Welcome to hell, darling. I am Nimue - 23, she/they if you please, a woman by birth but something a touch more monstrous by choice. This corner of sin is my garden and you, my little hellions, are the blossoms I tend to with sharpened nails and a soft smile.
Here fictional men devour you sweetly, your shame left smoldering at the gates while your pleasure takes its rightful place on my altar. Stay as long as you dare, sinners. I promise to make your damnation worth it.
You must be 18+ for admission to these fiery pits. Requests are open; come whisper your darkest desires to me.
If you don't have your age in your bio you will be blocked.
Follow my main blog @nvmshell
Hell has never looked so inviting.
ৡRecent Works:
Prey in Silk (N.K)
Fuck Me Undead (C.K)
Co-Vice, Co-Sinners (Gojo.S)
Strung Up (T.F)
Come down into the rings of Hell by jumping over to my masterlist & kinktober masterlist
All credit belongs to @nimueshell. Please do not take credit for any of my writing. Do not share my work on AO3, Wattpad, or any other platform.
Use tags nimueshellfic for the longer fics, nimueshellwrites for all fics, nimueshellanswers for inbox answers.
people are probably wondering "why haven't you posted anything? where is the smut?"
well kids, because mother got fired from her job, has been aggressively masking her depression, is broke with bills to pay, is trying to check off an ever-growing list of adult responsibilities, and has not seen a therapist in three months, writing for joy is currently not happening.
sometimes i hit a phase where i can and will write purely because i love it. this is unfortunately not one of those times. i can’t even enjoy watching movies right now, not even as background noise, and that’s usually my last line of defense for inspiration.
the ao3 curse is real, it has me in a chokehold, and i apologize deeply to my readers. please know i am thinking about how disappointed everyone must be while sobbing alone every night because i can't talk to anyone about this.
words CANNOT describe how happy i am i found your account again!!!! 😭 i had found your Symbiosis fic with venom!geto a few months ago and ugh i ate that shit UP it was soo soo good, along with your other works. i had your tumblr bookmarked and came back to it only to find your account just didnt exist anymore?? and i was so sad but i am sooo so happy you're still around. i see now youre on hiatus and hope youre doing okay! but when you do come back i'll be so excited 💖
god it's been so long, new year is in 30 minutes. I'm so sorry for everyone waiting I have terrible ADHD and get tired of things easily. i might come back this year, i just still have a lot going on. thank you for your support babes.
On hiatus until further notice. My apologies everyone, I'm having a really hard time mentally, & my car is all fucked up (no headlights). Please be patient.
Synopsis: You confess impure thoughts in the dead of night—envy, disobedience, lust—and he listens. Father Geto should send you away, but instead he touches you like penance, lays you bare on the altar, and fucks the holiness out of you.
Substance: MDNI Nun! Virgin f!reader, priest!geto, corrupted priest AU, religious corruption, altar sex, praise and degradation, unholy dirty talk, sacrilege, light choking, overstimulation, use of rosary beads, fingering, creampie, raw, oral fixation (f!receiving), manhandling, fingering, masturbation (f & m), dirty talk, possible possession undertones, aftercare, begging.
Word Count: 9k
The candlelight bleeds through the carved lattice in warm slats, golden and flickering like it can see you—like it knows. Smoke curls in gentle spirals from the half-spent stick of incense near the altar, clinging to your veil and skin, perfuming the silence with bitter frankincense and something almost sweet, almost rotten. It’s past midnight. The cathedral is sleeping. But your soul isn’t.
You kneel inside the old wooden confessional, the velvet cushion beneath your knees thin and worn, pressing hard against your bones. The air is thick. Heavy. Stained glass filters moonlight from high above, but in here, in this box of carved walnut and shadow, you can’t see it. There’s only heat. The steady pulse of your heart. The tight grip you keep on your rosary—thumb rubbing over the smooth edge of a bead like you might erase the guilt etched behind your eyes.
The door on the other side creaks open. Softly. Deliberately. You don’t breathe.
Then his voice—low, composed, resonant through the screen like a prayer offered too close to the ear.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you whisper. Your throat tightens around the words. “It’s been… weeks. I’ve avoided coming.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “You’ve come now. That’s what matters.”
His voice is soft, but it doesn’t feel safe. It feels like cloth torn off a wound. It feels seen.
You close your eyes. The darkness behind your lids offers no comfort.
“I confess to envy,” you begin, each word dragged from the well of your stomach. “To pride. And… lust.”
You expect him to shift. To cough. To falter even slightly. But Geto doesn’t.
His voice stays smooth. Unmoved. “Lust is only a sin if you feed it,” he says. “Have you fed it?”
“I—” Your voice cracks. “I don’t know.”
You do know. But how can you say it?
You want to tell him that it’s his fault. That you can’t sit through sermons anymore because his voice makes your thighs press together. That the glimpse of his throat when he unbuttons his collar is a torment you hold onto like a sacrament. That the nights you dream of being touched, you wake up wet and breathless and crying his name into the dark.
You can’t say any of that.
So you press your forehead to the wooden slats and whisper instead, “I’ve thought.”
“And the thoughts?” he asks. “Are they of someone you know?”
Your breath hitches.
A drop of wax falls somewhere outside, hissing as it hits brass. The sound feels louder than it should. You clench your rosary tighter, pulse quickening as the beads bite into your palm.
“Yes,” you say. “Someone I see often.”
He doesn’t respond at first.
You can’t see him through the lattice, not clearly—only the impression of his face behind the screen, the shape of his profile haloed in gold candlelight. But you hear it. The subtle shift of fabric. The barest rustle, like the turn of a page. Or the roll of muscle beneath linen.
“You carry envy,” he says, finally. “Desire. Disobedience.”
Each word lands heavy. Like judgment. Or invitation.
“I think of him in ways I shouldn’t,” you whisper, trembling. “And I can’t stop.”
The silence afterward stretches too long. It curls in your belly like dread—or worse, hope.
You know what he looks like. You’ve seen him, though you’re never meant to linger. His cassock—black, always black, lined in deep wine-red along the sleeves. Tailored but not vain. His collar was crisp against the slope of his neck, pale against the warm undertone of his skin. His hair, sometimes tied back in a loose bun that rests at the base of his skull, sometimes down—falling in smooth waves past his shoulders like spilled ink over the holy texts. You’ve imagined both undone.
Suguru Geto isn’t beautiful in the way saints are carved. He’s beautiful in the way temptation is drawn—dark eyes, unreadable; lips that never smile unless he’s alone. You’ve seen it only once, through a cracked doorway, that faint curl of his mouth while lighting candles before morning prayer. You’ve never stopped thinking about it.
And now he sits inches from you, veiled by the confession screen, and you feel like your soul has been skinned open.
“Disobedience,” he repeats softly. “Explain.”
Your voice is faint, breathless. “I wanted to keep the sin. I didn’t want it absolved.”
This time he does shift.
You hear it—sharp, audible. He exhaled through his nose. The lean of his weight.
“Why?”
You tilt your head slightly. Press your forehead to the wood like you’re trying to disappear into it.
“Because it’s mine,” you whisper. “Because… he’s all I think about.”
Your shame is real. But so is the thrill that floods your body when you admit it. There’s no hiding anymore. He knows. You want him to know.
The breath he takes after that is different.
Not priestly. Not detached.
He doesn’t answer. Not right away.
And in the silence that blooms, you feel something happen between the two halves of the booth. Something small. Irreversible. A crack in the dam. A seam in the cloth. A pressure shift, like lightning about to strike.
Outside the confessional, the cathedral is quiet. Only the candlelight moves. Long, trembling shadows stretch across the marble floor, licking the feet of forgotten saints and stone angels. Rain hits the high stained glass windows in uneven rhythms, making the painted faces shimmer like they weep.
You don’t know what you expect him to say next.
But when he does speak, his voice is lower. Rougher.
“I see,” he says. And nothing else.
No penance. No prayer.
Only the sound of the screen between you, catching candlelight and quiet breath like it’s trying to hold the two of you apart.
But it won’t. Not for long.
Not when your sins feel like they were made for his hands.
Not when you realize—maybe he’s been avoiding the confessional too. Maybe you were never the only one dreaming.
And maybe that’s why he doesn’t send you away.
Maybe that’s why, when he finally rises and opens the booth, he tells you to stay after vespers. His eyes in the candlelight are darker than any mercy you’ve ever prayed for.
The rain had only grown heavier by the time the last candle was extinguished at the altar. Vespers had ended in silence, the congregation already gone, their sins scattered like dropped rosary beads across the pews. You remained still, kneeling beneath the shadow of Saint Dymphna, hands folded even as the silence threatened to crush you. You’d said your prayers with lips that trembled, but your thoughts never left him.
You felt his presence before you heard his voice. It always struck you that way. Like his soul stepped into a room before his body ever did.
“Stay a moment.”
The words had been spoken quietly, too close behind you. Not a command. Not a request. Just a quiet statement, as though he already knew you would obey.
You turned toward him slowly, fingers tightening around the looped beads in your palm. He stood in the aisle with the candlelight licking up the hem of his cassock, casting tall shadows on the walls behind him. His robe was slightly unfastened at the collar, revealing the base of his throat—the dip of bone beneath skin. His hair was tied back tonight, loose strands falling around his face, darker than the oil of anointed palms. He did not smile. He didn’t have to.
You nodded.
You followed him without speaking, each footstep echoing too loudly against the stone floor, as if the very foundation of the church was eavesdropping. The hallway behind the chancel was narrow, lined with saints and dust-heavy tapestries. The sacristy door groaned open beneath his hand, revealing a room steeped in amber warmth and low-lit reverence.
The air inside was thick with candlewax, frankincense, and a faint, earthy scent—his scent, you realized, soaked into the linen, the prayer books, and the wooden cupboards. The only light came from the cluster of candles near the crucifix at the far end, their flames trembling as if the space itself knew it was about to become unholy.
He moved slowly, deliberately, as though there were no sin in silence.
He set aside a folded vestment and rolled his sleeves back—methodical, unbothered—revealing the lean lines of his forearms, the veins just visible under smooth skin. His cassock hung half-loose over his frame now, unfastened to his waist, revealing the simple black shirt beneath, soft and slightly creased like he’d worn it all day. He looked less like a priest and more like a man trying not to look at you too closely.
But he did.
He always did.
“Are you afraid of temptation?” He asked, his voice low but clearer now without the screen between you.
You swallowed hard. “I’m afraid of what it does to me.”
He moved closer, just enough that the hem of your habit brushed the toe of his boot.
“You mean the thoughts?” he murmured. “Or the wanting?”
Your mouth went dry. The rosary beads in your hand felt heavier, like stones instead of prayer.
He tilted his head, studying your silence the way one might read an unfamiliar language. “Temptation,” he said softly, “is not a sin. Not unless we indulge it.”
You looked away.
“I try not to,” you said, breath catching. “I really try. I fast. I pray. I beg for it to leave me. But it doesn’t.”
He didn’t move.
“And the thoughts?” He asked again, his tone edged in something that wasn’t quite curiosity and wasn’t quite concern. “What do they show you?”
You couldn’t answer. Not with words. Your lips parted, then closed again. You could feel the flush rise beneath your skin, your stomach tightening as guilt twisted inside you like thorns pressed to bare flesh.
He reached out—slow, reverent—and his fingers brushed lightly against your rosary. The gesture was so small, so quiet, yet it felt like your knees might give out beneath you.
“I’ve seen the way you grip it,” he said, his thumb ghosting over the beads. “During prayer. During Mass. Even when you think I’m not watching.”
You looked up at him sharply.
His gaze was steady. Calm. But his eyes were darker now, touched with something that no man of God should carry.
Your voice broke before the words even made it out.
“I touch myself,” you whispered. “At night. When I’m supposed to be sleeping. I cry… and I beg forgiveness before I’ve even finished.”
The admission left you trembling, tears welling before you could stop them.
His brows furrowed, not in disgust—but something heavier. His hand lifted to your cheek without thinking, his fingers rough but warm against your skin.
“Stop,” he murmured, thumb brushing the wetness at the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.”
But you couldn’t stop. It wasn’t just shame—it was grief. Grief that your body had betrayed you, that you’d wanted something more than virtue. Grief that your thoughts weren’t innocent anymore.
“I hate myself for it,” you choked out. “And I do it again anyway.”
He didn’t speak. Instead, he cupped your face fully in his palm, fingers splayed beneath your jaw as his thumb continued its slow, gentle rhythm over your cheekbone. The way he held you was too tender for someone meant to absolve sin. There was no distance in it. No cold mercy.
“You’re not the only one,” he said.
It took you a moment to realize what he meant.
You blinked at him, breath caught between disbelief and hope. “What?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked.
And then he said, “There are nights I’ve stayed up until the sun rose. Trying to forget the way your lips move when you pray. Trying to stop imagining what your skin might feel like if I touched it.”
Your breath stuttered.
“I’ve seen you walk barefoot to the altar,” he continued, his voice now barely a whisper. “I’ve watched the hem of your robe sway around your ankles like smoke. And I’ve stood behind the pulpit with my heart in my throat, wondering what kind of man I’ve become.”
He stepped closer. His thumb traced the arch of your cheekbone, then down along your jaw, lingering near your mouth. Your lips parted again—this time not from shock. From need.
“But I’ve never touched you,” he murmured. “Even when I wanted to.”
You were shaking. You could feel your pulse fluttering wildly beneath his palm. The warmth of his hand. The scent of wax and rain and skin.
You didn’t mean to lean into it. But you did.
And still, he didn’t move.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t.
Instead, your gaze dropped to the golden crucifix hanging from his neck—the one that had always caught the light when he bowed his head in prayer. It rested against the black of his cassock now, just above where the buttons stopped. Just above where you wanted.
Your voice was barely audible.
“You’re my temptation.”
The silence that followed cracked something open between you.
And then he stepped forward—fully this time—until your chest brushed his, until the curve of your body met the warmth of his robes, and his hand slid from your cheek to your throat, not with pressure, but possession. His fingers cradled the base of your neck, gentle as prayer, as his other hand moved down to catch yours, still clutching the rosary.
He untangled your fingers slowly. Reverently. Let the beads fall between your hands, his gaze never leaving yours.
“Then let us face it,” he said. “Together.”
The candles flickered.
The air barely moved between you, thick with incense and guilt, humming with something ancient and forbidden. He stood too close now—his hand still against your cheek, the other wrapped lightly around your rosary, as though he could keep you from falling further if he just held on tight enough.
But it was his thumb that broke you.
He brushed it over your lower lip—barely there, just a drag of warm skin against trembling flesh—and your mouth parted. You didn’t mean to kiss it. You just did. Soft. Slow. Like prayer. Your lips closed around the pad of his thumb, your breath caught, and the weight of the moment caved in on itself.
Geto froze.
You felt the stillness in him like the hush before thunder. His body went rigid, like he hadn’t expected you to take what he offered. Like the gravity of your mouth on his skin made the walls of the sacristy shift—made heaven hold its breath.
Then he leaned in, and everything shattered.
The kiss wasn’t rough. Not at first. It was deliberate. Slow and proper, like he had to memorize the shape of your mouth before letting himself drown in it. His lips were soft but firm, the pressure reverent, trembling slightly against yours. It wasn’t hunger—it was ache. Long-held, long-buried. His hand on your cheek tightened just a fraction, and you sighed into him, feeling it pour down your spine like warm wine. You kissed him back with everything you’d been holding in for weeks. Every whispered fantasy. Every wrong thought behind your eyes during Mass. You kissed him like it could save you or kill you, and neither would’ve mattered.
His hands moved with purpose, sliding down the length of your gown, the stiff black fabric yielding under his fingers as he cupped your breasts through it. You gasped against his mouth, your lips parting wide as the air left you in a shudder.
He didn’t flinch.
“Show me,” he whispered, voice rough, low, and nearly a groan. His thumbs pressed gently against your nipples through the fabric, rolling them until they tightened and throbbed. You whimpered.
“I’ll show you,” he said again, firmer this time, “if you show me.”
You opened your eyes slowly, breath shaky, and met his gaze. He looked unholy in the candlelight—hair falling loose around his face now, lips parted, pupils blown so wide you could barely see the brown. His cross still hung from his neck, catching the light as he breathed, swaying like a metronome between sin and surrender.
