Cattie

20+ - she/her - idk what im doing lmao - jjk men artist/writer/reblogs

[nevergreen24]

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[belimah]

⸻ 𝐕 𝐈 𝐓 𝐈 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄, Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee. pt 2

you're studying to be a nun at the monastery along the other sisters. you start to have what you think are night terrors, fever dreams, sleep paralysis — and they started the exact same day Father Ryomen stepped in as a visiting priest on retreat. ✟ — to listen to while reading | art by @sweetlandspos ✟ags: somno; religious; oral; creampie; piv; dubcon; fever dream; dead dove do not eat; amen

⸻ ✟ PART ONE. ⸻ ✟ PART TWO. ⸻ ✟ PART THREE. ⸻ ✟ PART FOUR. ⸻ ✟ EPILOGUE.

Time begins to lose its order.

You remember the start of another repetition. You remember his hand at your throat. You remember the sound of your own voice, softer now, steady in a strange way despite everything happening around you.

Then you remember cold. Your back touches stone. You inhale sharply at the change in temperature. The surface beneath you is not the wooden wall of the confessional.

Your eyes open wider.

The ceiling above you rises impossibly high. Dark ribs of gothic stone arc overhead. Candles burn in rows. You are in the chapel. The church.

It stretches before you in darkness, rows of pews barely visible, stained-glass windows converted into black slabs by night.

No. Not merely in the church.

At the altar.

You do not remember leaving the booth. You do not remember crossing the nave.

The monastery is empty. Or perhaps full of shadows that know better than to move.

You lie against the altar table, its marble surface cold beneath your back, and continue to pray.

Christ hangs above the altar, body carved in suffering, head inclined, eyes closed.

You have looked at Him thousands of times — tonight you can't tell whether the face looks mournful or indifferent.

Psalm sixty-three has outlived reason.

“O God…” Sukuna stands over you. “…thou art my God…”

Not Father Ryomen. Not quite. You know before you understand what has changed.

His cassock is gone. The clerical collar too. His chest is bare, and the tattoos you have glimpsed under fabric all these weeks spread across him with a clarity that makes your skin prickle. Black lines encircle his wrists, travel along his arms, cross his shoulders. Patterns cut over his torso in shapes that appear deliberate but ancient, less like decoration than script written directly into flesh.

You stare.

Your prayer continues.

“Early will I seek thee…”

The marks seem darker than ink. You remember seeing his back beneath the candle when he flogged himself. Remember blood weaving through the designs. They had looked alive then.

They move now. Not much. A shift at the edge of sight.

You focus on one hook like line crossing his ribs.

Still.

Your gaze moves away.

Something crawls.

You look back.

Still.

“My soul thirsteth for thee…” He smiles down at you. His teeth are wrong. The canines have lengthened, sharpened to points that catch candlelight when his lips part. The rest remain almost human, making those few predatory teeth more disturbing than an entirely monstrous mouth would be. “My flesh longeth for thee…”

You should scream.

You keep praying.

Your body has become light. You feel everything, you are not numb, — the cold marble, the warmth of his hands, air against skin, the soreness from nights that might never have happened — but none of it enters the part of the brain where pain and fear are supposed to become warning.

Instead every sensation is translated into meaning.

Chosen. Held. Seen.

He steps between your knees. Your legs open for him before he asks. That is when something inside you breaks in a completely different way — you realize you are no longer waiting to learn whether he is real.

You want him to be.

You want this to be real.

Not because it is good.

Because if it is real, then you are not responsible for inventing all of it.

If he is a demon, your madness becomes encounter.

If he corrupted you, your desire has an accomplice.

If there is something monstrous here, then perhaps you are not the only monster in the monastery.

Your eyes sting.

His palm closes around your thigh. You look down — the nails are no longer nails, black points extend from each finger.

Claws.

Not impossibly long. Not like an animal costume from some morality play. They look functional, curved enough to catch flesh, the darkness at their base bleeding naturally into his fingertips as though they have always grown there and he has simply hidden them until now.

One presses lightly into you. Your skin gives. A small bead of red wells around the point.

You watch it. No pain. Only warmth.

Your voice trembles around the next line but continues.

“In a dry and thirsty land…”

A smile returns to his mouth.

Patient.

He has always been patient.

His other hands move over you with almost ceremonial care despite the irreverence of where you are.

It slides from the side of your ankle up to your calf, thigh, hipbone, waist — palm hot against your ribs, the plush of your breast and finally wrapping easily once again around your bare throat.

The contradiction makes you want to cry.

He desecrates and protects in the same gesture.

He harms nothing accidentally.

If he is cruel, it is chosen.

If he is gentle, that is chosen too.

Your prayer becomes breathier as he draws closer, as the intimacy between you resumes under the cross.

His eyes flare.

Carmine now without any possibility of denial. The pupils narrow to slits and remain there. You stare straight into them. Something inside you recognizes what the daylight version of you has spent weeks refusing.

Not a priest with unusual eyes. Not a troubled man with an indecent past. Not even a sinner hiding beneath holy clothes.

A predator wearing a vocation. A creature that has learned every gesture required to be invited indoors.

He watches understanding enter you. His expression becomes almost tender.

“There you are.”

Your next verse comes softer.

“…where no water is.”

He bends toward you. His forehead nearly touches yours.

“Keep going.”

You do.

The tattoos along his face darken. You have seen markings there before, subtle enough in daylight that people perhaps dismiss them as old ink, scars, shadows. Now they spread toward his temple, sharp shapes framing his eyes.

Something pushes beneath his hairline.

You stop breathing. The prayer almost stops with it.

His hand at your throat reminds you. You gasp the next words out.

“To see thy power and thy glory…”

A horn emerges. Then another. They rise as though they were always folded beneath the shape of him, curved structures forcing their way upward from either side of his skull without blood, without torn skin, simply becoming visible as the human disguise loses relevance.

Dark at the base. Paler toward the tips.

You stare with wet eyes.

Your prayer continues.

He looks pleased. No, not pleased. That word is too simple to describe what that is.

Reverent.

That disturbs you more than hunger would.

He is not revealing himself merely to frighten you. He is allowing himself to be witnessed.

For weeks you followed him. Watched him. Studied him from the ends of corridors and garden paths, searched his hands for marks, listened behind doors, stared at his face during mass for proof that the night and day belonged to the same being.

Now there is nothing left to interpret — he offers you the answer in pieces.

Teeth. Claws. Eyes. Horns.

And still there is more.

“So as I have seen thee…”

You feel a movement behind him,  sound like heavy fabric unfurling — except there is no fabric. Something enormous opens from his back. Your voice breaks. The claw at your throat tightens just enough.

You continue.

The wings extend slowly into the chapel. Leathery. Jointed. Far too large to have been concealed beneath any clothing.

The first stretches toward one transept, the second toward the other. Their membranes catch the candlelight faintly, revealing branching structures beneath the surface. They do not flap. They simply unfold until they occupy your vision and make the altar feel like the only point remaining in the church.

The cross behind him disappears in their shadow — you begin to cry harder, but not from fear alone, the emotion is too large to name.

For weeks you have begged for certainty.

Here it is.

Horrible.

Beautiful in the most forbidden meaning of the word.

You see him. Actually see him.

You whisper the final verse. The chapel holds your voice.

He waits. You finish.

Silence expands.

You do not know whether to begin again. His smile widens.

“Why did you stop?”

Your breath catches.

You restart immediately.

“O God, thou art my God…”

“Good.”

His clawed thumb traces the tear beneath your eye and you lean into it. The gesture happens before you can examine it. His gaze softens.

“You spent all this time asking whether I was real.” You keep praying. “And now?” You do not answer. He waits until you reach the line about the sanctuary. His wings shift. The candles bend beneath the movement of air. “And now, little dove?”

Your voice continues through the verse.

“At least this is honest.” You look at him.

A slow grin shows the points of his teeth.

“Is it?”

Your stomach turns with the old confusion returning, and he enjoys that too, of course.

“You could still be dreaming,” You stare as his claw moves gently along your throat. “You could be asleep in your bed with one hand beneath the blanket and guilt furnishing the rest.” Your prayer weakens and he leans closer to whisper against your ear. “You could still be in the corridor, screaming about a murder that never happened.” Your chest tightens.

“Or perhaps you did kill me.”

The next line slips out automatically.

“To see thy power and thy glory…”

“Perhaps you killed me beautifully.” Your eyes shut. He kisses one tear from the corner of your eye. “Again and again.”

The memory returns.

Knife. Blood. His smile. You tremble.

“So as I have seen thee…”

He presses his forehead to yours, crimson eyes boring into your face.

“And perhaps I liked you better for trying.”

You open your eyes.

He means it.

There is no sane interpretation of that expression — something in him admires the violence. Enjoys it.

Your terror sharpens, and with it comes another feeling that has become inseparable from fear whenever he is near — the terrible relief of finally being understood in the worst possible way.

You stabbed him because you believed he had destroyed your mind.

You stabbed him because you believed something impossible lived inside your belly.

You stabbed him because the only certainty left was that he was at the center of everything.

He does not ask you to repent for that. He looks almost proud.

“You should hate me.” The words leave you between verses.

His brow lifts.

You return to the psalm before he can remind you.

He waits until you reach another pause.

“Do you?”

You try.

God, you try.

You summon the confessional. The wine. The dreams. His hand around your throat. The way he built alibis into daylight while you deteriorated. The saintly smile. The praise from the sisters. The knife.

Hatred should be effortless.

Instead you look at the creature standing over you with his wings swallowing the altar and think — mine.

The thought is so appalling that your prayer becomes louder to drown it. His eyes flare. He heard something. Not the word. Surely not. Yet he smiles as though you spoke aloud.

“Careful, lamb.”

You continue.

His body lowers over yours. His wings fold inward slightly, enclosing the altar from the rest of the chapel. Candlelight dims. The world shrinks. He is no longer merely the thing haunting your room.

He becomes the room.

His heat surrounds you. The smell you associate with him deepens — incense, old wine, skin warmed beneath black cloth, the faint iron note that never quite leaves him. Underneath it now is something less human, like rain hitting hot stone, like the charged air before lightning.

Your hands move. Until now they have remained near your chest, caught between prayer and uncertainty. You lift one toward him.

He notices, gaze following your fingers. You hesitate inches from his face.

He does not help. He could close the distance. He chooses not to.

Your hand reaches one horn — the surface is warm, you expected cold. You trace the base where it rises from his head, fingers sinking slightly into his hair and he lets ut a gutural growl that isn't threatening as much as it denotates pleasure.

No seam. No trick. Real.

Perhaps.

You laugh once. It comes out like a sob.

“Still uncertain?” You nod, and his grin is almost fond now. “How stubborn.”

Your hand moves downward. Temple. Cheek. The markings there. His skin beneath your fingertips feels human. Warm. Slight texture where old scars cross the face. You reach the corner of his mouth. He turns his head and kisses your palm. Something inside you gives way.

The psalm keeps coming.

You do not know how. Words exist independently now. They move through you while the rest of your mind empties. You look down at your bare skin, at your own body laid across an altar where the chalice usually stands. There should be only horror. There is some — and it’s braided so tightly with relief that you can't separate them.

His hands feel enormous against you. He has you pinned down against cold marble, one of your legs hiked high by a clawed hand, the other leg you hooked around his hip yourself, leaving your pelvis open and exposing your dripping, swollen core fully to his predatory gaze.

He lowers his face to your neck. Teeth touch the place where shoulder meets throat. You tilt your head aside. An offering.

He goes still. The pause is the first time all night you feel him genuinely affected. His breath spreads hot over your skin.

“Again,” he says, but quieter, and you realize you have finished the psalm.

You begin again.

His teeth press. Harder. The skin breaks. You know because you feel warmth run down toward your collarbone. Still no pain. Perhaps the pain exists somewhere unreachable. Perhaps your mind has decided it can no longer afford one more alarm and simply silences the nerve.

You continue praying.

His mouth closes over the mark. There is the faintest pull and your stomach drops. He drinks. You understand with horrible calm. Not enough to weaken you. Not enough to become violence in any ordinary sense. Just enough that when he lifts his head, red touches his lower lip and drips down his chin.

He licks it away.

You stare at his tongue.

Human. Mostly.

“Do you feel holy now?”

You should say no. You should cry harder. The answer rises from some place deeper than doctrine.

“Yes.”

His face changes. The satisfaction there is profound. Profane.

“That is why I chose you.”

Your prayer continues but your attention snaps fully toward him.

Chose.

You think of the first day. His arrival. The way his attention eventually found yours among all the others. Your own refusal to respond as other women apparently had. Your polite distance. Your suspicion. Your desire to understand rather than simply yield.

You stare up at him with tears rolling into your hair.

“The shadow…” Your voice breaks. He waits. You laugh softly through the tears because the line has become too perfect. “The shadow of thy wings.”

His expression changes.

Delight.

True delight.

Not the smug amusement he gives your fear. Something almost reverent.

You finish.

“Will I rejoice.”

His wings close further around the altar. Darkness takes the chapel. You are inside him now, inside the space his body creates, hidden even from the crucifix.

He lowers further over you. The closeness between your bodies turns intense, overwhelming, stripping thought down to sensation and rhythm and the continuing motion of your mouth.

You pray.

You do not stop. Even when your voice trembles. Even when tears slip faster.

You pray.

He presses his barbed cockhead against your slit once again. Hot, swollen, already slick from being inside you mere minutes ago. Still, it feels larger, bigger. The stretch when he invades you stings again, knocking the breath from your lungs and making your back arch against cold stone, shoulder blades pressing on marble and eyes widening.

His black claws sink into the plush skin of your hoisted thigh, marking you, claiming you with sharp punctures that should hurt but only feel like brands of ownership.

His other clawed hand remains locked around your throat, holding you steady, his grip firm but careful not to stifle your voice — he doesn't want your silence, he wants your adoration. He wants his little dove to scream her devotion to the heavens while he ruins her from the inside out, carving his way inside her tight cunt once again, not giving her time to adjust, not giving her the mercy of letting the prayers stop.

He bottoms out and you feel yourself full. Filled to the brim with him. Lower stomach bulging from the sheer size of Sukuna in his unholy form. He bares his sharp teeth in a wicked, ungodly warped grin as he hammers into you with renewed, bestial ferocity the instant he feels you clenching around his cock.

The impact of his hips against yours echoes through the silent nave — he is desecrating the very heart of the church, using the altar as a workbench for his lust, and you are the offering.

You keep praying, the holy words of psalm sixty three spilling from your lips in a breathless, sobbing cadence, a blasphemous soundtrack to the raw, wet slapping of his cock bottoming out inside you.

Tears stain your cheeks, rolling back into your hairline and dripping into your ears, but you are smiling. A delirious, broken smile of pure happiness. You are the chosen lamb, and this is your consecration.

You hear growls now. Not human sounds disguised as rough breathing. Growls.

Low enough to vibrate through your chest when he bends near.

He whispers praise into your ear between them.

His little dove.

His lamb.

His good, devoted thing.

His ruined good girl.

He tells you you have spent weeks begging for certainty and now can't bear to look away from it.

He is right.

Your eyes shine because you refuse to close them. You want to see every impossible detail. The ridges at the base of the horns. The way the pupils narrow when pleasure or hunger sharpens in him. The veins beneath his forearms. The subtle flex of claws where he holds you. The wings.

God, the wings.

You reach for one without thinking. Your fingertips meet warm membrane. Real. Textured. Reacting. It twitches under your touch.

You gasp.

Your prayer continues somehow.

He watches your hand. A strange expression crosses his face.

“You’re not frightened anymore, dove.”

You are. But fear has changed. It is no longer the urge to flee. It is pure awe.

“I am,” you manage between verses.

“No.”

“I— am.”

“You are crying. You are trembling. And you’re still touching me with such devotion.”

Your fingers flex against the wing. You can't deny it. He bares his teeth again.

“There you are.”

His mouth lowers to your collarbone. The touch of teeth is gentle, almost testing. His hot breath ghosting over your skin before he sinks his teeth deep into your flesh once again. The pain should be unbearable, but as his teeth puncture your flesh and tear a jagged mark into your skin, you feel nothing but a warm, delicious sensation of salvation.

The agony is transformed into ecstasy, a holy fire that cleanses you of everything you once were. You feel the sheer, overwhelming size of him filling every inch of your core, the friction of his shaft stretching you to the limit, and you realize how lucky you are to be the vessel for his blessings.

You look down and see blood along his mouth.

Your blood.

He lifts his head. Red shines on his teeth, lips, chin, sliding to his throat.

Your mind should break at that. Perhaps it already has. Because the sight makes something inside you go quiet. The blood that trickles down your chest feels like a holy anointing.

Not fear, hell, you don't even feel nauseous — you don't feel the horror of the desecration.

You feel holy.

The thing that watched from the end of your bed was never a man.

The thing that held you while you prayed was never merely a priest.

The thing that let you kill him and returned clean was never subject to the laws you spent your life trusting.

He has been showing you pieces — you simply insisted on naming them dreams.

You lift one shaking hand and touch his mouth. Your thumb gathers a smear of your own blood from his lower lip. His eyes track the movement. You stare at the red on your skin.

Proof. Again.

You start laughing softly. He catches your wrist. Brings your thumb toward his own lips. Stops just before touching.

“Would you like to keep it?”

You stare. You know what he means.

Evidence. A mark. Something you can carry into morning.

“Yes.”

The answer leaves immediately. His expression softens with something almost cruelly affectionate.

“You still haven’t learned.”

Your throat tightens. He kisses your thumb clean.

By dawn, you understand, there will be nothing.

You cry harder. He lowers his face to yours. Watching.

“You could spend the rest of your life proving me,” he whispers. “You could tear me open every night and wake to an unmarked body. You could cover yourself in blood and walk into morning clean. You could have every sister in this house watch me become this and by sunrise they would remember a dream.” Your breath trembles. “You are not going to win with evidence.”

“Then— ah... how?”

“Faith.”

You stare. He smiles. You nearly hate him enough to laugh again.

“Faith?”

“Is that not what you have been practicing?”

“You are not God.”

His claws tighten slightly at your thigh.

“No.” The answer surprises you. No blasphemous proclamation. Just no. He lowers until his mouth is beside your ear. “But you have spent so much time asking God to save you from me that you never noticed who actually answers when you call.”

Your eyes close. A sob escapes. His arm slides beneath you, releasing your throat and lifting your shoulders from the marble. He holds you close, still inside you, still feeling you clamp and squeeze him.

The demon holds you as gently as the priest has ever pretended to.

You hate that too. You hate how safe the wings make the darkness feel. You hate how easily your head fits against the curve of his neck. You hate how exhausted you are from resisting every version of him.

The prayer continues because stopping would mean thinking.

“My soul followeth hard after thee…” Your voice is barely there now. “Thy right hand upholdeth me.”

“Again.” He murmurs.

You begin.

“O God, thou art my God…” He moves his hips. You cling. “Early will I seek thee…” His mouth returns to the wound at your collarbone and tears another wound open at the curve of your neck. No pain, only delight. “My soul thirsteth for thee…” The world reduces again. “My flesh longeth for thee…”

You surrender to the rhythm. The altar beneath you. The wings around you. The claws marking you. The impossible warmth. The prayer.

You reach some point where the body becomes easier to inhabit than the mind, so your thoughts thin. The constant questions finally stop.

Was it real? Is this real? Did you imagine him? Did he make you? Are you damned? Are you ill? Are you holy? Are you ruined?

Nothing answers. Nothing needs to. There is only now.

The words of the psalm slip from your mouth with no effort. Sometimes you hear yourself speaking and it sounds like someone praying in another room. Sometimes you lose track of your own voice entirely and know it continues only because Sukuna does not correct you.

He would correct you if you stopped.

That knowledge comforts you.

He controls the prayer.

You control nothing.

Permission.

Structure.

Again.

He understands exactly which part of you is exhausted.

You no longer have to decide when to speak.

He tells you.

You no longer need to analyze every movement.

He directs you.

Even resistance becomes unnecessary because he would rather have your attention than your performance.

It feels dangerously close to peace.

Their edges nearly touch the floor on either side of the altar. You can't see the nave. You can't see the doors. Only shadowed membrane, his body, candlelight shining along horns, and somewhere behind him a sliver of the crucifix.

“You wanted to ruin me.”

“I wanted to see what you called ruin.” The distinction makes your skin crawl. “You assumed purity was ignorance. That chastity meant never wanting. That holiness required you to be untouched by appetite.” His red gaze drifts across your face. “You were never naive enough for that. Which made you interesting.”

Your mouth keeps reciting. He speaks between the lines as if preaching over your prayer.

“You knew what desire was. You simply believed wanting something and refusing it made you superior to those who indulged. You wanted someone to tell you which thoughts belonged to you,” he murmurs. “Which memories were true. Which desires counted as sin. You wanted a judge because uncertainty frightened you more than condemnation.”

You hate that. He doesn’t stop.

“You would rather be damned with certainty than forgiven without understanding.” His voice lowers. “So I gave you certainty where I could.” His arm tightens where he embraces your torso against his body. “Your rules. Your idea of goodness. Your fear of your own body. Even your image of God. Other people gave you those things and told you never to touch the walls.” His clawed fingers close around your upper arm. “I wanted to know what remained after you did.”

The chapel feels too large again. You can't breathe properly.

“And what remains?” You ask when you reach a break, panting.

He looks down at you for a long time. His expression loses the grin. The monster becomes serious.

“You.” For once he does not seem to be playing with you. “You, still praying after you believe you murdered a priest. You, still worried that wanting pleasure means you have betrayed heaven. You, following me through hallways because madness frightened you less than ignorance. You, putting a knife through my heart when you thought I had planted something inside you.” His lips twitch. “Repeatedly.”

“You’re doing it again.” Your voice shakes, you almost forget to resume your prayers.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you still believe certainty belongs to you.”

You stare at him with wet eyes. He bends and touches his mouth to your forehead. The gesture is priestly enough to hurt.

“Faith was never certainty, little dove.”

“You can’t teach me about faith.” Your throat tightens.

That finally makes him laugh. A deep sound, pleased and almost affectionate.

“And yet you listen so beautifully.” His grin widens, witched, demonic. “Pray.”

You restart.

There is laughter hidden inside your voice now, broken and disbelieving and a little hysterical.

He seems delighted by it.

The psalm fills the chapel again.

And as it does, the night goes deeper. You stop knowing how long you remain on the altar. You stop knowing whether the wings stay visible every second or disappear whenever you blink. Sometimes his hands look human. Sometimes the claws return. Sometimes you look directly at his face and see the priest you met weeks ago, hair neat, expression stern, eyes only unusually red.

Then candlelight shifts and horns cut the air above him.

Sometimes you feel the familiar press of his body and your memory supplies all the nights you spent believing this same intimacy was a dream. Your body relaxes around his presence with an ease that shames you.

He touches you without haste. Possessively, with attention. Your waist. Your ribs. The curve of your hip. Your lower belly where his cock probes from within your core. Your chest with reverence that doesn’t match the situation. The place beneath your jaw where your pulse trips whenever his mouth approaches.

Each touch is enough to make your voice change. You are no longer certain when the physical intensity peaks, when you unravel and when your body shudders and tips you over the edge, just for him to keep going, just for him to make you restart your prayers again and again. Your body shudders at intervals, overwhelmed, and each time he gathers you closer rather than letting you slide against the marble. Your voice turns thin, then steadies. Tears keep coming, though you no longer know whether they are from fear or exhaustion or the unbearable relief of finally abandoning the demand that any of this make sense.

He praises you like a celebrant praising a response given correctly. That language slips into you more dangerously than obscenity ever could.

Good.

Again.

Beautiful.

Keep going.

Let me hear you.

You answer him with Scripture.

Over and over and over and over and over again.

At some point you realize you are no longer using the psalm as protection.

You are offering it.

The realization enters and remains as he continues to hammer into you, his wings twitching with every guttural groan he deliberately lets roll out of his lips, you close your eyes and let the prayer become a scream of pleasure, your voice ringing out through the monastery, a blasphemous hymn to the god who is currently destroying you.

“What are you?”

The question escapes between verses, ragged, lowly, worn out from so much prayer and so many unholy sounds. He turns his head. You expect one of his games. A question answered with another.

Instead he considers you.

“Hungry.” Your face crumples with exhausted disbelief. “Is the oldest one.” His gaze travels toward the cross. “I have had many names.” The chapel seems to listen. “Man was one.” You stare. “Priest is another.”

His wings flex.

“And this?” Your voice is quiet. His eyes return.

“This is what you wanted to see.”

Cold moves across your skin.

“That doesn’t mean it’s what you are.”

His smile comes slowly.

“Very good.”

You hate the praise. You crave it. He bends over you until his mouth nearly touches yours again. His breath is hot, comforting in a corrupted way.

“Perhaps the devil looks like whatever a frightened woman needs him to look like.” You whisper the next verse, his lips brush yours without fully kissing. “Perhaps God does too.”

You recoil. Your whole conscience does. He looks genuinely interested.

“You will let me into your room. You will dream of me. You will follow me. You will watch me sin. You will put a knife through my heart. You will lie beneath something with horns and claws on the altar itself, spread your legs willingly, cling to it and let it desecrate your body.” His thumb traces your lower lip. “But comparing the mechanism of faith offends you.”

His hands return to your body, no longer trying to frighten you with claws or shadow. One settles along your side. The other cradles the back of your head.

“You interested me because you did not want me.”

“I did.” You breathe. His brows rise. The confession leaves before you can retract it. You close your eyes, too tired to lie elegantly. “I just didn’t want to want you.”

Something hot and pleased enters his expression.

“That,” he says, “is much more interesting.”

You turn your face away. He laughs softly and presses a kiss to your cheek. The intimacy of it feels almost indecent compared with everything else. Because it is affectionate among such blasphemous setting. Tender while his claws and teeth tear your skin open. Soft while his hips keep moving, thrusting his profane cock inside you without ever relenting.

You can survive being desired.

Being cherished by the thing that has tormented you is harder.

You begin the psalm again simply to have somewhere else to put your mind.

He lets you.

Your voice and the sound of your bodies meeting fills the space between stone and wings. The repetition becomes softer with every cycle. At some point you no longer speak at full volume. The words are still audible, but intimate now, meant for the creature close enough to feel them vibrate in your chest.

His eyes never leave you for long.

You are beginning to understand that this is worship for him.

Not being adored as a god. Being watched without looking away.

He wants your horror. Your fascination. Your refusal. Your eventual choice to remain.

All of it.

A lesser corruption would have been easier. If he merely wanted to make you break vows, he could have tried seduction in daylight. Could have cornered you, kissed you, persuaded you into some hidden room and congratulated himself when guilt followed.

He wanted more.

He wanted your entire framework of reality loosened around him. He wanted to become impossible to distinguish from temptation itself. And now, as you lie beneath him on an altar you should not have reached without remembering the journey, you finally understand why.

He does not merely want your body. He wants to become the thing your mind reaches for when every other certainty disappears.

The realization is horrific.

When you were frightened by the second heartbeat, you went to him.

When you believed you had murdered him, you screamed his name.

When the abbess told you someone would help, the only person whose presence could actually settle your breathing was the one you feared most.

He has inserted himself into every direction.

Sin points to him.

Comfort points to him.

Fear.

Want.

Confession.

Punishment.

Relief.

You stare up at him and feel something inside you go cold despite the warmth.

Is this real?

The question is too big to be answered now. So you focus on immediate ones. The warmth beneath your palm. His breath. The sound of the psalm. The way his expression changes when you call him Father now — not because the title is accurate, but because both of you understand exactly how obscene and affectionate it has become.

The wings remain around you. Or perhaps they are shadows. You no longer check.

“My soul followeth hard after thee…” you whisper as his fingers lace with yours, bringing your hand over his chest. “Thy right hand upholdeth me.”

The line trembles. He looks down at your joined hands. For once, no mockery comes. You finish the final verses. When the last word disappears into the chapel, he does not tell you to begin again immediately.

You wait.

The silence feels enormous.

Then he lowers his mouth to your forehead. The kiss remains there for several seconds.

“Enough.”

The word is gentle. Your whole body releases at once. You had not realized how exhausted you were until permission to stop arrives.

Your eyes close. Your breathing turns uneven. The marble beneath you remains cold, but he gathers you against him before you can start shivering. You feel his arms around your back, your waist, your shoulders.

Two arms. Human arms.

You open your eyes.

The wings are gone. The horns too.

He is dressed.

Black cassock. Collar. Hair slightly disordered, nothing more.

You inhale sharply.

He looks down at you.

Red eyes. Round pupils. Normal hands.

The chapel is not the chapel.

Wood presses against your back.

The confessional.

You are still inside it.

Your nightgown is on.

Bunched a little at the knees, but otherwise intact.

The adjacent compartment remains dark through the lattice.

The stool creaks beneath Sukuna.

You are sitting across his lap, his arm around your waist, your head against his shoulder.

You stare.

Your body turns cold.

No.

No.

You look toward the door.

Closed.

You look at his chest.

Cassock buttoned.

You reach up with frantic hands and grab the front of it.

He allows you.

Your fingers fumble with buttons.

One.

Another.

You pull the cloth aside enough to expose skin.

No stab wounds.

No tattoos visible there beyond the familiar markings you have occasionally glimpsed.

No blood.

No bite.

Nothing.

You stare.

He watches quietly.

“The altar.”

“What about it?”

“We were…”

Your voice dies. You look through the lattice. The chapel beyond is silent.

Dark.

Far away.

You do not remember returning.

Because perhaps you never left.

Your breath begins to race. His hand comes to the back of your neck.

“Easy.”

“No.”

“You are safe.”

“No.”

That almost makes him smile. You hit his chest once with the flat of your hand.

“Don’t say that.”

“All right.”

Your eyes fill again.

“Tell me what happened.”

He considers.

“You prayed.”

“I know that.”

“For quite a while.”

“The rest.”

“What rest?”

You stare at him. He holds your gaze.

Nothing.

No crack. No confession.

You feel yourself splitting again.

Then you see it.

On his lower lip.

A tiny red mark.

Barely anything.

A smear no wider than the edge of a fingernail.

Blood.

You freeze.

His tongue passes over it.

Gone.

Your heart slams.

He notices exactly where you looked.

Slowly, his mouth curves.

You reach for your shoulder.

Your fingers find skin beneath the nightgown collar.

Tender.

You can't see it.

You press.

A small sting answers.

Proof.

Maybe.

Your breath catches.

His eyes burn darker.

You look at him.

He says nothing.

The silence is worse than confirmation.

You begin laughing. You can't help it. The sound emerges wet and unstable through the tears, half relief and half horror. You press both hands against your face and laugh because if you do not, you will scream again, and you have already screamed enough tonight to wake the dead.

Apparently not enough to keep them dead.

His arm tightens around you. You lean into him because you no longer know what else to do.

Your forehead finds the curve of his neck. He smells like incense. Wine. And faintly, terribly, blood.

“You’re real.”

The words disappear against his collar. His hand moves slowly along your back.

“Perhaps.”

You laugh harder, almost choking on it.

“You fucking bastard.”

“There she is. My little dove.”

Your fingers knot in his cassock.

“You are the devil.”

“Possibly.”

“You’re not a priest.”

“Legally, that one is harder to dispute.”

You pull back enough to stare at him.

He looks perfectly composed.

The absurdity sends another broken laugh through you.

“You’re going to serve mass tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Like nothing happened.”

“Something happened?”

Your expression must be extraordinary because he actually laughs.

Not his restrained priestly chuckle. A genuine low laugh that makes his shoulders move beneath you.

You hit him again. He catches your hand.

“You’re cruel.”

“You have mentioned it.”

“I hate you.”

“That too.”

The amusement fades gradually. His thumb travels over your knuckles.

“You can hate me.” The permission makes you quiet. His gaze remains on your hand. “You can hate me in the morning and come looking for me at night. You can pray for deliverance while sitting in my lap. You can put a knife through my heart again if it helps.”

You swallow.

“Again?”

“If you bring a better knife.”

Your face crumples between horror and laughter.

He looks pleased with himself. Then his expression settles into something harder to read.

“You do not need to resolve yourself tonight.” You stare. He touches beneath your chin. “You have been trying to turn every feeling into a verdict. Desire means corrupt. Fear means danger. Pleasure means sin. Doubt means failed faith. Anger means wickedness.” His thumb moves once along your jaw. “Humans exhaust themselves building courts inside their own heads.”

“And you don’t?”

“No.”

“Because you have no conscience.”

“Because I know when I want something.” His gaze lowers to your mouth. “And I wanted you.”

There it is.

Plain.

No theology wrapped around it. No temptation framed as lesson. No confessional riddle.

“I wanted you when you looked at me as though you were trying to determine whether I belonged inside the church at all. I wanted you more when you refused to flirt. More still when you followed me through those ridiculous corridors thinking you were silent.”

Your eyes widen.

“You knew.”

“Every time.”

Heat climbs your face.

“Even when—”

“Yes.”

“The sacristy?”

His smile becomes vicious.

“Yes.”

You cover your face again.

“Oh, God.”

“There He is.”

“Stop.”

He does. Again. Immediately.

You lower your hands slowly. He watches.

“That— this is unsettling.”

“What?”

“When I ask you to stop and you do.”

“I am capable of manners.”

“You made me think I was hallucinating for weeks.”

“I did not say they were good manners.”

You almost smile. You look away before he can see.

Too late.

His hand rises to your cheek, his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

“Do not hide from me now.”

You have seen him bleed.

Maybe.

Seen him die.

Maybe.

Seen wings open over the altar.

Maybe.

And after all of it, the thing that finally settles your breathing is his hand at the nape of your neck.

He shifts beneath you and helps you stand. Your legs nearly fail. He catches you before your knees can strike wood.

He opens the confessional door. Cold air enters. The chapel beyond is empty. Everything appears normal.

Pews. Altar. Candles. Crucifix.

You search the marble from here for blood.

Nothing. No marks. No sign of wings scraping stone. No evidence you were ever there.

Your hand finds your shoulder again.

Tender.

Maybe.

Sukuna steps out first, then turns.

He offers his hand.

The same hand you searched for bite marks days ago. The same hand you remember becoming clawed. Long fingers. Clean nails. Human.

You stare at it. Then at him.

“Little dove.”

You place your hand in his. He draws you out. Your bare feet meet cold stone.

The monastery remains quiet.

He leads you through the nave without touching more than necessary, as proper as he is by daylight. If anyone saw you now, they would see exactly what the abbess expected — a priest escorting a distressed novice back toward her room after confession.

You walk beside him and feel insane.

But not in the same way.

Before, madness meant not knowing whether he existed in the night.

Now it means knowing that uncertainty may be the only answer he ever allows you.

You reach the corridor. Moonlight lies across the stones. He pauses outside your chamber.

Your hand remains in his.

Neither of you speaks for several seconds. You look at the door. Then at him.

“You’re not coming in.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“Am I not?”

Your pulse stumbles.

“No.”

He studies you. You force yourself not to change the answer simply because he is looking. Finally, he inclines his head.

“As you wish.”

Relief comes. Then, humiliatingly, disappointment.

His eyes flicker. He catches both. Of course.

He releases your hand. You reach for the latch. Before you open it, his voice comes softly behind you.

“You forgot your penance.”

You freeze. Slowly turn. He stands in the moonlit hall, black cassock disappearing into shadow, face composed.

“What penance?”

His mouth curves.

“Psalm sixty-three.”

Your stomach drops.

“I prayed it.”

“Not before bed.”

“I have been praying it for what feels like hours.”

“And yet you are not in bed.”

You stare. He inclines his head toward your room.

“Window open. Lamp out.”

You almost laugh from disbelief.

“What if I don’t?”

His eyes catch red in the moonlight.

“Then perhaps you will dream.”

Your skin prickles.

“You’re monstrous.”

“Yes.”

He turns away. You watch him take several steps.

“Father.”

He stops. You have no idea why you called him back.

He looks over his shoulder. Your mouth is dry.

You search for something to say that will restore the world to its proper shape.

Nothing comes.

So you ask the only question left.

“Will I remember this tomorrow?”

His expression becomes unreadable. Then the slightest smile touches his mouth.

“You will remember whatever you can survive remembering.”

He walks away.

You stand in the corridor long after he disappears.

Eventually you enter your cell.

The room looks unchanged.

Bed. Chair. Crucifix. Rosary.

The window is closed.

You stare at it.

You could leave it that way.

You should.

Instead you cross the room. Your fingers find the latch. Cold night air enters when you push the window open. You extinguish the lamp. Darkness gathers.

You sit on the edge of the bed.

For a long time you do nothing.

Then you touch the tender place on your shoulder.

Your fingers come away clean.

You check again.

Nothing.

You laugh softly to yourself, because of course.

Of course there is no mark.

You lie down. Pull the blanket over yourself. The darkness around the bed looks ordinary.

No horns, no wings, no red eyes, so you close your own.

Your lips begin to move.

“O God, thou are my God; earnestly I seek thee. My soul thirsts for thee. My flesh longs for thee in a dry and weary land where there is no water…”

The words come naturally. As natural as breathing.

You reach the verse about the night watches and your voice trembles.

Somewhere in the hallway, very far away — or directly outside your door — you think you hear a man chuckle.

You do not open your eyes.

You keep praying.

And when sleep eventually takes you, you no longer know whether you are surrendering to God, to exhaustion, to madness, or to the thing that has taught you to stop insisting there must be a difference.

When I remember You on my bed, I meditate on You in the night watches.

Because You have been my help, Therefore in the shadow of Your wings I will rejoice.

My soul follows close behind You; Your right hand upholds me.

But those who seek my life, to destroy it, Shall go into the lower parts of the earth.

They shall fall by the sword; They shall be a portion for jackals.

But the king shall rejoice in God; Everyone who swears by Him shall glory; But the mouth of those who speak lies shall be stopped.

[belimah]

⸻ 𝐕 𝐈 𝐓 𝐈 𝐀 𝐓 𝐄, Because thy loving kindness is better than life, my lips shall praise thee. pt 1

you're studying to be a nun at the monastery along the other sisters. you start to have what you think are night terrors, fever dreams, sleep paralysis — and they started the exact same day Father Ryomen stepped in as a visiting priest on retreat. ✟ — to listen to while reading | art by @sweetlandspos ✟ags: somno; religious; oral; creampie; piv; dubcon; fever dream; dead dove do not eat; amen

⸻ ✟ PART ONE. ⸻ ✟ PART TWO. ⸻ ✟ PART THREE. ⸻ ✟ PART FOUR. ⸻ ✟ EPILOGUE.

The door of the confessional closes behind him with a sound so small that it should not matter. A dry click of old wood. The faint settling of the latch. Nothing more.

For something so final, it should make more noise.

It should slam hard enough to wake the sleeping sisters and bring the abbess running. It should shake dust out of the joints of the old wood. It should produce some sound worthy of what has just happened to you — worthy of the knife you remember driving into his chest, the blood you remember soaking through your nightgown, the warmth of him beneath your knees growing less responsive under your hands.

Instead, the latch gives a neat little click. It becomes the loudest sound in the monastery.

You stand with your back toward him and stare through the little lattice window meant to separate sinner from priest, even though there is nobody seated on the other side tonight. The adjacent compartment is empty. You can see only a piece of darkness through the carved screen, the vague suggestion of the chapel beyond it, and one wavering stripe of amber from a candle burning somewhere far enough away that it can't help you.

He has entered your side.

The realization should have come the moment he guided you toward the booth with his arm around your shoulders. You remember the touch. You remember the unbearable normality of it, the way his fingers rested over your sleeve as though steadying someone feverish, someone confused, someone in need of pastoral care. You remember the abbess watching the two of you go with concern softening her face.

She entrusted you to him.

Everyone did.

And now the little compartment built to protect confession, to preserve distance, to let a soul speak without being made vulnerable beneath another person’s direct gaze, has become something else entirely.

There is hardly enough space for two people. His chest touches your back before you can convince yourself that it does not. You inhale. The breath barely reaches your lungs.

He is too hot.

That thought arrives with strange clarity among everything else that has become useless static in your head. Too hot for an ordinary man. Too hot for the winter seeping through stone, for the cold corridors you crossed barefoot, for the hour when the monastery seems to turn inward and hold whatever warmth remains in its walls. Heat rolls from him through his cassock. You feel it across your shoulders, along your spine, at the backs of your arms where his body nearly brackets yours.

You can smell him.

Incense first. It has gotten into everything he owns. His cassock, his hair, perhaps even his skin. Beneath it sits the smell of clean cloth and the faint mineral quality you have come to associate with him even though you have never found any reason for it in daylight.

Blood, perhaps. Your mind supplies that explanation immediately.

You killed him less than an hour ago.

No.

You imagined killing him less than an hour ago.

No.

You felt the knife slide through his body.

There was a knife.

There is no knife.

There was blood on your hands.

Your hands are clean.

His body fell beneath you.

His body stands behind you.

You remember the expression on his face when he looked at you from beneath your body, chest ruined, lips darkened, one hand resting over the place where you thought another heart had begun beating inside you.

You remember the weight of the blade when you considered using it on yourself afterward.

You remember walking through the corridor covered in him.

And you remember looking down at your own hands and finding nothing.

There is nothing now either.

No blood beneath your nails. No cut across your palm from the slippery knife handle. Nothing on your nightgown except the faint wrinkles from sleep and the places where damp hair has touched the fabric near your shoulders.

You close your eyes. It makes him worse.

With sight removed, every other sensation expands until your own skin seems too thin to contain you. The warmth of him at your back is enormous. In this narrow little enclosure there is no cold corridor to dilute it, no monastery air flowing through arches, no night wind coming under a door. His body gives off heat as though there is a furnace somewhere under his ribs.

Behind you stands a living man.

No.

You swallow painfully.

Something stands behind you.

His breath brushes the shell of your ear and you jerk so badly your shoulder strikes the wooden wall.

He does not laugh. You can picture his expression without turning around — the slight lowering of his eyelids, the calm mouth, the almost infuriating patience. He has watched you come apart piece by piece and never once seemed startled by what he found underneath.

His hands settle on your upper arms, not gripping hard, simply catching you before you can stumble sideways in a space too cramped to allow escape. His palms travel down slowly, following the trembling length of your arms until they reach your elbows, then your waist. He does it as though calming a frightened animal he has no wish to startle further.

“There,” he murmurs. “I have you.”

Your eyes stay fixed on the lattice. You can't look at him. You can't make yourself turn.

“Father…”

It barely comes out. You don’t know what you mean by it anymore.

Title. Accusation. Plea.

It embarrasses you even now.

After everything you think you have seen him do. After the wine. The nights. His body over yours in memories that behave like dreams. The whipping. The way he touched himself while punishing his own flesh. The impossible child-hand beneath your skin. His death beneath your knife.

Father.

The word remains where every other certainty has collapsed. His mouth is so close to your ear that you feel the smallest movement of air when he answers.

“Yes, little dove.”

A terrible pressure builds behind your eyes. You want to cry again. You want to scream until the abbess returns and tears this door off its hinges. You want to demand that he show you his chest, that he tear open the cassock and prove there are no wounds beneath it.

Most of all, you want him to explain.

The desire is almost childish in its desperation.

His palm slides along your upper arm again, not gripping, only following the tremor through the thin sleeve of your nightgown. You are acutely aware that you are still dressed for sleep. No veil. No habit. No scapular. Your hair is loose around your shoulders, half tangled from the hours spent tossing against the pillow before the nightmare — or vision, or memory, or whatever it was — drove you from your room.

You are standing in a confessional in your nightclothes with a priest behind you.

Nothing about this can be justified. Nothing about the weeks leading here can be justified.

Your mind races toward every possible sentence you should say.

You were dead. I stabbed you. There was something in my stomach. I followed you. I saw what you did. You come to my room. Do you come to my room? What are you?

“I don’t understand.” You whisper instead.

He makes a soft sound. Recognition.

“No,” he agrees. “You don’t.”

His fingers reach your wrist after sliding down your arms. His chest closer to your back, the side of his face near the side of your head. You feel your pulse hammering beneath them.

He turns your hand over and studies your palm as if the darkness does not matter to him. His thumb follows the center line, passing over the place where you remember the knife handle cutting into your skin.

Nothing is there.

Not a blister.

Not a smear.

“Look,” he tells you.

You stare down.

At first all you see is the pale blur of your own fingers. He raises your hand nearer the little ribbon of light filtering through the lattice from the chapel beyond. Moonlight has found one of the tall windows somewhere outside and spilled itself across the floorboards.

Clean.

Entirely clean.

Your breath catches.

“I had blood here.”

“I know.”

The certainty with which he says it makes your head turn. Your shoulder brushes his chest. The contact sends you forward again, but his other arm is there before you can strike the wall. It comes around your middle, broad forearm spanning your waist.

“I had blood,” you repeat. “I had—”

“Yes.”

“You were—”

“Yes.”

“I killed you.” You say out loud, eyes widening, breathless.

His cheek nearly touches your temple.

“You tried very hard.”

Your stomach drops. You go rigid inside his arm. He should not know that. He can't know that.

The abbess heard your confession in the hallway, yes, but not everything. Not the sound the knife made. Not the strange peace on his face. Not the exact way one of his hands rested against your belly after his body had gone still.

You didn’t tell anyone that. You think you didn’t.

God, you don’t know anymore.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes. You need one clean answer.

Were you in my room? Did I see you in the sacristy? Were you at the side of my bed? Did I kill you? Was there something inside me? Am I mad?

The questions crowd your throat until none can pass. His hands move over your waist. They do not rush. That is another cruelty you recognize in him now — Sukuna never seems hurried when he has you alone. Whatever waits outside the room can wait. Whatever clock governs everyone else loses jurisdiction over him. He touches you with the composure of someone who knows nothing can interrupt unless he permits it.

His palms slide across the curve of your hips, thumbs pressing gently through your nightgown. Your breath changes.

“You are trying very hard to think,” he says.

You close your eyes shut. Your hands remain clasped against your stomach. You have been holding them that way since leaving the sisters, fingers threaded so tightly the joints ache. A posture of prayer without prayer.

“I killed you.”

He is silent for long enough that your heart begins to hurt. Then his nose passes lightly beside your temple.

“Did you?”

Your eyes snap open.

“I remember it.”

“Memory is not proof.”

“I felt it.”

“So you have told me about many things.”

His hand settles over your lower stomach. Your entire body stiffens. He must feel it.

There is no possible way he does not.

Your lungs stop halfway through a breath. His palm spans the part of you that terrified you this morning, resting with obscene familiarity over the skin concealed beneath your nightgown. You feel only one pulse now, yours, racing too quickly to count.

You try to step forward. There is nowhere forward to go. His other arm closes around your waist and brings you back against him.

The contact is immediate.

Solid.

Undeniable.

Your spine fits along the front of him. His chest rises behind your shoulders with each breath. You feel the line of his body from shoulder to hip, the hard evidence of his interest pressing through layers of black cloth, — his arousal — and shame comes alive so suddenly that your knees nearly weaken.

He catches the change in you with a quiet hum. You press your clasped hands harder together.

“You were dead.”

“Was I?”

“You had blood in your mouth.”

“Perhaps.”

“You were not breathing.”

“That sounds inconvenient.”

The answer is so absurdly calm that something inside you cracks. You twist halfway in his hold, enough to look at him over your shoulder.

His face is close. Closer than you expected.

The confessional is too narrow for anything else. His features fill your vision, the faint candlelight filtering through the lattice barely reaching him. The outline of his jaw is stronger in shadow. His eyes look almost black until he moves his head and red catches somewhere deep inside them.

You search his expression.

No fear. No anger. Not even annoyance that you have just confessed to murdering him.

There is interest. Tenderness, almost. That may be the worst.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper, hurt, confused, mad.

His gaze travels slowly over your face.

“You assume I am doing something.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

Your breath shudders.

“You come into my room.”

“Do I?”

“You touch me.”

His mouth changes slightly. Not a smile yet.

“Do I?”

“You make me…” You stop because the rest of the sentence can't exist inside a confessional. Not aloud. Not when the chapel waits beyond these wooden walls. “You make me dream things.”

“Now we have changed the accusation.”

You stare at him.

“You said you were in my room.”

“Did I?”

“I remember...”

“There is that unreliable witness again.”

Your throat tightens.

He knows.

The certainty lands differently now. Not proof, still, but something inside his voice is too precise. He knows exactly where each doubt lives and presses them one by one, not enough to break them, merely enough to remind you that none are stable.

“You are cruel,” you whisper.

His eyes brighten. The red becomes visible.

“You have called me holy more often.”

“I was wrong.”

“Perhaps you are wrong now.”

You hate him. You think you do. Your body offers no support for the conclusion. His body presses more fully against your back when you begin trembling again.

Undeniably alive. Hot. Demanding.

Your mind tries to solve it and fails so completely that for a moment you feel almost calm.

There must be a point where the human mind simply stops attempting to reconcile contradiction. Perhaps you have reached it. You have spent days forcing evidence into categories — dream, temptation, hallucination, sin, physical fact. You have tested doors. Watched hands. Followed him through corridors. Bitten him. Spied through cracks. Checked your own skin in the morning until you left fingernail marks searching for bruises that refused to exist.

Nothing has held.

Now you have murdered him and even murder refuses to remain true.

Your shoulders sag. His arm feels you surrender before you understand that you have done it.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Something inside you flares weakly.

“I didn’t doanything good.”

“No?” His thumb moves once against your stomach. “You have stopped fighting reality for the first time since I arrived.”

“What reality?”

His mouth comes closer to your ear.

“This one.”

You feel him behind you. Not merely the suggestion of him, not the pressure of darkness over your bed. Chest against your shoulders. One hand resting at your belly, the other sliding slowly from your wrist to your elbow.

You can feel the rise of his breathing. That should comfort you.

Living men breathe.

Demons probably do too, your mind offers unhelpfully.

You squeeze your eyes shut again.

“Tell me you’re real,” you plea.

“I am real.”

“That— it doesn’t help.” You say after a beat, hopeless.

“No,” he says. “I don’t imagine it would.”

“You could be something I’m making.”

“Then you have an impressive imagination.”

The words almost irritate you, something like a sob catches behind your sternum.

“I’m going insane.”

His face lowers until his lips nearly graze your hairline.

“Perhaps.”

Your eyes snap open. You expected denial. Comfort. Some priestly reassurance about exhaustion and temptation. He gives you none.

“Perhaps?” you repeat.

He sounds thoughtful.

“Madness has always been a convenient word for experiences other people can't verify.”

His warmth has already seeped through the thin fabric of your nightgown. Your back knows the shape of his chest too well. The hand over your belly feels more reassuring than it should, even after what happened earlier. Especially after what happened earlier.

He sees too much. His thumb drifts once across the cloth.

“Nothing there now, is there, my little dove?”

The world goes still.

You look down.

His hand.

Your belly.

You did not tell him.

Not in the corridor. Not coherently. The abbess heard fragments, perhaps, but you never explained the hand. You could not. You remember trying to speak and choking on words — knife, blood, heartbeat — but did you say baby?

You can't remember.

You did not.

Did you?

That realization almost sends you apart again.

“How do you know?”

He lowers his face beside yours.

“Know what?”

You try to turn again, more forcefully this time.

He allows it.

That surprises you enough that when you finally face him, you nearly forget why you wanted to.

The booth is too small for this position too. Your back presses against the lattice. He stands inches away, filling what remains of the compartment. Moonlight touches only fragments of him — a pale section of collar, one cheekbone, the edge of his mouth.

His eyes need no light. Carmine finds you through darkness. For several breaths you simply stare.

They look normal.

Human.

Then his pupils contract.

Not because the light changes. It does not change at all.

You see it happen.

Round becoming narrow — a vertical black cut down the center of red.

Your heart gives a painful kick.

You blink.

Round again.

You actually make a small, exhausted sound at that.

His mouth curves. You look up at him, searching for mockery.

There is none.

“You know what I felt.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

His eyebrow lifts. It is such a human expression that it nearly makes you laugh.

“No?”

“I’m tired of telling you things you already know.”

“Then you are learning.”

The quiet satisfaction in his voice makes anger flare hot enough to temporarily overcome fear.

“You make me confess things so you can enjoy them.”

“Sometimes.”

The admission is immediate.

You stare.

He has never done that before. Not plainly.

He watches the shock spread across your face and seems to savor it.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You—”

“I enjoy your confessions.”

Your mouth opens, then closes.

“You…”

“Articulate yourself, lamb.”

“You are supposed to help me.”

“Who said enjoyment prevents me?”

“It should.”

“Why?”

“Because it is wrong.”

His gaze lowers to your mouth.

“And you believe righteousness requires disgust?”

“That isn’t what I said—”

“No. You said I should not enjoy listening when you tell me the truth.” He leans in by a fraction, eyes still on your lips. “I disagree.”

Your pulse beats hard beneath your tongue. He knows exactly what he is doing now. He knows you know. Perhaps that has been the point of tonight.

You killed him, or imagined killing him, and apparently that crossed some threshold he has been waiting beside. His fingers find your jaw.

“You want me to lie to you.”

“I want you to tell me what’s happening.”

“You have asked that question badly every time.”

“How else am I supposed to ask it?”

His thumb brushes beneath your lower lip.

“Ask what you actually want to know.”

You stare at him. Your mind produces too many possibilities.

Are you a demon? Are you the devil? Are you human? Did you defile the wine? Did I see you scourge yourself? Do you enter my room? Have you touched me? Have you made me dream? Did I kill you? Was there something alive inside me? Are you making me insane? Do I want you because of something you’ve done to me? Or did you only notice I wanted you before I did?

Your mouth is dry.

“Have you been in my room?”

There.

Small question. Simple question. The center of everything.

His smile almost disappears.

Almost.

“How many nights?”

Your lungs refuse to fill properly.

“That isn’t an answer.”

“You asked whether I have been there. You did not ask when.”

Your hands curl against the wood behind you. He watches them do it.

“Have you?”

“Yes.”

The world does not end. That feels obscene too.

You expect thunder, perhaps. The crucifix above the chapel altar cracking in half. Bells ringing without hands. Some proof that a single word has rearranged your life.

Nothing.

The monastery remains silent. The man in front of you continues breathing.

“No.” You hear yourself saying.

He tilts his head.

“You wanted the truth.”

“No.”

“You followed me looking for it.”

“No.”

“You bit me looking for it.”

Your stomach twists. His smile returns, then he says, lower this time, filthier.

“You really should have drawn blood.”

A broken sound leaves you.

“You remember that?”

“Quite fondly.”

You shove him. Or try. Both palms strike his chest. He gives perhaps half a step because there is nowhere else to go.

“You—”

The rest jams behind your teeth. His hands close around your wrists before you can hit him again. You struggle once. Then again. He doesn’t wrench. Doesn’t twist. He simply holds them together between you, looking down at you with infuriating composure.

“You were there.” You gasp, trying to conciliate. “All those nights.”

“Many.”

“The things I—”

Your face burns so fiercely that you can't continue. The humiliations of the past weeks return as a single flood. The way you woke breathless. The way your body ached with memories you dismissed as fantasy. The voice speaking against your ear. His hands. His mouth. The sense of being watched before touch ever began.

The nights where nothing happened except his presence.

Perhaps those are worse now. You remember lying perfectly still while a shadow stood beside your bed, heart beating so hard you thought it might shake the mattress.

He had been there. Actually there. Watching.

“What did you do to me?”

The question leaves on almost no voice. His eyes stay on yours.

“Less than you fear.” He offers. “And more than you told yourself.”

