𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ :: geto suguru has built a reputation out of silence, inked a thousand skins, and never once in his life chased anything. somehow, he's been letting himself into his ex-girlfriend's apartment at midnight just to move her coffee mug three inches to the left.
oh! forgive me lord! oh i'm a good girl ♡ run rabbit! run rabid ♡
content warning :: MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, dubcon (initiation while reader is asleep/semi-conscious, but she is into it when she wakes up), somno, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive & possessive behavior, yandere themes (both parties), unhealthy relationship dynamics, theft of personal items, not beta read. art by @/thatsallitchief
4.8k words
The breakup was his idea. That's the part that kills you most.
Not that you didn't see it coming—you did, in the way you see storms gathering on a horizon you've been watching for too long. You had felt it in the spaces between his words, in the weight of his silences, in how his hands had stopped reaching for you in his sleep.
Suguru had sat you down on a Sunday, which you had thought was cruel timing. Sunday mornings used to be yours, slow and warm, coffee and his records and the particular blue light that came through the windows of his apartment on the Shimokitazawa side of the city. He had used that gentleness of his—the kind that had hooked you in the first place, the kind that made you feel like he was doing you a favor when he broke something in you.
"I feel like I'm suffocating you," he had said, which you both knew was not quite what he meant. You're suffocating me. He was too kind to say it plainly.
You had held it together long enough to get out the door.
That had been seven months ago.
You have, in those seven months, become a person you do not entirely recognize. You are aware of this. You are a fashion student, after all—you are trained to observe, to analyze, to understand aesthetics and composition and the way things are put together and taken apart. You apply this skill now to Geto Suguru's life in your absence from it.
It started small. The way these things always do.
You had kept his Instagram followed, of course. His main—@suguru.ink—which he kept public for his work. Clean grids of tattoo photos, the occasional candid shot from a coffee shop or a bar. Easy enough. You didn't even have to try.
But then he'd switched his personal account to private.
@its.suguru. One hundred and twelve followers. A lock icon.
You had made the alt before the thought had fully formed. It took you maybe twenty minutes: a new email, a new account, four weeks of posting photos stolen from Pinterest—aesthetic city shots, some food, a carefully curated collection of jazz album covers—and then a follow request sent to his personal from @mn.archives, a faceless account that looked like any other twenty-something whose personality lived entirely in film photography and good coffee. Two hundred and sixteen followers, because a number too low looks suspicious.
He accepted within a day.
You tell yourself this is just so you know he's okay. That it's concern, residual and tender, the way you might still check the weather in a city you used to live in. You scroll through his grid at eleven PM with your knees pulled to your chest and you look at the photo he posted last Thursday—some bar you recognize, neon light catching the silver of his earrings, Haibara's arm slung around his shoulder—and you feel something so complicated you can't name it. Not grief exactly. Not quite anger.
Want, maybe. Plain and embarrassing.
The tattoo was not your best idea. You will admit that freely, in the privacy of your own thoughts.
You had passed by his work plcea approximately forty-seven times in seven months, which you know because you have routes home that all bend toward this specific block on purpose. You had a habit of slowing down outside the window—frosted glass, the clean black font of the shop name, sometimes the amber glow of light inside—and telling yourself you were just walking. Just passing through. Just appreciating good signage, actually, as a design student.
The appointment you booked under a fake name—Watanabe Mika, which you chose because it felt forgettable—was a small floral piece. Lower back. Simple. Classic. Something you could attribute to a late-night Pinterest spiral rather than the slow, spectacular unraveling of your dignity.
There is one flaw in this plan, one thing you had somehow managed not to factor in.
You are terrified of needles.
You sat in the chair and stared at the ceiling and told yourself it was fine, it was fine, it was—
"Breathe."
His voice, right behind you. Low and unbothered, the way it always was.
You had not accounted, in all your meticulous planning, for the fact that you would have to talk to him. That the fake name would crumble the second he walked into the room and said it like he'd never heard it before in his life.
"Watanabe-san?"
You had turned, and his expression had done something complicated for exactly one second before settling back into professional neutrality. His hair was up—messy bun, a few strands loose around his face—and he had new ink on his forearm, something geometric you didn't recognize. Which meant he'd had it done after you. The thought sat in your chest like a splinter.
"Hi," you said. Brilliant.
"Hi." A pause. "Small piece?"
"Lower back. Florals. I have a reference."
He had nodded and reached for his gloves and you had spent the next forty minutes lying face-down on the table with your back exposed and his hands steady on your skin and tried very hard not to make a sound that wasn't about the needle.
You managed. Barely.
The tattoo healed beautifully. Sometimes you twist in front of your mirror just to look at it.
His favorite coffee shop is a place called Kōhī to Yoru—coffee and night—that operates out of a narrow building near the university. He started going there maybe three months into your relationship, the two of you sharing a corner table and his headphones, and you have continued going there with the particular audacity of someone who has decided they were there first, actually, in some cosmic sense, even if that is not strictly true.
You go on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons, which are the days his alt account has, on multiple occasions, shown him holding an iced coffee that matches the shop's specific shade of pale green cup.
You bring your sketchbook. You work on your thesis collection. You sit with your back to the door and wait for the sound of it opening—the particular way the bell above it chimes—and when he comes in, which he does, not every time but often enough, you feel your whole body go still and warm and stupid. You look down at your paper and draw the same seam line you have been drawing for six minutes without noticing.
He always orders the same thing. You know his order the way you know the smell of his apartment, the exact pressure of his hands, the specific timbre of his voice when he's half asleep.
You don't look up.
You're very good at not looking up.
The club situation, in retrospect, requires more explanation.
There is a bar-club hybrid in the entertainment district called Sable that Suguru frequents. You know this because Satoru has a fully public account and zero impulse control regarding location tags, which means you have a near-perfect record of their Saturday nights without ever having to try very hard. You don't follow Satoru. You don't need to. His posts are public and his captions are aggressive and he documents everything.
You do not go to Sable every Saturday. You're not insane.
You go maybe twice a month. On weekends you've verified—through Satoru's stories, through a brief and agonizing scan of his tagged photos—that Suguru will be there. You get ready carefully, the way you used to when you were going to see him, and you tell your friends, who know nothing, that you just feel like going out. That you love this place. That the DJ is good.
The thing is, you're not lying about the DJ. The DJ genuinely is good.
And you are, by any objective measure, devastating when you make the effort.
You keep your distance. That's the important part, the part that keeps this justifiable. You don't go near him—too obvious, too much—and you have what's left of your pride to protect. You position yourself well, and you dance, and you drink, and you exist in the same airspace, and you watch, peripherally, the way you've gotten very good at watching things peripherally.
What you also do—and this is the part where you stop being able to fully justify yourself—is notice the women.
There are always women. Suguru is—you don't need to describe him to yourself. You know exactly what he looks like in a room, what he does to it without meaning to, that particular quality of his presence that functions like gravity. You know because it pulled you in and kept you there for sixteen months and you have not yet figured out how to get far enough away that it stops working on you.
So. The women.
You don't interfere directly. That would be messy, obvious, humiliating. What you do is more surgical than that. A girl drifts toward him at the bar—you're there first, materializing at his elbow under the pretense of ordering, smiling at the bartender, turning just enough that your body language reads as occupied space. A group approaches the table where he and Satoru are sitting—you're walking past right then, somehow, and you catch Gojo's eye (Gojo who knows you, Gojo who looks at you with an expression you have learned not to examine) and you smile like you ran into him by coincidence, and the moment breaks before it can start.
You are very good at this.
You have gotten very good at this.
You think you're slick.
This is perhaps the most important thing to understand about the last seven months: you have constructed, in meticulous and loving detail, the story of yourself as someone who is merely adjacent to Geto Suguru's life. Someone who passes through the same spaces by coincidence, drawn there by taste and habit and not by anything more embarrassing than that. Someone who has moved on cleanly and simply no longer intersects with him—except in these small moments that don't count, that you are careful to keep deniable.
You believe this story.
You are, perhaps, the only one who does.
Geto Suguru notices everything.
This is not vanity—it's fact, the baseline condition of someone who has spent years being precisely observed and has therefore learned to observe in return. He notices patterns. He notices the particular quality of attention a room gives a person. He notices when something stops being coincidence and starts being something else entirely.
The first time he saw you at Kōhī to Yoru, he thought: oh.
Not with surprise. With something more like recognition. Like finding a word he'd been looking for in a language he already spoke.
You had your sketchbook open and your head down and the line of your shoulders had that specific tension you always got when you were pretending to concentrate on something other than what was in front of you. He had ordered his coffee and taken the table by the window—not your corner, deliberately not your corner—and watched you not look at him for eleven minutes straight. And he had felt something settle in his chest like the click of a lock finding its latch.
There she is.
He had not broken up with you because he stopped wanting you. He needs to be clear about this, at least to himself, in the space where honesty costs nothing. He had broken up with you because wanting you and watching you want him back had started to feel like too much weight in a place he didn't know how to hold. He is—he will say this plainly—not good at being needed. Something in him retreats when it feels cornered by someone else's love, some reflex toward distance that he's never fully understood and never fully fought. He had watched you learn his rhythms and bend yourself around them and he had known, somewhere underneath the warmth of it, that he was shaping you into something that orbited him, and you deserved better than a center like him.
He had thought, in the careful logical part of his mind, that breaking up would free you. That you'd pull yourself out and go build something that didn't require making yourself small.
He had not, apparently, accounted for yoy.
@/mn.archives had followed him about two months after the breakup. He noticed because he got the notification at 2 AM on a Tuesday, which was exactly when you used to lose sleep to your phone.
He had looked at the profile for a long time.
The photos were too curated. Jazz records and film photography and that particular aesthetic that looked like a constructed personality rather than an actual one—assembled from the outside in, like a mood board rather than a life. No face. No name. mn.archives. He had scrolled back through their last few conversations once—just once, he told himself—and found a message you'd sent months before the end, mentioning a vintage archive account you'd been thinking about making.
He had accepted the follow request.
He still posts to that account knowing you're watching. Sometimes he tags places he's about to go, just to see if youll show up. You always do.
The tattoo appointment had required real effort not to laugh.
Watanabe Mika. He'd seen the name in the book when he was reviewing the day's schedule and he had known before he walked into the room. He doesn't know exactly how he knew—maybe the handwriting, you always pressed too hard with pens, like you were trying to leave a mark on whatever you touched—but he had known, and when he said the name and watched you face do that thing where you're trying to hold it perfectly still, he had felt something he'd classify, if he were being honest, as pure delight.
Forty minutes. His hands on your back. The way you'd gone absolutely rigid when the needle started and then forced yourself still through what he knew, because he knows you, was genuine fear. You hadn't made a sound. He'd been almost proud of you.
He wanted to say: you don't have to do this.
He wanted to say: I already know.
He said neither. Because there is something he enjoys—something he is not proud of but does not particularly want to stop—about watching you work this hard. About being watched this carefully. About being the thing someone builds an entire architecture of ordinary life around.
The club thing is his favorite.
He sees yoy every time. He spotted you the third Saturday you came to Sable—across the room, dancing with that particular careless ease you put on when you're trying to look like you're not paying attention to anything—and he had taken a slow drink and thought about how long you'd been doing this without knowing he saw. He had done a rough calculation. Yiu'd been at it for months.
The girls you redirects: he lets you. It would be simple enough to close the gap, to make himself reachable, to let someone else in just to see what you'd do. He doesn't.
Satoru, who is not an idiot and has never pretended to be, had said once, watching you materialize near the bar at precisely the right moment: "You know she's here."
"I know," Suguru had said.
Satoru had looked at him for a long moment. "And you're just going to let her keep doing this."
It hadn't been a question. Suguru hadn't answered it anyway. Satoru had made the face he made when he thought Suguru was being spectacular and specific kind of idiot, which was fair. Satoru was usually right about these things.
He still has your key.
This is the part he doesn't examine too closely, doesn't turn over in his hands and look at straight on. He still has the key you gave him fourteen months into their relationship—the little silver one with the small scratch near the head from when you'd dropped your keychain down a flight of stairs and laughed so hard you couldn't breathe, had grabbed his arm for balance and left half-moon marks in his jacket. He had kept it after the breakup, which he had told himself was oversight. He'd meant to return it. The moment had never arrived, and the key had stayed on his ring, and here they are.
He goes, sometimes, when he knows your out.
He knows your schedule the way he's always known things about you—not through tracking, not through architecture and alt accounts, but through the simple accumulating weight of attention. He knows you have studio hours Monday and Wednesday evenings. He knows you go to your mother's on Sunday afternoons and usually doesn't come back until after seven.
He lets himself in quietly. He moves through the apartment and he moves things—small things, careful things. A mug shifted slightly on the counter. Your desk chair at a different angle. The throw blanket refolded. Nothing you could be certain about, nothing that couldn't be chalked up to your own distracted hands in a busy week. He just wants you to feel it, in some wordless way you can't name. He wants to leave a shape in your space.
He also takes things. He is aware this is not something he can justify cleanly. Small things—a note torn from your sketchbook, a hair tie from the bathroom counter, once a grocery list written in your handwriting that he'd found tucked under a bottle of wine. Things you might not notice. Things you'd never be sure about.
The first time he went to the drawer beside the bed—just to look, he'd told himself—he had found his hoodie. The charcoal one you used to steal, folded near the bottom like you'd put it somewhere you didn't have to see every day but couldn't bring yourself to throw away. And underneath a novel you was reading: a photo strip from a machine in Harajuku. The two of you, making faces, the particular light of that afternoon still somehow caught in the paper.
You hadn't thrown any of it away.
He had stood there for a moment and felt something so complicated that he hadn't tried to name it. He had taken the photo strip. Replaced it with a different photo—same machine, earlier in the same day, just you, mid-laugh, caught without knowing—so the space wouldn't feel empty if you looked.
He keeps the photo strip in his wallet.
He does not call this obsession. He doesn't call it anything.
It's a Thursday night when he finally goes back, and this time he doesn't have a reason.
Not to rearrange anything. Not to take something. No careful justification assembled in advance. He doesn't know what that means and he has, tonight, decided to stop caring.
The city is quiet the way it gets past midnight, that particular held-breath stillness. His key makes no sound against her lock—he knows the angle by now, the specific lift-and-turn that keeps the mechanism from clicking too loud. The door swings open onto darkness and the particular smell of her apartment, warm and layered, something floral and underneath it something that is just you, unchanged across seven months, the thing that had always made the back of his mind go quiet.
He moves through the space without turning on a light. He knows it better than you might expect. He knows the creak of the second floorboard from the hallway and steps around it. He knows to angle left around the ottoman you perpetually fail to put back in the right place. He knows the bedroom door sticks slightly at the top corner and needs gentle pressure to open without a sound.
It gives way.
You're asleep. He can tell from the doorway—the slow, even rise and fall of you breathing, your hair against the pillow, one hand curled loosely near your face. The window lets in just enough city light to see you by. Gold and still.
He leans against the doorframe.
He watches you breathe.
There is something terrible about this moment. Something tender underneath the terrible. He knows that. He is not without self-awareness—he has spent years being precisely, painfully self-aware, and it has never once made him behave better. You have been watching him for seven months from what you believed is a safe distance. He has been watching you from what he knows is not one. And maybe that says something about both of you, about the particular shape of whatever this is, two people who were never going to fall cleanly out of each other's gravity no matter how carefully he tried to cut the line.
You shift in your sleep. A small sound, something that almost forms a word and dissolves before it arrives.
He is still there.
There she is.
He stays until his shoulder starts to ache from the doorframe, and then he stays a little longer.
The city light filters through the half-open blinds in thin silver bars across your bed. Suguru stands in the doorway a moment longer, letting the quiet settle into his bones. Your breathing is deep, slow, the kind that only comes after exhaustion has finally won. He crosses the room without sound, shedding his jacket onto the chair by your desk. The hoodie you still keep is visible when he glances at the open drawer—charcoal, folded like a secret.