Your voice barely came out.
“Show me what, Father?”
That was when he moved.
With a hand on your shoulder, he turned you gently and guided you a step back—then down. The back of your knees hit the hardwood of a wide armchair tucked near the corner of the room, meant for rest, prayer, or maybe something gentler than this. You sank into it slowly, your body trembling as he stayed upright, still towering over you. His eyes never left yours, not even as he knelt.
His knees hit the stone floor. Quiet. Final. Like the drop of judgment itself.
He leaned forward, pushing the hem of your gown up past your knees, higher, exposing your thighs to the chill of the candlelit air. You shivered. He didn’t stop until the fabric bunched around your hips, black against bare skin, heavy and reverent. He leaned back slightly, settling between your legs, breath slow and ragged.
His voice was darker now, edged with a command he barely kept sheathed.
“Show me how you touch yourself when you think about me.”
You froze. But only for a heartbeat.
Your gaze flicked down—between his thighs. He was palming himself now, slow and deliberate, his hand moving over the bulge beneath his belt like he was teasing you with it. Your breath hitched, your lips parting as your thighs twitched slightly under his stare.
He leaned closer, one hand bracing against the arm of the chair, the other curling gently around your knee. His breath ghosted over your bare inner thighs, warm and humid.
You swallowed hard.
Your hand moved slowly—hesitant, trembling with guilt—as you slid it between your thighs. They parted almost unconsciously, the shame of it making your skin burn, but the hunger burning deeper.
Your fingers brushed over your folds, already soaked.
You let out a shaky breath as you circled once. Just once. The contact sent a jolt through you.
Geto hummed.
It was low. Approving. His mouth just inches from where you ached, eyes locked onto your face, then back down—watching. Listening.
The sound of it—wet and obscene—filled the room like it belonged in no chapel. You rubbed again, a little faster now, a gasp escaping you as you pressed into that aching bud.
“More,” he said, his voice like velvet fraying at the edges.
You nodded, breathless, unable to speak. Your fingers moved faster, slipping through your wetness, circling your clit harder, hips arching up in the chair despite yourself. The beads of your rosary dangled from your wrist, catching in your lap with every jerk of your body.
You moaned softly and bit your lip, then closed your eyes—only to open them again when you felt him.
One of his hands slid along the inside of your thigh, warm and grounding, his palm wide and rough as he held you open. The other dipped to his belt—unzipping it slowly. He pushed his cassock aside, enough to free himself, the soft metallic click of the zipper sounding filthy in this sacred place.
You didn’t dare look down.
You didn’t have to.
Because he was looking at you like he wanted to consume you. Your fingers dipped lower, feeling warm, wet, and soft. You gasped, and his gaze flicked up sharply, to watch your lips part, your chest rise and fall, and the way your fingers curled into yourself and dragged back out—slick and shivering.
He licked his lips. Licked his lips.
And whispered, “You’re beautiful like this.”
You whimpered.
“I dreamt of this,” he said. “Every night you came to morning mass with that innocent look in your eyes. Every time you knelt. Every time you said my name like it meant salvation.”
You moved faster. Rubbed your clit with a desperate rhythm now, your fingers soaked, your moans muffled by bitten lips and the thrum of his voice.
You didn’t care that the crucifix above the door watched.
You didn’t care that heaven could see.
Only that he was watching. Only that he was here.
The candlelight wavered like it was bearing witness to something it couldn’t comprehend—holy wax catching the edges of your face as you leaned back, thighs parted, breath broken in the quiet dark of the sacristy. Every time your fingers circled your clit, your hips jerked forward. Every time his eyes dragged down your body, they left something molten behind.
Geto’s hand moved over his cock slowly, reverently, like he was still trying to believe it—trying to believe this was happening. That you were spread open for him, mouth slack and gasping as your fingers moved through your own wetness like you were possessed. His grip tightened. His palm dragged down the thick, flushed length of himself, the tip flushed a deep pink, already slick with precum that smeared across his knuckles.
He groaned, low in his chest.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice taut, cracking at the edges. “How many nights I’ve woken up soaked. Hand on my cock. Dreaming of you like this.”
Your breath hitched. You moaned his name—“Father…”—without thinking, without control, like it was the only word your mouth knew anymore.
His teeth gritted as he stroked himself harder.
“I’d see you walk past in silence, hands folded, eyes lowered like you weren’t the temptation of every goddamn prayer I choked through. I’d go to sleep with your face still in my mind and your voice in my ears, and I’d fuck my fist thinking about what kind of sounds I could pull from you.”
He stepped in closer as he spoke, one hand still wrapped tightly around his cock, the other reaching for you—sliding up your thigh with a slow, consuming drag. His palm was hot and firm, curling around the soft flesh there like he could mold it to memory.
Your fingers trembled on your clit. Your body twitched from the touch, the pressure of his heat so close to where you were dripping open and gasping. His breath came heavy as he leaned in, dragging his palm higher, over your belly, up between the soft swell of your breasts, until it found the delicate column of your throat.
He didn’t squeeze—not fully. Just enough to make you feel it. Just enough to still your breathing.
And then he kissed you.
This one wasn’t soft. It wasn’t reverent. It was needy. His mouth crushed into yours like he’d lost weeks of restraint in a single second, tongue sliding deep between your lips to taste the breath he’d just stolen. He moaned into your mouth, the weight of it vibrating through your spine, and your body responded with a jolt. You arched. You whimpered. Your fingers never stopped moving.
He pulled back just enough to whisper, “Say my name again.”
You barely had the breath for it.
“Suguru.”
His cock throbbed in his hand.
His fingers dipped again, this time dragging against your rosary where it lay tangled around your wrist. He tugged it slowly, the chain slipping against your skin like sin given form. You whimpered again as he leaned down, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking.
“You pray to me when you touch yourself?”
You nodded.
“Good girl.”
Then his hand dipped lower.
Past the edge of your bunched-up gown. Past the waistband of your panties, damp and clinging. You gasped when his fingers found you—your hand still there, two fingers slick and working—his joining yours with a slow, unbearable pressure.
They were longer. Thicker. Calloused where yours were soft. His fingers circled your clit once, twice, then dipped lower, parting your folds with maddening patience until he found your entrance. He didn’t push in. Not yet. Just traced the shape of you, groaning softly at how wet you were. His cock jumped in his hand.
“You’re dripping for me,” he murmured, almost in awe. “You’re soaking your own fingers just thinking about how I look when I fuck myself to you.”
You could barely answer. Your head tilted back, mouth open in a wordless gasp, lashes fluttering as you rocked your hips into the rhythm you both made together. His fingers slid inside beside yours, stretching you with the added width, and you moaned so sharply it felt like it cracked something loose in your chest.
He kissed you again, more hungrily now—his hand never leaving the slow pump of his cock, precum now leaking freely from the tip, smeared in long, slick strokes over the girth of him. His body trembled when your cunt clenched around the pressure of both sets of fingers.
“Suguru,” you whimpered, again and again, hips stuttering.
His thumb found your clit and pressed—just enough. Just right.
You cried out. He swallowed the sound in another kiss, deeper than the last. Messier. More desperate.
“This is what I see in confession,” he whispered against your lips. “You, crying. Begging. Fingering yourself with your knees on the floor like a good little sinner who just wants to be fucked.”
You clenched again, the words driving your body into another wave of pleasure, hips grinding into his palm as he rubbed harder, deeper, faster. You could feel the edge coming—rising like smoke in your throat, choking and sweet.
And still, he pumped himself harder, cock thick and flushed in his fist, his hips jerking slightly with the rhythm of it.
“Come for me,” he growled. “Right here. On my fingers. Show me how ruined you really are.”
Your body seized under him—not violently, but utterly. As if the orgasm shattered something structural in you, some last brace of restraint. It didn’t just rush through your core—it crashed. It hit like an anointing turned to floodwater. Fingers inside, his and yours, tangled and deep, pressing precisely where they needed to—your clit crushed between his thumb and your own, his palm slick with you as your walls clenched and pulsed, milked, and dragged you under.
You sobbed. You couldn’t help it.
Not from pain. Not even from guilt. But from that unbearable release—raw, high, uncontrollable—hips bucking, thighs trembling, your mouth falling open to moan his name like a psalm that tasted like blood and wine.
“Suguru—” it broke on your tongue, limp and vulnerable.
He kept going through it, didn't rush, and didn’t falter. Pressed deep while your walls fluttered. Rubbed soft circles when your back arched. His lips ghosted yours again and again and again, too soft, too knowing—like he was trying to kiss away the part of you still clinging to heaven.
When your hips finally dropped back into the chair, your breath came in slow, glassy pants. Chest rising and falling beneath your ruined robes, your thighs still twitching faintly, eyes hazy with the afterglow of something neither holy nor profane enough to name. The rosary was still tangled in your fingers. Sticky. Tense. You’d never be able to pray with it again.
Geto leaned back on his heels, his own chest rising with a slow drag of air—the reverence of it struck you first. How he looked at you. How he looked after he’d made you come apart like that. Like you were still something sacred. Or like he was trying to memorize the ruin he caused before he touched it again.
And he would.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, soaked and glistening with your release, watching the way your thighs flexed weakly in protest. He looked at his hand—watched his own breath stutter—and then lifted those fingers to his mouth.
You watched him suck them clean.
Slow. Knuckle-deep. Eyes on you the entire time.
The sound was obscene in the quiet.
When he stood, it was silent—slow, fluid. The rise of him, the size of him. The black of his cassock hung loose now, parted enough to reveal the deep line of his trousers, unzipped and straining. His cock in his hand, thick and flushed and long, pulsing against his palm, still glistening from where he’d been stroking through your orgasm. It made your mouth go dry again. Made your thighs twitch open wider, as if instinct guided you toward a deeper sin.
He looked down at you, half-lidded, breath shallow, one hand running through his hair, tugging the loose tie free until the strands spilled around his face. Messy. Stunning. Unholy.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“Open,” he said, thumb pressing against your lower lip.
You didn’t hesitate.
Lashes heavy, lips trembling, you opened for him—breath still catching in your throat, chest still rising in slow shockwaves. His thumb slipped into your mouth, dragging over your tongue, pressing down until you closed your lips around it, sucking softly with instinct, dizzy and slack. He groaned low in his throat.
And then—his hand moved.
The one wrapped around his cock.
He pumped himself slowly, thumb dragging over the tip, and you saw the flex of his stomach and the way his thighs tensed. His eyes didn’t leave your face. You barely had time to register the way his body jerked forward, the quiet gasp in his throat, before warmth spilled across your cheek.
Then your lips.
Then your chin.
Thick, hot ropes—warm as spilled oil, painting your mouth, your jaw, your veil. The heat of it made your eyes flutter and made your thighs squeeze together again, even with nothing between them. You whimpered against his thumb, moaned softly as he emptied himself onto you like an offering.
He breathed heavily, hand still on himself, hips still twitching faintly, and for a long moment, he just watched. Watched you sit there, covered in him, flushed and gasping, his release dripping down your face like candlewax on the altar.
You looked wrecked.
And you were.
You licked your lips. Reflexive. Wanting. Your eyes met his through the haze of it all, and something in him twitched again—a subtle, wicked smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “You look even prettier like this.”
You swallowed, the taste of him thick on your tongue. You didn’t look away.
He stepped back slowly, tucking himself away without breaking eye contact, his chest still rising as he ran a hand back through his hair again—slower this time. Controlled. His silhouette framed in candlelight, robes disheveled, collar loose, mouth wet from your kiss. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke again.
“Come back after vespers tomorrow.”
You blinked, lashes heavy, thighs still parted. Breath caught in your chest. The command—no, the invitation—sank straight through your bones.
“Yes, Father,” you whispered.
And he smiled. Just once. Just for you. Like he already knew you would. Like he already knew it wouldn’t be the last time your body became a prayer in his hands.
♱
The chapel was cavernous in its silence, echoing the soft scrape of the chair as he helped you rise, legs still trembling beneath your habit. The last of the candles flickered low—gold halos guttering, shadows stretched long across the polished stone. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere in the distance, distant and patient, like a warning that hadn’t yet reached its teeth.
Geto guided you down the center aisle without speaking.
His palm at your lower back was firm, steady—grounded. Like he was anchoring you in place, like if he didn’t keep touching you, you might vanish. The closer you came to the altar, the heavier your chest felt. Like something inside you already knew what was coming.
But you didn’t stop.
He turned, one hand smoothing over the white linen spread across the altar’s marble surface. His jaw tensed. You watched him hesitate, just for a breath, his gaze flicking toward the crucifix hanging above as though seeking permission—or daring it to strike him down.
It didn’t.
And then, slowly, with the silence cracked open between you, he turned back to you and lifted you onto the altar.
The stone was cool against your thighs, even through your gown. You lay back slowly, arms loose at your sides, breath coming shallow as you watched him step back and look at you. Not hungrily. Not greedily. With reverence.
Like you were a relic unearthed in a place he was never meant to touch.
His hands went to his cassock, shrugging it from his shoulders first. The black fabric slid down his arms, pooling at his feet like spilled ink. Beneath it, his body was lean and cut—dangerously human for a man who claimed to lead others away from sin. His shirt clung to him with the weight of heat and guilt, the sleeves rolled up from before, his forearms traced with veins like rivers under pale skin. His chest rose with each shallow breath, the slight sheen of sweat catching the candlelight along the ridge of his collarbone.
He looked at you like he was already repenting.
You sat up slightly, trembling fingers going to the buttons of your habit. You couldn’t meet his eyes at first—not as you peeled away the layers, undoing the cloth that had once made you feel holy. Not as you let it slide off your shoulders, down your arms, pooling behind you like ash. You whispered apologies under your breath—small, cracked things—meant for no one and everyone.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know,” he said. And then he was there again, closer.
His lips found your collarbone first, brushing the slope of it with a kiss that felt more like a confession than a touch. His hands smoothed over your waist, slow and grounding, sliding up your ribs to feel the fluttering panic under your skin.
He kissed your throat. Whispered something into it. Words you didn’t understand—maybe scripture, maybe not. Maybe just fragments of prayers he’d half-forgotten in the heat of your body beneath his hands. His mouth moved reverently. Desperately.
He kissed you again. This time your lips. Slow. Deep. Lingered on the taste of your mouth like it was wine stolen from a chalice.
And then his hands were at your thighs, spreading them open slowly, coaxing rather than forcing. His breath grew heavier as he knelt again, this time lower, his body sinking between your knees like he was bowing to the altar itself.
You couldn’t breathe.
His hands gripped your thighs as his mouth pressed kiss after kiss into your skin—your inner thighs, the soft space above your knee, and the curve where muscle met bone. His hands were large, fingers trailing up and down as he kissed, over and over, your skin heating beneath each reverent drag.
And then—lower.
You gasped when his mouth pressed against you through the damp cotton of your panties, his breath hot, his nose nudging into the center seam with a groan that made your stomach clench.
You felt him inhale against you.
You could feel the vibration of his moan—low and sinful—as he mouthed you over the fabric, sucking lightly, tongue pressing where your wetness had soaked through. Your fingers curled in the linen beneath you, your hips jerking upward instinctively, but his hands pinned you in place, firm on your thighs.
He didn't rush. He devoured. Even through the barrier, his mouth worked with obscene devotion. Like he wanted to feel your heartbeat against his tongue. Like he meant to make your thighs shake just from the way he tasted your want through your clothes.
His hands slid up, broad palms smoothing over your belly, up to your chest, dragging the beads of your rosary with them. He tugged it gently, then not-so-gently, using it to tilt your body toward him, to make your breath hitch as the chain bit against your throat.
Your fingers dove into his hair, clutching the loose dark strands, dragging him closer without meaning to. He groaned again, louder this time, the sound vibrating straight through your cunt. He ground his mouth into you, kissing, licking, and soaking your panties in spit and hunger.
He pulled them aside with one hand.
And then he really tasted you.
His mouth opened against your folds, tongue flat and firm as it dragged through your slick. He groaned into you, moaning like he’d been starved and you were the body of Christ itself.
You cried out, hips jerking upward as his tongue circled your clit, slow at first, then faster, lips closing around it to suck with a filthy wet sound that echoed off the chapel walls. His hands tightened on your thighs as you bucked again, fingers scratching helplessly down his scalp, your moans turning ragged.