Your stomach turns. He releases your wrists. You don’t strike him again. You can't seem to move at all.

“Why?”

Now that one comes easily. He looks amused.

“You know why.”

“No.”

“You confessed it often enough.”

“I confessed my dreams.”

“You confessed desire.”

“They were dreams!”

“Some were.”

Your knees nearly fail. His hand catches your waist, your fingers grip the front of his cassock because the floor seems momentarily unreliable.

“How much?” You beg. He says nothing. “How much was real?”

“Does it matter now?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to know what belongs to me.”

That finally quiets him. His eyes sharpen. You can feel his attention settle fully onto the sentence as though you have offered something precious without realizing it.

“What belongs to you,” he repeats.

“My thoughts. My sins. What I wanted.” Your chest rises too fast. “I need to know whether I wanted those things or whether you put them there.”

His hands become very still. When he answers, his voice is quieter.

“I did not put hunger in you.” You swallow. “I noticed it.” You look away. “I fed it.” Your eyes close. “I gave it a shape you could hate.” Your breathing goes uneven. “And when you hated yourself enough to begin wanting punishment for it, I gave that desire a shape too.”

You open your eyes.

His expression has no apology in it.

None.

He says the ugliest thing anyone has ever confessed to you as calmly as he once explained the order of the mass.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I wanted to know how far you could bend without breaking.” Your mouth parts. His thumb settles against your cheek. “And you broke magnificently.”

You slap him.

The crack is small inside the enclosed booth but satisfying.

His head turns with it.

For one glorious instant he says nothing.

Your palm stings. You stare at the faint reddening mark on his cheek as though it is another test.

Proof.

You struck him. He has a mark. You lean forward before you can stop yourself, studying it.

His gaze returns to you, the redness is already fading.

No.

No.

No no no no no—

You reach up and grab his jaw. You don’t know why. To hold the evidence in place, perhaps. His skin is warm under your palm. You turn his face toward the moonlight.

Nothing.

Not even the beginning of a print.

You start laughing. You hate the sound immediately. It begins small and then tears loose, part laugh, part sob. You cover your mouth with your hand but it keeps coming anyway.

“Of course,” you whisper. “Of course there’s nothing.”

He watches.

“I can’t mark you. I can’t hurt you. I can’t kill you.”

“You hurt me.”

“There’s nothing there!”

“Pain does not require evidence.”

Your laugh dies. That is too close to something human. Too close to what you might say.

“You enjoyed it,” you spit the accusation.

“Yes.”

There.

No shame. No denial. You remember him on his knees, scourge cracking over his own back, blood following old scars while his other hand moved between his thighs. The vision returns with cruel clarity.

“You enjoy everything.”

“No.”

“You said you were a hedonist.”

“I was.”

“You still are.”

His brows rise slightly.

“Am I?”

“You desecrate things.”

“What have I desecrated?”

You stare at him.

The chalice.

The wine.

Your room.

Your prayers.

You.

He sees each answer without you giving any of them. A smile begins at one corner of his mouth. You hate how beautiful it looks. You hate more that you are noticing.

“You,” he says eventually, “have spent your whole life believing holiness is something fragile. White cloth. Closed knees. Quiet thoughts. An untouched body. You think holiness can be spoiled by a hand, a mouth, a thought at midnight.”

“Don’t speak to me about holiness.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t have any.”

He laughs softly.

“Perhaps that is why I understand it better than you.”

You push yourself harder against the lattice as he steps closer. The wood presses into your shoulder blades. He doesn’t touch you again yet.

“What did you see when you stabbed me?” he asks.

You stare at him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You came here with a knife.”

“I didn’t.”

“You remember one.” Your throat tightens. “You remember my blood.” You shake your head. “My body beneath you.”

“Stop.”

“My hand here.”

His palm settles at your lower abdomen again, heel of his palm on your stomach, fingers spanning near your mound. Your whole body jumps.

“Stop.”

“And you remember being relieved when the second heartbeat disappeared.”

“Stop!” The plea tears out of you.

He does. Immediately.

His hand leaves.

He steps back as far as the tiny compartment allows.

That obedience is so unexpected that you stare in awe.

Silence returns.

Your breath comes quickly, uneven.

He waits.

You realize several seconds later that he is proving something.

When you tell him to stop, he stops.

You don’t know whether that makes him better or more terrifying.

“Why?” you whisper.

He studies you.

“Why what?”

“Why did you let me think I killed you?”

“I didn’t.”

“You—”

“You killed me.”

You go cold. His tone remains perfectly conversational.

“In that moment, you killed me. You felt the knife. You saw the blood. You exhausted yourself putting the blade through my chest until you could no longer lift your arm properly. You watched me stop breathing.” Your stomach rolls. “And then you walked out.”

His eyes catch what little light there is. You wait.

“Death is less permanent for some creatures than others.”

The booth feels even smaller. You stare. He gives you no more.

“What are you?”

His smile returns.

At last.

The question he has been waiting weeks to hear.

He leans down until his mouth is nearly against your ear.

“What do you think I am?”

Your skin prickles.

“I think you want me to say demon.”

“Do you believe in demons?”

“Yes.”

“Then say it.”

You can't.

Something about the word would make the situation irreversible. Priest leaves room for deception. Man leaves room for madness. Even monster can be figurative.

Demon is doctrine.

Demon means the thing behind you in bed and the eyes in the dark and the impossible body returning after death all belong to one category that has frightened humanity long before you were born.

Your lips refuse. He waits.

When you still don’t answer, he says quietly,

“Pray.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Pray.” He lowers his head another fraction. “And don’t stop until I tell you.”

You take a shallow breath. He reaches behind him and finds the little wooden stool with his foot, drawing it closer with a scrape that sounds much too loud in the enclosed space. Then he sits.

The change puts you suddenly above him.

You remain standing between his knees, stunned by the shift. His size makes sitting hardly diminish him. If anything, it becomes worse. His shoulders remain broad enough to block the narrow exit behind him. His face is level with your chest. His hands rest on either side of your waist as though this arrangement was always inevitable.

You glance at the door. His eyes follow.

“You can call them.” Your attention snaps back. “The abbess. Sister Shoko. Any of them. Raise your voice, and someone may eventually hear you.” You do not move. He waits. The monastery beyond the confessional remains silent. Somewhere far away, wood settles. He lifts his chin. “Or you can pray.”

Your heart is beating so hard it feels painful.

A pause.

“If you lose your place because you’re frightened, begin again.”

Your lips press together.

His voice changes, only slightly. The softness remains, but authority enters beneath it, the same tone he uses at the altar when the congregation must stand, kneel, answer.

“If you stop because you decide to be stubborn, I will correct you.”

Your pulse jumps. If someone stood outside the booth, they might hear only a priest giving a troubled novice instruction. You hear something else.

Authority.

The same cadence that has guided you through confessions and mass, through the terrible half-dreams in your cell. It reaches some trained place inside you before conscious thought can interfere.

“Which prayer?”

Now he smiles. You know before he says it. Your hands clasp themselves.

Habit.

Obedience.

His eyes drop to them.

“Psalm sixty-three.”

You could recite it while feverish. You could say it while half asleep. You have repeated it enough in recent weeks that the verses have worn pathways through your mind. At his instruction. Under his scrutiny. In your bed. On waking. Whenever thirst comes to mind.

A prayer about longing made into the foundation of your undoing.

You stare toward the small section of carved lattice. Your heart lurches.

“No.”

A small pause.

“No?”

“I’ve prayed it enough.”

“That isn’t for you to decide tonight.”

Something sparks in you.

Anger.

Finally something simple.

“I don’t belong to you.”

He considers that with irritating seriousness.

“Then prove it.”

Your nails dig into the backs of your hands.

“How?”

“Refuse.”

“I am refusing.”

“No. You are telling me you dislike the command.” He leans closer again, enough that the warmth of him reaches you. “Refusal is simpler.”

He waits.

You open your mouth.

Say no.

You have done it before.

Say no.

You told him to stop and he stopped.

Say no.

Instead the first words rise automatically.

“O God,” you begin.

The first words sound wrong. Too quiet. Your throat is raw from crying. You have barely slept. You can still remember the phantom resistance of a knife entering his chest.

Sukuna listens without moving.

“thou art my God...”

You hate yourself instantly.

“Early will I seek thee…”

His thumbs press lightly into your sides. His expression changes, barely. Something sharpens behind his eyes.

“My flesh longeth for thee…”

There.

That sentence.

The one that has become corrupted beyond repair.

You breathe through it.

“In a dry and thirsty land where no water is.”

The silence after the line feels deliberate even though you continue.

You know what that verse means.

You know what he has made it mean.

Your voice wavers. His grip firms at once. A warning.

You continue.

“To see thy power and thy glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary.”

He draws your nightgown gently between his fingers. The fabric gathers. Your breath catches, but the prayer continues because he told you not to stop and there is a part of you that has gone terribly quiet at being given one instruction simple enough to obey.

“Because thy loving kindness is better than life…” His hands slide lower. "My lips shall praise thee..." You stare through the lattice and pretend you can't feel them. “Thus will I bless thee while I live, ” His palms move over your thighs. “…I will lift up my hands in thy name.”

The words begin to separate from thought. That scares you.

You know the psalm well enough that you do not need to retrieve each line consciously. Your mouth can form it without assistance. Your tongue knows where every pause belongs. The prayer proceeds while your mind remains somewhere else entirely, caught on his hands, on the fact that he is alive, on the question of whether the closed door is truly closed.

“My soul shall be satisfied as with marrow and fatness…” His gaze lifts to you. “…and my mouth shall praise thee with joyful lips.” You feel it. You still refuse to look down. “When I remember thee upon my bed…” Your voice thins. “…and meditate on thee in the night watches.”

He goes still. A small smile touches the corner of his mouth.

There is no verse he could enjoy more.

You know it immediately. You almost stop.

His fingers press into your thighs.

You continue.

“Because thou hast been my help…” Something in his breathing changes. So slight you would never notice if you had not spent so many nights listening for him. “…therefore in the shadow of thy wings will I rejoice.”

“My soul followeth hard after thee…” The last verses come. “…thy right hand upholdeth me.”

The enemies. The sword. The foxes. The mouths of liars stopped.

Your voice reaches the end.

Silence.

You swallow.

For one foolish moment, relief appears.

“Again.” He commands.

Your eyes close. You start over.

“O God, thou art my God…”

His hands gather your nightgown higher. Not abruptly. He has all the patience in the world. Cotton slides over your knees, then your thighs. The cool air inside the booth moves across newly exposed skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake.

You keep praying.

His fingertips follow the boundary he creates. The higher the cloth rises, the farther his touch goes, until you can't pretend anymore that this is merely a priest steadying a frightened novice.

Your knees weaken.

“My soul thirsteth…” He draws you closer to him. “…my flesh longs for thee…” Your breath breaks around flesh. His face remains level with your body. “In a dry and thirsty land…” He looks up at you again, gaze scorching your bare soul. “…where no water is.”

Those eyes.

You can't avoid them now.

The candlelight catches properly for the first time, and the red is no longer something you can dismiss as unusual coloring. Carmine burns from within, dark near the rim and vivid toward the pupil. For a second — less — you see the pupil draw narrow. Again. Vertical. You blink, eyes closed shut with too much force for a brief second. Round again.

Your next verse comes late. His hand tightens. You force the words out.

“When I remember thee upon my bed…”

“That is better.” His voice enters beneath yours. You nearly lose your place. “Do not stop.”

You obey. You hate how relieved you feel at the instruction. The world has become too difficult. Every conclusion collapses. Every observation turns against you. You can't decide whether memories belong to reality, dream, possession, illness, or punishment.

But Psalm sixty-three has an order.

It begins.

It proceeds.

It ends.

Then, because he commands it, it begins again.

There is mercy in repetition. You understand why monks copy the same lines until their fingers ache. Why beads are counted. Why bells dictate hours. Thought is dangerous. Ritual saves you from needing it. There is something soothing about not looking, too. If you don’t see him, perhaps you are back in your room, caught between sleep and waking. Perhaps the entire night is another fever. Perhaps dawn will wipe it away.

“…and meditate on thee in the night watches.”

His palms settle against your thighs. You inhale sharply.

The prayer continues.

It comes easier now because you have said it so many times. The verses no longer need conscious recall. They live in the mouth. Muscle memory. The tongue moves and Scripture appears.

You become two things.

One of you prays. The other feels.

His hands turn you around and draw you backward until the backs of your knees meet the little stool and you stand again closer between his knees. You follow without choosing to.

Behind you, he is silent, enjoying the sound of your submission. You feel his hands roam, squeezing your waist before they slide down your thighs. He kneads flesh, palms, feels. They leave your body momentarily only, and you hear the hustle of fabric, maybe a button being opened, his body shifting slightly. Then his fingers hook into the hem of your nightgown once again, bunching the fabric up, dragging it higher and higher until the cool air hits your bare skin and your thighs, ass an lower back are fully exposed to his gaze.

You don't stop. You can't. The prayer flows out of you like a river, natural as breathing.

You keep praying.

His arm comes around your waist, nightgown still bunched up, then you are lowered carefully.

Not onto the stool.

Onto him.

Your breath disappears.

For one terrifying second every sensation you have spent weeks dismissing returns at once — that is what frightens you.

You know this closeness.

You know how his body feels beneath yours even though daylight insists you shouldn’t.

You know the strength in the arm around your waist.

You know the heat.

You know the low vibration of his breath when he restrains a sound near your ear.

You let out a sharp, stifled broken moan as you feel the blunt, scorching hardness of his manhood pressing directly against your soaking wet sex.

It feels familiar — terrifyingly so.

It feels real.

Your prayer falters for a split second as he drives forward, sliding his thick shaft inside you in one relentless surge. You gasp, your back arching as he stretches you past the first strain, filling you completely.

His arm tightens further around your waist — a silent, warning squeeze — as he pulls you down to sit entirely on him, your weight settling onto his strong thighs.

“Continue.”

His mouth finds your shoulder.

The first kiss is slow. Almost chaste. It lands where the nightgown has slipped loose, warmth against skin chilled by the chapel.

You stumble over a syllable. His teeth press lightly. Not enough to hurt. A reminder.

Your prayer corrects itself.

“My soul…” Your breath shakes. “…thirsteth for thee.”

He hums against you.

“Clever girl.”

The praise sinks deeper than it should.

You continue. Your posture gradually changes without your noticing. At first your back is rigid, shoulders lifted, hands clenched in front of you as though expecting judgment.

His palm spreads over your abdomen where the faintest bulge forms. His mouth keeps returning to your shoulder, your neck, the place just beneath your ear.

The tension begins to leave.

Not because you trust him — that would be madness.

Because you no longer have the strength to resist what your body has learned to associate with him.

Warmth. Pressure. Fullness. The low vibration of his voice. The disturbing sense that when he holds you, the rest of the world can't reach.

You finish the psalm again.

“Again.”

You restart before he completes the word.

That makes him laugh softly. The sound travels through his chest and into your spine. You feel his approval as clearly as his arms.

He moves beneath you, hips bucking up, dragging mewls and soft sounds between each verse. You try to focus, even with the words etched in your soul, it’s difficult to deliver a clean prayer with him thrusting inside of you, moving his hips, letting his hot breath hit the sensitive skin under your ear.

The arm tight around you pushes you down against him, serving well as a way to hold your back flush to his chest and allow him do drive himself deep into your womb, grinding against you, forcing the words of the scripture to break into rhythmic moans.

You are a vessel for his pleasure and your own desperate piety, repeating the verses over and over, the holy words mingling with the wet, slapping sounds of skin hitting skin.

At some point, your nightgown slips farther, eventually pushed away entirely, forgotten.

You are not sure who moves it.

Perhaps he does. Perhaps you help.

That uncertainty should horrify you, and somewhere a remaining piece of your mind does register the loss. But your lips keep moving. Verse after verse. Thirst. Sanctuary. Loving kindness. The bed. The shadow of wings.

His mouth finds your shoulder more fully now, leaving open-mouthed, bruising kisses on your flushed skin. He bites you, marking you as his, his low growls and filthy, depraved whispers filling your ear, telling you exactly how you feel around his cock, how much of a blasphemous, unholy little lamb you are for praying while being fucked in a house of God.

The text stops sounding like scripture. It becomes sound. Breath trained and shaped into obedience.

His hand rises to your throat. You freeze for half a heartbeat. He does not squeeze, he merely encloses. His palm spans almost the whole front of your neck, fingers wrapping toward the nape, holding the back of your your head steady against his shoulder.

“Continue.”

You do.

His thumb rests over the place where your voice is made. You feel every word pass beneath it. That realization is so intimate that your eyes sting. He can feel the prayer before he hears it. He feels each vibration against his skin. You swallow between verses, and his thumb moves with your throat.

“Such devotion,” he murmurs. “You spent days worrying that you were losing your faith. Look at you now, dove.” You keep praying because answering him would force you to stop. He continues anyway. “You thought desire made you profane. You thought fear meant you were weak. You believed one ruined thought could drag you away from God.” His mouth touches the corner of your jaw. “What a small God you imagined.”

Your voice falters. His fingers close slightly around your throat.

Warning.

You correct.

“I remember thee upon my bed…”

“Yes.”

“…and meditate on thee in the night watches.”

“Every night.” He punctuates with his hips.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The confession booth feels hotter.

His free hand moves over your body with a familiarity that no dream should possess. Your breath turns shallow. Your mind keeps trying to separate sensation from memory, tonight from all the other nights, reality from whatever fever has been feeding on you.

You can't.

Perhaps you are still in bed. Perhaps you never left. Perhaps there was never a knife. Perhaps you are dying somewhere alone from a fever while your mind builds a priest out of desire and terror. Perhaps the priest is real and you are the only person in this monastery who has ever looked at him long enough to notice what lives underneath.

The thought makes your heart pound harder.

His mouth curves against your skin.

“You are thinking again.” Your prayer continues. “Try not to.”

That is easy enough now. You let the psalm carry you. The confessional disappears gradually — your eyes are open, you can still see the lattice, you can still smell dust, old wood, candle wax, the faint incense embedded in every surface, you can still hear the tiny complaint of the stool beneath him, the whisper of fabric when he moves. Yet the dimensions become uncertain. The booth seems wider than it should be. Your vision tunnels, then expands. The darkness beyond the lattice deepens until it looks less like the adjacent compartment and more like an opening into something without end.

You blink hard. Nothing changes. The words continue.

Your eyes flutter closed, your shoulders relaxing as you surrender completely. You don't need to think anymore. The words slip off your lips automatically, a mantra of submission.

“Thus will I bless thee while I live…” His lips press against your shoulder. “…I will lift up my hands in thy name.” His teeth graze. Warmth opens beneath your skin. “My soul shall be satisfied…” Not pain. Nothing he does seems to hurt anymore. “…as with marrow and fatness…”

That frightens you on some distant level. The mouth at your shoulder becomes firmer. His teeth sink enough to mark, and your body should recoil. Instead you feel only a spreading heat and a sudden rush of gratitude so intense it nearly brings tears.

You are being held.

That thought is absurdly simple.

Held after days of drifting.

Held after waking every morning unsure of your own mind.

Held by the very thing you fear.

You lean back more fully. His chest receives your weight.

“There,” he whispers. “You do know how to surrender.”

At some point your hands unclasp. You don’t notice until one of them is gripping his forearm where it crosses your waist. Your fingers fit between dark fabric and warm skin at his wrist.

The other reaches behind you. Finds his shoulder. Anchors there.

You are not trying to escape. You are holding him as he drives himself into you and you keep praying for him like a ruined devotee.

He does not release your throat. Instead he draws your head backward again until it rests against his shoulder.

You stare upward into darkness. The ceiling of the booth is inches away. His face is beside yours.

You can see one eye.

Red.

Watching.

Always watching.

“When I remember thee upon my bed…” You shiver. “And meditate on thee in the night watches…”

His thumb strokes once along the line beneath your jaw.

“My good little dove.” He croons and your eyes close. The praise sinks too deep. You hate how desperately you have wanted kindness from him.

Not forgiveness. Kindness. There is a difference.

Forgiveness would mean the guilt remains yours.

Kindness means you can stop carrying it for a moment.

His mouth touches your temple. He tells you something low and indecent about how beautifully you pray when your body is occupied with something else, about how much more sincere devotion sounds when it costs you composure.

Warmth spreads through you. He says he knew from the first time you looked at him across the refectory that you would be difficult to corrupt precisely because you already understood temptation. Naivety would have bored him. Innocence without awareness would have been too easy.

You knew.

You looked at him and knew there was something wrong.

Then you came closer anyway.

“You wanted proof,” he says against your ear, pulling you, moving your hips in a luscious sway while buried to the hilt inside your cunt. “Every day. Every night. You followed me through this house looking for enough evil to justify your fascination.”

“No,” you whisper before catching yourself.

His hand tightens at your throat.

The prayer.

You return to it immediately.

He gives a pleased hum.

There is no embarrassment left in the sound of your voice now. Not because you have become shameless, but because you are too far inside the ritual to hear yourself.

Verse after verse. His body moves. Your body follows.

You keep praying.

His fingers remain careful around your throat, never closing enough to take your voice. That seems important to him. He wants to hear you. He wants the psalm uninterrupted.

When your breath catches too long, his hand loosens. When words return, the grip becomes secure again. He controls nothing so tightly as the continuation of prayer.

Eventually you stop knowing how many times you have reached the final line and returned to the beginning. Your memory loops.

O God, thou art my God. Your soul thirsts. Your flesh longs. The sanctuary. The bed. The night watches. The shadow of wings.

That line begins changing things. At first you think it is only your vision. You are exhausted. Your head rests against his shoulder. Your eyes open and close without permission. The booth seems to expand and contract with your breathing.

“Therefore in the shadow of thy wings…” Something moves behind him. You stop. His hand tightens at your throat. Your lips barely work. “…will I rejoice.”

You also do not realize you are smiling until your cheeks become wet. Tears reach the corners of your mouth. They taste faintly of salt.

The psalm never stops.

At least you believe it does not as he continues to hammer up into you, relentless and rough, you start to feel a strange, shimmering happiness.

He is your salvation.

He is the only thing that can make you let go of the sins, the blood, and the mortal coil.

In this dark, cramped booth, he is your god and your savior, and you are nothing more than his devoted, broken instrument.

You think, distantly, that if God objects, He has had several weeks to say so.

Continuation.

✟ @sixeyedsaint @crescent-canine @lunarscosmos @twitone @sweetlandspos

[nevergreen24]

Dark Blue Lipstick

(18+) bsf!Suguru x fem!reader - (mentions of reader x satoru) Having a best friend is great: the kindness, love, shares of laughter. Until is isn't. Until that platonic love twists and turns deeper, and deeper. cw: suguru's pov really; yandere themes/behavior(?); lip fixation; non-con; drugs; kidnapping; thoughts of muder; rape/sa; oral (m receiving); suguru has possessive/obessive thoughts/ideas; 'pet' names (little dove, sweetheart); *reader is dating satoru

a/n: was weirdly compelled to being writing this some time ago. I have not written anything dark in aaages, so kinda rusty with this, maybe not ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ if im missing a tag/warning let me know

Ringing. It's the only thing resounding relentlessly in the confines of Suguru's ears. Sounds of the city absolutely blocked and drowned out. His eyes are zoned in on you. You and Satoru – his best friends. Seeing Satoru's hand attached to your shoulder as he says something, slightly bent to have more personal speaking contact with you, makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“Hey. You alright?”

Your voice reaching his ears snaps him out of his burning stare. A worried furrow situated your forehead and eyebrows. The burning blue irises of Satoru joined your staredown. Suguru swears you're the only thing keeping him sane currently -even if your choice in choosing the lanky, white haired man made him displeased. . His said white haired friend? He was a different story.

Suguru clears his throat as his vision clears and focuses back on you, “Yes, quite alright. Was just lost in thought about where you and I could possibly eat?” He excluded Satoru on purpose - any chance to get you to himself. Like how it used to be.

“Awww, but what about me?” Satoru garnered his and your attentions with a little puppy pout included.

Suguru loved Satoru as his friend. Lately, however, he was simply grating on his frantic nerves and sanity. Ever since he snatched you up.

You try to pipe up, be the doting, comforting girlfriend. Suguru beats you to it. “Sorry Satoru, but I was hoping to spend some time with her. Like we used to. Besides, don't you have to leave in about ten minutes?”

Satoru grumbles in agreement, preceded by a very publicly seen, overly done head throw-back and loud sigh.

“I'm sorry baby,” you chirp to Satoru, “but... I have to agree with Suguru on this. We haven't been able to say hi to one another as ourselves lately. All three of us can go out next time, yeah?”

A “Fine,” is huffed out of his pouting face. Right away, he lowers his face to your level and gives you a kiss to the lips, and plasters a few pecks on your face, eliciting a giggle from you. Suguru has to withhold himself from grimacing, instead choosing to be 'polite' and glance away. He wished it was himself showering you in love. One day. One day.

One day. He keeps telling himself he just has to be patient.

Satoru says his goodbye's, making the choice to just leave earlier – something of which Suguru is ever so grateful for. You, however – and much to Suguru's dismay – have a slight air of sullenness at his choice. Ever so clingy you are; just like your boyfriend. Your behaviors are always so cute to Suguru, so long as he images it is himself in Satoru's place.

Now, it's finally just him and you. A near sigh of relief escapes him.

“Let's get going, shall we?” His eyes twist into their false, closed-charm, while the corners of his lips tilt upward in a smile.

He holds his hand out for you to grab. You grab his arm instead.

Suguru can't recall the last time he was allowed to spend one-on-one time with you – it had to have been months it feels like. He feels himself being drawn to reminisce, and maybe foolishly announces, “This is nice,” as he and you keep moving forward to your designated restaurant. “I don't recall when we were able to be like this, together. It makes me think of old times.”

Suguru catches out of the corner of his eye as you look at him. You laugh wistfully, almost warily. “Tell me about it. I miss it too. I'd never leave your side though, you don't have to worry about that! You mean a lot to me.” Your beautiful lips turn into a radiant, yet meaningful smile.

Your wonderful, cherished smile. Those lips coated in gloss today - not that horrid blue you insisted on wearing simply because your boyfriend loved how it complimented you.

Either way, it was something Suguru has daydreamed and dreamed many a time about: lost in his dreamlike haze while he's caressing your face, enjoying the feel of your hair as he runs his fingers through it; brushing his thumbs over your bottom and top lip, smearing any color you've applied to them; sweetly placing pecks to them, proudly wearing any smudged application that might transfer to his own.

The date outing is going wonderfully, Suguru feels: some idle chatter between you and him, meaningful conversation tucked and rolled in between; laughter; smiles. So many smiles from you.

Oh how Suguru loved hearing your voice and your animated face and gestures, even if they were a little shy and unsure in some instances.

All of it floats through his mind like clouds illuminated in color by the dawn. The food is simple, but hearty and filling – nothing special really. He eats, hardly paying attention to it. Yet still makes comment and note of it to keep conversation flowing, or if you make mention of the food. You even offer to share with him. Of which delights Suguru to no end, sending flits through his being.

It truly does make him reminisce of years past. Of times when it was just you and he. Just you and he being kids turned teenagers, having a laugh during and after school hours. Sneaking off to go by the river or to the park when school let out, all to murmur desires and wishes in life; at times silly things for manga and books; other times still messing around with critters crawling or hopping in the grass. And sure, both he and you made other friendships. Nothing near as full and heartfelt as what you both shared though.

Suguru was smitten with you then, and still is now. Wanting for you to be in his life forever, just the two of you to hold hands, run, laugh, experience life together. He will hold you to your previous words. Said feelings are just maybe not as strong as now.

Somewhere down the line, though, Satoru popped up.

Then the possessive thoughts started. The obsessive. The dark, twisted, sick thoughts of making and keeping you as his. Jealousy was an ugly color on him. But he managed to blend it into his everyday life and hide it well behind the midnight depths of his eyes.

He can't help it, being jealous of you and Satoru. You were friends with Suguru first, long before Satoru came into the picture. You were supposed to be his. You were everything he could want, and then some. He feels he doesn't deserve you. But he wants to have your attention and devotion oh, so terribly. It's the kind of mental war and hurt that keeps him awake for hours into the night, spiraling thoughts becoming unsavory. Many a fleeting thought of killing Satoru goes through his mind periodically.

Suguru and you grew up together, not far from one another, in the same area: he lived a few doors down and went to the same school as you. You would invite him over for school study sessions, and vice versa. As kids, he and you had sleep overs. Things began to shift as both of you aged: drifting apart a little in middle school as you both found new friends and companions, yet always choosing one another at the end of a day; high school flew by but not without difficulty. Finding internships and part time jobs for respective interests and jobs and career paths, studies and exams slamming in like a freight train. During those times you liked to have him over for semblance of peace and comfort, aside from assistance. Your mom and dad would bring snacks, ask if you needed anything. Both yours and his parents and other family members thought you two were secretly dating. You were so close with one another! Disappointment hit when you adamantly denied. Said no. 

Suguru disagreed - wasn't there a reason you shared your deepest desires, darkest secrets, intimate details? Once even undressing with no shame in the same room as him. He recalls a most furious blush and painful erection had sprung up. He even remembers you eyeing it up from the corner of your eye and biting your lip gently before averting your sight immediately as he nearly sprinted to the bathroom. Amusement park 'dates' were in order too, hand holding and the cliché ferris wheel ride, sharing food and drink from the same straw.

The only saving grace in high-school was Satoru. He was a welcome distraction – for a time. Smarts near akin to Suguru's; trying to make light of things and crack jokes a lot; got Suguru in trouble numerous times (they both had fun); had a healthy amount of likes and dislikes, disputes and arguments that were always made up after. Satoru even had an attracting aura like his own.

And attract it did. But oh, if Suguru did not despair seeing you pulled into it.

He remembers when his and Satoru's friendship progressed even more after you three graduated. At that time you weren't around too much (unfortunately for Suguru), what with work and helping your family out. When you were around, those little shifts began of you becoming closer and closer to Satoru. Suguru forced himself to dampen his vitriol. Eventually, things settled down, and Suguru, you, and Satoru were all accepted into the same college - a blessing Suguru thought: he could finally spend more time with you! Until it wasn't. 

Not long after being fortunate to live on campus and start classes, Satoru latched onto you. And you him. What did Satoru have that Suguru didnt?? 

“There's no reason we can't still be friends and hang out, Suguru!” He recalls you saying to him, not an ounce of apology nor shame in your tone. That word, 'friends', it made him cringe and seethe at the same time wanting to throttle his male best friend then whisk you away for himself. He accepted anything you would give him though - every laugh and smile, shared snack and note became little things he filed away to replay during the days you were not there.

Suguru was obsessed with you.

The depths of his soul housed his hatred for Satoru, and undying, clutching, suffocating love for you.

Many a night Suguru dreamed of making you his, forcing Satoru to watch and be on the sidelines. At times torture him, before or after made no difference to Suguru. Satoru stole you. 

Everything - life - has ran at a steady flow. Even now things were okay. But that river has been slowly dwindling as Suguru felt his patience, sanity, and good conscience ebbing. 

Satoru was naught for want - Suguru thirsted for the attention and heart eyes you  gave the ocean-eyed man. Everything else was insignificant to Suguru. Earning such life necessities was easy enough, if not tiring and draining at times. But you. What did Satoru have that he did not? Was it the money? His carefree nature? His looks? Personality? What would Suguru need to do to make you his?

The only thing that helps distract him from meandering thoughts: your lips. The only pair ever he focuses on and feels drawn to near every time he can lay his violet eyes on you. Ones he found so sinful yet attention worthy. When he was younger, more simple, heart fluttering ideas of mere kisses happened. Now, imagery of forcefully grabbing your face and smashing his lips to your own were what occupied his head space. Sucking the breath out of your lungs till you were dizzy; biting them till they bled and caressing with his tongue in a soothing apology.

And lately, his mind has conjured another way of occupying those lips and your mouth. Damn Satoru and his love for lipstick on your pretty lips - Suguru feared it was driving him up a wall. Having to witness you and Satoru making out, you leaving faint marks any place on his face, neck, and collar bones. Ooh, what Suguru wouldn't give. Late night ideas and even early morning day dreams have coalesced: the dark tip of his cock battering the back of your throat while his hands gripped your hair and kept your head in place as your nails dug into his muscular thighs.

Was that particular thought from hatred and a want for payback? Maybe a means to keep your sounds to himself? Perhaps. All he knows is that he wants to hear your sounds as he pleasures you, and you him.

A handful of instances of hearing you and Satoru throughout the midnight hours had been enough to have his own cock weeping sadly in arousal and lack of touch - enough to have him fisting the sheets and biting his bottom lip raw because he promised himself he wouldn't jerk off unless it was himself being the cause of your pretty moans, gasps, and cries. 

But now. 

Now.

Now. 

Now now now. 

Forward thoughts of ‘do it now; it's the perfect opportunity’ highlighted at the forefront. And really, it was true. Now was an opportune time.

The current party at Satoru's must have taken its toll on your social battery. It is loud afterall. Not in the clubbing type loud with blaring music and flashing lights. Just with raucous laughter, milder music, hoots and hollerings, and games. Round after round of good drinks and warming foods spread across the tables. All held within Satoru's own lavish house.

Or mayhaps the many drinks you swallowed were the cause. Two of which he did drug put supplements into – just to help you rest better, of course. Suguru knows you begin to tire out more towards the middle of any taxing event. It was a good ploy, and the drugging executed perfectly as the opportunity to go to the kitchen to fetch the drinks for you landed right into his hands.

He was forced to sit across from you and Satoru. Forced to watch Satoru subtly trail his hands over your thighs, maybe even higher up still judging by your reactions. It does not matter, Suguru kept telling himself. Tonight is the night. Certain things would make up for that instance anyways.

Not very long after excusing yourself – thirty, maybe forty minutes – Suguru followed suit.

He slipped away quietly, making sure Satoru was no where in sight to not be spotted. He nonchalantly made his way upstairs, knowing the other party goers had knowledge of him being Satoru's close friend. He knew Satoru wouldn't think to ask either, already knowing Suguru would more than likely check up on you. That, and being preoccupied with his party guests. Him having a couple of drinks does help considering his low alcohol tolerance. But maybe Suguru should have given him a mild sedative of sorts beforehand? Just something to help muddle memories of the nights events.

No matter now. The chance came and went. You were the target now. And Satoru, the entire time of knowing Suguru, was none the wiser to his intentions.

Ideas of having you to himself began to arouse him, slow, steady breaths becoming deeper as he felt his mind start to race from excitement. His right foot landed on the top-most step, the faintest creak accompanying it, and he made his way over to your and Satoru's shared room.

The music and voices were loud enough to drown out any loud thumps should anything happen. Could Suguru have chosen a better plan and chance to make you his? Yes. He is well aware of that. But this would teach Satoru a lesson. And you.

Suguru prayed to his non-existent gods you were asleep on the bed. He didn't want this opening to go down the drain.

He cracks the door open ever so slowly, peering in. The bedside lamp is on. Wonderful. And straight away, there you are, sleeping soundly with limbs splayed and one hanging off the edge of the bed while you sleep on your back. You looked such a soft mess. Almost like a baby.

Suguru carefully, silently, opens the door further. He stalks towards you after shutting and locking it, his feet but a whisper on the floor, trying to not wake you. He can't help himself as he brushes his finger tips on the edge of the bedding while he slowly walks. He trails his eyesight up the length of your form, appreciating every little detail and curve beneath your clothing.

His murky eyes finally meander up to you face, just as he stops his moving and stands still near your head. His eyes fixate on your lips instantly. Dark blue lipstick. It accentuates you so well. Satoru knows as much too - he has immaculate taste in fashion design, Suguru has to admit. He noticed that color was Satoru's favorite for you, had you wear it anytime one of your outfits accommodated for it. Most often he had you wear it in the bedroom. 

A quiet, shudder of breath leaves Suguru's lungs. His fingers twitch. Your lips are so pretty being slightly parted. Your entire being is ethereal.

Impatience arose. Suguru tamps it down. He felt his dick jump slightly in his pants, already more than half hard in the short journey up the stairs to taking in your peaceful form. He slides his hooded gaze up and down your clothed body for several more moments before moving a hand into his pants to palm at his erection. He braces a palm on the night stand to balance himself. After a few strokes and he ever so quietly, unashamedly shimmies his pants and boxers off.

He clambers onto the bed like a silent predator. Fleeting seconds pass – not a stir from you. Adjusting himself, the soft rustling of sheets accompanying his movements, his knees now bracket your head. The ghost of your breath being exhaled faintly brushes over his length and balls. Suguru shivers ever so slight. Finally. After endless days and nights spent thinking of this moment, it has come to fruition. Albeit unknowingly to you. No remorse is felt though; he's here to collect his due after all.

His hands move on their own. They shake lightly as he gently cups your face and brushes your lips with his thumbs, effectively leaving color imprint on himself and smearing it on you. Bringing a thumb up to his mouth, he licks and sucks until no more lipstick is left. He brings the same hand back down to adjust his cock and lead the head towards your mouth. You warm breath is mind numbing on his tip.

Knowing he might not have much time, he hurries himself, keeping in mind to not rouse you from slumber – for now. His tip kisses your lips. His pre-cum attaches and smears. He nudges his tip in just until he feels your teeth bump it. Hooking a thumb into you jaw, he slowly opens your mouth while feeding his cock into it. Your tongue, your warm, wet cavern felt heavenly. Suguru swears in his mind that if we were to die, he would want it to at least be now while he could feel your warmth.

Once more, he adjusts himself so he can hover over your chest, and leans over part way to allow better access to your mouth. Now he could continue properly. He repeats his previous actions, this time going in deeper and deeper, nearly hitting your throat. Ever so slowly, Suguru glides his dick in and out, over your tongue. Your teeth a gentle scrape he relishes in. All of it has him shutting his eyes and tilting his head back as he tries desperately to not moan despite lack of better stimulation.

Looking back down, he sees faint traces of your dark blue lipstick smeared onto his shaft. Just enough to cause a minor haywire in his brain. Just enough to excite him even further than he already was.

Suguru hangs his head down, thankful his hair is done up, with lips parted as he watches more intently. He nudges deeper still and increases his pace. A near indistinct sound of schlick can be made out by his ears now – he smiles. Now, he makes the move to the back of your throat, stuffing himself in for a split second before easing away. He quickens, balls now having a slight sway.

Your eyes flutter. Suguru feels your muffled groan through his dick. Not pulling out, he waits a moment for you to register what's going on. He hears and feels your body shift under him as he finally settles his weight onto your chest. Your hands fist the sheets and he observes as your eyes fly open in panic.

He shoves his cock down your throat, effectively choking you.

The absolute, sick joy he feels knowing that you've registered it's him even under the influence. Both of his hands brace and squeeze your jaw now to prevent you from chomping down or shifting your head. He keeps himself lodged, not enough to choke. You sputter and begin thrashing, your cry's muffled while drool spills out, and your hands grasp onto his thighs with your nails raking into him. He feels you pound your fists into him. None of the pain registers.

He hushes you, “Shhh shh sh, it's alright sweetheart! It's just me.” An expectant and pleading look on his features.

Still having a strong grasp on your face, he settles his thumbs heavily onto your bottom teeth, still preventing you from causing him injury.

Suguru grits his teeth as he battles you. “All will be well soon enough, you'll see,” he mutters, lost in his fantasy of finally having you as his.

Moving his fingers, he squeezes your cheeks inwards so your molars gnaw on the flesh and his thumbs on the outside first and foremost. Your lips push outward yet still stretch around his cock – an odd sensation to Suguru as he goes in all the way and feels his own thumbs through your cheek muscle and fat, your teeth still a pleasurable scrape. He moans softly while going to his hilt, stuffing his tip in the back of your throat, maybe even farther down still, and keeping himself there. Drool spills out even more around the edges of your smudged lips, most pooling into the back of your mouth.

He felt your body continue to fight; begin to panic at now lacking oxygen. He did not bother looking, too transfixed on your distraught, disgust filled face, eyes filled with hate and hurt. Most of all your beautiful, beautiful lips smearing that lipstick all over him. A wonderfully ironic metaphor of Suguru wiping Satoru out of your life.

You'd learn to love Suguru. Fully. Truly. Even if it took something such as this.

Tears fill your eyes now, realizing, through your muddy yet clear thoughts: no one is coming.

The assault continues. Your arms and hands slack, instead curling into fists atop his thighs as he uses you. A pleased grin settles on his face and his eyes relax even more. His orgasm was nearing, even without much stimulation. Once more he hurries, now battering your throat with harsh, quick thrusts. Burying himself to his base, the sensation to cum rears its head intensely. He throws his head back, mouth parted in a silent moan as his entire body tenses. The throbbing of his cock is intense as his cum spurts out quickly, shooting into your throat and spilling into your mouth.

“Swallow.” He grits out, crazed and possessive love in his piercing gaze.

You can barely comply, sputtering, drooling, trying to not choke – he's still lodged in. Feeling your muscles constrict and relax numerous times to take the whole of his release brought Suguru euphoria. He pulls out when you finish.

After gasping in air, you croak out a hoarse, “Why... why are you doing this to me,” between ragged breaths and coughs, tears streaking your face.

A false smile of love and care spreads. Something flashes in his eyes you don't dare name. “Because I love you, silly.” Immediately his stare flattens and turns dark, smile now gone. “You're mine. You were mine first, and are mine now. And you always will be. You don't need Satoru. You never have, and you never will.”

The back of his right hand caresses the side of your face as that same false smile returns, chipper tone back in his sultry voice. “But don't worry my little dove. I'll make sure to keep you happy, mend all of your hollow parts. Keep you filled and satiated. Fill all your holes with me. After all, you did say you'd never leave my side.”

Like a lost little lamb, you dared not protest as his large hands found your inviting neck.

“Hey, Suguru,” a tipsy Satoru approaches him. “You were gone for bit. S'she ok?”

Suguru had just ventured back downstairs. He couldn't help the happy horrid-ness surround his heart knowing his white-haired 'friend' wasn't privy to what transpired.

He returns, “Of course. She had woken up and wanted to chat for a little before going back to sleep is all. She asked you to not bother her. Said she has a terrible headache and needs to be alone now.”

“Oh. Alright.” Satoru made no further complaint. But slight suspicion and worry flashed in those two simple words.

Suguru slings an arm around his 'friends' shoulders, “Come now, let's continue having fun, hm?” he exclaims

He leads him back to the tables where everyone else sat. And now was the time to keep feeding Satoru lies, spiked drinks, and lead him away from thoughts of you. And someday too, Satoru's chatter would cease – Suguru would see to that.

Would he ever tell Satoru he laced your drink with something enough to make you drowsy and pass out for a short time? Or the fact you'd be in better hands now that Suguru was able to kidnap save you and whisk you away? Of course not.

Even the best of friends hide at least one or two, or more, or-- deepest, darkest secrets from one another. And your new whereabouts would be something Satoru would need to pry from his cold, dead mind.

You were safe now. Soon to be far away. Soon to be joined by Suguru. And he can finally have his happy life with just you in it.

a/n: coming up with dark ideas is so funny because then the next thing i'll come up with is fluffy lmfao

[belimah]

XCV. Unraveling - pt2

You continue. The tension gives gradually. His body warms your palms. Every time you shift lower, the shirt brushes across the back of your thighs, reminding you how little exists between your skin and his. You try not to think about that.

You move along his spine, careful not to press directly on bone, then outward over the heavy muscles on either side. Lower. Back up. Across the left shoulder. The curve where his neck meets the top of his back is especially tight.

Sukuna groans there. The sound travels through you in a way that has nothing to do with that massage and your body responds immediately, treacherously. Heat gathers low in your stomach. Your nipples tighten beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. The awareness of sitting astride him becomes impossible to ignore.

You shift your weight. His back rises subtly beneath you with his breath.

“Keep going.”

“You’re very demanding for someone receiving a favor.”

“You stopped.”

“I was repositioning.”

“Reposition faster.”

You lean forward to work the top of his shoulders. In doing so, you lift your hips slightly away from his lower back. The position forces you to support more of your weight through your knees and core. It is less comfortable but safer for your dignity, because the damp warmth gathering between your thighs has become obvious to you.

You tell yourself Sukuna can't notice that.

That is a stupid thing to tell yourself about Sukuna.

Still, you focus on the massage. You press your thumbs near the base of his neck, then use the heel of one hand to work the tension toward the shoulder. His skin moves beneath your touch, smooth except where scars interrupt the texture. You trace none of them directly. Some questions don't belong to tonight.

His head turns slightly on his folded arm. His eye opens.

Because you are leaning forward, your face hovers above his shoulder. You look down and find him watching you from too close a distance.

The angle feels intimate in a way straddling him did not until now.

His gaze moves over your expression slowly, noticing every effort you make to appear unaffected. Your breathing. The way your lips part when you push harder. The tension in your own shoulders from holding yourself up.

“Sit down,” he says.

“I'm sitting.”

“No. You are hovering like an idiot.”

“Don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can't,” he says, as if that was obvious.

“You don’t know that,” you narrow your eyes at him.

“You weigh almost nothing.”

His right arm slides from beneath his head. The hand finds your calf.

At first he only rests it there, palm warm around the back of your leg. Then his thumb begins making slow circles over the skin below your knee.

Your concentration falters. You press into the wrong spot. Sukuna’s mouth curves.

“You are going to hurt your own shoulders in that position.”

“Stop worrying about me and enjoy the massage you begged for.”

“I am trying.”

“Then stop nagging.”

His fingers tighten gently around your calf. The touch isn't sexual by itself, that kinda makes it worse — it’s casual possession. Familiar warmth. The steady motion of his thumb as though your leg belongs beneath his hand whenever it happens to be near.

Heat spreads through you faster.

“Sit,” he says again.

You look down at him. The expression in his eye carries that old command, the one that expects obedience not because he raised his voice but because he decided the question is finished.

Usually you push back on instinct.

Tonight you freeze.

Sukuna notices at once. His brows draw together slightly.

You consider your options. Sit fully and let the damp fabric of your panties press against his bare back. Shift away and expose the reason more obviously. End the massage and pretend fatigue.

You choose the last one.

“I can’t sit down.”

The confusion on his face is genuine.

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It mattered enough to stop you.”

“I’m done anyway.”

You remove your hands and begin unstraddling him. Sukuna’s grip leaves your calf. You move too quickly, catching the shirt beneath your knee before freeing it and settling beside him with your legs tucked under you. Your hands land in your lap. You arrange your face into something neutral.

He remains on his stomach for a moment, then slowly turns onto his side.

You avoid his gaze by looking at the fireplace.

“The tension in your back is ridiculous,” you say. “You should consider a career change.”

Sukuna props his head on one hand. His eye moves over your position.

Knees together. Hands folded. Shirt hem barely covering the tops of your thighs. Posture too careful for someone who supposedly stopped because the massage was finished.

The corners of his mouth begin to twist.

You are convincing no one.

His free hand reaches toward your knee. He just rests it there.

The weight alone sends another pulse of warmth through you. His thumb presses once into the soft skin above your kneecap.

“Why could you not sit?”

“I didn’t feel like it.”

Sukuna hums.

The sound contains no belief.

His gaze lowers.

The shirt has ridden higher from the massage. When he looks at the narrow triangle of exposed thigh between the hem and your folded legs, you fight the urge to pull the fabric down. That would only confirm the problem. His eye returns to your face.

“I won't ask again.”

“You’ve been gone too long to come back and start demanding stupid answers that don’t matter.”

“That one matters.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Then telling me should be easy.”

You clench your jaw.

Sukuna pushes himself upright. The movement happens without hurry, but his size changes the whole arrangement. One moment he is lying beside you. The next he sits back on his calves, bare torso upright, shoulders relaxed from your work, eye level now above yours.

His other hand lands on your opposite knee.

You stare at him.

“Sukuna.”

He grips gently at first, fingers spanning the sides of your knees.

Then he pulls.

Your tucked legs slide toward him across the bed. You make a startled sound and instinctively press your thighs together.

That makes his expression sharpen. He separates them with effortless control. Not rough enough to hurt, not fast enough to frighten you, but decisive. His hands move from your knees to the soft inside of your thighs, prying them open before you can invent a convincing objection. The shirt bunches upward. Cooler air reaches the damp cotton of your panties.

You attempt to close your legs. Sukuna doesn’t allow it.

His hands hold your thighs apart, thumbs resting against the sensitive skin near the crease. His eye remains on your face rather than dropping immediately.

“When the fuck did you become shy around me?”

You have no answer.

Because you don't know.

You have been naked in front of him before under circumstances far more dangerous. He has seen your body afraid, angry, wounded, aroused. He knows the reactions you spent years being taught to treat as a function rather than desire. He has touched you with permission and without it in the uglier parts of your history, and the two of you have since built something so complicated around consent, appetite and trust that sometimes you can't name where one old feeling ends and another begins.

This shyness is new.

Perhaps missing him changed something.

Perhaps imagining his death made the wanting too honest for you. It’s easy to hide desire beneath hormones, need, the conditioning carved into your body. Harder when relief itself becomes heat. When seeing him alive makes you want to touch every inch just to verify it belongs to the same world as you.

Sukuna watches the realization move across your face. Only then does his gaze lower. He sees the damp patch on your underwear and a quiet sound leaves him.

“Oh.”

You wish it was surprise, but it’s not.

Recognition.

Satisfaction darkening into hunger.

Your whole body heats as though the single syllable touched you.

Sukuna’s thumbs press into your thighs.

“You did miss me that much.”

You clench your jaw and twist slightly in his grip, not truly attempting escape. The movement only shifts you closer.

His chuckle is low.

One hand slides upward along your thigh. Calloused palm over soft skin, warm enough to leave a trail after it passes. The other follows until both reach your hips beneath the loose shirt. His fingers spread around them, holding without squeezing.

His eye finds yours again.

The humor has not disappeared, but something more serious sits beneath it. The same thing he always looks for now before taking what your body already offers.

Wanting.

Not conditioning.

Not submission produced by fear.

Not surrender because escape seems useless.

You.

He searches your face with a patience that doesn’t resemble the man who first owned you.

You know what he finds.

You have not hidden it for a long time.

Your heart beats hard enough to shake your breathing. You could tell him to stop. He would. Perhaps with an insult, perhaps with frustration, but he would. The knowledge is no longer theoretical. You have tested it in smaller moments, learned the exact change in his body when resistance becomes real rather than playful.

You don't want him to stop.

Sukuna hooks his fingers beneath the sides of your panties. He pauses.

You hold his gaze and lift your hips slightly.

Permission.

His expression changes. The underwear slides down your legs slowly, catching at one ankle before he pulls it free and lets it disappear somewhere among the blankets.

You remain open before him, shirt gathered around your waist, skin heated from embarrassment and anticipation.

Sukuna lowers himself. His shoulders shift between your thighs, broad enough that your legs have to bend around him. He lies on his stomach again, but this time his face rests where your body is already aching for him. Your calves settle over his shoulders almost by instinct.

The sight of him there sends a shiver through you, making your toes curl slightly.

His breath reaches you first.

Warm.

Slow.

Deliberate enough to make your stomach tighten before he even touches you. It’s a searing contrast to the cool air. The heat of his body radiates against yours — and his large, calloused hands settle firmly on the apex of your thighs, pinning you down with a possessive weight that makes your stomach flip.

You can't stop looking at him.

Sukuna does not break eye contact.

Not even when his mouth presses to you.

The first contact tears a sharp, undignified cry, your hips bucking instinctively as you try to close your thighs around his head, desperate to pull him closer, to merge with him. But Sukuna is undeniably stronger, his grip tightening on your legs, forcing them wide to ensure he has full, unobstructed access to your nectar.

His mouth moves slowly.

No hurry. No frantic edge despite the desire visible in the way his eye narrows. He tastes you as if reacquainting himself with something he has thought about too often during the time apart. The broad pressure of his tongue draws through your wetness, sweeping upward from the bottom of your slit all the way to your clit. He licks you with long, greedy strokes, collecting every drop of your arousal and savoring you like a starving man presented with the most delicious meal of his life. His lips close with careful suction. He lingers where your body responds most sharply and memorizes the reaction again.

Your body reacts violently to every touch. Goosebumps erupt across your skin, and your hands shoot forward, fingers tangling deep into his damp hair. The strands slip cool between your fingers before warming against your palms. You hold on, not pulling at first, only anchoring yourself because the pleasure arrives too quickly after a day built from fear. You anchor yourself to him, clutching tightly as he eats you out with a relentless, focused hunger.

He finds your clit — that tiny, throbbing bud of pleasure — and begins to suckle on it, his tongue flicking and swirling against the sensitive peak. Each press, each suction, draws a series of breathy moans and high-pitched yelps from your throat. You are unraveling, your mind turning to white noise as he focuses entirely on your pleasure, treating your pussy like a sacred altar.

Sukuna hums against you.

The vibration travels through your whole body.

Your hips lift.

His forearm settles across them, keeping you against the mattress without pinning you harshly. His other hand remains on your thigh, fingers pressing into softness whenever your legs threaten to close.

“You’re— ah!” Your breath breaks. “You’re being smug about this.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

His mouth curves where it touches you.

The bastard is absolutely being smug.

You tug his hair.

The resulting sound from him deepens, rough and pleased. His attention sharpens. The slow teasing becomes more precise, each motion aimed at the place that makes your breath catch. He remembers your body too well. Perhaps better than you do. The pressure you prefer. The rhythm that builds without overwhelming too soon. The way you become more sensitive when he presses his mouth firmly rather than fluttering lightly.

You try to hold yourself still. That lasts less than a minute.

Your body moves toward him, thighs trembling around his shoulders, fingers tightening in his hair. The room narrows to warmth, breath and the steady work of his mouth. The danger outside the safehouse still exists. The Gojos are still planning. A contract killer is sending false messages somewhere in the city. Tomorrow will contain laws, surveillance, weapons and decisions large enough to rearrange lives.

For now, Sukuna is alive beneath your hands, that is all your body knows.

Just as you think you can't take any more, that arm he used to pin your hips back down moves. You feel his fingers — thick and demanding — slide slowly inside you. One finger first, easing into you while his eye watches your face. The stretch is gentle, familiar enough that your muscles relax around him. He moves slowly until your hips begin following, then adds another with the same care, stretching you out with a deliberate, rhythmic motion that complements the work of his mouth.

He does not rush. He never needs to when he knows anticipation itself makes you more responsive.

The dual sensation is overwhelming — the internal pressure of his fingers hitting your G-spot while his tongue continues to torture your clit in tandem sends you spiraling. You feel the tension building in your belly, a tight coil of electricity that winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps.

Your head falls back against the pillow and he makes a low sound of acknowledgment.

His fingers curl.

The sensation reaches deeper, finding the spot that makes your whole body tense at once. Your grip on his hair becomes almost painful. He repeats it, mouth never leaving you, and your breathing dissolves into helpless little sounds you would be embarrassed by if you had enough room in your mind to judge them.

Sukuna watches everything. The way your lips part. The flush moving down your neck. Your stomach tightening beneath the grey shirt. He looks enthralled in a way that makes you feel both powerful and completely exposed.

The pressure builds steadily — warmth tightening in your lower belly, spreading through your thighs, making every stroke feel more pointed than the last. You recognize the edge approaching and try to slow it, not wanting the moment to end too quickly after all the time spent wanting him.

Sukuna refuses to let you retreat from it.