He sits on the edge of the mattress. The shift of weight makes you stir, but you don’t wake. Good. He wants this part slow.
His hand finds your ankle first, thumb brushing up the bare skin of your calf. You’re wearing an oversized t-shirt—his, he realizes with a low pulse of satisfaction—and nothing else. The hem has ridden up to the curve of your ass. He traces higher, palm warm against the back of your thigh, then slips under the fabric to rest at the small of your back, right over the fresh ink he put there himself. The skin is still slightly raised, healed but sensitive. He presses lightly.
You make a soft, wordless sound, shifting onto your stomach more fully. Your face stays buried in the pillow.
“Suguru…?” The name is barely shaped, thick with sleep, more breath than voice.
He doesn’t answer. Instead he leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Shh. Go back to sleep if you want.”
His hand slides lower, between your legs, finding you already slick. A low hum leaves his throat. Even asleep, your body knows him. He circles your clit with two fingers, unhurried, coaxing. Your hips twitch once, instinctive, pushing back against his hand.
You whimper into the pillow, still half-gone, thighs parting just enough to let him in. He takes the invitation, pressing one finger inside you, then two, curling gently. The wet sound is obscene in the quiet room. Your breathing changes—shallower, quicker—but your eyes stay closed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.
He works you open like that for long minutes, slow thrusts of his fingers, thumb stroking your clit in lazy circles. Every time you clench around him he feels it in his own cock, already straining against his jeans. When you start rocking back against his hand in tiny, unconscious movements, he withdraws, ignoring the protesting noise you make.
Clothes off. He doesn’t rush. The belt buckle clicks softly; the zipper sounds louder than it should. He strokes himself once, twice, spreading the bead of pre-cum over the head before lining up behind you.
You’re on your stomach, legs spread, t-shirt bunched at your waist. Perfect.
He pushes in slow, one long glide until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch makes you gasp, eyes flying open for a heartbeat before they flutter shut again. Your walls flutter around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your nape, staying still for a moment, letting you adjust. Or not. He doesn’t ask.
He starts moving—deep, measured rolls of his hips that press you harder into the mattress. Each thrust drags against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. You moan, low and broken, still sounding half-asleep, face turned to the side now so he can see the flush on your cheek.
One of his hands slides under you, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The other braces beside your head, caging you in. He drops his weight more fully onto your back, lips at your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
You push back against him, needy even in your drowsiness. “Suguru…” His name again, softer this time, wrecked with pleasure. Your hand reaches back blindly, fingers brushing his hip, urging him deeper.
He gives it to you. Harder now, the slap of skin on skin filling the room. He angles his hips until every thrust makes you cry out—short, breathy sounds that go straight to his cock. Your pussy clenches rhythmically around him, fluttering, pulling him in.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”
He fucks you like he’s memorizing you all over again—slow drags followed by sharp snaps of his hips, grinding deep when he bottoms out. Your breathing turns into soft, desperate pants. You’re dripping down his cock, onto the sheets. He reaches down and spreads your ass with both hands so he can watch himself disappear inside you, the obscene shine of your arousal coating him.
You come without warning, sudden and shuddering, a broken moan muffled by the pillow as your walls clamp down hard. He doesn’t stop, fucking you through it, drawing it out until your thighs shake.
Only then does he pull out, flipping you onto your back with easy strength. Your eyes are open now, heavy-lidded and dark, but still hazy with sleep and orgasm. You look at him like you’re not entirely sure he’s real.
He doesn’t give you time to wake up fully. He hooks your legs over his elbows and slides back in, folding you nearly in half. The new angle makes you keen, nails digging into his shoulders. He sets a punishing rhythm—deep, relentless, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.
Your t-shirt is pushed up to your collarbones. He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You arch into him, gasping. The other hand finds your clit again, rubbing fast and firm.
“Come on,” he growls against your skin. “Again. Want to feel it.”
You do. The second orgasm hits you harder, back bowing, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you pulse around his cock. He fucks you through every wave, hips stuttering only when your nails rake down his back hard enough to leave marks.
He pulls out at the last second, stroking himself roughly over your stomach. Thick ropes of cum paint your skin, your tits, the underside of your chin. You watch with dazed, half-lidded eyes, lips parted.
For a long moment the only sound is both of you breathing.
He leans down and kisses you—slow, deep, tasting sleep and sex and the faint salt of your sweat. You kiss him back like muscle memory, one hand sliding into his hair, holding him there. When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.
You don’t speak. Neither does he.
He reaches for the t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt—and uses the hem to wipe his spend from your skin with surprising gentleness. Then he tosses it aside, pulls the blanket over both of you, and tucks you against his chest like no time has passed at all.
Your breathing evens out again within minutes, slipping back toward sleep. He stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns over the floral ink on your lower back, feeling the steady beat of your heart against his ribs.
Outside, the city keeps breathing. Inside, the two of you fit back together in the dark like pieces that were never meant to stay apart.
I’m almost 130 episodes deep into Bleach (I did skip a bunch of filler) and Rukia is the character of all time. Absolute fucking freak of a woman I’m obsessed with her. She’s insane. She suffers more than Jesus. She draws cute cartoon bears to explain everything. She has every mental illness. She spends like 40 episodes in a cell lamenting and wondering if she deserves to be loved. She WANTED to live in Ichigo’s closet and BOUGHT THINGS to make it nicer to live in. Most of her time is spent bullying a 15 year old who looks like her dead friend. Constantly getting stabbed. Gets super into a lame tv show. Couldn’t figure out juice boxes. 2 apples tall and will kill you. I love her she is my princess with every disorder
your steps carried you forward regardless, breath growing weaker with each one you drew, blood escaping your body steady now alongside something that felt uncomfortably close to your own soul slipping loose with it. it hurt terribly deep, grinding, every inhale a wet struggle and still you remained upright, geta dragging you through ash and ruin, burnt wood cracking sharp beneath your weight with every step. the heat of the fires pressed close on all sides, smoke clinging to your skin and the back of your throat, the copper scent of blood thick enough to taste. you followed the pull of his energy without needing sight to guide you, that heavy, familiar weight drawing you forward through the wreckage until your knees met stone at last. the offering stone stood untouched at the heart of the shrine, one of the only things left standing whole after everything tonight had taken. cold, solid, ancient beneath your palms. your legs gave out against it. your free hand caught against the cold surface as you fell, a pained groan tearing loose from you, your other hand losing what little strength remained to keep pressure against the wound at your side. blood spilled freer now, warm and steady down your hip, soaking into the stone beneath you. your ears began to ring, your temples pulsing hard with each frantic beat of your heart and still you forced yourself upward, drawing on whatever strength you had left, until you managed to sit yourself atop the blood-soaked stone. the cold of it seeped through the thin fabric of your robes, grounding you even as the rest of the world swayed. ahead, his energy waited, dense and unmoving. you had come this far. you would not fall short of him now.
the sound reached you first low and rhythmic, something long and heavy spinning with practiced ease through the air, catching wind with each slow rotation, the faint whistle of it cutting sharp through the smoke settled thick around you both. a spear, you realized, turned effortless in one of his hands as though it weighed nothing at all to him. his four eyes stayed fixed on your dying form the entire while. you heard his bare feet leave the bodies he had been standing upon, unhurried, the soft give of flesh and ash beneath each step. uraume somewhere behind him now, clutching at their own side, wounded from whatever battle had raged here tonight, though sukuna’s focus remained entirely on you regardless, undivided. the spear’s low whistle grew steadily closer as he approached, each slow turn of it marking his steps toward you. you gasped hard for air, the effort of it alone almost more than you could manage now. blood still slipped warm between the fingers you could no longer keep pressed to your side. the stone beneath you felt colder by the second. his cursed energy pressed closer with every measured footfall, thick and heavy and familiar, wrapping around you leven before he reached the base of the offering stone. he could heal you. you knew that much. had the power to save you outright if he so chose but …would he?
“sukuna.” you gasped his name out, weak, pathetic even, the way he would so often mock you for sounding, though it hardly seemed to matter now, not with your time so plainly running short. he had promised himself, once, that your death would belong to him alone his to claim in whatever manner he chose, not some foolish girl’s dagger, however righteous she had believed herself to be for one single night. “y/n.” your name in his mouth, rare enough that it startled you even now, something almost comforting threaded beneath it despite everything. the spear struck down hard into the ash beside you, splitting the scorched earth at its base, and you flinched at the sound, sharp and sudden, before you felt him standing there before you at last. the heat of his body reached you first, then the heavier press of his cursed energy, thick enough to taste, still humming with the violence of the night. blood dripped slow from the hand that had held the spear, landing warm against the stone near your knee. “sukuna.” you said again, though you had no intention of pleading with him for anything. you understood well enough by now that whatever choice he had already made, he alone would decide when, and how, to share it with you. your breath came thinner still, each one a wet, shallow effort, and still you kept your face lifted toward the place where you felt him most strongly, you loved him. you knew that much plainly, even here at the very edge of your own dying, having crawled toward him rather than away, stubborn as you had always been with him. sukuna crouched before you, one hand still resting against the spear, holding it there as though it alone might decide something for him yet, his lower elbows settling against his spread knees. his other hand rose, fingers brushing your blood-soaked hair back gently behind your ear. the touch was careful, almost foreign coming from him. “what now?” he asked, as though you held any say in the matter at all. you smiled faintly, blood gathering thin at the corner of your mouth. “you tell me.” you said, throwing his own words back at him, and a low, amused huff escaped him at that, his hand sliding to cup your chin. tears you had not even realized were falling slipped from your eyes, and he wiped them away slow with the pad of his thumb, the gesture so quiet it almost undid you. “i am here to claim your death.” he said, no cruelty in the words at all, only quiet certainty. fear rose sharp in your chest at that ; death sounding, finally, like precisely what it meant, the end of everything. your lip trembled, and he made a low sound of disapproval at the sight of it. “do not give me that face. it will not hurt. you have my word on that.” the words felt strange even on his own tongue, foreign, drawn from him only because of you, because somehow you had taught him to say such things, to feel them even, and now he found himself honest with you, as much as whatever remained of his own twisted heart would allow. you were shaking beneath his hand, and his grip tightened faintly against your face. “ just say it.” he said, “before your own heart finishes the work before i do.” he knew well enough what sat trembling in your throat, the very words he had spent his whole existence avoiding. those three words. “i love you, sukuna.”,a slow breath left him through his nose at that, quiet, and you meant it plainly, genuinely and gods, how he hated that you did.
his grip slid free from your face, and he rose to his feet above you. your body tensed at once, growing colder with every second that passed, the stone beneath you leeching what little warmth remained. “do you love me?” you asked. the question caught him plainly off guard. his hand tightened hard around the spear beside him, knuckles gone white with the force of it. the answer that came was exactly the one you had expected of him. “no.” he said, short, final. it would have hurt, had you believed it. you smiled weakly regardless and tried again, differently this time. “then you do not love me at all?” no answer followed. silence. you waited, your breath shallow, the world narrowing to the sound of your own heartbeat slowing beneath you. his eyes remained fixed somewhere beyond you, expression unreadable as ever, carved from stone as it always had been. but he did not correct you this time. did not deny it outright, the way he so easily had a moment before. did not offer you the same simple, cutting answer he had already given once. and somehow, that silence told you everything his single word had refused to. sukuna remained stubborn even here, even now, at the very edge of your dying breath, and yet it brought you a strange, quiet comfort all the same, knowing his heart, however deformed, however guarded behind centuries of ruin, had opened to you in some small, undeniable way. he would never say the words outright. would never bow that far, never surrender that final inch of himself, not even to you. but he did not need to. his silence had already confessed what his voice refused to, had already told you plainly enough that whatever love meant to a man like him, twisted and monstrous and eternal, you had somehow become woven into it. not loved, perhaps, not in any way the word had ever meant to gentler men. but claimed. accepted. made part of him, the way a scar becomes part of the skin that carries it forever after, the way winter becomes part of a mountain that has known no other season. and dying there beneath him, bleeding out slow against the very stone where he had once laid his offerings, you found you no longer needed the word at all. only this. only him
the words cut through the haze that had begun to settle soft and blissful over you. “be proud, i will remember you, y/n.” he said, and you knew then, plainly, what was coming. your hands clenched hard against the stone beneath you. his footsteps drew back, slow,, as though the whole world had slowed to match the moment. the ringing in your ears grew unbearable, sharp and consuming, your teeth clenching tight against it. and then. silence. the clean, precise sound of flesh parting - a mercy kill, no pain following it at all. he had known exactly where to aim, exactly how to make it quick, kinder than anything he had shown another soul in centuries. your head began to fall, and he caught it in his palm before it could, his other hand steadying your body at the shoulder, refusing to let you crumple gracelessly to the stone the way lesser things fell before him. your head felt wrong, impossibly light, and right, somehow, cradled there in his grip, both at once. perhaps, in some other life, he might have chosen you fully. might have let himself keep you, whole, breathing, his. but he had his own path still to walk, his own long war yet to finish, and you, alive, would have made that path impossible for him in ways he refused to examine too closely. guilt, he told himself, was not what stirred low in his chest now. he had never once felt guilt, not in centuries, and he would not begin tonight, whatever this ache pretended to be. he set your head down upon the stone with far more care than he had ever once shown another living or dead thing in his long, endless life, your spirit left now to settle into this shrine, into this place he had claimed as his own - a place he would return to, again and again, if only to remember you properly. and yet. something new opened in him where you had been. a hunger, familiar, gnawing quiet beneath everything else. his gaze fell, unblinking, to the ruin of your body below, and some small, selfish part of him wanted more still. wanted some piece of you kept for himself, beyond memory alone. selfish, as he had always been. as he would, apparently, always remain.
sukuna crouched, silence for a long moment after the last of your breath left the world, one hand still resting against the cooling curve of your shoulder, the other cradling the place where your head had been. the spear stood forgotten in the ash beside him. the fires still burned low across the grounds, but the night had gone strangely quiet around the two of you, as though even the smoke understood something private was about to pass. his lower hand moved first. fingers found the torn edge of your robe and drew it aside with unexpected care, baring the soft plane of your chest where blood had already begun to dry in dark, delicate patterns. he traced one fingertip along the line of your sternum, slow, almost reverent, as though mapping the place he meant to claim. the skin there was still faintly warm. he lingered on that warmth longer than he needed to. then his nails sank in. not with the violence he had shown every other body tonight, but with almost tender precision. flesh parted beneath his fingers like silk that had been waiting for him. he worked slowly, peeling back muscle and bone with the same unhurried focus he once used when undressing you in quieter hours, when the only sounds in the room had been your breathing and the soft drag of fabric. blood welled dark and thick around his hand, coating his knuckles, running warm down his wrist. he did not wipe it away. when he finally reached your heart, he paused again. it rested in the open cage of your ribs, still and perfect, the last private piece of you left unclaimed. he cupped it as though it might break if handled too roughly, lifting it free with a wet, intimate sound. for a moment he only held it feeling the residual heat, the weight of it, the way it fit so precisely in his hands. a slow breath left him. something close to wonder crossed the usual cruelty of his face. he brought it to his mouth. the first bite was careful. teeth sank into the dense muscle with a soft, yielding resistance, and the taste of you flooded him iron and salt and something deeper, something that had always been yours alone. he closed his eyes as he chewed, slow, thorough, savoring every part of it the way a man might savor the last kiss of a lover he would never see again. blood ran down his chin, dripping onto the stone between your bodies, and still he did not rush. each subsequent bite was taken with the same quiet intensity. he ate as though the act itself were a vow - taking you into himself so that no part of you could ever leave this place, him. the soft sounds of it filled the silence: the quiet tear of flesh, the wet press of his tongue, the low, almost inaudible exhale each time another piece of your heart disappeared behind his teeth. he licked the blood from his own fingers between bites, careful not to waste any of it. when the last of your heart was gone, he remained kneeling there for a long while, head bowed, mouth stained dark, hands resting open on his thighs as though still cradling something precious. the hunger that had opened in him earlier had not lessened. if anything, it had only grown quieter and more permanent settled now beneath his ribs the same way you had once settled there, unwanted and impossible to remove. he looked down at what remained of you. you were part of him now and for the first time in centuries, the king of curses stayed kneeling long after there was nothing left to kneel for.