He was lost in it. His tongue worked with practiced desperation—messy, open-mouthed, loud—licking through your folds, sliding up to flick your clit before dropping back down to suck, to tease, to devour.
His nose bumped your skin with every movement. His breath was hot and heavy. His moans were constant.
And through it all, you could hear his words—half-muttered between licks, mumbled praises turned to curses.
“So sweet,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. God, I could die like this.”
His tongue didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He licked you like you were the last holy thing he’d ever taste, and he was determined to strip you of it. Again and again, he dragged his mouth over your folds, slow at first, then circling, then sucking hard—flicking your clit with the pointed edge of his tongue, groaning with every motion like he was drunk on the way your body twitched.
You were losing your mind.
Your hips jolted, but his hands stayed firm—one across your thigh, the other kneading your breast through the half-undone fabric of your robes. His thumb brushed your nipple as his mouth pulled another whimper from your lips, then a moan, then something louder. Filthier. Helpless.
And still he didn’t let you come.
He'd slow at the edge, just enough to keep you riding that breathless slope, just enough to drag it out and keep your thighs trembling.
“You hear that?” He murmured against your cunt, words pressed into the slick heat of you. “That’s your body praying. You’re begging without even speaking.”
You choked on a breath, fingers twisting in his hair, your back arched, your head falling back so hard it thudded against the altar.
“Father—” you gasped, and he groaned, mouth latching onto your clit again, tongue circling it like a penance.
He didn’t stop. He spoke into you.
“Hail Mary,” he muttered between kisses, “full of grace…”
His fingers slid over your breast again, thumb rubbing harder. His lips sucked around you, messy and hot and wet.
“The Lord is with thee.”
You moaned—screamed, almost. The blasphemy of it was like lightning under your skin. Your rosary bit into your fingers where it tangled, and your thighs pressed to his shoulders as he buried himself deeper, sloppier.
“Blessed art thou among women,” he growled, “and fuck—blessed is the fruit…”
You sobbed something that wasn’t a word. Your eyes rolled back, lashes fluttering, your body not your own anymore. You weren’t even sure if you were breathing—your chest rose and fell like something possessed, and still his mouth never left you.
“Suguru, please—”
“Come for me,” he whispered. “Do it. I want it.”
And you did.
You came with a cry that split the air, your hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head as your body pulsed and shattered, heat pouring from you in wave after unbearable wave. He didn’t slow. He moaned into it. Mouth open, tongue dragging, drinking it in.
He licked up everything you gave him, mouth sealed to your cunt like it was communion. Like your pleasure was the blood of saints, and he was starving. You could feel his lips, his tongue, his nose—everywhere—greedy, fevered, unstoppable.
And when he finally lifted his head, slick on his lips, jaw tight, breath wrecked—
He looked holy.
The sound of the chapel was not silence.
It was the sound of your breath—still broken, still shaking. The sound of fabric shifting as he rose to his full height, his hands trailing up your thighs like they weren’t entirely his anymore. The sound of candlewax dripping to stone. Of thunder murmuring behind stained glass.
And the sound of him—Suguru—pulling the black of his shirt over his head and casting it aside with the same care he gave to robes on the altar. He stood above you now, bare to the waist, the flicker of the last candles crawling over the long lines of his body.
His chest was sculpted, not overly muscular but lean and cut, shadows catching in the curve beneath his pectorals, in the fine definition of his abs. His skin was kissed with warmth, marred only by faint scars along one side—holy relics from a life lived before salvation. The golden cross still hung around his neck, swaying gently across the flat plane of his chest, catching between the lines of his collarbones like a blade never fully sheathed.
His hair had come mostly loose—dark strands falling around his face, sticking slightly to the sweat at his temples. His jaw was tight, his mouth parted just enough to betray the way he panted through clenched teeth. And his eyes—God, his eyes—looked ruined.
As if he'd spent every year of penance dreaming about this moment, and now he was standing in the flames of it.
His hands smoothed up your legs again, this time slowly. Possessive. He bent your knees carefully, reverently, folding your thighs up over his shoulders like he was placing something sacred into position. His palms dragged over the backs of your thighs, cupping them, spreading you open until you burned in the cool air of the cathedral.
And then—
His cock brushed against your entrance.
You weren’t prepared. Couldn’t have been. The heat of it, the sheer pressure—just the tip, sliding through your slick with aching patience. He groaned at the contact, his head tilting forward, dark hair curtaining his face for a moment as he held himself there, not pushing in yet. His breath hitched.
“You feel that?” he rasped. “That’s how much I want you. That’s how long I’ve wanted you.”
Your head fell back against the altar again as you gasped, your back arching instinctively, hips rolling forward, needing more. Your hands searched for something to hold—his arms, his wrists, anything. The stretch was just beginning, and already your body ached in the sweetest, sharpest way.
Then, slowly—agonizingly—he pushed in.
The thick head of him pressed past your folds, splitting you open in measured inches, and your lips parted in a soundless moan. You felt every pulse of him, every twitch of his hips as he pushed deeper, his body shaking slightly as your walls took him in. His grip on your thighs tightened, hard enough to bruise.
“So good,” he whispered, his voice fractured. “My angel.”
Your hips jolted at the praise, your breath catching in your throat as he bottomed out, seated fully inside you, the stretch unbearable and perfect. You could feel his cross dragging across your chest now, the cold kiss of gold against your heated skin. You moaned his name—half-cry, half-prayer.
He didn’t move at first. Just breathed.
“I shouldn’t,” he murmured, voice almost breaking. “God help me, I know I shouldn’t…”
And then he pulled back—slow, almost trembling—and thrust forward again.
Your body jerked on the altar, sliding an inch on the polished linen, your thighs trembling around his shoulders as he found a rhythm. His hands held you open, tight and firm, his fingers digging into your thighs as he fucked into you with growing desperation.
The sound of it echoed—wet, obscene, and rhythmic.
Each thrust forced a soft cry from your lips. Each roll of his hips sent sparks bursting behind your eyes. Your breath hitched. You couldn’t think—couldn’t do anything but feel.
“Suguru—” you moaned again, your voice cracking on his name.
His eyes flicked down to your face, chest heaving, and he leaned in, bending your legs tighter, folding you closer. He moved with purpose now, each thrust harder, faster, the full weight of his desire no longer restrained.
“I know we shouldn’t,” he growled, his breath hot against your cheek. “But I can’t stop.”
He moved like he was unraveling.
What began as a rhythm—controlled, deliberate, steady—had devolved into something else entirely. The slow stroke of his hips had given way to something desperate, his composure cracking with every wet slap of skin on skin, every moan that spilled from your lips. Your body shook beneath him, trembling under each thrust, the altar groaning softly as his weight forced it to shift on the stone.
You didn’t even realize you were chanting it at first. A whisper. A cry.
“Forgive me,” you said, again and again. The words were a broken breath against his throat, against the heavy gold cross swinging between your chests. “Forgive me. Forgive me…”
His grip tightened around your thighs as he drove deeper. Harder. His control was fraying with every pulse of your body around him, every ripple that clenched his cock like it wanted to keep him forever.
“I do,” he growled. “I do.”
He kissed you hard then—teeth, lips, breath. Not soft, not reverent. This kiss was messy, desperate, and a confession of its own. His mouth moved against yours like he needed your breath to survive it. And then he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours as he fucked you harder, the wet sound of it echoing against the stained glass.
Your back arched, one leg trembling where it hooked over his shoulder. He shifted his angle, one hand sliding beneath your ass to tilt your hips just so—until he was hitting that deep, unbearable place inside you that made your vision white out. You cried out again and again, and he was moaning now too, lost in it, his composure gone.
When he gripped the edge of the altar for leverage and thrust forward, it rattled.
The sound cracked through the air like a hymn breaking apart.
Your name left his mouth between gritted teeth—like a litany. Like a warning.
“I’m not gonna last,” he panted. “Not when you’re like this. Not when you’re so tight, so good—fuck.”
Your hands found his back, nails dragging down the sweat-slick curve of his spine as he pushed harder, the slap of his hips driving you higher and higher.
“I can’t stop,” he said again, voice shaking. “I should. But I won’t.”
You were crying again—soft, breathless sounds you couldn’t control. Not pain. Not regret. Just overwhelm. You were too full, too raw, too close. Your body clung to his with every thrust, slick and gasping, tears sliding down your cheeks as the guilt twisted into something indistinguishable from rapture.
“Forgive me,” you sobbed.
And he kissed your mouth, your throat, and your cheek.
“I do,” he whispered. “I do. I’ll forgive you every fucking time.”
He didn’t slow down.
Not even as your thighs locked around him. Not even as your body clenched again, tighter, impossibly tighter. You shook under him, keening his name, eyes rolling back as another climax ripped through you—this one worse than the last, deeper, stretched thin like your soul might tear free of your body.
Your body rocked beneath him with every thrust, your knees spread wide across the altar, your hands gripping the cloth until your knuckles went white. The linen bunched beneath your fingers, damp with sweat and tears and whatever was left of your restraint.
Geto was feral now—no composure, no title, no robes, just him, chest pressed to your back, hips slamming into yours with bruising force. His breath came in hot, uneven bursts against your shoulder, and every time he bottomed out inside you, you cried out, the force of it punching moans out of your throat.
“F-fuck,” he groaned, voice barely a voice anymore. “You feel—ngh—you feel like salvation. Like I was meant to sin like this.”
You keened at his words, at the stretch of him, at the way your body welcomed him with each desperate thrust. You were soaked. Slick. Your thighs trembled violently under him, your whole body shaking as he took you apart again, this time with abandon.
“Say it,” he hissed against your skin, hand slipping around to your throat, holding—not choking—but containing. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped, helpless.
“Again.”
“I’m yours, Father—yours—”
He snarled into your hair, his grip on your waist tightening as his pace grew brutal and punishing. The altar rocked under you, its legs groaning against the stone floor. The crucifix above blurred in your vision as your cheek pressed flat to the cloth, your lips wet with spit, and your body split wide and open to him.
You couldn’t even think anymore. You were gone.
And then—he thrust deep and stayed there, pressed hard against your hips, his whole body tensed.
“Fuck—” he gasped. “I’m—I’m coming—”
You felt it. The thick twitch of him, buried inside, the pulse as he groaned loud and raw and real, hips jerking once, twice, as he spilled deep within you. Hot and overwhelming. You could feel him coat your walls, flood you, his body shuddering violently as he held you down, forehead pressed to your back.
It was a ruin.
It was a revelation.
He stayed inside you for a long time, catching his breath, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he was trying to keep you both from falling into hell. Or maybe just hold onto this one moment before everything came crashing down.
When he finally moved, it was slow—trembling hands lifting your body upright, guiding you back into him so your spine met his chest. His release leaked down your thighs, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
He kissed your shoulder. Your neck. The side of your mouth.
And whispered something so soft it might’ve been a prayer. Or a vow. Or a sin he hadn’t learned the name for yet.
You didn’t ask.
And when he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your hair, holding you like a man who had nothing left but you—you just let him. The candles burned low around you. The rain outside had finally stopped.
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Swollen with everything left unsaid—your breathing, still uneven; the soft hiss of candle wax cooling; the echo of your pulse still thudding in your ears. Your body trembled in his lap, boneless and overwhelmed, his chest pressed to your back, heart still racing beneath skin that clung damp and warm to yours.
Neither of you moved for a long moment.
You could feel the aftermath of him leaking from you—his release sliding between your thighs, a slow warmth you couldn’t hide from, couldn’t close your legs against. But he didn’t shy from it. He held you still. And when his breath finally slowed, when his heartbeat found something close to rhythm again, he kissed your temple and reached for the cloth draped over the side of the altar.
He didn’t speak as he cleaned you.
The linen was soft and faintly perfumed with incense, and he touched you with care—not hurried, not rough. He moved like a man tending a wound or washing a relic: reverent. Silent. When he pressed the cloth between your thighs, you twitched, a sharp intake of breath escaping you from the soreness. He paused, thumb smoothing over your hip in apology, then continued slower—gathering what spilled from you, the mess of your sin and his, and wiping it gently away.
Your eyes were closed. You didn’t dare look at him.
But he looked at you.Seeing the way your chest rises and falls. Fingers still cling to the ruined cloth beneath you, trembling. Guilt settles back into your bones like cooling ash—slow, suffocating, inevitable.
When he finished, he folded the cloth in half and set it aside like something sacred.
Then he touched your face.
Not possessive. Not hungry. Just… tender. His thumb traced the edge of your mouth, then upward to your cheek, where your lashes fluttered. You leaned into it without thinking, and he murmured something in a voice that barely belonged to him anymore.
“Benedicat te Dominus et custodiat te…”
You swallowed. Your throat ached.
“May the Lord bless you and keep you.”
His hand drifted to your jaw, tilting your face to his.
“May He make His face shine upon you…”
He paused.
His eyes searched yours. He looked like he was about to fall apart.
Then, barely audible:
“…and forgive you for what we’ve done.”
The words didn’t sound like scripture. They didn’t sound like mercy.
They sounded like a vow.
A promise wrapped in the soft hush of candlelight and the ache of a body that had tasted sin and still craved it. You stared at him, breath held, throat burning, as he leaned in and pressed his lips to your forehead—one last kiss, warm and final.
You felt marked. Claimed.
When you slid down from the altar, your legs trembled, and he caught your elbow to steady you. You didn’t look at him when you stepped back into your shoes or when you slipped the veil back over your hair, half-askew, as if modesty still mattered.
But when you turned to the door, he spoke again—soft, sure, and already resigned:
“I’ll leave the confessional open for you.”
You nodded once, quietly.
And walked barefoot down the aisle, robes clinging to your skin, the taste of him still in your mouth, and his blessing echoing in your chest like a chain you’d chosen to wear.
Behind you, the priest remained at the altar.
Still praying for your soul.
And his.
Do not copy my works into any website. All rights reserved to @cherubcorrupt
A/N: omg guys I am so sorry my kinktober schedule is all messed up now, my apologies. it'll be fine. It's fine. all my stuff is labeled mature content now and it wont let me fix it so I hope everyone cal see my post. please reblog! like! people won't be able to see it unless you reblog bc I am shadow banned.
The forest had the kind of silence that pressed in on your ears, the kind that made every crunch of your shoes against the dirt path sound too loud, like you were breaking some unspoken rule of the land. Your group was further behind, voices carrying faintly in the distance, their chatter bouncing off the trees before being swallowed whole by the thick air. You should have stayed with them. That was the practical thought. But practicality slipped right out of your hands the moment you saw him.
A man—tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a steady, almost soundless gait—stepping through the trees just off the path. His form was framed in the gloom, the muted light of late afternoon filtering through the canopy and catching on pale gold eyes that seemed to glance your way before he vanished deeper into the trees.
Something about him snagged at you, a thread pulling taut in your chest. He didn’t look like a hiker or a villager, not with the way his kimono moved around him. The fabric was clean, untouched by dirt or bramble, and dyed in shades of cream and deep charcoal, the sash at his waist knotted with precision. His hair, fair and brushed back neatly, caught the weak light like strands of polished wheat.
It was impossible not to follow.
You told yourself you were just curious, that maybe he was part of the tour—someone reenacting old folklore, a local performer playing tricks for tourists. That would explain the kimono, the silence, and the deliberate way he disappeared. But the excuse sounded flimsy even in your own head, so you didn’t bother repeating it as you veered off the path and slipped past a curtain of brush.
The deeper you went, the heavier the air became, damp with the faint scent of earth after rain. A chill crept beneath your skin, something primal bristling as though the woods were holding their breath. Branches knotted overhead, shutting out patches of sky until the shadows stretched long and unbroken. That was when you noticed the silk.
It hung in threads between the trees, golden strands stretched taut from trunk to trunk. They shimmered faintly even in the dim light, catching your eye like strings of sunlight trapped in shadow. Some hung low, close to your face, so fine they seemed unreal until you blundered straight into them.
“Shit—” you swore, jerking back as the sticky strands clung to your skin. They kissed your cheeks, your lips, and your lashes, clinging like warm glue, and the more you swiped, the more they tangled. “Goddamn it—get off!”
You let out yelps in front of your face, muttering curses under your breath as the threads clung stubbornly to your fingers. They stretched out, sticky and elastic, before snapping back against your cheek. It was not like ordinary cobwebs. This silk was heavier, unsettlingly smooth, and refused to let go, as if it had been waiting for you.
