl.
You see the knee coming to your stomach. And in that stretched moment, something inside you breaks. You’re not the same person anymore–hell, you’re unrecognizable, you find something worth doing this for. No matter what it costs. No matter who has to die.
Your hands come up, catching Ymir’s knee blow and twisting with every ounce of strength you have left in you. She loses her balance, eyes growing wide as you drive your elbow into her rib.
The sound is wet and sharp, and you swore you could hear something break. She gasps, stumbling back, and for the first time tonight, you see something different, like fear, flash across her face. You don’t give her time to think, you don’t give her time to recover.
Everything Eren taught you comes flooding back in; now it’s instinct. When she throws in a desperate move, you slip it and drive your fist into her sternum. When she doubles over, wheezing, you bring your knee up to meet her face. The impact sends blood spraying across the ring in a perfect arc. Her nose explodes in a burst of cartilage, and she staggers back, hands clutched to her face.
Ymir spits out blood, circling you now. She’s hurt, but her stamina is high. She charges again, another desperate move to make a comeback. When she overextends on a right hook, putting all of her weight behind it, you step inside her guard and drive your fist into her throat with every force you have left.
The punch lands. Her eyes bulge, hands flying to her throat as she manages to make a broken whimper. She staggers, choking on her own blood, then goes down, hard.
She hits the floor face-first. That’s when the referee starts counting, but you can already tell she’s not getting up. Her body convulses once, twice, and then she goes still.
“...eight… nine… ten!”
You won.
You should feel sick. You should feel guilty. Should feel something other than the satisfaction spreading through you. But you don’t. You feel alive.
Eren climbs inside the ring, rushing through you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he guides you toward the ropes. “How do you feel?” he asks, voice rough.
You look at him. You’re in shock.
“I feel good,” you say; this time, you mean it.
A smile spreads across his face. He’s satisfied. “Good.”
His chest pressed lightly against yours–and for almost a second, you two were synchronized. You’re shaking, with adrenaline still coursing through your veins, and you’re sticky with blood and sweat on your skin.
“Birdie,” he murmurs, voice low.
Everything feels like a blur; your vision can’t even comprehend the background beneath you. Everything is loud to the point of overstimulation.
You look up at him, heat radiating between you. You open your mouth to say something, and he leans in, closer than he should. His lips hover carefully, brushing against yours like he’s not sure about whether or not to go about this. You could almost feel your knees threaten to give out.
You grab a hold of the side of his head, hands tracing the curvature of his face, nudging that it’s alright with all the energy you have left.
Before a coherent thought could muster from both of you, Eren’s lips pressed to yours in a rush, hard and demanding. Your knees went weak, and you almost fell back before he grabbed you from the small of your back and lifted you closer. His hands roamed all over, tracing the tense muscles still lingering from the fight, gripping you in a way that was equal parts careful and winded.
The sound of the crowd faded, the world shrinking to the press of his mouth on yours, the heat of his body towering over you against yours. You moaned softly to him, tasting the faint tang of copper from your blood. Every nerve ending in your body sang sweet harmony. Right now, this was all that mattered.
Eren broke the kiss briefly, resting his forehead against yours. You’re both breathing hard. He murmured something behind your ear, but to your dismay, you didn’t hear it. You tried to speak, tried to protest against the force of the sensation, but his lips were back on yours. This time was slower and more deliberate, as if testing the boundaries and seeing how far this could go. Your hands traced the contours of his shoulders, over the curve of his biceps. Feeling the tension in his body mirroring yours.
And then, before you two could even ponder it, a shout from the crowd disrupts the moment. Your body stills, and you turn your head away from the crowd in embarrassment.
Eren laughs cheekily, hauling your body upright before guiding you off the ring.
“Show off a little, birdie. You’re worth watching.”
Satoru, who’s clearly studied what makes women take a second glance and executes it perfectly. He’s performative, the epitome of performative.
The same Satoru you’ve briefly met and saw go into the same record store twice this week.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about how the music industry really failed female artists in the seventies,” Satoru says, not looking up from the Fleetwood Mac record he’s examining with theatrical concentration. His wired earbuds dangling perfectly against his jacket, the black one that makes his shoulders look more enticingly broad.
You don’t look up from the r&b section, not batting an eye. “Have you now.”
“Like, take Stevie Nicks. Great songwriter, but she was constantly overshadowed by the guys of the band. It’s systemic, really.” He runs his fingers through his hair, fixing a couple strands in such a practiced way it makes your jaw clench.
“Mhm.” You flip aggressively through the vinyls.
“I actually just finished reading Michelle Obama’s autobiography–”
“Oh my god.” you finally turn to face him. “Do you practice this in front of a mirror?”
He blinks, not a coherent thought forming in his head. “Practice what?”
“This whole…” You gesture vaguely at his entire frame. “The feminist awakening bit.” That’s when you do a once over at what he’s wearing.
And Jesus fucking Christ.
He’s wearing a Carthartt jacket over a flannel shirt, light blue almost-baggy jeans that fit him like a glove, and a pair of clogs that tie it all together. You look up at him and his wired earbuds with scorn that it almost makes him think you’re going to choke him with it.
“Did you google ‘how to appeal to women’?”
His mouth quirks up. “Are you saying it’s working?”
The worst part is the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he can see right through your irritation and the sound of the fluttering in your chest when he’d bent over earlier to reach the top of a poster shelf.
“I’m saying you’re a fraud.”
“Fraud,” he repeats, stepping closer. The Fleetwood Mac record still in his hands. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m shopping.”
“You bought that Revoal record twenty minutes ago,” His eyes flick to the bag by your feet. “But you’re still browsing. Still listening to me talk about systemic oppression in the music industry.”
Your face heats. “Maybe I just really like r&b.”
“Maybe.” he’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne–something expensive and subtle that he definitely researched.
The record store suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The soft music playing overhead seems louder.
You look at him, really look. The practiced charm, the calculated aesthetic, the way he’s watching you like he’s trying to read your mind. All of it designed to make women want him. That he’s different.
The terrible thing is, it’s working.
“You’re insufferable,” you say finally.
“Look, I know what this is. You know what this is. But I also know seventeen different musical and state of the art things we can talk about, and I tip really well at restaurants.”
You snort despite yourself. “Wow. What a catch.”
“Right?” He leans against the poster bin. “What do you say? Let me take you to dinner.”
You stare at him for a long moment, weighing your options. He stares back at you, completely shameless. He knows your answer.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“One dinner. If you bring up the wage gap before appetizers get to the table, I’m leaving.”
Satoru's grin widens. But he makes no promises about dessert.
Drabble to my series, Elevator 4 | Suguru Geto / workplaceau / mdni
Suguru, who listens to your remarks about how “it’s just sex” while literally rearranging his entire schedule around your lunch breaks and keeping your coffee order memorized down to the exact amount of foam.
Suguru, who has perfected the art of looking completely innocent and unfazed while his hand is up your skirt during client dinners, nodding seriously about budget allocations while his fingers work you into a mess.
Suguru, who leaves his suit jacket draped over your chair after particularly intense “overtime sessions,” and gets genuinely pouty when you try to give it back because he likes seeing something that belongs to him in your office.
Suguru, who brings you your coffee from that place downtown when you’re stressed, but also can’t resist kissing your neck while you’re trying to drink it, mumbling “let me help you relax” against your skin until you’re laughing and pushing him away.
Suguru, who gets visibly jealous when the new intern flirts with you, then spends his lunch break reminding you exactly who you belong to in his elevator.