before .
note : he loves you very much so, he is sad aw.
you began to forget once again, in moments like this, how cruel the man standing behind you truly was, his nose brushing slow against your temple, his gaze drifting idle over the koi below, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your open palm. his lower hands rested at your hips, occasionally sliding lower still beneath the fold of your robe, drawing a small, flustered breath from you each time, his fingers ghosting light along your inner thigh, unhurried, almost as though he meant simply to memorize the shape of you this way too, gentle in a manner you had not thought him capable of, not truly, not until now. a small chuckle slipped free from you as he commented on the koi, on how absurdly expensive such silly little creatures could be, though he had never once bought a single one himself. still, he knew the market well enough regardless, prices, worth, all of it, another strange, human detail buried somewhere beneath everything else he was. he seemed to know far too much about such ordinary, mundane things, small pieces of knowledge slipping loose from him now and then without his quite meaning to share them. he told you, in time, how the shrine had come to be his, how monks had been slaughtered here decades past, and how he had simply claimed it afterward for his own, a place set apart from people entirely. a choice, it seemed, and one he shared with you now more openly than he ever had before, sharp remarks slipping in here and there to keep you on edge even still, though the night itself remained calm throughout, quiet in a way you found yourself wishing might last far longer than it likely would. your free palm found his cheek, his face close to yours the whole while, tilting toward you each time he spoke, allowing you this closeness, this ease, more fully tonight than he ever had before. perhaps it was simply the mood settling easy over him. or perhaps, you thought, it was something else entirely, something he had not yet chosen to share with you at all.
you were just about to laugh when a sound cut sharp through the quiet, ice cracking, like some frozen river splitting hollow beneath its own weight. he leaned back at once, and the stillness shattered with it. screams rose distant from the gardens, and he grinned, slow, unmistakable. uraume's ice. an alarm. someone had come to the temple's threshold, trying to reach him. "what's happening?!" you asked, but his gaze had already fixed itself on the shrine, uraume's technique visible even from here, locked in some struggle against whoever dared approach. his eyes widened with something close to delight, fangs flashing sharp in the dark, and then came the explosion, loud, close enough to shake the ground beneath your feet. "there we go!" he said, voice rising, laughter following close behind it, manic, thrilled. "you damned cowards! " one hand seized your arm at once, dragging you along with him. "find the mouthy brat." he ordered, a single command tossed out into the chaos already unfolding around you, servants sprinting past in every direction, none of them sparing either of you a glance, voices shouting from within the shrine itself, fire beginning to catch somewhere along its old wooden frame. sukuna seemed entirely unbothered by any of it. thrilled, if anything, alive with it. he shoved you toward the abandoned festival grounds, robes already loosening from his shoulders. "i want her to watch when i tear them apart." akiko. your heart dropped straight through you. she was tangled in this somehow, whatever this was, already unfolding around you both whether you understood it yet or not. you heard the rustle of fabric as his outer robe slipped free entirely, his heavy footsteps falling away from you, a low, chilling laugh trailing behind him into the dark. he wanted this. craved it, plainly, whoever had come tonight to challenge him, whoever had come here meaning to claim your head for their own.
you were left standing alone in the dark, the sound of explosions and his laughter filling the night around you, growing louder still the moment he reached whoever had come tonight. shouts rose over it, the shrine groaning somewhere behind you, the crackle of fire licking closer with every passing second. someone collided hard into your shoulder, spinning you half around. akiko. you needed to find her, for your own sake as much as hers, whatever sukuna intended once he finished with the rest. fuck. the word rose sharp and sudden in your mind, panic threading through it. you knew better than to trust any voice calling out tonight, not with all of this unfolding. your geta carried you forward regardless. "akiko!" her name tore from you, desperate, swallowed almost at once beneath the slaughter continuing behind you, ice and fire meeting in violent bursts, laughter twisted through screaming, shouts of confidence cut sharp and sudden into silence beneath sukuna's blade. the scent of iron thickened in the air, no longer sweet as it had been only nights before, ash following close behind it as one side of the temple began to collapse inward, his own technique tearing through the structure without hesitation, without a single thought spared for what it destroyed. he cared nothing for the shrine itself, plainly, only for the kill unfolding before him, only for the thrill climbing higher with every scream still left to draw from someone's throat. you pressed forward regardless, akiko's name tearing raw from your throat with every step, scream after scream swallowed almost instantly by the chaos around you. something struck the ground hard just to your right, falling as though dropped straight from the heavens themselves, and you startled violently at the sound, the wet spread of blood pooling somewhere near your feet a moment later. he really was enjoying himself tonight, wasn't he. you swallowed hard and forced yourself onward regardless, another groan of old timber sounding somewhere behind you, a pillar giving way entirely, crashing down in a shower of splinters and dust. the shrine was no safe place tonight, that much you understood clearly enough now, and still you pressed on, certain the girl had to be somewhere close, caught up in all of this same terrible chaos as everyone else.
"my lady!" akiko's voice reached you at once, a hand seizing yours, pulling hard enough that you nearly stumbled against your own feet. "follow me, we have to get out of here, he will kill us all!" you were pulled along at once, her grip tight around your wrist, too tight, far tighter than the girl had ever held you before. "where are we going?" you asked, but akiko offered no answer, only yanked you forward again, hard enough to hurt, her determination tonight unmistakable despite the chaos raging around you both. she did not sound afraid. not truly. and that, more than anything else, struck you as deeply wrong. "akiko, what have you done!?" you called out, the noise around you swallowing half your own words, another groan sounding somewhere above as what remained of the shrine's roof gave way entirely behind you. "i'm sorry, my lady. forgive me. i cannot let you go." you froze at once, a cold shiver running straight down your spine at the words. "what are you talking about?!" you demanded, but her grip only tightened further, painfully so now, and all she offered in return was a quiet, broken, "i'm sorry." you stopped moving entirely then, pulling hard the opposite direction instead. "stop this. come!." the girl sounded desperate now, caught off guard plainly by your sudden resistance, clearly having expected none at all. and then it struck you, all at once, the pieces finally falling into place. "it's you." you said. sukuna had known. of course he had. akiko had been the rat all along, and she had every reason to be, didn't she, her lady dead by the very man you had let yourself love, this whole thing nothing more than a quiet, patient revenge finally coming due. "you've doomed us all." you cried out toward her, and she thrashed hard against your grip in answer, the two of you locked together now in the middle of the dying, burning garden. "come with me, you fool!" her voice shifted entirely, cold now, stripped of every ounce of warmth she had ever shown you, and you scoffed despite everything. of course. your brows drew tight together. "over my dead body." you growled at her, and as though the both of you had read the same thought at once, you threw yourselves at each other, the clash sending you both crashing down into the grass, one more small piece of violence added to everything already unfolding tonight. "i won't let you go!" akiko screamed, as though you were some key she alone held, some means to finally settle her account with sukuna. foolish girl. "you stupid, stupid girl!" you spat at her, and her nails tore across your face in answer, dragging deep along your cheek, blood welling hot beneath them. your hand found a stone loose along the path, and instinct alone guided it, swinging toward where you judged her head to be, striking her temple hard enough to draw a sharp cry from her throat. you pulled back at once, scrambling for footing, and the girl let out a low, wild growl of pure desperation. "you don't understand!" her cry cut through you, hurt you in some place you had no time to examine, betrayal settling deep and cold regardless. your face remained stone. both your breaths came ragged now, torn between exertion and something far worse. she rose again despite it all. "i need you. we all need you. he has to be tamed, look at what he's doing out there." you needed no sight to know exactly what he was doing, the screams, the laughter thick with pure, unrestrained enjoyment reaching you clear enough on their own. and still, it moved nothing in you. "and?" the single word alone was enough to send her into fresh fury. "you truly are the demon's lover, aren't you?!" a sharp, metallic sound followed, something drawn free from beneath the fold of her robe near her hip. a dagger. you inhaled sharp. foolish, foolish girl.
a fierce scream tore from her as she threw herself at you once more, and your hand seized her wrist on pure instinct alone, the both of you freezing there a moment in mutual shock at the collision. her gaze lifted, startled you felt the sudden stillness of her body, the way her breath hitched and you used the opening at once, driving her own hand back against her with a sharp headbutt that cracked against bone. she stumbled away from you with a wet, broken sound. she was weaker than you had realized, far weaker, stupid girl, and disgust coiled tight in your chest alongside pity, anger, sorrow, all of it tangled together at once with no time left to sort through any of it, because she was already lunging for you again. the dagger struck your arm this time, the blade punching through skin and muscle with a wet, meaty resistance before scraping bone. you swallowed the pain down, your free hand finding her hair instead thick, tangled, warm with sweat and dragging her close as the blade found your ribs next. a terrible, searing pain followed it, the kind that stole your breath and left your lungs working in short, wet gasps. blood poured hot and steady down your side, soaking the fabric, slicking your fingers, the copper reek of it rising thick between you. you held on regardless. an eye for an eye, you thought distantly. your hands found her head as she lunged again. fingers spread wide across the curve of her skull, thumbs pressing hard into the soft give of her eye sockets. no mercy. no hesitation. you tore straight in. the scream that ripped from her throat was almost musical against the chaos of the night, high and animal and wet, sukuna’s own laughter somewhere beyond serving as its twisted accompaniment. your nails dug deeper still, past the thin membrane, into the warm, jelly-soft give of the eyes themselves. they burst under the pressure with a soft, sickening pop you felt more than heard, fluid and blood and something thicker spilling hot over your knuckles. she thrashed, dagger still buried in your side, twisting the blade deeper as her body convulsed against yours. blood slicked warm down your hand, your arm, your ribs, until finally, with one sharp, pull, you tore her eyes free or enough of them to matter. the wet, ragged resistance of optic nerves and muscle gave way with a sound like tearing cloth soaked in water. her cries turned raw, guttural, bubbling with the blood that must have been filling her throat. your own breath came short and wheezing beneath the pain radiating through your ribs, every inhale a wet, grinding agony. she was blind now too. a fair fight, in its own cruel way. you kicked her back from you with the last of your strength. she staggered, hands flying up to her ruined face, fingers slipping through the mess of blood and ruined tissue as the dagger trembled uselessly in her grip. your own hand pressed hard against your side, blood spilling steady and warm between your fingers, the smell of it iron and salt and the thicker, fouler scent of opened flesh thick enough to taste. her sobbing was wet and broken, the sound of someone who had just learned what true darkness felt like.
“you!” she cried, voice shaking now, her hand swinging wild in your direction. though blind herself, she could not find you nearly so easily. you had the advantage there, weakened as you were your side a raw, open wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, blood still pouring hot between the fingers you kept pressed to it yet your ears remained sharp enough to track each ragged breath she drew, each wet, stumbling footfall. you stepped back, then to the side. she stumbled after nothing at all, slower now, hurt worse than you. the ruined sockets of her eyes still wept thick fluid and blood down her cheeks, the smell of it sharp and metallic in the night air, mixing with the heavier reek of your own opened flesh. it hardly mattered anymore, not with what she had meant to do. sell you off to whoever had come tonight. a friend, or so you had believed until this very moment. it had been so easy to trust her, hadn’t it. the girl who wrote such beautiful verse, who always seemed to know everything happening within these walls, who never failed to remind you how special you seemed to him every time he gifted you silk, every small kindness dressed up so carefully around what was, in truth, nothing but rage waiting patiently for its moment. “you fool.” you laughed, breathless, as the last of the shrine gave way entirely behind you both. the voices were dying out one by one across the grounds, fewer and fewer with each passing second, until only the crackle of distant fire and the wet, labored sound of her breathing remained. sukuna, you knew, remained perfectly fine. you were not so certain of yourself. your side burned raw, your lung feeling torn wide open with every wheezing breath you dragged in, blood bubbling faintly at the edges of each inhale. “you’ll die with me tonight!” you said, and laughed again despite the sharp agony blooming through your ribs. the sound came out wet and broken. “he never cared for me half as much as you seem to think he did. where is he now, akiko? clearly not here.” you said it plainly, almost amused by the cruelty of it proof enough that you had only ever been another woman to him in the end. alone here now, tearing each other apart while he indulged himself elsewhere entirely, having left you to this without a second thought. she stopped moving at that, her hands trembling violently, the dagger still clutched in one blood-slick fist. the truth of it lay bare between you both, heavier than the wounds. you had never been the key to his armor. never once a crack in it at all. only another body that had briefly held his interest, and now another body left bleeding in the dark.
the girl began to sob behind you now, the sound of it hurting her more than any wound you had given her, and you laughed weakly in answer, walking on regardless toward the burning shrine ahead. the sound was almost amused, almost matching the rhythm of sukuna’s own laughter still carrying faint through the smoke, his shouts, the growing quiet where other voices had been only moments before. fire crackled all around you, and pain so much pain throbbed steady through your side with every step forward. you heard akiko following still, persistent even now. “get back here! kill me, end it here, don’t leave me for him to find, i beg you!” you shut her voice out entirely. sukuna would end her far more brutally than you ever could, and some part of you decided, coldly, that she did not deserve the mercy of your hand instead of his. or perhaps she did. funny, you thought distantly, how easily that question no longer troubled you the way it once might have. were you becoming like him? your palm found the rough bark of a tree, slick with someone’s blood, and you pushed past it regardless, the first light of a new day beginning to rise pale over the wreckage. ash drifted against your skin. the air tasted of smoke and iron. you climbed the broken stairs toward the heart of the massacre, each step slow,tired, the wood groaning beneath your weight where it hadn’t already burned away entirely. you could feel him before you reached the top that familiar press of cursed energy thick enough to choke on, stronger than you had ever felt it, unrestrained now, fed by however many lives he had taken tonight. his four eyes found you the moment you crested the final step, watching, silent, as you climbed toward him through the smoke. his body was soaked red from head to toe, more blood than skin visible on him at all. hiten hung clenched in one hand, the spear still dripping slow and steady onto the scorched wood at his feet. he was so proud, of this, of you, he lived for this. and you, standing there bleeding and half-broken in the ash, lived for him.
today was the day, standing there in the ash and the ruin and the dying light. today, whatever line had kept you separate from him, whatever last piece of yourself had resisted what he was, would finally give way. and you would become part of his twisted nature. forever.
before - next
note : ouch. ( he loves you dont worry queen. )
you began to forget once again, in moments like this, how cruel the man standing behind you truly was, his nose brushing slow against your temple, his gaze drifting idle over the koi below, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your open palm. his lower hands rested at your hips, occasionally sliding lower still beneath the fold of your robe, drawing a small, flustered breath from you each time, his fingers ghosting light along your inner thigh, unhurried, almost as though he meant simply to memorize the shape of you this way too, gentle in a manner you had not thought him capable of, not truly, not until now. a small chuckle slipped free from you as he commented on the koi, on how absurdly expensive such silly little creatures could be, though he had never once bought a single one himself. still, he knew the market well enough regardless, prices, worth, all of it, another strange, human detail buried somewhere beneath everything else he was. he seemed to know far too much about such ordinary, mundane things, small pieces of knowledge slipping loose from him now and then without his quite meaning to share them. he told you, in time, how the shrine had come to be his, how monks had been slaughtered here decades past, and how he had simply claimed it afterward for his own, a place set apart from people entirely. a choice, it seemed, and one he shared with you now more openly than he ever had before, sharp remarks slipping in here and there to keep you on edge even still, though the night itself remained calm throughout, quiet in a way you found yourself wishing might last far longer than it likely would. your free palm found his cheek, his face close to yours the whole while, tilting toward you each time he spoke, allowing you this closeness, this ease, more fully tonight than he ever had before. perhaps it was simply the mood settling easy over him. or perhaps, you thought, it was something else entirely, something he had not yet chosen to share with you at all.