After a prolonged fight, you finally peeled off enough of it to be able to blink clearly again. That was when you spotted it: the cave.
A few steps ahead, the earth yawned open in a dark cleft at the foot of a rocky incline. Its mouth was wide and jagged, and the shadows pooled so deeply that the interior appeared endless. You could almost imagine it breathing, drawing you in. And you swear you felt it—that prickling weight on the back of your neck—somewhere inside or close by. The sensation of being watched.
You cast a glance over your shoulder. Nothing. Only trees and golden threads swaying faintly as if stirred by breath you couldn’t hear.
Swallowing down the dryness in your throat, you turned back to the cave. The man had gone that way—you were certain of it. You hadn’t seen him vanish into any other direction, and the pull in your chest still thrummed like a signal.
“Uh—hello?” Your voice cracked slightly in the hush, too loud in the waiting dark. You stepped closer, eyes straining to catch movement in the gloom. “Hey, are you lost? Or… what, are you like one of those guys who just lives off the grid?”
Your laugh was awkward, more to reassure yourself than anything. The sound died fast, muffled by the heavy air at the cave’s edge.
“Or is this, like, some cult-town initiation thing? You lure idiots into the woods, put ‘em through a trial, and bam—welcome to your creepy commune?”
Silence answered you.
No shift of cloth, no sound of breathing. Not even the scuff of shoes on stone. The cave just stared back at you, its mouth rimmed in faint silk strands that quivered faintly as though stirred by invisible fingers. The scent of earth and something faintly sweet—almost cloying—slipped out, curling under your nose and sinking deep into your lungs.
The air thickened as you lingered there, chest tight as though honey were weighing down your ribs. The hairs at the back of your neck bristled. You rubbed your arm, forcing a nervous laugh that came out brittle.
“Seriously,” you said again, softer this time, as though the dark would only listen if you whispered. “If you’re lost, I can help you get back. Or if this is some… off-the-grid thing, cool, whatever. Just… maybe answer before I call for my group?”
The silence was too deliberate. Not the quiet of absence, but the quiet of someone choosing not to speak. Someone standing just inside, unseen, waiting.
The faintest shiver ran down your spine, threading into your stomach. You shouldn’t step closer. Every instinct you had screamed at you to turn back, to retrace your steps, to run until the golden silk and the cave mouth were only bad memories. But your feet stayed planted, body caught between fear and fascination, drawn in by that glimmer of pale gold eyes you thought you’d seen earlier—eyes that might still be watching you from the dark.
And for a moment, in the silence, you almost swore you heard the faintest tap. Like something long and jointed shifting against stone.
The mouth of the cave loomed like something ancient and hungry. From where you stood, you could see the silk draped across its lip, thick ropes of it tangled and gleaming faintly golden under the weak spill of daylight. It clung to the stone like veins, spreading from the outer rocks inward, weaving a curtain that caught against your clothes as you brushed past. You froze at the sensation, your stomach tightening.
“…Oh, hell no,” you muttered under your breath, squinting at the delicate strands webbing the cave’s teeth. Your first, rational thought was spiders. Big spiders. A colony of them. Huntsman-sized, tarantula-sized—something that belonged on a nature documentary, not in the exact cave you were dumb enough to walk toward.
“Are you kidding me?” You pressed your lips together, cursing softly as another strand tugged against your sleeve. “Giant spiders. Out here. What is this, Australia? ...Nobody thought to put that on the damn tour pamphlet?”
The silence swallowed your voice whole.
Half of you screamed to back away, to sprint until your lungs gave out. But the other half—the part that had seen the man disappear inside, the part that remembered the unnatural gleam of his eyes—kept dragging you forward. Even as your gut twisted. Even as every hair on your arms stood on end.
You shoved your hand into your bag and tugged out your flashlight. The beam cut through the dark in a clean white spear, spilling over the walls slick with damp. Cobwebs shimmered like lace under the light, layered thick enough to blur the contours of the rock.
You adjusted your grip on the flashlight, knuckles white as you forced yourself to step deeper. “Okay,” you whispered to yourself, voice trembling despite the attempt at sarcasm. “This is fine. Totally fine. Just a guy in a kimono wandering into a cobweb-choked cave. Maybe he’s an actor. Maybe this is… some weird folklore cosplay thing. Totally not, you know… “Arachnophobia 2: Yanbaru Forest.”
Your voice cracked near the end, nervous laughter leaking out before you could stop it. It bounced back at you, faint and warped, as though the cave were mocking you.
Still, you pressed on. Webs brushed your arms, your shoulders, and your face. You gagged as a strand clung to your lips, tearing it free with a shudder, the sticky warmth refusing to let go until it snapped wetly. The smell grew stronger too—damp soil, faint musk, and something sweeter beneath, a rot-sugar clinging to the back of your throat.
“Hello?” you tried again, louder this time. The beam of your flashlight shook, jittering against the walls as your hand trembled. “Hey, blond guy in the kimono—what’s the deal? You good? Do you live in here, or…?”
Your voice trailed as the beam caught movement.
At the farthest corner of the cavern, where the shadows pooled deepest, he stood. The same figure you’d followed—tall, broad, wrapped in the calm folds of his dark kimono. For a moment, you almost convinced yourself he was human. Just a strange recluse with a taste for theatrics.
At first, his movements were subtle, such as a slight rise and fall in his chest and a shift in his shoulders. Then, however, his back arched strangely, the fabric straining as something shifted underneath. Six long, jointed legs unfurled with a sound like chitin scraping against stone. Black, gleaming, and sleek—they stretched from his spine in a grotesque fan, their points clicking against the ground as they spread wide.
Your breath caught, and the flashlight beam jerked wildly before locking back on him.
The man—no, the thing—tilted his head slightly, pale-gold eyes glowing like molten coins in the dark. His mouth curved, lips parting to reveal what had been hidden: fangs, long and sharp, sliding down past his teeth. They dripped with a clear, viscous fluid that caught the flashlight’s beam, strings of it falling wetly to the stone below.
For a second, neither of you moved. The world narrowed to the steady drip of venom, the faint tremble of webs shifting overhead, and the raw, primal terror flooding your body.
“You… chill?” You were able to mutter the absurd words in the dense, weighted silence. Your voice was small and trembling, as if your throat was struggling to remember how to speak.
He stepped forward, smooth and deliberate, each movement measured like a predator approaching prey. The spider legs tapped against the stone, spreading wider, fencing you in even as he remained several feet away. His gaze never wavered, steady and unblinking, and when he finally spoke, the sound of it slid through the air like silk stretched taut.
“You should not,” he murmured, voice low and calm, “have entered my home.”
The drip of venom hit the stone floor with a faint, obscene splash that echoed louder than it should have in the cavern’s belly. Your flashlight beam quivered as your hand shook, catching the sharp gleam of those spider legs unfurled like a grotesque halo around him. They arched and flexed with deliberate grace, tapping against the stone one after the other, a rhythm that made your heart thud too fast in your chest.
He began to move—not rushing, not lunging, but circling. Slowly. The way a wolf might prowl around a tethered goat, or how something ancient and patient studied its food before deciding where to bite. His gaze never left you. Pale-gold eyes burned through the shadows, unblinking, the kind of stare that saw more than your face. It felt like he was cataloguing you, measuring breath, pulse, and the way your body trembled despite your efforts to stand firm.
Every shift of his spider legs made the underground spaces hum. The claws tapped sharp against rock, and sometimes the tips brushed against the threads of silk hanging from the ceiling, sending faint vibrations that whispered through the air before brushing against your skin. They clung to your jacket, grazed your hair, and skimmed along your cheek like the teasing brush of invisible fingers.
The webs were everywhere—behind you, above you, tangling across the floor so subtly you hadn’t noticed until you stepped back and your heel caught against a strand that clung like syrup. You cursed, jerking your foot, and it only stuck harder.
“Jesus Christ,” you hissed under your breath, tugging until it snapped wetly. Your voice cracked when you tried to cover fear with bravado. “You—you’ve got webs all over the damn place! Who the hell sets traps in a cave?!”
He didn’t answer, not in words. He tilted his head instead, spider legs twitching faintly as if amused by your outburst. His mouth curved—whether into a smile or a sneer, you couldn’t tell—but when the light caught again on the fangs glistening with venom, your stomach turned over.
“You’re freaking me out, man,” you blurted, trying to force humor into your voice though your throat was tight. Your flashlight beam jittered over the cavity walls, catching piles of tangled silk, some thick enough to look like they were holding something beneath. You deliberately didn’t look too closely. “So what is this? You’re not like… Spider-Man or something, right? You’re like… what, man-spider?”
The words slipped out half as a joke, half as desperation. It was a stupid thing to say, your brain scrabbling for any rope of normalcy in a situation that had none.
But he stopped. Just for a moment, his circling halted. His brows drew together faintly, like the reference was meaningless to him. His head tilted the other way, golden eyes narrowing in incomprehension, venom sliding in thick strands from his fangs to drip onto stone. He shook his head slowly after that. A purposeful, contemptuous gesture.
The sound that left him was not laughter. It was closer to a hiss, a sharp rush of air through those terrible teeth, carrying the faint vibration of something inhuman. It curled in your ear like the scrape of silk. You flinched back, bumping into another line of webbing. The strands clung instantly to your jacket and your hair, sticking against your cheek like glue.
“Shit! Goddamn it—” You gnashed at them, fingers tangling as the silk stretched and snapped wetly against your skin. Panic burst out in a string of curses as you stumbled free, glaring at him across the circle he drew. “You put this shit everywhere! You think it’s funny to trap people like that?”
The irony was bitter—you stood in his cave, surrounded by his threads, and you shouted at him as though he were the intruder. His expression barely shifted, but something in his eyes gleamed sharper, darker. Not anger exactly—more the way a scientist might watch a specimen fluttering against glass. He didn’t see outrage. He saw a reaction.
“You walk into a place that is not yours,” he said finally, voice steady and deliberate, so calm it made your skin crawl, “and complain that it is not built for you.” His spider legs flexed again, tapping the stone with slow intent as he resumed his circle. “You are not welcome here. Yet… here you are.”
His words slithered into you, the weight of them pressing harder than the silence had. Each syllable was clipped and precise, the cadence of a man used to instructing rather than explaining. It wasn’t cruelty in his tone. It was worse: inevitability.
You stepped back again instinctively, the edge of your boot skimming over another sticky strand. You froze, afraid of being caught again. Your chest rose and fell too fast, your flashlight jerking as you tried to hold it steady on him, but he didn’t flinch from the beam. The light made his kimono gleam faintly, the cloth still immaculate despite the filth of the cavern, the folds of it parting just enough to emphasize the terrifying humanity of his shape even as those monstrous legs shadowed it.
The circling narrowed. Every lap drew him closer, the silk brushing more boldly against your skin, strands gluing to your sleeve, catching against your throat when you turned too quickly. You swatted at them, cussing under your breath, but they clung stubbornly as if the very cave conspired to keep you from moving freely.
“Stay back,” you snapped suddenly, though the quaver in your voice betrayed you. You raised the flashlight higher, as though the weak beam might somehow protect you. “I don’t care what freaky cosplay shit this is—you’re not about to keep me here.”
Another faint hiss answered. This time, his lips parted wider, fangs gleaming as the fluid dripped faster, strands of venom hanging like pearls before breaking against the stone. His voice followed, low, as if the walls themselves bent closer to hear it.
“You are already caught.”
The silk wavered above your head. Threads brushed along your jaw, feather-light but impossible to ignore, and your stomach flipped with the sick knowledge that the webs weren’t still. They pulsed faintly, tugging as though connected to him, responding to his movements. Every brush of silk wasn’t random—it was him, testing, touching without needing to move closer.
You swallowed hard, your throat dry, eyes darting around the cavern for escape. But everywhere you looked, there was silk. Webs crisscrossed every stone, stretched across every gap. Even the entrance seemed narrower than before, golden threads catching the faint daylight and sealing the way you came.
Trapped.
The realization clawed up your spine, cold and final. And still, you forced words past your lips, clinging to bravado like a shield. “You’re—fuck—you’re not even subtle about it, huh? Just… just string up your little death traps all over and wait for idiots like me to wander in. Great. Real hospitable.”
His steps were slower. He stood just at the edge of your light, spider legs arched around him, the gleam of his eyes unblinking. The corner of his mouth twitched faintly, though whether in amusement or disdain you couldn’t tell.
"Prey," he said simply, his voice so calm it took the breath from your chest.
The word "prey" still echoed in your ears when he closed the distance. You hadn’t even realized how close he’d gotten until the light of your flashlight trembled over the sharp angle of his jaw, over the hollow gleam of his pale-gold eyes. His hand moved faster than you expected—no sudden lunge, just a decisive shift—and fingers curled around your wrist. The warmth of his skin startled you; you’d braced for cold, for clammy inhuman damp, but instead his grip was firm, alive.
Your pulse leapt under his touch, thrumming wildly against the pad of his thumb where it pressed into your vein. He stilled for a moment, studying you. His gaze dropped to that point on your wrist, as though listening with his fingertips to the frantic hammer of your heartbeat. The cavern’s silence magnified everything: the wet drip of venom hitting stone, the subtle rasp of his breath, and the ragged catch of yours as his thumb rubbed once, slowly, over your pulse.
You jerked your wrist instinctively, but he didn’t let go. His expression didn’t change either—still calm, detached, like this was a simple examination. As if he were cataloguing the strength of your blood flow, the quickness of your heart, and how easy it might be to subdue you.
The glow of your flashlight caught on the inhuman curves of him: the spider legs folded now, drawn close to his back, a grotesque shiver of chitin and shadow. Your stomach turned, your chest pulling tight, because every time your eyes traced their length, you couldn’t reconcile it. He looked so human from the front, his kimono neat, his face still as refined as any scholar or merchant in a woodblock painting. But the legs—those legs—betrayed him, sharp and black and twitching faintly, like they were aching to snap forward and pin you.
Then your eyes fell to his lips.
The fangs glistened at the edges of his lips, long and vicious, and still they leaked. Strings of liquid clung to them, dripping in strands like thick water, pooling at the sharp points before falling. You had to bite your tongue to stop the sound that almost tore from you, a horrified, strangled sort of whimper.
And that was the moment you felt it.
His other hand—the fingers twitching strangely as a new texture spread over them. You froze as you watched it happen. Fine threads seeped between his fingertips, warm and golden, too smooth to be anything natural. They clung in filaments, building with every subtle movement of his hand. He brushed those threads against your ankle, and before you could jerk away, they clung—sticky, heavy, winding in delicate loops until your foot refused to move.
“Fuck—” you hissed, stumbling, trying to wrench yourself free. But even as you fought, he lifted your wrist higher, his mouth lowering. For one breathless second, you thought he would bite. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the sting of fangs.
Yet instead, his lips brushed your skin—not soft, not tender, but deliberate. He opened his mouth against your wrist, and a thicker film of saliva stretched from his fangs to your skin, glowing faintly in the light. When he pulled back, the strand hardened instantly into silk, a ribbon lashing you in place, binding wrist to wrist until you could barely flex your fingers.
Your mouth ran before your brain could catch up. “Oh, cool. So this is it. This is how I die. Tied up in some fucking underground cave by a hot man-spider. Not even a normal spider, like a black widow or—what are they—recluse? Nope. I get…” You gave a half-hysterical laugh. “I get whatever this is.”
The words barely left your mouth before his patience cracked. His golden eyes snapped to yours, irritation flickering for the first time. His hiss ripped through the cavern, sharp and venomous, curling down your spine. The sound silenced you instantly; the humor choked in your throat.
The web around your ankles thickened with a tug, jerking your feet closer together, forcing your balance forward. He used that moment to pull, dragging you across the rough floor toward the darker belly of the cavern. Your flashlight beam swung wildly, jerking over stone walls slick with condensation, over thicker ropes of webbing clinging in veined clusters.
Something caught your attention—skeletons slouched in the corners.
Your breath caught hard in your chest, your pulse stuttering. The light caught bone, faintly yellowed, ribs bowed under layers of sticky silk. Some still had scraps of clothing—shirts shredded, shoes dangling by laces stiff with time. The worst were the stains: dark, rusty patches on the silk where blood had soaked and dried long ago. The air smelled heavier here, that sweet rot cloying deeper in your throat.