His fingers press again, his mouth closes with exactly enough pressure, and the release breaks through you. Your back arches. A cry leaves you before you can restrain it, his name torn apart inside the sound. Your thighs shake around his head. The hand in his hair pulls him closer while every muscle in your body contracts and loosens in waves.

Sukuna doesn't stop. He doesn't even relent. He watches you unravel with rapt attention, his eye likely gleaming with triumph as he continues to suck and flick, driving you deeper into the high. As the first wave slowly ebbs away, you tug at his hair, nearly sobbing for him to stop, your nerves raw and hypersensitive. But he is deaf to your pleas, too focused on the taste of you, his fingers curling inside you to hit that exact spot that makes your toes curl.

The pleasure becomes too much. You twist against the mattress, tugging at his hair as if it would make him stop instead of keep going.

“Enough— Sukuna, fuck— wait!”

He eases only slightly, not enough to let the sensation disappear. His mouth softens while his fingers continue moving slowly, keeping the fading edge alive. Your body trembles through the last waves, already oversensitive, already understanding he has no intention of being satisfied with one.

You push weakly at his forehead. He catches your wrist with the hand that had been holding your thigh.

His lips leave you for half a second.

“You offered me a massage.”

You stare down at him, breathless and confused.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I'm returning the favor.”

“This isn't— the same, hah…”

“No,” he says, mouth brushing you between words. “This is better.”

You nearly kick him.

He returns his attention before you can gather enough strength.

The second ascent is different. Faster because your body has already been opened, every nerve awake and receptive. Sukuna knows the exact line between too much and enough. He keeps you near it, changing pressure whenever you begin to turn away, drawing pleasure out until your protests lose any shape resembling refusal.

With infuriating ease, he works you back up. His mouth and fingers collaborating to build a second, even more intense peak. You are panting, mewling, calling his name in a broken voice as he drinks your pleasure like it's the elixir of the gods.

You call him a filthy bastard and his eye gleams again.

You whisper his name again, not as complaint this time, and something in his face changes. The humor recedes. What remains is darker and more intent, but also strangely tender. He presses his mouth to you as if the sound of his name mattered more than the insult before it.

When the second climax hits, it’s explosive, leaving you shivering and completely spent, your muscles twitching in the aftermath of his worship.

One moment you are panting, trying to follow the rhythm. The next the tension snaps and pleasure rushes through you harder than before. Your body curls around it. You drag Sukuna close by his hair, raise your hips as you press against his mouth, and cry into the pillow, voice broken by how thoroughly he has pulled you apart.

He drinks every reaction.

When he finally stops, it is because your hands have gone weak in his hair and your thighs no longer hold themselves around his shoulders. He unlatches his mouth from your drenched cunt — you are hot, red, and glistening, sweat beading on your forehead and neck. His mouth is wet, his breathing deeper than before. The sight should embarrass you. Instead heat gathers again, lower and slower.

He lets your legs fall back to the bed with a soft thud and crawls upward, his movements predatory, smooth. The mattress depresses beneath each movement. His body covers yours gradually, broad shoulders blocking part of the firelight, arms coming down on either side of your head. The grey sweatpants remain low on his hips. His bare chest brushes the shirt covering yours.

You can smell yourself on him. The knowledge makes your face burn hotter. Sukuna’s nose hovers inches from yours.

He watches you with an expression that is almost calm, if not for the hunger in it.

“You look ruined.”

“You look proud.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

You look at him, closer this time.

The wet pink hair falling over his forehead. The scar. The dark lines across his skin. The exhaustion still present beneath desire. The fact that he is here after a day in which the possibility of losing him became too real to ignore.

The thought rises without permission.

Beautiful.

God, he is beautiful.

There is nothing uncomplicated about the attraction. His face carries violence and arrogance and the history of every terrible thing he did while believing the world could be divided between what he consumed and what resisted consumption.

Still.

Beautiful.

Your arms wrap around his neck.

You close the distance.

The kiss lands with all the intensity you have been holding back since he walked through the safehouse door.

You taste yourself first.

Then him.

Tea. Clean water from the shower. The warmth of his mouth. Sukuna answers immediately, one hand leaving the mattress to grip your jaw while his lips part over yours. The kiss deepens until breathing becomes secondary.

There is nothing gentle about the hunger.

Yet even at its roughest, he remains aware of you. His hand does not tighten beyond what you lean into. His teeth catch your lower lip, then release when your breath changes. He kisses like a man trying to erase the hours spent apart by forcing both of you into the same body.

You welcome it.

Your legs wrap around his waist. The movement drags him closer, and the hard line beneath his sweatpants presses against your bare center.

Both of you react.

Your breath breaks into his mouth. Sukuna’s body goes very still for one second, restraint becoming visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. Then his hips shift with slow pressure, enough to make your oversensitive body tremble.

There is no mistaking how fucking hard he is.

Pent up.

Hot even through the fabric.

You pull him closer with your legs, and his forehead drops briefly to yours.

“Greedy,” he murmurs.

“You disappeared for a day.”

“That excuses this?”

“It explains it.”

His mouth brushes the corner of yours.

“You are admitting you missed me.”

“I admitted that hours ago.”

“Not properly.”

You turn your face enough to kiss the scar near his mouth. The gesture is softer than everything around it. Perhaps that is why it reaches him more deeply, stunning him on the spot. You feel the change in the hand at your jaw, fingers loosening, thumb moving once over your cheek.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “I hated not knowing where you were. I hated everyone telling me to trust a plan they couldn’t explain. I hated imagining that door opening without you.”

His gaze rests on yours. You expect mockery. Something about your attachment, some filthy line he can use later whenever you threaten to leave his bed.

It does not come.

Sukuna looks away for one second, jaw tightening.

Then he kisses you again.

Slower.

The shift affects you more than the roughness did. His mouth moves against yours with deliberate attention. His thumb strokes the side of your face. His weight lowers carefully until his chest rests more fully over you, surrounding without crushing.

You slide your hands over his shoulders, down the broad line of his back you massaged moments ago. The muscles move beneath your touch. Warm. Alive. Yours to feel tonight even if nothing else can be named so simply.

Sukuna’s hips press against you again.

You moan into his mouth.

His breath leaves heavily through his nose.

One of his hands moves from your face to your waist beneath the shirt. Fingers spread against your side, traveling upward, tracing ribs, then back down. He does not immediately take more. He explores as if confirming that you are here too.

The realization makes your chest ache.

“You were scared,” you say against his lips.

His hand stills.

“You should learn when silence is useful,” he mutters against your lips.

“That means yes.”

“It means I am reconsidering letting you speak.”

You smile faintly and kiss him before he can pretend the answer is anything else. The intimacy turns heated again by degrees.

His hand slides under the shirt and cups your breast, thumb passing over the tightened peak until your body arches into him. Your nails drag lightly over his shoulder. He kisses along your jaw, then down the side of your neck, hot and slow pressing open mouthed kisses over your pulse.

Every touch carries the weight of reunion. There is no need to rush toward a finish. You have already fallen apart beneath his mouth twice. This is something else, a reclaiming of contact after fear made distance unbearable.

Sukuna pushes the shirt higher.

The fabric gathers beneath your arms. You lift enough for him to pull it over your head, then reach for it when he throws it toward the edge of the bed.

His mouth closes over your collarbone and you melt.

Your skin feels too alive. Every scrape of his teeth, every press of his lips, every pass of his rough palm across your waist becomes distinct. He knows what his size does to you and uses it without apology, holding your body easily, repositioning you when the angle does not please him, spreading you beneath him until there is nowhere to look but up at his face.

You want that tonight.

Not helplessness.

Not fear.

The relief of not having to direct every second.

Sukuna recognizes the difference.

He always does now.

His sweatpants remain between you, the last restraint. Your fingers find the waistband.

He catches your wrist.

You look at him.

His eye searches yours again.

Not because he doubts your arousal. That is obvious. Because wanting sex and wanting what he intends to give are different questions, and he has learned to ask even when the asking takes no polite form.

“You are exhausted,” he says.

“So are you.”

“You spent the day moving and working.”

“You spent it getting almost assassinated.”

You pull your wrist against his hold, not trying to free it so much as draw his attention back to the waistband beneath your fingers.

“I want you.”

The words settle between you. Sukuna’s hand loosens. You continue.

“I don’t want to sleep wondering whether you’re going to be gone when I wake up. I want to feel you here. I want something stronger than checking your hands and staring at your face every few minutes.”

His gaze darkens. There is something almost painful in it for one brief moment. Then he releases your wrist.

“Then take what you asked for.”

Your fingers slip beneath the waistband, feeling him hot, hard, already throbbing against the skin of your palm. You try to lower the piece, Sukuna helps only after watching you struggle with the fabric for several seconds, because he remains a bastard even in tender moments. He pushes the sweatpants down enough to remove the barrier between you, then settles over your body again.

The contact makes both of you breathe differently. His forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with your own in the narrow space between your lips. You can feel the sheer effort of his restraint in every corded muscle of his body.

He could rush. His body clearly wants to. He is vibrating with a need that mirrors your own, the tension along his abdomen hard as granite. His hand grips the silk blanket near your head, knuckles white, and his breath hitches unevenly whenever your hips instinctively tilt upward, seeking him.

Instead he waits.

You can't stand the distance. You lift your face, closing the gap to kiss him — a slow, deep exploration that tastes of salt, of your lingering taste, of him. As your tongues tangle, he shifts, aligning himself with your wetness.

The first joining is agonizingly slow. It isn't for a lack of urgency, but because you are still raw and hypersensitive from his tongue, and Sukuna is large enough that care is a necessity.

He grips your hip firmly in one hand, anchoring you, while he supports his weight with the other. He pushes inward inch by inch, a steady, relentless pressure that stretches you wide. You breathe through the sensation, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his shoulders, your eyes locked on his.

He pauses, watching your face with an intensity that feels like it's stripping you bare.

“Tell me,” he commands, voice low.

“I’m— fine,” you gasp, trying to urge him forward.

“That isn't what I asked.”

You shiver. You know exactly what he wants. He doesn't want a polite reassurance, he wants the raw honesty of your reaction, even if it interrupts the momentum.

“Slow,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please, just... slow.”

He obeys. The fact that he listens — that a man who views the world as his footstool, who once treated obedience as something owed to him, yields to your request for less — stirs something deep and emotional inside you.

He presses a tender kiss to your temple, his hand sliding along your side in a soothing caress. He waits, holding himself still, giving your body time to yield around him until the initial strain softens into a heavy, pulsing fullness.

You exhale against his neck.

“Better?” he murmurs against your skin.

“Yeah.”

He begins to move. The rhythm is deep and measured, a slow grind that prioritizes intimacy over speed. Each thrust brings his chest flushing against yours, the friction of skin on skin sending sparks through your nerves. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, locking him in, holding him exactly where you've wanted him since the moment he entered the room.

Between movements, Sukuna is unexpectedly generous. He kisses your mouth, then your cheek, then the sensitive line just below your ear. It’s a softness that leaks through the cracks of his dominant facade, born from the fatigue and the unspoken tension of the night. You don't ask about the killer or the blood — not now, while he is filling you so completely.

Your hands roam over his back, feeling the powerful muscles flex beneath your palms. The knots you worked loose are tightening differently now. Not from vigilance. From effort. You can feel the control he is exercising, the way he fights the urge to simply hammer into you, keeping the pace steady for your sake.

You whisper his name, a soft, pleading sound that breaks his resolve.

The sound changes him instantly. His hips press deeper, driving home with a sudden, renewed hunger. His mouth finds yours in a bruising kiss, and one hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting it higher and tilting your pelvis.

The change in angle makes the pleasure flare white-hot, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur. Your gasp breaks against his lips, a sharp sound of pure shock.

“There,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice dark and triumphant.

It wasn't a question. He felt the way your walls clamped around him, the way your body shuddered. He repeats the motion, driving into that sweet spot with a rhythmic, punishing precision. Pleasure gathers again, slower than before but fuller, spreading from the point where your bodies meet through your stomach and chest. You cling to him, every breath becoming more difficult to keep quiet.

The walls are thick.

The others are down the hall.

Still, the awareness sharpens everything.

You turn your face into Sukuna’s shoulder when a louder sound threatens.

He catches your chin.

“No. I want to hear. Give me everything,” he doesn’t ask as much as he demands, punctuating his orders with deeper thrusts of his hips that give him exactly what he wants.

“S— hah— Su—kuna,” You try to keep your voice down, but it’s impossible. “fuckfuckfuck—”

“Stop hiding from me.”

You glare at him through half-lidded eyes, panting while he looks infuriatingly composed, though the strain in his breathing gives him away.

“You like hearing yourself,” you say.

“I like hearing you.”

The answer is too direct, too honest. For a heartbeat, the raw intimacy of it strips away your defenses, and your expression softens into something vulnerable. Sukuna sees it instantly. His thumb brushes over your swollen lower lip, a fleeting moment of tenderness before he crashes his mouth back onto yours, swallowing your gasp and silencing any further thought.

The pace shifts. The measured rhythm is gone, replaced by a driving, primal urgency. The bed begins to shift and groan beneath the force of his movements, the headboard thumping rhythmically against the wall. He is no longer just filling you as much as he is claiming you, each thrust is a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin that echoes in the space between you.

Your thighs tighten around his waist, locking him in harder, while your nails rake down his back, carving red, angry lines into his muscular shoulders. You lose all sense of where you end and he begins. There is only the crushing weight of him, the scent of sex and salt, and the agonizingly perfect pressure of his cock stretching you to your limit. You choose to pull him closer, arching your back to meet every punishing blow, your body humming with a frequency that only he can trigger.

Your body has always reacted to him.

That used to frighten you.

Now the reaction belongs to you in a way it never did before. You choose to pull him closer. Choose to move with him. Choose to open, to ask, to hold his face when you want his attention and bite his shoulder when he makes a remark about your impatience.

Sukuna grunts at the bite.

Then laughs.

The vibration travels through his chest into yours.

“You still have dog habits,” he mutters without stopping his movements, brushing his lips on the side of your face.

“You deserved that,” you hiss, though the fight is gone from your voice, replaced by a needy, mewling quality. You resist the urge to bite him once again because he deserves every mark you leave on his body. “You—”

His mouth closes over the sensitive place beneath your jaw and your retort becomes a moan. He knows exactly how to end arguments when winning with words becomes inconvenient.

You retaliate by dragging your nails down his back even harder, leaving more stark red angry lines in their wake.

The resulting growl is worth the consequences — it does something to you that you really can’t explore at the moment.

His control slips slightly after that.

The movements become stronger. His hand grips your thigh more firmly. Hunger overtakes some of the tenderness, but never enough to erase it. He remains aware of your body, adjusting when your breath catches wrong, slowing for half a beat before building again.

The pleasure tightens. You feel the edge approaching for the third time, a terrifyingly intense peak that makes you want to scream and beg for him to stop and never stop all at once. Sukuna notices before the words form.

Just as you begin to protest, Sukuna anticipates the need. His hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in fast, blurring circles.

The added touch breaks your ability to think.

“Sukuna!” you shriek, your voice cracking as your internal muscles seize around him in a crushing grip.

“Again,” he commands, his voice already a ragged snarl.

“I can’t... I can’t!”

“You will.”

The absolute certainty in his voice pushes you over the precipice. He keeps the rhythm steady and brutal, his eye locked on yours, watching with rapt attention as you unravel completely under him.

Your whole body contracts around him in a prolonged, shattering climax that leaves you sobbing, your head tossing back against the pillows as you ride the wave of a pleasure so intense it feels like pain. You cry his name into the side of his neck, arms locked around him, legs pulling him close enough that space disappears.

Sukuna’s breath breaks. He buries his face near your shoulder and holds himself still through the strongest part, letting you ride it without overwhelming the sensation. His hand remains between you until the final tremors fade.

You go limp beneath him. For several breaths neither of you moves.

His body is heavy over yours, though he keeps enough weight on his arms not to crush you. Sweat warms his skin. Your heart races against his chest.

You kiss the nearest part of him you can reach.

His shoulder.

Then the side of his neck.

Sukuna lifts his head.

His eye looks darker, the restraint inside it reduced to something thin and strained.

“You are not finished,” you whisper.

His mouth twists.

“Observant.”

You move your hips against him. The response is immediate — his eyes close for half a second.

It is rare enough to feel like a victory.

You do it again.

Sukuna catches your hip.

“Careful.”

“You told me to take what I asked for,” you point out, still breathless.

“I did.”

“So I am.”

The challenge changes the air. His grip tightens.

You expect him to turn you over, take control in the way his body clearly wants. Instead he shifts onto his back and takes you with him in one fluid movement.

You end up above him, knees on either side of his waist, hands braced against his chest, his cock still sheathed inside you.

The sudden change makes you dizzy, and as you look down at him, Sukuna looks up at you. His hair spreads damp and disordered over the pillow. His hands settle on your hips. The position gives you control and exposes how deeply he watches what you do with it.

You inhale. He raises an eyebrow.

“Was this your plan?”

“My plan was sleep.”

“You are a bad liar,” you smirk down at him.

“You distracted me.”

“With a massage?”

“With your inability to sit still without soaking through your underwear.”

Your face heats. You hit his chest without force.

Sukuna laughs and catches your hand, pressing your palm flat over his heart.

The beat beneath it is fast.

Faster than yours, perhaps.

The discovery quiets you.

He feels it too.

For one second the teasing leaves his expression completely.

Your hand stays on his chest. His covers it with his.

“Move,” he says, voice rough.

You do.

At first slowly, learning the angle, feeling the fullness differently with your body above his. Sukuna’s hands guide without controlling entirely. He lets you find a rhythm, watches your face when you lean back, watches the movement of your body with open hunger.

The attention would have embarrassed you once.

Tonight you let him look.

You want him to see what his return does to you.

Want him to understand that the desire is no longer something he owns merely because your body was designed to produce it.

You choose this.

Choose him.

The thought is frightening enough that you don't examine it further.

Sukuna’s hands travel over your thighs and hips, then up your waist. He cups your breasts, thumbs moving lazily over sensitive skin while you keep the rhythm, undulating your hips and drinking up his reactions.

His head falls farther into the pillow. The sight of his control wearing thin sparks something bright, hot and triumphant in you.

“You missed me too,” you purr at him.

His eye opens.

“You are— talking too much.”

“That means yes,” you grin, though it’s hard to keep composure while riding his cock.

“It means you are about to lose your advantage,” he speaks through gritted teeth, more attempt to keep control than anything else.

“You gave me the advantage,” you slide your hand on his chest, thumb finding his nipple and circling it slowly in tandem with the way you sway your hips.

“I can— fucking hell— take it back,” he convinces no one, but his hands grip your waist.

He could reverse the position easily. You feel the possibility in the strength of his fingers and the way his body tenses beneath yours. Instead he lets you continue until your thighs begin to tremble from exhaustion. When your pace falters, he supports you, guiding from below without mocking the weakness.

The intimacy of that assistance is almost worse than the filthy remarks.

You lean forward, hands on his shoulders, and Sukuna lifts his face to kiss you.

The rhythm changes again, becoming less about control and more about closeness. His arms wrap around your back. Your body lowers against his. The two of you move together in smaller, deeper motions while the kiss grows slow, more heated.

His breath catches. You feel the tension gather through his whole body when his hips start to move faster, fucking into you with more intent. He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours.

“Where?”

The question is quiet. You understand.

The fact that he asks changes the answer into something heavier.

You tell him with your lips against his.

Sukuna’s eye holds yours as the final restraint gives.

He pulls you close. The release moves through him with a harsh exhale and a deep tension in every muscle beneath you. He tips off the edge, resolve shattering as he finally reaches his climax — pumping thick ropes of cum inside you, hips pressing firmly against yours as he keeps himself sheathed to the hilt. His arms lock around your back, keeping you flush against him. His face turns into your neck. For several seconds, the man who holds entire rooms under control simply clings.

You hold him too.

No mockery.

No victory.

Just your hand sliding into his damp hair, your mouth pressing to his temple, your body resting over his while the aftermath moves through both of you.

The safehouse is quiet.

The fireplace continues its low electric hum.

Somewhere down the corridor, one of the dogs shifts heavily against the floor. Pipes settle inside the walls. No alarm sounds. No phone rings.

For the first time since the evacuation began, nothing requires immediate survival.

Sukuna’s hands loosen around you. You lift your head enough to look at him.

His eyes remains closed.

Exhaustion has returned fully now that desire no longer holds it back. The hard lines of his face soften. One hand still rests at the center of your back as though releasing you entirely would be foolish.

“You’re falling asleep,” you whisper.

“I'm resting my eyes, brat.”

“You only have one.”

His mouth twitches in a sneer because you are, after all, a brat sometimes. You shift carefully, preparing to move off him. Sukuna’s arm tightens.

“Stay.”

The word stops you. He says it without command. No mockery. No threat disguised as preference.

Simply stay.

You settle again. Your cheek rests over his chest, close to the place you hit when he arrived. His heart has slowed beneath you. Your fingers trace one of the dark tattoo lines over his shoulder.

After several quiet minutes, you ask,

“Did he really give you the phone?”

Sukuna’s chest rises under your head.

“Yeah.”

“After you lowered the gun? Or you didn’t?” You suppose, wanting to believe he at least had one pointed at the killer.

His eye opens slightly. You feel the answer before he speaks.

“I did. He told me it was the greatest mistake I had ever made.”

Your head lifts.

“What happened?”

Sukuna looks at the ceiling. The corner of his mouth begins to curve.

“You are supposed to be sleeping.”

“You can't say that and expect me to sleep.”

“He reached for a weapon.”

Your stomach tightens.

“And?”

“I was faster.”

“Were you shot?”

“No.”

“Did you shoot him?” Your eyes widen a fraction.

“No.”

“What did you do?” You urge him, because the man is unable to give you a complete phrase, apparently.

Sukuna finally looks at you. There is a faint mark near his left side you did not notice before, just above the ribs. Not a wound. A bruise beginning beneath the skin. You touch it. He catches your hand.

“You said you weren’t hurt.”

“I am not.”

“What happened?”

Sukuna’s thumb moves over your knuckles.

“He tested whether lowering the weapon meant I lowered my attention.”

“And?”

“He learned it did not.”

You study his face.

There is more. A physical fight, probably brief and violent. Toji reaching. Sukuna reacting. The two of them deciding through force whether negotiation would survive.

“Who won?”

Sukuna gives you a flat look. You laugh softly and the sound surprises both of you.

The day has been too tense for laughter. It feels strange in your throat, almost fragile. Sukuna watches your face while it fades, and something in his expression warms.

“He left alive,” Sukuna says. “That was the useful outcome.”

“You could have killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because a dead assassin tells me nothing after the first minute.”

“And an alive one?”

“Feeds the Gojos what I want them to believe.”

You lower your head again. The information should make you more anxious, but the steadiness of his chest beneath you makes strategy feel distant.

“You’re gambling with him.”

“I am.”

“With the Gojo elders as well.”

“Yes.”

“With Yuuji’s safety.”

“No.”

The answer comes sharply enough that you look up. Sukuna’s expression has changed — he is tired, but the clarity in his eye is absolute.

“I'm not using the boy as bait,” he says. “The information they receive will direct them away from this property. If the contractor changes direction, I know before he reaches the first perimeter.”

“You trust him to tell you?”

“I trust him to protect his own interest. The moment that stops benefiting us, he becomes another problem.”

“And if the Gojos already know where this place is?”

“They don't.”

“You sound very certain.”

“My father never found out this was still being used after deactivation. He was the most paranoid fuck to ever live.”

“That doesn’t mean no one else can.”

“No. It means there is no existing chain for them to follow. They would have to discover it through current movement, and Uraume broke the routes.”

You think of the long motorcycle ride, the turns, the changing roads, the dark fields.

“They could still find us eventually.”

“They could.”

You dislike the honesty. Sukuna lifts one hand to the back of your head, fingers resting in your hair.

“That is why this isn't permanent.”

The word affects you more than expected. Of course it isn't permanent. This is a safehouse, not a home. A hidden underground structure built for emergencies and younger versions of Sukuna who needed somewhere to disappear.

Still, the room has already begun holding a strange image of all of you together. Yuuji in the office room. Choso and Noritoshi arguing over who sleeps where. Uraume making tea. The dogs inspecting corridors. Sukuna beneath you in a bed that belonged to him before you knew he existed.

“Where do we go after?” Your voice is low, barely a whisper.

“I have several places,” he says after giving it a brief thought.

“More bunkers?”

“Some properties are above ground.”

“How luxurious.”

“One has a sea view.”

You become still. Sukuna notices.

“The beach?”

“A coastline.”

“That is the beach!”

“It’s near the beach.”

You lift yourself higher on his chest, suddenly more awake.

“You have a hidden house near the sea?”

“I have many things you don't know about.”

“That isn’t fair,” that’s probably the first time you ever have pouted, but honestly, that wasn’t fair. “You could have said— you could have gotten us in there!”

“You are not entitled to my entire inventory.”

“I told you I wanted to see the ocean,” it comes out low, almost hurt, but not really. You are just a little offended he didn’t tell you that was a possibility.

“I know. You will.”

The answer quiets you instantly. You search his face for teasing. There is some — not all. A complicated warmth gathers in your chest.

“You still think about that.”

Sukuna looks away. That is answer enough. You smile, not triumphantly this time.

The softness embarrasses him more than your teasing ever could. His hand shifts from your hair to your shoulder, thumb pressing as if he can move the feeling somewhere less visible.

“Sleep.”

“You implied we could go,” you mutter, giddy now.

“I did not. You’re making shit up.”

“You absolutely did.”

Sukuna rolls suddenly. You make a startled sound as your body is turned beneath him again. He flips you so your back meets his chest and settles partly over you, one arm around your waist, one heavy thigh between yours. The movement isn't sexual now, only decisive, arranging both of you into the position he prefers for sleep.

“You are exhausting,” he huffs.

“You missed me.”

His face lowers into your hair.

“Go to sleep.”

“You didn’t deny.”

Sukuna’s arm tightens. You grin into the pillow.

The triumph lasts less than a minute before the exhaustion finally begins claiming you. Your body is warm, pleasantly heavy, every muscle loose after tension, massage and intimacy. Sukuna’s chest presses along your back. His breath touches the top of your head. One hand rests over your stomach beneath the blanket, fingers spread protectively without him needing to admit that is what they are doing.

You think about the sea.

Yuuji running toward cold water.

Choso standing near the shore as if the waves might need supervision.

Noritoshi trying to keep paperwork away from sand.

Uraume making tea in a kitchen with windows.

Hiten and Kamutoke losing their minds over the water.

Sukuna pretending the whole trip was tactical while watching everyone from somewhere close.

The future remains too fragile to trust fully.

The Gojos still know about Yuuji. The contractor is still loose. The government may change laws while finding new ways to protect the men who built the old ones. Thousands of girls still need names, documents, work, homes and the slow education of learning they are allowed to want things.

Nothing is solved because Sukuna came back alive and pulled you into bed.

Still, his return matters.

This room matters.

The choice he made to move everyone rather than sacrifice them matters.

Your hand covers his where it rests over your stomach.

Sukuna’s fingers shift beneath yours.

“You are still awake,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you reply softly.

“I was waiting for you to stop thinking.”

“That might take years.”

“Unfortunate.”

You turn carefully within his hold until you face him. The room is dim now. The electric fireplace casts enough light to outline his features. His eye is half closed, exhaustion stripping away most of the expression he uses as armor.

You touch his face.

Your fingers move over the edge of his jaw, then the scar on the side that first made him hate you enough to remember you forever. He lets you.

“You came back,” you whisper.

Sukuna’s gaze opens fully for one beat.

“I said I would.”

“You told Uraume to move us even if it killed them. That doesn’t sound like someone certain he’s coming back.”

His mouth tightens. So Uraume had not been exaggerating. You expected that.

“I told them what was required.”

“I told them not to listen if you gave another stupid order like that.”

“Uraume does not take instructions from you.”

“They might when you’re being reckless.”

“They won't.”

“They looked hurt when I said they could stay with us if you ever stopped needing them.”

Sukuna goes quiet. You realize, too late, how much you revealed. His eye narrows.

“You discussed that with Uraume.”

“It came up,” you say sheepishly.

“How.”

“I asked what they would do if you decided you didn’t need them anymore.”

“Why would you ask that?” He sounds a little bit scandalized in his exhaustion, which honestly makes you hold back a little smile.

“Because their entire life is built around you, Sukuna.”

“And you offered to collect them.”

You bristle at the phrasing.

“I told them they’d have somewhere to go.”

“With your stupid little family.”

“Yes.”

“Without asking any member of that family.”

“They wouldn’t say no.”

“Choso might.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“Noritoshi would call it a headache to fit one more person in that small apartment.”

“He already has one.”

“Tengen would charge rent.”

“Tengen would feed them until they couldn’t move.”

Sukuna watches you. The faintest disbelief passes through his expression, mixed with something harder to identify.

“You keep collecting strays,” he says.

“So does Choso.”

“You collected Choso.”

“He collected me first.”

“And now Uraume.”

“They’re not a stray,” you point out.

“No. They are highly trained and capable of killing everyone in your family.”

“They can still have tea with us.”

Sukuna exhales through his nose. You can tell he wants to dismiss the conversation. Instead his thumb moves once against your waist.

“They were never disposable,” he says. “And will never be.”

The words are quiet and make you stop. Sukuna’s gaze remains on your face, tired enough that the truth escapes before he decides whether to hide it.

“I know,” you say.

“You asked them as if I would ever discard them.”

“I asked what they thought.”

“And?”

“They didn’t know.”

Something painful passes through Sukuna’s eye.

Fast.

You touch his cheek again.

“They know now,” you say. “At least they know there are people outside you who would keep them.”

“I am still here.”

“I know. I’m glad, and so is Uraume.”

“That should be enough.”

“It should not have to be.”

His expression hardens slightly, defense returning. You kiss him before it can fully settle. Not heated this time. A soft press of your mouth to his, held for a moment and released.

Sukuna remains still. Then he pulls you closer until your face rests beneath his chin.

“Sleep,” he says again.

You let him have the final word.

Mostly.

Your body relaxes into his.

The heavy blanket traps warmth around both of you. At some point, you turn again, pressing your back to his chest. His arm stays firm over your waist. Your legs tangle with his beneath the covers, skin brushing his calf. The bed feels too comfortable for a place hidden under an abandoned factory, perhaps because exhaustion lowers standards, perhaps because Sukuna built the room around the rare moments he permitted himself to rest.

Before sleep takes you, another thought rises.

“You should apologize to Choso,” you grumble.

Sukuna’s body goes still behind you.

“For what.”

“I tackled him because you wouldn’t tell anyone the plan.”

“That sounds like your problem.”

“You caused it.”

“Go to sleep or I’m making you sleep.” You elbow him lightly. His hand catches your arm and pulls it back against your body. “No more violence tonight.”

“You started your entire relationship with me through violence.”

“And look how well that developed.”

You laugh despite yourself, tired enough that the sound dissolves quickly into the pillow. Sukuna’s mouth touches the back of your head. The kiss is almost absent-minded. It still reaches you.

Sleep comes slowly, then all at once.

You drift with his breathing against your hair, his hand over your stomach, the evidence of his living body surrounding yours. No dreams take shape. No facility corridors, no cages, no men with guns, no white Gojo halls or slaughter rooms.

Only warmth.

When you wake briefly sometime later, the fireplace has dimmed to its lowest setting. Sukuna has not moved far. He is asleep deeply enough that his face rests against the curve of your shoulder, one arm still around you, the other bent beneath the pillow. His grip has loosened but not disappeared. Even unconscious, he keeps contact.

You lie still and listen.

The safehouse remains silent.

No alarms.

No hurried footsteps.

No phone vibrating on the bedside table.

For one night, the trap held.

For one night, everyone Sukuna named remains alive beneath the same old roof.

You cover his hand again, close your eyes and allow yourself to believe that is enough until morning.

🥩: @crescent-canine; @ossifrageyes; @frenzied--flame; @sixeyedsaint; @thereisacatinmybankaccount; @sempiternalmyth; @veluoriaaa; @cigarette-smoke-ghost; @ellsiedjarin; @kentosgirl; @forest-nymph666; @jin-jamm-desu; @catladythoughts; @penguingirlanzu; @lavenderloss; @kaofindj; @lucy-lulu; @kearita; @irw2d; @belzeroin; @yuklonna; @c6choso; @man1cslut; @nyokoko

[belimah]

XCV. Unraveling - pt1

The old facility has settled around all of you with its low electrical hum, reinforced walls and strange hidden comforts, but none of it has managed to make you feel secure while the most dangerous person in your life remains somewhere beyond your reach. The others work, talk, make tea, check the cameras, move bags into rooms and pretend the ordinary motions of settling in can convince the body that danger has passed. You do the same. You sit beside Choso with papers spread over the low table, read sentences that stop making sense halfway through, listen to Noritoshi explain legal vulnerabilities and force yourself to ask useful questions.

Somewhere beneath it all, your mind continues to track a man who isn't there.

You think you hide it well for the first hour.

Maybe you do.

By the second, Choso glances at you every time footsteps echo through the corridor. Noritoshi stops correcting you when you reread the same clause three times. Uraume keeps looking toward the security displays more often than necessary, which tells you their anxiety has merely found a cleaner posture than yours.

Yuuji eventually falls asleep on the couch with Hiten’s head resting across his legs. Kamutoke stays near you, occasionally lifting his muzzle toward the entrance as if he expects to smell Sukuna before any machine announces him.

The facility’s outer alarms register movement sometime past the point when the night has become deep enough to feel permanent.

Uraume rises before the sound reaches the living quarters. Choso’s hand closes over the document he is reading. Noritoshi looks toward the corridor.

You are already standing.

The screen nearest the kitchen changes, showing an exterior camera feed of a dark vehicle moving through the first gate. The image is grainy from distance, but the outline is familiar enough. The car stops where the outer access road disappears beneath the overhang. A door opens.

Pink hair.

Eyepatch.

Sukuna.

Alive.

Furious, probably.

That is all you understand for several seconds. Your eyes scan the image too quickly to gather anything else. He appears unhurried, coat still on, shoulders broad and steady, one hand carrying something small. No visible blood. No limp. No second person dragged from the vehicle or carried over one shoulder. He looks infuriatingly composed for someone who has left all of you buried beneath several hours of fear.

The inner door has barely unlocked when you move.

You hear someone say your name behind you. Choso, probably. Uraume might tell you to wait until Sukuna clears the security chamber. Noritoshi may be warning you that you are still wearing socks on a cold industrial floor and will slip if you keep running like that.

None of it matters.

Sukuna steps through the final door just as you reach him.

Your body feels too light, all that fear draining so quickly it leaves your hands trembling.

He looks exhausted. Worse than when he left, though not injured. His coat is damp at the shoulders. Hair pushed back badly, as if he has run his hand through it too many times.

You stop several feet away.

For one second neither of you speaks — relief and anger share the same room inside your chest, battling for dominance and settling at coexisting.

Then, you throw yourself at his chest. That’s the most pathetic attempt on tackling someone you’ve ever made. He’s too big, too broad, too heavy, too prepared to be taken down by you, specially when your intentions are plain on your face.

It isn't graceful. There is no decision made between seeing him and moving. You collide with him hard enough that he takes half a step back, more from surprise than force, and both his hands come up automatically to steady you by the arms.

Then you hit him.

Your fist lands against the center of his chest, dull against the layers beneath his coat. You do it again. The third strike carries less strength because the relief is already turning your muscles weak, but you keep going anyway, open palm now, then both hands shoving at him as if you can punish him back into the last twenty-four hours and force him to live them differently.

“You,” you start, “are the most infuriating, controlling, reckless bastard I have ever met.” You snap, voice shaking despite every effort. “You leave without explaining anything, make everyone move in the middle of the day, refuse to answer anyone and then arrive looking like you went out for dinner!”

Sukuna lets you hit him.

That may be the first indication of how tired he is.

Ordinarily he would catch your wrist after the second strike and turn the moment into something annoying, smug and entirely his. He would tell you your little hands are ineffective or ask whether this is your idea of affection now. Tonight he only stands there, absorbing the blows without resistance, looking down at you with an expression too quiet to satisfy your anger.

The calm makes you hit him once more.

“Say something.”

“You are going to bruise your hand before you bruise me.”

There he is.

The anger surges brighter from pure familiarity. You lift your fist again.

He catches it this time.

His fingers close around your wrist, firm and warm, and before you can wrench free he uses the grip to pull you fully against him. Your shoulder meets his chest. One arm wraps around your back. The other slides behind your head, palm settling against your hair.

The embrace stops every useful thought.

You stand rigid for a heartbeat, caught between wanting to fight him and wanting to climb inside his ribcage where no one can lose track of him again.

His body is warm.

Solid.

His heart beats steadily beneath your cheek.

The proof of it ruins you.

Your hands, still curled between your bodies, loosen against his shirt. The anger does not disappear, but it becomes harder to hold in the same sharp shape when his chin rests near the top of your head and his breath leaves him in one slow exhale.

“You took your time,” you say into his chest.

“I had something to finish.”

“That isn't an apology.”

“I did not offer one.”

You make an offended sound, but there is no real force behind it anymore. His hand moves once along your back, a single heavy stroke from your shoulder blades to your waist. Not soothing exactly. Sukuna rarely knows how to soothe without making it look like restraint. Still, the motion tells your body what his words refuse to.

He is here.

He came back.

You allow yourself a few seconds to hold him properly. Your arms circle his waist beneath the open coat. Your forehead presses into him. You breathe in the smell of cold night air, clean fabric, metal, the faint trace of smoke or burned electronics that does not belong to the safehouse.

Something hard sits beneath his shirt.

Armor, you realize.

The discovery snaps part of your mind awake. You pull back abruptly and begin inspecting him.

Sukuna watches your hands move over his coat, his shoulders, the front of his shirt. You push the jacket aside and find the edge of the concealed protective vest beneath. Your fingers search around it for moisture, tears in the fabric, anything indicating a bullet landed where the armor stopped it. He allows this too, though one eyebrow begins to rise as you tug at his sleeve and examine his wrist.

“Are you injured?”

“No.”

“You’re wearing armor.”

“That is generally intended to prevent injury.”

“You could still be hurt somewhere else.”

“I'm not.”

You study his face. The scar under the eyepatch. The familiar hard line of his jaw. The slight darkness beneath his remaining eye that speaks of exhaustion more than pain. There is no new blood on him, no swelling, no fresh split in his mouth.

Your gaze drops to his hands.

Clean.

That is suspicious in a different way. Sukuna notices where you are looking.

“Satisfied?”

“Not remotely.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

Behind you, the others have gathered near the living room entrance without coming too close. Uraume’s relief is nearly invisible, expressed only in the way their shoulders lower once. Noritoshi looks tired enough to sit on the floor. Choso’s expression contains several disagreements he is saving for a more useful hour.

Yuuji remains asleep on the couch.

Hiten has lifted his head but does not disturb him. Kamutoke approaches Sukuna, sniffs his coat, then presses his nose briefly against Sukuna’s hand. Sukuna rubs the dog’s ear with two fingers, the gesture distracted but familiar.

“You cleared the apartment,” he says to Uraume.

“Everything that mattered.”

“The network?”

“Stripped. The remaining storage was corrupted before departure.”

“Routes?”

“No indication anyone followed us.”

Sukuna looks toward Noritoshi.

“The documents?”

“Here and intact. Most of the physical files are in the cases by the table. The sensitive digital material is isolated from the outside network.”

“And Yuuji?”

Choso answers.

“He handled the drive well. No bleeding, no fever. He was awake until an hour ago.”

Sukuna’s gaze shifts to the couch. The change in his face is small enough that you might have missed it months ago. Now you see the tension release around his eye when he notices the boy sleeping rather than pale and hurting. Yuuji’s blanket has slipped to one side. Hiten’s body blocks most of him from view, but the pink hair remains visible against the cushion.

Sukuna studies him for a moment, then turns back to all of you.

“Good.”

That single word ends the immediate emergency in a way no alarm deactivation could.

People begin moving again.

Uraume takes Sukuna’s coat. Choso returns to his seat, though he keeps looking at Sukuna as if deciding whether to demand answers or wait until the boy wakes. Noritoshi retrieves the laptop he had closed when the vehicle arrived. You remain close enough that the side of your arm brushes Sukuna’s, unwilling to give the room any opportunity to swallow him again.

He notices and says nothing.

The next few hours become a dense exchange of information.

Sukuna sits at the old table with the largest laptop open in front of him and the cases arranged within reach. He does not remove the protective vest at first. Perhaps he forgets he is wearing it. Perhaps the weight feels natural enough that his body does not protest until the danger has been thoroughly renamed and organized.

Noritoshi starts with the legal findings.

You take your place near the corner of the table, close enough to see both men’s notes. Choso sits beside you, one arm resting along the back of the chair, his attention split between the documents and Yuuji. Uraume moves around the room making more tea, checking the screens and occasionally stepping into the discussion with a detail about the evacuation.

Sukuna listens without interrupting unnecessarily. That alone tells you the situation is serious.

Noritoshi explains the inheritance exposure in careful terms. The Ryomen line can be challenged if Sukuna is declared dead, missing or legally incapacitated during the restructuring. The old board has no legitimate blood heir they can publicly present without triggering investigations into the family records. Yuuji changes that. His relation is distant enough to require proof but close enough to become politically useful if supported by manipulated documentation and cooperative officials.

“The Gojos would not need to establish full legal succession immediately,” Noritoshi says, turning one page toward Sukuna. “They would only need to create a credible dispute. A pending claim freezes transfers, slows facility conversion and places temporary authority in court-appointed hands. They control enough judicial appointments to shape those hands.”

Sukuna scans the page.

“How long?”

“Months under ordinary circumstances. Longer if they bury the process beneath appeals.”

“They can't have months.”

“That’s why they want you dead,” you say.

Sukuna’s eye moves to you. You keep your voice level despite the flare of anger the words produce.

“As long as you’re alive, no court can pretend the question is uncertain. They need a vacancy.”

“And they need the boy isolated,” Choso adds.

His tone has gone low and hard. Noritoshi nods.

“Preferably without anyone who can challenge the narrative they give him.”

You watch Sukuna absorb that. He does not look toward Yuuji this time. He keeps his attention on the papers, but the muscles along his forearm tighten against the table.

“They referred to him as a replacement heir,” Sukuna says. “He’s the goal.”

The room stills. You turn fully toward him.

“Who did?”

“The people directing the contractor.”

“They knew.” Choso’s expression changes immediately. “How much?”

“Enough to identify his age, appearance and injury.”

Your stomach turns. Yuuji sleeps a few meters away while adults discuss how an empire has already renamed him into a tool.

You look toward the couch despite yourself. Hiten’s ears twitch at the shift in the room. Kamutoke lies near the table, head on his paws, eyes open.

Noritoshi removes his glasses, presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose and puts them back on.

“Then we proceed as if every incomplete registry record has already been found.”

“The Gojo elders can't reach him here,” Uraume says.

“Not tonight,” Sukuna replies.

The qualification catches you.

“Why only tonight?”

“Because believing a place is hidden forever is how it stops being hidden.”

The answer is so thoroughly him it almost reassures you.

Almost.

Noritoshi asks,

“What did you give them?”

“Enough information to keep them watching the wrong outcome for a day or two.”

“How?”

Sukuna looks at him. The silence contains a warning not to ask for details that don't improve the plan. Noritoshi does not retreat entirely.

“I need to know whether whatever you did creates evidence we will later have to explain.”

“It creates evidence against them.”

That changes the lawyer’s posture.

“What kind?”

“Instructions. Contract terms. confirmation that the boy was to be preserved while everyone around him remained expendable.”

You feel Choso go still beside you. Sukuna continues before anyone reacts.

“The original channel is compromised. Their contractor will continue sending reports until the elders expose enough of their intention to make denial very difficult.”

Noritoshi stares at him.

“You turned the assassin.”

Sukuna’s mouth moves faintly.

“Temporarily.”

“How temporarily?”

“As long as remaining useful pays better than completing the first contract.”

Uraume approaches the table with tea, but their gaze is fixed on Sukuna.

“You negotiated.”

“I did.”

You look at his hands again.

No blood.

No abrasions.

No sign of a fight.

You can't decide whether that is comforting or somehow more disturbing.

“What did you promise him?” Choso asks.

“Money.” He says, simple.

“That’s all?”

“For now.”

Noritoshi looks down at his papers, already restructuring several possibilities.

“A contractor willing to betray one client can betray another.”

“I know. He knows I know.”

Sukuna says it without defensiveness. That is important. He isn't trusting the man. He is using the same self-interest that made the first contract possible.

Still, the arrangement makes your skin itch.

“Where is this contractor now?”

“Working.”

“For you?”

“For himself.”

You glare at him. His eye returns to you, and for one second the room disappears beneath the familiar friction of the two of you refusing to yield. Then Uraume sets a cup beside Sukuna and he breaks the stare first, reaching into his jacket.

He takes out a flip phone.

The device looks cheap, plain and slightly worn, the kind of object designed to be forgotten. He places it on the table and slides it toward Uraume.

“Break into it.”

Uraume catches it before it reaches the edge.

“Locally?”

“Yes. Copy everything first. If there is nothing beyond the visible messages, destroy it.”

They turn the phone over once in their hand.

“Whose is it?”

“The contractor’s.”

You look from the phone to Sukuna.

“How… did you get that?”

“He gave it to me.”

You wait for the rest. None comes.

“What happened to the man sent to kill you?” You ask, disbelieving the killer willingly gave him his service tool.

“He reconsidered his professional priorities.” Sukuna deadpans.

“You’re telling me a hired killer showed up, gave you his phone and changed his mind?”

“He also removed his shirt, but that is less relevant.”

Noritoshi closes his eyes. Choso gives Sukuna a look of exhausted disbelief that’s very similar to yours. Uraume’s lips almost twitch.

You stare at him.

“Why did he remove his shirt?”

“To show his hands.”

“That makes no sense,” your eyebrows knit together in distress. “You know that makes no sense, right?”

“He also could have been flirting with me. I wouldn’t know.”

You stand and step closer, attention moving again over Sukuna’s clothes.

“There’s no blood on you.”

“I bathed recently.”

“You smelled like outside when you arrived.”

“I didn’t say I bathed after.”

“You fought him.”

Sukuna lifts his tea.

“I am more civilized than you give me credit for.”

You scoff openly. His grin flashes.

There is the answer.

Not a real one, but enough to confirm he is enjoying the fact that you can't prove what happened. You imagine gunfire, a knife, bodies colliding against metal, Sukuna smiling the same way while someone attempts to kill him. Your mind offers images too quickly. You force them away.

“He is alive,” Sukuna says.

The statement comes quieter than his grin.

You stop.

“Are you sure?”

“He left under his own power.”

“After trying to kill you?”

“His attempt became theoretical real quick.”

“That means he did try something.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“You answer too few.”

Sukuna’s gaze rests on you long enough to feel physical.

“The important part is that he can still speak to the Gojos.”

“And he won’t give them this location.”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he doesn’t have it.”

That helps. Not enough, but some.

Noritoshi pulls the conversation back toward the legal plan before you can press further. They discuss emergency guardianship options that avoid naming Sukuna publicly as Yuuji’s protector. Choso refuses any arrangement that places the boy under corporate custody. Uraume suggests keeping all formal filings inactive until the contractor’s reports reveal how the Gojos intend to frame the claim.

You pay attention to everything and refuse to be managed out of the room again.

Sukuna notices that too. At first his eye flicks toward you each time you ask Noritoshi to clarify a clause or question the use of a legal term. Then he starts answering some of the questions himself. He explains which board members can be expected to abandon the family if shown enough evidence. He names two officials likely to sell the Gojos private information while pretending cooperation with reform. He identifies an old subsidiary that can temporarily employ rescued girls without forcing them into the same background checks required by ordinary corporations.

The work continues until the hour becomes difficult to locate. The safehouse has no broad windows in the living level, only small reinforced panes higher on the wall and camera feeds from outside. Night could have become dawn without any of you noticing if the clocks did not insist otherwise.

Yuuji shifts on the couch once and settles again. Choso’s replies become slower. Noritoshi starts rubbing his eyes between pages. Uraume sits for the first time in nearly an hour, the flip phone connected to a small device on the table, lines of unreadable data moving across a screen.

You remain awake through stubbornness and the fact that Sukuna is near.

Your attention keeps returning to him.

His clothes.

His hands.

His face.

The way he holds his right shoulder slightly lower when tired. The faint stiffness when he turns his neck. The protective vest still hidden beneath his shirt because he has apparently forgotten he is human enough to feel uncomfortable. Every few minutes you search for a sign you missed. Pain. Bleeding. The delayed tremor of adrenaline. Anything.

Sukuna finally catches you doing it.

He has been reading a series of archived transport records when his eye lifts from the screen and finds yours already on him.

“What are you looking at?”

You don't bother pretending.

“You.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m checking.”

“For?”

“That you’re really here.”

The answer quiets him. Your voice has come out softer than intended, stripped of the irritation that usually protects an admission like that. You could dress it up now. Add something sarcastic about not trusting his competence. Tell him you’re checking whether he brought danger through the door.

You don't.

“I spent more than a day not knowing whether you were alive,” you say. “So I’m checking.”

Sukuna holds your gaze. Then his eye moves around the room.

Yuuji sleeping. Choso nearly asleep upright. Noritoshi rereading a paragraph without turning the page. Uraume watching a process bar crawl across the small screen.

He closes the archive.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

Noritoshi looks up, almost startled.

“We still need to review the temporary injunction structure.”

“Tomorrow.”

“The first filing window—”

“Will exist after you sleep.”

Noritoshi’s mouth tightens as though sleep is an administrative demand he would prefer to contest. Then he looks at Choso, who has closed his eyes for several seconds without noticing, and gives in.

“First time Choso doesn’t argue,” you observe.

Choso opens one eye.

“I’m saving energy for better arguments.”

Sukuna stands, and the simple movement gives the room permission to dissolve.

Uraume disconnects the phone from the first device and gathers the equipment. Noritoshi begins stacking documents by category, though his hands are slower now. Choso wakes Yuuji with care, one palm warm against the boy’s shoulder.

Yuuji comes awake confused, pink hair flattened on one side, Hiten lifting his head as soon as the boy moves.

“Where are we sleeping?” he asks around a yawn.

“In the office room,” Choso says. “It has enough beds.”

Yuuji looks toward Sukuna.

“You’re staying?”

Sukuna pauses.

“Yes.”

The boy’s shoulders loosen. That response affects Sukuna. You see it in the faint delay before he turns away, in the way his mouth sets as though he resents anyone witnessing the moment.

Yuuji does not notice. He lets Choso guide him upright, complains that he can walk alone, then accepts Noritoshi’s arm anyway when his healing side pulls. The dogs follow immediately. Hiten stays close to Yuuji’s leg, while Kamutoke looks back toward you twice before deciding Sukuna is sufficient protection for the night.

The room chosen for the three men was clearly built as an office before someone forced sleeping arrangements into it. There is a bunk bed against one wall and a narrow single bed near the opposite side, with an attached bathroom that makes the crowded arrangement tolerable. Yuuji claims the lower bunk because climbing would provoke every adult in the facility. Choso chooses the floor at first until Noritoshi tells him there is an entire upper bunk available and martyrdom isn't required for sleep.

Uraume has a room farther down the corridor. You learn, from the quiet familiarity with which they enter, that it has always been theirs.

That leaves Sukuna.

He waits until the others disappear behind their doors, then takes your hand.

Not your wrist this time. Your hand.

The distinction catches you enough that you let him pull you without protest for several steps. His fingers are large around yours, calloused palm warm, grip secure but not restrictive. He walks deeper into the safehouse, past a storage room, another sealed corridor and a section of wall covered in old patterned paper that somehow survived the facility’s abandonment.

“You could ask whether I’m coming,” you say with a bit of humor.

“You are.”

“That isn't asking.”

“You were staring at me for the last three hours. I assumed you wanted a closer view.”

You glare at the back of his head. His shoulders move with a silent laugh.

The bedroom is at the far end of the hall. Sukuna opens the door with an old mechanical key rather than a code. The lock turns heavily, metal settling inside the wall. When he pushes the door open, warmer air moves around you.

The room is more comfortable than the rest of the safehouse without trying to be impressive.

The bed dominates the space first. Broad, low and built to hold a man of Sukuna’s size without looking absurd beneath him. The frame is dark wood. The mattress has been protected beneath clean coverings, and folded blankets sit at the foot, heavy enough for cold underground nights.

A rug covers most of the floor. Not decorative in a delicate way, but thick, dark and soft beneath your socks. An electric fireplace — powered on by Uraume as soon as they realized Sukuna would be staying in the safehouse — has been built into one wall, its light low and amber. It may not produce the same smell or sound as a real fire, yet the warmth changes the room immediately.

The old desk draws your attention next.

Oak.

Real oak, if you remember the texture correctly from books descriptions and the few pieces you have seen also on Ryomen’s facilities. Large, scarred by use, made in a time when furniture was expected to outlive whoever bought it. There are drawers on both sides and a broad surface empty except for a lamp, an old pen holder and a small stack of paper gone yellow at the edges.

The room belongs to Sukuna in a way his apartment never fully did.

The apartment is wealth arranged around present need, probably built at the same time the facility beneath it. This feels accumulated.

A chair replaced when the first became uncomfortable. A larger bed added after he outgrew whatever was here before. Bookshelves with only a few remaining volumes, selected because someone actually read them rather than because a designer wanted the wall to look intelligent. A narrow cabinet near the bathroom containing old bottles, bandages and objects you can't identify.

You imagine him younger here.

The thought is difficult to hold.

Sukuna at seventeen or eighteen, already too large for ordinary rooms, disappearing from the family estate and coming underground where no one could watch him. Sitting at that desk with blood on his knuckles or some report he refused to let his father see. Sleeping alone in the bed before it was replaced. Bringing Uraume here, perhaps, the two of them learning how to maintain a place no one else knew existed.

His early years must have been chaos wrapped in discipline.

He rarely speaks of them. When he does, the facts arrive without feeling — training, inheritance, the old facilities, his father’s expectations, his mother’s coldness, the first time he cut meat properly, the first time he killed someone who thought wealth made him harmless. You have to build the emotional shape around what he does not say.

He closes the door. The lock settles. Sukuna lets out a heavy breath.

It isn't theatrical, — he doesn’t sag against the wood or press a hand to his face — still, the exhale contains more exhaustion than anything he allowed into the living room.

You tilt your head. He looks down and finds you studying him again.

“What.”

“You look tired.”

“I'm surrounded by observant geniuses.”

“Is it the attempted assassination, the political conspiracy, the legal work, or the fact that you apparently spent part of the evening convincing a contract killer not to shoot you?”

“Yes.”

Despite yourself, you smile faintly. Sukuna keeps holding your hand.

For a moment neither of you moves farther into the room. The warmth from the fireplace touches one side of your body. His thumb rests over your knuckles. Your eyes stay on his face because some anxious part of you still expects him to disappear if you look away for too long.

He asks again, more quietly,

“What are you looking at so fiercely?”

You answer honestly.

“I told you already. I’m checking that you’re really here and alive after making me fear for your life for more than twenty-four hours.”

Sukuna’s eye stays on you. Then he looks ahead, toward nothing in particular.

His chest expands with a controlled breath. You can almost see the thought he is fighting, though you can't name it. Something about your admission reaches a part of him he would rather keep under armor thicker than the vest beneath his clothes.

His grip tightens. One simple pull brings you into him.