you were just about to laugh when a sound cut sharp through the quiet, ice cracking, like some frozen river splitting hollow beneath its own weight. he leaned back at once, and the stillness shattered with it. screams rose distant from the gardens, and he grinned, slow, unmistakable. uraume's ice. an alarm. someone had come to the temple's threshold, trying to reach him. "what's happening?!" you asked, but his gaze had already fixed itself on the shrine, uraume's technique visible even from here, locked in some struggle against whoever dared approach. his eyes widened with something close to delight, fangs flashing sharp in the dark, and then came the explosion, loud, close enough to shake the ground beneath your feet. "there we go!" he said, voice rising, laughter following close behind it, manic, thrilled. "you damned cowards! " one hand seized your arm at once, dragging you along with him. "find the mouthy brat." he ordered, a single command tossed out into the chaos already unfolding around you, servants sprinting past in every direction, none of them sparing either of you a glance, voices shouting from within the shrine itself, fire beginning to catch somewhere along its old wooden frame. sukuna seemed entirely unbothered by any of it. thrilled, if anything, alive with it. he shoved you toward the abandoned festival grounds, robes already loosening from his shoulders. "i want her to watch when i tear them apart." akiko. your heart dropped straight through you. she was tangled in this somehow, whatever this was, already unfolding around you both whether you understood it yet or not. you heard the rustle of fabric as his outer robe slipped free entirely, his heavy footsteps falling away from you, a low, chilling laugh trailing behind him into the dark. he wanted this. craved it, plainly, whoever had come tonight to challenge him, whoever had come here meaning to claim your head for their own.
you were left standing alone in the dark, the sound of explosions and his laughter filling the night around you, growing louder still the moment he reached whoever had come tonight. shouts rose over it, the shrine groaning somewhere behind you, the crackle of fire licking closer with every passing second. someone collided hard into your shoulder, spinning you half around. akiko. you needed to find her, for your own sake as much as hers, whatever sukuna intended once he finished with the rest. fuck. the word rose sharp and sudden in your mind, panic threading through it. you knew better than to trust any voice calling out tonight, not with all of this unfolding. your geta carried you forward regardless. "akiko!" her name tore from you, desperate, swallowed almost at once beneath the slaughter continuing behind you, ice and fire meeting in violent bursts, laughter twisted through screaming, shouts of confidence cut sharp and sudden into silence beneath sukuna's blade. the scent of iron thickened in the air, no longer sweet as it had been only nights before, ash following close behind it as one side of the temple began to collapse inward, his own technique tearing through the structure without hesitation, without a single thought spared for what it destroyed. he cared nothing for the shrine itself, plainly, only for the kill unfolding before him, only for the thrill climbing higher with every scream still left to draw from someone's throat. you pressed forward regardless, akiko's name tearing raw from your throat with every step, scream after scream swallowed almost instantly by the chaos around you. something struck the ground hard just to your right, falling as though dropped straight from the heavens themselves, and you startled violently at the sound, the wet spread of blood pooling somewhere near your feet a moment later. he really was enjoying himself tonight, wasn't he. you swallowed hard and forced yourself onward regardless, another groan of old timber sounding somewhere behind you, a pillar giving way entirely, crashing down in a shower of splinters and dust. the shrine was no safe place tonight, that much you understood clearly enough now, and still you pressed on, certain the girl had to be somewhere close, caught up in all of this same terrible chaos as everyone else.
"my lady!" akiko's voice reached you at once, a hand seizing yours, pulling hard enough that you nearly stumbled against your own feet. "follow me, we have to get out of here, he will kill us all!" you were pulled along at once, her grip tight around your wrist, too tight, far tighter than the girl had ever held you before. "where are we going?" you asked, but akiko offered no answer, only yanked you forward again, hard enough to hurt, her determination tonight unmistakable despite the chaos raging around you both. she did not sound afraid. not truly. and that, more than anything else, struck you as deeply wrong. "akiko, what have you done!?" you called out, the noise around you swallowing half your own words, another groan sounding somewhere above as what remained of the shrine's roof gave way entirely behind you. "i'm sorry, my lady. forgive me. i cannot let you go." you froze at once, a cold shiver running straight down your spine at the words. "what are you talking about?!" you demanded, but her grip only tightened further, painfully so now, and all she offered in return was a quiet, broken, "i'm sorry." you stopped moving entirely then, pulling hard the opposite direction instead. "stop this. come!." the girl sounded desperate now, caught off guard plainly by your sudden resistance, clearly having expected none at all. and then it struck you, all at once, the pieces finally falling into place. "it's you." you said. sukuna had known. of course he had. akiko had been the rat all along, and she had every reason to be, didn't she, her lady dead by the very man you had let yourself love, this whole thing nothing more than a quiet, patient revenge finally coming due. "you've doomed us all." you cried out toward her, and she thrashed hard against your grip in answer, the two of you locked together now in the middle of the dying, burning garden. "come with me, you fool!" her voice shifted entirely, cold now, stripped of every ounce of warmth she had ever shown you, and you scoffed despite everything. of course. your brows drew tight together. "over my dead body." you growled at her, and as though the both of you had read the same thought at once, you threw yourselves at each other, the clash sending you both crashing down into the grass, one more small piece of violence added to everything already unfolding tonight. "i won't let you go!" akiko screamed, as though you were some key she alone held, some means to finally settle her account with sukuna. foolish girl. "you stupid, stupid girl!" you spat at her, and her nails tore across your face in answer, dragging deep along your cheek, blood welling hot beneath them. your hand found a stone loose along the path, and instinct alone guided it, swinging toward where you judged her head to be, striking her temple hard enough to draw a sharp cry from her throat. you pulled back at once, scrambling for footing, and the girl let out a low, wild growl of pure desperation. "you don't understand!" her cry cut through you, hurt you in some place you had no time to examine, betrayal settling deep and cold regardless. your face remained stone. both your breaths came ragged now, torn between exertion and something far worse. she rose again despite it all. "i need you. we all need you. he has to be tamed, look at what he's doing out there." you needed no sight to know exactly what he was doing, the screams, the laughter thick with pure, unrestrained enjoyment reaching you clear enough on their own. and still, it moved nothing in you. "and?" the single word alone was enough to send her into fresh fury. "you truly are the demon's lover, aren't you?!" a sharp, metallic sound followed, something drawn free from beneath the fold of her robe near her hip. a dagger. you inhaled sharp. foolish, foolish girl.
a fierce scream tore from her as she threw herself at you once more, and your hand seized her wrist on pure instinct alone, the both of you freezing there a moment in mutual shock at the collision. her gaze lifted, startled you felt the sudden stillness of her body, the way her breath hitched and you used the opening at once, driving her own hand back against her with a sharp headbutt that cracked against bone. she stumbled away from you with a wet, broken sound. she was weaker than you had realized, far weaker, stupid girl, and disgust coiled tight in your chest alongside pity, anger, sorrow, all of it tangled together at once with no time left to sort through any of it, because she was already lunging for you again. the dagger struck your arm this time, the blade punching through skin and muscle with a wet, meaty resistance before scraping bone. you swallowed the pain down, your free hand finding her hair instead thick, tangled, warm with sweat and dragging her close as the blade found your ribs next. a terrible, searing pain followed it, the kind that stole your breath and left your lungs working in short, wet gasps. blood poured hot and steady down your side, soaking the fabric, slicking your fingers, the copper reek of it rising thick between you. you held on regardless. an eye for an eye, you thought distantly. your hands found her head as she lunged again. fingers spread wide across the curve of her skull, thumbs pressing hard into the soft give of her eye sockets. no mercy. no hesitation. you tore straight in. the scream that ripped from her throat was almost musical against the chaos of the night, high and animal and wet, sukuna’s own laughter somewhere beyond serving as its twisted accompaniment. your nails dug deeper still, past the thin membrane, into the warm, jelly-soft give of the eyes themselves. they burst under the pressure with a soft, sickening pop you felt more than heard, fluid and blood and something thicker spilling hot over your knuckles. she thrashed, dagger still buried in your side, twisting the blade deeper as her body convulsed against yours. blood slicked warm down your hand, your arm, your ribs, until finally, with one sharp, pull, you tore her eyes free or enough of them to matter. the wet, ragged resistance of optic nerves and muscle gave way with a sound like tearing cloth soaked in water. her cries turned raw, guttural, bubbling with the blood that must have been filling her throat. your own breath came short and wheezing beneath the pain radiating through your ribs, every inhale a wet, grinding agony. she was blind now too. a fair fight, in its own cruel way. you kicked her back from you with the last of your strength. she staggered, hands flying up to her ruined face, fingers slipping through the mess of blood and ruined tissue as the dagger trembled uselessly in her grip. your own hand pressed hard against your side, blood spilling steady and warm between your fingers, the smell of it iron and salt and the thicker, fouler scent of opened flesh thick enough to taste. her sobbing was wet and broken, the sound of someone who had just learned what true darkness felt like.
“you!” she cried, voice shaking now, her hand swinging wild in your direction. though blind herself, she could not find you nearly so easily. you had the advantage there, weakened as you were your side a raw, open wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, blood still pouring hot between the fingers you kept pressed to it yet your ears remained sharp enough to track each ragged breath she drew, each wet, stumbling footfall. you stepped back, then to the side. she stumbled after nothing at all, slower now, hurt worse than you. the ruined sockets of her eyes still wept thick fluid and blood down her cheeks, the smell of it sharp and metallic in the night air, mixing with the heavier reek of your own opened flesh. it hardly mattered anymore, not with what she had meant to do. sell you off to whoever had come tonight. a friend, or so you had believed until this very moment. it had been so easy to trust her, hadn’t it. the girl who wrote such beautiful verse, who always seemed to know everything happening within these walls, who never failed to remind you how special you seemed to him every time he gifted you silk, every small kindness dressed up so carefully around what was, in truth, nothing but rage waiting patiently for its moment. “you fool.” you laughed, breathless, as the last of the shrine gave way entirely behind you both. the voices were dying out one by one across the grounds, fewer and fewer with each passing second, until only the crackle of distant fire and the wet, labored sound of her breathing remained. sukuna, you knew, remained perfectly fine. you were not so certain of yourself. your side burned raw, your lung feeling torn wide open with every wheezing breath you dragged in, blood bubbling faintly at the edges of each inhale. “you’ll die with me tonight!” you said, and laughed again despite the sharp agony blooming through your ribs. the sound came out wet and broken. “he never cared for me half as much as you seem to think he did. where is he now, akiko? clearly not here.” you said it plainly, almost amused by the cruelty of it proof enough that you had only ever been another woman to him in the end. alone here now, tearing each other apart while he indulged himself elsewhere entirely, having left you to this without a second thought. she stopped moving at that, her hands trembling violently, the dagger still clutched in one blood-slick fist. the truth of it lay bare between you both, heavier than the wounds. you had never been the key to his armor. never once a crack in it at all. only another body that had briefly held his interest, and now another body left bleeding in the dark.
the girl began to sob behind you now, the sound of it hurting her more than any wound you had given her, and you laughed weakly in answer, walking on regardless toward the burning shrine ahead. the sound was almost amused, almost matching the rhythm of sukuna’s own laughter still carrying faint through the smoke, his shouts, the growing quiet where other voices had been only moments before. fire crackled all around you, and pain so much pain throbbed steady through your side with every step forward. you heard akiko following still, persistent even now. “get back here! kill me, end it here, don’t leave me for him to find, i beg you!” you shut her voice out entirely. sukuna would end her far more brutally than you ever could, and some part of you decided, coldly, that she did not deserve the mercy of your hand instead of his. or perhaps she did. funny, you thought distantly, how easily that question no longer troubled you the way it once might have. were you becoming like him? your palm found the rough bark of a tree, slick with someone’s blood, and you pushed past it regardless, the first light of a new day beginning to rise pale over the wreckage. ash drifted against your skin. the air tasted of smoke and iron. you climbed the broken stairs toward the heart of the massacre, each step slow,tired, the wood groaning beneath your weight where it hadn’t already burned away entirely. you could feel him before you reached the top that familiar press of cursed energy thick enough to choke on, stronger than you had ever felt it, unrestrained now, fed by however many lives he had taken tonight. his four eyes found you the moment you crested the final step, watching, silent, as you climbed toward him through the smoke. his body was soaked red from head to toe, more blood than skin visible on him at all. hiten hung clenched in one hand, the spear still dripping slow and steady onto the scorched wood at his feet. he was so proud, of this, of you, he lived for this. and you, standing there bleeding and half-broken in the ash, lived for him.
today was the day, standing there in the ash and the ruin and the dying light. today, whatever line had kept you separate from him, whatever last piece of yourself had resisted what he was, would finally give way. and you would become part of his twisted nature. forever.
before - next
note : ouch. ( he loves you dont worry queen. )
the drums finally rang out, low and resonant, followed by the reedy call of a hichiriki and the answering pluck of a biwa somewhere beyond it, you knew the hour had come. so did akiko. the girl took your hand gently, squeezing it once before moving to slide the shoji open for the both of you. you wondered if sukuna had already taken his place. surely, if the music had begun.
beyond the doors, the sounds of the procession's opening rites carried through the halls, the sharp, ritual clap of hands, twice, in the old shinto manner, offered before the shrine's inner sanctuary, followed by low chanting from the shrine's attendants, invoking whatever blessing was owed a being who required none. somewhere near the main hall, priests would be waving the haraegushi, the paper streamers trembling as they swept the wand through the air to purify the space before him, an old rite performed now, absurdly, for a king of curses rather than any kami the shrine had once been built to honor. the scent of fresh sakaki branches drifted faintly on the cold air, laid at the altar alongside rice and salt, offerings meant to appease something far older and far less forgiving than the gods these rituals were written for.
the disgraced one sat at the center of it all, chin resting against his fist, watching the attendants attempt to entertain him with whatever small performances the evening demanded. bows offered, none of them held his attention for long, his gaze fixed instead on the far pillar. toward you. you were late, only slightly, but late all the same. the moment you appeared, you felt gazes shift toward you, several at once, and a sudden awkwardness pressed close around your shoulders. akiko bowed quickly and slipped away from your side, leaving you alone in the doorway before you had even registered her absence. great- uraume's chill reached you, sharp and fast, a hand closing around your forearm.
"come." the ice sorcerer's voice startled you enough that you had no chance, no time at all, to think twice before you were pulled forward. you heard uraume hum quietly, registering something in your appearance they clearly had no intention of sharing. "you are to be at lord sukuna's side." oh no. every eye in that hall would be on you now. your stomach tightened with the sudden weight of it. why would he want that. you had assumed, had prepared yourself, to stand somewhere near the back, waiting for whatever small task might be asked of you, pouring sake, perhaps, though even now you could admit that particular thought had been a poor one from the start.
you could hear the tense, held breaths of those seated closest to him the nearer you and uraume drew. everyone in that hall was afraid, playing at composure for the demon they'd all gathered to honor, and, you realized, so were you. you stumbled once over the hem of the unfamiliar robe but caught your footing quickly enough, matching uraume's brisk pace as best you could. servants and guests alike knelt low at the small tables you passed, bowing with the kind of stiff, practiced politeness that came only from genuine fear. . . then his voice came, drawling, unbothered.