You jerked your head away from the sight, but it was too late. The image was burned into you. Your body shook violently against the bindings, the flashlight trembling in your hands where it was pressed awkwardly against your chest. The beam stuttered, landing once more on him.
He hissed again the moment the light cut across his face, recoiling like it was an insult. In a sharp movement, his spider leg lashed out, fast as a whip. The flashlight clattered from your hands, spinning across the ground until it struck a stone and died with a faint crack. Darkness rushed in immediately, swallowing the cavern whole.
A panicked sob rose in your throat. You twisted, the webs tugging cruelly against your limbs. But his grip remained, strong and merciless, dragging you with slow inevitability toward the thickest cluster of webs yet.
You stumbled forward until your body collided with it. The nest.
It wasn’t like the fine silk you’d clashed against at the entrance. This was dense, layered upon itself, with ropes of golden threads stacked and wound until they formed a wall. Slimy warmth spread across your front as you slammed against it, the threads clinging like living things, sucking at your clothes, your hair. You recoiled with a strangled sound, but he shoved again, and the web swallowed you deeper, pressing you into its sticky embrace.
The texture was unbearable—thick and wet, almost mucous-like, as though the threads had been spun from inside his body only moments before. They clung to your skin with obscene intimacy, sliding when you moved, tightening when you fought.
Then, suddenly, the light returned.
He struck flint against stone, movements economical and practiced. A torch bloomed to life at his side, golden fire flickering against the cavern walls. The sudden glow washed across him, across the glossy arch of his spider legs, the stark pallor of his face, and the gleam of venom still dripping from his fangs. It lit the web you were pressed against, making it glisten wetly, every strand glowing like spun honey.
The torchlight revealed more bones, more stains, and more reminders of what this place was. Not just a home. A feeding ground. A mausoleum.
And now you are part of it.
He set the torch into a crevice of stone, the flames licking upward, casting shadows that danced across his form. Slowly, deliberately, he turned back to you. His hand rose, pressing against your bound wrists, thumb once more brushing the frantic pulse in your veins. His expression was unreadable—no glee, no rage. Just calm inevitability.
And with his gaze steady on yours, with the nest holding you fast, you understood: this was not an omission. This was a ceremony. This was what he did. And you had stepped straight into it.
The torchlight burned low and steady, throwing shadows up the cavern walls, gilding every line of silk in molten gold. The webs clung to you from every angle, sticky and warm against your wrists, your ankles, and your back. You were caught—truly caught—and every desperate tug only made the threads tighten. Your breaths came sharp and raspy, and your throat burned from swallowing down fear.
But your anxiety wasn’t the only thing gnawing at you anymore. He stood before you, his form half-human, half-monster. The folds of his kimono were still pristine, dark fabric cinched neatly at his waist, the lines of his chest and shoulders absurdly elegant for something that wasn’t supposed to exist. Pale golden hair brushed neatly back, the color so light it looked almost silvery in the firelight. His face was maddeningly human—sharp jaw, clean angles, the sort of handsomeness you might have noticed on a train platform in Tokyo, fleeting, forgettable. But those eyes—deep and molten, unblinking—gave him away, along with the monstrous legs arching from his back.
They were still folded close, sleek and black, gleaming faintly with chitin’s sheen. You couldn’t stop staring at them, even when your stomach flipped and your body recoiled. Every time they twitched, every scrape of their tips against stone, you wanted to shrink smaller, press further into the web that already had you trapped.
You licked your lips nervously, throat dry. Words spilled out, not from strategy but sheer survival instinct.
“Listen… we don’t need to—this doesn’t have to end with me, uh, being your dinner, okay? We can work something out. A trade. I’ve got money, snacks, a group outside that’ll notice if I don’t come back…” You trailed off, heart hammering as his expression remained infuriatingly calm. “I mean, hell, I’m a decent cook. Maybe you’re tired of skeletons? Ever tried pizza? Ramen?”
For the first time, he moved—not to answer, but to roll his eyes. It was slow and deliberate, a distinctly human gesture that sent a rush of heat up your neck. Somehow that dismissive motion scared you more than if he’d snarled.
The spider legs shifted behind him. One snapped outward, fast as a whip. You flinched, gasping, before realizing what it had done—hooked low, pressing sharp against the stone floor. Another then shifted, bending in like a claw and arching downward. Its point slid across your thigh, nudging it aside, forcing your legs apart with obscene ease.
You yelped, twisting, but the webs held you firm. Your thighs trembled as the clawed leg pinned them open, spreading you against the sticky surface of the nest. The torchlight caught on his eyes as he leaned closer, and you swore you saw a flicker of satisfaction—like he’d found the perfect angle to study you.
His hand began to move.
Long, steady fingers traced the seam of your clothes, brushing over the heat of your core through fabric. The silk on his fingertips clung faintly, making every drag feel thicker, wetter, than it should have. Your eyes went wide, your back arching instinctively against the sticky restraint. A choked laugh burst from your throat, trembling and nervous.
“W-woah—hey there, buddy.” Your voice cracked, breaking into an incredulous giggle you couldn’t control. “At least take me on a date first, huh? Buy me dinner, maybe a movie before the whole… molestation thing.”
The sound of your voice—jittery, too bright with false humor—hung in the cavern like an insult. His jaw tightened faintly, the molten gold of his gaze narrowing. His head then dipped, making precise movements that made you shudder with fear.
You barely had time to flinch before his mouth was on you.
The fangs drove deep into your shoulder.
“Jesus Christ!” The scream tore out of you, raw and broken, the pain so sharp it whitewashed your vision. Your body jerked against the webs, heels digging uselessly into sticky ground as you cried out, tears springing hot and unbidden into your eyes. The sting was unbearable, a fire racing through your flesh where his teeth punctured.
The fire subsequently changed.
It seeped deeper, flowing molten through your veins, hot and electric. The pain dulled, warped, and bent into something sickeningly sweet. Your sobs stuttered into gasps, each inhale shaky, your chest rising too fast. The tears didn’t stop, but their source shifted—the ache twisting into something humiliatingly like pleasure.
You felt it hit your stomach first: a molten ache pooling low, spreading down your thighs. The venom burned with a chemical sweetness, flooding your body with wrong signals. Your muscles loosened, your skin flushed, and you realized with horror your legs were trembling for an entirely different reason.
“God—no—” you whispered, but your hips betrayed you, grinding faintly against his palm where it pressed between your thighs. The fabric clung damp to you now, your body reacting in ways your mind screamed against. Your brows knitted, your mouth falling open with a ragged cry as you tried to squeeze your thighs shut, but the spider leg pinning you open refused to budge.
You rubbed your thighs together helplessly, rolling your hips up into his touch like your body wasn’t yours anymore. A sob tore through your throat, choked with both shame and the overwhelming flood of sensation.
He drew back slowly, fangs retracting with a faint, wet sound. The holes they left throbbed hot, your skin wet with venom and saliva. He leaned away just enough for you to see his face again—and it was maddeningly human now. Just a man’s face. Sharp jaw, pale hair, lips pressed into calm severity. As though he hadn’t just made you weep from the bite.
Your eyes blurred with tears, chest heaving, but his words came poised, measured, and cruel in their certainty. Your voice cracked as you tried again, desperate, “Wh—what do I even call you? If I’m dying here, if this is it—at least tell me your name.”
For a moment, silence stretched. His gaze lingered on you, unreadable, the firelight throwing shifting shadows across his face. He then responded slowly, almost indulgently.
“Kento.”
The syllables rolled low and clean from his lips, steady as everything else about him. And hearing it—hearing him give you that one piece of truth—made your heart stutter harder in your chest. Because now the monster had a name. And somehow, that was worse.
The torchlight cast everything in gold and shadow, a feverish glow that made the cave look less like stone and more like a throat, swallowing you whole. The webs at your back hummed faintly, sticky and unyielding, binding your arms in place above your chest, your wrists knotted in his silk so tight you could feel the pulse thrumming against it. Kento’s name still echoed in your ears, the weight of it somehow heavier than the fangs that had pierced your skin.
You sucked in shaky breaths, your head tipping away as he leaned closer. His face hovered near yours, too close, the scent of damp earth and faint musk settling over you. When his lips ghosted near your cheek, you turned, pressing the back of your skull against the slick webbing, desperate to retreat even a fraction of an inch. He followed you unhurriedly, relentless in his calm, his pale gold eyes fixed on the way you recoiled.
“You’re flushed,” he murmured, voice low and clinical, like he was commenting on the color of a leaf. His thumb brushed once more against your wrist, the beat there fluttering madly under his touch. “Faster than before.”
You wanted to spit something back—some curse, some plea—but then his hand left your wrist, trailing lower, pressing to your stomach through your clothes. He moved with that same slow inevitability, every touch deliberate, every shift calculated.
You felt it shortly thereafter. The tug of his fingers at your waistband.
Your chest tightened, and your breath caught as his hand slid down, slipping beneath your pants, beneath the thin cotton barrier of your underwear. Your body jolted, hips jerking as though you could shake him off, however the spider leg pressing your thighs apart tightened, digging faintly into the stone.
Your face burned. The flush that crept up your throat had nothing to do with fear this time, though fear was tangled in it, messy and inseparable. Your breath came too quick, your chest rising and falling as you dared a glance down. His fingers moved with excruciating slowness, parting the damp heat between your thighs.
The webs around you quivered as if responding to the change in your body, humming faintly as his fingertips dragged over your folds. The touch was strange, not quite human—his fingers slightly rougher, the pads prickled faintly, textured in a way that made every pass ache sharper and burn hotter. You gasped, the sound humiliating in the hush, your hips twitching up despite yourself.
“Sensitive,” he observed, his voice so maddeningly calm you could scream. His golden gaze flicked down once, then back to your face, studying every twitch, every gasp. “The venom heightens everything.”
He pressed two fingers against you, sliding between your folds with obscene ease, the wet sounds filling the torchlit cavern. The slickness of your arousal coated his hand, every drag making the strange prickle of his touch more intense. When he pushed one finger inside, you cried out, the webs catching the sound and reflecting it back at you.
Your eyes flew wide. The stretch was sharper than you expected—his finger thick, angled perfectly to press against your walls. You squirmed, the silk tugging tighter against your body as you tried to writhe away from him, only to be pinned deeper against the nest.
He watched you without flinching. The pale folds of his kimono shifted as he moved, the fabric loosening at his shoulder, baring the lean muscle beneath. The sight made your stomach tighten further, your gaze caught helplessly on the dip of his collarbone, the curve of his chest revealed by the falling cloth.
His finger began to move, sliding in and out in a steady rhythm. Each thrust sent a strange burn of pleasure curling through you, the prickled texture of his skin rubbing against the most sensitive parts of you, catching in a way that made your legs tremble. Wetness spilled out around him, slicking his hand, dripping down your thighs until you could hear it, obscene and undeniable.
“More reactive than I expected,” he murmured, voice just above your ear. His head tilted, watching your body squirm, your back arching helplessly against the silk. “The venom amplifies desire as well. Efficient.”
You wanted to curse him, wanted to deny it, but the words caught in your throat when he pressed a second finger inside. The stretch forced a sob from you, your body clenching hard around him, juices spilling faster down your thighs. He didn’t pause, didn’t take his time, and only adjusted his rhythm until both fingers worked you open, stroking in and out with deliberate precision.
Your eyes burned as tears gathered again, the humiliating heat in your face unrelenting. You couldn’t look at him—you couldn’t—but your gaze slid anyway, locking on his mouth, on the fangs that had already marked you. His lips parted slightly, venom still slick at the edges.
His head tilted lower.
Your chest rose in a frantic gasp as his lips brushed yours—not a kiss, not yet, just a faint ghost of contact. You froze, your heart punching your ribs as his tongue flicked out. A faint string of venom stretched from the edge of his fang, and you had one horrified moment to realize what he intended before his mouth sealed over yours.
The kiss was deep, brutal, and consuming. His tongue pressed inside, slick and heavy, and the taste was strange—sweet, chemical, and metallic. The venom smeared against your tongue, sliding down your throat as he kissed you harder, his hand at your jaw tilting your head just enough to make escape impossible.
Your body jolted with the new flood of chemicals. Your hips rolled up against his hand, desperate, gasping into his mouth as his fingers worked faster, plunging into you with a wet, relentless rhythm. Every thrust was louder now, slick and obscene, your body giving way under the assault.
You sobbed against his lips, gasps breaking into moans as he swallowed every sound. His spider legs coiled tighter around you, caging you in, their tips scraping faintly against stone as though marking his territory. His golden eyes burned into yours as he pulled back just enough to watch you fall apart, his lips wet with venom and spit, his voice a low murmur against your trembling mouth.
“Struggle if you like,” he said softly, almost kindly. “It only makes you sink deeper.”
When his fingers curled just right, hitting the soft spot inside you, your body betrayed you completely—you tightened around him, convulsing against the thick, sticky web that held your arms tight above your chest.
The orgasm ripped through you like a powerful current, causing you to cry out until your throat ached and hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Wetness gushed from you, soaking his hand and dripping onto the silk below. Every thrust of his fingers milked more out of you, pulling aftershocks that left you thrashing uselessly against the nest.
Your wrists burned in their restraints, the webs tightening the more you jerked. All you could do was sob and writhe, body twitching as your cunt spasmed around him, until at last his fingers slowed, dragging. He left you with a slick, wet sound, but he wasn't done. Not even close.
Two of his spider legs shifted, long, jointed, and impossibly strong. They hooked against the neckline of your shirt and pulled. Fabric shredded under the pressure with a sickening rip. The sound echoed too loudly in the cavern, ringing in your ears. You gasped, chest heaving as the cool air hit your bare skin, only for another snap to follow—the thin band of your bra sliced clean away by a sharp claw.
You whimpered, twisting as much as the webs allowed, trying to cover yourself, but his gaze dragged heavily over you. His mouth dipped down slowly and thoughtfully as his head tipped and a faint gleam of curiosity flickered in those molten eyes.
Warm breath ghosted over your breast before his lips sealed around a nipple. The sudden wet heat made you cry out, your back arching involuntarily. He licked and sucked with methodical care, as though studying the effect it had on you, while his spider legs brushed along your sides. The sensation was alien—hard, slick points trailing up your ribs, stroking in tandem with his mouth until your head tossed against the sticky nest in disoriented shock.
Another rip, and your pants gave way. His claws shredded fabric like paper, peeling the cloth from your thighs until it stuck to the webs below. You were bare completely now, caught like prey not just in his trap but in his gaze.
You felt frantic—your chest rising too fast, your breath breaking into sobs that dissolved into moans, and drool wetting the corner of your mouth as your body shook. Your cunt pulsed, overstimulated, slicking the air between your thighs with an obscene wetness.
Next he descended.
His mouth moved down your stomach, teeth grazing, tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh. You twisted against the webs, attempting to flee, but the spider legs held you in place, claw tips digging faintly into the stone. Each drag of his mouth lower, lower, stole more of your sanity. Until he was there.
His hot breath spilled against your swollen pussy, damp strands of slick dripping down from the orgasm he’d already torn from you. His spider legs shifted, bracing wide on the ground, lowering him into a crouch that felt predatory, inevitable.
After that he devoured you.
His mouth sealed over you, tongue plunging deep inside with a suddenness that knocked the air out of your chest. Your eyes flew wide, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your body lurched up against him. His tongue was long, thick, and textured in faint ridges that rubbed cruelly against your walls as he pushed deeper, drinking everything that poured from you.
The sound was obscene. Wet, slurping, every lick audible, filling the cavern. He wasn’t gentle. He was merciless, his tongue fucking into you, curling and dragging, pressing against every inch of you as though he intended to consume more than your arousal.
Your thighs trembled, twitching helplessly against the spider leg that still pinned them open. He growled low into your cunt, the vibration rattling up through your core, making you sob. Your juices spilled freely now, frothing around his mouth, dripping down your ass. You’d never felt wetter, never felt more wrung out, and yet the ache only worsened, building sharper and sharper until you couldn’t breathe.
Suddenly his hands moved.
They hooked under your hips, tugging at the sticky silk, tearing you free with frightening ease. The webs clung, stretching in golden strands, until he ripped you loose enough to maneuver. He guided your hips, lifting them higher, dragging your legs from the web one at a time. Before you could register the freedom, he’d thrown them over his shoulders, folding you open entirely beneath him.