Suguru, who insists on “helping” you with your presentations by bending you over the desk and fucking you until you can recite your talking points perfectly, “It’s just practice.” he says with an infuriating smug.
heyyyy! I’m okay thanks 4 asking! I’ve been working 7 days a week and classes start again next week and it’s all very stressful and busy. Hope you’re also doing well!
cw: death, violence, usage of weapons like guns, blood, illegal fighting/activities, etc.
read at your own risk.
Chapter 2: Dirty Work
Dawn breaks over Medina in a matter of hours, the city was quiet and comforting, and that provided you with more security than you’ve ever known. This, so far, has been the best sleep you’ve ever been graced in months. You were somewhere they couldn’t find, and that’s all you needed.
Eren’s knuckles wrap against the metal door of the storage room where you spent the night. The makeshift bed of old mats and cardboard and a thin blanket did nothing to ease the ache in your bones, but you couldn’t care less.
“Rise and shine, birdie.” His voice cuts through the haze of your sleep. “Time to earn your keep.”
Birdie.
Eren was persistent, with every nudge on your shoulder a grimacing groan came out of your mouth. The rest was needed, so needed that you didn’t mind waking back up ever again. But you had shit to do, you had to “earn your keep” so you push yourself up regardless of every muscle in your body protesting.
The events of last night felt so surreal you could almost convince yourself that it was all just a dream–only it’s not. The Medina Fightclub, as they called it, almost sounds fictitious. But the soreness in your body and the taste of cigarette smoke that still clung onto your clothes reminded you that it was all real.
“What time is it?” you ask, running a hand through your tangled hair.
“Does it matter?” Eren’s already turned away, expecting you to follow. “We’ve got work to do.”
The walk through the abandoned maze feels different in daylight. Everything looks more decrepit, with sunlight glinting through the windows. You pass other figures moving through the place–some you recognize from last night’s crowd, others are new faces with the same hollow-eyed desperation that mirrored yours.
“Where are we going?” you ask, quickening your pace to match his.
“Scene cleanup.” He doesn’t slow down. “Part of the business. Fight’s get messy, shit needs to get straightened for the next one.”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist, but you’ve come this far. You think about the money and how the pay’s good, about having somewhere to stay and hide. You think about the men who were chasing after you, and how they probably won’t even think to look for you here.
Eren pulls out a set of keys, unlocking a back door you hadn’t seen before.
“Welcome to the real show,” he says, pushing the door open.
The smell hits you first–metallic and sharp, mixed with something sour that makes your eyes instantly water. The back room is exactly what you’d expect from a place where people go to die for literal entertainment. Concrete walls stained with god knows what, overturned chair, broken glass scattered across the floor like confetti.
And the center of it all–last night’s loser, sprawled in a new area. He’s been dumped like he wasn’t worth anything. His body is twisted at angles that make your stomach go in on itself.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, taking an involuntary step back. You’ve never seen anything like it before, throughout the shit you’ve done and all the things you’ve been through, this was out of the ordinary, and that scared you.
“He’s not gonna help you here.” Eren’s voice is flat, matter-of-fact. He walks over to a metal cabinet and pulls out rubber gloves, bottles of industrial cleaner, and what looks like a body bag. “This is what happens when people lose. This is what we clean up.”
You catch the gloves he tossed at you. “You said you were in. This is what being in means.”
Your hands shake as you pull the gloves on. The rubber is thick and yellow. You’ve cleaned up messes before–vomit, blood from your mother’s nosebleeds, the aftermath of her chemo sessions. But this is different. This is a person. Was a person.
“I can’t–” you start, but he cuts you off.
“You can, and you will.” He’s not cruel about it, just certain. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay, but if you walk out that door, you’re on your own. Your choice.”
You think about it, you think about all of it. The train station, sleeping in wet alleys, about the constant fear of being found. You think about the empty promises you made to yourself and your mother and how they all led to this moment.
You pick up the bottle of bleach.
-
The work is worse than you imagined. Blood doesn’t clean easily from concrete–it seeps into the pores, staining everything it touches with a permanence that makes you nauseous. The bleach burns your nostrils, mixing with the metallic stench of death doesn’t exactly mix well with other chemicals, and you could’ve sworn you can taste it in the back of your throat.
You first scrub across the largest stain and it sends a spray of diluted blood across your forearm. The sight of it–pink and watery, but still unmistakably human–makes you heave. You bite down on your tongue hard enough to taste copper, forcing yourself not to vomit.
Keep going. Don’t think about what it is.
Every surface needs attention: the walls, the floor, the folding chairs that somehow got splattered despite being yards away from the ring. With each wipe, each scrub, you’re erasing someone’s last moments.
Eren doesn’t help. He just watches, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, studying your every move. You can feel his eyes on you as you do your work, cataloging your reactions, your breaking points. You wonder if he’s waiting for you to break down, to start screaming from all the blood, to prove you can’t handle this. Maybe you can’t.
You’re breathing through your mouth now, but it doesn’t help. The blood coats your tongue, thick and cloying. Your hands are shaking so badly you can barely hold the scrub brush. The concrete is rough against your knees as you kneel beside the largest stain, and you realize you’re whimpering.
The brush catches onto something, a piece of what might be bone or tooth, or something else you don’t want to identify. You retch and almost pull back, the bile burning in your throat, but nothing comes up. You haven’t eaten in almost a day.
Just clean. Stop thinking.
While cleaning around the makeshift desk where the bets were placed, you find them–-notebooks filled with names, numbers, dates. The pages are splattered with blood, but the writing is still legible. Your eyes scan the entries, trying to make sense of the system.
Marco Bodt - $47,000 - 30 days overdue
Theo Magath - $23,000 - PAID
Keith Shadis - $31,000 - 45 days overdue
The list goes on and on. Some names are crossed out in red ink. Others have dates written next to them–dates that have already passed.
“Found something interesting?” Eren asks, appearing beside you.
“These people… they owe money.”
“Smart girl.” He takes the notebook from your hands, flipping through pages. “Welcome to the game. The fights are just a way to collect the money.”
“Collect the money?”
“People borrow money. People can’t pay back that money. People fight to clear their debts. People die.” he shrugs like he’s explaining the weather. “Simple math.”
You look back at Marco’s body, you could only surmise that it might be his name.
The sound of frantic knocking interrupts your thoughts. A woman’s voice echoes through the door.
“Marco? Marco, are you in there? Your shift started an hour ago!”
Eren’s hand shoots out, ungloving your hands. “Handle it,” he says quietly. “Make it believable.”
“I can’t–”
“You can, and you will.” He looks at you sternly as his grip tightens. “Unless you want to explain to her why her boyfriend’s guts are decorating the floor.”
The knocking continues, more desperate now. “Marco, please! I brought you lunch!”
Your heart hammers as you walk to the door. Through the small peephole, you could see her, in her early twenties, tired eyes, holding a paper bag that probably contains a sandwich made with whatever she could afford. She looks like you did months ago, well before everything went to hell.
You crack the door open just enough to show your face. “He’s not here.”
“What?” Her face crumples. “But he said he’d be here.”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him.” The lie tastes bitter. “Maybe he went home with someone else after the fight?”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Her face goes white, then red, then collapses entirely. “No. No, he wouldn’t. He said he was going to win. He said he was going to fix everything.”
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, and you mean it. “I really am.”
She stands there for a moment, clutching the paper bag to her chest. Then she turns and walks away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
You close the door and lean against it, feeling sick.
“Well done,” Eren says, and you hate how unconvinced he sounds. “Sounded good enough.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Instead, you grab the rubber gloves and you go back to cleaning, scrubbing harder than necessary, trying to wash away the image of that woman’s face.