You nearly stumble, but his other hand catches your waist before balance becomes a problem. You settle against the warm front of his body once again that night, palms resting near his ribs. He lowers his mouth to the crown of your head.

The kiss is brief.

So light you might have imagined it if not for the warmth lingering in your hair.

You are still getting used to his gentleness.

Violence makes sense from him. Possessiveness too. Mockery, impatience, appetite, the heavy confidence with which he takes up space and expects the world to adapt. Those things fit every version of Sukuna you have known.

Gentleness remains startling because it does not appear by accident.

He has to choose it.

“This won't be the last time,” he says quietly.

Your body stiffens slightly. He feels it.

“Someone trying to kill you?”

“Someone trying to use what is near me.”

You raise your head and wait. Sukuna lifts one eyebrow as if offended by your expectation that he continue. You don't look away. Eventually another breath leaves him, softer this time.

“I need to make sure Yuuji remains alive and outside their control.”

“And?”

“And you.”

You wait longer. His gaze narrows.

“Don't become greedy.”

“I’m not the one who moved half the people I know into your hidden bunker.”

“Your stupid little family too,” he says with deliberate annoyance. “Choso, Noritoshi and Tengen, when that ancient parasite decides to leave the cantina. The dogs. Uraume, since you will apparently stab me if I give them another life-threatening instruction on your behalf.”

A triumphant smirk pulls at your mouth. Sukuna sees it and regrets giving you anything.

“Brat.”

“You said it, not me.”

“I can take it back.”

“No, you can’t.”

He releases you before the conversation turns into another argument, though his fingers drag once along your side as they leave. The loss of contact registers more than you would like.

Sukuna points toward a dresser with his chin.

“Take a shirt.”

“I brought clothes,” you say, but you don’t know if you want to go grab your backpack or just lay down on the comfortable looking bed as you are.

“And?”

“I could wear my own.”

“You could.”

The way he says it makes the choice obvious.

You like sleeping in his shirts.

He knows.

You know he knows.

Pretending otherwise would only waste time.

Sukuna sits on the mattress first. The bed dips deeply under his weight. He reaches beneath his shirt, unfastens the concealed vest and pulls it over his head with a low grunt. The armor lands near the floor beside the dresser.

You stare at it.

“Did it stop anything?”

“No.”

“Did anyone shoot at you?”

“Not successfully.”

“That isn't reassuring.”

“It was not intended to be.”

He places both handguns on the bedside table, checks the safeties, and lets out a brief sigh before standing up again. He enters the attached bathroom and closes the door most of the way. Water starts a few minutes later, steady through the old pipes.

You stand alone in his room and let the silence settle.

The dresser drawers resist slightly before opening, wood swollen by age despite the careful maintenance. Inside, everything is folded with a precision that can only belong to Uraume. Dark shirts. Plain sleep clothes. Several older pieces you suspect Sukuna forgot existed.

You choose a gray shirt. Soft cotton. No logo. No family crest. Nothing declaring ownership except the size and his faint scent trapped in the fabric.

You remove the jacket first, then your jeans, cotton shirt and bra. The safehouse is warm enough that the air against your skin does not bite. You keep your panties on and let Sukuna’s shirt slide over your head.

The hem reaches the top of your thighs. You look down at yourself.

The shirt makes you appear smaller than you are. Not childlike, not fragile, just wrapped in something shaped for a body much broader than yours.

The bed has accumulated a thin film of dust despite the protective coverings. You pull the top blanket off, carry it away from the mattress and shake it carefully. A little dust rises in the warm light. You do the same with the sheets, then remake the bed properly because sleeping in a bunker does not mean you have to breathe old dirt all night.

The pillows are unexpectedly soft. The blanket is heavy enough to create immediate comfort when you crawl beneath it. You arrange yourself near one side, though the bed is wide enough that you and Sukuna could lie apart without touching.

You have no intention of doing that.

The exhaustion is there. Your muscles feel heavy from the ride, the packing, the hours of legal work and the emotional violence of waiting. But adrenaline still lives too close to the surface. Every time you close your eyes, you see Sukuna stepping through the safehouse door. Then you see the version that did not. The door opening without him. Uraume receiving a message. A body no one can recover. Yuuji waking to another absence.

You open your eyes.

The shower stops.

The next few minutes are full of ordinary sounds that should not feel intimate and do. A cabinet opening. A towel dragged across wet hair. The low scrape of something set on the counter.

The bathroom door opens.

Sukuna steps out bare-chested with a towel wrapped around his waist and another in his hands, roughly drying his hair.

You stop breathing correctly.

It’s ridiculous.

You have seen him without a shirt before. More than once. You have touched him. Kissed his skin. Had his mouth between your thighs and your hands gripping those shoulders. None of that seems to lessen the effect of seeing him now, damp from the shower, muscles loose with fatigue, tattoos dark against warm skin.

Water still traces along his neck and collarbones.

His hair, wet and unstyled, hangs differently over his forehead, softening the severity of his face without making him look less dangerous. The scars across his body become easier to see in this light. Thin pale lines over one shoulder. A small mark near his ribs. Another lower along his side, partly hidden by the towel.

Your gaze follows everything.

Sukuna walks toward the dresser as if unaware.

He isn't unaware.

His mouth has begun to curve.

“You are staring again.”

“You keep walking around half naked.”

“This is my bedroom.”

“That doesn’t make it less distracting.”

The admission leaves before you decide whether to make it.

Sukuna looks over his shoulder. His eye travels from your face to the shirt covering your body and back again. Something in his expression becomes warmer, darker.

Then he opens a drawer and takes out grey sweatpants.

Apparently he has no mercy. He pulls them on beneath the towel, removes the towel afterward and throws both pieces of damp fabric into a laundry basket near the bathroom. The entire sequence is practical. You still watch too closely.

When he turns toward the bed, you pretend to adjust the blanket.

He doesn’t call out the lie. A little mercy left in him, after all.

He lies down with the full weight of his body released at once and the mattress shifts beneath you.

Sukuna spreads on his back for a moment, one forearm over his eyes, chest rising with a long breath. You have seen him tired. You have watched him fall asleep sitting upright after days of meetings. This is different. Here, in the room he used before the rest of his life became too crowded to allow retreat, he lets his body stop carrying itself with vigilance.

It may be the most relaxed you have ever seen him.

Or the most exhausted.

You shift closer, sitting with one leg folded beneath you.

“Do you want a shoulder massage?”

Sukuna lowers his arm enough to look at you. His brows draw together. Then a wicked little smirk appears.

“You missed me so badly you’re inventing excuses to put your hands on me?”

Your face closes immediately. There is no reason to feel exposed. You offered a massage because his shoulders are visibly rigid and because he spent the night avoiding death.

It is also an excuse to touch him.

Both can be true.

“You know what? Sleep like that,” you say. “Let every muscle lock until you wake up unable to turn your head. I’m done trying to be nice to your stubborn, filthy ass.”

You lie down, and turn your back to him, all curled up and irritated.

Sukuna chuckles. The sound is low, roughened by fatigue and far too pleased.

You tug the blanket higher around yourself, huffing. Then his hand closes around your ankle. Before you can brace, he pulls.

Your body slides several inches across the mattress with an undignified sound. You twist onto your side and glare over your shoulder.

“What do you want?”

Sukuna rolls onto his stomach. He folds both arms beneath his head, settles his cheek over them and looks at you with calm expectation.

You stare.

He waits.

The arrangement would be insulting if it did not expose the broad expanse of his back to you. Shoulders, tattoos, the line of muscle narrowing toward his waist. His sweatpants sit low enough to reveal the shallow dimples at the base of his spine without becoming indecent.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him with a raised eyebrow.

“Probably not.”

“At least you admit it.”

“I’m still waiting,” he comments as if you were to simply oblige because he’s expecting.

“You can keep waiting.”

Sukuna closes his eyes.

The bastard is confident you will give in.

You should let him stay exactly like that until sleep takes him. Turn away, deny him the satisfaction and prove that you can resist an invitation built entirely from bare skin and smugness.

Instead you look at the tension gathered along his shoulders, you remember the armor, the hidden weapons, the fact that he entered the apartment alone and waited for a man carrying a contract for his head. You remember missing him so sharply it felt like illness.

Slowly, cursing your own weakness, you crawl across the bed.

Sukuna’s mouth curves against his forearm.

“Not a word.”

“I said nothing.”

“Keep it like that.”

You place one knee on either side of his waist and settle lightly over his lower back.

The position makes your pulse jump. His body is hot beneath you, skin still faintly damp from the shower. Your knees sink into the mattress near his sides. The oversized shirt shifts higher around your thighs, but Sukuna can't see that from where his face rests.

You put both hands on his shoulders.

The first press reveals how much tension he carries.

His muscles feel hard beneath the heels of your palms, not merely from strength but from hours of remaining braced. You work slowly at first, rubbing along the upper back, learning where his body yields and where it resists.

A low breath leaves him, not quite a groan yet.

Encouraged, you press harder.

Sukuna’s back is ridiculous to massage. There is too much of it, too many dense layers of muscle, shoulders built like they were intended to carry something heavier than a human life. Your hands look small against him. You have to use your weight, lean forward and work with the base of your palms rather than your fingers alone.

The task becomes absorbing.

You find a knot near the top of his right shoulder and circle it carefully. He sucks a breath between his teeth.

“There?”

“No.”

“You’re lying!”

“You are trying to kill me with your little hands.”

“You survived an assassin and this is what defeats you?”

“He had larger hands.”

You stop. Sukuna’s shoulders move with another quiet laugh.

“Want him to come give you a massage?”

“No, you’re just fine. Go on.”

The answer comes too easily. You press directly into the knot.

His fingers flex against the pillow.

“Vindictive brat.”

“You earned it.”

PART 2

🥩: @crescent-canine; @ossifrageyes; @frenzied--flame; @sixeyedsaint; @thereisacatinmybankaccount; @sempiternalmyth; @veluoriaaa; @cigarette-smoke-ghost; @ellsiedjarin; @kentosgirl; @forest-nymph666; @jin-jamm-desu; @catladythoughts; @penguingirlanzu; @lavenderloss; @kaofindj; @lucy-lulu; @kearita; @irw2d; @belzeroin; @yuklonna; @c6choso; @man1cslut; @nyokoko

[honey-snail]

The Time I Worked at a Convenience Store in Hell

Sum: Died, went to hell, got a retail job, sucked off your landlord to make rent, and then got recognized by two predators at the convenience store register. Things are going great. Yandere! SatoSugu x Reader // featuring brief Yan! Nanami x Reader Warnings: yandere, monsterfucking, dubcon/noncon, coercion, humiliation, piss, rough oral, power imbalance, captivity mentions, afterlife, implied cannibalism/threats, predatory behavior, violence, sexual exploitation, dead dove do not eat a/n: what was supposed to be a crack fic oneshot has somehow turned to this... Part one wc: 7k // Part two: The Pet

Congrats, You’re in Hell!

At least that was what the banner overhead said, its cheerful Comic Sans lettering bright as you sat in the most uncomfortable waiting-room chair imaginable. One of those chairs designed to look luxurious and deceptively padded, only for the armrests to sit at such a miserable height that your shoulders ached no matter how you held yourself.

Regardless of the chair, you are in hell.

Now, you may have a thought or two about what drove you here. Was it that one time you went a little over the speed limit and flirted with a cop to get out of a ticket?

None of that really matters now. What matters is how you leave.

See, hell has a moral code. A deeply annoying one, but a moral code nonetheless. You can do something awful at the wonderful age of two and go on to live the rest of your life as an absolute saint, only to still get sentenced to two miserable weeks downstairs before being shuffled up with the angels.

The goal is to serve your time, do your sentence, and eventually get access upstairs.

The unfortunate rule is that time can be added. Which, in a place run by the inmates with no laws, no dignity, and a catastrophic lack of ethics, makes it alarmingly easy to rack up a sentence.

You found yourself wandering up to the front desk, the waiting room stretched into a bright white that seemed to swallow the space, only to find your childhood plush sitting primly, wearing a tie.

No need for a name tag.

“Ah ha! You’re awake. Welcome to hell!”

The thing had a sweet voice, the kind that reminded you of a cartoon mascot or a customer service representative who had never known the feeling of despair. Its voice rang oddly in your skull, a little too crisp and far too close, and as you slowly looked around, the room itself seemed rather... unsettling.

It was pure white.

Not a warm white, like what you’d imagine the afterlife would have, but a sterile, flat white, like an office building scrubbed of all personality. Gone was the horrible waiting room chair and whatever space you had crossed to get here. All that remained was a thick glass barrier with a tiny microphone built into it and the plush sitting behind it, bent over and a little lopsided.

The barrier must be for people who didn’t take being in hell particularly well.

You forced yourself to ask the sort of question one generally asks upon dying.

What did I do to deserve this?

Sure, you were no saint, but there was nothing you could think of that actually warranted eternal damnation. And honestly, you had expected hell to be far more dramatic. At least something to match the descriptions in Dante’s Inferno. Something worth crying about, not this bureaucratic nightmare.

At the very least, give you the backrooms.

“You died by a...,” the plush paused. “Wait, wait, you asked what you did?”

The comfort object blinked at you with round, beady little eyes. Perhaps after years and years of handling people who stepped into the room, it had simply grown accustomed to a different string of questions.

“Huh. Usually they start with an ‘AHHHHH!’ and a ‘NOOOO! I need more time!”

The fuzzy little thing acted out each response with theatrical enthusiasm, its voice pitching and warping to accommodate each imaginary soul it seemed to be quoting. You stared at the thing, half convinced you had finally tipped into insanity. Maybe this was all some sort of terrible nightmare, one your feeble little mind couldn’t quite make sense of. Did everyone get their own plush? Was hell customized? Or was this simply the first sign that your mind, faced with the incomprehensible, had decided to protect itself by becoming stupid?

Before you had time to wrap your brain around it all, a paper scroll appeared in front of you with a dry little rustle as it unfurled. Only one line was written across it in a stiff, businesslike font:

Section 67, Rule 421: Copied Another Individual During a Major Test

A low, dramatic whistle rang in your mind. You assumed it was the plush, seeing as it had no mouth to accommodate such a sound.

“That’s really bad, you know!” It shook its soft little head, disappointment evident in its tiny features, before looking back at you through the glass divider. “Thankfully, you only have a week here. I think you’ll survive quite well.”

Unfortunately, you did not survive very well.

By the time you were discharged to the city streets through one of those plastic, bank-vault-looking things that dropped you into a particular district, you were already exhausted. You imagined everyone had a different drop-off location depending on their crime. You weren’t given a map, so there was no way to confirm whether your theory was correct.

Hell was not the cinematic inferno every cautionary church pamphlet had promised you. Instead, it was rather functional, much like a big city, except the time was always mostly night, or some in-between time designed to guarantee you would never have a restful second of sleep because your circadian rhythm would be forever screwed up.

The air was thick and damp, clinging to your skin like a second layer, with a persistent drizzle falling from somewhere above that never quite turned into proper rain but never stopped either. Instead, it slicked the pavement and softened the neon lights plastered above buildings, the words shifting through languages you didn’t know and yet could still understand.

Something large swept overhead.

You flinched on reflex, the shadow warping across the ground, and looked up just in time to catch the silhouette of wings cutting through the glow of the city, massive and slow-beating, before disappearing between buildings. Others followed, some similar in shape, others larger or smaller, either hovering, gliding, or simply watching.

You had the awful feeling that one of them lingered a beat longer than the rest, its eyes fixed on you as though you might be its next victim for an early dinner.

You decided to keep walking, matching the pace of the other creatures on their commute home, or to work, or wherever one went in hell. Some were human like yourself. Others had scales slick with rain, or fur damp and clinging to their bodies. Horns knocked faintly against passing umbrellas. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed loud enough to make your shoulders jump, but no one else seemed to pay it any mind.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You managed to secure a place using whatever money was left in your bank account when you died. Unfortunately, your 401(k) had been drained and passed on to your loved ones, but with the sad little chunk of change you still had access to, you were able to get a furnished apartment.

Again, you did not survive your first day in hell well.

At least not socially.

Mr. Nanami had been kind enough to point you toward places that were hiring since, thankfully, your degree had transferred over. Which felt like one of the only mercies this place had afforded you. So naturally, in a desperate attempt to remain housed and not piss off your landlord, who accepted rent weekly instead of monthly, you tried to get a job.

Unfortunately for you, the hiring manager at one of the establishments Mr. Nanami had suggested was an orc.

A very ugly one, too.

Broad, tusked, and sweating through a short-sleeved button-up that strained across his chest. He smelled faintly of sulfur, wet pennies, and microwaved fish. The hiring office itself was hardly any better, with bolted plastic chairs and a sad little ticket dispenser by the front desk for interviews.

You waited nearly an hour for your turn, resume trembling in your hand as you were finally called up to take a seat in front of the gruff orc, who adjusted his glasses to read the small print of the freshly printed paper you had spent your last dollar on.

The orc squinted down at your paperwork, snorted, and tapped the note attached to your file with one bumpy green finger.

“Did you really earn your degree?” he asked.

Not quietly, either. Several heads turned in your direction as heat began to crawl up your neck. You forced yourself to nod, bottom lip wobbling, because this had to be the third place rejecting you over your crime.

“Sorry,” he said in an annoyed voice, his lips curling around the words before he spat them out. “Can’t do it.”

You did your best to plead your case. You insisted that you really had earned your degree, that one copied test did nothing to invalidate years of work, sleepless nights, and academic suffering. But the smelly orc merely jerked a crooked thumb toward the others waiting in line and informed you that, at the very least, they were more qualified than you.

Someone behind you made a little huff and whispered to another creature waiting for an interview, “At least commit murder if you’re going to end up here.”

You stood there for one long second, feeling every eye in the room on you, all because of one stupid test. The living had already been hard enough. Why did the dead have to be worse?

Something hot and furious crackled inside you. You reached for the hand sanitizer and the free lighters from the front desk and, well...

You torched the place.

In hindsight, perhaps not your best moment.

Still, you had not even known you were capable of that kind of firepower, which was at least a little exciting. The flames licked across the front desk and raced up a motivational poster with two kittens hanging over a branch above a fire pit, the words Hang in There curling black at the edges as the whole thing went up.

You did, unfortunately, kill a few people in your little arson attempt, to which hell did not respond with much whimsy.

A cheerful little ding sounded somewhere above your head, and then the plush returned to announce:

New Sentence: 667 Years

You picked up your torched resume off the floor and figured you had better find a job before Mr. Nanami refused to extend your lease because you couldn't make your next payment. Pitiful little crocodile tears could only get you so far in a place like this, and if you didn't figure out a way to make rent, and quickly, well, selling yourself was always an option.

Though you weren’t sure your soul would rest easy with that.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

With an odd little stroke of luck, you spotted it on your way back to the apartment while kicking rocks along the sidewalk. A convenience store was hiring, and the going rate was three times your rent every two weeks. The bubble letters were oddly specific.

Late Shift! Five-Year Contract!

Printed at the very bottom of the crumpled pink flyer, beneath faint stains you could only hope were ketchup and not blood, were the words.

Rules Apply.

Surely you could follow rules, and there was no way your crime would be a problem for an establishment like this. With your dignity hanging by a frayed thread, you stepped inside to apply.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

For as cheerful as the flyer had been, you expected someone equally cheerful behind the counter.

Instead, there sat a dragon hybrid who looked less like a store manager and more like a final boss guarding a dungeon you very clearly weren’t the right level for.

He was huge.

Not just tall, though he certainly had that going for him too, but broad in a way that felt excessive, built with the sort of monstrous proportions that made the cramped convenience store seem laughably too small for him. The place itself was dingy, with flickering fluorescent lights overhead, one of the drink coolers making a low rattling hum in the back, and tile floors sticky enough that your shoes made faint little tacky sounds every time you shifted your weight. A cheap bell had jingled when you walked in, though he hadn’t looked up right away.

Four arms. Two folded lazily across his chest, one hand flipping through what appeared to be hell’s version of a Playboy while another obsidian claw picked idly at one of his fangs. One of the lower hands was occupied with absolutely nothing at all, drumming black claws against the countertop beside the register, as he might eventually remember that he worked here.

You stared.

Because frankly, what else were you supposed to do when faced with that?

A pair of red eyes slid over you once. The slushie machine in the corner gave a loud, wet gurgle. “You here to buy something,” he drawled at last, “or just stand there gawking before asking for a job?”

Your mouth parted. You couldn’t say anything for a handful of seconds, which only made him roll his crimson eyes. “A job?” you merely squeaked out with your resume already crumpling in your hand.

“So you can read. That’s a relief. I was beginning to wonder if hell had lowered its standards again.”

You bristled instantly. “Yeah… I’m here for the job.”

He looked you over once more, taking his sweet time with it, and somehow managed to make standing there in your own skin feel weirdly humiliating. One claw tapped lazily against the laminated countertop. Somewhere behind him, a refrigerator compressor kicked louder for half a second before settling back into its usual little hum.

“That bad out there already?” he mused, flipping another page. Two of his four eyes dropped back to the magazine. “Couldn’t even make it a full day before crawling into retail?”

His tail gave a lazy thump against the floor, heavy enough to rattle a crooked little display of lollipops near the register.

“You can call me Mr. Sukuna,” he said. His voice came out low and rough, thick with amusement that never once softened the threat beneath it. “Not Kuna, not mister, not Sukuna, and definitely not by my first name. You don’t look nearly important enough for that.”

You almost asked if that meant you could call him Mr. Kuna, but one glance at the claws, the fangs, the tail, the extra arms, and the overwhelming possibility of dying again convinced you that perhaps restraint was a virtue after all.

He seemed to notice your hesitation.

“What?” he asked, mockingly expectant. “Got a smart little comment caught in that tiny head of yours?”

You said nothing.

“Pity,” he hummed. “You looked just irritating enough to have one.”

His crimson gaze dragged over you again, slow and invasive, from your shoes to your face, with all the lazy scrutiny of a predator deciding whether you looked more pathetic than useful.

Then he snorted.

“I don’t usually hire little runts,” he said, glancing back down at the magazine in his hand, “but you’ve got that desperate look I like in employees.”

He turned another page.

A beat passed.

Then, without warning, one of his lower hands reached beside the register, grabbed a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, and tossed both toward a customer who had apparently been waiting by the end of the counter the entire time. You startled hard enough to nearly jump out of your skin. The creature caught them, slapped a few crumpled bills onto the counter, and left without either of you acknowledging what had just happened.

“What?” he said flatly. “Did you think this was going to be a formal interview? I sell cigarettes, energy drinks, and cursed scratch-offs to the damned at two in the morning. If you can stand upright and count change without crying, you’re overqualified.”

That was fair, actually.

He finally looked back at you, grin turning sharp enough to split skin.

“But if you steal from me, mouth off to me, or make my store look worse than it already does, I’ll peel your hide off and use it to mop the freezer aisle. You understand, sweetheart?”

You were almost too stunned to say anything before nodding eagerly.

“You start now.”

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

As it turned out, working for Sukuna deserved its own circle of hell.

On your first night, he handed you an entire list of rules, most of which you had only skimmed with the sort of confidence only a fool, or someone recently dead, could possess. Some of them had been normal enough, if you could even use that word to describe hell.

Don’t antagonize armed customers. Don't flirt back with the customers. Don't open the back door past 3 a.m.

Others made you wonder why, exactly, he had thought to warn you in the first place despite his generally miserable exterior. Anytime you asked, he would grumble something under his breath about you being too much of an idiot to understand the basics of this kind of life.

You imagined he would know, seeing as he had apparently been here for two centuries.

And of course, there were also rules that felt a little too personal.

Don’t touch my food. Don’t sit in my chair. Don’t use my office for anything other than dropping off your timecard.

The most important one had been written in thick lettering and decorated with an alarming amount of stickers; you didn't quite take him for the type to own. You briefly wondered if he had someone locked in a basement somewhere making these signs for him. The thought passed almost as quickly as it came.

THE CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT.

You had heard that one before back in the land of the living. Everyone had. And more often than not, everyone had abused it.

The job itself was relatively easy once you got used to the sort of riffraff that drifted into the shop. Sukuna would linger with you for the first few hours of the night, always with a new porn magazine in hand, which you sometimes caught him lazily jerking off to before scoffing when you looked his way.

He never stopped, though.

Sometimes he was kind enough to leave the old boxy television on. It played whatever happened to be popular in hell on a low, tinny volume throughout your shift, the sound crackling beneath the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the occasional wet gurgle from the slushie machine in the corner.

Commercials for blood banks and strip clubs. The occasional ad for demon casinos promising that you can even bet your soul! Prescription medication with side effects read so quickly you were fairly certain they had to be illegal. Even the local news changed depending on the district, usually something about possession rates, traffic pileups, or whichever neighborhood had the highest body count that week.

And every so often, music.

Some of it you had heard back in the land of the living. You supposed not every musician made it to the pearly gates on talent alone. Others were actual creatures you had never heard of before, though you were quickly becoming a fan.

Then one night, a familiar tune drifted through the store speakers.

A love ballad sung by two of the biggest pop idols in hell at the moment: Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.

Lovers, some of the trashy little entertainment articles had claimed, which you had read during the slower hours of your shift while pretending not to. Apparently they had committed something heinous enough to land themselves a sentence nearly as long as Sukuna’s.

Sukuna often told you not to pay them any mind if you knew what was good for you. Especially if they ever made their way inside. You had laughed the first time he said it. You couldn't imagine men like that setting foot into a run-down convenience store in a district like this.

To which Sukuna had only given you a long, knowing look and muttered, “If they knew what they were looking for.”

Sukuna sometimes talked like he knew things you never would. You pushed, he pulled away, and the most he ever left you with was:

“No creature here is a good person.”

That had been reassuring.

So naturally, you paid him absolutely no mind.

Instead, tonight, you found yourself leaning against a mop and staring at their little performance on the old television. Satoru, with his blinding white hair and dazzling smile, reaches for the hands of screaming fans like he might siphon the feeling of love from their adoration alone. Suguru carried the softer notes, smooth and far too easy on the ears, only to slip into a rap halfway through before making a heart with his broad hands and winking directly at the camera with those pretty violet eyes.

You could see why people were stupid about them.

Sukuna noticed immediately. With a sharp click of his tongue, he stood and smacked the side of the television hard enough to make the image warp and shriek into static before blinking black.

You jolted and shot him a look that very clearly said: Hey, I was watching that.

“What?” he said without looking at you, two hands still counting bills while another idly picked at one of his fangs. “You here to work or stare like a creep?”

Heat crawled up your face. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Hm.”

His tail lashed once behind him, displeased.

Then his red eyes slid over you.

“Listen carefully,” he said, voice low and edged with irritation. “I don’t care if customers rob you, threaten you, or cry at the register. You follow my rules exactly. And if you don’t, I’ll crack your bones open with my teeth and stock what’s left of you in the freezer.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then, with the sheer arrogance of a creature entirely confident in his place at the top of the food chain, he snorted and looked away first.

You decided to finally listen to the old bastard for once.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Still, that was not the rule you failed.

No, what you failed to do was correctly price-mark the limited-edition Dungeon Crawler Spellbooks over in aisle three. In your defense, they had been shelved right beside the clearance bin, and the little orange stickers had all started to blur together after your fifth hour under those migraine-inducing neon lights.

You had tried to explain to Sukuna that you had simply gotten confused.

Unfortunately, before you could fix your mistake, a goblin had waddled in, squinted at the shelf with all the greedy suspicion of a man born to haggle, and promptly robbed you blind.

Didn’t even pay the clearance price. Just stuffed the books under his greasy little vest and bolted.

What a truly spectacular stroke of luck for you.

So now nasty old Sukuna had docked your pay down to one penny a day, which you argued was not only ridiculous but deeply evil, and he had simply stared at you as if to say:

Are you planning to pay for what I lost?

You had, unfortunately, not been planning that.

Which was how you found yourself standing in front of your neighbor and landlord’s door, fist hovering in the air.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Your knuckles never made contact before the door swung open, causing you to startle back a step.

You had nearly forgotten just how large Mr. Nanami was.

He was not monstrous in the obvious way so many others in your district were, with their dripping fangs and proud vulgarity, their open displays of appetite and violence. His intimidation was of a far more insidious sort. The kind that did not announce itself. The kind that merely settled into a room and let your nerves discover it for themselves.

He was an orc, yes, but scrubbed clean of the usual roughness you had come to associate with most of them. His ivory tusks were smooth and immaculately kept, neat against the severe line of his mouth, and his skin lacked the grime, the sweat-slick coarseness, the animal disorder so many others seemed to wear with careless pride. There was nothing careless about Mr. Nanami. Everything about him looked deliberate. Pressed. Ordered. As though even his cruelty, if it existed, would arrive neatly folded and set before you without so much as wrinkling the tablecloth.

“I was just about to see you.”

His voice was soft, but there was a bluntness beneath it that made your stomach draw tight all the same.

He stepped aside, one broad hand motioning for you to enter. You brushed past him into the apartment and were struck all at once by how clean it smelled. Faint soap. Starch. Something dry and papery, like old books left undisturbed on a shelf. It wasn't an unpleasant scent.

“About my rent,” you began, though your voice had already started thinning by the second word.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click. Nanami didn't move right away. His hand remained resting on the lock for one suspended second longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, his posture still as stone.

“You have it, yes?”

Again, his voice was far too gentle for a landlord with a tenant already a week late.

Then the lock turned.

Such a small sound.

And yet it seemed to pass through you with the cold precision of a needle.

He motioned for you to sit, and with all the solemn dread of someone approaching their own execution, you lowered yourself to the floor before him while he took his seat opposite you. His knees spread slightly. One hand rose to prop his chin, thumb resting against the edge of his jaw, while the other came to rest low at his waist, fingers grazing the polished buckle of his belt.

Great.

You kept your head bowed, save for the occasional flicker of your gaze upward to see whether he was still looking at you. He was. Those hazel eyes had a way of fastening to you that felt less like attention and more like arrangement, as though you had already been set neatly into place before him. Pinned there. A specimen behind glass. Every second beneath that gaze felt like another fine silver needle slipped carefully through the fragile architecture of your ribs.

Your hands fidgeted in your lap.

“About that...” you started weakly, your nails picking at the skin beside your thumb until a quick, bright sting answered you. “I need another week.”

Silence stretched between you.

Not empty silence, either. It had shape. Weight. It gathered itself in the room until even the faint hum of the apartment seemed to recede beneath it.

You picked harder at the ragged skin around your nail until blood welled dark and sudden at the edge of it. You curled your fingers quickly, hiding the mess in your palm before any of it could stain the cream of the rug beneath you.

“You think hell is free?”

The firmness in his voice struck harder than if he had raised it.

You folded in on yourself at once. There was no bark to his tone. Only disappointment. Flat, measured, and somehow far more humiliating than fury ever could have been.

He exhaled quietly through his nose, one finger tapping once against the smooth curve of a tusk.

“I suppose,” he said at last, after you had sat there long enough to feel your own pulse fluttering in your throat, “there are other ways for you to pay.”

For one foolish moment, you didn't understand him.

Then came the soft metallic sound of his belt being undone.

Your head snapped up so quickly your neck nearly protested.

His gaze had not left you. If anything, it had softened, though only just. Not into kindness. Never that. Pity, perhaps. Or patience. The sort reserved for frightened things too small to understand the shape of what was being asked of them.

“I will only do this once,” he said evenly, and there it was again, that unbearable note of pity beneath the words. “I’m saving myself for someone who’s still living.”

How thoughtful.

Apparently, less respectable methods had arrived.

You moved closer in one unsteady shift, rising onto your knees. One hand came to rest against the solid breadth of his thigh, the muscle beneath his slacks firm and warm beneath your palm, while the other crept hesitantly toward the hard, heavy outline straining against the fabric and, oh.

That was...

You swallowed.

Could that even fit in your mouth?

He had to be at least ten, perhaps eleven inches. The sheer girth of him had your hand moving in slow, uncertain strokes, feeling each heavy vein and strange ridge of orc flesh through the thin fabric of his briefs.

You peeled them down by degrees, and his mossy-green cock sprang free, revealing the coarse blond patch at the base and a flushed, leaking tip that drew your tongue out almost on instinct. The taste of him was thick, almost creamy, touched through with salt and something muskier, that made your thighs press together before you could help it. You gathered what you could with slow, circling strokes of your tongue, both hands working along the hot, weighty length as you tried to slick him well enough to take more of him.

His broad hand came to rest at the back of your head.

He pushed your lips farther past the mauve tip, heedless of the sharp scrape of your teeth against him, and a low, rough sound broke from his chest in answer.

“Haa... it’s been years,” he sighed, nails pressing into your scalp as he began to guide you more insistently. “Haven’t done this since my, fuck... don’t bite now.”

You tried to loosen your jaw enough to accommodate the thick weight of him on your tongue, forcing yourself to take him deeper with every wet gag and muffled little whimper that never quite made it free.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, the words frayed with strain.

You did.

He pushed all the way down until your hands were slapping weakly at his thighs for air, and still you obeyed, dragging shallow breaths through your nose as panic bloomed hot beneath your ribs. His cock pressed at the back of your throat before he drew you back to the tip, only to thrust you down again. Tears blurred your vision, spilling hot over your lashes as your tongue dragged helplessly along every bump and ridge of his heavy length.

It could only have been a matter of minutes.

It felt an awful lot like dying all over again.

When he finally came down your throat, hot, sudden, and far too messy, your body pitched forward of its own accord, his hand still resting and patting the crown of your head. Your throat spasmed around what he forced down your throat, chest hitching as you struggled to swallow, to breathe, to do anything other than sit there and choke on the ruin of him. Your eyes watered afresh, vision blurring as you pressed one trembling hand to his thigh for balance.

Nanami watched you for a moment.

Not with concern, exactly. More as if he were waiting for the obvious to pass.

Then his hand returned to your jaw, firm as ever, tilting your face back up toward the blunt head of his cock still aimed at your mouth.

Nanami Kento Has Earned One Day!

An overexcited plush employee announced it from absolutely nowhere.

And then came the rest.

He squeezed your jaw until your lips parted once more, still coughing, still trying to catch your breath, your tongue fallen helplessly from your mouth as the golden warmth of his piss struck it. The stream spread hot over what already sat heavy in your stomach, the heat of it thinning some of the thickness lodged at the back of your throat and forcing the rest of his seed down to your belly.

“Don’t cough any of it up,” he said, voice low and distant, as though remarking upon some minor inconvenience. “You’ve already made enough of a mess. And you can't imagine how difficult it is to get the smell of orc out.”

You swallowed with effort, throat raw, forcing everything down between gags from smells and conflicting tastes before taking the towel he handed you and pressing the plush fibers to your damp face.

Should you say thank you?

For the towel, perhaps.

For not letting you choke... debatable.

You coughed weakly into your sleeve, still trying to gather breath, and watched as he tucked himself back into his trousers with the same composure one might use to straighten a cuff. When he sat again, one brow arched very slightly.

“You alright?” he asked calmly, though it was plain enough he regarded the whole affair as transactional.

“I would’ve given you water,” he continued, “but I know you wouldn’t be able to pay me back for something like that.”

Right.

Water was a high commodity, and he was a stingy orc.

Apparently, not even tap water was considered worth wasting on someone like you.

“Right...” you breathed, your voice coming out hoarse and thin. You still remained on the floor, trying to gather yourself back into something resembling a person. “What... brought you here?”

The question slipped free before you could stop it.

Above you, Nanami leaned his head into one hand and looked down at you for a long, quiet moment.

“You almost remind me of my wife,” he said softly.

One hand reached out. His fingers caught a strand of your hair and wound it slowly around his meaty digit. The gesture ought to have felt absent, almost gentle. Instead, it was cold and something dreadful unfurled low in your stomach.

“I kept her in a basement for most of my life,” he continued, his tone as level as ever. “I suppose I earned all this through that.”

Silence followed between you.

The candle in the corner gave a faint little pop. Somewhere in the kitchen, water dripped once into the sink. The clock on the wall ticked the seconds by. Every small sound became suddenly, horribly distinct, as though his words had sharpened the apartment itself.

Your mouth parted, but nothing came out.

Because he had said it so casually.

Not like some shameful thing unearthed against his will.

You wanted to stand, to move, to put some distance between yourself and him that still fiddled with your hair, but something inside you begged you not to. Instead, your eyes moved over the apartment. The perfect order of how everything had a place. The locked door.

You could only imagine how much order had once gone into a windowless basement.

Your stomach turned.

Ah.

So he was not nearly as innocent as he had once seemed.

And judging by the way his thumb still idly stroked that strand of your hair, he had not entirely broken himself of the habit of keeping someone within reach.

“So you’re waiting?” you asked softly.

His eyes softened in a way that made your heart kick hard against your sternum, not from affection so much as dread.

“Mhm.”

That was all. No attempt to soften the meaning. Just that low little hum, as though of course he was waiting. As though patience had always come naturally to him.

Then, after a pause, his fingers loosened from your hair only to smooth once over the side of your head in a touch so domestic, it made your stomach dip.

“I keep my apartments the cheapest in the district,” he said.

The words took a moment to settle.

“She was always impulsive when she ran,” he continued. “Stubborn. Emotional. Never very good at thinking long-term.”

The words were not spoken cruelly. If anything, they carried the mild indulgence of someone remarking on an old and tiresome habit.

“So I figured,” he said, “if I kept the rent low enough, eventually she would have nowhere else to go.”

Your throat tightened. The room felt colder somehow, though you could hear the heater stir to life with a soft mechanical groan. His broad shoulders shifted as he leaned back in the chair, and for one awful second, all you could think was that this whole apartment building had all been part of one long, patient design.

One trap.

Laid carefully over years.

Waiting for the right person to stumble back into it.

“It’s the least she could do,” he added after a moment, his voice dropping into something quieter. “Considering she killed me.”

You coughed into your arm, whether to ease the tension or clear the last of him from your throat, you could not say. You watched the fondness drain from his hazel eyes before he finally said, coldly, “Rent is due on the twentieth.”

He gestured toward the door.

You didn't need to be told twice.

You rose too quickly, your legs uncertain beneath you. Something deep in your gut, dread, or some final scrap of common sense, told you that if you stayed there even a second longer, you wouldn't be leaving again.

‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You somehow managed to clean yourself up just enough before your shift, standing in the employee-only bathroom with one hand smoothing down your hair while the other braced against the sink. You wiped away the tears that threatened to push past the corners of your eyes, then dragged your toothbrush back through your mouth, trying your best to scrub away the taste of him.

How could you have stooped so low just to keep a roof over your head?

You spat into the sink.

The white foam blooming there was enough to make your stomach twist. It looked too much like the thick mess that had sat at the back of your throat, enough that bile threatened to rise again with the memory of what still seemed to cling stubbornly to your tongue, your teeth, the sour lining of your stomach.

The bell at the front chimed.

You jerked from your own pity party, then called out a hurried, “Coming!”

Sukuna had left you alone tonight, for which you were grateful. You didn't need him looking you up and down and somehow guessing exactly what you'd done to make rent. He seemed the type who would know on sight. Worse, the type to laugh.

Still, the thought of Mr. Nanami lingered.

Not for yourself, strangely enough.

For the poor girl.

The one he had spoken of so mildly. He seemed so certain his wife would eventually return to him, as though years, death, and distance were all very minor inconveniences before the weight of his patience. You couldn't stop picturing her now. Some frightened creature dragged back into those gentle, waiting hands, into whatever basement had once held her.

The thought sat ugly inside you.

You stepped back into the main part of the store and slid behind the register just in time to see two men by the snack aisle, one with bright white hair piling armfuls of junk food into the hold of a darker-haired companion who appeared to be chastising him for taking too much.

You recognized them at once.

You did your best not to visibly lose your mind, or worse, ask for an autograph. Instead, your first thought was whether there might still be toothpaste foam, or something even more humiliating, at the corner of your mouth by the time Geto Suguru made his way to the counter.

He dropped a small assortment of items onto it with graceful care.

Blood bags. Sweets. Condoms.

You began scanning.

Geto began talking.

You kept your eyes lowered, trying to remember the rules.

Don’t look a vampire in the eye for too long.

Which Geto certainly was. His hand brushed yours as he passed over the next item. His fingers were cool, the rings he wore colder still, and something about the symbols worked into the metal felt oddly familiar. Religious, perhaps. Or cultish. Which, honestly, wouldn't have surprised you.

“Old man Sukuna left you here alone?” he asked softly.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The scanner kept up its cheerful little chirp. You didn't answer beyond a small nod.

From somewhere behind him, Gojo called out, “Want coffee?”

Geto ignored him entirely.

Instead, he bent just enough to catch your face, and you, being the fool that you were, glanced up at exactly the wrong moment and found his violet eyes waiting for yours.

You nearly dropped a can of soda.

His hands closed over yours before it could fall, long fingers caging yours lightly around the dented aluminum.

“Careful now.”

His smile was pretty in a way that made your skin prickle. Feline. Far too familiar with itself.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He laughed softly, but the sound did nothing to settle the unease winding tighter in your stomach.

Then Gojo appeared at his shoulder in a rush of white hair and brightness, bumping into him hard enough to jostle the various items on the counter as he dropped even more items into the pile. His tail swept out behind him, knocking a few lollipops from the stand beside the register before he stooped to gather them with a delighted little hum and placed them directly into your hand.

“Oh, you do look familiar,” he said brightly, cheerful in the exact practiced way he always was on television. “You almost remind me of a pet we had.”

He snapped his fingers and nodded toward Suguru as though inviting confirmation.

Suguru only laughed under his breath and leaned in to murmur something too low for you to catch into Satoru’s ear.

Then Gojo turned back to you, smiling as though you were all in on the same joke.

“Give me your number.”

Geto's eyes settled on you. Whatever protest might have formed dissolved before the words could ever reach your tongue. Your hand had already found a receipt slip and a pen. By the time your mind caught up, you were scribbling your number down in your neatest handwriting, as obediently as if you had been asked for the total.

Suguru watched the whole thing with that same smile. Like he had just won a game of hide-and-seek you hadn't realized you were playing.

[ieatsheets]

Pov Mornings ☀️

Alt vers

[nevergreen24]

I just have two more jjk men to do for December Dragons: Toji and Choso (unless I change my mind/find a music mix from Mabisyo that fits a character)

who would you like to see first?

Toji

Choso

Voting ended onAug 8

I won't get to them right away, but just curious

[liahcharms]

a wicked mind .⋆♱

Who knew the Ouija board was not as useless as it seemed? And who knew a demon you managed to summon would not only be among the most dangerous, but also eager to grant your weird wish? Fuck-a-demon-on-a-camera kind of wish! The one and only ticket that would surely guarantee a boom in your career. That is, if the footage is found, of course.

a part of slutty (slasher) summer

.⋆♱ pairing: ꒰ Pornstar!Reader x Demon!Trueform Ryomen Sukuna ꒱

.⋆♱ content & warnings: ꒰ MDNI 18+ :: horror :: set in 80s :: demon summoning :: strong female reader :: she's such a minx and slut ugh :: and also a monsterfucker :: blood :: violence :: cameraman!naoya :: side character's death :: cabin in the woods :: sex tape recording hehe :: double penetration :: anal sex :: Sukuna is his own warning :: oral sex :: belly bulge :: cum overflowing :: period sex :: blood consuming (just a bit...) :: so obsessed with the reader :: squirting ꒱

.⋆♱ words: ꒰ 9.6k ꒱

.⋆♱ notes: Overthrowing all laws of human body capabilities in this one, sorry. I'm not a med student, but I am a monsterfucking obsessed girl, and yes, this one is by far the most self-insert fic about my delusions...

The warmth of the setting sun licked the back of your neck with soft tongues as you put your hair up and sighed deeply. A red Cadillac rolled slowly along the sandy forest road, the trees brushing its gleaming paint, birds looking down at your furrowed, sweating forehead.

Looking at the map with a big X, you hummed and raised your gaze to take in the view that hadn't changed for a while.

"We're lost," Naoya sighed, tapping his fingers on the wheel. "We're lost, those fucking branches will scratch my car, and it's almost dark."

You gave him no mind, still following the map with your finger and occasionally glancing around. But everything looked the same – the trees, the bushes, the path, which curled and bent like a serpent, leading you only further into the forest.

Thick branches covered the dawn, painting the sky pink and orange, with just a few strands sinking through the fan of lush leaves, as if to gently remind you that the evening was perilously close.

And there was truly nothing worse than getting lost deep in the unknown forest, with a map drenched in the coffee you spilt on it during the break at the gas station and the nerves that were slowly eating you both alive.

The drive that was supposed to take two hours suddenly stretched to four. Four long hours with your cameraman, Naoya, whose forehead stayed wrinkled for at least an hour.

"But we saw the sign by the main route. It should be here," you said, pushing your sunglasses up. "Look, that's the road we're taking, and the cabin should be–oh!"

Not even a minute later, after the next deep turn, the cosy wooden house finally appeared on your horizon.

With a little garden, the swing shone gold beneath the spilling sun, and short steps led to the porch. Big logs of wood lay beneath the stairs, the gentle, warm light from the lamp welcoming you in.

"Oh, it's amazing!" you gasped, opening the door before the car had fully stopped. "Just look at it! I wonder if someone died here."

Naoya scoffed, parking on the gravel road. "Hopefully not. It would be awkward."

A soft hiss slipped past your lips as you peeled your thighs off the leather seat. Tiny shorts curled just beneath your ass, the backs of your thighs wet and sensitive after hours of being stuck to the sun-burning heat.

"Awkward to see a ghost?" You asked, slowly climbing up the stairs.

In the meantime, Naoya took your suitcases and the equipment bag before closing the trunk. "Uh, awkward to make porn in a place where someone died."

A single, soft "Oh" fell past your lips as you took the key from beneath the old mat.

It was the first time you'd been to this place since Yuki recommended it to you last year. It's very serene, she assured you. Quiet, lonely, and fun, with a lake nearby and no other soul in the forest. A perfect house if you want to rest a bit from university during the summer break.

Yet you thought that a cabin described by your friend sounded like the perfect place to start a little project of yours that's been burning your wicked mind for a while.

"You want to be a pornstar?" Satoru raised his brows and let the pen fall onto your dorm's carpet as you studied for the finals. "Like, a real pornstar? A person who makes porn?"

It's not as if he didn't know you were a campus sweetheart. A slut, more like it, yet your idea nevertheless left his mind in a daze.

You nodded, putting your pen down. A question for radiative physics class scribbled messily, as your eyes shone almost evilly.

"Are you really surprised?" A scoff slipped past your lips, eyes narrowing. "Besides, you're no better whore than me."

Satoru leaned against your roommate's bed as you both sat on the floor. A tiny table between you, two cups of coffee, dirty black, and mock exams not even half finished.

"Well, yeah. But I want to work in astrophysics, and if I remember correctly – you do too." He tapped his pen against his pouted lips, a deep thought clearly bubbling behind his ocean eyes. "I mean, if you'll keep your face away from the camera, it should work."

"Of course I will," your eyes curled into a cheeky smile, something malicious already bubbling in a pretty mind of yours. "Actually, I already have an idea," you crawled closer to Satoru, sitting right in front of him with a raised hand. "You know the recent boom in slashers, right? Okay, imagine me, the poor sweet virgin, being chased by two killers in the woods, before they tie me up and fuck me senselessly. With all the artificial blood and stuff, after they killed all of my friends, I went on a summer camping trip with."

Satoru listened with arched brows, clearly amused by the gory, slightly concerning plan. He knew you were a hardcore freak. A nerd too, always shining brightly in your shared classes. But the freak first.

A weirdo, almost a lunatic, finding heat and bliss in the weirdest things, yet always meeting his needs during sex. Because sex with you, dearest heavens, was mind-blowing. A heavenly ecstasy, pleasure wrapped at his fingertips, bursting together with the sweetness of your sly tongue. Skin, fingers, the wetness, that always dripped all over him in such an–

"Why are you hard?" you hummed, eyes squinting gently. He didn't react quickly enough as your foot found its way to press against his bulging sports shorts. "You thought about me moaning like a bitch on a tape, huh?"

He chuckled, long fingers wrapped around your ankle, then pressed your foot closer. "I did, sweets. In fact, I wouldn't mind being on it with you."

Tilting your lovely head, the sole of your foot brushed the full, fat shaft of his cock. "That's good to know because I've been meaning to ask you to play one killer."

"And the other?"

You giggled. "Your friend, Suguru, from the arts seems quite lovely. I'm sure I could do a lot with his tongue piercing."

Satoru's head tilted gently, and a soft scowl formed between his brows as the pressure became almost painful. His teeth gritted, fingers clutched tighter around your ankle, yet he did not push you away.

"So you'll play a virgin, huh?"

A wide grin twisted your lips. "Your sweetest one."

And thus, a few weeks later, after all the exams had been passed with a pure blessing, you found yourself inside the cabin.

Naoya, your dickhead friend from the film department, agreed to take part in your little project and arrived a day early with you to prepare everything. Suguru and Satoru were due to arrive tomorrow afternoon, so you had time to wander restlessly around the house while Naoya set up all the filming equipment.

The inside of the cabin seemed even lovelier, warmer, with the last threads of sun slipping through the small windows, basking the creaking floor in flame. The smell of wood, dry and clean, drenched in the sap of forest leaves, danced in the slowly setting darkness right over the high porch.

The fireplace was there, cosy and filled with logs, yet the sweat still clung to your spine, as if the heat of the journey hadn't yet rinsed away with the slowly falling evening.

Naoya put your suitcases in the hallway, then took a deep, tired breath. "I need a shower. And something to eat."

The owners supposedly left you some food, so you opened the small kitchen's fridge, the flickering light casting your face in cold light.

"Hmm, bread with peanut butter and jam?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at his scowl.

Always so mean, so spoilt, yet unfortunately, he was the only one who agreed to take part in your wicked project. The only one who hated the idea to the point of feeling no sexual attraction to you.

"What jam?"

"Strawberry, of course," you furrowed, taking the jar from the fridge.

"Fine," he said, looking around and spotting the small stairs leading to the upper floor. "We should have two bathrooms, so let's hop in first."

You giggled, taking out the rice cooker. "We can shower together, if you wish."

But he didn't say anything, leaving you with a snicker and a low, "Slut," that met your grinning cheeks.

The shower was cold, sweet, wetting your body pleasurably as you pinned your hair up. The sweat clinging to your skin, dust, and heavy air dirtying it, swirled together in the drain of the small shower. It wasn't the cleanest you've ever seen, but compared to your dorms, everything seemed better.

Leaving the bathroom in nothing but tight shorts and a skimpy top, without your bra – everything just to give Naoya another reason to measure you with his nasty gaze – you saw the sandwiches ready on the table.

"Ah, thank you, my dearest househusband," you giggled, sitting down by the wooden table.

The warm light of the old lamp bathed his dirty-blond hair in yellow. Snake eyes, always so priggish, narrowed to two almonds. Yet he didn't comment, joining you at the table with his own sandwiches.

"We need to choose the bedroom for filming. I'll set up the camera today. We can also go around the house in the morning to check the whole plan for the script," he started, and you nodded, your mouth glued with peanut butter. "Let's change the sheets for ours, because there's a chance the artificial blood won't come off. Ah, and I can't film their faces, right?"

You hummed, wrapping your hair with a clip. "Well, they'll have the masks, so it doesn't matter. Try to avoid mine."

"No cock sucking then?"

Your head tilted, brows furrowed, as you thought for a moment. "I guess, unless you can do a super close-up of my lips. My pussy's much prettier anyway."

He trembled, as if shivers smooched down his spine. "I can't believe you got accepted for astrophysics."

You giggled, licking your fingers clean and tapping two on your temple. "That's because I have an amazing mind."

He looked at you for a moment. At your lovely, sly grin. Cheek with a hint of reddish jam. Eyes mingling devilishly. Hair pinned up in a clip, a few strands falling gently along your warm cheeks. You were almost irritatingly ethereal, smart, beautiful, and such a pervert that Naoya truly couldn't comprehend how someone like you could have the mind to study astrophysics at the most elite university in the whole country.

"Sure you have," he muttered, taking another bite of his sandwich.

When the evening had finally fallen deep and the darkness had fully slipped into the warmly lit cabin, you decided it was time to go down and check the basement. Although finding the key proved more difficult than you'd thought it would be, as if the owners wished to keep whatever wickedness was locked there.

And this only made you crave going down there even more. Naoya waved his hand and went upstairs to work on the cameras. Leaving you with a, "Just scream if something happens, but don't expect me to go down there," as the single look into the unfathomable darkness of the basement made him shake his head.

"Coward," you giggled, turning a small lamp on.

It flickered once, twice, before finally burning out and leaving you with a sigh. So, with the flashlight in your hand, you went down. Step by step, careful and slow, as the old stairs creaked beneath your feet. The darkness wrapped you, a faint light bathing the long descent that seemed never-ending.

Until you finally touched solid ground and found yourself in a small basement. Spider webs hung from the ceiling, a few shelves filled with old books sat serenely in the dusty corner, and a small table nestled against the wall. It looked plain, rather uninviting, yet you had nothing else to do until tomorrow, so you walked around, checking each book. Some old tales, long-forgotten romances, dusty history books, a few classics…

"Oh?" fell curiously, as your fingers bumped the skin–clad book.

You pulled it from between other volumes, feeling its weight in your palms. It was thick, old, almost ancient, and wrapped in a thick leather belt, as if whatever it held were utterly unkind. It felt soft beneath your fingers, almost human–like, yet its cover was sewn with nasty, crooked stitches. Long, dirty, yet real, you traced them with your fingers, each bumping against your skin.

So you did the only proper thing and laid it on the table. With a small flashlight between your teeth, you pulled the old belt, trying to fight its strong grip. It must've sat here for a long, long time, as the dust swirled right in front of your lashes, sticking nastily to your freshly washed face. The belt was long and thick, almost like tree branches, yet softer to the touch.

It finally gave in, letting you unwrap the book from its snug clutches.

Demonology, was written inside, without any other information. No author, no publisher, no date, only crooked, ink-spilt letters bending on the front, yellow page.

Your eyes glimmered in the faint lightning, heart suddenly skipped a beat as you clutched the book tighter. Oh, it felt as if you'd just discovered a long-lost treasure, a rare gem, almost a groundbreaking archaeological find. It was amazing, wicked, and scary, and as you flipped a few pages, a small gasp slipped past your wrapped-around-the-flashlight lips as you saw the old, yellow pages, carefully filled with various demons and their descriptions.

Oh dearest, Naoya would faint just from seeing it.

So you quickly closed the book and went back upstairs. You ran through the hall and living room before storming into the largest bedroom to scare the man hunched over the camera.

"Fuck! Can you please at least knock?" His palm fell on your quickly falling chest, snake eyes much larger than usual.

The little camera was set on the tall tripod, facing the king-sized bed. The room was rather big and cosy, with wooden walls and a large window directly above the bed frame, overlooking the deep, dark forest.

Naoya sat on the bed, yet his head shot your way the moment you stormed like a nightmare.

"Look!" Walking his way, you held the heavy book right in front of your chest, presenting it full to his bulging eyes. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

His straight brows furrowed. "Do I wanna know?"

Flipping the heavy cover, you showed him the first page. And the second, and the third, each one scribbled messily, with handwritten notes and crooked pictures of demons.

"Where did you get it?" he asked softly, taking the book from your hands. He read the pages with a frown, his finger brushing the old, crumpled paper. "It's at least a thousand years old."

"Oh, I found it in the basement. Locked with some old leather belt. I barely managed to open it, but here we are."