The position left you spread wide, helpless, his face buried between your thighs as his mouth returned to devour. His hands gripped your ass firmly, kneading as he pressed you harder against his tongue, forcing every thrust deeper.
Your scream cracked into a sob. Your head tossed from side to side, sticky threads clinging to your hair as your body bucked. His mouth never relented. He licked, he sucked, and he pressed until his tongue curved just right to hit that spot inside that made your vision blur white.
“Please—” you gasped, though you didn’t even know what you begged for. Release? Mercy? More? It didn’t matter—he swallowed every cry, every plea, like it was nothing.
His lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard enough to make your spine curl off the web. His tongue lashed over the swollen bud, back and forth, sharp and fast, while two fingers plunged back into your cunt without warning. The stretch was brutal, wet, and perfect, sliding in and out as his mouth drove you closer and closer to breaking.
The sound of it—squelching, dripping, slurping—mixed with your ragged cries, the cavern turning into a symphony of your ruin. You felt your stomach clench, your thighs quiver, and your body rise like a storm you couldn’t outrun.
When his tongue pressed deep again, curling hard as his fingers stroked the slick walls of your cunt, you shattered.
Your orgasm tore through you violently and messily, gushing around him, coating his mouth and hand as you wailed. Tears streaked your cheeks, drool slicked your chin, and your body writhed uncontrollably as wave after wave consumed you. He held you firm through it, his grip unyielding, his mouth still lapping greedily at everything you spilled.
Your body convulsed, trembling with the violence of your climax, but Nanami’s mouth didn’t relent. His tongue plunged back into your cunt, his lips sealing against your folds, sucking at the slickness that poured from you. Every twist, every stroke sent more sparks crackling through your nerves until your thighs shook around his head.
“Stop—” The word slipped out of you on a sob, your voice broken, wrecked. “Please, I—I can’t—”
But he ignored it. His golden eyes flicked up briefly to meet yours, steady and calm, as if to remind you that your begging meant nothing here. The venom burned through you, amplifying every sensation until you could hardly separate pain from pleasure. Your body betrayed you, grinding up into his mouth, spasming as another climax tore through you, sharper and more humiliating than the last.
You screamed, raw and high, head tossing against the webbing, tears wetting your temples. He held you firmly, his hands gripping your ass, his spider legs braced wide around him as he devoured you through your orgasm. You came again and again, the release spilling from you in messy gushes that he swallowed greedily, drinking down every drop.
By the time he finally pulled back, your body was slick with sweat and trembling so hard you could barely breathe. Strings of your wetness clung to his mouth, glistening in the torchlight. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, gaze sharp and unbothered, while you sobbed, gasping for air.
As he rose, the silk of his kimono shifted, and his spider legs folded back slightly. He shrugged it off with maddening ease, the fabric falling soundlessly to the cavern floor. The light from the torch spilled across his body, illuminating every line, every detail you’d been spared until now.
He was carved like stone. Broad shoulders tapering to a lean, taut waist, every muscle defined under pale skin. The planes of his chest gleamed faintly with sweat, his stomach tight and ridged. But it wasn’t the strength of his body that made your throat close, your breath catch.
It was his cock.
Heavy, flushed, and impossibly thick, it curved slightly upward, the length slapping against his abdomen as it sprang free. Veins corded down its shaft, twitching with every beat of his pulse, and the flushed head glistened already with pre-cum. It was monstrous in its own right, too big, too obscene, the kind of size that made your body clench in fear even as the venom inside you made your cunt flutter with unwanted anticipation.
One of his spider legs curled forward, the clawed tip sliding against the silk around your wrists. With a sharp tug, the webs snapped. You gasped as your arms dropped heavily against the sticky nest beneath you, pins and needles racing up your limbs.
For half a second, you thought it was over. Relief bloomed shakily in your chest, even as exhaustion weighed down your body.
Suddenly you saw his cock again.
He guided himself with one hand, the other bracing against your thigh, pressing your legs higher. His spider legs unfurled again, two of them hooking beneath you, lifting your ass from the sticky webbing. Another pair braced against the ground, anchoring him as he leaned forward. The remaining limbs curled around your thighs, pinning them up and over your head until you were folded open, vulnerable, spread obscenely against the glowing silk.
“W-wait—” Your voice cracked, panicked, but he didn’t pause. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firm, his body caging you in as the swollen head of his cock pressed to your entrance.
The first push stole the air from your lungs. He groaned low and guttural, his hips stuttering as the tip breached you, stretching you unbearably wide.
“Soaked,” he rasped, his voice finally roughening, trembling at the edges. His golden eyes fluttered half-shut, his jaw tight as his cock twitched inside you. “Tighter than I imagined.”
You choked on a sob, head tossing as your walls clenched hard around him. He wasn’t even halfway in, the thick stretch splitting you open, and still your body tried to take him deeper. Slick poured down your thighs, dripping onto the nest below.
His hips rolled forward, harder this time, forcing more of his cock inside you. Your back arched with the intrusion, tears streaking your cheeks as your cunt stretched painfully, deliciously, around him. His groan echoed in the cavern, low and strained, the sound of a man losing composure for the first time.
“Perfect little prey,” he murmured, the nickname dripping with dark affection as his gaze burned down at you. “Made to be caught. Made to be split open like this.”
The words punched the air out of you, leaving only a sob, a whimper as he kissed you again. His mouth crashed against yours, tongue forcing past your lips, thick with venom and spit. You gasped into the kiss, the chemical sweetness coating your tongue, making your body burn hotter, wetter, and needier.
You noticed his face shift above you, subtly at first, until another gleam caught in the firelight. Two more eyes opened high on his forehead, black and gleaming like polished stone. They blinked once, slowly, in perfect tandem with the molten gold of his human gaze. One more pair below was revealed, until his face looked down at you with six eyes in all, fearsome and inhuman, but all fixed on you.
He groaned again as his cock slid deeper, the sound rough, breaking. “Too good,” he muttered, his hips snapping forward in short, urgent thrusts, each one pushing him deeper into the vice of your body. “You’re wrapping around me—won’t let go.”
The stretch was brutal, his cock dragging against every inch of your walls, twitching as your cunt fluttered helplessly around him. He pressed harder, faster, until the head of his cock bumped deep against your cervix, forcing a cry from your throat.
His spider legs tightened their hold, claws digging faintly into the webbed nest around you, anchoring his thrusts as he pounded deeper, groaning into your mouth between kisses. Each snap of his hips made your body jolt, made wetness gush out around him, dripping messily onto his thighs and his stomach.
You sobbed against his lips, your voice muffled and incoherent. But he swallowed every sound, every plea, his words breaking against your mouth in low, guttural growls.
“Mine. My prey.”
The cavern pulsed with heat and noise—wet, obscene, animal. His thrusts echoed off the stone walls, hips slamming against yours with a steady, brutal rhythm that made the sticky nest beneath you shudder. The webs clung harder with each movement, strands pulling at your skin as if the cave itself wanted to keep you here.
Kento, his name rattled in your mind like a prayer and a curse—groaned low, his head dropping near your ear, his mouth hanging open. Every breath poured hot across your skin, every sound rough, guttural, vibrating straight down your spine. The thick weight of him split you apart again and again, his cock bottoming out until the fat head battered deep against your cervix, forcing broken cries from your lips.
Your wrists tugged weakly at the webbing, but there was nowhere to go. His spider legs caged you in, their hard curves brushing your sides, their claws scraping faintly against stone. Then one shifted, lowering between your thighs. The sharp tip brushed your clit, pressing lightly at first, then rubbing in slow circles as his hips snapped harder.
You screamed, back arching, body thrashing as the new sensation shot through you. His cock fucked you mercilessly, filling you so deep your walls fluttered helplessly around him, while the claw-tip teased the swollen bud of your clit. The pressure was unbearable—too much, too sharp—but your body clamped down, chasing it, grinding against the hard limb as you sobbed.
“Little prey,” he rasped, voice breaking in the haze of his pleasure, “you keep opening for me.” His hips stuttered, abs flexing as his thrusts grew rougher, hungrier. “Even when you say no… your body begs.”
You moaned his name, broken, gasping, “Kento—please—”
The sound of it wrenched a groan out of him, guttural and deep, his golden eyes fluttering closed for a moment as though the word hit some core inside him. Then his head tipped back, mouth falling open wider than human, his jaw unhinging faintly. A wet hiss tore from his throat as his thrusts snapped hard, brutal, forcing the air out of your lungs.
The claw-tip strummed your clit faster, his thrusts shoving your hips into the rhythm until sparks danced at the edges of your vision. His cock twitched deep inside you, pulsing, fat head dragging against every nerve. You clenched hard around him, crying out, and that was all it took—he groaned sharp, his hips slamming flush as his cock bottomed out.
Hot release spilled into you in thick waves, his cum flooding deep, gushing so much it spilled back out around his cock. He growled low, hips jerking, rutting against you as though he couldn’t stop, as though pouring himself inside was the only instinct left.
And still, he didn’t stop.
Your cunt clenched around him too tight, too needy, milking his cock until he twitched again. He growled into your mouth when he kissed you, venom-slick tongue sliding deep as he started thrusting again, slower but heavier. Each push forced cum deeper, squelching out of you in messy streams that dripped down onto the web.
Your body writhed, oversensitive, every nerve screaming. You sobbed against his lips, “It’s too much—too much—” but your hips still rolled, chasing the rhythm, begging despite yourself.
His spider legs shifted again, curling under your body. Two hooked into the sticky nest, anchoring him. The other two wrapped around your waist and shoulders, tearing you from the web with frightening ease. You gasped as the silk stretched and snapped, your back peeling from its glue, until he lifted you into the air.
You dangled in his hold, suspended by those monstrous limbs. His cock stayed buried inside you, the weight of your body sinking down on him until you were speared fully, every inch stuffed deep. He groaned at the sight, his abs flexing hard, sweat slicking his chest as he bounced you in his grip.
“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes heavy, extra black eyes blinking in unison with his gold. “Caught. Hanging in my web. Every drop of you is mine.”
You shook your head, tears spilling, mouth open in a sob. But your cunt betrayed you, spasming hard around him, squeezing tight as his thrusts shook your body in midair.
He teased you then, his spider legs shifting. They held you suspended just above the nest, your back arching, your ass dragging against the sticky silk as he thrust up into you. Each time he lowered you, your hair brushed the glowing web, but he never let you sink all the way down. It was a cruel game—dangling you above capture while his cock drove deeper, rougher, as though he wanted you to remember you belonged nowhere but here.
“You smell like prey,” he groaned, snapping his hips up. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider over his waist as he pounded into you. “You sound like prey.” His lips dragged over your throat, biting hard enough to bruise, his voice a low hiss. “You are prey.”
Your scream broke against his shoulder as another orgasm tore through you, your body convulsing in his grasp. Wetness gushed down, dripping onto his cock, his thighs, and the web beneath. He hissed against your skin, groaning as your cunt clamped too tight, milking him mercilessly.
He came with force, his hips stuttering, his cock twitching violently as he spilled hot, thick loads into you, cum overflowing until it spilled out around his length. He kept thrusting through it, his abs flexing hard, every vein in his neck standing out as he growled.
The cavern reeked of sweat and sex, heat rolling off stone and silk alike as your body sagged in his grip. Every nerve still trembled with overstimulation, every shallow breath dragged tight through your chest, yet he gave no pause. His hips ground forward, cock twitching inside your soaked cunt until more hot spurts of release pumped into you, overflowing, dripping steadily onto the web below. The sheer weight of it made your walls ache, gaping around him, stretched so wide you thought they might never close again.
A guttural sound left his throat, low and satisfied, like the predator he was. Cum seeped down your thighs, smeared across your inner legs as he shifted his hold, spider legs curling closer. The dark curve of one limb hooked around your torso, drawing you upright enough for him to study the mess he had made of you. Pale golden eyes swept over your chest, your stomach, and the swollen lips of your pussy still twitching, frothing with the proof of his release.
Silk gathered at his fingertips, sticky and golden as it spilled in warm ribbons. He worked quickly, deliberately, wrapping the strands across your body, pressing them firm to your skin. Each pass glued your chest tighter, encasing your arms against your sides until your ribs strained with the force of shallow breathing. The webbing clung to the curves of your breasts, glistened across your collarbones, and stuck wetly to your skin wherever sweat had pooled.
A sob caught in your throat, hoarse and ragged, your eyes half-lidded as your head tipped back against the nest. Your jaw slackened, lips parted around the frantic rush of air, the sounds spilling from you too broken to carry sense. Cum continued to leak from your cunt, thick streams running freely now, soaking the sticky threads beneath you. Your body sagged against the new bonds, trembling with exhaustion, yet the venom still burned through your veins, making every brush of silk, every pulse of your hole, feel unbearably sharp.
The world blurred in torchlight and shadows until the sharp tip of a spider leg tapped under your chin. The motion was commanding, forcing your head to turn, forcing your eyes back to him. The limb held you steady, deceptively delicate despite its strength, tilting your face so he could look directly at you.
“You’re mine now,” he said, voice deep, even, and unshaken. His mouth barely moved, yet every syllable pressed into you like another restraint. His gaze burned steady, unblinking, a predator’s patience wrapped around every word. “The web won’t let you leave.”
Tears welled again, though the heat of them blurred into the fog of venom and exhaustion. You sagged against the sticky strands, chest bound, arms locked, body too weak to resist as his words sank deep.
The torch flickered, shadows rippling across the cavern as silk glowed faintly around you, strands shimmering with honey-light. Your skin was slicked with cum and sweat, your limbs heavy and trembling, and your chest heaving against the restraints that cut into your ribs. Each breath caught on the edge of a sob. Your cunt gaped obscenely, leaking his seed with every shallow twitch of your hips, the nest beneath you soaked.
The threads lifted you higher, his limbs weaving around your body, suspending you like an offering. Golden webs stretched above and below, shimmering faintly in the fire’s light, catching every curve of your bound form. You dangled, trembling, half-wrapped, chest pressed forward against the sticky silk, thighs glistening with his cum.
He hovered above, spider legs arched, body looming. His mouth hung slightly open, fangs glinting in the torchlight as if ready to bite again. The glow caught in his pale hair, painting his human form in a softness that didn’t match the sharp, monstrous cage of limbs braced around you.
The cave settled into silence save for your ragged breaths, the wet drip of seed onto stone, and the faint hum of silk vibrating under the tension of your body. You couldn’t tell if the trembling in your limbs was from fear or some deeper ache, and you couldn’t tell if the parting of your lips begged for freedom or for his mouth, his fangs, or his cock once more.
The web held you aloft in its glowing lattice, every strand a reminder that you had walked into the lair of a monster—and in his eyes, you had ceased being anything but a meal. His presence pressed down over you, oppressive and inescapable, as he stared at your half-wrapped body strung in his nest.
Captured, claimed.
Torn between wanting to be released and craving another bite.
the way you make ur banners on titles is similar to tonycries did u get inspo?? not tryna be rude or saying u copied its just very similar how you do it
i did get my inspo from her, but also there are other blogs similar that do the exact same thing. the reason why they're cropped that small is bc Tumblr will take it down if it shows anything explicit or else I'd post most of the image. i actually have followed her for a year and sometimes I dm her.
A/N: past deadline whoops, i was discovering how to use em dashes on Google docs and had to get quillbot lmfao...also i didn't get home til late. plz reblog, like, & follow. i also have my up & coming kinktober list linked here :) pls let me know if you want tagged to keep updated!
The night was still, heavy with the scent of damp rot and smoke, the kind of silence that hummed in your ears like the whole world had stopped breathing. You gripped the handle of your blade tighter, the worn leather biting into your palm as your boots sank into the soft mud.
The abandoned overpass loomed ahead, concrete cracked and webbed with vines. This was where you’d seen him—that thing. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving too slow to be human and too deliberate to be the empty kind of dead.
You’d followed him for half a mile, heart drumming with both fear and hunger. Your rations were gone, your pack lighter than it had ever been. If this corpse was shambling toward something, maybe it meant shelter. Maybe food. Or maybe it meant you’d be fighting for your life.
And then he turned.