It’s while you’re cleaning around Marco’s body that you cut yourself. A piece of broken glass hidden under his jacket slices across your glove and onto your palm. You hiss in pain as blood wells up.
“Shit,” you mutter, pulling your hand back.
“Let me see.” Eren’s voice is different now, urgent. He’s beside you before you can protest, taking your hand in his. His touch is surprisingly gentle.
“It’s not deep,” he says, but he's already making his way towards a cabinet where he keeps all the cleaning supplies. “But it needs to be cleaned.”
Eren returns with a first aid kit, and you watch in confusion as he carefully ungloves your hand and cleans your wound. His hands are steady and focused. For a moment, you forget where you are and what you’re doing.
“There,” he says, wrapping gauze around your palm. “Can’t have you bleeding out on day one. Bad for business.”
The moment breaks, and you remember who he is and what he does. But the gentleness of his touch lingers, confusing you.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
His fingers linger on your wrist for a moment longer than necessary, and you can feel your pulse jumping under his touch. When he look up, his green eyes catch yours, and something passes between you–something that makes your breath hitch despite the horror surrounding you,
“I didn’t take someone like you could handle something like this,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing once over the edge of the bandage. It sends warmth through you. “You’re good. More than you let on.”
“I don’t feel good,” you admit.
“Nobody does at first.” He releases your hand, but he doesn’t step away immediately.
The moment stretches between you, and you’re acutely aware of how close he is, how his voice has gone softer. Then Marco’s body catches your peripheral, and reality crashes back.
“I should finish,” you say, pulling your hand back.
Eren only nods.
-
By the time you finish scrubbing the last stain from the concrete, your hands are raw and your back aches. Marco’s body is wrapped in black plastic, ready to be disposed of in whatever way they handle these things. The room looks normal, there’s no evidence.
You stand up slowly, peeling off the rubber gloves with shaking hands. It’s done. You did it. You cleaned up a dead man’s blood and lied to his partner and somehow didn’t fall apart.
But now, standing in this sterile aftermath, something inside you cracks.
‘I need–” you start, but the words get stuck in your throat. “I need some air.”
“Hey,” he says, his voice gentler than you’ve heard it. “Are you good?”
“Am I good?” The question comes off as a laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. “I just spent hours scrubbing someone’s blood off the floor. I just lied to a woman who was bringing her boyfriend his lunch. Nothing is good! I am standing here acting like this is normal!”
Your breathing is getting faster and shallower. The walls feel like they’re closing in.
“I can’t do this,” you whisper, your voice breaking.
Eren grips your arm tightly, steadying you. “Sit down,” he says, guiding you to one of the chairs. “Put your head between your knees.”
You do as he says, trying to force air into your lungs. The panic is building.
“I feel all of it. The guilt, the disgust, the way it sits on your stomach. But I've learned to carry it because I have to.”
He crouches down in front of you, bringing himself to your eye level. “The first time I cleaned up after a fight, I threw up for an hour. Couldn't bring myself to eat for three days. Kept seeing the guy’s face every time I closed my eyes.”
His submission was vulnerable.
“How do you do it?” you ask.
“I suck it up. I find something worth doing it for.”
After you’ve calmed down, Eren leads you to a maze of corridors and hallways that lead to a different part of the building. The place is bigger than you thought, especially for something under a bridge.
This area is cleaner and more organized, almost civilized compared to the fight room.
“We need to talk.”
You felt good enough to lower your guard down, your eyes flicking up to meet his. He doesn’t do anything. Instead, he stayed standing, close enough that you had to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him.
He studied you for a moment. Then he reached out, cupping your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazing softly along your skin. His fingers were warm.
“You work for me now. Not just cleaning–whatever there is I need you to do. In exchange, you get protection, food, a place to sleep. And you stay alive.” Eren’s voice drooped a little.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Good.” He doesn't step back. “There’s another fight tonight. Stay with me.”
-
That evening, you find yourself back in the main room, but this time you’re not hiding. Eren has positioned you near the wall where you can see everything.
The crowd is bigger tonight, more electric. Word has spread about last night’s fight, about Marco’s spectacular failure. You try to not think of him, or anyone else for that matter.
“Stay close,” Eren murmurs in your ear, his hand settling on your lower back. “Don’t wander off.”
The fighters are introduced, a massive man with scars covering his forearms, and a younger guy who looks barely out of his teens. The crowd roars as they take their positions.
“Who do you think’ll win?” you ask.
“Does it matter?” Eren’s voice is flat.
But you notice the way his jaw tightens when he looks at the younger one. The way his hand presses more firmly against your back, like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
The fight begins, it’s quick and brutal. A lot more violent than you expected. The crowd screams for blood, placing bets on how long it’ll take for someone to die.
The young one is fast but desperate. He dances around the bigger man’s swings, landing quick jabs that barely seem to make an impact. You can see fear in his eyes, the way his movements become more frantic with each passing minute.
“He’s gonna lose.” you whisper, not sure why you feel the need to say it.
“Yeah,” Eren agrees, his voice tight. “He is.”
The bigger man catches the kid with a massive hook to the ribs, and you hear something crack. The kid stumbles, gasping and the crowd erupts in cheers. Money changes hands rapidly as the odds shift.
“Why doesn’t he just give up?” you ask, watching the kid struggle to get back on his feet.
“Because giving up means dying slower,” Eren says. “At least this way, it’s quick.”
The kid makes one last desperate charge, throwing everything he has into a wild swing. For a moment, it looks like he might. But the bigger man sidesteps easily and brings his fist down on the back of his neck.
The sound is sickening, almost like branch snapping. The kid hits the ground and doesn’t get up.
You’d expect cheering from how batshit sadistic the crowd was but there was nothing. Instead, there's an odd moment of silence. Then someone in the back starts clapping slowly, mockingly, and the spell breaks.
“Show’s over,” someone calls out. “Pay up!”
“Come on,” Eren says, his hand on your back guiding you away from the ring. “Let’s get you out of here.”
But as you turn to leave, you catch sight of something that makes your blood freeze. In the crowd, partially hidden behind a pillar, stands a man in the dark coat. He’s not watching the cleanup in the ring, he’s watching you.
When your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he smiles, a cold predatory expression that makes your spine shiver. Then he raises his hand in a small wave.
You know that face. You’ve seen it before. He’s one of them, one of the men who were chasing you.
“Eren,” you whisper, grabbing his arm. ‘We need to go. Now.”
He follows your gaze and his entire body goes rigid. “Shit,” he breathes.
The man in the coat is moving now, pushing through the crowd toward you. He’s not hurrying, he doesn’t need to. He knows you have nowhere to run.
“This way,” Eren says, pulling you toward a side exit. “Stay close to me.”
But as you reach the door, you hear a voice behind you that makes your heart stop.
“And here I was hoping we could catch up.”
Eren’s hand moves to something under his jacket but he doesn’t turn around. “Keep walking,”
“Oh, I don’t think she wants to do that,” the man says, voice getting closer. “Do you, sweetheart? Not when we have so much to talk about.”
You feel weak, but you force yourself to keep moving. The exit is just a few feet away. If you can just make it to the door.
“You know, I have to admit,” the man continues. “You’re harder to track than I expected.”
Eren pushes the door open, and the cool night’s air hits your face. You’re almost free.
“The question is,” the man says, and his voice is right behind you now, “what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
You stepped through the door, and for a moment, you think you’ve made it. Then you hear the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked.
Fuck.
Eren is looking at you with no other expression other than a blank one. The man has his gun cocked to the back of your head.
cw: violence depicted, death, crime, illegal fighting/activities, etc.
read at your own risk.