"you're late woman." it carried loud enough that several of the nearby attendants tensed further still, their small performance faltering visibly. you could hear the cup of sake turning idly in his hand, his attention fixed, apparently, on the center of the hall, on the now painfully awkward display someone had arranged for his entertainment. he sounded bored. looked it too, you imagined, though every soul in that room seemed to be quietly praying you would not be the reason any of them lost their heads before the night was through.
"i apologize my lord, forgive me." you finally reached his side and bowed properly, and he did not so much as glance your way. all that fussing, for nothing. not that you had cared to look well for him, of course. a lazy grunt slipped from him as he leaned back further, his lower arms coming to rest against his knees, his thoughts, whatever they were, were clearly not on you. you remained bowed, feeling the weight of his cursed energy pressing subtle but constant against the air around him, a sensation you had grown used to enough by now that it no longer frightened you the way it once had. the ragged, held breaths of everyone else in that hall, however, still did.
"my lord." you addressed him, not out of any wish to draw his eye, but simply because you did not know whether you were meant to stand beside him like some idle ornament while every other guest sat properly at their tables. you heard the clatter of trays being set down somewhere behind you, familiar voices among the shrine's own servants, and then, closer, off to your right, the voice of the kamo sorcerer. he was here. he had surely already noticed you.
sukuna gave no reply. only the soft clink of his cup being set aside, followed by his chin settling once more against his fist. his energy spiked sharply for a moment, painfully so, whatever held his attention now clearly demanding it in full, you huffed quietly under your breath before pressing your lips shut at once, unwilling to risk displeasing him tonight, unwilling to gamble with the lives of the fools gathered here simply for daring to attend. - the music continued, and you focused on it rather than the anxious breathing around you, straining to catch the kamo sorcerer's words somewhere in the noise, though the hall proved far too loud for that. you sighed quietly. no use.
after a long, uncomfortable stretch, your neck beginning to ache from the angle of your bow, you finally felt the beast's attention shift. a flare of his nostrils, and then the unmistakable weight of his gaze settling fully onto you, burning the way it always did, dragging slow from the hem of your robe up to your face. black. the same shade as his own, the gold thread catching the same firelight. was it intentional. what exactly was he trying to accomplish tonight- you began to worry. perhaps he simply wished to display you, though a man such as him required no ornament, no companion, to be seen as anything less than absolute in that hall. you heard him take a slow breath through his nose, shameless in it, followed by a light tap of his fingers against his knee.
"you smell different." the man of the shrine addressed you at last, and your head lifted slightly toward the sound of his voice. he had noticed, of course he had. you had no answer ready, and your silence did not seem to trouble him in the least, his gaze still moving over you unhurried, though he was not, you realized only faintly, the only one doing so tonight. you remained unaware of the second pair of eyes fixed on you with something closer to open admiration, a gaze sukuna had already noticed, and clearly did not appreciate.
"sit." the order came sharp and you lowered yourself awkwardly, uncertain where your knees would land until they met the woven mat rolled out specifically for him. he was keeping you close, you realized then, like some pet chained at his side for his own private amusement, though you refused to let the word settle too deeply.
"do you like the music?" the question pulled your head upward again. he stared ahead as he asked it, that same lazy, thoroughly uninterested expression fixed on the spectacle he himself had summoned into being.
"i do, my lord." you answered honestly. another stretch of silence followed, long enough that you began to wonder whether he had already forgotten he had asked you anything at all.
"sing for me."
the shift in his voice was sudden, loud, proud, carrying easily across the hall, enough that guests turned their heads toward you at once. you froze, your heartbeat climbing straight into your throat, your nails digging hard into the fabric of your robe. you had sung before, once, long ago, in another life entirely, but this could only be another of his cruelties dressed up as an invitation. you opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off before a single word could leave it.
"play the music. sing." the words came coated in something sweet, something poisoned through entirely - it was sukuna after all, and all you could feel in that moment was every gaze in the hall, and the weight of however many lives now resting, however unfairly, in your hands.
your breathing came heavy, uneven. you could hear him tapping one black sharp nail against the wooden table before him, the rhythm of it slow, showing his impatience with every strike. somewhere near you, a man had begun murmuring a quiet prayer under his breath, and you clenched your jaw against it. sukuna be damned. you would embarrass yourself now, right here, in front of akiko, in front of hiromi, and worst of all, in front of him, and he almost certainly knew exactly that. it was why he had chosen you at all, made you the center of this whole ridiculous evening. sweat gathered faintly at your temples despite the winter cold pressing through the shrine's walls. his gaze burned into you still, unrelenting, and for one long, empty moment, you had no idea what to do at all.
then the music shifted, the drum settling into something slower, simpler, waiting for you. you had to sing. anything. some song, some melody buried deep enough in memory to still be there. your voice was nothing special, untrained, plain, and this whole affair already felt like something out of a nightmare you could not wake from. still, you forced yourself to adapt, the way you had adapted to everything else in this place, to his whims, to the shape of the instruments now carrying the tune forward without you. - your mind reached backward, past the shrine, past the market where you had been sold, back to your mother's voice humming something low in the evenings, to the girl you had once played with as a child. there had been a song. a simple one, the kind mothers taught their daughters before bed, about cherry blossoms falling and a brave warrior returning home beneath them. children's fare, nothing more, but it was all you had.
you drew a slow breath as the melody turned, and you opened your mouth.
your voice came out unsteady at first, thin, catching slightly on the first line, the old words about petals scattering across a battlefield feeling foolish and small inside such a grand hall full of nobility and fear. you forced yourself to continue anyway, chin lifting despite the tremor in your hands, letting the next line come out a little fuller, a little more certain, the simple, childish melody rising awkward but genuine into air. somewhere in the hall, you thought you heard akiko's bo voice full of hope. somewhere else, hiromi's attention, warm and encouraging even from a distance. and beside you, sukuna's tapping finally, finally, went still.
he was listening. truly listening, his cursed energy thick and pressed close, every fragment of it fixed on you now, on the tremor in your hands, on the way your entire body had gone rigid with the effort of simply continuing. you had always despised the sound of your own voice, and now it filled the whole hall, small and unpolished and entirely too loud for how quiet everything else had become. you hesitated once, a single stumble in the melody, and the drummer faltered with you, the rhythm slipping half a beat behind. that small failure earned a low, displeased sound from beside you, and panic flooded through you all at once. the song stopped. the instruments hung uncertain, unsure whether to follow your silence or push past it. somewhere near you, the man's prayer grew louder, desperate now, ringing sharp in your ears against the sudden hush of everyone else in the hall, the guests, the servants, all of them going still as they waited to see what weight his patience still held.
the prayer cut off, all at once.
a wet splatter struck your face and the front of your robe, warm, sudden, the thick, unmistakable sound of flesh parting following a heartbeat later. the prayer did not resume.
"continue." bored voice commanded, the hall began to panic in earnest now, quiet, contained panic, the kind bred by fear rather than shock. you felt the warm pool beneath your knees where you sat upon the mat, the scent of iron rising thick enough to catch in your throat. he had killed a man. simply for a missed beat in a child's song. - gods above. your hands trembled harder. your voice threatened to break entirely, and you felt the sting of tears gathering, though you refused, absolutely refused, to give him the satisfaction of shedding them here, not now. the blood slid slow down your cheek, past your lips, and still you did not stop singing. your voice caught it, carried it, the melody rising again as the instruments picked the tune back up around you, the entire hall settling back into its practiced, terrified pretense that nothing at all had happened.
someone rose to their feet, fool! , the rustle of fine silk unmistakable in the sudden quiet, panic driving them toward the doors before thought could catch up to instinct. hurried footsteps struck the wooden floor, and then, a heartbeat later, the same wet, terrible sound of meat parting followed, a second body meeting the ground. the panic spread faster now, wider, uncontrolled. sukuna would let no one leave. that had been the entire design of this from the start, you sang. another voice shouted somewhere across the hall, then another, panic rising in overlapping waves, and still you did not dare to stop, could not stop, as though your voice alone might be the only thread holding the room back from complete slaughter.
it was not.
the sound of bodies cut clean, whoever dared move, whoever's fear overtook their sense enough to run, filled the hall around your singing. screams. the thick, unmistakable scent of iron thickening with every passing verse until the music itself finally faltered and cut away entirely, leaving only your voice and the sound of death filling the space where it had been. he was killing them one by one, you understood now, without so much as rising from where he sat beside you, without a single visible movement to explain the carnage spreading wider by the second.
tears slid down your cheeks, mixing with the blood already drying there, and still the song continued, absurdly innocent, a child's melody about blossoms and a brave warrior returning home, sung over the slaughter of however many souls in that same breath. so much screaming. something heavy toppling somewhere behind you. your hands tightened hard in your lap, knuckles white against black silk, and you found yourself hoping, desperately, uselessly, that akiko was safe. that hiromi was.
your singing had become nothing more than accompaniment to the butchery filling the hall, the fools who had gathered here scattered now in truth, heads, viscera, blood soaking into tatami mats meant for celebration. and still you sang. the song ended at last, your voice trembling through the final note just as the last body struck the floor, and then, silence, complete and absolute, settled over what remained of the hall. your lips were dry, cracked with the effort of every note you had forced through them, and though your tears kept slipping free, silent now, you held your chin high regardless. beside you, the soft click of a cup being filled with sake broke the stillness, uraume's familiar chill settling in close as they knelt beside their master, pouring with the same practiced calm they might use on any ordinary evening. the massacre soaking the mats around them meant nothing at all, apparently, not to the ice sorcerer, not while there was still a duty to perform.
"well done girl." sukuna's voice carried through the ruined hall, praise offered plainly, as though the room were not drenched to its very beams in blood rather than incense smoke. one of his fingers slid the filled cup toward you, the soft scrape of ceramic against the low table the only sound left besides your own uneven breathing.
"you pleased me well tonight."
oh. you were sick. the cup sat there before you, sake still trembling faintly at its rim, offered in the exact same breath as an entire hall's worth of the dead, and you understood, with a clarity that turned your stomach entirely, that this had been the point of it all along. not the music. not the song. you.
before - next
note : please let me know in the comments if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this fic!
ps. a little thank you to my friend alex for wanting to edit these chapters and check my grammar. i thought i'd give him a bit of credit here. <3
+ i’m currently working on two fanfics at the same time, so updates may be a little slow. i really want to pour my heart into this one, so thank you for being patient with me.
"if i headshot you three times this game, you send a dick pic."
naoya zenin x f!reader
• genre: smut, streamer au, enemies-to-lovers
• content warning: mdni, explicit sexual content, heavy profanity & aggressive/vulgar insults, degradation (kink), rough/aggressive sex, power play, public humiliation
wc: 10, 758 (ao3 link here)
this is a highly explicit work of fiction. reader discretion is strongly advised.
for a chill girl like you, it’s too obsessive to be watching naoya zenin’s stream on your second screen right now, all while you’re timing your queue with him for the past hour.
his face cam showed the usual look of pure, unadulterated arrogance, his dyed hair messy, and a headset resting over his ears, the other pair of it slid backwards from his ear, showing his piercings there.
he was of course, in the middle of a fucking rant, leaning into his mic to insult a viewer who had the audacity to donate five dollars just to ask for gameplay tips.
“tips? you want tips from me?” naoya scoffed. “here’s a tip: sell your pc and buy a soul, you fucking loser. don’t ever talk to me like we’re on the same level just because you dropped a fiver.”
the chat was moving at light speed. half of them were simping for his degradation, and the other half were spamming ‘lmao’ or ‘classic naoya.’ he didn’t give a shit and just refreshed his queue.
you’ve been trying to snipe his lobby because you hated this prick. he was talented at valorant, sure, but his personality was a literal biohazard. that made you want to see him lose his mind on stream, and you were petty enough to stay up all night to make it happen.
match found.
the map was bind and you checked the scoreboard immediately.
there he was: ‘zenin_nao’ playing jett, because of course he was.
you picked chamber to counter then cracked your knuckles.
“oh, look at this,” naoya muttered on stream, squinting at the screen. “another fanboy in my lobby. ‘guest_01’? what a pathetic fucking name. hope you’re ready to get carried or get flamed, i’m not in the mood for dead weight.”
the game loaded in, and before the barriers even dropped, you hit shift+enter.
all [guest_01]: sup, princess. try not to cry on stream when you lose k?
naoya paused, his character frozen for a second as he read it. then he let out a mocking laugh. “this nobody really has balls. you hear this shit?” he said to his chat, his eyes widening. “humble me? you couldn’t humble me if i played with one hand tied behind my back, you little shit.”
you weren’t done. you knew exactly how to get under the skin of a guy whose ego was his only personality trait.
all [guest_01]: lets make it interesting then.
all [guest_01]: if i headshot you three times this game, you send a dick pic.
the chat erupted.
the scrolling text became a literal series of ‘OH SHIT’, ‘WTF’, and ‘CLIP IT’. naoya’s face went from smug to a shade of insulted red in record time. he leaned so close to the camera to the point that his nose was almost touching it.
“you fucking what?” he hissed, voice dropping. “you think you’re funny? i’ll fucking hunt you down. i’m going to make sure you uninstall this game by the time we hit round twelve. you’re dead, you hear me? you’re fucking dead.”
the barriers dropped.
naoya played like a demon, fueled by pure spite. he dashed into a-short, looking for an early pick, but you were holding a tight angle with a headhunter.
you didn’t panic one bit, his degradations are nothing on you, he can’t possibly kill you with trash talking you like that.
you waited for that silver hair to peek.
crack.
the kill feed showed your name and a golden crosshair next to his.
all [guest_01]: 1/3.
“fuck!” naoya slammed his desk and the sound echoed through his shitty mic. “that was luck! he was holding a pixel, what a fucking rat! stay in your hole, you coward!”
even now, he addresses you as ‘he’. just imagine his fucking reaction when he learns you’re a girl who’s clapping his ass.
his chat was losing it, mocking him, which only made him tilt harder.
by round five, he was playing sloppy, overpeeking everything because he was desperate to kill you and tea bag your corpse.
you caught him again on a mid rotation. he tried to updraft over a smoke, and you clipped his head mid-air with a vandal.
all [guest_01]: 2/3. hope you’re picking a good filter, nao-chan.
naoya was vibrating with rage now. he wasn’t even calling out for his team anymore. instead, he was busy cursing at his monitor while his face contorted. “i’m going to ruin you! i’ll find out who you are and i’ll fucking end you! shut up! chat, shut the fuck up before i ban every single one of you!”
the game went on and your team was winning, mostly because naoya was throwing his life away just to find you. what a pathetic loser.
this time, naoya was tucked in a corner on b-site, waiting. you knew he was there. so you threw a trademark to slow him, then swung wide. he fired and missed by an inch, giving you the opportunity to click.
headshot.
naoya’s face on your second monitor was a deep, humiliated shade of red, his veins were practically popping out of his neck as he glared at the screen. he had just been revived by his sage, only for you to instantly dome him again from across the map with a guardian.
“fuck! are you kidding me with this shit?” he screamed, slamming his fist onto his desk so hard his webcam shook. “he’s cheating! he’s definitely fucking cheating! nobody hits those shots on a moving target, i don’t care who you are!”
the chat was a dumpster fire. they were tagging him, laughing at him, and clip chiming every single death.
naoya was usually the one doing the bullying, so seeing him get systematically dismantled by a ‘random’ (worse, is a girl) was high-tier entertainment for his miserable followers.
you leaned into your keyboard as your smirk widened. the ‘dick pic’ threat had already turned him into a stuttering mess, but you wanted to see him actually break.
all [guest_01]: you’re playing like a boosted silver, nao.
all [guest_01]: new deal since you’re so easy to hit.
all [guest_01]: if i headshot you one more time this half, the pic isn’t enough. you’re gonna have to go on cam and masturbate for me.
the stream went dead silent for a second. naoya stared at the chat box with his mouth hanging open. he looked genuinely stunned, feeling his ego finally hit a wall. then, the chat exploded into a literal wall of ‘???’ and ‘NO WAY’ and ‘DO IT’.