The sight of him nearly knocked the breath out of you. His skin was pale—not death gray, but washed-out, like the color had been drained away. Veins curled dark beneath the surface of his skin like ink bleeding under parchment. His hair was black and tangled, sticking in wet strands to his temples. His lips were cracked and faintly stained with red, and when he opened his mouth, his teeth flashed sharp in the dying light. He should have snarled. He should have lunged. Instead… his eyes widened.
You froze.
He looked terrified of you.
The knife trembled in your grip, your brain screaming, “Kill him, kill him before he kills you,” but you didn’t move. His hands hovered, trembling in the air as if he didn’t know what to do with them. You’d expected hunger, expected a sprint and a scream. Instead, you saw hesitation.
“Stay back,” you barked, voice raw.
His throat bobbed. He blinked slowly, like his mind was half a second behind his body. Then—unbelievably—he spoke.
“…please.”
Your entire body went cold. Zombies didn’t talk. They moaned, they shrieked, and they gnashed. They didn’t plead.
“What the fuck are you?” Your voice cracked with both fury and disbelief.
He swallowed again, lips parting. He was drooling—clear spit glistening at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin. His gaze was fixed not on your face, not on the blade, but lower. Your chest.
You took a step back, revulsion cutting through the shock. “Don’t you dare,” you hissed, knife jerking upward.
“I—” His voice was hoarse and broken, like he hadn’t used it in years. He shook his head quickly, almost violently, as if to deny the thought. His eyes stayed locked on you though, wide and dark, pupils blown wide like a predator’s. He made a small sound—not quite a whimper, not quite a growl—his tongue flicking out to catch the drool on his lip.
Your stomach lurched. “You’re thinking about eating me.”
His face twisted—not into hunger, not into malice, but into something like pain. He shook his head harder, raising his hands in clumsy surrender. “No,” he rasped, the word ripping out of his throat like it hurt. “Not… that.”
The way he said it sent a shiver up your spine.
Your knuckles whitened around the knife. “Then what?”
His chest rose and fell like he was forcing himself to breathe. His jaw worked, trembling as if the words were stuck between his teeth. Finally, his eyes dragged away from your chest to your face. His lips parted, drool stringing again at the corner of his mouth, and he whispered, “…warm.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Your pulse hammered so hard it hurt your temples. He stared at you like you were fire and he’d been walking in the cold too long. His body was big and hulking, but his posture wasn’t threatening—it was pleading.
Your instinct was still screaming to drive the knife into his throat, but your hand wouldn’t move. His fear—real fear—had rooted you in place.
“You’re insane,” you muttered, your voice low, shaking.
He made a strangled sound, something between a laugh and a groan, like he didn’t know what to do with the air in his lungs. Then he took a slow step forward, boots squelching in the mud. You raised the blade instantly, the tip catching the glow of the dying streetlight.
His eyes darted to it, then back to your chest. His throat worked again, drool spilling from his lips as his shoulders hunched slightly, shame or instinct or both. He wasn’t attacking. He wasn’t snarling. He just… looked.
And for the first time since the world had gone to hell, you felt more unnerved by someone’s want than their hunger.
You steadied the knife and swallowed hard. “One more step and I’ll gut you.”
He froze—and obeyed.
But his eyes never left you.
Your arm was starting to ache from how tight you held the knife, but you didn’t dare lower it. He stood there in front of you like a ghost dragged out of the earth—shoulders broad, chest rising too shallow, eyes dark as wet soil. You could hear the faint, wet sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, like each inhale scraped his throat raw. His skin was pale, stretched taut over the sharp ridges of his collarbones, with veins pressing blue-black just beneath the surface.
He should have been charging you. He should have been snarling, teeth bared, jaw snapping for flesh. That’s what the dead did. That’s what you’d seen a hundred times before—your blade cutting through necks and spines to keep them from sinking their rotten teeth into anyone else.
But this one didn’t move.
He watched you, trembling hands hanging in the air like a man surrendering. His lips parted again, and more saliva slipped free, shining as it dripped down his chin. His stare was fixed and heavy, dragging down to your chest, then snapping back to your face as if ashamed of his own instincts.
“I said stay back,” you snapped.
“I—” His voice cracked low, gravelly, scraping up from a throat that hadn’t known speech in God knows how long. “Not… hungry.”
You almost laughed. Bitter, humorless. “Not hungry? You’re drooling all over yourself looking at me.”
His jaw clenched, muscles in his neck twitching. His eyes flicked downward again, slow and hesitant. You followed his gaze, chest heaving in disbelief.
“Don’t you—” you started, and then he moved.
It wasn’t fast. Not a lunge, not an attack. Just a clumsy step forward, arms still out in some half-assed show of peace. The blade shot up between you, pressing against the torn fabric of his shirt. He froze instantly. The faintest brush of steel against his chest seemed to lock him in place.
And then he did something so human it made your stomach flip—he reached out. Not to grab the knife. Not to stop you. Just to touch. His fingertips grazed the edge of your sleeve, the lightest pressure over cloth, and you swore you felt a spark, an ache traveling up your arm.
You wanted to jerk away. You wanted to cut his hand clean off. But then his breathing hitched, deeper than before, and his body shifted in a way that made your gut sink.
You saw it.
The thick outline straining against the shredded denim of his jeans.
“Are you—” You choked, words dying in your throat.
His hand trembled where it touched you, his eyes going wide like he hadn’t even noticed until you had. He shifted again, the bulge pressing harder against the ruined fabric, obscene in its size and shape. The heat climbed up your neck, disgust and shock and something else all tangling until you couldn’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, stumbling back a step. “You’re fucking hard?”
His lips parted, a wet sound slipping out as he tried to find words. His voice came broken, awkward.
“Only… blood… that moves.” He swallowed hard, eyes dropping for a heartbeat before flicking back up to yours. “Figures it’s there.”
A strangled laugh ripped out of you, disbelief cutting sharp in your throat. “You’re kidding me.”
He looked down at himself, then back at you, expression somewhere between pained and annoyed.
“Not… funny,” he rasped, and yet there was the barest twitch at the corner of his cracked lips, like the joke hadn’t escaped him entirely.
You stumbled another step back, heart pounding, knife still trembling in your grip. Every part of you screamed run, but your eyes kept flicking down—dragged to the heavy outline pressing against torn denim, the obscene size of it. The world tilted for a second, your brain stuttering between danger and what the fuck.
He stepped forward again, almost pleading now, arms still raised, chest heaving shallowly. His cock strained harder, the wet patch of drool on his chin catching the dim light.
That broke you.
You turned and bolted, boots tearing against the mud, breath ragged in your throat. Branches clawed at your arms as you shoved into the trees, knife still clutched tight.
Behind you, he didn’t chase. You could feel it—the weight of his stare, his body rooted to the ground, cock hard and useless, jaw working in silence as he watched you vanish into the night.
And in that dark silence, with the stench of blood and rot thick in the air, he muttered to himself, bitter and low, his voice almost cracking with humorless irony:
“Only… blood flow I get.”
The words were swallowed by the forest, leaving nothing but the echo of your ragged breath and the pounding of your heart as you fled.
Mud was sucking at your boots and branches clawing at your arms like they wanted to hold you there with him. Your lungs burned, breath tearing ragged through your chest, but you didn’t stop until the overpass was gone, until the sound of your own panicked footfalls drowned out the memory of him standing there—huge, shaking, hard—and looking at you like you were a miracle instead of a meal.
When you finally slowed, clutching the knife to your chest, the silence was worse than the running. You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, hear the night pressing close.
And then you heard him.
A branch cracked somewhere behind you. Not close—yet—but close enough to snap every nerve tight in your spine. You spun, breath hitching, blade up. There was nothing but trees, wet leaves, and shadows. You waited, heart hammering, until the silence returned, and then you started walking, slower this time, every muscle tense.
It became a pattern. Every time you thought you’d lost him, there would be the faintest sound: the wet drag of boots through mud, the low rasp of breathing you couldn’t tell was yours or his. You didn’t catch him again until you made it back to the crumbled concrete skeleton of what had once been a strip mall.
You ducked under the collapsed awning, slid inside a store that smelled like dust and mildew, and crouched low among the shelves. The air was close and stale, every creak of the broken building making you flinch.
He appeared in the doorway five minutes later.
You knew it was him before your eyes even adjusted. His silhouette was unmistakable, broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame, hair hanging damp against his face. He just stood there, motionless, until your fingers ached from how hard you were gripping the knife. Then he stepped forward, slow and careful, like a man trying not to spook an animal.
“Stop following me,” you hissed, voice sharper than you meant.
He didn’t speak. He tilted his head like he was listening, like your words were music he hadn’t heard in years.
“Did you hear me?” You snapped, louder this time. “Go away!”
His lips parted, jaw working like he was forcing something out. “…can’t.”
The word echoed in the empty store, and your stomach twisted.
“You can’t?” You shifted back, rising to your feet, knife flashing. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
His hands lifted again in that strange, halting surrender, but he didn’t come closer. His gaze swept over you, slow and heavy, before returning to your face. “…warm.” The word was softer this time, like he was afraid of it.
You felt your eye twitch, frustration and panic twisting together. “You said that already,” you muttered through clenched teeth.
He stayed where he was, breathing shallowly, chest rising in quick little jerks. And then, like something had snapped, he took another step. You tensed, ready to strike, but he just stayed there, closer than before, head bowed slightly.
“Go away,” you repeated, backing toward the wall.
He followed.
Your temper flared. “You deaf or just stupid?”
He flinched at that, shoulders hunching slightly, but he didn’t stop. You kept backing up until your shoulders hit the wall, and you hated the way your breath hitched, hated the way the air between you felt thick and charged.
“Why are you following me?” You asked, softer this time, almost desperate.
His throat worked as if the words hurt coming out. “…safe.”
You blinked, startled. “Safe?”
He nodded once, jerky and quick, like he was agreeing with himself as much as you. “Safe… with you.”
The words landed like stones in your stomach. You’d been alone for so long that the idea of someone—something—deciding you were safe made your skin crawl.
“Bullshit,” you said, shoving past him. You stalked to the door, ready to leave him in the dust, but the sound of his steps followed you, steady as your own shadow.
It went on like that for hours.
You moved through the ruined city, scavenging through empty storefronts and overturned cars, and every time you turned, he was there. Always just far enough away to not seem like a threat, always close enough to see.
When you stopped to drink from your canteen, you saw him lean against a crumbled wall, just watching, his hair hanging in his eyes, chest rising and falling. When you crouched to pick through rubble, you felt his stare on your back, hot and heavy like a hand pressing between your shoulders.
Every sound he made scraped at your nerves—the wet drag of his boots, the faint rasp of his breathing, and the soft creak of denim when he shifted his weight. The longer it went on, the more you felt your eye twitching in irritation, a tight little muscle jumping under the skin every time you caught him in your peripheral vision.
“Do you ever stop?” You finally snapped, spinning on your heel.
He stopped dead, freezing in the middle of the street like a kid caught doing something wrong. His hands hovered, then dropped to his sides, palms open, empty. His face was blank, unreadable, but his eyes stayed locked on you, dark and unwavering.
“Why me?” you demanded. “Why not any of the other corpses wandering around?”
He hesitated, then took a slow step closer. You felt your stomach tighten as his presence loomed heavier.
“Because…” His voice was rough and strained. “…alive.”
Your laugh was harsh and spiteful. “Yeah, no shit.”
He tilted his head again, hair falling into his face, and you caught the faintest twitch of his mouth—like he almost smiled.
Something in you shattered at that, the pressure of hours of being hunted, followed, and watched. You shoved him hard, palms hitting the solid wall of his chest. He barely moved, just blinked down at you, as if you’d surprised him.
“You don’t get to just pick me,” you said, voice sharp and shaking. “You don’t get to follow me like—like I belong to you.”
His breathing hitched at that, chest expanding like the words had hit him deep.
“…do,” he murmured, and you hated the way the sound rolled through you, low and certain.
You took a step back, heart pounding. “You’re insane,” you spat, but the words felt weak even as they left your mouth.
He stayed there, rooted to the spot, but his eyes trailed downward again, calculating and hungry, until they rested on your chest. You saw his throat work and saw the faint tremor in his hands.
And then, as if the universe hadn’t humiliated you enough today, you noticed it again—the heavy bulge in his jeans, thicker now, straining the fabric with each shallow breath.
Your pulse jumped, anger and fear tangling hot in your chest. “Are you serious right now?” you hissed.
He looked down at himself, then back at you, unblinking. “…still,” he said hoarsely, voice scraping like gravel.
“Still what?”
“Still… there.”
Your eye twitched again, sharp and frustrated. “Of course it’s still there! You’ve been following me for miles with that—" You cut yourself off, running a hand over your face. “God, you’re pathetic.”
He didn’t argue. He just stood there, breathing like each inhale cost him something, his body massive and still except for the twitch of his cock against torn denim.
The weight of his stare was unbearable. You turned on your heel, storming off, ignoring the way your heart kicked when you heard his slow, inevitable footsteps following.
´ཀ`
The first thing you noticed was the smell. These weren’t like him. They didn’t just smell like damp earth and old blood. These smelled like rot that had been left to fester in the sun, like meat crawling with maggots, like the end of everything. The air shifted with it, thick and foul, and you knew before you saw them that the next corner would not be empty.
Your grip tightened on the handle of your blade, palm slick from sweat. The streets were already too quiet, the sky a dull bruise of gray. Broken glass crunched under your boots, and behind you, like a shadow stitched to your heels, came the steady drag of him. Choso. The corpse-man, the not-quite-dead. You hadn’t told him to follow again, hadn’t invited him, and hadn’t done anything except keep moving—and still he trailed you.
You didn’t look back when you heard him stumble on the curb and didn’t flinch when his breath rattled low in his throat. You couldn’t afford to. Because they were here.
They came out of the shadows in pairs, and your stomach flipped. Taller, gaunter, with bones that jutted sharp under loose flesh, their eyes filmed over in white. Their jaws stretched wider than seemed possible, teeth broken but long. They moved wrong, twitching like their strings were being yanked by some cruel puppeteer, arms snapping out at angles, and legs bending too far back as they lurched into the street.
One of them shrieked, the sound piercing enough to set your teeth on edge.
You didn’t hesitate. Knife up, breath steady, you lunged.
The first swing caught the nearest one in the throat, tearing through gristle and half-rotted muscle. It shrieked again, higher, keening, but it didn’t fall. Its clawed hand snapped toward your face, grazing your cheek hard enough to sting. You twisted, planted your boot against its chest, and shoved it back into the cracked concrete wall.
The second one was faster. It dropped onto you from the side, the impact slamming your shoulder and forcing the air out of your lungs. Its teeth snapped an inch from your ear, hot and rancid breath gagging you. You gritted your teeth, jammed your elbow into its jaw, and then shoved the blade up under its ribs. The scream that tore out of it was less human, more animal—shrill, furious.
Blood sprayed your cheek as you yanked the blade free. Your chest heaved, heart pounding, sweat dripping down your spine. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You spun, knife catching the throat of the first one again, this time deeper, harder, until the shriek cut off with a wet gurgle.
It fell.
The second staggered, wounded but still coming. Its body moved like it didn’t care about pain, like nothing short of annihilation would stop it. You tightened your grip, ready for the final strike, when you caught sight of him.
Choso.
He was just standing there.
His back was half-hunched, hair hanging ragged into his eyes, and lips parted as he watched you. His chest rose and fell with those shallow, rattling breaths, but he didn’t move. He didn’t step forward to help. He didn’t even flinch when the shrieking monster snapped at you again.
Your frustration flared hot.
“Are you just going to stand there?” You spat, shoving the creature back, blade catching the dim light as you prepared to end it.
Choso blinked slowly. A low groan slipped out of him, half like a question, half like a confused complaint, as though he didn’t understand why you’d even asked.
“Never mind,” you muttered bitterly, shoving the blade up into the monster’s skull. The crack of bone and the heavy slump of its body against the pavement echoed too loud in the stillness that followed.
You wiped your knife on your sleeve, breath still ragged. The stench was worse now with the corpses down, meat and blood clogging the air. You glanced back at him, wiping sweat from your brow with your wrist. He was still standing in the same place, staring at you with wide eyes, unmoving except for the faint tremor in his hands.
“Pathetic,” you hissed under your breath, turning on your heel. You left the bodies where they fell, stepping back over shattered glass toward the cracked alleys you knew best.