Naoya looked up, eyes almost stormy, a deep sigh and a wish to wig you from head to toe already bubbling in his chest. "You saw a fucking human-skin-bound book, bent shut, and decided to just open it? Without even thinking why it was secured like an artefact from the deepest corners of hell?"

You walked around the bedroom and looked at other shelves. With many more books than you expected, yet they seemed to have been read by the travellers and owners themselves. Nothing truly interesting that piqued your interest.

"Why not? I was curious. It's not as if anything will happen. And why do you think it's bound in human skin?" You shrugged and popped a squat to check the lower shelves filled with board games. "Oh, they have a monopoly. How about doing oral sex instead of paying rent for stepping on the property?"

Naoya closed his eyes and took a deep breath. One breath after another, through the nose and past the mouth, as he tried to calm himself.

"Have you seen it? It's clearly human skin. Don't you think it's fucking terrifying?"

Your head shook as your fingers traced an old, dusty box, deeply hidden beneath other games. "Hm, I think it's fascinating. You know, maybe it was made by some wicked witch or, oh, a cult. Do you think it was made from someone who was sacrificed to the devil?"

Naoya began to regret agreeing to your pleadings. The image of your pouted lips and plush breasts beneath the skimpy top still swirled in his mind, yet every part of him, every sense, was screaming in alarm to get himself away from his peculiar friend.

Although a friend could've been far too strong, as you loved teasing him and he somehow easily gave in to your haunting whispers.

"That's it, I'm taking it ba-"

"Oh my god!"

His heart nearly stopped in dread as you discovered something he was desperately trying to hide from your sight. He hid it deep beneath the heavy board games, covering it with a flimsy tablecloth he found on the shelf, just to prevent you from seeing this devilish thing.

"I can't believe they have a Ouija board!" you gasped in awe, quickly joining him on the bed. The board was already unpacked, clutched in your fingers, as you looked all around it and finally set it down.

And then…

And then something flickered behind your eyes. A sinister, ominous plan, blended with the lovely – or rather, malevolent – smile that made your cheeks swell. Naoya could read your mind with an almost horrifying precision. Knowing you for the past year, he could pinpoint each of your perverted thoughts.

So he quickly shut the book and smashed it against the board. "Absolutely not."

Your lips pouted as one hand swiftly grabbed his wrist to stop him from rising. "Oh, come on! You have no idea what I wanted to do!"

Naoya gritted his teeth, trying to free himself from your grasping fingers. "Truly? Because I think you considered summoning a demon from this book using this devilish thing."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the laughter that was barely held back in your throat.

Naoya was seething. Oh, he was so, so furious, and you could see faint grey smoke swirling above his scowling head as he tried to pull your fingers apart, one by one. But you held him in an almost unbelievably tight grip, eyes fixed on his face.

"Actually, I thought about summoning a demon and fucking him on camera."

You laughed when Naoya let out a low, tired groan, and instead of lifting the book, he simply leaned over and banged his forehead against it. Until your crackling filled the dim bedroom, lit only by the warm bedside lamp and moonlight spilling past the thick trees.

There was something warm in the way excitement clung to your spine when Naoya finally gave in. You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, and a sigh of surrender finally escaped his lips.

"Why do you need to be like that?" he asked, voice muffled because of the book.

"Like what?" you hummed, brushing his dirty-blonde hair. "Just imagine how famous I'd become. That's, like, oh god, the perfect way to boost my career. And don't you want to be known as the first director to film a fucking demon?"

There were many things Naoya wanted. But summoning an ancient monster wasn't one of them.

And yet, he muttered a quiet, "Fine," and took his hands off the book and the board. "But you know there's a chance this thing isn't even working?"

"I know it is," you giggled, opening the book again. "I just feel it."

"And you know that there's a low chance that demons actually exist?"

"No, they do."

Naoya grimaced, yet still flipped the book over to you. "How can you be a physicist and believe in such things?"

You hummed, reading the description of each demon carefully. "It's fun."

And that was truly the simplest way to describe it.

Fun.

Being slightly obsessed with creatures and demons was fun. Spending nights preparing for exams, then watching horror films on your old, self–bought TV, neatly hidden in your tiny closet. Reading erotica about monsters, spectres, and vampires just to feel a thrill that tingled your spine in the most pleasurable way.

During the day, you've learned about the mysteries of the universe; at night, you've bent all your beliefs just to get yourself off to the dream of fucking with a monster.

Your dirty little secret, neatly concealed behind a mask of a simple campus slut and a nerd. Because you enjoyed being a weird girl, with perverted fantasies and wickedness always lurking around your lovely face. You loved sex, yet finding people who could truly satisfy your craving was difficult.

And so, among all the men you've slept with, Satoru was the only one who always agreed to your devilish scenarios. The obsessive ex, stalking murderer, a clown chasing you through the haunted house with a knife. His teeth on your skin, yours on his, until, sometimes, you've drawn a bit of blood from his lips, cherishing the metallic sweetness on your tongue.

Him, eating you out during the period, waiting for your shuddering climax, kissing you deep and filthy, with your own blood smeared all over your fucked face.

But Satoru also wasn't a thing. A creature, a monster, who would satisfy your most wicked, carnal pleasures.

And Naoya only needed to know that it was fun.

"Oh," your voice dropped as you turned to a blank page. "Ryomen Sukuna," you read aloud, yet found no description or sketch of the only demon, only his name and DO NOT SUMMON written in crooked, wicked letters.

Naoya looked up, seeing the same sinister flicker behind your eyes. "No, absolutely not," he said, his finger immediately falling on the warning. "Let me help you translate it. It means that, under no circumstances, no matter what happens, we mustn't summon this specific demon."

But he knew, he saw, that you were dead set. Your lower lip caught between your teeth, eyes shining sweetly, as you looked up and nodded.

"This one. I have a good feeling," you giggled, already placing the book and the Ouija board on the bed in front of you.

"Don't you think there's a reason he's the only one marked like that? Without any description, not even a sketch?"

You hummed, scanning for any information about the demon. Only its name, the warning, and something dark and smeared on the paper, ending just at its edges. Blood, perhaps, yet you quickly hid it with your hand to prevent Naoya from seeing.

"I think no one has ever seen him, and it's our duty to step into uncharted territory," you giggled, seeing as Naoya nevertheless stood behind a small camera.

Straight eyebrows still slightly furrowed, dark eyes rolling. "You're an astrophysics student, not an archaeologist."

"Demonologist."

He scoffed. "Anyway, the camera is ready. Do you want to change or…?"

You looked over the skimpy, whorish enough outfit and shook your head. Tight shorts curled just beneath your cheeks, perked nipples visible through the top, lingerie long gone. Cute, perfect for an innocent, porn-style look.

"No, it's good," you plucked at the scuff of your top, lowering it gently. Letting the camera capture the fuller view of your breasts. "How is the angle?"

"Below the neck," Naoya murmured, adjusting the camera slightly. "In case of something, we can cut the recording. You know, that video of your face would probably bring you more fame, right?"

You corrected the pin-up and smiled cheekily. "I believe my body is hot enough to guarantee success."

Naoya didn't say anything, but simply hummed and raised his eyebrow.

It was time.

The warm light from the lamp cast a gentle halo over your body. Basking in its warmth, you let the rays spill around your naked arms, breasts, and thighs, pressed together as you sat on your heels.

With a nod of your head, Naoya raised his thumb and a little red dot of recording lit up.

"Hi everyone," your low, seductive voice wrapped around the camera's deep lens. "It's so late already, isn't it? Well, how about I keep you company and maybe have some fun, hmm?"

The camera dropped slightly onto your hands, then zoomed in on the Ouija board. Fingers clenched around the heart-shaped planchette, with a glossy eye in the middle.

"By having some fun, I mean, what do you think about playing with a few demons? Sounds cool, doesn't it?" Your giggle mingled with the sharp, flickering sound of a lighter as you lit a candle. Putting it on the bed, where the mattress felt most stable. "Mhm, let's hope we summon a sexy demon. I'm sure he could take such good care of me."

Your thighs basked in the candle's warm glow as you pressed two fingers to the planchette and took a deep breath. Excitement and stress mingled, bubbling in your chest, the familiar, thrilling throb deep in your lower belly already pooling in your shorts. If you parted your legs right now, Naoya could clearly see a small, wet patch just beneath your moist pussy.

With a wooden heart in the middle, you started, "Is there anyone with us tonight?"

There was a brief moment of silence, the dim room lit only by a flickering candle and a warm bedside light. Naoya stood behind the camera, visibly troubled. His lips were pressed together, and eyes looked slightly uneasy as he nervously glanced around the room before finally looking back at you and shaking his head.

The plachette didn't move either.

"It seems our demons are a bit shy tonight," you laughed, biting your lower lip. "Hm, how about we call for the specific one? Maybe it will answer to my sweet pleadings."

You took another deep breath, pressing the index and middle fingers tighter against the heart-shaped wood. "Ryomen Sukuna, are you with us?"

Naoya gripped the metal frame of the bed, crystals of sweat already beading on his smooth temple. The owl's muffled hoot echoed deep within the forest, and a gentle wind stirred the curling branches that tapped at your bedroom window. The silence remained thick and still, and even though it was midsummer, a cold sweat kissed the back of your neck.

"Hm, Ryomen Sukuna, would you like to visit the sweetheart tonight?"

The shivers of excitement ran down your spine, as if something unfathomable and bloodcurdling were about to happen. Yet the room remained dusky and chilly, with only Naoya's shuddering breaths mingling with the candle's flickering flame and the hum of crickets beneath your porch.

"I don't think he's–"

But then the flame flickered. Gently, curling and twisting in the still air before finally dying out. Grey smoke from a vanilla-scented candle curled over the glass, and you both watched it with wide eyes.

You, biting on the inside of your cheek to muffle the giggle.

Naoya letting a low, "Fuck" slip past his lips as he started looking around the room.

"Don't worry," you said, clearly trying to lift his spirits. "I moved on the bed and–"

"No."

His voice… you've never heard it like that before. Low, yet edged with a high note. Trembling and groggy, he stepped back and fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

"Behind you," he whispered, not daring to point his finger. "The corner. There's…"

You quickly turned your head, eyes searching for the thing that frightened him so.

And… oh.

He was monstrous, enormous, and tall, nearly touching the ceiling with his head. Four crimson eyes gleamed brightly from the dark corner, reflecting the warm flames. Four arms stretched long and high, while his body crackled and bent as if awakening after years of sleep, fully straightening from its cocoon.

The breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. Lips parted as you saw a monster up close. If you reached out, your fingers would almost touch the hem of the white robe around his hips. It was like petting a tiger, meant to be watched only from a tightly closed cage.

He was revolting. Monstrous, terrifying, yet strangely beautiful. With muscles rippling along his back, a broad torso, and a grinning mouth in his stomach that made you swallow hard.

Sharp jaw, now scratched by one of his hands as he looked around the room. Crimson eyes glinting between you and Naoya with a squint.

"Call him away," Naoya whispered, slowly stepping further into the room. Away from him, from you. "Fuck, do something."

Coward.

"No," you smiled, biting the inside of your cheek. "I can take him."

Naoya cursed under his breath, eyes fixed on the monster without ever looking away. His narrowed, almond-shaped eyes watched you both carefully, as if gauging the room's atmosphere.

Two upper arms crossed over his chest, lower ones hanging loose.

"What year is it?" His low, scruffy voice sent shivers down your and Naoya's spines.

"Nineteen eighty-five," you said.

The monster, Sukuna, chuckled, ruffling his pinkish hair. "Thousand years, huh. Who set me free?"

Naoya didn't even try to take the blame; his hand immediately pointed at you. And you, pointing at yourself with your index finger.

"Hm, aren't you a dove?" Sukuna stepped closer, and you could almost feel the floor trembling beneath his heavy body. "Do you have any idea what creature you have summoned?"

Naoya backed away, taking careful steps towards the door, before he suddenly stiffened as if remembering that you were still in the room.

Closer to the demon than he was, with eyes shining brightly as if bewitched by a monster in front of you.

Your head shook, a few strands of hair slipping from the clip to brush the flame-kissed cheek.

The monster lifted his fingers, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You could see just how enormous he truly was. Naoya looked next to him like a twig. Yet his figure, towering over your seated form and casting long shadows across the bedding, somehow made you squirm. As the shorts suddenly felt wetter and tighter, you wondered whether Naoya could see a damp patch pooling beneath your pussy from behind.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He gritted, trying take a few steps closer.

You were mesmerised, mind lost in awe at seeing a demon in real life, after years of masturbating to the mere idea of fucking with it.

Naoya drew closer, step by step, carefully, his fingers trying to grab your arm. "Fuck, we need to leave. Now, or else it–"

But then, Sukuna waved his hand, and something wet landed on your arm. It soaked your skin in a sticky, muggy substance, giving off a distinct smell reminiscent of rusted metal.

The one you knew all too well, and as your eyes drifted down to your right arm, your breath caught once again in your throat.

A long streak of blood trickled down your skin, together with something thick. It was quite similar to a tissue, thick yet soft, reminding you of a swollen cheek. The more you looked at it, the more certain you became that it must have been someone's cheek.

Sukuna brushed something from your chin, his thumb damp in something crimson.

Naoya didn't say anything. He simply couldn't, because he wasn't there any more. When you turned back, your eyes fell on the large, dark puddle of flesh and blood pooling around his shoes.

The walls of the bedroom seeping with his burst body, long strings of blood rolling down the wooden planks onto the old, soft carpet. Half of the room, the one behind your back, fully basked in metallic, crimson darkness.

"Oh," was the only thing that could slip past your lips, before Sukuna pinched your chin and brought you back. "He–"

"Was talking too much," he whispered, now squeezing your cheeks with two fingers. "Answer my question, dove. Do you have any idea what you have done?"

And to his surprise, you nodded.

Sweetly, almost shyly, yet he noticed this flame – a flicker – that burned behind your blown-out iris. He noticed your plush lips fallen open, the body wriggling on the bed, thighs clenched tight, until the droplets of sweat beaded between the brushing skin.

And he could smell you too – the sweetness of your arousal that soaked the flimsy, slutty material of the thing you dared to call a cloth.

From where he came, your attire wouldn't even suit a nightgown. Back then, women dressed modestly and humbly, always lowering their gazes before the King of Curses, trembling at the mere sight of his grinning belly-mouth.

Their eyes always slightly swollen, a little too worried, as mercy did not visit his household and the walls seeped blood far more often than they should. His fingers broke necks effortlessly, feet stomping on piles of bodies of those who dared to bother the King of Curses, whether he was trying to soothe his mind or to haunt.

But then a shaman of sorts, a sorcerer, trapped his body within a cursed book. For the next thousand years, it remained buried deep beneath the shifting layers of a changing world. In the darkness underground, it moved and travelled through countless other fingers of curious, heedless humans who seemed to take pleasure in calling forth demons.

But not him. No, as no one dared to call the most wicked, as if utterly rational it was to avoid the creature of his rank.

And yet, after thousands of years of being trapped, he suddenly appeared in a dimly lit room, with the warm smell of the human body wafting through the air and a little, pretty dove sitting on the bed.

Now, looking at him with flushed cheeks and a lovely glimmer behind her wicked eyes, as he brushed the soft lower lip.

"I should kill you," he murmured, pressing a thick thumb against your lips. You parted them gently, inviting it in with eyes curling into a smirk. "Such a foolish girl. But I owe you for setting me free."

With a nod, you gently sucked on his finger. It nearly filled your mouth, pressing heavily against your tongue as you coated it with sticky saliva. Your lips hollowed, eyes fixed on the demon's face as if trying to memorise all his devilish features. The small bump on his nose, tattoos carved into his skin with almost uncanny precision, pinkish hair falling over his forehead as he leaned forward, the second hand releasing your hair from a clip.

He pulled his finger, once again clutching your cheeks with his now wet digits. "So tell me, what do you wish for?"

He held you in a tight grip, pressing right against your jaw until you felt a sharp pain. "I want you to use me."

Sukuna tilted his head, eyes narrowing into two almonds. "Use you?"

You nodded briefly and raised your fingers to press against his thighs. The muscles bulged, bent, and shifted beneath the long, creamy tunic he wore as your hand slid upwards. Higher and higher until your finger tugged at the cloth wrapped around his hips. Your own wriggled messily on the bedding, just to feel the slick pull of your shorts brushing against your already swollen clit.

With a single pull, the cloth fell, revealing…

"Oh," you gasped, as the musky, heavy smell of his two fat cocks suddenly hit your face.

Red, long, with veins curling around their swollen shafts and all the blood already dripping down to feverish tips.

His hand slipped to the back of your head, clenching a fistful of hair and pulling you back. "Do you know what you're asking me for?"

You nodded, long fingers digging into his beefy thighs. "Do whatever you want with me," fell playfully, as you bit your lower lip. "Fuck me for the camera. Please?"

Sukuna's eyes slipped to a little something turned at you two, the red light watching him closely.

"This thing?" He asked, taking it with one of his lower hands.

The small, black camera, with its lens now pointing at you. The need to cover your face was quick, and, unfortunately, as it would turn out, you pushed Sukuna away, trying to cover yourself with a hand.

"Wait, no, my face–"

But you didn't finish, as he suddenly pressed you against his heavy, leaking cocks. Muffling your pleadings, nose buried in his black hair as you took a deep, moany breath and let it leap off his skin.

He hummed lowly, the camera in his hand looking comically tiny. The lens pointed right at your face, to get a clear view of the glossy, sly eyes.

"Push me again, and I'll break those pretty fingers of yours," fell in a rumble that tickled the deepest, warmest flesh of your lower belly. "How about putting your mouth to use, hm? I'm sure you can do more than just look like a whore."

There was simply no way to take both of his cocks into your mouth. Your fingers curled around one, feeling the leaking, creamy precum stick to the pads, lips smooching kisses down another. Too heavy to even stand and cling to his abdomen, yet hard enough to become too big to wrap your lips around it.

You kissed the first shaft. Licking, sucking, biting into the bulging veins, till finally catching wetly on the plump head. Where the smell was the heaviest, oh so manly, forcing your mind to spiral into a thoughtless state, with a heavy pall of lust clouding your vision, as your lips finally wrapped themselves around one cock.

Fingers pumping another, yet your hand was simply too small to wrap it whole.

And your mouth, oh dearest, you took it in, cheeks bulging and tongue pressed beneath his shaft, allowing it to slide in with a sickly, filling pressure. But he was simply too big.

"I can't," you whimpered, pulling gently away. His fingers still gripped your hair tightly, crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of your flushed, sweating face. Utterly lovely.

"You begged," he snapped, a finger from his third hand catching the corner of your lips and stretching them harshly. "I'm sure this filthy mouth of yours sucked on thousands of cocks."

You chuckled, giving a firm squeeze to his second cock. "It did. Yet never on monster's one," instead of taking it back in, you wrapped another hand around it. "But my pussy's stretched enough to take you in."

Gaze fixed on Sukuna's face, a slight heat already creeping up his cheeks. Jumping between Sukuna's face and a small camera held tight in his hand. Well, if NASA will not accept your application, at least you'll have a Plan B.

Your lips traced kisses along his abdomen, with tongue licking the happy trails and teeth biting into veiny skin, before finally reaching his lower mouth. Wet, salivating, grinning just as he did, as you placed a soft kiss against it.

His low chuckle echoed off the wooden walls, the smell of Naoya's blood still heavy in the air, swirling your mind senseless.

Sukuna's lower mouth parted, a fat, wet tongue licking your small lips before forcing its way down your throat. His free hand quickly grabbed your top and tore it off your chest. Your shorts were next, but he didn't let them fall to the floor.

No, instead, with eyes following the way your small mouth sucked on his tongue and both hands took care of heavy, leaking cocks, he pressed the drenched part of your shorts to his face.

Taking a deep, filthy breath, tongue sticking out to lick your creamy cum that stuck to the cloth. Sucking it dry, tasting the sweetness of your cunt and groaning almost pathetically around the flavour that seeped through his body.

You moaned around his tongue, softly sucking the muscle as you felt your taste slip down your throat.

"Delicious, hm?" Sukuna chuckled, brushing the hair from your lovely, flushed face. "Can't believe your pussy is the first thing I taste after a thousand years of starvation. But hell, you taste so fucking good."

Your eyes rolled back as the teeth of his lower belly bit on your lips. Pulling a line of blood that filled both your mouths.

His cocks weighed in your palms with drenched squelches, as you pumped them all this time. Thumbs smearing the precum around the two swollen tips, palms trying to squeeze that fatness that emitted heat against your naked breasts. His lower belly devoured you sweetly, long tongue pressing against yours whole, and you wondered how it would feel deep inside you pussy.

You felt that was close. His both cocks leaking heavily, balls constricting and shafts pumping blood right into the mushroom tips, as your nails grazed their bulging surface.

He suddenly pushed you away from his mouth. With a single, sharp move, he squeezed both of his cocks, pressing the tips against your lips.

You knew what he wanted, so you parted them with a smile, sticking out your tongue. Letting it smash against the underside of his shafts, eyes fixed on his face.

Narrowed, cheeky, curling in the most slutty way Sukuna hadn't even seen among the courtesans.

In fact, he had never met a woman like you, driven by a true passion and lacking any fear towards a monster like him.

You must've been slightly off your head, he tried to reassure himself, before pressing his lips into a tight line and finally letting the long, bubbling pleasure spill all over your tongue.

Splashing it with long, filthy ropes of heavy cum, that stuck in the swollen balls for far too long. Cumming all over your face, lips, breasts, as you moaned and licked both reddened tips. Your tongue pressing to his swollen head, curling around the small slit as if trying to pull more cum out of his warmth. Lips wrapping around them, licking clean, and thighs rubbing against each other until your skin ran a fever.

His eyes narrowed, one of the hand pushing you slightly back, till you fell on your elbows. With a grin and tilted head, as if knowing what he wanted.

"Hmm?" You cooed, parting your legs slowly. Painfully, straining slowly, as he watched your drenched, sticky folds open up with strings of cum sticking to your sweet, swollen hole. "Is that what you wished to see?"

Your fingers scooped his hefty cum coating your face, chin, breast, before pressing it against your pussy, mixing it together with your own juices.

Finger played with your clit, before slipping down to push inside the gaping hole that only waited for Sukuna to fill it with his cocks. Your thighs spread wider, head fell back as you moaned, pulling drenched squelches of his cum mixing with yours.

"Fuck, why don't you join me?" Your tone fell soft and silky as you looked at him with a doe-like furrow. "I think she's missing you. I feel so-ngh-empty here." You pressed your hand to your lower belly.

Something almost predatory bubbled behind his eyes. Almond-shaped eyes that stayed fixed on your face, frozen, as if he didn't dare let his gaze slip down. Through your breasts, soft belly, to the parted, fully drenched thighs that you spread for his massive body, wide open.

"Even whores aren't as wicked as you," he muttered, eyes finally falling down. "Such a fucking slut."

He followed the roll of your fingers. Clit, swollen and drenched, pinched by your pads as you pushed two digits in. Too short to feel any pleasure, yet enough to show him how tight your cunt was.

"I am," you giggled, the sweetness of your voice kissing his warm ears. "And I always wanted to fuck with a demon, so you can use me as you wish."

His knees finally met with the mattress. Camera left on the bedside table, angled to look right at the side of your lovely face.

Two upper hands spread your thighs wider, lower wrapping around your hips to lift you up and press against his lower mouth.

Fat, drenched tongue slipped past the grinning lips, to give your pussy a long, filthy lick. Forcing your fingers out and instead stuffing your hole full, till the creaminess of your cum wrapped around its heavy muscle.

A soft, moaning breath slipped past your lips, eyes rolling back as you gripped the hem of the bedding.

"Fuck, that's, oh my fucking-" His teeth caught on your clit, the painful pleasure washing over your spine as you let him press you to his belly closer.

"And you, foolish woman, think that you can take me whole with this weeping cunt?" He chuckled, trying to force his fat index finger into your whole. The skin stretched almost painfully as he thrusted it alongside his tongue. "I would rip you in half."

Your hips lifted from the mattress, back flush against it, as you wept beneath his filthy body. Your tight walls clenched around his tongue, slick and curved, with the tip already pressing against your sensitive spot, making your toes curl.

"I-I, fuck, I can take you. Mhm, there are two holes for a r-reason."

Sukuna chuckled and scooped a bit of your creamy cum, just to poke with his finger your puckered, tight hole.

"Truly? Because it seems to me that…" He pressed the pad against your ass. But surprisingly, the tight ring of muscles gave way, allowing him to slip a finger inside. "Oh? So you stretched yourself even there?"

Your eyes glimmered with sweat, tears, the pleasure your body was overwhelmed by, and this wicked cheekiness that made the demon's grin widen in an almost ominous sense.

"I know how to take a monster cock," you giggled, wriggling your hips on his finger, tongue, just to feel him deeper. "So why don't you stop treating me like a dolly, hm?"

Your hands slipped down your body. One, wrapping around the perked nipple, squeezing it tight to draw a lovely moan from your pouted lips. Another meeting his tongue pushed deep inside your cunt. Small fingers catching on the tight hole wrapped around it, just to slip in with the nasty squelch.

"Unless you want me to be one?" A cheeky grin flattered as his tongue bumped your plump spot, bursting stars right in front of your eyes. "Nghh, unless you want me to be your sweet virgin girl, hm? I can act innocent, if-"

But one of his hands left your hip to squeeze your cheeks. Lips pulled together, jaw tight, as he lowered himself and locked a filthy strap around your pouty lips.

"Don't fucking do it. Don't act all cute and innocent on me while stretching your ass just to fit my cocks," His crimson eyes met yours – slightly glossy, fucked. "Acting innocent? Are you a child? I fucking hate it."

You grinned wider, biting down on your lower lip, as if trying to muffle, to ignore, the threatening bubbling in your lower belly. The splashes that filled your pouch, heat creeping up your neck as another fat finger slipped inside your ass. Now, two of his fingers pumping you fully, spreading you open as the walls eagerly yielded to the wetness of your cum and allowed them to slide past the muscle rim.

His tongue deep, pressing your small fingers inside against your walls, before you pulled them out and crushed against your trembling clit. Rolling it in slow circles, gently pinching as you sensed the sizzling beneath your skin. Biting your muscles feverishly, as you felt the sudden tightness spreading through your stomach.

"I–I, fuck, I'm going to cum soon," slipped in a moan, as you rolled your hips harder against his tongue. "Sukuna, I–"

But you didn't have time to finish.

Not when he suddenly pushed you away, taking tongues and fingers from your weeping holes. A gasp escaped your throat a second later, when something big and swollen pressed against them.

And as you heard a low "Deep breath, dove," the sharp, drowning pain pinched every nerve in your trembling, tender body.

Your back fully pressed to the mattress, hip slightly elevated, thighs sticking wet to your heaving breasts, as he sunk both of his cocks in your puckered, swollen holes.

Without warning, only a sinister, wicked grin and crimson eyes, cherishing the pain that mingled with pleasure on your lovely face. Teeth biting your lower lip, harsh, drawing blood. Eyes going white, head pounding, as you felt the stretch you'd never even imagined in your wildest dreams.

You pictured yourself getting split on a monster's cock. Fucked senseless, till your spine would arch painfully and its heavy, massive body lay on yours, taking away your breath.

You thought about how bulging your belly would be, but when you looked down, the sheer sight of the plumpness seething through the pouch made your head spin.

"Fucking hell," Sukuna groaned, feeling the sudden tension in your holes. "You'd better fucking relax, dove, because I'm not waiting for you to get used to it." A finger gripped your face, forcing your foggy gaze to meet his. "You were running that pretty mouth of yours all this time, so take it without a complaint."

His cocks snugged against the tight muscles warmly, yet he could barely thrust them fully. His upper hands on the back of your thighs, lower ones spreading your cream–coated folds, just to see the way your poor, weeping pussy tried to swallow him in.

As, oh, she tried, and so he pressed your puffy clit to help her take it full. Inch by inch, as both his cocks sank deeper, sliding through the wetness of your walls till the skin beneath your belly button bulged.

Sukuna giggled, pressing his massive hand against it, pushing both shafts deeper into your squishy insides.

"What's wrong, dove?" he asked, watching the dark, mascara-stained tears slide down your cheeks. His palm cupped them in an almost loving manner, his fat thumb resting on your lips. "Is that not what your silly head dreamed about? Huh? You thought fucking with a monster would be easier?"

His shaft slid painfully slowly, and you knew that, despite all his words, he was trying to stop himself from splitting you in half.

Because he could – of course he did – but there was something about you – wicked, restless, biting deep into his marrow – that somehow made him want you to last a bit longer. The insolence of your working on his nerves, the cockiness and the blush that kissed your cheeks in a wicked manner.

He hated women of your sort.

And yet, right now he couldn't forget the taste of your honeyed pussy on his tongue. The flavour still coated his throat with muggy drops as he savoured it while sliding his cocks deeper through the wetness pooling beneath your hips.

"It's not," you whimpered, taking a deep breath as he finally sank himself fully. He thought you would beg him to stop, push him away, and cry and weep in pain. Yet your hand wrapped around his neck, tugging softly at the pinkish hair. "It's better than I have ever imagined."

It must've snapped something within him.

Because the moment his balls met your ass with a wet smack, he pulled both cocks till nothing but red tips stayed snuggled inside your gaping holes, and thrust back in. And again, again, again, forcing your breath to stay locked deep within your lungs, as he didn't give you a chance to take anything but a shallow weep.

His massive body pressed you deep into the mattress, pussy coating his fat cock with creamy strings of cum, linking your soppy folds with his pubic hair.

No sex you've ever had could be compared to this. No fantasy of yours that slipped wickedly into your mind at night, while you fucked yourself senseless on some jock's cock could meet the reality of taking a true monster's dick.

The musky heaviness that filled your belly was overwhelming, as was the heat he filled you with.

And when he pulled again, you've noticed something dark coating his veins, bulging skin. Crimson, fresh liquid that glimmered beneath the warm glow of the bedside lamp.

"Fuck," you groaned. That's why you felt a cock smack against your cervix that achily. "I'm on my period."

But Sukuna grinned. His cock pulled from your pussy, another one staying still in your ass, as his fingers slipped down and thrusted inside your hole, to swap on the blood-drenched walls.

"Hm, and here I thought you lied to me about being a virgin. I'm afraid I would need to kill you, dove," he groaned, dragging the fingers out. Hefty liquid covered them, the droplets of blood thick and clotted, as he pushed them into his mouth, eyes never leaving yours. "Fuck, still just as sweet. But I might like this taste even more."

You moaned, feeling the head of his cock again at the entrance of your pussy. This time, shoved deep till the mushroom tip kissed your bloody cervix, pushing painfully past the swollen muscle to stab the creamy womb.

Your scream was immediately muffled by his lips. Carnal, sweet, his bloody saliva mixed with yours in a raw, sensual kiss. Although difficult, it was to call it a kiss, as he devoured you fully. Lips pressed against each other's tongues, falling past the rim of your mouths as he licked, kissed, bit your face hole, smooching wet, heavy kisses over your sweat-drenched skin.

Like a dog, yet you cried out in pleasure as he folded you in half, his massive body completely pressed against yours.

The splashing in your pouch filled the room, leaving nothing but your heavy breaths. Your sweet moans as he pierced you with his cocks, till your womb was full of everything but his cum.

"Inside me," you cried, wrapping yourself around him. "I need to feel your cum, fuck. I need it inside."

Sukuna chuckled into the crook, one of his hands reaching for the long-forgotten camera. The lens was pointed directly at your crying, pleasure–twisted face as his pace quickened.

The tongue of his lower belly slipping past the monstrous lips, to flicker your puffy clit. To suck on it cruelly, bite softly, as he felt your walls squeezing tight around his cocks. Swallowing them in, letting both drenched shafts, one smeared fully blood, snug into the warmest plushness of your body.

Your eyes rolled back and your lips fell open as the orgasm crept up your neck. Kissing down the spine, splashing low in your belly as his belly mouth pressed its tongue against your clit.

"Smile for the camera, dove," Sukuna chuckled, savouring the pleasure of the view unfolding before his eyes. "Such a beauty, aren't you? Letting yourself get spilt on the monster's cock, huh. A fucking slut," His hand reached for your cheeks, forcing you to look straight into the lens. "Come on, you wanted to do it. Don't leave without showing the climax."

The gushing in your belly was perilously close to spilling. His lower tongue pressed against your clit, cocks swelling even bigger deep in your pussy, as you saw your belly inflating with the fatness of his shafts.

And when his bloodstained lips smashed against yours, as he angled the camera to look directly at your faces, you finally came. "Sukuna, f-fuck, I-I–nghhh–"

Squirting all over his abdomen, wetting the bed and his lower belly, which lapped up your splashing juices and swallowed them all with a groany moan. Your walls clamped around him in maddening tightness, and soon you felt the heavy warmth spill deep into your womb. And ass, with ropes and ropes of milky creaminess, growing your already stuffed belly, till the splashing of your squirt was changed for his cum.

The sleepiness suddenly settled over your mind. Your tired body melted beneath his heavy touch. Yet before your eyes could relax for a moment, he suddenly lifted your balm and bit your thumb, drawing a few droplets of blood and pressing the finger against the old, yellow paper of the book.

Right next to his name.

"Now, dove," he chuckled, pressing his own bloodstained finger beside it. "We're making a pact. You can summon me whenever you wish, agreeing to use you however I wish." He looked at your fucked, swollen face for a while, then cupped your cheek softly. "But after your death, you'll be joining my side in hell."

You nuzzled into his warm skin, licking his thumb sweetly. Eyes mingling, bewitching wickedness that sent shivers down his spine.

"You promise?"

He chuckled. "Of course. Who else could ever handle you?"

Your eyes fell on Naoya's body, or whatever was left of him. But Sukuna quickly turned your chin back to his face and kissed you slowly, raw, with the still metallic sweetness of your blood.

"I'll take care of him," he muttered, finally letting his cocks slip from your cunt. The mix of blood and cum pooled beneath your hips before his lower mouth drunk it fully, pushing the rest back inside your whole. "And now. Let's see how much blood I can draw from this sweet pussy, shall we?"

You giggled, nodded with a grin, and turned the camera off.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

The book cover was inspired by the Evil Dead movie series heheh (one of my fav horrors ever)

art by @/kcokaine_

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[veneficasum]

'back practice' but the first one is humbly titled "waist.jpg".

[oksukuna]

watch my boyfriend eat our boyfriend’s ass !

BEHIND THE SCENES FOOTAGE of you and toji finding new hidden details on sukuna’s body :: all of this content was edited out of your most recent post.

crack fic ,, they do onlyfans together btw ,, teasing sukuna ,, reader is unserious ,, lots of talk about sukuna’s booty ,, my dream date wow ,,

You used to pray for times like this; having two handsome, muscular men who were obsessed with you naked in your room.

Now it was a regular occurrence.

The footage starts shakily.

"Alright," you crawl onto bed in front of them, "since last video was shibari + eiffel towering, this one is gonna be… ass eating! Yay!"

Both of the men's face drop immediately. Ass eating? They turn to each other, then back to you slowly.

"And you're the camerawoman?" Sukuna blinks once, pursing his lips.

You smile, nodding. "Yup!"

The cameraperson usually isn't involved unless its a pov shoot. So that means…

Sukuna turns back toward Toji, grimacing. Holy boner killer. "I'm not eating your ass." Toji's ass was a hazard in itself. All muscle, no plushness like yours. Fucking gross.

Toji shrugs, not at all bothered by the proposition. If anything, his dick twitches in anticipation, "I'm not gay, but-"

"You've kissed each other. multiple times." You deadpan at the pair, specifically huffing at Toji. "You're bisexual or something. Both of you."

Toji puckers his lips at you, ever the flirt aside from his undefined sexuality, "My lips just don't discriminate, doll. They just don't like ugly."

"I do what you want. Doesn't mean I like kissing this bastard." Sukuna's nose crinkles. The first few times he kissed Toji was because you asked. not because he liked it.

"Then what about that time I came out of the bathroom and you two were making out?" you raise a brow.

"What about the kitchen kisses?" Toji cocks his head to the side, smirking at Sukuna. "And when we were watchin that movie?"

Okay, he might've liked it sometimes, but he is not eating Toji's ass. Nor does he want to get his ass eaten—hell, he doesn't want anyone near his butt!

Yet all of his excuses and protests don't work and he ends up on the middle of your bed, in all his tattooed, hulking gloryon his hands and knees.

"Don't be shy, big guy." you grin wickedly, moving the camera closer to sukuna's face. The grunt you receive only makes your grin wider. "The fans are gonna loveee this. You look so sexy, babe."

Sukuna scowls despite the flush on his face, ignoring how he's eye level with your tits. "You're enjoying this too much," he muttered. As if he wasn't enjoying this too.

"You aren't?" your gaze dips down to his boner, hard and at full mast on his stomach, "You're hard as a rock."

Toji trails a hand up Sukuna's back, a tiny grin on his face as he eyes sukuna's arch. "If you weren't enjoyin' it, you woulda gotten up already." he snickers, kneeling on the bed behind Sukuna.

"Besides, you have a prostate. just tickle it a little and you'll cum." you hummed, brushing your fingers through coral strands, "It'll be over before you know it."

Sukuna's problem wasn't with you two 'tickling' his prostate, it with what he's been hiding between his cheeks. "I have hemorrhoids. You don't wanna eat it." He looks back to toji with the most serious face he can manage.

"I don't believe you." Toji keeps his stare, hands moving lower… and lower… caressing Sukuna's surprisingly soft ass. It felt like giant pillows under his hands.

"I'll check for myself." he kneads one cheek deep and slow, captivated by the feeling. "You got a nice ass, dude."

"Shut the fuck up, Toji."

You point the camera directly to Toji's hands, brows raising at how thick Sukuna looked. "Damn, you do have a nice ass. It's juicy." you poke at the side of his butt, grinning at the recoil.

He's not doing anymore squats at the gym. Ever. The second Toji's thumbs start parting his cheeks, he knows it's over. Even clenching them doesn't stop Toji.

Sukuna was fucked, utterly and completely fucked. All he can do is wait for the inevitable.

"Oh." Toji pauses, spreading Sukuna's cheeks wider. A shit eating grin growing on his lips, "Ohhhh… this is why you didn't want to bend over?"

Sukuna's face reddens further, tips of his ears burning hot. He knows your nosy ass was going to look next— and to no one's surprise you do.

You and the camera focus in on it— Sukuna's anal tattoos. Shaped just like the rest of the marks on his body except for the fact that it perfectly shapes his butthole in four distinct thick lines.

"Oh." You're not even sure what you want to ask first; why didn't he tell you about it or if whoever tatted that takes new clients? Either way, it sparked something new in you.

"It's like a target, wow." your finger traces along the ink, ignoring the goose bumped skin. The longer you stared the hotter your body starts to feel, especially when Sukuna shivers, holding back a gasp.

You reel your hand back, eyes widened like you just struck gold. "You're sensitive, too?!"

Between Toji's tightening grasp on him, and your sparkling eyes, Sukuna doesn't know what to do. He puts his head down, staring at the sheets. hoping the bed would come to life and put him out of his misery.

Toji lets out a deep noise, glancing at you with a smirk, "Get good angles of his face for me." Then he starts pushing Sukuna further into the bed.

You shift onto the bed in front of them, holding the camera to Sukuna's red face, "Say cheese!"

Sukuna scowls, swatting the camera out of your hands. It tumbles down to the floor, and the footage cuts to black.

"My camera!"

it came to me in a dream. im writing tojikuna again someday🫃have you guys seen that art of sukuna having anal tats? it’d take 17 giants to unlatch me from him bro but i’d never eat man butt… unless it was sukuna. #choppedandscrewed

perm tagsꜝ: @mochichosoblog @st0ners4cho @louddinosaursblog @yorikae @6x-x9 @kentosblossom

join my taglist!

© @oksukuna 2026. don't copy, plagiarize, or feed my work into ai.

[yanderenightmare]

Ryomen Sukuna

♡ FMT: oneshot, 8k words

♡ TW: kidnappning, captivity, vore-ish, cannibalism, gore, nonchalant nihilistic reader, casual mention of asexuality, dark humor but leaning more toward what I'd call morbid absurdity?

♡ FEM reader

♡ AN: normal au, idk this is more comedic than what i normally write, originally a gag response to this post, put it got long...

You wake up groggy somewhere clean and classy. 

The ceiling is tall, the furniture expensive—marble floors and Egyptian sheets—and none of it is any familiar whatsoever.

“Hello?” you call out, despite not seeing or hearing the hints of anyone, clutching the comforter to yourself with eyes still adjusting, blinking as you take everything in, getting more concerned as you do.

Did you get fucked up yesterday or what? 

Surely not so fucked up you can’t remember booking yourself into a five-star hotel, right? 

And yet, by the looks of it, you must have. 

It should be more concerning, and yet, “Please, God, don’t let it be in my name,” is the prioritized thought. You’re so broke, you couldn’t even afford a fucking motel room right now, let alone whatever the fuck kind of grand suite this is.

You get up, only then noticing you’re dressed in a silk night gown—which only further distresses you with thoughts about the bill. Clothes nowhere in sight—at least not anything you can recognize as your own. But, laying on the dresser is a pretty little number, with a tiny little note on top.

“Wear me,” you read out loud. Face puzzled with a grimace, before further talking to yourself out loud, mumbling, “What the fuck Alice in Wonderland type shit is this? Did I go home with a freak?”

Confused as shit, you leave the dress where it is while looking around some more. The more you do, you start noticing things that make you start thinking this might be someone's house rather than a hotel room. 

Walking into what you thought might be a bathroom, you discover a walk-in closet instead. Fully stocked with clothes. Expensive shit. Classy. And a little creepy, how it’s all solely in different shades of red. Your pajamas too, and the dress laid out. Someone must have a serious preference.

“Where the fuck am I at right now…”

Starting to freak out just a bit, you don’t try any more doors in favor of quickly finding the stairs. Soft in your step, you make your way down them warily. And on your way, you start hearing the tell-tale noise of another’s presence.

Cooking noises—pots and pans and the sound of a whirring fan. It smells good too.

You don’t think he—whoever he is—notices you. But standing with his back to you, shirtless, you sure notice him. He’s got broad shoulders and a toned back stocked with muscles, his waist snatched in a black apron. Hair dyed baby pink of all colors.

Yeah… you definitely got fucked up yesterday because who the fuck is this guy?

You decide against sticking around to find out. One-night-stands are only made weirder when they progress into the day thereafter, and you think you might just be able to make your way over to the door without being heard if you tip-toe it.

You throw it a glance from where you’re hiding around the corner. You can’t spot any shoes. 

Shit, how’re you supposed to—

“Door’s locked,” the man informs over his shoulder, switching off the fan before turning around. He then walks up to the breakfast bar placed in the forefront of the kitchen, tray in hand full with a arrangement of bacon, eggs, juice and other morning classics.

He sets out two plates before sitting down.

He’s got face-tattoos—crazy ones that would be impossible not to notice. And yet, crazy as they are, they seem somewhat familiar—though not familiar in the sense that you remember going home with last night—no, that is still a complete mystery to you as you keep appraising at him, hoping to somehow trigger your recollection. He's got more tattoos on his upper-body, some hiding beneath the apron he's sporting—thick tribal-like markings you're not sure if hold any significance, but are sure as fuck very memorable. And still, none of it proves to be a good reminder. Other than that, he looks clean-shaven, with newly washed hair hanging in wet bangs just above a pair of eyes that lean more toward the burn in auburn, but are all in all jaded as he starts eating without further acknowledging you.

“I’m sorry—” you squeak as you pop out of hiding, suddenly reminded of how you're still just standing there. “Sneaking out’s not usually my style, but–” A nervous laugh only seems appropriate as you start explaining yourself with theoretic excuses, “I must have taken something weird yesterday ‘cause I don’t remember how I got here at all. I don’t even remember going out—”

“You were on your way home from that shitty burger joint you work at,” he says, mouth full of toasted bread. “I took the liberty of burning your uniform. It was an offence to the art of cuisine.”

You’d just taken a seat on the opposite side of him, having accepted the awkward morning for what it was worth—a funny story for later, you’re sure. However, while the food is a good distraction, making your mouth water and your eyes wander, it’s not enough for you to disregard the unattended confusion left by your utter blackout of the night prior—and neither is his sloppy efforts of helping you navigate it.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He, on the other hand, seems more interested in the food, negligent when explaining, “I laid out a dress for you. I won’t force you to wear it, but you won’t be getting that retched thing you were wearing back, so you might as well—”

“Yeah, no, whatever—” you dismiss, shaking your head with a muddled expression—as if your uniform is the thing on your mind right now. “That doesn’t really explain how I got here?”

Again, helping you with your amnesia doesn’t seem to be too much of a priority to the man as he shrugs with a “There isn’t much to know.”

For all his looks, he doesn’t really have the charm to compliment them. What a shame, you think disappointedly to yourself, watching him with a wrinkle between your brows, wondering why and when chivalry died, and why on earth you’d ever choose to go home with a guy so lacking in it.

“You finished your shift and were on your way home,” he continues, and you’re glad to finally be getting somewhere. “But you never made it, because, while still in the parking lot, I knocked you out with some chloroform, put you in my trunk, and took you here.”

Yeah, that’s the point your throat closes shut.

Left choking on a “What?”

A shiver rushes through you and you get out of your chair quick. Was that a joke? What, is he a fucking comedian suddenly? 

“What the fuck’s going on?!”

He doesn’t acknowledge your hysteria, still just sitting there, eating breakfast as though a woman screaming at him is just another day in his life. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? It’s easy. I kidnapped you. End of story.”

Your mouth hangs open, staring at him, but alas, with the same lack of urgency as he’d had since the beginning, he just ignores your state of shock like it’s something he can’t be bothered to deal with. 

Instead, ordering you to “Now come. Sit. Eat,” as if that was more important than explaining himself. “Your system’s still full of chemicals. Gotta eat to flush ‘em out.”

Is he seriously asking you to eat breakfast?

“No drugs this time. Promise,” he adds shortly, as though you’d had the time to form the concern, while still busy trying to make sense of him offering breakfast in the first place after having confessed to kidnapping you. 

The more you repeat it, the less sense it seems to make.

“And before you get any wild ideas. No, I’m not going to force myself on you either. That’s not the reason you’re here.”

Yet another thought that hadn’t had the time to cross your mind. 

Just a short moment ago, you’d thought this whole thing was a drunk one-night-stand and now you’re learning that not even one part of that was true. Your brain isn’t able to keep up with the new reality, leaving you to stand there, finding little to no answers wracking your brain, making you feel at a loss like an insect trapped in a mason jar—with the only viable option being to bash you body against the walls and prey you were just having a psychotic break

In the end, you’re only able to come up with reiterations of the same question, pertaining to “Then what the fuck? Why? What do you want?”

But even that seems to annoy him, only answering you with an unsympathetic “Not important for you to know,” before repeating himself, more sternly than before, “Now eat before it gets cold.”

Standing there a moment longer, your thoughts wander back to the door behind you and your shoeless feet and the possibility of you outrunning him, then remember his first comment about the locked door and how it meant you’d probably have no luck in getting out even if you could make it there first. 

And then, in the midst of your train of thought regarding your next move, utterly unprompted and with seriously questionable timing given the current predicament, your stomach decides to growl.

You earn his eye-contact with that, the both of you staring at each other for a moment that ends up bordering on a while. 

And in that while, you decide to table all ideas about trying to run, fight, or hide. 

Sure, they’d have been more reasonable reactions, but none seemed like they’d bear any good results at the moment. And so, going against all reason, you end up doing as he had suggested.

Indeed, eating would do you some good, you agree while sitting back down, fork in hand as you start begrudgingly piling up your plate.

Chewing gingerly on a scone, you steal a look at him once or twice. He doesn’t return it—content with you eating while still equally busy stuffing his own face. 

You don’t know… outside the fact that this stranger had just admitted to kidnapping you and divulged his intentions of keeping you hostage here, there’s something even odder going on. And that is that he doesn’t seem like a complete stranger at all…

Yeah… something about him is extremely familiar, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’re sure you haven’t met him—not face to face at least—but you can’t shake the feeling as if you’ve seen him somewhere before…

And that’s when it hits you.

“Wait… I know you!” you exclaim once it finally clicks, pointing a finger at him. “You’re that chef—the one who hosts that cooking show that makes all the contestants cry. What’s it called… Kitchen something…” 

You snap your fingers, trying to trigger the memory. Whether the method is due credit or not is anyone’s guess, but in any case, you end up remembering. 

“Malevolent Kitchen!” 

You knew you’d seen those tattoos before. Of course! It’s honestly kind of odd it didn’t come to you any sooner. But you’ve never seen him with his hair down like that, nor were you ever a big fan of the show either.

Still, you recall the name after a few more snaps with your fingers. “Sukuna—Ryomen Sukuna. Right?”

“Correct.” He doesn’t give you more credence other than that, nor does he seem to care much that you figured it out either.

You weigh the possibility of all this being some new type of prank show, but the thought quickly proves too unikely—even when competing with the likelihood of him having kidnapped you off the streets for no good reason. But who knows? All prank shows start off with a shitty premise, after all…

You continue eating. Thinking about the show. You’re not sure if it’s still running. But you do recall hearing something about it a few years back.

There’d been a scandal or something, you think. Or no, not a scandal—more like a bad rumour. One of those stupid Tiktok trends. What was it again? You remember your friends discussing it—some saying it must have been some ploy designed by his rivals to make him run out of business, while others were certain it was actually a clever marketing trick designed to make more people check his restaurants out for themselves.

It was something stupid, and so you hadn’t given it much thought back then, but…

“Holy shit…” you announce once you remember. 

True crime tiktokers—you remember now—missing girls and satanic cannibalistic shit. 

“No way...” you accuse, dropping your scone onto your plate with a rattle. “Are you really a—”

Your head spins, unable to settle. And when it does, it proves only further unsettling, striking you with a sense of nausea. 

“A cannibal?”

You’d hoped he’d laugh. Tell you that was crazy, then say something like you’ve just been pranked and prove to you that this really was all for some dumb reality show.

But he doesn’t.

No, he doesn’t say anything at all, like there’s no merit in even trying to deny it. Rather, he more or less confirms it, looking at you with a moderately impressed expression, like he’s surprised you figured it out so fast.

It fully dawns on you then.

“Oh God, that’s what this is, isn’t it?”

The sense of sickness deepens, making you look down at your plate in something akin to disgust.

And yet, while there should be a million other thoughts and regrets running though your mind, you can’t help but fret, wondering if breakfast was really going to be your final meal—a thought so depressing, it makes you throw your head back with a you-must-be-joking type of scoff, examining the ceiling above only to notice it being clinically white like in an asylum.

“Oh man, that’s just my luck,” you mutter to yourself more than anyone. “Fucking livestock.”

And then, you don’t know exactly why—it’s undefendable given everything at stake—but you snort as though it was all some big joke. 

Suppose, the utter insanity of the morning had reached a summit then spilled over, staining you with it, because not before long you’re laughing, hands clutching the counter so that you don’t tip backwards while you fullheartedly cackle until you're left out right wheezing in your chair.

“Well…” you sigh after a while, with regards to the silver lining, “At least it's a nice cage.”

The man finds it odd, by the way of him, looking at you in silence, having ceased his eating with his hands kept passive beside his plate—not sure what to make of you.

You, on the other hand, reverse the roles and resume eating. Now, all but shoveling the contents on your plate into your mouth before looking up and further chirping, “Is there a jacuzzi in this place? It seems like the type of place to have a jacuzzi.”

Somewhat baffled, though not overly expressive, the man appraises you.

Then, with a pause, answers, “Upstairs.”

You push your barstool out after your final bite, cheering with the food still in your mouth “Score—” as though the reality of the situation went forgotten. “I'm gonna go check that out for a few hours.”

You’ve never been in a ritzy place like this before—it would be stupid not to reap the benefits while you still could. Given he’d just chowed down breakfast, he must not be planning on having you right this second. Besides, if he’s planning to kill and eat you, letting you use the jacuzzi first is the least he could do.

You’re halfway to the staircase, when he calls out, “Just be done before dinnertime.”

You turn around and look at him at that, now with a new inquiry, “You’re cooking?”

So, is it safe to say he isn’t eating you at that point either? Maybe it’s more of a nightly thing? Suppose a thing like cannibalism would be better suited after midnight, given its satanic connotations and all, but you wouldn’t want to assume.

In any case, he nods his head, and you can’t think of anything to do but take it as another silver lining, saying, “Double score,” with a shrug before continuing on your path to the stairs.

But not before you’ve taken another step, he calls out again, this time with a question, as though feeding the utter absurdity of the situation, “Any preferences?”

To which you just wave your hand, making your way to the second floor without stopping this time. “Nah, not really. ‘M not a foodie. Anything’s good!”

—

You’re in there for a while, he notes without bothering to check on you. 

Even after several hours have passed by, all without a single sign of you, he decides to let you be. 

He doesn’t mind being left undisturbed while cooking, but he won’t deny this type of behavior is new to him. 

But perhaps it isn’t so strange. Maybe you’re just biding your time, thinking up ways of escape. A reasonable endeavor—though it won't do you any good. Try as you might, no one has ever come close.

He’ll enjoy watching your attempt nonetheless—all part of the fun. 

And yet, despite expectations, you return on your own. Hair wet, skin flush, and fingers pruned as you go, looking refreshed of all things.

Not only that, but he can’t sense even a smidgen of ulterior motives in you—no fight or flight whatsoever. It’s exceedingly strange. None of his victims so far have ever approached him willingly after understanding their circumstances. 

But then again, none of them had ask to use the jacuzzi either.

You just take a seat before the decked dinner table, silently eyeing the bondage he’d typically have to use left around the chair’s arms and legs with mild interest, probably curious about how many had sat in the seat before you. And yet, you don’t ask him about it.

By the look on your face, it’s impossible to say if it even bothers you.

You’ve changed out of your pajamas into the dress he’d laid out. Bloodred on the darker side. Just according to the ritual. You’re certainly making things a lot easier than his previous victims. But he won’t say it’s any boring this way—at least not yet. Just for now, he’ll admit he’s even a little intrigued by you.

“Smells good,” you announce, breaking the silence, and he can’t help but further wonder over what an odd thing you’re revealing yourself to be, as he walks up and places your plate in front of you.

Usually, he’d have to threaten or force you—or the person in your place—to indulge him. You however? Not only are you willingly sitting there, you’ve already got cutlery in hand.

“Hmph,” he expresses in mild amazement, thinking, if you really weren’t going to make a fuss, he might as well just sit down as well. 

It puts him out of sorts—makes him feel a little fidgety even—unable to make sense of your behavior as he is. 

But then, despite looking ever ready to do so, you hold off on digging in. Instead eyeing the meat with a soft furrow between your brows as though assessing something.

It makes him halt. Thinking perhaps he was wrong—maybe he’ll have to force you after all.

Biting your lip, you look up at him through your lashes, eyeing him sheepishly for a small moment like you wanted to inquire about something, before you suddenly seem to banish the idea. Announcing with a shrug, “You know what? I’m not even gonna ask.”

You then cut yourself a piece of the steak. And after gathering a bit of everything on your fork, you proceed to put it in your mouth without any further ado.

He observes you while you swish it about on your tongue—though isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for. He knows he’s an excellent chef, and so the idea of someone liking his food isn’t a foreign concept to him.

Still though, it’s unfamiliar to watch one of his victims enjoy themselves so much.