“you... you sick fucking freak,” naoya spat with his trembling voice. “you think i’m some cam girl? you think you can talk to me like that? i’m naoya zenin! i'll have your fucking ip tracked before the next round starts!”
but he didn’t leave the game. he was too prideful to forfeit, and too obsessed with proving he was better than you.
round nine.
bind, defense side.
naoya was playing u-hall, holding the angle with an operator, his hands were visibly shaking on the mouse.
he was terrified that every time he peeked, he was thinking about your threat. he was tilted out of his mind, overthinking every micro movement.
you didn’t even use a real gun now. you pulled out the sheriff and jiggled the corner, baiting out his op shot.
thump.
he missed and the bullet hit the wall behind you.
“fuck! fuck! fuck!” he yelled, frantically trying to cycle his bolt.
you swung wide and you immediately saw his silver haired jett frantically trying to pull out a pistol. you took a breath, lined up the crosshair with his forehead, and clicked.
pop.
all [guest_01]: 4/3.
all [guest_01]: hope you’ve got the lotion ready, princess. i’m waiting.
naoya didn’t scream this time. he just slumped back in his expensive gaming chair, staring at the ‘killed by’ screen with a look of pure, hollowed out defeat. his chat was filled with ‘CAM ON’ and ‘PAY UP’.
he leaned forward on his face cam and his eyes dark and narrowed. “you think you won? you think you can just embarrass me like this and walk away?” he hissed. “i’m going to find out who you are. and when i do, i’m going to make you regret every single word you typed in that fucking box.”
he didn’t end the stream immediately. he just sat there, breathing hard, looking like he was debating whether to actually follow through or just smash his monitor into pieces.
all [guest_01]: stop barking and start working that hand, nao-chan. everyone’s waiting.
he let out a jagged, frustrated breath and finally ripped his headset off, throwing it against the wall.
the stream cut to a ‘technical difficulties’ screen, but you knew you had burrowed deep under his skin.
the next evening, you were just lounging in the main menu while your agent was standing idle.
you were scrolling on your phone when suddenly, the notification chime hit.
friend request: zenin_nao
the sight of his username made you wheeze.
the prick actually did it. he probably spent all night scrubbing through the match history and seething.
you clicked accept, and not even three seconds later, the party invite popped up. of course, you joined and the second your icon appeared in his lobby, his voice cracked through the headset.
although he sounded harsh, he was obviously incredibly stressed.
“you. guest_01. you better have a fucking mic,” naoya snapped. his voice sounded like he hadn’t slept a wink.
you keyed your mic, leaning back with a grin. “keep your pants on, nao-chan. i’m here.”
there was a deafening silence.
you could almost hear his brain short-circuiting through the fiber optics.
naoya, the guy who spent his entire career preaching about how women were ‘naturally inferior’ at everything from breathing to gaming, just realized he got clapped by a girl.
“fuck... you’re a girl?” he stuttered. “you’re kidding me, no fucking way. you’re using a voice changer. there’s no way some bitch hit those shots. you were cheating… you had to be.”
“cry harder,” you laughed, the sound loud and clear. “i clapped you on stream in front of thirty thousand people. you lost the bet. so, are we doing this, or are you a bigger coward than i thought?”
“shut the fuck up!” he yelled, though you can feel his embarrassment have doubled now. “listen to me. i’m not— i’m not doing that shit on cam. do you have any idea what that would do to my family name?”
“not my problem,” you countered. “you talked all that trash, called me a ‘nobody’, and you said you’d ruin me. turns out you’re the one getting ruined by a ‘nobody’. pay up, zenin.”
you heard him pacing. the rustle of his clothes, the heavy, frustrated sighs. he sounded like a cornered animal.
“look,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, desperate mumble. “let’s... let’s negotiate. i’ll give you skins. i’ll give you whatever fucking radiant points or gift cards you want. i’ll even duo with you and carry your ass to immortal. just... drop the bet. tell my chat it was a scripted bit or something.”
“carry me?” you snorted.
this guy is a fucking loser, indeed!
“nao, i carried you in that lobby. your aim is shaky and dogshit. why would i want to duo with a loser?”
“i’m not a loser!” he barked, slamming something, probably his desk again. “i’m the best player on this fucking server! you just got lucky! fine, you want something else? money? i have more money than you’ll ever see in your pathetic life. name a price to shut your mouth.”
you let out a low, amused laugh, leaning back in your chair as you listened to the frantic tapping of his fingers against a desk.
“money is boring, naoya. i want you to actually stick to your word for once in your pathetic life. you lost. and now the whole internet is waiting to see if the great naoya zenin is a liar or a man of his word.”
“i’m not a fucking liar!” he exploded. “but i’m not doing it on stream! do you have any idea how many people are watching? if i do that shit on cam, it’s over. my career, my family name, everything— gone because of some bratty girl who got lucky with a vandal.”
he paused, and you could hear him taking a shaky, sharp breath.
he sounded like he was pacing his room, cornered and frantic.
“look,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a cautious tone. “i’ll... i’ll do it. but not over the internet. i’m not giving you a recording you can blackmail me with for the rest of my life. i’m not that fucking stupid.”
your eyebrows shot up. “oh? you’re suggesting a meetup? that’s bold for a guy who just got his ego trashed.”
“shut up,” he snapped. “i have a private suite in the city. it’s safe there. no cameras, no recording devices. you come there, i do what you want, and then we never speak again. you delete the chat logs, you tell your friends it was a joke, and we’re done.”
you couldn’t help but laugh. “a private suite? naoya, do i look stupid? how do i know you’re not just planning to have me kidnapped or some shit to save your reputation? you’re a prick, i wouldn’t put it past you.”
the silence on the other end lasted for a few seconds before he let out a insulted scoff.
“kidnapped? you think i’m some low life criminal? i’m a zenin. i have more pride in my pinky finger than you have in your entire body. if i wanted you gone, i’d have bought your house and turned it into a parking lot by now.”
he sounded genuinely offended, his elitist pride flaring up.
“i don’t need to kidnap a girl to win an argument. i’m giving you my word because i’m a man who doesn’t owe anyone shit, especially not a coward who’s scared to meet me face-to-face. i’ll send you the address and the keycode. you show up, or you admit you’re just a loud mouthed bitch who’s too scared to collect her prize.”
you could practically hear the smug, challenging smirk returning to his face.
he was backed into a corner, but he was still trying to find a way to make it look like he was the one in control.
“fine,” you said. “send the address.”
the address was for a high-rise penthouse indeed.
you rode the elevator up in silence and when the doors dinged open, you walked straight to the suite number he’d sent.
you didn’t even knock, you just punched in the code and you’re in.
the place was spacious and clean.
filled with expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and naoya standing by a white marble kitchen island.
he was wearing a designer sweater, looking like he was posing for a magazine cover, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the edge of the counter.
he turned around, ready to spit out some elitist insult about how ‘ugly’ or ‘pathetic’ you probably were, but the words died in his throat.
his eyes traveled from your boots up to your face, and his smug expression didn’t just fade, it transformed into an obvious wide-eyed bafflement.
“you…” he trailed off, his jaw tightening.
he clearly expected a stereotypical girl he could bully in person.
but instead, he was looking at someone who looked like they actually had a life outside of a discord server.
“you’re guest_01? no fucking way.”
“what? disappointed i don’t have a neckbeard, princess?” you smirked, tossing your bag onto his overpriced sofa.
you didn’t give him a second to recover. “i’m not here to small talk. i’ve got things to do. strip. now.”
naoya flinched. “don’t— don’t talk to me like that! you think you can just walk into my house and start ordering me around?”
“the bet was the bet, naoya. you lost. your pride is already in the trash, don’t make me wait.”
he went to open his mouth, but a sharp knock at the door interrupted him.
when it opened, one of his helpers, a guy in a suit who looked more like a bodyguard, stepped in.
naoya cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of authority.
“your phone, please,” the guy said, holding out a hand toward you.
“and any recording devices,” naoya added. “he’s going to take your electronics to the other room. if you want this to happen, you play by my rules. i’m not having a single pixel of this recorded.”
you rolled your eyes, pulling your phone and your smartwatch off and dropping them into the guy’s hand.
as the door closed and the bodyguard left with your stuff, you turned back to naoya and let out a mocking laugh.
“are you fucking serious right now?” you stepped closer, watching him instinctively take a half-step back. “a bodyguard, naoya? really? you’re such a fucking baby. you’re so terrified of a girl that you need a grown man to hold my phone for you? god, you’re even more pathetic in person than you are on stream.”
naoya’s eyes flashed with pure, unadulterated rage. “i’m being careful! i’m not taking any chances with my reputation.”
“your reputation is already ‘guy who got gapped by a girl’,” you countered, crossing your arms. “now stop stalling and get those clothes off. or do i need to call your guard back in to help you unzip your pants since you’re clearly too shaking to do it yourself?”
his teeth literally grinded together.
he reached for the hem of his sweater, his fingers twitching. “i’m going to make you regret this,” he hissed, though the way he wouldn’t meet your eyes told a completely different story.
you walked over to a leather armchair positioned perfectly opposite the island and dropped into it, crossing your legs. you leaned your chin on your hand, watching him strip his clothes for you.
“well?” you prompted. “i’m waiting, nao-chan. clocks ticking.”
naoya let out a frustrated snarl, his fingers trembling as he gripped the hem of his designer sweater and yanked it over his head.
his hair was a mess, falling over his eyes as he tossed the garment onto the marble floor.
you had to admit, the prick was built.
he wasn’t just some skinny gamer who lived on energy drinks; his chest was lean but defined, with pale, smooth skin and sharp collarbones.
his abs were tight, a clear v-line disappearing into the waistband of his expensive trousers.
he looked like a goddamn model, and the realization that he actually took care of himself made the humiliation of the situation ten times more potent.
“stop... stop staring at me like that,” he hissed, his voice cracking as he reached for his belt.
he stepped out of his pants, leaving him in just his boxers.
he was stalling, his face a deep, bruised red, but he couldn’t fill your silence with his usual trash talk. he eventually hooked his thumbs into the elastic of his boxers and pushed them down, kicking them away with a jerky, humiliated movement.
your breath hitched in your throat, and for the first time since you entered the room, the smug comment you had ready upon seeing his dick died on your tongue.
the guy was fucking massive.
even when soft, he was heavy and thick, hanging with a weight that felt completely at odds with his lean, lithe frame.
as he stood there, completely exposed and shivering from the vulnerability, you felt a sudden, traitorous throb between your own thighs.
you can’t believe you’re actually wetting yourself from the mere sight of his private part.
you had come here to ruin him, to laugh at him, but looking at him like this; packing like a monster, made you feel on edge too.
“you’re... you’re a freak,” naoya muttered, though his eyes were glued to the floor, unable to meet your gaze.
he was shaking, obviously because his pride was at war with the biological reality of being naked in front of a girl who had just spent the last forty-eight hours destroying his ego.
you shifted in the chair, feeling the wetness of your own underwear, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“you talk a lot of shit for someone who looks like that, naoya,” you said, your voice a little huskier than you intended. “are you just going to stand there and let me admire the view, or are you going to start?”
he finally looked up, his golden-brown eyes narrowed and wet with frustrated tears, his chest heaving. “i hate you,” he whispered, his hand finally reaching down to wrap around himself.
his fingers could barely even close around the girth of it. “i fucking hate you so much.”
“good,” you breathed, leaning forward, your eyes fixed on his hand. “now show me what those hands can do, princess.”
naoya’s hand finally closed around himself. it was fucking absurd, his body was lean and wiry, built like an athlete, but between his legs, he was carrying a monster.
the head was already peeking out, pink and thick, and as he started to move his hand in a slow stroke, the skin stretched tight over the shaft, revealing the pulsing veins that made your own pussy throb in sync with his heartbeat.
“look at you,” you purred, leaning so far forward in the chair that you could smell the expensive cologne still clinging to his bare skin. “you’re shaking, nao-chan. is the big, bad streamer scared of a little audience? or is it just because you know how much of a pathetic slut you look like right now, naked and jerking off because a girl told you to?”
“shut the fuck up,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a strained rasp.
he was starting to get hard, and as he did, the size of him became even more terrifying.
his dick was lengthening, thickening until it the tip was weeping a bead of pre-cum.
“i’m only doing this so you’ll leave me the fuck alone. don’t— fuck— don’t think this means anything.”
“it means everything,” you countered, your hand sliding down between your own thighs, feeling the soaked fabric of your panties.
you were fucking dripping while watching his dick slide in and out of his grip, seeing the way his abs rippled with every strained breath, was making you lose your goddamn mind.
“it means you’re my bitch. every time you go live from now on, every time you talk shit to some kid in chat, you’re gonna remember sitting here like a dog, tossing your own salad for me.”
naoya’s eyes snapped to yours, full of pure, concentrated hatred, but his body was betraying him.
his strokes were getting faster, more desperate. the slapping sound of his palm hitting his own thighs was loud and echoing in the room.
he was fully erect now, making his dick look like it would split you in half if he ever got his hands on you.
the sight of it made a fresh wave of wetness burst from your pussy, soaking your seat.
fuck.
“you like it, don't you?” he suddenly spat.
he defininitely saw the way your eyes were glued to his cock, and they way you keep shifting in your seat.
“you’re fucking soaking wet just looking at me. you’re probably just some lonely bitch who sniped my game because you wanted a piece of this, didn’t you? you’re pathetic.”
“maybe,” you whispered, not even bothering to deny it as you watched him pump that massive dick, his thumb rubbing over the head. “but at the end of the day, i’m the one sitting in the chair, and you’re the one performing like a circus animal. keep going, princess. i want to see you blow that load all over your expensive floor. i want to see how much of a mess a prick like you makes.”
naoya let out a choked, broken sound, his head tossing back as his pace became faster.
he was close, his entire body tensing up, muscles popping in his arms and chest as he neared the edge, his cock twitching violently in his hand.
naoya was losing his fucking mind.
he was flushed from his chest up to his ears, a mess of sweat and pure, raw humiliation. every time his palm slapped against the base of his throbbing cock, he’d let out a little grunt that he tried to swallow down.
you didn’t stay in the chair as well. you can’t…
you wanted to make him feel shit as much as you can, to make sure he understands that you were the one totally in control right now… and that he’s just your little bitch with a show right now.
you stood up slowly and walked over to him until you were standing right in his personal space.
the smell of his pre-cum hit you immediately.
“you’re losing steam, princess,” you whispered, circling him. “honestly, this is getting a little boring. i thought the great naoya zenin would be a lot more into this. are you not horny enough? or is your dick just too big for your tiny ego to handle?”
“shut— fuck— shut up,” he gasped, his eyes blown out and hazy as he stared at your waist. “i’m... i’m almost…”
“almost isn’t good enough,” you interrupted, stepping directly in front of him. “do i really have to do everything for you? do i have to actually put in effort to get this pathetic little streamer in the mood?”
you reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt, the one he’d discarded earlier, and tossed it aside, then leaned in.
you pressed your chest right against his face.
and he immediately realized that you weren’t wearing a bra, and the soft weight of your breasts smothered his mouth and nose, burying him in your scent.
naoya made a muffled, strangled sound against your skin, his hands pausing on his dick for a split second before he absolutely lost it.
you shoved his face deeper into your cleavage, allowing his nose to brush against the underside of your tits as he let out a long, shaky moan.
“there we go,” you cooed, your hands reaching down to cup the back of his head, forcing him even deeper into your chest. “is that better, nao-chan? feel how wet i am for you? it’s almost a waste to let all that go to the floor, isn’t it?”
the contact turned him into an animal.
his grip on his cock became frantic as he buried his face in your tits like a starving man, turning his muffled moans into desperate, shaky whimpers.