Chapter 1: On the Run
You’re on your feet before you even know it.
You don’t remember the last time you stopped running, it’s too much of a distant memory now. Everything’s changed for the worse. You feel your eyes pool with an aching, throat-lumping blur for a moment before focusing again, it’s too late to cry, it’s too late to sulk over this, you don’t have time for that, at least not anymore. So you blink it off.
The weight of your body feels like nothing, your legs are moving as quickly as your stamina lets you. Maybe this is what they’re describing when they talk about runner’s high. It feels good, it feels liberating, you don’t even want to stop.
The adrenaline pumps through your body in an out-of-body manner, you’re not tired, in fact, you’re free, you’re living, you’ve reached your peak.
Until you force yourself to halt, looking behind you, it’s just silence. There’s no one there. You’ve lost them for now.
Your chest burns as you gasp for air, the runner’s high crashing into reality like a brick wall. You compose yourself, catching your breath as quietly as possible, making sure that no sound comes out from your mouth, not even a groan, not even an exasperated gasp, you couldn’t risk it.
The street lamps blur together through your tears, the ones you can’t blink away this time. You sob, for the first time in months. You couldn’t believe it, this is your life now. You had spent months becoming someone you didn’t recognize—forging documents, lying to the government, stealing in every way that mattered—all desperate attempts to keep your mother alive. Credit card bills go unpaid, calls go unanswered, you’ve fully isolated yourself from the world, and maybe it’s better this way, but you know damn well it’s not.
You’re in some part of town you don’t recognize, industrial and empty. It’s the kind of place where people disappear.
You look ahead of you, the train station is looming ahead like salvation, no one’s there, maybe it’s because it’s 2 in the morning. Its fluorescent lights cut off and on, it’s uninviting but you make an attempt to walk towards it anyway. Your legs shake as you struggle to walk, muscle memory carrying you forward even as your body threatens to give out.
You push past the fair gates, not giving the consideration of paying a second thought. Even if you did, you don’t have the money. You ignore the station agent's empty threats and the five second alarm that stings your ears. You know they won’t actually do anything.
Inside, it’s almost deserted, just a few late-night commuters and a couple of unhoused people lying carelessly on the floor. The familiar sight stings you, you know it all too well.
You collapse onto the metal bench, finally letting yourself feel the weight of what you’re running from. Your clothes are dust-filled, sleeves torn and raggedy, your jeans cuffed and stained with browning, dried blood. You're at your lowest. There’s no home to go to, nowhere to stay for the night, you’re not in contact with anyone in your life anymore. You have complete liberty over yourself, only you don’t.
The numbers flash in your head like a neon sign: seventy-two hours. That’s what they gave you. That was three days ago. You push the thought behind your head, avoiding the thought like it doesn’t sneak back in every time you’re not occupied.
You glance at the train display as if you had a destination to stride off to.
Scheduled departures
Train H to Avon 7, 15, 34
Train F to West Lancaster 4, 23, 48
Train P to Medina 2, 17, 42
Train G to Loudon 3, 20, 45
You look back in front of you before mustering enough leftover strength to get yourself back up on your feet. Medina doesn’t sound so bad right now, and so does a train arriving in two minutes.
Your steps are unsteady as you make your way behind the platform line. The digital clock above the tracks read 2:03 AM - only one more minute until the train to Medina arrives. It’s quiet, comfortingly quiet, no one’s here to get you, and for once, you let your mind and your eyes shut.
Regardless, your muscles are the first to relax, but second comes the aching, every limb intertwining with your exhaustion as you force your eyes open. You can’t rest here, not now, and certainly not while standing up.
Beneath you the ground shakes, signaling that the train is almost near. You eye it in the distance; the lights are flashing, and the distant sound of the train horn is gradually getting louder. The train pulls in with a mechanical screech, its doors sliding open slowly.
You slip inside just as the departure bell chimes, collapsing into the nearest seat you could find. The train car is nearly empty, just you and a man in a rumpled suit sleeping, taking both seats of the paired chairs with his feet hanging off the seat. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as the train lurches forward, about 45 minutes until it reaches Medina.
You lean your head against the window and close your eyes shut. You’re numb to the feeling, of running, of sulking, of thinking of ways to desperately pay for your mother’s treatments, but you couldn’t do anything. The cancer had already spread, she was too far gone, and before you could even register the situation you hit the ground running. Literally.
The rhythmic clacking of the train wheels becomes a countdown in your head, matching the beeping of the machine that your mother clung onto before the final weeks of her life. You’d been sitting in that sterile, unwelcoming, hospital room, promising her you’d find a way to make her feel better, that you’d figure it out. She’d squeezed her hand with what little strength she had left, acknowledging your promise. She knew you wouldn’t be able to, deep down you both knew, so you strung your promises until they finally caught up to you three months after her funeral.
You push the memory into the back of your head, another one to ignore until it creeps back up.
The train shudders beneath you, and through your exhaustion, you hear heavy footsteps moving through the train car. Your eyes snap open, looking behind you as a transit officer makes his way down the aisle, checking tickets and looking directly at passengers.
Shit.
You’d forgotten about jumping the turnstiles. In sheer carelessness, you thought the empty threats were, well—empty. But here he is.
“Excuse me, miss.” His voice cuts through the mechanical hum as he stops at you. Medina couldn’t come any faster now. “I need to see your ticket.”
You hear your heart hammering, you’re convinced he can hear it too. “I… I don’t have one.”
“Miss, you need to step off at the next stop.” His hand reaches for his radio on his shoulder. “Fare evader on Train P, car two.”
The train begins to brake, and you know you have seconds before this becomes another chase. Through the window, you see the platform approaching. The sign flickers but you can see its faint glow. Medina. Thank fucking God.
Without putting in so much of a second thought, you’re already moving, pushing past the officer and making your way toward the doors. The departure bell is still chiming as you burst out of the train and onto the platform.
Medina station is just as deserted as you expected, and that works against you. You have nowhere to hide off to.
“She’s running!” The officer’s voice booms across the platform.
You don’t look back. Just like before, you run like you never have.
Your feet glide towards the dusty tiles with a sense of familiarity, pushing past the fare gates and straying off to another dead end of a night. But you don’t care, running from something is better than staying put. At least for you.
You maintain a good enough distance between yourself and the station before clearing the signal that you can look behind you.
The officer waves off a petty hand and turns his back around. You could almost hear the curses he yelled the moment he realized you were too far off to chase after. He gave up, not that there was that much of a point anyway.
You pant as you try to adjust your eyes to the darkness, the street lights giving way to an alleyway under a highway bridge. You’ve never seen anything like it before, it was poorly lit, with flickering yellow lights that would immediately make anyone’s gut gnaw.
Your legs feel like lead as you walk towards it anyway, with each step getting heavier and heavier than the last. You were exhausted and your body knows it all too well. You needed sleep.
You scan inside the alley for the driest corner, somewhere where the constant flickering of the lights won’t reach. Just a few hours of rest— that’s all you need before going back up on your feet again later.
It’s not the first time you’ve slept rough, and you know it won’t be the last. At least here, no one will think to look for you.
You desperately crawl towards the corner and settle in, eyes heavy and yearning for sleep before you notice a small crackle of light coming from what you thought was a solid wall.
Except it’s not. It’s a door, poorly painted but enough to not be detected from a distance. You could hear voices slipping through it— not the kind you’d expect in a place like this. Laughter. Cheering.
The smart thing would be to ignore it, to find another spot and to just leave it alone. But you couldn’t. This was too good to pass up on. The sounds were alive and sharp. Who would blame you?