“Mh—mmmh!” you hum, pointing to the meat with your fork. “Okay, if this is what human tastes like, I think I might honestly get it.”

Oh, so that had been your concern. 

He supposes that’s not such a strange thing to suspect given you’d pieced his whole plan together so early…

Your worry is unfounded though. It’s not human meat. “It’s wagyu.” Even so, you’d eaten it despite not knowing. Forget surprised, he’s even a little impressed.

“Oh, so you don’t just eat women?” you ask then, putting another fork–full into your mouth.

He halts. “What?” 

Carelessly, you continue eating while making what he hesitantly would refer to as small talk, “I thought the reports only said missing women?”

Oh, right. He chuckles.

“What’s so funny?” you ask through a mouth-full.

This time, he’s the one to break into laughter as he finally takes his own seat opposite from you.

“Hello?” You swallow harshly, impatiently insisting, “What’s so funny?”

“Wagyu isn’t a name. It’s a type of beef,” he informs.

You blink at the revealed information, then look down at your plate, a small “Oh,” leaving you, sounding almost a little disappointed. Which only further spurs his amusement with an even louder cackle, causing you to pout as you look back up, whining, “Man, shut up, I told you I wasn’t a foodie.”

Then you laugh as well, at yourself, “Well, whatever it is, it's really good!” before continuing to eat.

“It better be,” he states, beginning to eat as well. “It retails for three-hundred bucks.”

You choke then—just as expected of someone like you with seemingly no knowledge of finer foods—cutlery seizing all movement upon your plate, clutched tightly in your grip. “Excuse me, what?” Eyes wide, you gawk at him from across the table, loudly exclaiming, “That’s even crazier than being a cannibal!”

It’s entertaining to say the least. The way you eye the meat again, now with an incredulous expression, and a bit of hesitantancy—perhaps due to shame for having scarfed it down so fast without properly savoring it. 

“I mean, it’s good, don’t get me wrong,” you begin saying after a moment of thoughtful silence. “But three hundred big ones, really?” 

Looking up again, your eyes as big as the dinner plates, seeking answers from him as though he could somehow explain a refined palate to you. 

But not before long, your stare narrows into a suspicious squint instead, cocking your head sideways with a slow shake. “Nah… you’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?” you accuse, pointing your fork at him with a grin as though you’re onto him about something. “It’s actually just—like—racoon meat or something. You didn’t really buy beef for three franklins as feed for the livestock—that would just be plain crazy.”

He grabs the wine bottle stationed between you with a soft disapproving grunt—you really don’t know the first thing about food at all, do you? Popping the cork, he then fills your glass, explaining, “The best farmers buy the best feed. I wouldn't wanna fatten you up with anything less than what I’d put in my own mouth.”

You keep a look of disbelief on your face for a moment, mulling it over in your head. Whether you understand it or not is all the same to him. Still, it surprises him to see you grab your glass with another shrug, followed by an agreeing, “Right, when you put it like that, I guess it only makes sense.”

You really are an odd one… He’s still waiting for you to snap out of whatever false calm you’d fallen under, to watch you break down and be left as hysteric as all his prior prey had been. But nothing of the sort ever happens.

No, not at all. 

Throughout the dinner you make a few more efforts at small talk, inquiring about what wagyu is amongst other things, accepting his curt answers for what meagre back-and-forth they offer. And in the end, after declaring your fullness, you straightforwardly ask him if he’s going to eat you that night or if he’s planning to save you for another day.

And after hearing him say no, you only say as much as “Right then,” with a big yawn, before further announcing, “If that’s all, I think I’ll go to bed. If that’s okay with you?”

It’s unusual for the evening to end so soon, given how much time he’d been prepared to dedicate to ensure its progression and completion. With all his prior prey, he’d have to all but forcefeed them—a process that would sometimes take up to several hours. But, given you’d cleaned your plate all on your own, he could see no reason to keep you any longer.

And so he dismisses you with a nod and a short “Sure.” 

“I’m guessing the room I woke up in is still up for grabs?” you ask, being polite of all things as you carry your plate over to the sink, rinse it, and place it neatly in the dishwasher.

He doesn’t know how else to answer but return your casualness with his own. Saying, “Knock yourself out.”

You celebrate with a tiny “Nice!” before setting your sights to the stairs, then an even more peculiar exclamation of “Good night!” before finally disappearing.

Leaving him to sit there and mull in your wake. Grimacing once noticing too late how you’d hidden a few vegetables in the folds of your napkin…

—

True to his word, he doesn’t kill and eat you during the night. 

The next couple of days pass just the same. You sleep alone in the same room you’d woken up in, you utilize the luxury during the day, he makes food, you eat together, and then you go back to sleep. 

Strange as it is, it’s not so different from being on a vacation—or well, aside from wondering when he might decide to suddenly eat you, of course.

Still though, just the same as with vacation, the longer it lasts, the more not doing anything gets you feeling a little antsy.

Which is why, “Want any help?” you ask. Sitting by the breakfast bar, elbows propped on the counter, head resting on both palms, kicking your feet while staring at him rummage around, doing the work of five people.

He’s so wrapped up in it, you thought he didn’t notice you, but, similar to your first encounter, he keeps his back turned while addressing you as though he might have known you were there all along.

“You know how to cut an onion?” he asks.

To which you roll your eyes with a scoff, “I mean, I did work at a burger joint, so I would hope so.”

You decide to overlook his audacity and take it as an invitation, even though you’re sure he’d meant it as the opposite.

You ignore his side-eye as you relieve the onion of its coat and start cutting. Even as the man fully stops his own ministrations just to stare at you with arms crossed, you don’t bother.

In the end he doesn’t stop you, just mutters “Your technique is pitiful,” before returning to what he’d been doing—allowing you to continue despite his clear aversion.

“Man, whatever, I got paid minimum wage,” you dismiss with a laugh, finding his dourness funny. “Chopped onion’s chopped onion anyway, so don’t be a dick. And besides, that’s not what you should be worrying about.”

“Oh?” he retorts absentmindedly, without bothering to look at you.

You snicker, setting your hip to the counter, twirling the blade around with your hand while giving him a sly look. “If I were you, I’d be more worried about how I just armed the livestock with a knife.”

You’re being playful, of course, not serious. Even still, you know you’re pushing it. Given the man’s your cannibalistic captor, you shouldn't exactly be goofing around with him. But you can’t seem to help yourself. “I mean, how do you know I won't cut you?”

He still doesn't offer you a glance, but returns your snicker with his own. “You know what? I’d love to see you try.”

“Oh really? You have that much faith in yourself you can dodge a blade with absolute certainty?”

You’re bantering. You’re bantering with the man who plans to kill and eat you. And despite all logic, it’s fun. And, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s enjoying it too, because, finally his head turns to look at you, grin on his face, and says, “Try it.”

Your smile grows wider, laughing now, “Alright, well, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll  take back those nasty comments regarding my onion-chopping skills—”

You’re only barely pointing the knife in his direction as a mock threat before you’re face-first with the pristine black marble of the kitchen counter, arm bent behind your back.

“See?” his voice wreaks heat upon your ear, bent over you from the back, low and gritty, “I’ve handled all types of animals—many of ‘em far more trouble than a brat with an onion knife.”

You don’t know if he notices, but you do—the way his lower half grinds against your ass with bulge and all. Maybe he’s just big, but you swear you can feel a certain stiffness.

“Yeah? I can tell, you really know how to handle someone.”

He releases you instantly upon your comment as though the very words had burned him, even taking extra measures to back up away from you—a sudden grimace on his face as he glares at you like he’s trying to keep you at arm’s length.

“If you're trying to make yourself interesting in the hopes I'll spare you, you should save yourself the embarrassment. As I said, I’m not interested in that shit.”

You had half the nerve to tell him that he could’ve fooled you with the way he was just acting, but you decided to save it. Instead, you just chuckle with a sarcastic “Aw shucks, my masterplan,” 

Still though, despite your efforts of disengaging, he stands there, a little guarded, if you were to describe it, as though not convinced you weren’t effectively trying to seduce him.

You shake your head, thinking it all ridiculous. Like, if you were actually trying to seduce him you wouldn’t lead with onions and death threats, now would you? 

“Trust me, chef, I understand my circumstances,” you declare with a hand to your chest and a dull look on your face. “I might be livestock, but I'm not dumb like one. I know there’s no reality in which you decide to let me go free. I mean, you’ confessed to being a cannibal, for crying out loud—there’s no way back from that.”

You lean yourself against the kitchen island you’d been pinned against not too many seconds ago. “And I know I'm supposed to be freaking out or whatever. But honestly, freaking out’s just never been my style.”

With both hands flat against the cool marble you tip your head backwards to look up at the ceiling, once again assessing the clinical whiteness of it all, before continuing, “Besides…. in a way, I’ve always had this gut feeling that I'd end up in a situation like this, so I’ sorta came to terms with it ages ago.” 

You spot the funny look he gives you in your peripheral, and you restate, “Well, not like this, of course, but you know… In trouble somehow. So, I figure I should just try to enjoy myself as much as I can before I can’t. You know?”

He doesn’t give you any sign that tells you he understands what you’re talking about, but it wasn’t as though you were expecting one either. To be honest, you don’t understand it yourself. By all accounts, you should be losing your marbles right now, and by all means, you probably are—you just never knew it would feel the same as getting out of work by faking a sick-day.

But anyways. “You should be happy, chef.” At least that’s what you think. “I heard fear spoils the flavor. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get your first ever taste of untainted meat.”

His unrelaxed countenance doesn’t fully change as he cocks a brow, all but interrogating you, “Thought you said you weren’t a foodie.”

You chuckle. “I just heard it somewhere, is all.” It’s funny how that’s the part he chooses to arrest you on and not any of the other shit you’d just said, but nevermind—he’s not your therapist, after all. “Anything else I can help with?”

He still looks a bit wary. But after a moment, he nods towards the dining room, with regards allowing you to, “Deck the table.”

You smile at his weirdness, wondering if he’s asexual, abstinent or scared he might actually grow attached while answering, “Sure thing, chef.”

—

A couple of more weeks pass just like that. You help him make dinner despite his efforts to discourage you. Other than that you continue to try and enjoy the luxuries that come with being a lamb raised for slaughter—taking long baths and watching movie marathons in the home cinema you found during your exploring of the house.

He’s gone most of the day, but not everyday. Even so, he’s busy—prepping things in the kitchen, or on the phone in his office. That, his bedroom, and the meat locker in the basement are the only three rooms with a lock in the entire house—except the outer door, of course—and the only three rooms you’ve yet to have seen the inside of.

In your sleep your mind wanders to what he keeps down there—and his bedroom for that matter. Imagining skinned bodies and heads in jars. It’s all you can do to entertain yourself after having run out of things to occupy your need for stimuli.

Today is one of those days especially, where restlessness has taken hold of you in such a way you don’t know what to do with yourself. 

He comes home to find all the dining chairs mangled beyond repair, having been tossed a dozen times against the windows and walls.

“Shatterproof glass,” you state without acknowledging his arrival, lying still on the floor in the splinters. “I figured. But it was worth the try—if only to inspect your livestock safeguards. Everything seems to be in good—nay, perfect—condition.”

He doesn’t do anything but stand there, taking in the crime scene.

“You gonna punish me?” you ask after a moment’s time—a suggestiveness in your tone, and on display in the upturned corner of your mouth.

“No,” he answers shortly.

To which you sigh, feeling as though it hadn’t been the answer you were looking for even though that doesn’t make much sense. A little miffed, you prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, “You’re not even the least bit disappointed?”

He starts making his way to the kitchen, six grocery bags, three in each hand, saying, “It’s only natural. I’m more surprised it took you this long to try.”

You roll over on your back again at the boring response, expelling your frustration with an harsh exhale while staring at the ceiling once more—still clinically white like you’ve been locked inside an asylum. At this point you might start believing it could be true. Mumbling, “Yeah, well, maybe I have an Icarus problem or whatever they call it…” 

Another heavy sigh leaves you then. “Not gonna lie to you, chef. I'm starting to freak out a little.” You try making it sound like a warning, though you’re not sure he takes it as such. “Or maybe I'm just bored. Not sure which…”

He ignores you, and you pout. And then, just a moment later, with spectacular timing as usual, your stomach decides to growl.

“Oh, really?” you question, looking down your chest to eye your belly-button.

“How ‘bout that…” you scoff. “I guess trying to break windows is hungry work.”

You veer your head backwards to where your unlikely roommate stands, packing out of the grocery bags in a slow meticulous manner, like he’s taking his time to enjoy himself, thinking about all the cooking possibilities at his disposal.

Curiosity piqued, “What's for dinner?” you ask as you jump up on your feet and walk over to take your seat by the breakfast counter—it’s become your designated spot.

Standing before the fridge, he’s just finished packing the last item away when turning around and leaning against the door. Asking “What do you want?” while trying to act casual. But you can tell—he’s eager, wanting you to solve his luxury of choice for him.

But alas, it’s questions like those that you hate. And so, clutching the counter, you tilt backwards and make a show of rolling your head against your shoulders, before laying yourself dead against the marble, looking up at him, saying “Oh, come on, chef, you know I don't have the answer to that. Your kitchen might as well be a space station.”

With a sly smile, you bat your lashes at him as though saying pretty please “Decide for me?”

Since that time he’d pinned you against the counter, he’s been more guarded when it comes to your suggestive and flirty ways, standing there, straight and stiff, with only curt “Fine,” leaving him.

It’s beyond boring, making you pout to no one but yourself as he rolls up his sleeves and starts picking ingredients.

But then, ingredients in hand, still with his back turned towards you as he makes his way to the stove, he mumbles, just loud enough for it to be meant as an offer and not some joke, “If you’re bored, come help.”

You lift yourself up from your slump at that, burning holes in the back of his head with your stare. This would be the first time he’s ever spared you any such consideration.

You have to giggle a bit, feeling excited as you jump out of your seat and follow behind him. “The word please ain’t in your vocabulary, huh, chef?”

As though embarrassed to look at you after having requested you in such a way, he even turns his cheek when you get too close, mumbling once again, now lower and gruffer, “I ain’t heard you say thank you yet, either.”

It makes your smile grow wider. “Hmph—I guess we’re bad company.” 

—

More weeks pass. 

The only thing you ask of him is to rent you a movie you’d been dying to see.

Other than that, you make yourself about as high maintenance as a housecat. He just feeds you three times a day and you never complain. 

Over time, you get more and more comfortable—which he hadn’t thought possible—and more and more bratty, inviting him into discussions, coaxing him into indulging you by showing interest in his cooking, spanning from acting deeply invested to fleetingly so. He can’t blame you for trying. Still, he can’t reward your efforts either.

Exercising restraint, he maintains an instrumental distance. The more familiarity you show him, the more he pulls back. After all, he mustn’t forget what you are. In the end, despite how much you act like it, you’re not his pet or partner or imaginary friend. You’re meat. He just needs to figure out what to make with you. That’s all. The only reason behind him keeping you around this long. 

Admittedly, your slaughter date was supposed to be ages ago. He’s never kept another victim this long, not by a long shot. Usually, the entire ritual only lasts the weekend, with an entire week at most. Meanwhile, your stay is coming up on a whole month now…

And still, he lets another two weeks pass. And with the additional time, you’ve grown the audacity to sit and pick at his food—right in front of him, no less.

“Not up to your standards?” he questions.

You’ve been unusually quiet this evening. Normally, you’d talk his ear off about this and that and everything between heaven and hell, but right now, if he were to close his eyes, he wouldn’t even know you were there with him.

During your month and a half, you’d yet to have gotten sick. Not that there was any reason for you to get sick, what with you staying safe indoors and him cooking all your meals. Really, you should be brimming with life like you would any other day.

But then again, he had noticed a change in you lately. Mere boredom had evolved into something else, something worse. Sitting there, silently, your expression isn’t only dull, but something even more hushed.

Lonely is the word that comes to mind.

“I don't mean to offend you, chef…” you mumble. “But right now I kinda just wish I had some cup noodles—or maybe a big mac or something else simple like that—a frozen pizza—anything but this gourmet stuff…”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Though many of his prior victims had refused to eat his food or even gone to such lengths as to throw up after eating it, he’s never, not once, witnessed one request junk food instead.

“I’m sorry, that was rude,” you apologize. Then, releasing a heavy sigh, you pick your gaze up, setting those pitifully downcast eyes in his direction. “When are you gonna kill me?”

Your expression is blank, and yet it has a certain presence—demanding an answer.

It wasn’t a question he was expecting to hear from you.

“Haven’t decided,” he dismisses. He doesn’t let it show, but it sends a chill down his spine. He then begins to eat without you in an attempt to shrug it off. Ignoring the way you stare at him by pretending to have his full focus on his plate, even when he can barely taste the food on his tongue.

“I think you should do it soon. Before my meat goes bad,” you add, unsatisfied with his response—or, at least, he thinks he can detect a certain sharpness in your tone he’s never heard there before.

It proves more of a reason for him to keep eating—half his plate already gone while yours remain untouched. Answering you with his mouth stuffed full, “I don't know what to make of you yet.”

“Tch—aren’t you a chef?” you huff to that. He can spot your grip tighten around your utensils, wringing the silver in your grip. “Figure it out already.”

He’s not sure what this feeling is. Something weird in his gut, making the food not sit right. He’s never experienced it before, but something tells him its nervousness. What else can it be? What else would have the power to make him lose appetite as well as make it near impossible to return your glare?

“You haven’t given me anything to work with…” he argues, as though this was a simple matter. “I can’t cook if I'm not inspired.”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s all bullshit—knows it won’t satisfy the frustration he can feel emanating from you. 

“Excuse me?” you bark then, voice raised even higher, even sharper, “I’m here waiting to become food, and you’re talking about inspiration?” 

You scoff then, incredulously. “Last time I checked, the beef doesn’t tell the chef it wants to be a fucking burger.”

In situations like these, he’d typically resort to the restraints. You hadn’t yet given him any reason to, but still, they’ve remained around the chair’s arms and legs all this time, just waiting to be put to use.

Usually, he wouldn’t bat an eye doing it, but for some reason, with you, he’d like to avoid it.

“Eat,” he says instead, halfway as a command, but otherwise as a measure to diffuse the tension.

But efforts be damned, you won’t have it, throwing your cutlery on the clothed table with a muted clatter in clear demonstration. “I'm not fucking hungry. How about that?”

Another chill straightens his spine, his jaw clenched, throat tight, repeating “Eat,” 

And you, challenging him, stand your ground with a sound “No.”

He throws his cutlery too, then slams both fists down on the table, making everything do a jump. “Either you eat, or I forcefeed you. Pick.”

“Fine,” you return right away, throwing your hands up in a mock gesture of surrender yet make no advancements towards your utensils or the food on your plate. Instead, you make a show of crossing your arms over your chest while slouching down in your seat like a brat, before further pushing your luck with an equally testy “What's for dessert?”

Your plate remains picked to pieces, getting colder by the second, with none of it having seen your mouth. What’s more, not only have you had enough nerve to have asked him for fast food instead, now you’re taking it further by ordering “Dessert?”

“Yeah.” Assessing your nails, you switch between having your fingers pressed into your palm to turning your hand around and stretching them out. Lips pursed before you smack then, “I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now actually, it’s criminal to have dinner without dessert.”

Swallowing thick, he finds the need to gather himself as the magnitude of unrecognizable emotions floods his body and brains, so much his eye twitches receiving them all. “Is that right?”

Meanwhile, you just cock your head to the side, continuing to push him with an assertive “Sure is.”

Teeth clenched, he takes a breath, then relays “Hate to disappoint, but I don’t make dessert,” still trying to put the argument to bed by thwarting your stubbornness.

But you remain determined. In fact, you remain downright unabashed, shooting him a pointedly snarky “What type of chef doesn’t know how to make dessert?”

Yet another chill nearly makes him shudder. Brows lowered, stating, “I know how.”

By all accounts, he’s giving you enough warnings for you to back off and apologize, but you do no such thing.  “Then why don’t you?” you inveigh instead, now with a sneer no less.

“Eat,” he repeats again, as if saying for the last time.

But you refuse to let it scare you. “No!” you roar, abruptly standing up with a stomp. “In fact, fuck you! I'm done eating on death row without dessert! It’s ridiculous!”

He gets up too, with a growl no less, “Sit down.”

His fists balled up, placed with knuckles cracking against the table in clear threat you still don’t bother heeding. 

You just ball your own fists and mirror his stance. “Are you deaf? I said, not without dessert.”

“That’s it.”

It’s just like the last time he put hands on you—it happens before he can think. 

One second, he’s staring at you from the other side of the table, and in the next, he’s already rounded it and planted you flat against it. Though that’s not to say he didn’t have control. No, his actions are perfectly calculated despite his head being anything but—having placed you down, belly-up, just shy of the food, like you’re part of the feast.

“Don’t you get it?” he rasps, clutching your upper arms harshly enough to make you shut your mouth—but too late. With the damage already done, you needn’t push him any further to make him blurt it out, “You’re supposed to be dessert but you’re making it fucking impossible!”

And still, it’s not the outburst you’d been waiting for.

“Excuse me?!” you gasp. “I’m making it impossible?” With a big scoff, you seem to forget how he’s got you pinned beneath him against the table with the way your hands fly up and ball his shirt in two tightknit fists. “Fuck are you on? I’ve been nothing but cooperative since the start, you asshole!”

“You’re not supposed to be, you brat!” he counters, and then with his head bowed and voice lowered into a whisper adds “I’m fucking starving beacuse of you.”

Your eyes meet his, unwavering in their pursuit, and he can’t defend calling you his victim or his prey any longer.

“Well… if you’re so fucking hungry, go on and eat me already,” you dare, a provocative curl upon your lips drawing him in. “Unless you’re too much of a pussy to try.”

—

“Well, well, well…” you croon, lying beneath his sheets, on top of his chest like it’s your rightful place. A smug look in your eyes, biting your smile, before completing your taunt, “Looks like you fell for my master plan after all.”

He sighs heavily. Hands connected just beneath the small of your back, on top of all that plump flesh he thought he’d have in his stomach, but instead ended up in his bed.

No one could have predicted these turn of events. And so, “Don't flatter yourself... We both know you never had any plan.”

You just giggle, continuing to tease him, “And still, the livestock lives on.”

Shifting, you push yourself up into a seated position, straddling him. “I mean, not to judge or anything, but…” Running your hands down his chest, he watches you admire all the little bitemarks you’d left before your eyes meet his again, as unapologetic as ever. “You’d be a real freak if you ate me after we did all that.”

He can only sigh and admit defeat.

Still, you got one thing wrong. 

“I’m not the freak here…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[otsloyka]

Starboy

[otsloyka]

The king of curses

[owwllly]

the sky is full!

[babblesofbun]

Twist of fate

Yandere Geto and Gojo x loser girl chubby reader

Synopsis⤷ Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto are the top at everything at Jujutsu University. Top grades,top in their respective sports, and top at the food chain of all the students. When you’re that set in life things begin to seem… boring. All that changes when they’ve made a bet to see how desperate you are…its a win-win situation, they get to spice up their lives and you get your first boyfriend(s), what could go wrong?

Warnings ⤷ manipulative behaviors, abuse of power, stalking mentioned, sabotage, they’re lowkey so snaky in the beginning, p in v sex, they eat it at the same time, face humping, lots of spit, throat training, Noaya(I’m sorry), yandere behaviors, possessiveness, lots of buildup, face fucking, they’re just so conniving,mentions of depression, multiple sexual scenes, fingering, face sitting.MDNI!!

WC⤷31k(I’m so sorry)

also art by mongsanghwa(pls correct me if wrong I got it from Pinterest)

“What makes you say that?” Gojo implores. Noaya rolls his eyes,”Look at her, I doubt she has anyone lining up to fuck her.” He puffs his chest out, placing his lither fingers on his pectorals,”I don’t even know why she bothered to come, we had plenty of people before this.”

Gojo eyes the awkward woman in the corner, sizing up every aspect he could perceive. He notes your out of place attire—who wears a matching sweat suit set to a party? You appear to be fresh out of bed, plump face still groggy eyed, a perfect match to your house slippers that are dawned on your fuzzy feet. “ I don’t know Noaya, I think someone would fuck her. “

Geto then walks in the booming living room,lively with music. With a fresh six pack of beer in hand he asks,”Fuck who Satoru?” Noaya sucks his teeth in your direction, “Her, that total loser.” Geto follows the direction of the sound,he hums thoughtfully,”I dunno I think a good chunk of people would get a hard one being with her.”

“That’s what I was saying!” Gojo excitedly adds. “Well you both are a bunch of idiots. You’re being too nice to ugly bitches like that. That’s how you get them thinking they have a chance with you.”

Geto scoffs,”Relax, you’re acting like she’ll be desperate enough to fuck you.” Gojo pours salt on the opened wound,”Yeah, Noaya the moment you open ya trap every girl wouldn’t even dream of fucking you.” The multicolored haired man bares his teeth at the pair, sneering in absolute disgust at their words. “I get plenty of pussy. More than you cucks ever could and more than that sloppy bitch over there.”

Geto and Gojo glance at each other, contemplating each other’s reactions before abruptly breaking out into laughter. Gojo places his hand on his stomach, rubbing it to calm the resounding laughter,”You think—oh my God you’re funny—that you,” he points to Noaya,” get more than me andddd Sugu? Oh knock it off Noaya.”

“That girl you say gets none probably sees more than you ever have Noaya.” Geto adds, chuckling in his face. The man’s face grows red with both embarrassment and rage. “Well maybe not m-more than you guys but I know I get way more play than her.” He points with disgust in your path , spitting out angrily,”I bet she wouldn’t even turn down the first chump that’s asking to fuck her. That’s how little action she gets.”

“ ‘s that so?” Gojo asks, now composed. His white brow raised in interest. “Yes! I know the type. Desperate little whores throwing themselves at anything that sticks because nobody else wants their sorry asses.”

Gojo side eyes Geto, telepathically communicating with him in a way they only can with each other. They both pick up on the shared thought, however Geto is the only one to say it aloud. “Wanna bet?” His lips curl handsomely, his mono-lid eyes looking cat like as he does so.

“Bet what?” Gojo places his arm around the shorter man, pulling him real up and close and personal,”Welll, me and Sugu were thinking we could have a fair way to really see if she’s as desperate as you say.” While Gojo doesn’t wholeheartedly believe everything he was saying about you, he could agree that you did seem desperate in a sense. Not to the degree Noaya was going on about, but there was an air about you that screamed “I’ve never had a boyfriend!”

“How would that work?” Geto chimes in,” Me and Gojo would pursue her, laying it on her as thick as we can and seeing if it works or not.” Noaya raises his hands in confusion,” What could I possibly get out of that?”

Gojo pipes out,”If we can’t do it you’ll have bragging rights anddd me and Suguru both owe you a separate favor. Anything you could possibly want.” Just hearing the words bragging rights had Noaya’s massive ego hooked—plus a favor from each of them! That’s all he needed to hear. “If we win you have to do whatever we say for a whole week.”

It was risky with how charming and popular the dynamic duo really are. Geto is praised for his elegant demeanor paired with his tactful mind, funny yet kind personality, and leader qualities that gave him connections with people nobody wanted to get on the bad side of. And Gojo was profoundly rich, having multiple ties with Jujitsu tech University, known for his goofy yet kind personality, and had a hidden strength no one else could ever compare to. Not to mention they both were devastatingly good looking, a fact even a prideful man like Noaya couldn’t ignore.

That’s why it was important to have something over their heads for a change, if things went Noaya’s way he could finally rise above them. “Alright then, it’s a bet but you only have a month to do it.” He sticks both hands out, motioning for them to shake it. They do, smiling with cruelty.

They knew as they sealed the deal it wasn’t a fair bargain. They knew the power they had over others, knew how easily they sway anyone. This wasn’t a bet, it was simply a fortune for what’s to come.

They release their hands from the hold already gazing at you but you’re no longer alone. You’re conversing with Shoko, the interaction is albeit short, it ending with you handing a silver laptop to their friend. And before they could process it you’re gone, lost in the ocean of people. Noaya chuckles,”Oops, look like you both lost her. Good luck with finding her again.”

Geto puts his cockiness back in check,”We could just ask Shoko how she knows her. C’mon Toru ,” he motions for him,”let’s go find out about our mystery girl.” Gojo follows behind but not without him sticking his tongue out at Noaya,”Get ready to loseeee.” He taunts sing song.

Noaya grumbles a whatever that falls on deaf ears.

Geto and Gojo easily meet paths with Shoko, but not without being stopped by people in the crowd, bombarded with hellos or future invitations to upcoming parties. She sighs at just seeing them in her eyesight,”What are you two scheming?” Gojo whines, draping his much bigger body onto Shokos,”Don’t be so mean, can’t friends say hello just cause?”

She gives a pointed look at Geto, knowing he’ll give the real honest answer. “We were wondering who that girl you were talking to was.” She huffs, pushing Gojo off of her. Her clean and polished fingertips grab a stray cigarette from her pocket, leering at Geto expectantly. Wordlessly, he pulls the lighter he purely owns because of Shoko’s habit out from the confines of his baggy pants, extending it and then igniting the smoke for her.

She takes a drag from it before she speaks, “She’s my roommate. What do you two want with her?” She’s holding the cigarette between her pointer and index finger, her tired eyes picking up on the hijinks they’re planning to get up to. That was just perfect. Their target just happens to be rooming with one of their closest companions, what are the odds of that? The chances of Noaya even winning the bet just got even slimmer.

“A little game me and Sugu are playing.” Gojo exclaims excitedly. “Gosh, you both are terrible,” she takes another inhale of the smoke before exhaling,”she’s really nice and she doesn’t get into trouble so why are you dragging her in your bullshit?”

Geto replies matter of factly, like planning to play mind games with a innocent stranger is completely normal behavior. “We’re not going to hurt her or anything, we’re just curious about something.” Shoko perks her eyebrow,”And that is?”

“We’re just wondering how much she’ll like me and Toru.” A half truth. One that doesn’t even go to the extent of what they’re plotting already. “Is this one of your stupid bets again? You two really need to grow up.” Gojo snaps his fingers, his pointers sticking straight at Shoko,”Bingo! But jeezzz Shoko you don’t have to be so mean and put us down like that.”

Shoko gives a directed glare towards the man pointing at her,”Quit that.” Gojo quickly purses out his bottom lip but obeys, slowly lowering down his hands. She then turns her attention back onto his counterpart, peering at him with an unreadable expression.

Sighing, she plucks the cigarette from her mouth,”I’m not going to tell you what to do or anything. Just don’t disrupt my studies, I can’t cheat again or else my ass is in hot water. “ Gojo perks up,”So that means you’ll help us?” She tuts,”As if I’d get wrapped up in your antics.” Her brown eyes give him a shady once over, looking up and down at his lanky demeanor.

“What do ya mean myy antics? Sugurus doing it too!” Gojo protests. Gojo’s no stranger to this happening to him, even with little things they always equally did, he’d always receive the brunt of the blame. It’s like no one else sees Geto is just as equally responsible for the shenanigans they both do. They’re essentially cut from the same cloth, Gojo just happens to be more vocal about it.

Yet again, Shoko ignores his words, choosing instead to speak directly to Geto. “I won’t help but I won’t stop you, no matter what I think. Just…”she pauses, searching for her words gently,”don’t do anything too crazy. Like I said she’s really nice and kind of a shut in even by my standards.”

The raven haired man grins reassuringly,”We won’t do anything we can’t come back from.” It’s a truth. A truth because truly with the way they’re positioned in life there isn’t anything they couldn’t bounce back from.

Shoko hums in response, tucking her retrieved laptop under her arm. “Alright then, I’ll believe you.” She huffs smoke in their faces as she warns the plotting pair,”You better not be a pain in my ass later.” She waves coolly to them, her lips pressed rigidly on the ciggy.

Gojo gingerly mirrors the wave, exclaiming,”We wouldn’t even dream of that.” She scoffs, amused by his words because the duo were always a pain in her ass one way or another. Geto is more calm with his goodbye,”See you later.” She nods in recognition before walking into the crowd of people, a cloud of murky gray surrounding her as she makes her exit.

Geto watches her leave with a devious glint in his eyes, something Gojo quickly picks up on. “You already have something in mind?” He asks, already knowing the answer. “Of course I do.”

Gojo grins at this, excitement already coursing through his veins. It’s been awhile since he’s seen that look in his friend’s optics.

This was gonna be fun.

𝙋𝙃𝘼𝙎𝙀 𝙊𝙉𝙀:𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙈𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝘾𝙐𝙏𝙀

It was calculated, it had to be. Gojo’s not very fond of plans or abiding by rules, however this had to be perfect.

It had all began when he did some poking around and found you frequented the campus’s library With pestering(bribing) Shoko he finally got vital information about your whereabouts. So much for her not helping.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays you went to the campus cafe.

Monday, Thursday, and Friday were all spent at the library after your lectures.

And you worked part time at a bakery next door to the Campus, the days ranging from Saturday to Wednesday.

His informant told him you go alone all the time. Flawless,for his planned execution, he would make sure this interaction would have his target eating from the palm of his hand.

He sits back on the cushioned chair, his blue eyes closing in thought. He wonders what you’d sound like. You didn’t look like much when he saw a glimpse of you at the party, he recalls you appearing to have just rolled out of bed, uncaring about your perception. He wonders if you know about him…it’s impossible not to in all honesty. Gojo and his peer have been well know since their arrival at the University. There was never any silence when his name was brought up—there’s always something to say about him.

He opens one of his eyes, his optics catching a peek of a hurried woman walking past him. He follows her rushed step with tilts of his head, the motions stopping once he caught sight of her face. It was you.

It’s a Thursday after all. Gojo’s glad he didn’t have to wait in this stuffy library for too long. His eyes take in every detail he can about you, your hurried breathes, the pant-leg of your sweats being raised higher than the other, your anxious expression.

You walk over to the librarian, nervously playing with your fingers behind your back. You look frantic, almost like you’re about to cry. Gojo decides now’s his chance. He easily saunters over, a smile painting his handsome features.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” Finally, for the first time since he’s saw you he gets to see your face directly. Your face is comprised with softness, all your features complement the others, from your trembling lips to your ample cheeks that remind Gojo of a chipmunk. And your glossy orbs pull him in, something about them being gravitational.

“I’m sorry if I was making a scene—I just don’t understand what’s going on.” You turn your attention back onto the librarian who’s giving you a stern look. “I always return my books on time. I don’t understand this fee! I can’t afford something so high!” Gojo finally sees the receipt like paper in your hand, the hand you’re clenching so hard he could see the whites of your knuckles.

“The system doesn’t lie ma’am. The fee has to be paid for or you’ll be banned from the library.” The librarians voice is absolute and final. She wouldn’t listen to any of your begs and pleas. As he watches the interaction Gojo begins to recall Geto saying he’d make perfect conditions for them to slither their way into your life. It’s dawning on him that now this is the conditions Geto made for them. Sly fox, forcing you in a panicked state.

Later he’ll ask him how he managed to bribe the librarian but for now he needs to take this opportunity. “But 200 dollars?! I can’t pay that right now.” Your voice is pleading, the vocal cords crying for you before you could get the impending water works going. Gojo leans in real close to you, making sure you experience the brush of his lithe fingers on your lower back. “I can pay it.” He says calmly.

For a moment you don’t humor him, your attention still on the librarian. But he makes himself known as he shuffles in his pocket for his wallet. “What? No—No. I can handle this. Please don’t waste your money on my problems.” He scoffs internally, questioning you in his head. You’re in no place to decline any favors. Yet, here you are, hands raised up in frantic defiance, utterance laced with embarrassment.

“No really, I can pay. The faster this ends the faster I can check out my book.” It’s a lie, one that doesn’t have evidence to back it up, as Gojo’s hands are free from holding any literary piece. But it worked to stop your fervent denial, maybe it was your worried state or lack of observational skills, whatever it may be Gojo’s just glad you didn’t point out the absence of said book.

“I’m sorry for being in your way. But you absolutely cannot do that. I don’t even know you and you can’t waste your money on strangers.” Okay this wasn’t going to work. Him playing a good samaritan would be fruitless if you just denied every time. He has to go with a different approach.

“Okay then, I understand. But would it be too much to ask if I could just check out really quick?” You smile assuredly,”Yes! M’sorry.” You park yourself to the side,allowing the tall man to move up to front of the desk. He doesn’t pull a book from his back, instead his wallet, then his premium credit card that makes a beeping sound as he swipes it thoughtlessly.

You have no room for protests because it’s too late for any of that once you notice what he did. Your mouth is agape and Gojo almost reaches to close it himself but he restrains his urge. You glance at the librarian and then him, then the librarian again, and at last you fix your gaze on him. “Why..,”your voice trails on with disbelief,”w-why’d you do that?”

He shrugs,”Why wouldn’t I do that?” His tone is full of calmness, as if spending 200 dollars on a complete stranger is perfectly normal. Gojo can tell there’s thousands of thoughts that race through your mind. Your mouth opens and closes before you pick the one you verbally want to express. “You shouldn’t have done that. I-I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’ll tell you what, you owe me now.” The man can tell this what you feared that came with his seemingly kind offer. “Owe you? But I didn’t even ask for you to do this.” Your nose is scrunched up in confusion, something Gojo notes as cute. Your hands reach in the compartments of your sweats, searching for the little stray cash you have in there.

You pull out a measly five dollars which Gojo has to prevent himself from laughing at. “I don’t want your money. I want something else.” Again your face scrunches in worried curiosity, your lips forming in a thin line as you await his next words. “Chill outttt, m’ not gonna ask for anything weird.” His hand reaches out for your shoulder, his large hand almost swallowing it. “Damn loosen up, you’re so tense..” he mumbles, which then follows up with soft laughter.

“T-Then what do you want?” You’re frightened and confused, your face beaming your emotions with such truth. He’s glad you’re this easy to shake up, this really would be fun if you keep responding like that. “I see you at that bakery, the one by campus.” He likes the way you drink up his words, appearing to be holding onto every single syllable he’s saying. Shoko wasn’t fibbing when she said you’re a shut in, Gojo feels like any sociable person would respond differently. But you’re so responsive…so accepting of this. It’s addicting to the man already and he’s only just made your acquaintance. He supposes new people don’t talk to you often.

“I like it there and was wondering if I could a bring a friend and have a meal on the house.” Instantly your expression softens by tenfold and your lips finally show their true shape once more. With the worry melted away from your face you say,”Oh my gosh, I was worried for a second. But um,yeah I can give you and your friend a free meal. Two free meals if you’d like. You really helped me out right now.” He bets you feel so special right now. Being noticed by a stranger who paid off your debt, you’re probably swooning. As long as you felt special this would be a walk in the park.

“Perfect! I’ll give you my number so you know when I’m coming.” Your face washes with confusion. Why would you need his number when he could just walk in? It quickly goes away though as he asks for your phone. He takes note of that but doesn’t worry too much about it because you obey and hand him your unlocked device.

While he gives you your phone back,your eyes glance at the contact name he put himself under,”Toru.” “What’s your name so I know what to put you under when you text me?” You say your name and as you do so you notice he already texted himself from your phone. Odd.

“I can’t wait to see you again…,” he practically purrs your name, his singsong voice making sure to drip with affection. “We’re totally friends now.” He watches as your expression mixes in with a new flustered warmth that heats up your entire body. Poor little shut in, can’t handle meeting new people. How cute.

He smiles wide at this, expression leaking with cockiness. He’s got you.

Hook.

Line.

And sinker.

“You wanna know the funniest part Sugu?” Said man, hums in response. “She totally didn’t even fight me. She just let it happen! Can you believe that?” Geto chuckles,”So she’s as socially inept as I thought.”

Gojo scoffs, leaning back in his seat as he rests his hand behind his head,”Ohhhh for sure! She speaks so…awkwardly? I think that’s the best way I could put it.” Geto leans in,”Is that so? How’d she look when she saw the fee? Was she about to cry?” His voice is ridden with faux sympathy. “She literally was on the brink of tears when I walked over. It was crazy—Say, how’d you even get that to happen with the librarian? She was playing into her role sooo good.”

“Easy, I just reminded her who got her hired here.That’s all I needed to do.” The white haired man gasps,”You didn’t tell me you got her hired? How’d you do that?” Geto raises a brow,”Do I have to tell you everything I’m up to?” Without hesitation Gojo nods with passion,”Of course you do! Best friends, remember?”

Geto huffs an amused chuckle” I still won’t tell you. It’s good to have some mystery.” Gojo rolls his eyes and folds his arms across his built chest,”Whatever…I didn’t really wanna know anyway.” Geto smiles, that same close eyed grin he often does whenever he’s around Gojo. “Have you texted her, yet?” Gojo shakes his mop of hair,”No, I wanted to surprise her that I came.”

It’d been a week since Gojo had encountered you. You had texted him a couple times, nothing major but he never jumped to answer you, despite his excitement. Anything he could do to feign closeness with you he would do. He had to leave you hanging sometimes,otherwise you wouldn’t come back for more.

“Does she know about you? About us?” Geto clarifies. “Mmm,I think soo. When she saw me I don’t think she recognized me. But she texted me if my full name was Gojo Satoru and when I said yeah she totally flipped out. So I guess she’ll for sure know who you are once she sees you.”

Geto can’t help but think that a recluse like you still hears new around school. That’d be useful for the future. “I have to admit, I’m kind of excited to meet her. The way you describe her is so entertaining.”

The white haired man is about to begin his sentence but he hears the dinging of the opened door and his eyes quickly meet yours. This is the nicest he’s ever seen you dressed. Wearing some slacks muchhh more form fitting compared to your baggy sweats,paired with a t shirt that had the logo of the bakery plastered all over it. Who knew someone could look immensely better in their work uniform?

Your face goes through a variant of emotions—shock,surprise,recognition, and then finally your mouth etches into a meek smile, one where your upper lip is swallowed by the bottom. “Hey! Come over here! I want you to meet my friend.” Gojo’s hand motions for you to walk, and you comply. You’re fiddling with your fingers as you stand above the two men. “This is Suguru Geto.” He pulls the man next to him in a one armed embrace, almost like he’s a kid showing off his prized possession. Geto doesn’t object to the affection, instead he deepens it by slugging his own arm around him.

Geto holds in a chuckle when he sees you fight back a physical reaction when he gazes into your eyes. You quickly pull away from the contact, eyes rolling down to look at your scuffed up shoes. He fights the urge to tell you to look at him. Barely,but he does. “And you are?” His voice is like honey,deep and seasoned with this twang that is so calming. You say your name quickly, as if you were trying to get this interaction over with before you damn near explode from hot embarrassment.

“Satoru has told me so much about you. He seems to really like you.” Geto eats up the way you tense at his words. This would be a piece of cake. He’d have you wrapped around their finger in no time. “Oh t-that’s so nice! Thank you Gojo.” You briefly look up from your shoes to maintain a glance to Gojo, only to break it once he looks at you. “Call me Satoru..I told you we’re already friends. Geez, you’re so shy.” He teases you lightly at the end, a smirk forming when you shrink into yourself.

“Right, m’sorry. I’m not used to making friends so easily. I’ll remember that…” your voice softens as you shyly say,”Satoru.” The man who you addressed fights back a nasty blush he feels blooming, did you have to say his name so desperately? Geto piggybacks off his friend’s statement,”And you can call me Suguru, any friend of Satoru is a friend of mine.”

“Okay then, Suguru. It’s nice to meet you.” You smile and look at the pair. And your expression is damn near puppies wearing Halloween costumes level of cuteness. Suguru is beginning to understand about what Gojo was saying, you’re very easily accepting. Probably because you’d like to fit in. How far would you be willing to go to please your “friends”? This was gonna be good. Geto fights back a smirk that wants to paint his clean cut face. You were so exciting. What would be the mark of true desperation for you?

“Welll umm I gotta clock in. I’ll be sure to give you guys your free meals as soon as I get my stuff ready.” You politely nod your head before you start walking away to the counter, then disappear into stations blind to the customers eyes. Geto hums as you leave,”I don’t see what Noaya was talking about.” Gojo looks at him as he pulls away from the embrace,”What do ya mean?” He hums once more, thoughtfully,”I’m saying I’d fuck her. She’s real cute.”

“Ohhhhh—that’s what you meant! But I’d fuck her too. You think she’s been fucked before?” Gojo asks excitedly,his lengthy fingers drawing little imaginary doodles onto the table. “Oh no, not a shot she has. You can just tell by the way she clams up when we look at her.” His counterpart grows a wide grin on his face,”What if we change the bet up a bit..” Geto’s interest is instantly peaked,”How so?”

“What if we add in taking her virginity in there too? It’d be a lil more challenging and I know Noaya is already sweating bullets because he knows he’ll lose.”

“That weirdo will probably want proof if we do that.”

Gojo leans forward excitedly,”Then we’ll get proof.” His teeth glittering with mischief as he makes a gesture towards his phone that’s resting a top the rounded table. Geto’s visage is coated with amusement,”I like the way you’re thinking’ Toru.”

“I know I’m so brilliant,huh?” He goofily pushes his hair back, flexing his mass of biceps as he does so. Geto fights back a chuckle he won’t reward Gojo with. Instead he says,”Lemme call Noaya, see what he thinks.” It didn’t really matter what Noaya thought, they’d do it anyway. But maybe if they throw this in he’ll sweeten the deal a bit more.

Gojo nods, watching as Geto pulls out his phone from his baggy pants. He pays no mind to the call, his eyes remaining on your moving figure now clad in a black apron. He observes the way you dutifully make and serve your customers order, hidden behind the person by the cash register. He’s only seen you two times so far but he has to admit he agrees with Geto, you are real cute. Without the clothes that swallow your plush frame whole and with more sleep, you’re damn near hard not to ogle.

He’s tells himself that’s it good to get himself to be more fond of you,that’s all this could be to him. You were an experience to him, a game,nothing but a mere source of entertainment to him. He has to remind himself of this when you rush over to the table,whispering after you notice Geto’s still on the phone. You barely have to bend over as you whisper in his ear,”Quick,what do you and him want?” Gojo feels his lips curl upwards,”You don’t have to whisper,the phone call isn’t important. But I’d like the stuffed waffles with ice cream inside and ouuu extra extraaaaa whipped cream on mine. Oh and a stack of birthday cake pancakes.”

Your mouth widens in shock,just to close it as quickly as it opened. He sure has a sweet tooth. Still whispering you say,”Is that just for youuu or?” Gojo nonchalantly remarks,” Oh yeah, that’s for me. Mmm he likes anything rich and not too sweet—weird I know, but if you know anything like that on your menu he’d want that.” You nod dutifully,”Okay Go—Saturo. I’ll be back as soon as I can with that.”

Geto gets off the phone as soon as you saunter off to make the orders. With a curious brow he says,”Not that important,huh?” Gojo shrugs,”It’s just Noaya. Anyway what’d he say?” Geto buzzes with contentment,”He totally accepted it. I couldn’t say much at the end because..,”he tilts his head in your busy direction,”but he was really eager. And he did ask for proof after we’ve done it.”

“Figures. What made him bite?” The former replies with an amused grin,”I said I’d give him a little pr if we couldn’t do it. I almost feel bad for him, he’ll be at our beck and call for two weeks once we win.” Gojo’s overcame with glee,”Ohhh you upped it? Have I ever told you you’re a genius ‘Guru?” Geto replies,”Maybe once or twice.”

With a foxy grin on Geto’s face, he turns his attention to you, hooded eyes gawking at you in wonder. What would you bring to him? And would he tease you about it if you got his tastes wrong? Decisions, decisions. You’re very entertaining to him. Something about your seemingly awkward demeanor had him wondering what’d you look like when you can’t take attention on you anymore. Was there more to you? Or are you just a meek little thing? He couldn’t wait to find out.

“You stare at her any longer she might have holes in her before she even brings our food.” A teasing voice says. Geto rolls his eyes, resting his head on his palm,”You’re not one who should talk. I saw you staring much longer than I was.” Gojo pouts,”But I’m so discreet when I do it!”

Geto barks out a cackle,”Your eyes are practically neon blue. I don’t want to hear anything about discreetness from you.” Gojo recoils, gasping in feigned hurt,”How dare you! My eyes are my most complimented feature, thank you very much.” Geto motions his eyes up and down Gojo faces, lips forming in a disgusted scowl. Wordlessly judging the man. “Don’t look at me like that! Learn how to control your face.”

With a coy grin on his mug he says,” I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His face is now still, void of any emotion. Gojo huffs,”Switched up because you know I’m right.” He mumbles out the side of his mouth. Before Geto could smartly reply you’re there before him, standing there with three plates in your hands.

“I didn’t know what you would want Suguru but I got you tiramisu shortbread cookies, they’re not really on the sweet side.” You look nervous as you speak something the man you spoke to eats up. “That sounds delicious, thank you.” You place it in front of him, offering a small simper as you do. “And hereee you go, let me know if you want water to wash down all that sugar.” You place Gojo’s hefty plates of sweetness down, holding back an endeared laugh as you his eyes literally glisten with excitement.

“This looks so yummy! Did ya make it yourself?” He’s already digging in, avid hands cutting into his stack of pancakes with silverware that look small in his hold. Shyly you say,”Some of it. It would take too long to make everything from order.” You’re too humble, Geto thinks. As he observed you he saw you making most of their food with a thoughtfulness one couldn’t help but admire.

“Mmm, then I’ll make sure I’ll savor every last bite. You should totally come over to me and ‘Sugu’s house so you could teach me how to make these delicious pancakes.” Your eyes widen in shock, fingers playing with each other nervously. Are people always so accommodating? Since you arrived to university two years ago, people didn’t really talk to you so comfortably or friendly. You’ve made numerous efforts to make friends but you never make the cut once they venture off and make more. The only real friend you could almost confidently say is fond of you is Shoko. But she doesn’t really talk to you as much as she used to.

So maybe that’s why you shakily agree to Gojo’s offer,”Okay, I could teach you but no promises that I’m good at giving instructions.” Maybe you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so lonely. If you weren’t hungry for a genuine friendship. But you wanted to be like everyone else. But through your blind want, you miss the gaze the two men share, coated in deviousness.

“Perfect, you can come over tomorrow! Maybe we could watch a movie while we eat our hard work.” Gojo suggestion makes you clam up more yet you find yourself agreeing before you could really think. “I’ll pick the movie. You like horror movies?” With his gaze scrutinizing your reaction, your fidgeting grows even more apparent. “Umm I don’t like to watch them alone.” You’re always alone though. Something you hoped they couldn’t pick up on.

“You won’t be alone. You’ll be in good company.” Geto’s voice is like an alluring purr, one you can’t force yourself to defy. “Okay, that sounds good. I gotta head back to work, I hope you’ll enjoy your food.” You offer a rigid wave that they both return, fighting their mirth at the small action.

When you’re out of ear shot Geto gives his companion a proud look. “Good thinking with the house idea. I think that’ll get her closer to us.” With the new incentive on the table Geto couldn’t take the plan as slow and methodical as he would enjoy. You had to get attached to them as quickly as possible so they could complete the task at hand and then go about their business. It shouldn’t be difficult, you seem to have such a hard time not pleasing them. And unfortunately Gojo wasted a week of the short month they’ve been given to complete. Leaving him to work with a time frame of a measly three weeks.

With a mouthful of desserts stuffed in his mouth Gojo asks,”You think that’ll work? She doesn’t even really know you yet. I know she already likes me.” Geto reaches for the plate, taking a bite of the cookies that perfectly suited his tastes,” I got a plan. I’ll grow on her.” Gojo shrugs, trusting his friend. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it.”

They begin eating, though their eyes are not staring at the food, instead they’re resting on every movement you do. It’s like you’re their personal tv, the show to go with their meal. They’ll make comments here and there, discussing little things you do that they find entertaining.

Before they know it their food is completed. Gojo brings a satisfied hand to his belly,”Man I’m stuffed. You really should’ve tried some, it was so good!” Geto leans back, wiping any evidence of the cookies off his face,”No thanks. I like to keep my trips to the dentist at a minimum Toru.”

“Whatever, you’re totally missing out.” Geto answers,”If you say so..but anyhow give me her number.” Gojo picks up his phone from the table and already begins typing the in digits,”You’re gonna text her when we leave?” With a ding from Geto’s phone, he gazes at the notification with a smile,”Something like that. I’m going to walk her to her dorm. “ Gojo hums,”Think she’ll let you?”

Geto scoffs,”Of course she will. And if not I think I’m very convincing.” Gojo shrugs,”Alrighttt well let me know what you’re going to do, I gotta head out before my lecture starts.”

“As if you’re not always late.” Geto says, cheekily. “Hey! I’m trying to get better and my professor totally doesn’t like me. I think I should get him fired as soon as I can.” The black haired man smiles,”If that’s in your best interest do it. But if you really have to go that lecture, it’s already eight o clock, so you’re already late.”

Gojo jumps up, gawking at his phone to make sure it’s true and unfortunately it is. “Shit…I gotta go. Bye!” Gojo stands up urgently and rushes out the glass door, halting once he didn’t say his bye to you,”Bye thank you so much for the yummy food! Can’t wait to see ya tomorrow!” Your head snaps at the mans loud voice and you just reply with a wide smile and a polite nod. Geto’s goodbye mirrors your own, a wordless one.

Once Gojo’s presence is no longer Geto pounces. He stalks over to your station and motions with his finger for you to come to the front. With a few glances from your coworker working the cash register you hesitantly step up to speak to him. “Umm, yes?”

“It’s getting late, and Gojo had to leave so I was wondering if I could walk you to your dorm?” His voice is honeyed, kind and tranquil in way that ignites something deep in your belly. “I don’t get off until twelve, I’d hate for you to waste time waiting for me.” It was strange and abnormal with how friendly they were being. You’ve never had people be so kind to you well…ever. It feels like there’s something underlying you can’t quite put your finger on.

But then again, that longing for friendship. That want for companionship like your peers dipped into your heart and not your brain. Why not have hope that two of the campuses hottest men want to be your friend? “I have nothing better to do..besides I want to get to know you more.” Your lips form into a thoughtful thin line,”I—,” you want to begin but Geto’s eyes are peering into yours in a way that has you questioning your words,”umm I don’t know.”

Geto’s expression oozes this smug all knowing feeling. His smile still remains polite but it’s more strained,”I’ll be here when you make up your mind.” He already knew what your answer was going to be. It would be a resounding yes because Geto is almost too perceptive for his own good.

That’s why when you hesitantly call his name he has to feign surprise. “U-Um actually I’d like that.” He nods and gives you smirk that causes butterflies to rumble in the wake of your lower belly. You get that feeling he could tell you weren’t going to say no to him.

But you don’t dwell on that—work was too busy for that. As you carry out your mandated tasks you can’t help but feel watched. So much so that occasionally you crane your head facing the customers and every time you do there’s no one’s observing gaze.

You tell yourself you’re overthinking and being just a tad more self conscious than usual. You were always aware that people gawked at you—either for your plump demeanor or ill dressed body that you always dressed in comfy clothes no matter the occasion. Many people often assumed you didn’t take care of yourself because of that and to a certain extent you, yourself wouldn’t be able to tell them they’re incorrect. It had started because of insecurity at first—to cover the fat of your belly and the way it pokes out, to hide the thickness of your arms when you turned to the side, to shield the dimples and marks that stretch all over your body. But as you reached adulthood it was just because you couldn’t be bothered.