“that’s it,” you hissed, feeling your own pussy clench and leak another wave of juice down your legs as he nuzzled frantically between your breasts. “show me what a pathetic, needy dog you are. cum for me, naoya. blow it all over yourself while you hide your face like a coward.”
he couldn’t hold back anymore.
with one final, deep groan, his body went rigid.
he slammed his hand down the length of his cock one last time, and a thick, hot jet of cum erupted from the tip, hitting his own stomach and the floor.
he kept shooting, ropes of white splattering everywhere as his massive dick convulsed wildly in his hand.
he stayed buried in your breasts long after he finished, his breath hot and shaky against your skin, his body trembling as the post-nut clarity and the crushing weight of his own humiliation finally started to sink in.
you stood there for a moment, just feeling his breath against your skin as he slumped against you, completely spent.
his dick was still twitching in his hand, while he kept his face buried between your tits like he was trying to hide from the reality of what just happened.
you let out a mocking laugh and reached down, running your fingers through his messy hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you.
his face was a disaster; flushed, eyes glassy and blown out, and his lips parted as he gasped for air.
“look at you,” you giggled. “such a good, obedient little boy. you did exactly what i told you to do, nao-chan.”
he tried to scowl, tried to find some remnant of that sharp-tongued prick he was on stream, but he couldn’t find the words.
he was too far gone. “i... i fucking hate you,” he managed to wheeze out, though his hands were still resting weakly on your hips, keeping you close.
“shhh,” you whispered, leaning down. “you’ve earned a little reward.”
you didn’t give him a choice.
you pressed your lips to his, and for a split second, he froze, his brain probably screaming at him to pull away.
but then his ego snapped. he let out a desperate moan into your mouth, then his hands went up to cup your face with a violent sort of need.
it wasn’t a sweet kiss. you wouldn’t call it sweet if you shoved your tongue into his mouth, right?
naoya met you head-on, his tongue fighting yours, twisting as he tried to reclaim some shred of dominance. he was devouring you, his fingers digging into your cheeks.
when you finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected your lips before breaking.
naoya looked absolutely wrecked, his chest heaving, his eyes darting to your mouth as his head instinctively leaned forward to chase you, begging for more without saying a word.
“stay,” you commanded, stepping back and watching his face fall. “and clean up your mess. i’m leaving.”
later that evening, you were curled up on your bed, scrolling through the clips of his ‘technical difficulties’ stream from the day before. the comments were still a war zone of people wondering if he’d actually followed through on the bet.
your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
a message from an unsaved number.
[unknown]: you’re a fucking witch. i don’t know what you did to me.
[unknown]: my dick is still hard. fuck.
you smiled.
because he was clearly obsessed.
the arrogant, untouchable naoya zenin was officially on a leash, and he was the one pulling on it.
[you]: ready for round two, princess? or do you need to buy more lotion first?
it’s been a few weeks since that night in the penthouse, and the internet is basically in a state of permanent cardiac arrest.
naoya’s stream schedule has completely changed and started revolving around yours.
he went from swearing he’d have you banned and erased from the face of the earth to being in your lobby every single fucking day.
what’s even funnier is that…
the first time he admitted it on stream, he looked like he wanted to swallow a grenade.
“yeah, it’s the same bitch,” he had spat at his chat, his face turning that familiar shade of red. “she’s annoying as hell, but she’s the only one in this game who can keep up with my utility. shut up about the bet, or i’m banning the next ten people who type ‘dick pic’.”
now, it’s just your routine.
not only you, in fact.
but his too.
you’re sitting at your desk, headset on, watching his face cam on your second monitor as you both queue for another match.
“buy me a vandal, nao,” you sweetly demanded with a breathy whisper.
“buy it yourself, you lazy brat,” naoya snaps, though he’s already clicking the buy button for you. “i’m top fragging. i shouldn’t be funding your shitty habits.”
the game starts, and you’re playing sage.
ironic, considering how much he hates being ‘subservient’.
so you’re now following his jett around, walling off his flanks and keeping his health topped off while he dashes around like a maniac.
“heal! heal me now!” he shot called as he ducks behind a crate with 12 hp.
“what’s the magic word, princess?” you tease, holding the orb just out of range. “you know the rules. every time i save your ass, you bark for me. come on, let me hear it.”
“i am not fucking barking on stream!” naoya yells. he looks at his camera, seeing the chat spamming dog emojis. “get away from me! i’d rather die and lose the round than give you the satisfaction, you psycho!”
“suit yourself,” you chuckle, watching his health bar blink red. “guess you’ll just have to watch me top frag instead.”
he lets out a frustrated sound, more like a half growl and half whimper and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a ‘woof’ under his breath just as you click the heal.
“good boy,” you purr.
the third teammate, a guy playing omen, finally chimes in.
he’s been quiet all game, but clearly, he’s heard enough.
“yo, sage... you’re actually hilarious. and your aim is cracked. you got a discord or something? i feel like we’d actually vibe way better than you and this loud mouthed clown.”
naoya’s character stops dead in its tracks.
on the cam, his eyes narrow into slits, and he leans so close to his mic.
“who the fuck are you talking to?” naoya hisses, his voice dropping, a sign when he’s about to lose it. “did i ask for your input, you bottom-fragging piece of shit? she’s with me. pay attention to the map and keep your fucking mouth shut while we carry your heavy ass.”
“chill, man,” the omen laughs, oblivious to the fact that naoya is actually vibrating with rage. “i’m just saying, she’s a vibe. hey, guest_01, you ever played with a guy who doesn’t scream every five seconds? i could show you a much better time.”
naoya’s face is a mask of pure, unadulterated jealousy.
he isn’t even looking at the game anymore; he’s glaring at the team chat. “get out,” he snaps. “hey! i said shut the fuck up! she’s mine! we’re in a duo for a reason, you desperate little rat! if you say one more word to her, i’ll find out where you live and personally make sure you never have internet access again!”
“jealous, nao-chan?” you ask mockingly. “he’s being much nicer to me than you’ve ever been.”
“i’m not jealous!” he screams at the monitor. “i just hate losers! and you— you don’t talk to anyone else! you’re my pocket sage, and if i catch you giving that omen a single drop of utility, i’m ending the stream!”
the chat is absolutely losing it.
‘HE’S OBSESSED’ and ‘JEALOUS NAOYA’ scrolling so fast in his stream chat.
he’s completely exposed himself, and the best part is, he’s too mad to even realize how much he’s admitting.
the game ended with naoya nearly popping a blood vessel, and ten minutes later, you were both in a private discord channel with him.
the green light next to his name flickered as he unmuted.
“you’re such a fucking headache,” he spat. “why didn’t you mute him? you just sat there and let that pathetic loser flirt with you. you probably liked it, didn’t you? getting attention from someone who doesn’t know what a massive pain in the ass you actually are.”
“oh, absolutely,” you hummed, leaning back and spinning in your chair. “he was sweet, naoya. he called me a ‘vibe’ and he complimented my aim. when was the last time you called me anything other than a ‘brat’ or a ‘psycho’? maybe i should’ve given him my discord. he sounded like he actually knows how to treat a girl.”
“don’t you fucking dare,” naoya hissed. “you’re not giving your discord to some bottom fragging nobody. you’re stuck with me.”
“you sound so insecure when you’re jealous, nao-chan. it’s cute,” you teased, enjoying the way he let out a frustrated breath. “it makes me wonder how you’re going to act next month. or did you not check your email yet?”
there was a pause, the sound of aggressive clicking filling the silence. “the valorant invitational expo?” he muttered, his voice shifting from angry to annoyed. “the one in the city? of course i’m invited. i’m the face of the regional server. wait…”
another pause. you could practically see the gears grinding in his head.
“don’t tell me,” he groaned. “don’t tell me they invited a random like you just because you sniped me on stream.”
“not a random, naoya. the top-ranked female player on the server,” you corrected him. “they want us there for a showmatch. they’re even putting our booths right next to each other. isn’t that sweet?”
“i’m going to kill someone,” naoya whispered, but he did not exactly sound angry. “two days of being stuck next to you? with cameras everywhere? with fans watching? i won’t be able to say half the shit i want to say to you.”
“is that right?” you laughed. “and what exactly is it that you want to say to me, naoya? or better yet, what do you want to ‘do’ to me? because the last time we were in a room together, you were the one with your face buried in my chest, crying like a baby while you came all over your floor.”
“i was not—! shut the fuck up!” he screamed, his voice cracking. “that was a one-time thing! a moment of weakness! if you bring that up at the expo, i will personally make sure you never see the light of day again!”
“hmm, we’ll see,” you said, clicking your tongue. “but just so you know, i’m wearing a sundress to the event. the kind that’s real easy to slide up.”
the silence on the other end was deafening. you could hear his shallow, shaky breathing, the sound of a man who was once again realizing he was completely and utterly fucked.
“you’re fucked up in the head,” he finally choked out. “i’m going to make your life a living hell at that expo. just wait.”
“i’m looking forward to it, princess,” you whispered. “don’t forget to pack the lotion. you’re gonna need it.”
then the day of the expo arrived.
the convention center was a zoo, filled with the smell of expensive cooling fans and energy drinks.
you could hear the loud cheer of the crowd from the main stage, but you were currently focused on the back entrance.
you walked toward the ‘pro player’ lounge, and as soon as you pushed the doors open, you spotted him.
naoya was surrounded by staff, looking bored and arrogant wearing a custom jersey.
he was in the middle of sipping from a bottled water when his eyes landed on you.
naoya actually choked.
he sputtered, water spraying down the front of his expensive shirt as he coughed violently.
the staff around him scrambled to help, but he shoved them away, his eyes locked on you, specifically on the way the sundress clung to your hips and the deep dip of the neckline.
“you…” he wheezed, his face rapidly turning a shade of red. “what the fuck are you wearing? this is a professional event, not a—”
“not a what, naoya?” you asked, walking right up to him and patting his chest with a smirk. “you look a little hot. is the air conditioning not working in here, or are you just happy to see me?”
he looked like he wanted to scream and pull you into a closet at the same time. “you’re doing this on purpose,” he hissed, leaning down so only you could hear him over the noise of the convention. “you look like a bratty little slut. everyone’s staring at you. i can’t even stand up right now because of you.”
“good,” you whispered back, giving him a wink before heading toward the booths.
the day was a series of interviews and showmatches.
naoya was a mess; every time you leaned over to check your monitor or reached up to adjust your headset, his aim would go to shit, causing his chat to have a field day, clipping every time he got distracted by you sitting just a few feet away.
once the first day wrapped up and the players were heading to their respective hotels. naoya was at the curb, waiting for his private car, looking exhausted and tense.
“where’s your ride?” he muttered as you walked up to him, your small suitcase trailing behind you. “your hotel is on the other side of the district, isn’t it?”
“was,” you corrected him, popping the trunk of his car before he could protest and tossing your bag inside. “i decided my room was too lonely. i’m staying with you.”
naoya’s jaw dropped. “the fuck you are! i didn’t agree to this! you can’t just—”
“i can and i am,” you said, sliding into the back seat and patting the spot next to you. “unless you want me to tell your manager why you were vibrating so hard during the third round of the showmatch. get in, nao-chan. we have a lot to talk about, and i don’t think a discord call is going to cut it tonight.”
the drive to the hotel was silent, mostly because naoya looked like he was one comment away from a total meltdown.
his hand was resting on his lap, and you could see the way his knuckles were white, his eyes darting toward your legs every time the streetlights hit the car window.
the second the door to his suite clicked shut, he turned on you, slamming his hand against the wood next to your head.
“you’re a menace,” he growled darkly. “you show up in that dress, you humiliate me in front of my fans, and now you’re invading my room? you really think you can just keep pushing me like this without any consequences?”
“i’m counting on the consequences, naoya,” you said, reaching up to trail a finger along the collar of his jersey. “you’ve been acting so tough all day. why don’t you show me if you’re still a good boy when the cameras are off?”
he let out a jagged sound, his pride finally snapping as he grabbed your waist and hauled you flush against him.
you could feel the hard ridge of his dick pressing into your stomach, even through the fabric of your dress.
“i’m going to ruin you,” he whispered against your lips. “i’m going to make sure you can’t even walk to the booth tomorrow.”
he slammed you back against the door, crashing his mouth onto yours violently.
there was no teasing this time, no slow build-up. what’s left is just his raw, frantic need.
he groaned into your throat as his hands flew to your chest, grabbing your breasts through the thin fabric of your dress.
“fuck,” he rasped against your lips, mounding your breast. “i’ve been wanting to rip these out of this goddamn dress since the second you walked into the lounge. you fucking brat.”
“ah— nao, wait—” you gasped, but the protest was swallowed by his tongue forcing its way back into your mouth.
it was a messy, wet war between your tongues; fighting for space while you scrambled at the zipper of his jersey. your nails dug into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric.
naoya didn’t have the patience for zippers, so he hooked his fingers into the neckline of your sundress and yanked downward with a sharp rrip.
the yellow fabric gave way, tearing down the middle and exposing your bare tits. he let out a jagged breath at the sight, his eyes dark and blown out.
“oh yes... look at you,” he hissed, his hands immediately cupping your breasts, and rolling his thumbs over your nipples until you let out a sharp, high pitched “ah!”
you didn’t stay still either.
you fought back, yanking his jersey over his head and tossing it somewhere.
your hands went straight for his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle in your haste. “get... get this off, naoya! fuck, you’re so slow!”
“shut up!” he growled, biting down on your bottom lip so hard you tasted the tang of blood.
you bit him back, your teeth catching on his lip as you finally freed his dick from his pants.
it sprang out, already standing proud and throbbing, slamming the head against your stomach.
he was fucking huge, even bigger and harder than you remembered, the thick veins pulsing against your skin. “uhm... god, naoya,” you moaned, your head tossing back against the door as he buried his face in your neck, leaving dark, bruised marks.
his hand slid down, his fingers roughly pushing aside your lace panties until he found your pussy.
you were a complete mess, dripping wet and your juices immediately coated his fingers the second he touched you.
“you’re soaking,” he muttered. “look at how much of a slut you are for me. you’re practically leaking all over the floor.”
“fuck you, naoya! ah— right there!” you cried out as he shoved two fingers deep inside you while his thumb grinding against your clit.
you were clenching around him, your walls pulsing with a desperate need to be filled by the real thing.
“stop talking and... and put it in. i want it now.”
he let out a low, animalistic sound, his teeth grazing over your collarbone.
he was shaking, his pride is completely gone, replaced by a twitching need to claim you. his massive dick was rubbing against your wet slit, smearing pre-cum all over your folds.
naoya didn’t let you breathe.
before you could even process the weight of him against the door, he hooked his arms under your thighs and hauled you up, making you wrap your legs around his waist.
your torn dress hanging off your hips in shreds as he stumbled toward the bed, tripping over his own discarded pants. he threw you onto the mattress, but he didn’t give you a second to recover.
“you’ve been running your mouth all day,” he rasped, licking his lips. “time to put it to better use.”
he stood at the edge of the bed, leveling his throbbing dick which was already standing tall and angry. he reached down, fisting his fingers into your hair and pulling your head toward him.
“suck it. i want to feel how much you missed me.”
you didn’t need to be told twice. you leaned forward, darting your tongue out to lick the length of himt.
when you finally took him into your mouth, you let out a muffled “uhm!” the sheer length of him made your jaw ache instantly.
naoya let out a long, shaky groan, his hand tightening in your hair, forcing you deeper onto him.