Your fingers find the edges of the door carefully, the metal is beaten and weathered, rusty too. There’s no handle, there was nothing to grip on but the edges. So you pull slowly, with each exposing inch making the constant cheering louder.
And suddenly all the fatigue you felt vanished.
You step inside the narrow corridor that looks like it opens into something larger, with voices gradually growing louder with every step. You smell a horrid amount of cigarette smoke and you scrunch your face in disgust.
With one final stride, the corridor opens up and you freeze. Red light bathes everything, every single person, every dried blood, every ragged and torn up furniture—you struggle to process it all at once. There’s a mass of bodies surrounding the geometric shaped platform from the center that you slowly realize is a ring.
The crowd surges and moves violently like it’s a living thing. Everyone is focused, they’re all sweating, they’re all arguing and some are physically fighting each other. It’s chaos, you don’t even know what you just stepped into.
Two figures circle each other inside, they look like they’re fighting with raw, bandaged fists. With each movement creating fresh spatters on the canvas that’s already dark with stains.
You look to your right and left, posters cover every surface—faces you don’t recognize, dates, numbers. Some are torn, some are overlapping, creating a collage of violence and what basically looks like bounties at this point.
You press yourself against the wall, your heart hammering and encapsulating every inch of your being. This isn’t just illegal, it’s primal and desperate. People are gambling for their lives for the sake of entertainment.
Your eyes lock onto one figure in the ring. A man with his dark hair pulled back in a bun, sweat glistening on his bare shoulders and forehead. He was focused, with every punch as calculated and precise as you’d imagine. His eyes flashed a shade of dark green that complimented the rest of his features. You had to admit, he was attractive, but his brutality makes your blood run cold.
The crowd’s bloodlust suddenly makes sense to you now. This isn’t a sport, it’s a type of execution with an audience. You watch his opponent crumble, and there’s no getting back up. He’s limp and unmoving. He's dead.
The man in the bun pulled his head back and let out an exasperated laugh. He won and he knew it. No referee needed.
Every fight ends the same way. The winner takes all, with the loser not even taking anything, not even their last breath.
The crowd once again erupts with the loudest uproar you’ve ever heard in your entire life. The man steps back, blood dripping from his knuckles, his breath barely labored.
Four pairs of hands reach through the ropes, pulling him up onto shoulders. Someone grabs his wrist and thrusts it in the air, at this point, the roar becomes deafening.
He’s their champion. He’s their killer.
The name “Eren Yeager” bounces off the walls. That’s when he sees you. Through a blanket of faces he finds his eyes settling onto yours. Dark, calculating, still riding the high of his kill.
Even in his moment of triumph, he’s watching you. And you realize you’re no longer just a spectator.
Through the constant chants of his name he gestures with his other hand—not in victory, but pointing. Directly at you. His fingers curl in a subtle gesture, and you see two men at the edge of the crowd nod in understanding.
Panic floods through your system. You turn your body towards the corridor in which you came from, pushing past tens of bodies that suddenly feel heavier. The crowd is too thick and frenzied, and you realize you’re stuck.
Your heart hammers against your chest as you try to claw your way out, but firm hands grab your arms before you can even reach the door.
“Easy there,” one of them says, his voice almost gentle despite the rough grip on your arm. “Boss wants to meet you, nothing to worry about.” But the way he steers you tells a different story.
They guide you through the constant chatters and yells and you notice Eren being lowered down. You continue to get guided past the crowd and stop in front of a door. Same structure, same everything, but actually has a doorknob.
At this point, you’re being shoved in. And a couple seconds of pacing turns into minutes. You’re anxious, you don’t know what you’re about to get yourself into.
You scan the room for anything but you find nothing. Everything here is surprisingly sterile, the complete opposite outside of these doors.
Eren walks in, still wearing that stained wife beater from earlier, sweat and crimson staining parts of his upper body. He doesn’t bother cleaning up. Not when he wants to see you.
He leans his back against the wall, and you’re in the center of the room, studying you with the same calculated look.
“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” He steps closer, “Hmm?” You can smell the metal tang from the blood on him. “And don’t give me bullshit either, sweets.”
You quirk a brow, suddenly everything about this doesn’t feel real.
“A girl like me?” You let out a harsh laugh. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I was looking for a place to sleep. Didn’t expect the entertainment.” You continue.
Eren’s mouth turns into something that might be a smile if it wasn’t so sharp. “Entertainment.” The word rolls off his tongue with a click. He tilts his head to the side. “That’s what you call it?”
He’s now stepping towards you, he’s already examined every part of you. From your face to the rest of your body. He knew, you both knew, you’re on the run.
“Most people who stumble into my fights don’t usually stick around long enough to watch the finale.” He stops just close enough that you have to tilt your head back just to look him in the eyes. “But you did. Watched the whole thing.”
“So you’re either tougher than you look, or more desperate than you’re letting on.” He coos and rests his head on your shoulder before whispering. “I’m betting it’s both.”
“Sounds like we might be able to help each other, what do you think?” He puts his hands in his pockets, patiently waiting for your answer.
You should say no, you should definitely say no, but what do you have to lose? Nothing. You’ve been looking over your shoulder for weeks. What’s one more bad decision?
“What kind of help are we talking about?” The words come out before you can stop them, and you can see satisfaction flickering in his eyes.
“Tell me—how do you feel about getting your hands dirty?” The question hangs in the air between you, loaded with implications you’re not sure you want to get into.
“The work isn’t pretty, but it pays well. And I take care of what’s mine.”
“What’s yours?” You question, and his smile turns predatory.
Eren reaches up to cup your jaw, thumb tracing the line of your cheek. “You stick around long enough, and you might find out.”
His touch is gone as quickly as it came. But his eyes never leave yours. “So what’s it gonna be? Hmm? You in or you out?” The way he says it makes you feel like there’s no other choice.
Drowning in your own sufferings, you’re willing to risk it all. That’s what you tell yourself before fully succumbing to Medina, where money flows as freely as blood does. Eren catches you watching, eyes sharp even through the smoke and noise, something in you stills. He’s fresh from the ring, breath ragged and knuckles red. Something about you piques his interest, to which he takes to his advantage and offers you one opportunity to redeem yourself from your burdens, only if you’re willing to get your hands dirty.
cw: 18+, degrading, rough sex, power imbalance, biting/marking, choking, criminal activity, illegal fighting, blackmail scenarios, rough sex again and I mean rough sex, hair pulling, oral sex, semi-public sex, etc.
satoru wakes up way too early for someone who stayed up until 3 a.m. playing video games and eating chips in bed, because he "needed one more win." his hair is a fluffy mess, his voice deeper than usual, and his arms? wrapped snugly around you like he’s velcro and you’re the last thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.
he shifts behind you, still warm from sleep, arm slung over your waist like a living weighted blanket. there’s a soft kiss to your shoulder—so gentle, you barely feel it. “good morning,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and fuzzy with sleep. “i missed you.”
you groan into the pillow, still halfway in a dream. “you were literally spooning me all night.”
“yeah, but you weren’t in my dreams,” he whines, his pout audible. “i dreamt of taxes or something. betrayal, honestly. emotionally scarring.”
you try to wriggle away, needing just ten more minutes of peace, but his grip tightens immediately. “nooo,” he whines. “baby. please. i was so lonely in there. you didn’t even call me pretty. or hot. or husband of the year.”
he starts listing reasons why he missed you in his dream, still half-asleep and getting exponentially more dramatic. “you weren’t kissing me. or telling me to shut up. or kicking me in your sleep. it was awful. my subconscious was so empty. just paperwork and despair.”