Insecurity melted away when you met reality. Sure,some people would make crude comments but that’s how life is unfortunately. Your body couldn’t be of any of your concern when you were more worried about your college experience wasting away in front of you. Girls that were more popular than you in high school always said you’d find boys that would worship you like they worshipped them when you went off to college—that would come along with finding friends that would be tried and true to you. Yet, here you are. In your second year of university and basically friendless. A kiss-less virgin that hadn’t even been asked out on a date before.

Pathetic. This feeling you would nurse everyday by consuming yourself within your favorite hobbies. Hobbies that revolved around you being fawned over by unreal men—otome games, visual novels, the works to fill that hole of your mundane life. Your contentment didn’t come from a real boyfriend coddling you and loving the way you wanted. Your happiness didn’t come from friends that wanted to hang out with you. It came from all things fictional, an unfortunate thing for the many innocent and…less than pure thoughts you had haunting your craving mind.

Maybe that’s why your heart soars when you still see Geto sitting handsomely at the table, awaiting for you to be done with your shift. When you walk over to him his eyes are as enchanting as ever. “Is your shift over?” He asks. “Yeah, I tried to hurry and change as fast as I could. Didn’t wanna keep you waiting any longer.” The sentence fuels Geto’s pride—you didn’t wanna keep him waiting any longer. How cute.

“It’s okay, I didn’t mind the wait. Should we get going now?” His suggestion sounds more like a command, one you find yourself obediently following when he opens the door for you to walk out. You wish your goodbyes to your coworkers, missing the way they whispered amongst themselves once you had your back facing towards them.

Your face is fanned by the cool breeze of the night, a blissful sigh falling from your lips once you feel the sensation. “Windy night.” You say in an ungainly manner. Cringing inwardly when Geto doesn’t give you a verbal response, only nodding his head in agreement.

The walk begins in silence and the whole time you’re gazing at Geto from the corner of your eye. He’s so collected, much more calmer than Gojo, but he’s just as playful and teasing from what you seen today. His sharp nose is almost hawk like, dipping down into the perfect tip of it. Something about Geto oozes dominance—a quiet one, a predatory one. Perhaps it was his feline like eyes that poured into your entire soul when he stared at you far too long. His features mix and match to forge his handsome face into one intimidating apex beast.

In contrast to his friend, Gojo seemed more open, more friendly and sillier. But you got the same feeling from both of them the longer they gazed at you. At the library you were honored someone so kind would pay for you, especially with the stranger being so well known and handsome. Yet, he looked at you with this gaze that screamed predator, like the kind act he did came with far bigger payment than free food.

The similar gaze Geto is giving you right now. You force your head to the side to avoid how naked and vulnerable his eyes make you feel. You needed to talk, anything to stop him from looking at you like that. So naturally you open your mouth to say,”Umm did those hurt?” His gaze is softer now, less focused, causing a small sigh of relief to briefly leave your mouth. “Did what?” He replied.

You point to your ears, motioning the lobe,”Your gauges.” His gauges were interesting to you because he has no other piercings or body mods. It was simple,clean, just like he appeared to be on the outside. He grabs his dangling lobe,”Not really, it’s been so long since I got them done. I’m not planning on stretching them anymore either.”

You thought his response ended there as you open your mouth to reply but you quickly close it once he asks,”Would you like to touch them?” Geto revels in the way you noticeably fluster at his invitation. “Sure if you don’t mind.” He shakes his head and leans real close to your hand,”Go ahead, it won’t hurt if you tug.”

Your fingers carefully raised to the stretched skin, rolling it between the tips,unaware of the way the man before you watches with glee. You don’t do it for too long, quickly getting embarrassed at the way he unapologetically ogles you. “What’d you think?”

“Feels mushy and really soft. Is it weird that I said that?” He chuckles loudly into the night,”No not at all, I like that description. You know I don’t really let anyone do that, not even Gojo.” You’re tentative in your response, eyes refusing to look at him. Again he fights the urge to tell you to look at him, to stop being so meek. This time it’s harder to bite his tongue. “Really? Why’d you let me?” You begin to feel fluttering in your tummy, trying to ignore the way your body responds to his intimate words.

It was on purpose. He wants to make you seem closer to him than you really are. It’s easier this way, faster too. But the idea wasn’t pre planned because he really doesn’t let anyone touch his ears. “I guess you could say I’m already growing fond of you. “

Your eyes widen and your mouth is bitten between your teeth. You’re already playing with your fingers, a sign of emotional overload that Geto picked up on the first time you did it. He thinks you’re going to ask him why—question the man you only met today, be suspicious of him. And he’s prepared to answer. He came into this knowing you might find him and his accomplice odd.

He’s pleasantly surprised to hear,”I…um..I’m fond of you too.” It’s shy and low, but it didn’t need to be loud, Geto heard it crystal clear. “I’m glad, because I’d also like to be friends with you. Gojo always keeps the good stuff to himself so I hope he won’t mind sharing you.” You gulp, audibly, astounded by his words. He wanted to be your friend, said you’re a good catch, this had to be a fantasy of yours coming true.

“I don’t think he’ll mind. Plenty of people like him a lot—you too though! I know you both are very popular here.” Geto perks up a brow, interested to see where you’re going with this,”Are you not popular yourself?” You snort in genuine laughter,”Oh God noooo, I don’t even think a total of five people from all my classes even know my name. I’m basically a nobody here.” You’re basically a nobody everywhere, but to save face and your ego you don’t say that part aloud. “Why not? You’re really pleasant to be around.”

You laugh again, still greatly tickled,”Look at me,” you gesture your hand up and down your body,”I don’t exactly scream popular material, do I?” And Geto does look at you, examining your untucked shirt, your hair style that looked like it was done in two minutes or less, your face that’s bare of any enhancements to your beauty. You looked different from that night at the party, not as cozy or as homely, but still your appearance lacked effort. Despite your lack of care for your appearance, Geto still thinks you’re real cute.

“I am looking at you and I still don’t see why you wouldn’t be popular.” You roll your eyes,” I appreciate that but there’s no need to soften the blow I get from everyone else. I know who I am in this world and I’ve grown to accept it.” Getos brows furrow,” And who is that?”

You don’t know what to say—invisible, a dud, a flop, a loser. Instead you settle for the much more gentle answer,one that doesn’t make you want to cry,”An underdog. I’m not for everyone, but I know the people I am for will love me to bits.” It’s hopeful and wistful, full of hunger for your desired future.

It almost makes Geto feel bad for doing this. For using you for entertainment—he quickly stops the budding ache of guilt he feels in his heart. Rather, he fuels your hopeful words,”I hope I’m around long enough to be apart of that.” It was sick, his words. It was wrong to give you hope, knowing what he plans to do to you.

But seeing your eyes light up and a charming smile to your lips made him feel a tad better. “I hope so too.” He returns the action, his eyes pulled tight and shut. As heart warmed as you truly felt by his uplifting words, your brain just processed something. How’d he know the exact direction of your dorm?

He never fumbled about or asked where to go not a single time. Quickly, you’re unnerved and your smile forms into a concerned frown. You stop walking completely, backing away from him just in case his kind demeanor was a ploy for something more sinister in store. He easily notices the change in behavior, craning his neck to look at your shaken form.

“What’s wrong?” He walks closer but it’s useless because every time he does you back up an extra three steps. Now you’re about six feet apart, a safe distance to run if needed. “How’d you know where my dorm is?”

He guffaws, clutching on his stomach with one hand, the other waving in a come here motion. “Don’t worry, I’m sorry I should’ve told you before we started walking. I’m friends with Shoko, your roommate.” He regained composure as you stepped closer to him.

You feel hot embarrassment flow down the tips of your ears and neck. God, second hot friend and you’re suspicious of him. Not a good look. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have thought that. But you know some people are…” You voice is faint, like if you speak any louder you’re going to embarrass yourself even more.

“It’s all good, a completely normal concern to have. But c’mon we’re almost there.” He takes hold of your wrist, it’s loose and friendly but it still knocks the air out of you. He’s practically dragging you before you realize you’ve been dragging your feet in a haze. You expected Gojo to be so touchy but not Geto. Maybe they’re more alike than you even thought.

You expected him to let go of you once gained control of your own two legs. He doesn’t. His grasp on you is a constant through the little commute you have left. And he’s so calm about it. Never looking back to see your reaction. His head full of neatly done hair stays positioned in front of him.

You’ve had friends in the past, if one could call them that. Yet, none of them have ever been as friendly as Geto and Gojo. None of your prior friends even paid for a hangout, let alone a 200 fee for you. Nor, did any of them offer to walk you home if it was late. Was this what it really was like when people actually liked you?

“And we’re here.” His voice is like an alarm clock, waking you up from your daze. “Oh, I didn’t even realize. That went by quick.” You pull your key from your pocket and Geto takes note of the little figurines from media you like. That could be useful.

You turn to Geto,”Thank you for even walking me home, you barely know me and you really didn’t have to.” You have the key in, twisting it as you wait for his response. “Yeah of course, I can’t have a pretty lady walking home alone so late.” You see why so many woman fawn over him. Well you saw before because you have a working set of eyes..but now you truly saw the charm that complements his handsome face. He’s a perfect gentleman, at least it seems.

You try not to show how being called pretty by him affects you, but you can just tell he knows by the way his lips curl confidently. “Uh..well, yes, thank you.” The door is now open halfway, the ajar entrance causing the sounds of a tv to bleed out. “Is it okay…,” his eyes scan you as he slowly pieces together his sentence,”if I come in? I have to use your bathroom. It’ll be real quick.”

You open the door wider, nodding hesitantly,”Yeah but please don’t judge I’ve been too tired to pick up lately.” You both enter the door, Geto being the last one in as he closes it behind him. You both are greeted with the sight of Shoko, passed out on the couch with an unlit cigarette between her lips. She was always so tired and you couldn’t blame her, she studied and worked hard. That’s why you never blamed her when she didn’t have to time to hang out with you.

You walk over to her, grabbing a stray blanket on the arm of the furniture and carefully draping it over her. Whispering, you ask,”Do you know where the bathroom is?” He nods before pointing in the direction of the restroom, stating silently he’s going there. You don’t respond, instead focusing your efforts on fixing Shoko’s seemingly painful bent neck. A proud grin forms on your face when you successfully don’t wake her.

You hear the closing of the bathroom door and you’re wondering if he’d be long. You so badly wanted to take a shower as soon as possible. You decide to distract yourself by making something quick and easy to eat. You survey the kitchen cabinets, stopping once you spot your favorite instant meal. It wasn’t nutritious, but it was tasty and filling. When you’re tired from working that’s all that mattered in your books. You hear a distant, shushed voice, and you think Geto may be on the phone. None of your business though, so you don’t dwell on it.

You begin prepping it for the microwave, popping it in as silently as your old device would allow. It would take awhile so you busied yourself by scrolling on your phone. It was mindless and self indulgent, you weren’t in the mood for thinking much. Just as you were really getting into your scrolling Geto is standing before you, quietly. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there but you hope it wasn’t long due to your less than flattering relaxed posture.

“Oh..Geto you surprised me. You’re really light on your feet.” It’s more than a whisper but less than your normal speaking voice. “Did I spook you? Toru always tells me I need a bell when I surprise him like that.”

“I’ll have to agree with him, you’re really quiet. But umm..are you gonna go now?” The question sounds ruder than you intended it but Geto seemingly takes no harm from it. “Yes, I’ll be out of your hair soon. There’s something I wanted to ask you before I left though.”

You perk up as you face way from him, grabbing the hot food from the microwave. “Yes?” Your eyes are waiting, looking at him like he’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever came across. “What do you want with Satoru?” His eyes are dark, no longer that honey brown color that feels welcoming.

Geto hates to admit that he’s fighting visible glee once he sees your confused reaction. You’re so expressive, so obvious about whatever you’re feeling, it’s enthralling. It’s such a shame he’d only get to see you behave like this for a month, but things like this would make up for that short time frame. “I don’t want anything with him..I thought we were beginning to be friends.” You’re greatly lost on the implications his words carried. It’s not like you begged the man to pay for you. He offered, multiple times!

He stalks closer to you, til he’s flush against your stomach. He’s so close you could clearly smell his sandalwood scent. “Are you sure? Many people try to get close to him and I want to make sure you’ll be good to him.” His voice is low, no longer carrying that lightness it usually held. You attempt to back away from him, but the lower of your back is grabbed by his stealthily hand.

He keeps you against him, enjoying the contrast of your plumpness on his leanly defined stomach. You were real cute. Even cuter when you were panicked. “I…,”your eyes are looking all around, searching for anything other than his piercing ones,”wouldn’t do that. I’m not that kind of person.” He coos,”Are you? How are you going to prove that to me?”

Once more you keep your eyes away from him, but this time Geto can’t hold his tongue. He clutches your chin with his thumb and pointer,”It’s rude not to look at people when they’re talking to you, don’t you know that? Look at me.” He gives your chin a gentle tug that has warning strength behind it. A pleased smile graces his lips,”There we go. Now tell me, how are you going to prove that to me?”

Now staring into his eyes you’re forced to look at a desire that you can’t place. You’re shocked,frozen by his sudden shift. He’s calm but not in the relaxing sense anymore. He’s cold, calculated, as if he knows your every move. “I don’t know. Why are you doing this?” He shushes you, rubbing his thumb calmingly on your chin. “I told you why,silly. I have to make sure you’re going to be a good friend to Toru. You know he’s a very sentimental guy—I hate to see my friend hurt again.”

You did want to be Gojo’s friend and Geto’s despite this odd predicament he now put you in. Maybe he was joking..pulling your leg like most friends do. You’d like to believe that but his eyes told another story. Surprisingly, you’re shocked you’re not even more scared. Is it because he’s so handsome? Is it because you crave intimate relationships so badly you don’t care how you get treated? Perhaps it was both.

“I wouldn’t hurt him..I wouldn’t hurt anyone.” Your response is weak and Geto expected that. “Then show me. Make me feel like you’re a good friend.” You shake your head, confused on how to even do that in a short amount of time. “You know how to do that. Friends give each other favors. And you know what favor I want from you?”

“No.” Geto smiles wide and shiny,”I want a kiss from you. Show me you really care for your friends.” You didn’t want your first kiss to be with a barely known acquaintance. You always pictured it’d be with a loving boyfriend, a perfect one that accepted all your flaws. Not a man you welcomed in your dorm. “I can’t.” Geto’s grip on your chin tightens,”No? Why is it your first kiss?”

You’re too embarrassed to admit that is the truth. So you say nothing, neither confirming nor denying it. “Oh it is, huh? Even better to kiss your friend then. C’mon do you not think I’m attractive? I’ll be a good teacher.” Geto was far from unattractive and you both knew that. Would it be so bad to kiss a beautiful man that wants to do it first? It wasn’t how you wanted it but you were never put in a position of choosing any different.

“Okay, just one.” Your response is all he needed once you feel his lips on yours. It’s a gentle peck that soon turns into his tongue licking at your lips to open up. He pinches the rolls on your back for entry and he gets it. You’re clumsy and confused, your tongue jumbling with his. The kiss isn’t very enjoyable for Geto but that wasn’t the point of this. He wanted to see how far you’d really go if he’d asked. And you gave him the perfect response.

He did find pleasure in other things though. Your whines, your shut eyes that are clenched so tight, your hands gripping for life on his shirt. Too much pleasure it seems because he feels himself stiffen within his baggy pants. He pulls away with a satisfied expression,”You aren’t very good. But it’s okay, I’ll ask you for many more favors in the future.” He kisses your chubby cheek and lets go of the hold he had on you.

You’re wordless, shocked at what just happened. You just kissed one of the most popular guys at your university. And he asked first! It was obvious to you that Gojo spiel was a lie, an excuse to do this to you. But why? If he had just asked normally you would’ve folded no pressure. It was almost like he was trying to humiliate you.

“You’ll be a good friend to him…and me. Don’t be so scared next time, we’ll ask for things like this from you. It’s what friends do.” It was clear that you had a very different definition of friendship than Geto. But you didn’t mind.

Because if friendship with them meant you’d get kissed at random then you wouldn’t complain despite how his approach made you feel. This didn’t feel like a budding relationship though—it felt like a well connected trap and you were falling right into it.

Geto pats your shoulder,”Eat your food before it gets even colder. I’ll see you tomorrow.” You just stand there.

And he leaves. A wicked look pained on his face. You were in deep now. He’s got you even closer.

Lock.

Stock.

And barrel.

The next day Geto and Gojo were elated when they saw you dressed up for them. You weren’t wearing sweats nor your work uniform, instead you had your seemingly best outfit, one that complemented your features very nicely.

You had seemed casual at first, answering all their small talk with normal vigor. But every time Geto got even an inch closer to you you’d tense. It was so bad you would fumble your words and avoid eye contact. The memories of the night before haunting you greatly. You had dreams of more than just a kiss, that the hand on your lower back reached for something beneath, digging his smart digits into the malleable flesh. You felt guilty—perverted by your thoughts. He had asked to kiss you but not for anything more.

So every time he’d directly speak to you, your mind flashed to the all too real fantasy of him picking you up on the counter, hushing you while your roommate slept, relishing in the way you fell apart on his fingers. You were no stranger to many dirty dreams, often waking up in the middle night to ease the throb in between your legs. But those were all fictional, never even attainable. Geto is real though and it wasn’t right for you to think of him that way. He had kissed you. But as of now you’re still barely friends—it’s an unorthodox friendship, but still a friendship regardless of what occurred before it’s still nothing more.

And besides the reality of having a wet dream about your brand new friend, there was something else that was bothering you. The manner he went about asking for a kiss. It wasn’t worth the effort. The lip lock lasted about thirty seconds—you’d know you were counting it in your head. It went by just like that and suddenly you were no longer part of the never been kissed club. Something you put so much emphasis on was gone just like that, as if your whole dream of kissing the one could be nothing more than just that, a dream.

If it wasn’t worth the effort so why’d he try to conceal it behind a motive? . A silly one at that. Especially because of the rumors going on during lectures were true—Gojo wasn’t the one being wounded, he was the attacker. And Geto wasn’t any better. It felt like a game, one you would never have a chance of winning. That was your brain talking, the part of you that’s not trapped in their web quite yet.

Your heart, your body, on the other hand were just getting wound tighter and tighter. And soon you felt you’d be eaten whole. Yet, you couldn’t prevent the way you felt special within their gaze. Like you amuse them. Like you bring something to their life. Like you’re really needed. With every compliment, with every touch that hovered a little too long, with the way they looked at you like you’re the only thing that mattered in their orbit. It’s hard to use logic when they make you feel the way you craved all your life. So you let yourself melt into them, just a little bit. Just so little so you don’t get stuck in their gravitational hold.

That’s you how you end up leveled with Gojo’s built chest, his muscular arm dwarfing the one you’re using to stir the pancake batter. His grip is encasing your hand, refusing to let up no matter how many times you protested that this was a single person task. His voice tickles your neck, your back stiffens against him,”You’re a lot calmer now that Sugu went to shower, want to tell me why?” His voice is low and sultry. Just a hair off from being seducing.

You feel yourself hold back a shiver. You couldn’t lose your composure again. “I’m just a nervous person. I’m not used to hanging out with so many people.” It’s rushed, to prevent Gojo from stopping your half truth. “Is that right?” His grasp tightens, visibly to the point you see defined veins pop up on his bicep. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You push your back on Gojo, a poor attempt of pushing him away. You try once more and your efforts get rewarded with his giggles. “What’re you doin? Trynna run?” It’s teasing, too teasing for you to handle. You didn’t want to talk about the kiss. You didn’t want to reveal your urges, not when you’re finally making a connection, an odd one,but still it’s better than nothing. Right?

“No I’m just uhh..trying to get a pan. The batter is getting over mixed.” With that he releases you, but still hovers, as if he’d tackle you if you moved too far away. “You have a mouth, don’t you? Use it next time you want somethin’. “ The way he says mouth has you tensing. His tone sounding like he’s hinting at something. You don’t want to find out so you play coy. “Bottom cabinet, under the sink.”

He lets you off without a response to his demand. Relieving you greatly, your shoulders noticeably slumping back in normal formation. “Okay thanks.” You bend over to get a medium sized pan, trying to ignore his vigilant stare. What was going on with them? They were so normal before. Now..they were acting like they couldn’t wait to pounce. And pounce for what? You truthfully didn’t know.

You doubt this was their behavior to new friends. It was too confident, too authoritarian, too smooth. Any normal person would’ve never talked to them after the stunt Geto pulled last night. Any sane person would’ve fought Gojo harder with his insistence of closeness. But unfortunately, for your sake, you weren’t normal. You were lonely. Touchstarved and clingy to anything that would stick around for you. It’s shameful and you wish you weren’t so accepting of ill behavior. What would push you to say no? Would you even say no to them?

The thought makes you want to gag. It’s quickly wafted away when Gojo’s voice pulls you back to the present,”So are youuu going to put it on the stove or are you just gonna be staring at the wall?”

You apologize hurriedly and place the pan on the stove, turning the nob to medium heat. “We have to wait a bit for it to warm up.” Gojo nods, but he doesn’t really care for the making of the pancakes. His eyes scan your rigid person, lips quirking up in a ribbing way. “Have you been kissed before?”

It’s silent. Too silent. And you’re somehow even more tense than before.

“Why are you asking me?” Your voice is uneven, and you curse yourself for not having a better hold on your nerves. “I was just curious, you seem very shy so I wasn’t sure.” You want to feel relief once he says that but you don’t. It sounds like he knows more than he’s letting on.

“Oh well I don’t really like talking about things like that.” You pray that your answer is enough for him to back off and for now it is. “Alright, but I’ll know the answer sooner or later. Is it warm enough now?” He points to the pan and you dip your head yes in response. “It is, do you know how to get the perfect shape for pancakes? My job taught me this.”

He shakes his head and you beckon him over. You grab the glass bowl, pushing the ladle to the side he’s on. “I’ll teach you the best I can.” He takes hold of the tool,looking at you expectantly. “So you’re going to do a half scoop, it’s important you don’t fill it all the way.” He does so,”Like this?” You smile, pleased,”Yeah, just like that. Now place it as thin as you can onto the pan.”

He follows your instructions, grinning wide and prideful once he sees the perfected round shape. “Oh you’re a natural, took me a couple shifts to get that shape.” Your praise gets the reply of Gojo patting his chest,”I ammm pretty good at most things. If I say so myself.” You giggle,”Is having a big head one of those things?” As the words leave your mouth your hand slaps against it. You attempt to backtrack, hoping no offense would be taken.

But he doesn’t even let you have enough time to do that. “I get to have a big head, I can back up all my talk.” He steps closer to you,”Want me to prove that to you?” You begin hearing Geto’s words, reliving the day before that seems so close to this moment. You needed to avoid such banter, seeing how that is what you got you under Geto before.

“Uhh..you can prove it me by doing that again with the pancakes.” He backs off,”Bet, watch this.” He does a swirling motion leading to another perfect circle. To emphasize his point he follows that with two more. “Aren’t I so talented?” You smile,”So talented, I think you’re better than me right now.”

“The student always surpasses the master.” It’s cheeky. But that cheeky tone soon falters once the aroma of burning fills the kitchen. “Shit, I didn’t know they cook so fast.” Hurriedly, he grabs a flimsy spatula to flip his test pancake, wincing once he sees it charred on one side. But his efforts to stop the smoke are fruitless once the beeping of the smoke detector goes off.

You both cover your ears, grimacing at the loud noise. You go to grab a stray towel left on the counter, wafting it towards the source of the noise. “I think we need to work on your actual cooking skills after this.” Gojo makes a noise of agreement as he wafts the cloudy smoke with his hands.

Over the beeping there’s light footstep that could barely be heard. “What’re you two doing?” Geto’s voice pulls you from your focus and the moment you do pay attention , you wish you never did. Geto’s lean form is partially naked besides the fluffy garment he has wrapped around his waist. His inky damp hair is clinging to his forehead and the sides of his jawline. You could feel heat course through your body the longer you gaze at his chiseled body. You swallow a wad of saliva as you turn your head away, eyes held low to stare at your socks.

“We were making pancakes.” Gojo states. Geto huffs,”Yeah, I can smell that you burnt them.” Gojo gasps, offended,”How’d you know I burnt them? It could’ve been her.” You glare at him, his accusation distracting you from the task of getting rid of the smoke. Geto gives him a similar stare that has him retreating from his former words,”It was me..”

“Thanks for that captain obvious.” With a roll of his eyes Geto walks past you both, his damp chest bumping against your back as he does so. Effortlessly he fidgets with the smoke detector and soon enough it’s silent in the kitchen now. “I’m going to get dressed, please don’t set the kitchen on fire while I’m gone.” The last comment seemed like it was for Gojo when Geto gave him a knowing gaze.

He pads off and Gojo pouts, coming to you for comfort as he leans most of his body weight on you. Your breathing becomes labored and your hands are pushing on his chest,searching for less of his heft to be on your body. “G-Gojo, heavy…” you barely can get the words out when he wraps his muscular arms around you. His lips ghost against the skin of your neck as he speaks,”You don’t think I’m irresponsible,right?” His eyes, those beautifully blue eyes, look at you with such expectancy you could feel your breathing become even more laborious.

You’re trying to keep distance from his lips and yours, turning your head away from his as you comfort him,”No,not at all. You could never be that. You’re Satoru Gojo, I think you were born to be responsible.” This was true, he’s the future head of the wealthiest clan and a top student without his families influence. “Think so?” He gets nearer, his maw now inches away from your jaw. “Mhm, I do.” You’re still turned away from him, something Gojo doesn’t appreciate.

“Why do you always hide your face like that? If you really meant that you’d look at me. So c’mon, look at me.” His hold on your upper body grows tighter as he shifts his head to get a better look at you. With your inner lip being nibbled by your anxious lower teeth you stare at him head on, eyes already searching for something else to gaze at.

“Thereeee we go, I like seeing your face. You’re a real cutie. Now, say that again while looking at me.” You tense even more than you have the whole night. Stemming from his praise and his commanding words. It amazed you he thought you were attractive—he’s a Gojo after all. A man made with beauty that was almost unearth like. A man that could have any woman that took far better care of herself than you ever have in your life. And he still thinks you’re cute.

“I think you’re born to be responsible, you’re Satoru Gojo after all.” Your eye contact is shaky but he’s still pleased you’re looking at him directly. “Good job, was that so hard?” You shake your head no, not trusting your mouth to be coherent right now. The way he was talking to was so condescendingly sweet…and you enjoyed it. The heat you felt in your lower abdomen being a testament to that. Now that you’ve done as he asked, you think he’s going to get off but he doesn’t.

“Do you want a reward?” You felt like a well behaved dog with the way he talked to you, not that you minded. You were melting in the way he treated you like a pet, cooing at you with his perfect pink lips. “What would that be?” Your voice is uneven and breathless, speaking any louder would cause it to crack. “I’ll give you a kiss, I know you had one of those last night and I’ll take you shopping in a few days, have a game I want you to come to all dolled up for me.”

You knew it. You knew he was acting off. Geto must’ve told him right after it happened..or before if that’s who he was on the phone with in the bathroom. Was this planned? “Hey, get outta of your head and answer me.” He’s so near now his nose is bumping yours. “Do you want that?” His hands wander down to your ample hips, rubbing the fat that rests there. “I..don’t know.” A reply Gojo’s displeased with.

“Okay..you just need a little bit of convincing.” After he says that his lips lightly kiss your neck, curling up cockily as he hears your breath hitching at the contact. “What’re…..” your sentence remains unfinished as he continues peppering your neck, shushing your words. “ I’m convincing you and I want you to tell me if it’s working so,”he licks a long stripe on the length of your nape,”want me to kiss you?” Another lick,”Want me to take you to get dolled up for me? Wanna come to my game and cheer me on?”

You’re holding back any noises of pleasure, eyes screwing shut to hold that focus. “Hey..,”another light kiss,”answer me.” Shakily, you reply,”Yes.” You can feel his teeth on your neck with his wide smile,”Yes to what?”

“E-Everything.” At your confirmation his lips align perfectly with yours in a soft peck, leaving you disappointed when he pulls away. “Bonus, I’ll teach you to kiss real good right now. Sugu told me you didn’t really know how to do it last night, but don’t you worry I’m a better teacher than he is.” You’re embarrassed that your lack of skill and experience got spread to more than just one person but you can’t dwell on that when Gojo’s lips are so close to yours.

“You’re gonna start slow, no need to rush. I’m not going anywhere..” He pulls you in,lips moving unhurriedly,gentle and easy to pick up the pace. He simpers within the kiss,white teeth glimmering under the artificial light,”Good,just like that. Don’t change it.” You obey and Gojo rewards that with his tongue caressing your mouth.

His hold on your hips tighten,kneading the abundant flesh with seductive excitement. You hesitantly dart your tongue, mirroring his movements. He hums approvingly, hands moving with more fervor than before. He pulls away, breaking the saliva that’s chaining your lips together. “You did really good. You need more lessons though.” Gojo’s eats up the way you’re looking at him with wide eyes, mouth still agape, the sheen of saliva glittering on your bottom lip.

You look so shaken he almost feels bad. But how could he feel bad when you looked so wanton? This bet came from a source of boredom but he could be truthful enough to say he’s growing to genuinely like you. “Do I..?” He grins,”Yeah, I can give you another one right now.” He leans in,eyes watching as you await for him to touch you again.

“Having fun without me?” Geto’s voice snaps you out of your haze, head snapping to look at him. He’s now dressed, only wearing a pair of baggy black sweats and no shirt. What did you look like? Kissing him and his best friend so close in time,in THEIR home?! God, the embarrassment flows through your whole entire nervous system. You snuggle into Gojo’s chest, hiding in it to avoid confronting whatever this is.

The man you’re using as cover chuckles and places a hand on your head, petting it reassuringly. “Just returning the favor. You sure rubbed it in my face last night, didn’t you Sugu?” Geto walks closer until you could feel his front on your rear. You’re sandwiched between them, unable to go anywhere.

“I asked if I could before. Didn’t want to move alone, ‘sides looks like yours was more intense than what I got. That just isn’t fair..” You could feel Geto’s hand on your shoulder and it takes everything in you not to flinch at the touch. “Stop hiding please, just want you to kiss me like you kissed him.” Slowly you raise your head and you’re met with a pleased smile,”That’s right,c’mere.” His light coo has you stepping closer to him but only so far because Gojo’s hold on you remains known.

He’s up close and he’s expectant,”Well? Are you gonna kiss me?” You look at Gojo, almost like you’re asking him for permission. This both amuses and pisses Geto off, he found it endearing that you were like a lost puppy but why ask Gojo for permission when he was the one asking? “You’re so rude.” He chides. “Looking at someone else when I’m waiting for you to kiss me. Would you rather kiss him,hmm?”

He now has his big paw on your lower jaw, squishing your face together. “N-No,want to kiss you.” Gojo laughs,”Didn’t know you could be so jealous Sug’, mad she thinks I’m a better kisser?” Geto makes an exasperated face that doesn’t match the honeyed tone he spoke with,”Now, don’t feel flattered someone so inexperienced likes yours, you’re closer to her level.” You didn’t know if you should feel offended for yourself or for Gojo, either way your opinion didn’t really matter.

Gojo scoffs,”Now you’re just lying. You know I’m not bad.” Geto smiles,”How ‘bout we ask you? If you’re honest I’ll make sure to treat you real good if you are.” You don’t know how it came to this point. You’re invited to make pancakes at their house and now they’re in some weird competition? You liked the attention and the kissing..but you also could feel your brain melting with all these new events happening like whiplash.

This was no longer a friendly hangout, it’s so much more and you don’t think you could handle much more. You wriggle your face from Geto’s hold and shove Gojo off with all your might, it barely moves him off and you’re speculating he he even did that because of the effort you put it into it. “Forget about that..what’s going on? Why are you both acting like this?” You’ve never been flattered like this with one person, let alone two. Especially by men so devastatingly good looking. Men that wanted to do things to you.

They acted under the guise of friendship to weasel their way in and it worked. But it’s obvious they want nothing platonic with you. The longer you surrounded yourself with them the more extreme things would get. “Acting like what?” Gojo asks. You motions with your hands, frustrated tone slipping from you,”This! I feel like a game for you two.” Possibly your suspicion grew from your experience in high school and even your early days here—men that were far up on the societal food chain would play games, humiliate you. As if being attracted to someone like you was a huge joke. The kisses, the banter they had about how far they could go with you, the flirting—it felt all too artificial.

It was too quick. So quick you didn’t know how you found yourself growing your newly gained kiss count to a second person. Geto and Gojo eye each other, hoping one of them knew what to say before you have a bigger reaction. They had a feeling you weren’t dumb, you were gonna pick up on the escalation of the budding relationship. They had to think and fast, or else the silence might assure your speculations, which are correct. You are a game—they couldn’t let you know that quite yet. Or preferably at all.

Gojo speaks first,”I know this might sound crazy..but it’s something me and Geto both have a thing for.” Geto eyes him, trying to pick up what’s he’s laying down. “You see…we like sharing girls we both like, and it’s really rare when we do like the same one. So that’s why me and Geto said we wanted to be friends at first..we weren’t trying to scare you because two guys at the same time sounds intense. I—We..couldn’t control ourselves anymore. I’m sorry but please don’t stop talking to us,we really like you. I really like you.”

You search his features for any sign of untruthfulness, and he’s void of any. Matter of fact there’s tears teasing his lash line as his eyes look at you with a sense of groveling. But you couldn’t believe him quite yet, it was a good explanation, however it wasn’t enough to wave your accusations. “And you?” You give Geto a pointed gaze, awaiting his explanation. “I…I’m embarrassed to admit but we’ve been plotting to talk to you for a while. I knew you were Shoko’s roommate and thought you were so cute..and she told me you’re not really romantically involved with anyone. So we just tried to go about it the wrong way…but we really thought this would ease you into it.”

This left so many unanswered questions. Geto’s whole spiel last night, the library, it all seemed too perfectly aligned to be just a coincidence. As much as you craved attention from people like this you had to think soundly because you really didn’t want your heart broken. Shoko’s tales of her past few partners giving you nightmares about having a love life,despite all your want for one. “That doesn’t tell me anything…did you guys plan everything? Was any of this real?”

Geto didn’t know you were so sharp, he doesn’t know what he prefers more, your meekness or this? You seemed so eager, so naive. He thought they would go unquestioned by you..but he’s delighted he was incorrect. Maybe you are still naive though, enough he could take advantage of it. He just needed to get past your walls so you’d melt for them.

Gojo speaks again, this time really upping the tears in his eyes,”I promise when I saw you at the library I just saw an opportunity to talk to you. Nothing more. I wouldn’t have paid for you if I didn’t like you.” He steps closer to you, resting his hands on your hips once more,fingers digging in the doughy flesh with desperation. “Please..believe me. If not,one of us will drive you home no questions asked. We won’t even speak to you again.” This was all a lie,they had a bet to win. And they don’t lose. However, Gojo was confident you wouldn’t leave tonight.

To put more pressure on you Geto cuts in, embracing you from behind, words muffled into your shoulder,”Believe us, let us become more than your friends. I promise you won’t regret any of this.” You really hope that was true because your suspicions were wavering. Whether it was Gojo’s pleading eyes or Geto’s appealing embrace that aided you into trusting them—it worked.

“So what does this mean?” Gojo sighs happily, sucking up the congestion caused by his tears,” Means you got yourself two boyfriends now.” Geto adds on, peppering a smooch onto your shoulder,”Hope you don’t mind being shared.”

And you melted into their arms. Just letting yourself enjoy this moment. Even if you were wrong for trusting them you could look back at this and feel the warmth you’re feeling in your heart.

Happiness. So you let them coo their pillowy soft words,let them kiss you, let them coddle you.

This is all you ever wanted after all.

And with every action it’s like they knew that.

PHASE TWO: HOT AND HEAVY

It’d been approximately a week since you’ve got a boyfriend, well boyfriends and you weren’t really sure if things were supposed to be moving so fast. Since it had began something had…shifted.

They’d seemed normal once you agreed to trust them, as normal as a situation like this can make someone look. They were sweet and gentle. Spoiling you in their own ways. Gojo would take you shopping, give you things you couldn’t even pronounce the name of, provide you with a ride anytime of the day. He has a knack for dressing you up in clothes he thinks you look nice in—usually leading you into wearing attire that showed much more skin than you were used to.

And Geto pampered you in a different manner. Whilst Gojo had everything materialistic at his finger tips, Geto was more down to earth. He’d give you cute notes,send you something that’d reminded him of you, help you with your school work, recommend you things that were similar in a heartbeat. And every time he’d do so he had this look on face that was all knowing, like he knew everything about you.

Though they differed in their way of treating you, they had one thing in common. Both their niceties came with a price, an unsaid one. You quickly learned this when the shopping trip for Gojo’s game came soon after the relationship began, he had adorned you with the finest clothing, spewing sentences like his girl had to look the best for him and be dressed in the nicest fashion money could buy. Despite your denial of such treatment he’d hush you every time, telling you this is what good boyfriends do.

And then he quickly followed up with,”If you really wanna pay me back though, get in the car and lay down on the backseat.” He had gotten on top of you, long body resting a top of yours, his maw wandering about on your soft skin. He kissed you wildly, his hands finding comfort under your shirt, squeezing and kneading the pudge you had on you.

He had asked you if you wanted this, if you wanted him to show you how good girlfriends treat their boyfriends. You were silent for a bit, taking weight of what could possibly happen if you said yes. And ultimately you agreed, partially excited for another new experience and partly guilty for all the money he spent on you in just one shopping spree.

The minute you agreed Gojo was on a mission. Lifting up your shirt with haste, hushing you when you got shy beneath him. You had thought he was going to fondle you, feel you up a bit more than he had in the past. But you were mistaken once you saw his dick free from his pants, achy and hard against his abdomen. “What’re are you going to do?”

He cooed,”Just takin my payment. Now, stay still for me, don’t let that pretty face move.” You had expected for him to put it in your mouth, fuck it til you’re gagging and teary eyed but he didn’t. Instead his hunched over frame moved to the side of you, his dick towering above your face, veiny and pretty just like him.

He slapped it down on your cherubic cheek, groaning as you whined at the impact. His throbbing length adjusted completely flat on the plain of your face, his thumb holding the girthy thing taut against the warming skin. Then you felt it, the thick wad of saliva glide on his cock, the excess of it dripping on your cheek. With his free hand he rubs the self produced lube on your face, making it sure it’s smooth enough to glide on.

And he started to hump the side of your face, cocky grin plastered on his own, only breaking when he couldn’t hold a moan in. And he ate up every second of you being so shocked and wide eyed, lips slightly ajar, attempting to find anything to say.

And you took the hour long event. It lasting so long because Gojo paced himself so well, halting the moment he felt himself coming to his end. He taunted you, mushed your boobs together with his lone paw so hard you could feel the blooming bruises grow, slapped your clothed pussy a couple times when he saw you rubbing your legs together. Stating,”It’s my payment, you don’t get to have fun.”

When he finished, his spent plastered all over your plump face he had kissed the crown of your head, voice soft with praises.

And every time you had to pay him back for his treatment, he’d always end with that.

Geto on the other hand…you were experiencing presently. And it doesn’t take a genius to tell you’re nervous. With Gojo he’d always ask for different things from you—a thigh job, a butt job, a boob job, watch him jerk off etc.

But Geto was consistent, less spontaneous than his counterpart. It’d always end up with you in the same position, on your hands and knees, all fours, panties off and your mouth opened awaiting for his dick to enter.

Throat training,he’d call it. He said if you had two boyfriends you’d have to know how to suck real good and he’d make sure he’d teach you real well. You knew that’s the formation you’d quickly be in. You regretted agreeing for him to tutor you because afterwards you’d always have to be pay the charge.

You tried to cancel on him today , tried to make every excuse under the sun. But Geto pushed, stating no person he was dating would be at risk for failing any of their classes.

He places the pencil down, kind smile adorning his lips,”Do you get it now?” You nod, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, preparing for what’s to come. “Good I’m really proud of you for picking it up so quick. You learn really fast.” His hand reaches for your bare thigh, palming it with a reasonable force. “Thank you Ge—Suguru, I’m really trying.”

“I could see that. Aren’t you a smart girl? Say yes.” It falls from your lips quickly,” Yes.” Geto gives your leg an approving pat,”Does my smart girl want a kiss for all her hard work?” You nod,leaning close to him. He closes the distance, low and slow, digits digging into the softness of your thigh.

He begins sucking on your tongue, holding back a smirk as your eyes grow wide at the new sensation. His other hands cups your lower jaw, caressing the undefined curve. He pulls away,looking pleased with you. “Take off your clothes and get into position.”

You obey like a pet threatened with the voltage of a shock collar. Though you didn’t have a physical one, there was something metaphorically around your jugular. It took one time to learn that there wasn’t such thing as saying no to them. It’d always be bombarded with coaxing, guilt tripping words sharp at the edges—threats of what would happen if you weren’t a good girlfriend to them.

And it worked so well because you were afraid of being lonesome again. They doted on you,spent days of their time dedicating to you—and you dare refute their small requests? They didn’t have to say it, they’re actions spoke loud enough,”Someone like you should be happy they’re even touching you, giving you the time of day they could spend with people on their level.”

So, you’re waiting for Geto to make his move. Ass perched out, arch low and groveling, the way he taught you to. He circles you like a shark marking for it’s time to strike, his hand darts out to take an abundant handful of your ass, molding the flesh with a sense of appreciation you hear rumble from his chest. “You’ve gotten so good at this—you seem to be adjusting quite well to everything. I think you need to be rewarded for that.”

In one full motion Geto sinks his fingers into your unaware cunt, halting as the mid part of his two digits dipped in. He lets out a low whistle,”Oh you’re wet, huh?” You whine at the insertion, ass wiggling to make some form of further movement. “Greedy too.” He chuckles as he begins curling his fingers into the warm hole. Face coated with a sense of hubris he always gained from seeing you like this.

He stops once again, pulling his fingers out until just the tips are barely in.”If you want me to continue, you have to say you want me to finger you or we could go straight to training and you get nothing.” You cringed thinking of the suffocating feeling, throat full and head pushed down in an inescapable hold. Nose nudging against his clean shaven pelvis. You bark out,”Please, want it.” For extra measure you attempt to throw your ass back onto his digits, pushing them in a little bit farther than just the tips.

“Want what?” He taunts. “Your fingers—,” your breath hitches as he slides them in deeper,”haaa in me.” He’s pleased with that. His fingers now entering you fully, knuckles deep, stretching the wounded muscle uncomfortably so. You were used to your own stout and pudgy ones, becoming greatly familiar with them on one of your many lonely nights. But this—oh god this, his smart digits were so long, reaching those soppy you could have never dreamed of grazing before.

“See how you get good things when you use your words?” His words were a reminder of what happens when you don’t. The first time he’s ever expected payment back and you were in for a world of trouble. You had argued, stating you weren’t ready for something so fat and oh so long to slide in your unused throat. And you became silent, disobedient, holding your mouth shut and taut even though the tip of his dick tapped on it with politeness.

And you had been reminded you weren’t the one with power. They are. He is. In every sense of the word, they made more money than you, had more societal regard, more strength. Which you felt the magnitude of as his punishing hand slammed down onto your bare ass, slapping without care, rough and heavy until you were brimming with tears and apologies. And the spanking wasn’t the worst of it—the actual part of him abusing your mouth was. He had no pity for you as he heard you gagging, drool coating your chin, eyes rolling back with discomfort. And his pace was relentless, his hands on either side of your head with a stubbornness that was unbreakable. This was a lesson—listen or receive the consequences.

But like this, with his fingers deep in you, purring soft praise into your room, gentle kneading touches of your ass—you enjoyed this form of payment, greatly. With his extremities still tautly bound in your warmth Geto levels his groin to your face, unbuckling his belt, his unfitted pants lowering to his hips as they’re no longer held up. And his bulge was waiting for your mouth to ease the throbbing constricting against his plain colored briefs.

With his pants unbuttoned he instructs you,”Pull it down, nice and slow.” As if he wanted to make the task difficult for you, his fingers curl niceee and deep in your pussy, almost touching that special spot within. Your back straightens out and soft ohhhhs falls from you. With unsteady hands you reach for the material, moaning as the up and down motion damn near took control of your senses. As best paced as you could, you languidly slide down his undergarment, stopping once his dick sprang out, hard and proud, smacking on his clothed abdomen.

With just his captivating honey brown eyes he directs you to begin sucking. “No hands, just your mouth.” He demands. And you follow, leaning your mouth close enough until you could taste his salty pre cum on your taste buds. You hollow out your cheeks to the best of your abilities, your sounds of pleasure vibrating on the beginning of his length.

He hums, digging his exploring fingers even deeper, cooing at you as you let out a particularly loud yelp, the sensation going straight to his cock. He thrusts up, eyes shutting in pleasure when you swirl your tongue around his base. “G-Good jobbb, yeah, just like that. You’re doing s-so hahh good.”

Your focused eyes shut in determination. Bobbing your head up and down, sucking harder as you hear his sounds of gratification echo in the room. Your efforts are rewarded with a delicious curve of his extremities sloshing the noises of your wetness tauntingly.

Squelch, squelch! Paired with the wet pops and the clicking of his tip hitting the back of your throat. Bucking forward, his pelvis pushes against your face. His hand caresses your face, eyes now open with affection you’ve never seen before.

“You look so cute like this.” He pinches the pudgy flesh of your cheek, admiring the way it stretched to accommodate the mass of him.

“Keep looking at me like that, don’t shut those eyes—look how good you’re making your boyfriend feel.” He brushes away a tear creeping down your face, contradicting the sweet action with a deeep buck he did within your mouth, dick nice and snug in the vastest confines of your esophagus.

“Such a good girlfriend t-to—fuck, me.” To pair with his praise he flicks up with a greater haste than before. Eating up the way you struggled to keep sucking with his determined efforts. You had your brows pinched with concentration, drool traveling down from your chin to the floor below, and your eyes—oh god your eyes. Teary and fighting to stay open, to be obedient to his words.

“If I make you cum would that help you stay focused more? Hmm, want that?” He nods your head for you, moving it up and down with a choppy chuckle. “I-If you say soo..” he jerks his extremities upwards to the tallest parts of your constricting walls, the tips of the digits massaging oh so well that you can’t maintain being so dutiful any longer.

Your mouth makes a resounding popping sound as you finally come up for air. A high pitched whine falls from you, lids reluctantly shutting despite your best endeavors to keep them open as Geto had requested— but the pleasure was all too consuming.

Your head flops onto Geto’s thigh, mouth agape and letting out the prettiest sounds for the proud man above you. You had expected Geto to chide you, for not listening to him, for doing something he didn’t direct you to do. Instead of that unfolding, his hand resting on your cheek thumbs the plumpness, stroking it comfortingly. He gazed at you with a new emotion he never had before—something so heartwarming it almost distracted you from his fingers wading in your pussy.

The gaze remains so soft and tender, his voice reflecting the same sentiment,”You really are so cute. Even cuter when you’re coming undone on my fingers.” At the moment you feel a coil unfasten in the depths of your belly, a loud keen echoing in the room. You’re unsure if it was his words that led you to your release or the way he particularly caressed your walls in that moment, but the why didn’t matter when you felt so good.

With your cum on his fingers, creamy and shiny, he pulls out of you. Raising them to his lips, he sucks on them til they’re anew, clean and spotless of what had just transpired. “I bet your throat hurts, I’ll give you a rest today.” You’re speechless. This was new. Geto had never let you stop when he was training you prior. It was confusing, his cock was still hard and achy, pearly pre sticking to his shaft. So why stop you?

There’s a tenderness you hadn’t seen of him since he became one of your boyfriends. He was always methodical, planned, and seemingly less fond of you than Gojo was. But at this time that all seemed like a false perception of him. Gojo had always teased you, joked with you, and never let you have a dull moment with him. With Geto he always seemed to like you less than Gojo —but that had to be a lie with the way he’s acting now.

Wordlessly, he picks you up, you gasp at the lack of struggle and you don’t even get to protest once you feel yourself bounce back on the softness of your mattress. His stare is worshipping, pupils dilated in absolute revere of your naked form. You don’t know what had switched within but you weren’t complaining, anything to not lose your voice again. “Why are being so..different?” Your voice trails off, quietly awaiting his response.

What had changed in Geto? He always saw you as means of entertainment, just a week ago, he schemed for you to be bending at his will. He didn’t like you. He didn’t care for you. He didn’t even find you that interesting—at first. He thought you were going to be easy, to an extent you were, however he’s grown to like the sides of you he’s seen so far. And he’s grown to feel a sense of protectiveness over you, he views you as weaker than him and Gojo, and he believes the strong must protect the weak.

With every second you looked at him with awaiting eyes, ready to please him, ready to make him happy —ready to do whatever he said just to keep him in your life. That was weak. And Geto grew pity for you that than turned into this new fondness he’s finally became aware of. He had found you difficult to talk to at first, your umms and uhhhs were off putting. And he had looked down at you for that, but now he loves hearing you prattle on in that awkward manner you usually do. He had became fond of the fact that you were so easy to get flustered because it was entertaining to get you worked up, now he finds it so endearing and cute when it happens naturally.

He told himself he’s only forced this proximity for the bet and he doesn’t harbor any affection for you, yet in the short seven days since he’s gotten to know you he’s quickly been hooked. There was something about you he found so..adorable, from your quirks to the way you fiddled with your fingers when nervous—how you depended on him and Gojo. How much they mattered to you in this short time frame. It was wrong to take advantage of your circumstance, of your want for companionship, but he’s glad he could have you like this. Regardless of the bet—he had actually grown to really like you.

So although he remained slightly sadistic he felt more urges to treat you like this—to worship you like a beautiful doll, like you’re actually his girlfriend he met under different circumstances. “I guess…I realized I was being too harsh to you. I’m sorry.” His words hit like iced water. You hadn’t thought he was mean to you in particular.. just detached and much more far removed compared to Gojo. But it was still nice to hear that he’d be more open now.

“It’s okay…but I like you this way. I like when you’re sweet to me.” You say softly. He smiles and leans forward, giving the crown of your head a peck that lasted a couple seconds. He pulls away,”Then let me worship you. Let me gaze at you while I finish myself off—just sit there and look pretty for me.” His words surprised you but still you obeyed, eyes watching as he spat onto his hand.

He then wraps it around the expanse of his cock, observing your plump form with eagerness. He strokes himself, nice and slow, always going all the way down to his base and then back up to the very peak of his tip. His gaze makes you self conscious, it feels like he’s looking through you, eating away at you with his watchfulness. But you don’t hide yourself instead you display your most personal part to him. Spreading your legs wide and proud for him to see your shiny pussy, feeling happy when he groans at the sight.

“She’s so pretty—you’re so pretty.” He groans, nipping on his lip to keep from not yelling. “Spread her open for me,yeah?” With two hesitant fingers you spread the fatty lips, body heated at the action. “Mmmm,look she’s winking at me.” You nearly shut your legs at his words, greatly embarrassed at your pussy convulsing around nothing.

Already knowing how you felt, Geto doesn’t hesitate to console you,” S-Shit—I like that though—haaa fuck, keep her saying hello to me.” With a hearty growl Geto collapses right in front of your parted legs, his mug so close you could feel his strained breathing cooling your molten core.

He eyed your pussy like it was the Mona Lisa, as if it was one of the 7th wonders. His pace quickens and Geto grits his teeth together, forcing his eyes to stay open, he couldn’t miss looking at such a pretty sight. You weren’t a conquest any longer to him—this wasn’t to tease you for your lack of experience this was because he enjoyed you. All that planning and scheming was for nothing because he’s the one wrapped around your finger tightly. How could he not? He’s ashamed to say his resolve dwindled quite fast.

He rests his head on your inner thigh, gracing the skin with little kisses when his sounds of pleasure didn’t take over his mouth. He grabs the pudgy limb,digging his fingers in to get a better hold of himself. He was close, oh so close. “T-Thank you,” he lays a peck on one of your lips,”you’re such a good girlfriend.” His eyes clamp shut and a small bead of sweat streaks down his temple,his maw finds asylum in your leg, silencing his groan into the abundant flesh.

He arises, his hand painted a creamy white. He’s sitting on his knees and he slots his clothed body on your naked one, settling down to rest on your soft middle. “Do you mind cleaning me up?” He quietly asks, lifting his hand nearer to your maw. You shake your head no and begin lapping up his seed, focused and efficient. As you clean Geto narrates,”I have class in thirty minutes ..a shame I wanted to watch that show you’ve been telling me about. I’ll tell Toru to keep you company once I leave, how does that sound, hmm?” You don’t miss the way your heart hammers against your chest at the mention of the show—you had told him about it a couple days ago in a offhanded conversation, never expecting him to care enough to recall. He cared enough about your interests.

During this week you were suspicious you were some type of plaything for the duo. But Geto especially had shown you there’s care in this. It gave you relief that you were wrong. You halt your grooming to reply,”I’d like that, a lot. What’re you going to do then…before your lecture?” You ask right before you get back to licking his digits. Geto smiles lazily,”I’m going to stay here with you, hold you while I can.” To emphasize his point he nuzzles his face in your neck, exhaling comfortably on the skin.

You give one final lap of his once soiled hand and place it down, grinning at this softness he’s never shown you before. Despite this being a full week of dating it felt like a lifetime for you and you’re beyond glad you reached the point in said lifetime where things felt domestic between you and Geto. You never encountered that feeling with Gojo, that man was overly familiar from day one, there was no being distant from him no matter the amount of time knowing him.

With his hand now cleaned Geto embraces both his arms around your ample waist, placing you in a tight bear hug. You reach out for his long black locks, running your fingers through the silky strands. “Sugu..do you actually like me?” He hums,”Of course I do, I wouldn’t be dating you if I hadn’t. What a silly question.” You always thought something was a matter with you prior. There had to be if you had no close connections in your life, so it’s nice to be told you really are liked by somebody. “Okay, that makes me happy. I..like you too.”

He laughs,” I know you like me. But aren’t you sweet for telling me..now stop asking me silly questions and let me get some rest before my terrible lecture.” You chuckle lightly,”Okay, M’sorry, I’ll let you get some rest.” As thanks he places a chaste kiss on your neck before he shuts his eyes. He couldn’t help but hide his amusement at your question, if only you knew how much he really had grown to like you. You were just a bet, yet with him resting oh so domestically a top of you his mind can’t help but think of coming home to you like this everyday. Making you cum with his body, having you soft and pliant for them. You wouldn’t have to work that job that hardly pays you anything, you could just rely on him, them, to take care of you. He really did think you are a good girlfriend, and the thought of this ending after a short month had him clutching you even tighter.

As you pet his head, each pat lulls you into comfort. Your eyes grow to feel low and heavy. Your breathing slows and slowly your mind isn’t racing,letting yourself melt into a solace you’ve been longing for.

Sleep.

When your eyes open you’re greeted with snowy white hair, not vanta black. And you’re placed in a different position then before, laying on your side with tickles of hair follicles on your nape. You attempt to get up to observe your surroundings but you’re prevented by a strong arm around your side.

You sigh and take in what you can from your spot. The sun had went down so it must be well into the night. How long did you sleep for? “Oh,you’re finally up. How’d you rest?” Your ears hear Gojo and you remember Geto saying he’d come over once he left. It was sweet of him not to wake you. “I slept really good..better than I have in a while.” Now that you’re aware your eyes take in Gojo and you realize he’s bare of a shirt, then your eyes scan lower and realize he’s bare of everything.