“fuck... yes, just like that. you’re so good at this, aren't you? ah! fuck, your tongue—!”
he was even thrusting his hips instinctively, his breath coming in jagged hitches as you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock.
he held your head in place like he was holding on for his dear life just from the sensation of you giving him a head, his body vibrating with the effort not to blow his load right then and there.
but you weren’t done being the one in control.
you pulled back with a wet pop, looking up at him with a defiant, hungry smirk.
before he could complain, you shoved him back onto the pillows and crawled over him. you positioned yourself over his face, your dripping, swollen pussy hovering just inches from his mouth.
you could see his eyes widen, his breath hitching as the scent of your own juices hit him.
“sit on me,” he choked out, his hands reaching up to grab your ass, fingers digging into your skin. “do it, fuck, i want to taste you.”
you lowered yourself slowly and your wet slit pressed firmly against his lips. “ah! yes... fuck, naoya!” you cried out as his tongue immediately lashed out, making sure he’s darting deep inside you.
he was eating you like a starving man, kissing your pussy sensually while swirling his tongue up and down your clit. constantly teasing and constantly sucking at the same time.
“uhm—! ah! right there, nao! fuck!” you arched your back, your hands clutching the headboard as he sucked your clit into his mouth, his fingers reaching around to pull your cheeks apart so he could get even deeper.
the sensation was overwhelming, his tongue was literally making your pussy lick more from licking to sucking.
he’s making you see stars while your pussy is clenching rhythmically, splashing more of your juice onto his face.
“you taste... so fucking good,” he managed to gasp out between licks, his voice muffled by your folds. “ah! fuck, look at how much you’re leaking for me. you’re a fucking mess. you’re my bitch, you got that?!”
“shut up and... ah! keep going! yes! ah! ah! ah!” you were losing it, your entire body was shaking as the first wave of an orgasm started to build up, and your internal muscles squeezing tightly around nothing while naoya continued to devour you with a relentless hunger.
it did not take a while before you were screaming stop and holding his face back, forcing him to stop licking because you were literally about to pee on his face.
the sensation was too much and it was tickling your sexual soul so much that his tongue was doing you all the favors that him eating you out felt much greater than when you were touching yourself.
he ate your clit and inserted his tongue inside your pussy with intent and naoya didn’t even give you a second to breathe after you came on his face.
he growled and grabbed your hips, flipping you over onto your back violently.
he was panting, his face smeared with your juices, his hair a mess, and his massive dick was throbbing so hard it looked like it was about to split skin.
“you’re such a loud-mouthed brat,” he hissed as he pinned your wrists above your head. “think you can handle this? think you’re big enough for me, guest_01?”
he didn’t wait for an answer and just positioned the broad head of his cock against your dripping entrance. you immediately felt the tip of him, thick and blunt, pushing against your folds, and as he began to drive forward, you let out a sharp, strangled “ah! ah! fuck, naoya!”
your pussy was being stretched to its absolute limit.
you could feel the walls of your vagina being forced apart, the skin of your entrance pulled taut while your hole adjusted around the size of him.
it felt like you were being filled to the brim, every nerve ending in your slit screaming as he buried himself deep inside you in one long, relentless shove.
“uhm—! god, you’re... you’re fucking huge,” you gasped, your head tossing back against the pillows. “you’re trying to... ah! break me, aren’t you? you pathetic... arrogant... prick!”
“shut your mouth!” naoya snapped, though his own breath was hitching in his throat.
he started to move, pulling nearly all the way out before slamming back in.
“you’re so tight... fuck! it’s like you were made to be stretched out by me. admit it, you fucking love being filled like this.”
he wasn’t just hitting you; he was hitting everything.
because of his size and the angle he was driving at, his dick’s head was hooking right against your g-spot with every single thrust.
“ah! yes! right there! oh god, fuck!” you cried out, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper. “you’re hitting it... ah! ah! don’t stop, you bastard! keep going!”
“i’ll stop when i say so!” he barked, his eyes narrowed with a mix of lust and pride as he watched your face contort in pleasure.
he was hammering into you frantically, just freely letting his massive dick slide through your entrance, creating the sound of loud and vulgar squelch from your wetness. “look at you... moaning like a slut. who’s the winner now, guest_01? who’s owning who?”
“uhm—! you’re still a bitch, naoya!” you choked out, even as your pussy clenched violently around him, milked by the sheer size of his shaft. “you’re just a... ah! ah! a big-dicked bitch! fuck! right there! ah!”
the insults were getting drowned out by the sound of skin slapping skin and the frantic moans escaping your lips.
naoya was losing his cool too as he felt your internal muscles squeezing him, begging for more.
he buried his face in the crook of your neck, grazing your skin with his teeth as he delivered deep, punishing stabs that made your vision go blurry.
“i’m gonna... fuck... i’m gonna cum so deep inside you,” he groaned, his voice breaking. “you’re gonna be full of me all through the expo tomorrow. everyone’s gonna see you and know... ah! fuck! know exactly what i did to you!”
“do it then!” you screamed, your nails digging into his back, drawing blood as your own climax began to build again, triggered by the relentless pounding against your g-spot. “fill me up, naoya! ah! ah! yes! fuck! now!”
naoya wasn’t satisfied with just hearing you scream from underneath him.
as soon as you peaked, your walls twitching and milking him with desperate, wet clenches, he let out a jagged growl.
he didn’t pull out; instead, he grabbed your waist with bruising force and hauled you upward, flipping you onto your hands and knees in one motion.
your pussy felt wide and raw, still throbbing from the stretch, but he didn’t give you a second to adjust.
he reached forward, his fingers fisting into your hair and yanking your head back so your spine arched, pushing your ass high into the air.
“you think you’ve had enough?” he hissed into your ear. “i told you i was going to ruin you. we’re just getting started.”
he lined his massive cock up with your opening and slammed with a single, violent thrust.
“ah! fuck! naoya!” you shrieked, your chest hitting the mattress as the sheer force of the impact rattled your entire frame.
taking him from behind felt completely different. he was hitting even deeper in this position, maybe until your stomach now, you don;t fucking know. all you know was he’s fucking tipping your pussy apart with his thick shaft sliding through the pool of your combined juices with loud squelch.
“uhm—! god, it’s too... it’s too deep!” you gasped, your fingers clawing at the bedsheets as he started to drill deeper into you.
he was relentless, his hips snapping forward arrogantly and every time he bottomed out, his balls slapped against you.
naoya was a maniac.
he kept a firm grip on your hair, using it to control the angle as he hammered away at your g-spot. “look at this mess you made,” he mocked as he watched his thick, veiny dick disappear inside you and pull out covered in your cum from earlier. “you’re so fucking wet. you’re begging for it, aren’t you? ah! fuck, you're so tight, i can barely—ah!”
“shut up and... ah! ah! just keep hitting it!” you cried out, your head tossing. “you talk too much... uhm! yes! right there! fuck, naoya, harder! slam into me like you mean it, you prick!”
“you want it harder?!” he barked, his ego flaring at the challenge.
but he still increased the pace, his thrusts becoming short stabs that sent sparks of pleasure shooting straight to your brain. “i’ll give it to you... ah! i’ll give you exactly what you deserve! hm fuck yeah..”
you were losing your mind from the sensation of his massive cock filling you completely, combined with the sharp pull on your hair and the vulgar sound of your bodies colliding.
your pussy was screaming, clenching around him so hard which made naoya grunt and bite his lower lip because it felt so fucking good.
he shifted, grabbing your hips with his sweat-slicked hands and dragged you upward until you were straddling him.
he leaned back against the headboard, his chest heaving, and his still hardening dick guiding you until you lowered yourself down, sliding down onto his full length in one slow, agonizingly deep plunge.
“ah! ah! fuck, naoya!” you gasped, your nails digging into the mattress as he filled you completely.
being on top lets you control the friction with how you ground your hips down.
naoya didn’t stay still, he was too hungry to be. his hands flew up to your chest, and made his mouth latch onto your breast.
he wasn’t just kissing; he was sucking, teeth grazing your nipple while he fisted his hands into your hair, yanking you down so you had no choice but to stay close to his face.
“fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, his voice vibrating through your chest as he sucked harder. “you’re so fucking wet, you’re drowning me. ah! look at you riding me like a pro.”
“you’re... ah! ah! still a prick!” you cried out, your own hands gripping his messy hair as you started to grind against him. the feeling was electric, every slide of his dick against your internal walls were sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.
“you’re still so tight, you’re killing me!” he barked while his eyes rolled back, all while he sucked your other breast, pulling until you let out a high-pitched “ah! ah! ah!”, feeling the sensation of his mouth on your tits while your pussy clenched around his massive cock.
you started to bounce, faster and harder, making your breasts jiggle with every movement.
his hands never left your hair because he was using it to keep you locked in place. “i’m not... ah! i’m not slowing down for you! fuck, naoya, you’re so big... ah! it feels like you’re splitting me in two!”
“yeah? let me fucking split you then!” his hips were bucking upward to meet your downward thrusts.
he was hammering into you, and every time you slammed down, he’d suck harder on your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin until you were sobbing with pleasure.
“oh god... yes! fuck! ah! ah! ah!” you were lost, your body is now moving on instinct as your pussy milk him, feeling his dick swell even more inside your aching, stretched-out folds.
he was staring up at you, his eyes dark, his lips swollen and red from your own teeth earlier, looking at you with a mix of pure, unadulterated possessiveness.
“ride me until you can’t walk,” he ordered, sounding more drunk while his grip in your hair is tightening until it almost hurt. “i want you to remember this feeling every time you look at me on stream. you belong to me.”
“i’m ... ah! fuck! ah! ah!” you screamed, your hips moving in a wild, uncontrolled manner until the pressure finally became too much, and you both shattered into an earth-shattering climax together.
you were bouncing wildly on top of him, your nails shredded through his scalp, and he responded by arching his back and driving his hips upward.
you felt his balls slap against your pussy with every frantic lunge, and when he finally exploded inside you, it was too much that it started to drip out.
you clutched his shoulders while your legs were shaking uncontrollably. you spasmed around him, milking every last drop of his cum. then you collapsed against his chest, both of you gasping for air.
the next morning, you woke up so fucking sore.
you groaned, trying to roll over, but your entire body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
your pussy was swollen and throbbing, and your hips ached with a deep, bruised soreness that made every movement sting.
you crawled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
you gripped the sink to steady yourself, your eyes half-closed as you stared at your reflection.
your neck was covered in hickeys and your hair was a tangled disaster.
you assumed he was still dead to the world in the king bed, out like a light after the absolute marathon he’d forced you through.
you had just started scrubbing your teeth when the bathroom door creaked open.
you didn’t even have time to turn around before you felt a heavy weight press against your back.
naoya was still stark naked with his hair still messy from sleep, and before you could even say out a “good morning”, he grabbed your hips with both hands and jerked you backward so your ass was pressed firmly against his hard, morning stiff cock.
“think you’re getting away that easily?” he rasped against your ear.
you didn’t even get to pull the toothbrush out of your mouth before he slammed his hips forward without warning, no lube, no foreplay, just the sudden, heavy pressure of him sliding into your tight, already-sore slit.
“ah! f-fuck—!” you choked out, the toothbrush clattering into the sink as you doubled over, your hands bracing against the counter.
his dick was massive, filling you up instantly, stretching you out until you felt like you might snap.
“you’re mine,” he growled, his grip on your hips tightening as he started to drive into you right there in the bathroom. “i’m not done with you yet.”
sure enough after an hour of him absolutely wrecking you against the bathroom vanity, you were left in a state of complete ruin.
your legs were shaking, your pussy felt like it had been through a car wash, and every muscle in your back were screaming in protest as you tried to even stand straight.
naoya, meanwhile, was glowing with a satisfied energy that made you want to claw his eyes out, if you had the strength.
when you finally left the hotel, the transition to the expo was pathetic.
naoya didn’t bother with a cab or a shuttle.
he literally walked through the lobby with his arm hooked firmly around your waist, his grip so possessive and tight that you couldn’t have pulled away if you tried.
he was practically carrying half your weight, leaning down every few seconds to whisper something lewd into your ear, making sure you felt every ounce of his arrogance.
“look at you,” he hissed, his thumb digging into your hipbone. “you’re so sore you can barely stand. you’re just my favorite little toy, and everyone here is going to know it just by looking at the way you’re struggling to keep up with me.”
you tried to snap back, but all that came out was a breathless, “fuck... off, naoya.”
when the two of you walked into the player lounge, the room went dead silent.
naoya didn’t give a shit. instead, he steered you straight to your booth, which, true to the organizers’ plan was right next to his.
he didn’t let you walk to your chair; he literally guided you, his hand sliding down to your ass to give it a firm squeeze before he shoved you into your seat.
he leaned over the small partition between your booths, his face inches from yours, looking like a king who had just conquered a new territory. “stay right there,” he commanded. “don’t talk to anyone. i’m watching you.”
you slumped into your chair, the soreness in your hips making you wince as you sat down, and you saw his eyes track the movement with a sick, satisfied smirk.
he knew exactly why you were hurting and he knew exactly what he’d done to you in that bathroom.
as he turned to his own setup, you saw him glance at his chat, which was already scrolling past, thousands of people realizing exactly why you were walking so slowly and why naoya looked like he was vibrating.
“yeah, she’s staying here,” he said, shooting you a sharp, hooded look. “she’s a bit tired today. i gave her a hell of a morning workout.”
the chat went into complete meltdown, and you could only lean your head against your monitor, while feeling your face burning, knowing you were well and truly trapped.
barista!geto who always makes sure he’s the one taking your order every single time you step into his coffee shop.
barista!geto who always slips you an extra treat for free, smoothly using the excuse that you’re just a “regular client”
barista!geto who already has your order ready the moment he sees you walk in, handing it over before you could even open your mouth. “I remembered your order. I hope you don’t mind.”
barista!geto who comes over to your table when you fall asleep, exhausted from your exams revisions. “You can rest here. I’ll wake you up when it’s closing time.”
barista!geto who purposely misspells your name on your cup the day after you skip your usual visit. “I’ve been coming here every day for months! How could you misspell my name like that?!”
“You didn’t come yesterday. I guess I forgot.”
barista!geto who starts genuinely worrying that eating a pastry every day might catch up to you. “Should I be concerned about how many cakes you eat a week?”
barista!geto who decides to finally make his move, one day, sliding your drink across the counter with a small note tucked underneath. When you pick up your cup, you notice the little piece of paper has his phone number written on it.
barista!geto who spends the rest of his shift completely distracted, constantly looking at his phone out of the corner of his eye as he waits for your text or call to come through.
barista!geto whose phone finally lights up late at night with an unknown number. Knowing instantly that it's you, he answers it without a second thought.
“Do you always make your baristas wait this long?”
barista!geto who catches himself smiling like an idiot in the dark as the two of you lose track of time, utterly satisfied to stay awake and chat on the phone all night.
barista!geto who doesn't even hand you your drink over the counter the next day. Instead, he walks right out into the seating area, slides into the seat across from you, and looks you dead in the eye to say, “My shift ends in ten minutes. Wait for me”
The exact second his shift ends, he walks straight back to your table and murmurs in his calmest voice, “The phone call was nice, but I'd rather hear your voice over dinner tonight.” leaving you blushing as red as a tomato.
barista!geto who starts making your heart beat even faster than before as dinner goes on, the realization hitting you all at once just how much you have in common. You get along with him effortlessly, and the pure comfort and tranquility he wraps you in makes you realize this is quickly becoming so much more than just a simple crush.
barista!geto who pulls you in close in front of your apartment door, catching your lips in a sweet kiss that completely melts whatever breath you had left away. When he finally pulls apart, he leans down just enough to whisper a little “See you tomorrow” against your ear before turning to leave, leaving your heart racing in the quiet hallway.
barista!geto who invades your thoughts the second you close your eyes, the memory of his kiss keepping you wide awake turning and tossing until the early hours of the morning, leaving you distracted through all your classes the next day — doing nothing but counting down the exact minutes until you can finally head back to his café.
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