“you’re the worst,” you mutter, not even opening your eyes.
“no, i’m the husband who loves you,” he corrects sweetly, nuzzling closer, lips grazing your shoulder again. “and you sound soooo sexy when you’re grumpy. like a sleepy little kitten with attitude. my favorite flavor.”
then he gasps. “wait. what if this is another dream? what if i wake up and you’re not real? oh my god, hold me tighter—prove your existence. say my name. lick my forehead or something.”
you snort. “go back to sleep, satoru.”
“but i missed you,” he says again, burying his face in your back like you’re his emotional support plushie. “you didn’t even make a guest appearance. rude. next time, RSVP to my REM cycle.”
“your dream version needs to chill,” you grumble, but you’re already curling into him again. he hums triumphantly, squeezing you closer, interlacing your fingers with his and pressing soft, sleepy kisses into your hair.
“my dream girl,” he sighs dreamily, “is my wife in real life. how lucky am i?”
you roll your eyes. but you don’t pull away. because being satoru gojo’s wife means enduring clingy, sleepy love declarations at seven a.m. on a saturday. it means whining and kicking him when he’s being annoying, only to end up melting into his chest three seconds later
and you love it. god, you love it. every ridiculous, dramatic, needy second of it. you love him. and you love being loved by him most of all.
kento sits cross-legged on the living room floor, his back straight as always, though there's a softness to his posture that only comes when he's with her. your daughter—small, determined, a bundle of focused energy—stands behind him on the couch, tongue sticking out in concentration as she arranges a parade of tiny pastel bows in his blond hair.
he doesn't move, not even when a comb snags or her little fingers tug a bit too hard. he only hums quietly, eyes closed, patient as ever. every now and then, he hears her giggle, delighted at her own handiwork.
"daddy, stay still!" she scolds, slipping a sparkly pink bow just above his ear.
"i am, darling," he replies, his deep voice gentle. "you're doing an excellent job."
she beams, threading another ribbon through a lock of his hair. you watch from the doorway, heart swelling at the sight—kento, the man who shoulders the weight of the world without complaint, now a living canvas for a child's joy and imagination.
when she finally finishes, she scrambles around to face him, clapping her hands. "you look pretty, daddy!"
kento opens his eyes and gives her a small, warm smile. "thank you, sweetheart. i think i look my best when you help."
she hugs him fiercely, bows and all, and he wraps his arms around her, closing his eyes again—not with exhaustion this time, but with quiet, perfect contentment.
Newly promoted and chronically late, you unknowingly take the last elevator available to only the highest-ranking executives and apparently, it's him. Suguru Geto. Who promises himself to give you, your exhausted, frustrated self, some type of relief every time you take his elevator.
The HR conference room feels sterile under the fluorescent lights, all beige walls and corporate motivational posters that ring hollow in moments like this. You sit across from Suguru at the long table, maintaining professional distance even though every instinct tells you to reach for his hand.
Shoko Ieiri from HR adjusts her glasses, a stack of policy documents spread before her like evidence in a trial. Ijichi sits to her left, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, as always. The third person at the table is someone you don’t recognize, a stern-faced man from Legal whose presence makes your stomach clench.
“Thank you both for coming.” Ieiri begins, her tone carefully neutral. “I’m sure you understand why we’re here.”
Suguru speaks first, his voice steady. “We do. And we’d like to address this directly rather than dance around it.”
“Go ahead.”
You take a breath, finding your voice.
“Suguru and I have developed a personal relationship outside of work hours.” A partial lie. “We understand this creates complications given our professional dynamic and we’re committed to finding a solution that works for everyone.
The Legal representative, his nameplate reads K. Nanami–leans forward. “The concern isn’t just about complications. There are liability issues, potential claims of favoritism or a hostile work environment. When there’s a clear power imbalance–”
“I understand,” Suguru interrupts smoothly. “Which is why we’re here to discuss alternatives, not to defend something that clearly violates policy as it currently stands.”
Ieiri nods approvingly. “What kind of alternatives did you have in mind?”
“Transfer one of us to a different department,” you suggest. “Remove the direct reporting relationship entirely.”
“That’s… actually reasonable,” Ijichi admits, sounding surprised. “We do have an opening in Strategic Development. Same level, same pay grade, but different chain of command.”
You feel something ease in your stomach, “I’d be interested in that position.”
“It would mean working more closely with external clients,” Ieiri explains. “More travel, different responsibilities. Are you sure you’re prepared for that change?”
“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation. You’ve already risked everything, what’s a little more change?
Nanami makes notes on his legal pad. “We would need to establish clear boundaries. No interaction beyond what’s professionally necessary during work hours. Separate projects, separate meetings when possible, and certainly separate elevators.” He eyes you both sternly. A familiar knot forms in your stomach, forcing you to look down in shame. Suguru takes notice and his jaw clenches.
“And outside of work?” Suguru asks.
“Outside of work, you’re both adults,” Ieiri says carefully. “But any hint that your personal relationship is affecting workplace dynamics, client relationships, or team morale, we will have to revisit this conversation.”
The meeting continues for another twenty minutes, covering documentation, transition timelines, and the kind of corporate liability language that makes your head spin and your eyes glaze over. But the core message is clear: they’re willing to make this work. And you couldn’t be more relieved.
As you all stand to leave, Nanami adds one final comment. “For what it’s worth, the fact that you came forward proactively rather than making us discover this through complaints or incidents… or even denying it simply, it speaks well for both of your characters.”
-
Three weeks later, you’re settling into your new office in the Strategic Development wing. It’s smaller than your previous space, but the work is engaging—more creative, more client-facing, more aligned with where you’d eventually wanted your career to go anyway.
The transition hasn’t been seamless. There were awkward moments the first week when you’d instinctively head toward the fourth elevator, muscle memory from months of routine. Colleagues asking casual questions about the sudden change in department. Learning new systems, new team dynamics, new responsibilities.
But there are unexpected benefits too. Your new supervisor is brilliant and supportive in ways that feel refreshing after navigating the politics of the executive floor. The work challenges you differently, stretches skills you’d forgotten you had.
And the best part? No one here knows a damn thing about you and Suguru. No whispers, no knowing looks, no weight of shared secrets. You’re just the new Strategic Development specialist who’s surprisingly good at client presentations.
The hardest part is the distance. Suguru is only three floors up, but it might as well be three cities. Your text conversations are limited to logistics–when to meet, where to go, careful not to leave digital trails that could be misinterpreted if anyone ever cared to look. Everything about you two when it comes to the workplace has been all about strategic, and stolen moments feel more precious now. You share brief encounters in the lobby when your schedules align. Careful smiles across crowded conference rooms during company-wide meetings. The thrill of secrecy has been replaced by something deeper and connected–the satisfaction of choosing something real over something easy.
There’s no guilt anymore.
-
It’s already been six months since the transfer when Suguru texts you on a Thursday evening: Free tonight? Want to cook for you.
You’re at your desk, finishing up a client proposal that’s due tomorrow, but the message makes you smile. Your place or mine?
Mine. I’ll pick you up at 7.
I can drive myself.
I know. I want to pick you up.
The distinction matters now in ways it didn’t before. Every gesture feels more chosen and intentional. You’re not just fucking your boss in secret, you’re building something that exists outside the building entirely.
Suguru’s apartment is a sleek high-rise downtown, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture that probably costs more than your monthly rent. You’ve been here a handful of times now, but it still feels surreal, like playing house in someone else’s life.
“How was your day?” he asks, taking your jacket and hanging it in the closet. The gesture makes your chest feel all warm and you smile at him appreciatively.