“Wait..why are you naked?” Your tone comes out accusatory, already scared of what could’ve happened in your sleep. Gojo pouts,”Why do you always think I’m the creepy one? I just wanted to have skin to skin contact with you.” Your brows furrow in confusion,”So you got naked cause I’m naked??” He nods with a dopey grin on his face,”Yup, I wanted to hold you like you were. Is that too crazy?”

Gojo was interesting to put it plainly but you didn’t mind that about him. So you shrug off the oddity and lean closer to his unclothed chest, learning questioning him would just lead to further curiosity and your newly awaken brain couldn’t handle that right now. “How long was I out for?” Gojo takes your face in his hand,cradling it,”Three hours or so, Sugu told me you were exhausted so I never thought of waking you up.”

You cuddle further into his chest, an action greatly welcomed by Gojo. He’d glad you’re not so shy around him anymore, you’re much more familiar now—your personality shining in a way he couldn’t see before. He liked you already when he saw you being all shy in the library but that was purely because you seemed like the perfect plaything for the bet. But now, he really does admire you. He genuinely likes spending his time with you, even cutting class to come hold you while you slept. He can’t put his finger on what changed in just a week, however he liked that he grew softer towards you.

Maybe he could talk to Suguru to see if the bet could be noid and null? He likes being your boyfriend, likes the way you pout and check on him when he’s being reckless, likes the way you giggle and snort at his jokes, likes the way you fluster and bend so easily for him, likes how much you genuinely care for him and Geto. It was consuming his heart, his brain, something about you was so addictive. And it was so hard to place because you’re so plain. There’s nothing inherently special or unique about you, yet he feels addicted to you.

It was wrong to take advantage of someone so drained of human connection but he’s glad he took the bet. He had to be,with the way you looked so thankful for him,snuggled into him at your most vulnerable. He caresses your face, speaking soft and low in a way he knows makes your heart jump, “How about I take you out tonight? You dress up real nice for me and we eat our hearts out.”

Your smile is the reaction he was looking for, bright and wide, the lines on the sides of your mouth being displayed proudly. “Really? But are you sure it’s not too late to go anywhere?” Gojo shakes his head,”Trust, it’s barely eight, and after all I can go anywhere no matter the time. So about you get your pretty self out the bed and get ready to go?”

The white haired man stands up, cock sitting arrogantly on his abdomen and he notices your eyes widen at this. “Don’t judge,you’re naked and you’re my girl. Can’t blame me for getting excited. Anddd you don’t even have to take care of this, just focus on getting ready and I’ll handle everything else.

And he wasn’t lying, he really did handle everything. Within thirty minutes he was groomed even handsomer, dawning a nice dress shirt that just oozed wealth, matched with pants and shoes that reflected the same exact thing. He had even helped you with your outfit, choosing a nice dress that accentuated your figure nicely, hugging all the nice curvy bits beautifully. He had reservations in an instant to some restaurant too fancy to pronounce the name of. The last thing he had to do was assist you with your shoes.

He slides the expensive shoe he had bought for you onto your foot with a care you didn’t knew he felt for you. With a kiss to your ankle he buckles the connecting loop,”You look so beautiful—you are beautiful.” You feel yourself heating up at his words. You felt like Cinderella, once a poor pauper who had no one, now a princess with two charming princes that seemed to really like her. “Thank you Toru.”

He smiles,”I like hearing that name from you. Now c’mon we already have reservations.” Walking out of your room, hand in hand, only to be halted by Shoko, cigarette in her hold. “Going somewhere?” She asks. You reply happily,”Toru’s going to take me to dinner, I promise I’ll be quiet when I come back in the dorm.” Shoko has a look on her face that’s unreadable to you, but not to Gojo, his eyes having a conversation with her.

You don’t get to ask what’s it about as Gojo sends you away,”Go to the car for me, I’ll be right there. I think Shoko wants to talk to me real quick.” You nod and say your goodbye to Shoko, being weirded out by her tight lipped smile as you left.

Gojo steps forward, strutting to the couch Shoko often finds herself on. “Why are you looking at me like that?” The man asks. “You know why Satoru, you’re playing with her.” He rolls his blue eyes,”I was…but I really like her now. I’m even thinking about calling off the bet.” She scoffs,”The fact you said thinking instead of going to is enough for me to tell you to fuck off. Look—I told Suguru the same thing when he left earlier, if you don’t stop flaunting her around like she’s this week’s best toy I’m going to tell her.”

“Why are you getting in our business now? You always say you don’t care about what we do as long as we don’t drag you into it so what’s new? You even helped us out way more than you should’ve—so you feelin guilty now?” Lighting her cigarette,she begins,”I do feel bad, yeah. I thought this would be a quick thing like it usually is for you two, but you’ve been around here for three weeks and the longer you pretend you care about her the more I know it’ll hurt once she finds out what you both are.”

Gojo could feel his jaw clench. “I’m not pretending shit. I do care for her and so does Suguru, you can’t tell us what we feel.” Shoko scoffs,”Oh I don’t, huh? I’ve known you since high school, I know how you both get bored. And I watched and stayed silent when you did that to others but with her..I can’t. Not when she tells me how happy she is, how nice it is to finally be able to experience romance. She deserves something real—not two immature boys doing this for a stupid fucking bet.” The man before her opens his mouth to speak but he’s quickly cut off with Shoko’s sharp words.

“And you’ve only fully gotten to know her for what? A week…maybe more? What happens after a week? Hmm? What happens after a couple months? What happens after a year? What happens when you’re done with her and throw her away like all of your other playthings? You’re not going to have to see her that way—I am. So think of that when you’re playing boyfriend and taking her out.” Gojo could feel his rage seep into his veins, his eyes growing wide and deranged.

“It’s true, I am used to throwing people away. I could have anyone and anything easily. But…she’s different, I’ve never felt so strongly about anyone in a really long time. Especially in such a short amount of time. So you don’t get to threaten me or Suguru when you don’t get the situation fully. Next time I want someone’s unsolicited opinion on what I’m doing, I’ll go to a therapist. Now if you excuse me—I have to take my girlfriend to dinner.”

Shoko can’t get another word in before the slam of the door is heard. Gojo’s angry footsteps were audible all the way down to the car. He opens the door looking flushed, his teeth clenched tautly and his brows furrowed together. You’re buckled up in the passengers seat looking lost as ever. “Did something happen between you and her?” Gojo slides in the drivers seat, clicking in his seat belt with a fake smile,”Yeah don’t worry about it though. It’s just a disagreement among friends.”

You were curious, undoubtedly so, but the crazed look in Gojo’s eyes told you now was not the time to pry. “Uhh okay..let’s just go then. I hope you’ll feel better after we eat.” When arriving at the restaurant Gojo is acting way calmer, he’s already cracking jokes again when he opens the door for you. The hostess doesn’t even have to ask where the both of you are seated once she sees Gojo’s once in a life time blue eyes.

It’s crazy to you how he was treated with such revere by so many people. So much so that they wouldn’t even ask who he was, they just could look and tell he was a Gojo. “Woah, do people do that to you often?” You ask, amazed. “Do what—ohh, well yeah pretty much. A perk and a curse of being born totally awesome.” You chuckle,”I think more of a curse, I’d hate for so many people to recognize me in public.”

Gojo pulls out your chair,”Not all of us could be made for the limelight sweetheart.” Sweetheart, the nickname made you feel nice inside. You take the seat, smiling at him in thanks. “I guess you’re right, but you and Suguru sure are. I saw you both modeling for our sports team—oh wait speaking of that, isn’t your game coming up soon?” Gojo answers with a smile,”Trust me modeling is not all that—there’s so many mean people and they’re always crabby. But actually my game is tomorrow so you have to wear that outfit I got you.”

The outfit appears in your mind, short skirt that almost has the bottom of your butt poking out, and frilly top to go along with it. You could not be caught dead wearing that in front of so many people. Gojo was barely doable for you. “ I can’t wear that, it doesn’t look good on me.” Gojo voices his confusion,”Why not? You look so sexy and cute in it. It’ll help me play better too. You rooting for the other side or something?”

“No, it’s just umm..I’m well,me. And you already know you’re going to win the game so don’t even try to use that as an excuse.” Gojo sighs,”Mmm,how about you wear it for me after the game? Let me see you do a couple tricks in it before I take it off you.” You heat up at the implication,”Gojo! Don’t say stuff like that we’re in public.” The man bellows a loud laugh,”You’re my girlfriend, what I can’t think about my celebratory plans? I haven’t even gotten into what me and Suguru have been planning to do to you tomorrow. And stop calling me Gojo, you were doing so well before, calling me Toru and everything.” He finishes off with a pout his magnetic eyes pouring into you.

“I’m sorry—Toru, but really don’t say stuff like that here. I swear people can hear you.” Gojo’s voice gets real low,”What if I want them to hear me? You look so pretty I have to let everybody know you’re being taken care of at home.” You bite your inner cheek, avoiding eye contact with him. Why’d he have to say things like that? Why’d he make you feel so unimaginably warm? He chuckles,”Alright I’ll quit, I can see you’re overheating over there. How about you focus on what’re you’re gonna get while I head to the bathroom real quick?”

He steps away from the table with his phone in hand, with a look on his face that didn’t mirror his cheery tone. “Promise I‘ll be back real soon. Get whatever you want and don’t even dare look at the price for anything.” With the thick menu in between your fingers you let out a confused,”Uhh..sure?”

Your eyes glance down to the many options available, ranging from finely cut pufferfish to A5 wagyu. And all options ended in zeros..you see why Gojo told you not to look at prices. This just serves as a reminder how far removed you are from his and Geto’s world. There’s been times this semester you couldn’t even afford a ramen from a convenience store and now here you are, reading a menu that has above hundreds of dollars food. He made you feel like Cinderella but the tale always ends with the clock striking twelve.

When would your time end? They like you now, they’re sweet and giving, and spoil you to the point you don’t want for nothing anymore—but it’s only been a week of dating. Eventually the novelty of dating someone like you would wear off, their opposite. The thoughts alone bring an ugly coil building up in your tummy.

You couldn’t think of it like that though, you just had to let yourself savor this, even if it’s temporary. It’s the life you yearned for as a little girl watching those corny romcoms, a knight in shining armor arriving to take you away from the horrors of the world. And you even have two. You may be a lonely girl dressed up for one night at the ball but you’d enjoy it with every fiber of your being.

Gojo arrives back to the table with an expression that looked more pleased compared to when he left. You chirp out,”Who’d you have to call?” The man smiles,”Sugu,I was asking if he’d be home before we came back from dinner.” That may be true but when he left to excuse himself there seemed to be something much more that needed to be addressed. You don’t comment on it, what he wants to tell you is his business. “Oh I’m not going to my dorm right away?”

“Nahhh, you’re staying the night with us and don’t worry, I bought all your favorite hygiene products already.” He said it so matter factly one could think he had asked you before but he hadn’t. They never really ask about what you want to do, they plan it and you just follow their orders. And how did Gojo know your favorite hygiene products? That would be normal for any long term relationship but this is a very very very short term one so far. And this doesn’t just happen with hygiene products—favorite movies, favorite shows, favorite foods you have never mentioned, or even the specific manner you liked certain things.

It was like they studied you down to a T, and you’re still uninformed about so many of their likes and dislikes. It gave you a weird feeling..but part of you really enjoyed how much insight they had. Jokingly you comment,”What if I wanna sleep in my bed tonight?” Gojo replies with a cool smile on his lips,”Our bed is your bed. Whattt, you don’t wanna sleep with your boyfriends now?” He leans in real close,hand reaching over for yours,”You’re asking like you’ll say no to us.”

That hit deep,for some odd reason. You hadn’t really disagreed with them before, always obedient and easy going with whatever they had in store for you. It became so easy for you to do that, the inner fear of the their affection for you to be wafted away almost always dictates your response to them. And you know it’s because you’re so very lonesome. But despite knowing that you kid yourself,”Maybe I won’t say yes one of these days.” Gojo lights up,”You won’t,” his tone heavy and confident,the air in the room only lightening up when he adds,”I’m too handsome to say no to after all.”

You laugh and stop once your waiter arrives asking for the orders. You had no clue what you wanted, the prices on the menus distracting you from your budded appetite. The waiter looks at you first, expectantly, and your eyes go to Gojo, begging for his assistance. He gives you a reassuring nod and rubs comforting circles onto your pudgy knuckles,”We’ll get everything on the menu,”he swivels his head towards your direction,”don’t say anything. I’m already doing it.”

Your lips were already open to protest but they quickly shut. The waiter looks thrown off as well but he just bows dutifully and informs that he’ll be back with the food soon. As he leaves you can’t keep quiet anymore,”Satoru, you know we can’t eat all that! And think about how much money you’re wasting.” Gojo scoffs, he has more money than he’ll ever need in his lifetime, he could purchase several countries and still not have a big dent in his net worth. How cute that you were worried about that.

“Relaxxxx babe, you seemed like you couldn’t decide so I wanted to make it easier for you.” He adjusts to his chair to be right next to you, the across position not cutting it for him anymore. “C’mon don’t be pouty with me, I just like taking care of anything you could possibly want.” And take care of you he did, the moment the food arrived Satoru began shoveling decadent meals down your throat—voice soft and cooing, his hand ready to wipe any food that smudged on your pudgy little cheek.

He hardly fed himself, his hands only being there to act as your own, the extremities gently slapping away your determined paws, defending himself by stating,”I’m your boyfriend, I should take care of you like this.” Boyfriend or caretaker—you couldn’t tell anymore. With him acting this way it was beginning to muddle the line of caring or overbearing. The more he began to rid you of your independence the harder it was to differ if this was normal.

And you rationalized his behavior, thinking that it’s because you’ve never had a relationship, this had to be normal, otherwise he wouldn’t do this so openly. He just cares for you. He only stops feeding you when your eyes sag low, posture poor , and your jaw too tired of chewing. “If I eat anymore I’m literally going to explode.” Gojo hums, satisfied with himself,” That means I fed you enough then.” You side eye him,lips pursing,”You fed me too much, that’s what you did. I don’t think I’ll be hungry for days.” He shakes his head,” Don’t be dramatic, I was just making sure you won’t go hungry. Plus you look so cute with your mouth full.”

You roll your eyes,”Remind me to never go out to eat with you again. You’re gonna kill me.” He shushes you,”I would never even dream of hurting you.” It felt odd coming from his lips considering the fact this whole thing happened with the intention of hurting you, but he was past that now. You weren’t just a bet now, you were his girlfriend, his object of affection, his world. The bet was just a vehicle of fate that lead him to you. You already meant so much to both him and Geto. Perhaps it’s the fault of stalking you, as a way of finding a perfect way to trap you into their plan, but he never thought he’d find himself entrapped by you instead. He wondered if it was too soon to say I love you. He could wait a little longer, maybe two months after this and pretend this feeling didn’t develop so quickly.

“You look so sleepy, I’ll tell them to box up our food and I’ll take you to the car.” He motions for the waiter and mutters some words you’re too incoherent to hear. The fullness dwelling in your tummy had you craving a longggg nap and a nice warm bath. Gojo sits up, pulls you onto your feet, rubbing your shoulders with soft murmurs. He practically carried you all the way to the car, buckling you in with a kiss to your forehead. He disappears shortly after that, only to reappear with a bunch of bags full of uneaten food that get placed in the back seat.

He drives the car extra careful, nice and smooth to not disturb your slowly dozing off state. And he keeps it that way the whole time until he arrives to his house. You hear the shutting down of the ignition, turning to him with low eyes,”We’re here?” He hums,”Mhm but wait here, don’t get up til I come back.” You watch him stalk off, cuddling into the seat to ease the utter satiety you feel jumble around in your stomach.

He returns with company, the second persons long hair cascading down his bare back. Geto opens the car door, greeting you with a kind smile,”I missed you.” It’s pleasant and warming, so much so your own smile etches onto you. He unbuckles your seat belt for you and takes you into his arms, fully carrying you for the second time today. You’re too tired to protest so you let him carry you all the way into the house, Gojo following along with the bags in hand.

You expected Geto to drop you off on a bed, something bouncy and easy to melt into. Instead of feeling that you come into contact with the cool granite of a bathroom counter. Your brows furrow in confusion,”What’s going on?” Geto replies,”We’re gonna give you a nice bath.” With that he begins peeling off your layers, taking his time, kissing and lightly on your body. Gojo enters the bathroom next, working on your face, taking off any enhancements you added to your appearance tonight.

You’re now fully naked, with nowhere to hide from their awaiting eyes. You’re walked to an already filled tub, the steam wafting your body. The aroma smelt of lavender and sandalwood. Geto guides you in, placing you in the middle of the giant basin, he then follows suite, positioning himself at the head. Gojo then hops in next, a sigh fleeing from him once he feels the muscle relaxing heat of the water.

You’re sandwiched between them, trapped by one’s chiseled chest and the other’s leaned on your rolled adorned back. Geto speaks first,”How was your dinner?” His question is paired with soft caresses on your plump arm, eyes riddled with tenderness. “It was so good, everything tasted so rich and yummy but Toru was trying to feed me like I wouldn’t see a meal again.” Geto bellows a guffaw, his canines shining under the reflective light. “Is that right Toru?”

Gojo quickly chimes in to defend himself,”It’s only because you’re so cute. I told you.” Gojo pouts against your back, slouching forward on your spine, lips ghosting on the upper column of it. His lips are only a few millimeters from connecting and the thought alone has you shivering in the warm water. “I’ll have to agree with him here, you are so cute. Why don’t you come closer?” He had asked you to move but the verbiage was useless once he yanks you snug on his pecs. Gojo also makes himself real comfortable on you, his chest now flush on your rear.

Flustered you say,”Thank you.” Geto places a chaste kiss on your brow bone, huffing into the skin with contentment. The man behind you mirrors the action on the back of your ear, sloppy and noisy. Speechlessly the begin bathing you, lathering your favorite scents, pampering you with thoughtful exfoliation, massaging your taut flesh with honeyed praise that makes you weak.

Gojo hands rest on your pudgy tummy, kneading it with a sense of worship,”You’re so perfect like this.” His words are brushed on the slope that connects your neck and shoulders. He continues, paws moving to pinch a roll on your waist,”So pretty and good for us.” Finished with a delicate kiss to the temple.

Geto in front of you peppers your cheeks with dozen of pecks, both his hands cupping the fullness with revere. A peck to the nose comes with,”You’re so so precious. Such a good girlfriend, just let me and Toru take care of you. You never have to worry about a single thing for the rest of your life.” And it feels so good to be told that. So lovely, to hear that you can just melt into them, depend on someone else for a change.

They continues their mantras, velvety and musical to your ears. Their words last all the way up until you’re taken out of the tub, then dressed in one of Gojo’s shirts that barely covered anything. It’s like heaven, their soft touches and sweet words, each step towards the bed feels like fluffy clouds beneath your bare feet.

And at last you land on something bouncy, something you could find complete comfort in. You’re the only one laying down on the mattress, the two men taking position on your right and left, looking down at you with such affection it makes you want to hide. The get on the bed, each holding half of your body gently, speaking to you til your eyes grew heavy again and your speech became incoherent.

And the last audible sentence you could make out is,”You’re gonna love it here.” Odd but slumber seemed more appealing than being inquisitive. With you now nursed to sleep the two men gave each other a gaze that meant action would soon be taken.

One

Hundred

Percent.

It was no shock when Gojo scored the most points during the game today. He’s a star after all, in every regard. With every basket made in he’d search for you in the audience and blow a kiss you know was meant solely for you.

“Woahhh! You did so great Satoru! I’ve never seen such a knockout game before.” Your praise meets eager ears,”I told you I’d win,surprised I didn’t mess up cause I didn’t see you wearing that cute little outfit I bought you.” You shake your head,”You told me I could wear it after.” He smiles proud,”That’s rightttt, once we leave this party you better not get shy on me now. I worked real hard to see you in it. Suguru’s lucky he gets to see it too, even though he doesn’t deserve to. I really am so generous.” Gojo turns to Geto expectantly, waiting for him to say something.

“I’m not going to thank you. So stop looking at me like that.” Geto says. Gojo huffs,”Geez, everyone’s so ungrateful these days. Except you,little cutie.” You feel Gojo place a wet smooch on your cheek, causing a giggle to flee you. Geto smiles softly at the interaction though it quickly drops when he sees something…or someone in the crowd. You observe this and hurriedly ask,”Are you alright Suguru?” Your hand reaches for his forearm, clasping it with concern.

His focus isn’t on you as he replies,”Yeah, yeah..I just need to talk to someone real quick. Satoru, stay with her, it’s a big party and I don’t want her getting lost.” The pair share a look, one that oozed abundant worry. “Gotcha, you already know I’ll keep our girl safe.” Gojo pulls you in real close, his hand essentially glued in the groove of your love handles. Despite his nonchalant answer his actions spoke more truth than his words. His hold on you is protective, almost like he’d lose you this very second if he held you any different.

It was a fun day prior to this. Gojo had just won a season changing game, and you’re at a big celebration for the basketball team’s fantastic win with your boyfriends that seemingly can’t get enough of you. However, the amusement was no longer so prevalent. Gojo’s demeanor is no longer fun and lighthearted, he’s stiff and prepared as if he’s expecting to get away from the party he had to beg you to come to. It was clear that whoever that person they both saw was a threat to something they truly cared about.

You know if you ask if he’s okay, there would be no honesty replied. So you just stay attached to Gojo, rubbing calming circles on his back. You don’t know how long you stand in silence with him, the blaring music and other people’s joy being heard. You’re thankful when you see a familiar face walk up to you, Shoko with a beer held tightly in her hand. “Shoko, I didn’t know you’d come here!” Your excitement is met with lack there of. Shoko’s face is deadpan and void of emotion,”You didn’t come to the dorm last night. I had texted you, I was really worried this weirdo was up to no good.” The last comment has Gojo digging into the pudgy skin harder.

You fluster, thinking of their intimate treatment last night,”Uhh..yeah I’m sorry. I stayed at Sugu’s and Satoru’s place yesterday. I was so tired I didn’t even think about going back home.” She hums in response,”I figured—Say, has Satoru here told you that they had visited m—“ Gojo’s voice interrupts Shoko,”I hadn’t really thought it was important, I’ll tell her as soon as you leave.” His voice is low and full with authority. Shoko replies,”I don’t want to leave though. I think you should tell her in front of me.” Shoko and Gojo have a stare off that has you wondering just how severe things were.

“What is she talking about Toru?” Your voice is littered with confusion but your eyes peer at Gojo with trust. Shoko pipes up,”Yeah? What am I talkin about Satoru—there’s a lotttt you still have to tell her.” Gojos hold on you is almost bruising now, a sign that whatever it is, it’s nothing he wants you to know.

“Baby..,”he begins, gentle and trying to find the right thing to say,”I do have a lot to tell you,we do. But I’m not going to tell you here, I’ll get Suguru so we could all talk this out. And you—,” he turns his attention to Shoko, tone now filled with harshness,”Stay out of my business. It’s not your place to tell her things.” Shoko scoffs,”It is my place when you’re trying to change my living arrangements and don’t play that knight in shining armor bs in front of her. You’re gonna make me sick.”

The anxiety buds deep in your body. The nervous sweats, the ringing in your ears, Gojo’s and Shoko’s face becoming less clear. What exactly don’t you know? Is that why Geto walked off like that? You feel your breathing become uneasy something they both quickly pick up on. Gojo is already cooing at you,embracing you against his chest. And Shoko is rubbing your back with regret mixed in with her once motionless features.

“See what you did? You shouldn’t have talked about that in front of her!” Gojo’s volume is light, trying not to spook your already panicking state, but his tone was like hot venom slowly injecting the poison into Shoko’s ears. “As your friend I’m trying to tell you to stop this, it’s not healthy. For you or her. I didn’t mean to make her feel this way.” Gojo scoffs,”Cut the shit. You’re trying to threaten me, if you did care you would’ve discussed this with me privately.”

Shoko scrunches her nose in anger, her rested lips now contorted in a scowl,”Then I’ll talk to you privately now,”she directs her attention towards your quivering form,”We’ll be right back,promise.” She gives Gojo a glance that can be seen as,”Come with me now or I spill.” Gojo looks torn, his brain trying to pick his battles, on one hand he’ll stay with you and you’ll hear what they’ve been up to this whole time, on the other hand he’d leave you here as a nervous wreck, clinging to the wall, and you wouldn’t have a clue about what’s been going on until you hear it from their lips. Gojo thinks of damage control and decides he could make up for leaving you a for a few minutes easy, versus the much more daunting alternative.

Reluctantly Gojo releases his hold,eyes looking sad. “I’ll be right back, if I’m not in three minutes go look for Suguru. Otherwise, just stay here and wait up, okay?” You don’t agree to his directions instead you go to cling to him for his comfort once more but he’s unreachable now. “Please, I have to talk to Shoko.” He looks hurt to leave you this way even if it was temporary, you were beginning to freak out.

He walks off, looking pissed as ever, his eyes emotionlessly on Shoko. And you wait there,still fighting the nervousness brewing. You didn’t want to think about the possibilities of what this could mean for you. Even with the vagueness it’s apparent that this directly had to deal with you. You haven’t known the two men long but their place they have in your life already meant a great deal to you.

The thought of it already slipping between your fingers was nauseating. You could feel the difficulty of swallowing grow harder and harder, your throat becoming taut and voiceless. You were beginning to panic. The lights. The voices of party goers. The blaring music that feels like it’s digging its way into your brain. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You weren’t going to wait for Gojo or look for Geto, you had to get out of here. The promise of fresh air and quiet was like a mind numbing seductress, making you become careless as you hurriedly weave through the crowd. Each step felt way too hard, each one you had to think about instead of just doing. They quicken once you see the door of the front porch, you reach and open it with a big exhale.

But you wished for isolation, and unfortunately a familiar long haired man is conversing with another that has frosted blonde tips. You go to call out for him in relief, however you can’t bring yourself to once you hear him say your name. Now that you’re analyzing the situation Geto looks so tense, his handsome features contorted in pinched brows and a teethy grimace.

You weren’t planning on listening…you really weren’t, the conversation was so compelling though.

“I told you it’s off. I called you yesterday. So don’t even think you can threaten me.” Geto’s voice comes out low and serious.

The other man doesn’t seemed affected by the statement, instead he scoffs with a shrug, smug look on his face. “You shouldn’t have made a bet then. If you were gonna turn soft for some pussy-oh wait I forgot you cucks haven’t even hit it yet. I give her more credit for that, lonely bitch like that and I thought she’d be drooling all over you.”

Geto’s fist clench and it looks like it’s taking everything in him to not sucker punch the man. “Don’t talk about her like that, that’s my girl. And the bets off, like I said. So what she wants to do with her body isn’t a game anymore.” A loud boisterous laugh echoes out in the night, the man before him doubles over in genuine amusement.

“You can’t be serious! Oh my god you really are! You’ve only known the bitch for not even a full month and you’re this wound up about her?! Oh goddd..her pussy must look real good for you to be this whipped. You know I really thought I was going to lose this,her being pathetic and all, but I know I can’t now. You’re crazy over a bitch that hasn’t even put out yet—you know too, Shoko’s told some people about you both going to her dorm yesterday, telling her she won’t need her roommate anymore.” The man’s words are cruel and dripping with a smugness you’ve never thought possible.

Geto stalks closer,”You’re not winning anything. I will ruin your life if you dare meddle in mine or Satoru’s life. You won’t even be future head of your clan anymore—so I’d shut up if I were you. So what’re going you to say now? Still not off for you?” The once cocky man cowers before Geto’s taller frame, his smirk faltering a little bit. Until his eyes catch sight on you. And his next words hit Geto like a bullet,”I don’t have to meddle in anything. You did it to yourself.”

Geto follows Noaya’s line of sight and his eyes become wide. There you are, tears brimming down, shaky, and slowly backing away from the door. You’re speechless. And beyond hurt. You should’ve listen to your gut. People like you don’t live in Geto’s or Gojo’s worlds. It was impossible.

You were only a game to them. A sick way of passing the time for them. You weren’t actually liked or loved, despite what their actions did to your heart, making you so attached so this would hurt even more. You’re so stupid to believe you had something good, something real. You shouldn’t known this wasn’t organic, their pushiness in your life spelt that out for you, big and clear.

But you chose to trust. You chose to believe you were really wanted in such a way you’ve always craved. So you let them touch you, let them say their sweet lies, let them into your isolated life. And it was your fault.

You wanted to yell and shout at Geto, curse him with all viscousness you held in your body. But you’re humiliated above being angry. The same way you were in high school when popular boys would ask out the undesirable friendless nobody. Geto calls for you, reaching for you as he gets nearer to your quivering frame. But despite proximity he seems so far away.

He doesn’t even touch you before you take off, running in the sea of moving bodies. The noises you found overwhelming before were like an escape for the sobs you’re holding back. The few you people you had closest in your life betrayed you—Shoko, Geto, and Gojo. As much as you craving crying in your room the promise of Shoko arriving at the dorm made you woozy. She knew, and she didn’t tell you. Didn’t save you from the pain you feel now.

You were done. There would be no more trusting people for a good awhile. Because the clock just officially struck twelve and now you’re back to what your life used to be. Lonely, pathetic, and uneventful. You’d prefer that because at least it’s true. You make it out the front door, shakily grabbing your phone you order an uber. 2 minutes til its arrival. And you pray and hope none of them find you in that time frame.

You block Geto and Gojo without hesitation. It’s not like they would care, you were just a game to them. You weren’t a real girlfriend. You were worth a bet. That’s it. Now free from the view of people you release your cries into the night. Ugly cries whooshing away into the midnight breeze. You could feel snot drip out of your nose and your lips formed in a jutted pout.

You hear hollers of your name become less distant which already has you tenser. They get nearer and nearer, but so does your uber pulling up in the driveway. A chariot perfect for your escape. Hurriedly you hop in the car, hoping you could depart before they could see you breaking down. Unfortunately you weren’t quick enough. A determined hand stopping the door from shutting completely. Through teary eyes you see snowy white hair.

“Baby..get out the car. Let’s talk this out.” Gojo’s voice is laced with need, his eyes blown wide and erratic. He looks..wild. And it scared you. “No! Leave me alone! I don’t ever wanna see you again! You humiliated me for the last time!” You kick at Gojo, attempting to loosen his grip on he door. He easily catches your leg, his hands embracing your calf with an iron hold.

“It’s not like that, I promise. I—We really do care about you. So just come out and we’ll go home and make this all better.” Your voice comes out shaky,”Oh the home you tried to force me into? You tried to get me out of my dorm last night! And you tricked me! Being all sweet to me, for what?! To brag about the total loser being wrapped around your finger?! No! I’m not gonna be naive anymore!” You pull your leg back with all your might, yet it still isn’t enough for Gojo to let go.

So, you resort to something crazy. You turn to the driver who’s watching the interaction in silence,”Drive!” The driver looks worried,”Are you sure? He’s hanging on the door.” You look at Gojo who’s beginning to tear up as well,”Baby don’t do this..please just let us talk to you,”he pauses, eyes closing as he says,”I love you.”

And that was what made your decision easier. You were worried about the impact of falling off from a moving car but if he wanted to try to manipulate some more that’s what he deserved. “I’m tired of your lies,”turning to driver you complete the sentence,”Drive.” Hearing your confidence the driver steps on the pedal, beginning motion.

Gojo’s grip loosens on your calf and he’s already running to keep up with the car. “Baby, no—“ The car speeds up and eventually Gojo can’t keep pace any longer. He releases you at last but it’s not a smooth landing for him. Before you close the door that’s no longer being held you see Gojo face down on the asphalt, looking akin to a pancake. You almost think about if he’s okay—almost. The empathy fading once you remember the ache in your heart.

You bring your hands to your face, covering the messiness of your despair.

And the whole way to your dorm you stayed that way.

PHASE 3-GET THE GIRL

It had been a month and a half since the incident happened.

And life has been hell. Utter hell. Suddenly you were failing all your classes no matter how hard you studied, you got fired from your job without reason and haven’t been able to get another one, the librarian says you aren’t welcome anymore, now officially banned for being a “disruption.”And to make matters worse nobody would talk to you—not even Shoko. Before you were invisible and that’s why nobody really spoke to you,presently it’s a whole different reason. Whispers of you would be said about you during lectures, mean looks and moving of seats once you came too close. You were full on being treated like a pariah.

You thought life would get better once Geto and Gojo left you alone but it got way worse the more you rejected them. The first couple weeks you’d have extravagant gifts on your doorstep, love notes pasted onto your windows, and all throughout this you and Shoko were not even on speaking terms. After it became silent from them things became worse than ever.

You don’t know exactly how or when, but you have a good feeling on what could be the cause. This was because of your lack of interaction with the pair and you knew it. It was a mystery how they were able to execute everything but unfortunately it was working.

Quickly the lack of basic social interactions were becoming much too hard to handle. You craved at least having the choice of talking to people but that wasn’t even an option anymore. You were a nuisance and treated as such. The only people you knew would accept you with open arms and more, were the reason for your suffering. It wasn’t an option, no matter how bad you felt about your life.

Which brings you here in the deans office, discussing your removal from the university. If you weren’t going to be treated right here you’ll just move. You barely had the money to do it but you would anyway. “I’m aware about your situation and I know it’s really hard to stay when you’re going through that, however I really want you to think about what this will do to your future.” His voice is professional to the core, lacking any form of comfort.

“I know..and I don’t care. I just can’t stay here anymore.” You reply. “Yes…I can see that..” the comment hit deep because you knew it was about your physical appearance. You had let depression get the best of you and it showed apparently. You were wearing clothes that you’ve had on for two days, unbathed, the clothes had various snack stains on them that you couldn’t be bothered to clean up, and your skin looked dull and lifeless. You definitely looked like you were put through the wringer.

“I’ll tell you what,come back in two days and see if you feel the same way.” The deans tone was dismissive, uncaring of your pleads. Probably because he’s somehow in their pockets as well. They’re inescapable. And you felt like eventually you’ll land right back in the palm of their hand. Frowning, you get up from the chair, wordless. You don’t bid a goodbye as you leave. There was no point.

You hate that you knew you were being played with. And you hate that it was starting to work. The more isolated you felt the more you were thinking about being back in their arms, being taken care of. The idea of going back to them seemed so appealing, so much better than being even more lonesome. They loved you, right? It couldn’t be so bad. But those thoughts were always interrupted with logic, what they’re doing isn’t right nor healthy. They’re borderline stalking you and ruining your life. They shouldn’t be rewarded with your submission.

They got to fool you once and you’d make sure they wouldn’t be able to do it twice. When you arrive to your dorm, Shoko’s sitting on the couch but she’s not alone like usual. On either side of her, there’s two men. Two men you wish hadn’t seen ever again. Your first instinct is to walk back out and leave. However, Gojo’s already up before you could even think about moving. He’s consuming your personal space in every way, his arms wrapped around your wide waist with immense strength. And he huffs in deep, almost like he’s sniffing you. “ I missed you so much baby! It’s been so hard to see you when you keep running away from us.” Almost like no time has passed at all. Like he’s been in love with you since the moment he’s laid eyes on you, not playing a cruel joke on you.

You try to push him off but he’s unmoving,”Get off me! Don’t act like you actually care about me! I’m not falling for that again!” Geto speaks for the both of them, now standing next to you and caressing your chubby cheek,”We do care about you, so much you wouldn’t even know. If you let us explain at the party we wouldn’t have to play this silly game with you.”

Shoko arises from the couch, looking less guilty than she has when she looks at you. “I thought they weren’t serious either, but they do really like you. I should’ve told you what they were doing but you make them so happy. And I understand that now, I hope you do too. I’ll let you reunite privately.” After saying her two cents Shoko leaves the dorm, giving you a faint smile as you looked at her with wide eyes.

Gojo places a wet kiss on your cheek,”Now that we’re alone let’s talk like an adults, yeah?” He finally lets you go, but only when Geto is standing in front of the door. Gojo herds you over to the couch, arm on your lower back with quiet dominance.

You expected to settle down on the cushions, instead the man places you onto his lap, arms wrapping around your pudgy tummy. You wiggle a bit but it doesn’t last for long once you realize he’s much too strong to even fight. So you became lax, frowning as you do so. Geto sits next to you, hands reaching for your thighs. You felt so angry you could cry. Why bother you? Why do this if you were just stupid bet? Why not leave you alone?

“You can ask about anything and we’ll answer you honestly. We won’t lie to you, just talk to us.” Geto voice rings out. The first thing to pop up in your head is,”Have you been causing everything?” Despite the promises of honesty you weren’t expecting to hear,”Yes we have.” It floored you. You had expected their faults to be blamed on anyone else. It angered you, but also it made you feel slightly better. “Why? Why not just leave me alone?”

Gojo pipes up behind you, nosing your nape,”You’re asking silly questions. But if it’s not obvious..it’s because we love you. So so much, you can’t leave us again.” He feels you stiffen against him,brows pinched,”But…you don’t even know me that well. We were further part longer than when we started dating. I..just can’t believe that. Especially with what you what you guys did.” Tears are teasing your lash line, to which Geto’s comforting hand darts out, rubbing the apples of your cheeks with a tenderness that has your body swooning.

“We know everything about you. We know what you like to do late at night in the privacy of your room , we know that you wanted love and here it is, sitting right here even though you ran away from us. We could get to know all of you when we’re in a relationship. You just need to stop fighting us.” Geto’s voice is so alluring you’re almost convinced. Pulling your face away from him you say,”I can’t trust you again. You hurt me the worst way possible. I was a joke to both of you. And you weren’t even betting money on me. Is that how little I’m worth?”

Geto’s brows pinch like he’s distressed you feel that way, eyes looking kind as ever. “You’re worth so much more. More than words could ever say. We were naive to your nature before. But once we got to know you it was wraps for us, I promise. The bet was a forgetful thing for us once you became ours.” Ours. The word made you regrettably warm a bit.

It made you feel wanted despite the weeks of unwanted you felt by their hand. It was their fault. But with Gojo placing gentle kisses on your neck and Geto rubbing your thighs with reverence it was hard not to be influenced by their charm.

And their honeyed words. Words that made you feel the best you have in awhile. You were folding and it’s only a matter of time before you’re under them again. A shame, you really wanted to hold out. You wanted this to be the last time they saw you. But you forgot how good they make you feel. How much you matter when you’re with them. No one else has ever been that fond toward you. It’d probably be only them for the rest of your life. And you had a lot of left life to go.

Gojo hums against your skin,”Listen to us. Let us take care of you again. We’re all you need. Don’t think about our past actions, thinking about now. Feel how much we want our pretty little girl back.” That’s when you feel it. Their want. Gojo’s hardened erection throbbing against the plushness of your ass. If they were truly sorry they wouldn’t apologize with their body, with mind numbing pleasure, yet, you’re melting into Gojo’s signs of affections. Perhaps you are as desperate and pathetic as they initially thought, but the promise of care you’ve been longing greatly outweighed your grudge.

Soft whimpers falling from you with every harsh nip on your skin. And that’s when you knew you’d be under them tonight. For the rest of your mortal life you wouldn’t be allowed to leave them. And that’s okay with you. It’s easy to agree when they so carefully peel your clothing off, carrying you to your bedroom with excitement on their irritatingly beautiful mugs.

When you’re placed on your bed, bare and vulnerable compared to their still clothed forms. It was invigorating, feeling the smallest you ever have in your life under their gazes. You never felt small ever—but like this, with them closing in on you like hungry predators starved for the whole winter it was impossible not to.

You no longer care about your unbathed body, or your hairy limbs and cunt. This was raw. Real, something you craved since you found out about their lie. And now you knew their feelings weren’t untrue.

So you reach for Gojo and Geto, pulling them close to your maw. “Show me, show me how much you missed me.” It’s a soft whisper, but that’s all it needed to be for them to take action. Gojo moves first, lips enveloping yours with a fervor you’ve never seen before. His hands wrap all over your softest parts, big hand gripping the pouch of fat on your tummy, rubbing it between the pads of his fingers with dedication.

Geto moves down, suckling on one your nipples and tweaking the other, looking up at you with his honey brown eyes. Like a panther, seducing its prey. He nips at the tip of the peak, then kisses it to ease the burning sensation. He repeats this over and over til he can hear your pretty sounds slipping out from the connection you’re in with his counterpart.

Your back arches, an attempt at furthering the contact with his mouth. Greedy chest, shoving your touch deprived breasts into his mouth.

And he takes it in wholeheartedly. His hand kneads your breast with a touch that’s just enough to have your toes begin to curl. The other is almost all the way in his mouth, suctioning his maw off and on, caressing the tender tissue with care. Gojo pulls away from the kiss, blue eyes hooded and low now. “Tell me, does that feel good?” You moan aloud, brows furrowing in pleasure,”Y-Yes Toru, feels so good!” He grins wide,”Hear that Sugu? You’re making our girl feel so good. Hmm, how about I make you feel better?”

Immediately you feel your head bob, impatient for more lustful gratification. He slithers down to your parted legs, kissing your inner thigh once he’s below. “Ever been ate out before?” Gojo knew the answer, however he just liked to see you get embarrassed. “N-No ahh never.” He has your doughy thighs trapped in his grasp, giant paws surrounding them with unbeatable strength. “You’re gonna love it, I’ll make this pussy feel so good you won’t even be able to speak.” With that he spits a long line of saliva down your pussy, pointer finger rubbing in the spit on your slit. The cool sensation has you arching further into Geto’s mouth. He suckles harder on your boob, eyes watching how you’re already falling apart.

Gojo blows cool air on your wet clit,then rubs it in a circular motion with his thumb. Grinning wide and proud when he can see your pussy winking for him. He takes a big lap all the way down your slit, tongue creeping in the throbbing hole. Flicking up real good, up and down combing his tongue on your ooey goey walls.

Geto releases your breast from his mouth, smile on his face once he sees the big love mark on the flesh. He places a kiss on your cheek, hand rubbing on your plump tummy, greedily watching you wriggle and squirm. “Look at you,a few licks on your cunt and you’re already falling apart. So cute, but don’t think we forgive you for leaving us so easily. You’re going to be punished right now and you’re going to take it,okay?”

His words were understandable but Gojo’s constant attention on your mound had you not comprehending the weight of what was said. He pinches your pudge,”Be good and reply baby.” Geto reminds. Gojo positions his nose upwards, rubbing the tip of it against your throbbing clit, tongue moving in a semi circle in the warmth. His blue eyes barely peek out from behind your tummy, seemingly getting amused by the promise of Geto’s words.

“O-Okay!!” It’s a loud yelp, a conformation to something you don’t know fully. A conformation, nonetheless. Suddenly a red hot sting is felt on your left boob, the impact already causing a blooming mark. Your eyes tear up and you look at Geto confused, lips wobbly and kiss bitten. “Don’t look at me that way, I told you.” With that another slap on the same spot, then another and another til it’s a constant fast flurry. And it doesn’t stop. You’re reeling away from him, trapped by Gojo’s possessive hold on your lower body.

To add to the sensation Gojo takes his tongue out from your hole, maw now favoring to latch on your clit. Two fingers replace the pink muscle, scissoring you open with his big digits. Geto doesn’t stop slapping your boob, cooing at you tauntingly. “It’s okay, it won’t be long til I’m done with this side. Shhh, it could be much worse baby. You really hurt our feelings, you know?” He lands a hit that hurt more than the rest, a blooming staticky feeling growing on the skin.

You begin crying, moans and whimpers slipping from you. And your eyes peering at him pleadingly, lips quivering barely able to get the syllables of his name out. This softens Geto quickly, his prideful mask faltering, and the impacts halt. “Poor baby, if you tell me how sorry you are I’ll stop. And you have to promise not to leave us again. “

You muster the promise with haste, whimpers of pleasure following too when Gojo gives your warmth a particularly strong lick,”I promise not to leave again, e-ever. M’ so sorry, won’t happen again.”

Geto is true to his word, his hand now palming the poor former target of his frustration.”Good, you make me too soft anyway. Your cute little face is enough to convince me you’re sorry.” He places a kiss on your collarbone, lips pulling gently,”How about I join Satoru down below hmm?” His words are lost on you, whimpers and whines only being the replies he hears.

Geto soon is laid flat on his stomach, handsome face now mushed next to Gojo’s which is met with protest. “You’re blocking my view Sugu.” His mouth now free from puckering your clit. “Learn to share, we both can fit.” The black haired man prevents a smile from blooming on his face, finding his own foreshadowing beyond amusing. Gojo huffs with a roll of his eyes but still conforms to the new position, head lowering down to your pulsing cavity, eating up the way it swallows his fingers before he pulls them out.

He makes the absence up with his tongue again, the peak of the muscle exploring your orifice. Then it feels wider, like it’s stretching you further than it had prior. It’s no longer lone. A second slimy thrusting tongue joins the effort. Both attempt to reach the spongiest spot, pressing on gently with a pressure that has you calling out both names. Your thighs try to shut on them, body jerking away, heels kicking on the sheets of the mattress.

Your palms push on their stubborn heads, digits gripping their contrasting colored locks. “T-Too much! Please!” It’s like you didn’t say anything at all. Their greedy maws press further, until you can feel their chins lain flat on the cusp of your ass cheeks, and their noses molded into your folds, huffing the natural scent, like it’s the very oxygen they need to live.

Despite your tummy covering their eyes from your teary view, you know exactly how they’re peering at you. Predatory eyes enjoying the way you’re unraveling, squinting with glee the more and more you plead. The more you attempt to move away, trying to pull your cunt away from their gluttonous taste buds. It’s fruitless, impossible to escape from. No matter how much you flail and beg with broken moans.

You were egging their efforts on. Each time you protested you’re met with two harsh flicks, brushing against that special place. Eyes shutting with a euphoric rush, bitten lips beginning to bleed with your harsh bite. Then a stinging feeling, right at the summit of your hardened little bud, a reminder that moving away won’t only get more flicks if you keep running. But you’re beginning to grow brainless, there were no consequences right now in your head, only the sensation of their tongues seemingly eating you whole.

It was too much. Soon with the persistent stimulation you felt the summit of your gratification arriving. The punishing hand now rubs on your clit, in slow torturous circles that have you leaning your hips further. Back arched in an almost perfect bridge, nose crinkling, brows furrowed, calls of gibberish coming out. “Oh my godddd!” Then the rush of pleasure stops and so does their determined tongues. With your essence on their chins grinning wide and proud, pleased by your confused expression.

“W-Why’d you stop?” Your voice is hoarse and faint. Geto speaks,”You’re just so cute when you look confused. And I want you to cum sitting on me.” With that he lays on his back, body next to yours,his hand pulling you up on his chest, slick adding a sheen onto his shirt. You feel protests budding on your tongue,yet they don’t even come out. Gojo now placed behind you, lifts your hips up effortlessly setting you onto Geto’s lower half of his face. With Gojo creeped behind you,breath fanning on your nape, soft words coming from him,”Don’t be shy. You already belong to us.”

Geto wastes no time to proceed where he left off, tongue tracing all the expanse of your slit,the muscle almost kissing your other hole. You arch back onto Gojo’s chest,neck resting on his clothed chest. “Mhm,just like that. Fuck yourself dumb on Sugu’s face.”

Gojo’s hands wanders down to your supple hips, massaging the plushness with praise. “You sound so good..fuck baby.” You feel Gojo’s cock rubbing on your bare ass, the cotton of his shorts doing no good to stop the pre cum flowing from his tip.

Geto’s paws start digging into the plush of your cheeks, dull nails delving in the flush. His groans vibrate against your mound, hungry and desperate for the taste of you, even going as far as grinding his nose against you. “You taste so good too, wanna taste baby?” Gojo turns your face towards him, swallowing your lips whole, groaning as he humps against your ass. He spits in your mouth, placing your essence back into you. Pretty white lashes kiss the apples of your cheeks, closed tight at the contact.

He pulls away, looking at you pleased. “Tell me how good you taste.” He rubs on your ass harder, hands pacing your back and forth on his length as well as Geto’s face. The man’s face below you looking blissful, eyes closed in serenity, hungry tongue sneaking into your hole.

“I t-taste good!” Gojo squeezes your hips harder,”That’s right, you taste so fucking good. That’s why he’s eating it like this. Best pussy ever. The fattest,”a harsh thrust on your ass,”juiciest,”another gyration,”prettiest cunt ever.” Gojo groans on your neck, resting his head on the slope of your shoulders.

He pulls you taut, rubbing his dick on the crack of your ass. Geto swirls his tongue alllll around your hole, a keen fleeing from you already. The feeling of gratification grows once more and this time it’s not interrupted. Your moans become louder and louder until a milky white decorate Geto’s maw which is still moving despite your arrival. You’re whining and begging for him to stop, looking at Gojo for assistance but he only encourages Geto more.

“Shhh, it’s okay. Just let him taste you baby.” He’s cooing on your flesh, still grinding your lower body onto his length. “T-Toruuu please, n-no more! Make him stop!” He shushes you,”We have to get you nice and prepared to take one of us baby.” You don’t know how long it is until you finally hear the loud pop from under your cunt. Your substance still painting his maw, he looks prideful as ever.

Geto asks,”Feel good?” You nod, leaning your full weight on Gojo’s chest, practically boneless from your orgasm. “Yeah, just feel tired.” You respond. Geto hand grows to travel down to your inner thigh, rubbing his fingers comfortingly. “That’s normal, you did such a good job. Why don’t you go lay on your back for me?”

You obey with the assistance of Gojo once more, almost manhandling you down onto the mattress. Geto arises from his laying position now he slots himself in between your thighs until he’s face to face with you. Gojo positions himself next to your face, cock now free and poking your cherubic cheek. “Too tired to suck babe? I really wanna see if Sugu’s lessons are paying off.” Gojo asks.

You shake your head no and part your lips, nudging closer to his mushroom tip. He gets closer to push all of the peak in, not pushing any further. Your tongue swirls around it, just like how Geto taught you to. Gojo groans,”Mmm, that already feels so good.” Geto above you pulls down both his pants and boxers, dick now resting on your puffy folds. He’s gazing at you with softness,”I’m going to put a bit in,okay?”

You nod, taking more of Gojo into your cavern. The long haired man pushes less than his tip in, the fat expanse of it already having you holding in a gasp. Gojo holds your head taut, pushing his dick even further til you’re halfway at his shaft. “Take it ughhh—yeah just like that. Doing so good, taking two dicks.” Gojo makes you feel better before his big hand almost slams you all the way down to his fluffy white bush.

Geto chides him,”This is her first time and you’re already making her dumb.” Gojo quickly bites back,”You don’t get it, her mouth feels like heaven. I see why you had her doin this all the time.” Geto rolls his eyes as he reluctantly agrees,”It does, she’s such a fast learner. But you don’t know what I’m feeling right now, poor thing is gripping the hell out of me.” Geto addresses you now,” Relax for me cutie, it’s okay I won’t put it all in until you are.”

You try to but it still feels the same for him. He huffs as he places a little bit more of his tip, tipping in n out ever so slowly. Groaning above you, feline orbs watching your mouth bob up and down on Gojo’s cock. “F-Fuck, just like that, keep doing that with your tongue. Such a good girl.” Gojo’s abs flex and his grip on head becomes harsher, practically crushing it with the strength.

You’re more laxed now, eased by the sensation of Geto’s careful motions. He barely goes over his peak, just enough that has you halting your sucking movements. Then he eases the new inches a little more, going even slower, taking his tip out just enough only to slide in a few more each time.

He repeats this until you’re halfway down his shaft, enough length for him to go a a tad faster. He groans bucking his dick up into your greedy warmth. You suck harder on Gojo’s dick, drool pooling down your chin, eyes watering and held shut with the big stretch you feel down below.

Gojo says your name, thrusting his eager hips in your mouth until he hears the delicious sounds of your gags. “So good! Open your eyes baby, look at how good you’re making me feel.” You obey and you’re greeted with Gojo’s flushed face, his pretty pink lips bitten and his teeth complementing the color. “Mhm just like that, keep looking at me while I fuck your face.” His commanding hand pushes you all the way down this time, his pubes now meeting your nostrils. And as the tip of his dick finds refuge in the back of throat Geto decides it’s time you take a little more.

He slides in almost all of his shaft, only one to two inches being away from balls deep. And you flail, hands gripping the sheets as your face contorts because of the lack of oxygen and the added new spreading sensation. It feels like you’re being invaded, slowly molded into being brainless. You couldn’t think anymore. It was just their dicks that consumed your mind, how good they felt, how Gojo’s constantly kissing the back of your throat, how Geto’s had your eyes rolling back.

It was bound to happen. You were bound to be under them this way, mouth abused and poor virgin hold stretched til its wit end. Geto at last bottoms out, balls slapping against your ass cheeks.

He grumbles your name, cooing at you as your body starts bouncing with each powered buck. Four pairs of eyes watch how your softest parts jiggle with his ministrations, Geto even thrusting harder just to see your adorable little pudge move some more.

“You look so good getting fucked baby, all full everywhere, just perfect—fuck and this mouth taking me so well.” Gojo says. Geto rests his head in the crook of your neck, slamming all his length into you with no more consideration. They were hungry—starved and it was showing clearly. Geto reaches for your face, despite it being full, he still caresses it, looking at you like you’re the prettiest thing to ever grace this earth. “Taking me so good, feelin so good too, so wet for me. I-I just might—f-fuck cum.”

Gojo agrees,”Y-Yeah ahh me too, everywhere feels so good baby.” As he says that’s he finally stops his ruthless pace in your mouth. Opting for laying his length a top your face, throbbing with lust. Geto thrusts harder, the grip on your face becomes more prominent. He’s peering into your eyes as he goes in n out dragging his hips deliciously every time he exits.

The white haired man spits a glob of saliva on your cheek, mirroring when he’s done this before. He slaps his cock on your cheek, then places both his hands flat onto both his length and your jowl. He bucks forwards experimentally, whining at the softness of the surface. Geto fucks harder into you, eating up the sight of your face literally getting fucked. He moves his gentle touch down to your neck now, loosely wrapping around it.

Your eyes lull back and you’re babbling. Saying whatever made most sense, none of it did though. All that was coherent was your rambles of “sososogood!” Geto begins jackhammering, the hold on your neck becoming harsher with every entrance and exit of his cock. Gojo thrusts on your visage grow hurried as well, along with more spit pouring down onto your skin.

Your reach for Geto’s biceps, appearing so fucked out it has both of them fighting their climax. You’re tightening around him, legs wrapping so he won’t flee, because there’s no escaping when his cock is making you feel this good. Then you feel it again, the snapping sensation undoing in your belly, releasing the full pinnacle of pleasure. But it was too consuming. Too much for you to stay conscious for.

You fully blacked out. Not even the warmth of Geto’s seed in your cunt could call you back to consciousness, nor Gojo’s finish pooling down your cheek.

The two men hum blissfully , both commenting on how adorable you look just for them. “Do you want to call the movers in the morning?” Gojo asks. “I’ll call them tonight, so by the morning they’ll be here.” Geto replies.

Gojo hums in thought,”What if she’ll get mad at us again?” The man above you pulls out, staring at Gojo with seriousness,”She’ll come with us anyway. After all she promised not to leave again.” He said it with such a darkness, that not even Gojo wants to pry. He hopes you won’t freak out, after all, you need them.

Poor little recluse, too desperate to know you’re with the wrong company. Too late now.



OMG HAI SECOND FIC AND ITS EVEN LONGER! Pls lmk if we like the long fics or not! Maybe I’ll start doing some short ones while I’m writing long ones like these!

Please reblog and comment! It means the world to me!:))