“Good. Challenging. Gojo has me leading the Henderson account presentation next week.”
“That’s huge.” His pride is genuine, uncomplicated by the workplace politics that used to color everything. “Henderson’s a major client.”
“I know. I’m scared.”
“You’ll do great.” He guides you to the kitchen, something that smells incredible is simmering on the stove.
You settle onto one of the bar stools, watching him move around the kitchen with surprising competence. This domestic side of Suguru still catches you off guard, the man who commands boardrooms and has his own elevator, chopping vegetables and stirring sauce with the same focused attention he brings to everything else.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, not looking up from the cutting board.
“About?”
“About us, and how well this is working. The separation, I mean. It’s been good for us.”
You shift in your seat to make yourself comfortable. “You sound surprised.”
“I am, a little. I thought it would be harder. Not seeing you every day, not being able to…” He glances up, something heated flickering in your eyes. You nod and laugh.
“The elevator sessions?”
“Among other things.” His smile is soft, fond. “But this feels more real. We’re not sneaking around anymore.”
You nod, listening to him.
Suguru sets down the knife, giving you his full attention. “When we were sneaking around at work, there was always this element of inevitably. Like we were caught in something we couldn’t control. But this, choosing to be together when we don’t have to be, when there’s no forbidden thrill driving it, it feels different, a good different.”
You know what he means. The urgency has been replaced by something steadier, more sustainable. The hunger is still there, but it’s something accompanied by genuine affection, by the kind of comfort that comes from actually knowing someone beyond the confines of stolen moments.
The timer goes off, and he turns back to the stove, but not before catching your hand before bringing it to his lips. The gesture is casual, easy, the kind of unconscious intimacy that speaks to how naturally you’ve settled into this.
Dinner is excellent, some kind of pasta with homemade sauce that makes you think he stole the recipe from his mother. You eat at his dining table, city lights flickering beyond the windows, conversation flowing easily between work stories and weekend plans and the kind of mundane details that somehow feel significant when shared with the right person.
“I have something to tell you,” Suguru says as you’re clearing the dishes. He leans against the doorframe at the end of the kitchen as he watches you.
Something in his tone makes you pause. “Good something or bad something?”
“Good something. I think.” He walks near you and leans against the counter now, suddenly looking less certain. “I got offered a position. Different company, but a really big step up. Senior VP of Operations.”
Your heart does something complicated. “That’s… wow. That’s incredible, Suguru. When?”
“The offer came in yesterday. I haven’t responded yet.”
“Why not?”
He’s quiet for a moment, studying your face. “Because it would mean relocating to Tokyo. And because I wanted to talk to you about it first.”
The words hang between you, loaded with implication. You set down the plates you’re holding, needing something to do with your hands.
“Tokyo,” you repeat.
“I know it’s complicated. Your career is here, your life is here. I’m not asking you to drop everything and follow me. But I also can’t make this decision without knowing where you stand.”
The honesty in his voice makes your chest tight. A little over a year ago, you were two people sneaking around in elevators. Now he’s considering job offers based on your opinion. The growth feels dizzying.
“How long do you have to decide?”
“Two weeks.”
You nod, processing. “It’s a good opportunity.”
“The best I’ve been offered. Complete operational oversight for a company twice the size of our current one. It’s everything I’ve been working toward.”
“Then you should take it.”
The words surprise you just as much as they seem to surprise him. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.” You move closer, reaching up to touch his face. “Suguru, this is your career. Your future. I won’t be the reason you turn down such a great opportunity.”
“And what about us?”
The question you’ve been avoiding since he started talking. You take a breath, finding courage you're not sure you even possess.
“We’ll figure it out. Maybe I can find something in Tokyo. Maybe we do long-distance for a while. Maybe this is exactly the kind of challenge we need to figure out how serious this really is.”
His expression shifts, something like wonder replacing the uncertainty. “You’d consider moving?”
“I consider a lot of things.” You smile, “If it means Tokyo, then we figure out Tokyo.”
The words are out before you can second-guess them, hanging in the air between you like a bridge you can’t uncross. You’ve never said something without carefully thinking about it before, it feels strange.
Suguru’s response is immediate and wordless, his mouth on yours in a split second. He cups your face like you’re something precious. The kiss is soft and reverent.
You laugh, surprising yourself. The sound is bright and genuine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He rests his forehead against yours.
You kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of possibility lingering in his mouth. When you break apart, the future feels less daunting.
“So,” you say, straightening his collar in a habitual gesture. “Tell me about Tokyo,”
-
The conversation about Tokyo continues over the next hour, sprawled across his couch with the city painting patterns on the window. You talk about logistics and timelines, career opportunities and cost of living. But underneath the practical considerations is something else, the giddy excitement of planning something together, of choosing each other completely.
You settle against him, head on his chest, breathing in his scent that’s become your sense of comfort.
“Can I ask you something?” you say after a few minutes of comfortable silence.
He nods.
“That first day, in the elevator. Was it planned? the stopping, the—”
“No.” You can feel his laugh vibrating through his chest. “God, no. I was genuinely just going to the ground floor. But then you walked in looking like you were about to fall apart from stress, and something about the way you held yourself together, I knew I had to do something instead of just admiring you from afar.”
You think about yourself in that elevator months ago, frazzled, insecure, desperate to prove herself. You feels like a different person now, someone you remember fondly but have outgrown.
“I should probably head home soon,” you say, though you make no move to get up. “Early meeting tomorrow.”
“Stay,” Suguru says quietly. “Stay tonight.”
The invitation isn’t new, you’ve spent the night here before, and he’s stayed at your place plenty of times. But something about tonight feels different, it felt more significant.
“Are you sure?”
Instead of answering, he shifts beneath you, guiding you to straddle his lap. The movement is fluid and natural, your body already knowing how to fit against his. His hand settles on your hips, thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of your work dress.
“I’m sure about everything when it comes to you,” he murmurs, voice rough with want. “All of it.”
The certainty in his voice makes something flutter in your chest. You lean down to kiss him, slow and deep. His response is immediate, hands sliding up to your back to tangle in your hair.
The kissing builds gradually, heat simmering between you like it has all evening. There’s no urgency now, no risk of being caught or interrupted. Just the two of you and all the time in the world.
Suguru’s mouth trails down on your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. His hands find the zipper at the back of your dress, he slides it down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room, making you shiver.
You help him slide the dress off your shoulders, the fabric pooling around your waist. The air conditioning makes your nipples firm, but it’s the heat in Suguru’s eyes that makes your breath catch.
His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks through the lace of your bra. The touch is gentle, exploratory, like he’s rediscovering familiar territory.
“Tell me what you want,” Suguru whispers in your ear, voice low.
“You,” you answer without hesitation.
The honesty seems to break something loose in him. His hands become more urgent, more possessive, pulling you closer until there’s no space between the both of you. You can feel him hard beneath you, pressing against your core through layers of fabric that suddenly feel like too much.
You grind down against him, relishing the sharp intake of your breath it draws from his lips. His grip on your hips tightens, guiding your movements, creating friction that makes you both groan.
“Bedroom,” he manages, the word more growl than speech.
“Here’s good,” you counter, not wanting to break the spell of the moment.
“Bedroom,” he insists, but his action contradicts his words as his mouth finds your breast, tongue flicking over your nipple through the lace. “I want to spread you out properly. Want to see every inch.”
The promise in his voice makes you weak. You let him carry you to his bedroom, his mouth focusing all of his attention on your tits.
The space is dimly lit by the windows, casting everything in soft silver. Suguru turns to face you beside the bed, hands framing your face as he catches your lips again. This time there’s nothing gentle about it, it’s hungry and desperate.
Your hands work at the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling with urgency. He helps you, shrugging out the fabric and tossing it aside. In the dim light, you can see a landscape of shadow and muscle, and you take a moment to simply appreciate the view. You’re not even bashful about it anymore.
“Like what you see?” He teases, mouth quirking upward at the sight of you admiring him.
His hands find the clasp of your bra. Letting it falter down to the side before his mouth is on you once more. You find yourself pinned beneath him, your back pressed into the soft mattress of his bed. His hips nestle between your parted thighs, the hard length of his arousal pressing insistently against your core through the thin fabric. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating on you, the weight of him bringing you into a haze.
Suguru’s hands roam your curves possessively. His tongue delving past your lips to claim you thoroughly. You moan into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair that he managed to tie up into a small bun during work hours. You hold him close as you lose yourself in the taste of him.
The rest of your clothes disappear in a tangle of eager hands and whispers of sweet nothings. When you’re finally bare before him, Suguru takes a step back, eyes drinking in every inch of you.
“Perfect,” he breathes.
The reverence in his voice makes you bold. You reach for his belt, fingers working the leather until you can push his pants down his hips. He kicks them aside, and then you’re both exposed, bathed in the small light of the windows.
Suguru reaches the apex of your thighs, you’re already wet and wanting, body responding to his touch like it was made for this.
“Suguru,” you gasp as his fingers find your clit, circling with just the right pressure. “Please.”
“I know, baby,” he cooes, lips brushing your ears.
He works you with patient skill, fingers and mouth and whispered words of love until you’re writing with pleasure under him, balanced on just the end of release. Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, he pulls back, leaving you gasping and desperate.
This is one of the most frustrating things he does, and now you’re annoyed. You glare up at him, making him smile in a way that makes you know he does this for pure joy and amusement.
“Not yet,” he says, ignoring your cussing complaints. He settles between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. You’re so ready for him that he slides in easily, both of you groaning at the feeling.
“God,” he breathes, forehead resting against yours. “Every time. Every fucking time,”
You understand exactly what he means. You make your way towards his shoulders as he begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust delicate and measured. You make eye contact with each other the entirety of the time, never looking away once.
Suguru’s pace increases, movements becoming more urgent as he chases his own release. You meet him thrust for thrust, bodies moving in perfect rhythm, everything else fading away until there’s nothing but this. The sound of skin against skin, the whispered endearments, the building pleasure that threatens to consume you both.
When your orgasm finally crashes over you, it’s with Surugu's name on your lips and his body pressed tight against yours. He follows you over the edge moments later, face buried in your neck as he shudders through his own release.
Afterward, you lie tangled together in the aftermath, breathing slowly returning to normal. Suguru’s fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath your cheek.
“So,” you say eventually, voice soft in the darkness. “Tokyo?”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Tokyo,” he confirms. “If you’re serious about considering it.”
“I’m serious about a lot of things.” You say. Smiling sheepishly against his chest.
“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.
You close your eyes, already half-asleep, and you let yourself imagine Tokyo. It feels less like an ending, it feels good and legitimate. You’re not running away from anything anymore, you’re chasing life as is.
-
One year later.
The Shibuya building is all glass and steel, reaching toward a sky that’s perpetually and devastatingly grey. You’re early today, a luxury you’ve learned to afford yourself since moving to Tokyo a year ago. You decided to live separately from Suguru for now, learning how to adjust to life in a new city without any of his help. It’s good. It builds character. But you don’t let your individuality get in the way of the both of you, so you make efforts to see each other often.
The marble lobby echoes with the click of your heels and the low murmur of conversations in what sounds like three different languages.
You adjust your blazer, navy this time, paired with a soft silk blouse that actually fits perfectly.
Your phone buzzes. A text from your colleague. Onecorp team arrived 10 minutes early. Conference room B will be ready in 15.
Onecorp. Even seeing the company he works for in professional correspondence makes something flutter in your chest, though it’s anticipation now rather than anxiety.
The elevator bank is busy with the morning rush, but you spot an opening in the fourth elevator just as the doors begin to close. Old habits. You almost feel nostalgic.
You slip inside and freeze.
Suguru stands against the back wall, exactly where he always used to position himself. Nothing about him has changed, but you act like you didn’t just eat dinner at his apartment yesterday. He takes note of the bit.
“You’re early,” he says, voice warm with amusement.
“I’ve been practicing," you reply, the doors slide shut behind you.
The silence stretches, but it’s different now. Charged with history rather than uncertainty. You’re both aware of other people in the elevator, the cameras, the professional distance you meet to maintain. But underneath it all is the electric current of everything you’ve built together.
The elevator dings on the 58th floor. But as soon as you step towards the doors, his hand catches yours briefly. The touch is quick. Professional to any observer, but his thumbs brushes across your knuckles in a gesture that’s entirely personal.
You smile, squeezing his hand once before letting go. “See you in the conference room, Mr. Geto.”
The doors slide open, and you step out into the hallway. But this time, you glance back, just once, to catch him watching you go with something that looks like tenderness.
As the elevator doors close, you realize you’re not burdened with secrecy anymore. You’re walking confidently toward a future you’ve chosen.
The receptionist greets you with genuine warmth, and you have ten minutes to spare before the meeting starts and you get to see him again.
That’s ten minutes to remember how far you’ve both come since that first morning when you almost didn’t make it.
MEN WHO DON’T CARE IT DOESN’T FIT — THEY’LL MAKE IT.
“you’ll stretch for me. even if it hurts. especially if it hurts.”
Toji Fushiguro
He spits in his hand, strokes himself once, and pushes the head in while you squirm. “It’s not gonna fit—Toji—”
“Don’t care.” His voice is gravel. “I want it to hurt.” He watches your body fight it, stretch around it. “Feel that? That’s me ruining you for anyone else.”
Nanami Kento
He grits his teeth, holding himself back with trembling control. “You said you could take it,” he growls softly, voice dark and deep. You cry out—half pain, half pleasure—and he still rocks his hips forward. “Then take it. Take all of it.” One hand presses on your lower belly. “Look at that. That’s me. Deep inside where no one else gets to be.”
Gojo Satoru
He laughs when you try to scoot away. “Too much?” he purrs, pushing back in slowly. “Nah, you’ll manage.”
You claw at the sheets. He holds your wrists and thrusts in all the way.
“You wanted me, princess. So now you get all of me.”
Even as you cry, he kisses your cheeks. “So cute when you struggle.”
Sukuna Ryomen
He doesn’t even pretend to care.
“Not gonna fit?” he mocks, already halfway in. “That’s not my problem.”
He grabs your thighs and spreads you wider, forcing the rest in with one brutal snap of his hips. Your scream echoes — he smiles.
“There. Now it fits.”
Geto Suguru
“Shh, I know,” he whispers, rubbing your clit as you sob.
“It hurts, but you’re taking it. You’re doing so well.” He bottoms out, groaning low in his throat.
“I shouldn’t be able to get this deep, huh?” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “And yet—here we are.”
He stays buried to the hilt until your body stops fighting.
Hiromi Higuruma
He cups your face as you cry, kissing your lips. “Breathe. It’s okay.” And then he thrusts in deeper.
You sob. He moans.
“I told you I’d make it fit. I don’t care how tight you are—I’m not stopping.”
Shiu Kong
He doesn’t slow down for a second.
“No space?” he sneers. “Make room.”
His cock stretches you painfully, deliciously, unforgivingly. “You’ll thank me later. When you can’t take anything less than this.”
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