And like he had since the moment you met him, he followed.
By the time you reached your makeshift shelter, the sun was bleeding low on the horizon. The sky was burning orange, clouds were lit with fire, and the air was thick with the smell of rain. You ducked into the old subway station, rusted gates long since pulled apart. Down the broken stairs, where the graffiti on the walls blurred in the dim light, you’d carved out a corner that kept you dry and hidden.
You set your bag down with a grunt, shoulder aching from the weight. The air was heavy here, close, filled with the scent of mildew and the faint trickle of water dripping from cracked pipes. You turned to find him still at your back, his silhouette blocking what little light filtered in through the entrance.
“Don’t touch anything,” you snapped automatically.
He didn’t move. Just stood there, silent, watching. His eyes were heavy on you, dragging over your body like he was memorizing each line, each shadow.
You sank down onto the old blanket you’d laid across the concrete, dragging a canteen from your bag. You drank greedily, water running down your chin, before swiping your mouth with your sleeve. He hadn’t taken a step closer, but you could feel him—looming, watching, still.
Finally, the silence broke you.
“Why are you here?” you asked, voice rough. You set the canteen down, rubbing the ache from your neck.
His head tilted, eyes catching faint light.
“I don’t mean following me,” you pressed. “I mean here. This world. Why are you like this? You’re not like them.” You gestured roughly back toward where the corpses had fallen. “So what the hell are you?”
He shifted gradually. The sound of denim pulling against itself was loud in the still air. He took one step forward, then another, until the faint drip of water echoed around him.
“…don’t know,” he rasped. His voice cracked like dry wood. “Just… here.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”
His lips pressed together, like he didn’t know how to explain, like words were something foreign he had to drag from the bottom of a well. He groaned low, frustrated, head bowing slightly as his hands trembled at his sides.
“You remember anything?” You tried again, softer this time.
His eyes lifted to yours, dark and sharp in the gloom. “…cold. Then… warm.”
The way he said it made your skin prickle.
“Warm,” you repeated slowly. “Like me.”
His chest rose faintly. He nodded once.
You leaned back against the wall, exhaustion dragging at your bones. The apocalypse had been nothing but silence and fear for years, and now here was this half-dead man, staring at you like you were the only light left in the world. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to scream.
Instead, you asked, “Do you miss it? Before?”
His brow furrowed.
“Before all this. Before the world ended. Do you remember it?”
He blinked slowly, mouth opening only to close again. He groaned low, struggling, and you thought for a moment he might not answer. Then, finally: “…sounds.”
“Sounds?”
He nodded. “…people. Voices. Music.”
The admission pulled something tight in your chest.
“I miss it too,” you murmured, gaze dropping to your hands. They were scarred, dirt lining the cracks of your skin. “I miss everything. Noise. Crowds. Things you hated at the time, you’d give anything to hear again.”
Silence stretched between you. The drip of water, the rasp of his uneven breath. When you looked up again, he was closer—still a good distance away, but closer, like he’d been drawn without realizing. His eyes never left you, wide and dark, his lips parted just enough for a line of drool to glisten at the corner of his mouth.
“Are you going to stay here all night?” you asked after a while.
His head tilted again, gently, as if the thought of leaving hadn’t occurred to him. “…safe,” he rasped.
Your eye twitched, jaw clenching. You dragged your knees up to your chest and exhaled through your teeth. “Fine. But if you try anything, I’ll gut you.”
He blinked again slowly. No disagreement, no motion. Just the steady rasp of his breathing, the faint tremor of his hands, and the unshakable weight of his eyes locked on you.
You leaned back against the wall, exhaustion dragging you down, but your grip never loosened on the knife. And when you finally closed your eyes, the last thing you felt was the heat of his stare—patient, unwavering, and terrifyingly human.
´ཀ`
The first time you woke to find him looming over you, you nearly buried the knife in his throat.
Your shelter was a pocket of stale air and dripping pipes, and for the first time in weeks you’d actually managed to drift into something close to sleep. But when your eyes cracked open, there he was—Choso, framed by the faint glow seeping through the cracked ceiling, his broad body half-shadowed, his eyes fixed on you with unnerving stillness.
You gasped, fingers closing on the knife at your side, heart hammering against your ribs. He didn’t move. He didn’t flinch when you sat up fast and raised the blade to his chest. He just stared, as though watching you breathe was enough to keep him tethered.
“What the fuck,” you hissed, rubbing at your face with your free hand. “Do you ever sleep?”
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like the question was something he had to work through piece by piece. “…no.”
You let out a frustrated groan, dropping the knife back to your blanket. “Then stop standing over me like a damn ghoul. You’re going to get yourself stabbed.”
His lashes fluttered once, heavy and brisk. Then he crouched down, joints creaking faintly, and stayed there—still observing. You rolled back onto your side with a muttered curse, pulling the blanket tighter, but the weight of his stare never let you fully fall back under.
´ཀ`
It became a ritual.
Every morning you woke with the same startled jolt; every morning he was there. Sometimes standing, sometimes crouched, sometimes sitting cross-legged a few feet away. But always watching. His eyes followed the rise and fall of your chest like it was something he couldn’t look away from.
At first it left you raw and uneasy, lashing out at him as you shoved your bag together, spitting curses when his silence only deepened the unease crawling up your spine. But after a week, the irritation dulled into resignation. You stopped being surprised. You still swore under your breath and still muttered about boundaries and personal space, but he never moved further than you allowed.
If anything, he seemed to study you with a growing intensity. His head would tilt when you yawned, and his brows would crease when you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. His chest rose in shallow imitation of yours every morning, as though he were reminding himself how to mimic life.
And then one morning, something changed.
You’d rolled out of your blanket, joints stiff, and reached for the blade leaning against the wall. Choso was crouched nearby, knees drawn up, his long hair sticking damp to his jaw. He watched you in silence as you rose, knife in hand, stretching the ache out of your shoulders.
“You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep wandering after me with those weak-ass arms,” you said finally, gesturing with the blade.
His gaze flicked to the knife, then back to your face, head tilting slightly. “…teach?”
You stopped mid-motion, brows pulling together. “Teach you?”
He nodded once, quietly. His lips cracked as he licked them, voice rough. “Teach… blade.”
You stared for a long moment, then huffed out a sharp laugh. “You’d lose your flimsy wrists trying to swing it.”
But he didn’t move. He just kept watching, patient, waiting, as though your refusal didn’t matter. As though he’d already decided you would.
Something in your chest tightened, and before you could stop yourself, you shoved the knife toward him hilt-first. “Fine. Try not to cut your own damn head off.”
´ཀ`
You weren’t lying—his limbs were frail.
The first time he gripped the knife, his hand trembled with the effort. The veins in his arm bulged dark, his skin pale and waxy under the flickering light. He held it awkwardly, blade angled out like he didn’t understand how to keep it close. You stepped in, curling your hands around his, adjusting the grip. His body stilled instantly, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat.
“Relax,” you muttered, guiding his wrist inward. “Keep it close, like this. If you overextend, they’ll grab you before you can pull back.”
Your fingers brushed over his knuckles as you adjusted his stance, pressing his arm downward until the blade sat low against his thigh. You didn’t miss the way his body shuddered under your touch, the way his chest hitched with a shallow, uneven breath. When you glanced up, his eyes were locked on you, pupils dilated, lips parted.
“What?” you demanded, irritation flaring to hide the sudden heat in your own chest.
His throat worked, jaw tight. “…warm,” he rasped, voice hoarse.
You rolled your eyes and shoved his wrist lightly. “Focus.”
But when you stepped back, you couldn’t help noticing the way his jeans strained, the bulge heavy and obvious even through the worn denim. You felt your stomach twist, heat crawling up the back of your neck.
“Seriously?” You muttered under your breath.
He blinked down at himself, face unreadable, but when his gaze dragged back to you, he said nothing. He just shifted slightly, grip tightening on the blade, as though embarrassment wasn’t something his body remembered how to feel.
´ཀ`
Training him became another routine in your oh so busy schedule.
Every morning after the jarring wake-up, you spent an hour in the open tunnels of the subway, broken tiles crunching beneath your boots, teaching him the basics. How to hold the blade without wasting energy. How to block without breaking his wrist. How to stab deep enough to make it count.
His movements were delayed and clumsy, but he was relentless. Every correction you made, every touch on his shoulder, wrist, or chest sent another shiver through him. You could see it in the way his chest rose too rapidly and in the way his hands trembled harder when your palms pressed against his skin. You ignored it as best you could, muttering curses and pushing him back into form, but it was impossible to miss the hard, insistent press against his jeans every single time.
By the third morning, you stopped commenting.
He never apologized. Never explained. He just stared at you with that same hollow intensity, as if the warmth of your skin against his was more important than the weapon in his hand.
´ཀ`
The strangest part was how he began to change.
At first he moved like a marionette with half its strings cut, limbs jerking awkwardly, every swing of the blade off balance. But the more time you spent with him, the smoother his motions became. His stance grew firmer, his grip steadier.
And when you brushed your hands over his chest to straighten his posture, you felt it—a faint heat, not yours, not stolen from your skin, but something flickering deep in him. Something was trying to wake.
He didn’t notice it at first. But you did.
His breathing grew deeper during training, less ragged. The tremors in his hands eased when he lifted the blade. His eyes, once glazed with the flatness of something not-quite-living, began to sharpen. They followed you not just with hunger but with something else, something searching, almost human.
It unsettled you more than the bulges in his jeans ever could.
One morning, after a particularly long session of sparring, you shoved him back against the wall, blade pressed to his throat to test his reflexes. His chest heaved under your palm, his breath fanning against your cheek. The knife trembled in his grip, caught between your bodies.
“Better,” you muttered, leaning into him. “You’re not completely hopeless.”
He stared down at you, lips parted, chest rising fast. For a moment you swore you felt the faintest pulse under your hand, something fluttering like wings against bone.
“…warm,” he whispered again, but his voice had changed. It wasn’t the hoarse, broken rasp you’d first heard. It was more solid, fuller, and touched with something like awe.
Your throat tightened, heat curling low in your belly before you shoved yourself back, glaring up at him. “Don’t get used to it.”
He didn’t argue. He just watched you, blade still in his trembling hand, jeans straining with another insistent bulge that neither of you acknowledged.
And in the silence that followed, you realized the apocalypse had just gotten a lot more complicated.
´ཀ`
The creek was the first sound of real life you’d heard in weeks. The soft rush of water trickling over smooth stones, the whisper of reeds in the breeze—it felt almost obscene, like you’d stumbled into some secret pocket of the world that hadn’t been gutted yet. You crouched at the edge of the stream, fingers curling into the moss-slick rocks, and exhaled slowly.
The grime clung to you—sweat, dirt, and traces of blood that never seemed to fully wash away with rations of bottled water. This was a risk. Stripping down in the open, submerging yourself where anything could come creeping. But you couldn’t stand the stink of yourself anymore.
You muttered as you pulled at the straps of your pack, talking half to fill the silence, half to drown the pounding of your heart. “Crazy. Really crazy. Middle of the goddamn apocalypse, and I’m taking a bath like some woodland fairy.” Your knife was set within arm’s reach on the bank, but it felt like a flimsy comfort.
You pulled off your shirt, the sweat-stiff fabric dragging over your skin, and tossed it aside. The air felt almost cool against your sticky flesh.
“And all the while that freak is still following me.” You shook your head, shoving your pants down. “A zombie. A fucking zombie. Christ.”
From the treeline beyond the creek, Choso stood rooted to the earth, hidden among the shadows. He’d trailed you here without hesitation, just as he had every day since you’d met him. He didn’t understand why—only that he couldn’t stop. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as his gaze fixed on you, unblinking.
He should have turned away. He should have stayed back. But when your bare legs caught the light, when your ass came into view as you bent to peel off the last of your clothing, he froze in place, hunger and heat crawling up his spine like fire. His jaw clenched hard, teeth digging into his lower lip until it split faintly, but still he didn’t look away.
His cock stirred, heavy and slow at first, swelling with every second his eyes traced the curve of your body. His jeans were already stretched thin from the constant, unwanted arousal your presence sparked in him, but this was worse—this was sharp, urgent. He shifted against the tree, groaning low in his throat as his pale fingers dragged down the front of his pants.
You waded into the creek, hissing at the chill, the water biting cold against overheated skin. Cupping handfuls of it, you splashed your arms, then your chest, biting back a gasp as the filth loosened and slid away. You tipped your head back, wetting your hair, eyes shut, sighing soft relief as the water washed over you.
“This is insane,” you muttered again, your voice carrying faintly across the bank. “The world ends, and I’ve got a zombie stalker who never leaves. Bet he’s watching me right now. God.”
Her words twisted into him, into the heat pooling in his gut. Choso’s hand had already closed around his cock, and the size of it filled his palm until his knuckles strained. Pale skin and dark veins coiled up its thick length, pulsing faintly as though something inside him still remembered how.
He swallowed hard, gaze dragging over the soft swell of your breasts as you scrubbed at your skin, nipples peaked from the cold water. His chest shuddered with a groan, lips pressing tight against his fist to muffle it, the sound rough and needy.
His cock jerked, heavy in his grip, swinging slightly with the force of his pulse. He stroked gently at first, long pulls of his fist from base to tip, thumb brushing over the flushed head where precum beaded and smeared. The sound of his own breath grew ragged, rasping loud in his ears, but the sight of you rinsing your thighs, the curve of your hips glistening under the water, drove him faster.
His eyes became smaller, and his brows tightened as he worked himself harder, each tug sending a sharp ache through his gut.
Your back arched slightly as you bent forward, wet hair clinging to your shoulders, and he nearly lost control right there. The shape of your ass, slick with water, caught the fading light in a way that made his vision swim.
His hand contracted, stroking faster now, every vein standing out bold and dark under his pale skin. Drool slipped from the corner of his mouth as he bit down on his fist to keep from groaning too loud, hips jerking forward against his own palm.
He couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop swallowing hard every time your hands slid over your body, over breasts he ached to touch, down to the soft mound between your thighs. You muttered again, sighing as the water lapped against you, and the sound of your voice mixed with the slap of his fist against his cock until he thought he might break apart.
“Fuck,” he hissed into his palm, voice breaking.
His body shook as his strokes turned frantic, his other hand braced against the rough bark of the tree to keep himself upright. His cock was massive in his grip, veins thick and straining, the flushed head slick with precum. His hips bucked shallowly into his hand, each thrust making the denim of his jeans creak and strain.
The pressure built sharp, hot, and unstoppable. His vision blurred as his mouth dropped open, muffling a broken groan against his hand. His cock throbbed once, then again, and he came hard—thick strands of cum spilling over his pale fingers, dripping down the length of his shaft, staining the waistband of his ruined jeans. His body shook with it, shudders racking his frame as he braced against the tree, muffling the low groans tearing from his chest.
For a moment, he thought he was going to collapse. The force of it wrung through him like lightning, and underneath it, faint but real, he felt it: a pulse. A flutter of life deep in his body, something he hadn’t felt in years. He couldn’t tell if it was in his chest or throbbing in his cock, but it was there. Alive.
He sagged against the tree, breath ragged, fingers sticky with his release. His eyes stayed locked on you as you rinsed the last of the dirt from your skin, standing tall again in the stream. You stretched, spine arching, unaware of the way he was still staring, chest heaving, body trembling from what he’d just done.
You dressed quickly, tugging your shirt and pants back on, muttering to yourself about the cold and the stupidity of bathing in a creek with a monster at your back. In your exhaustion, you left something behind.
Your panties lay draped over a rock, pale fabric clinging damp from the water. You shoved the rest of your belongings back into your bag and walked off, never glancing back to check.
Choso waited until the sound of your footsteps faded into the trees. Only then did he stumble forward, wiping his slick hand down his thigh, crouching low at the water’s edge. His fingers trembled as they reached for the fabric, lifting it carefully as though it might crumble in his grasp.
He pressed the damp cotton to his face, breathing in faint traces of your warmth, your scent, his brows furrowing as another groan rattled out of him.
The panties dangled from his pale fingers as he stood, cock still half-hard in his jeans, chest heaving with shallow breaths. He stared down at the fabric like it was a relic, something fragile and holy. And with each beat of silence, he wondered if the faint, impossible pulse he felt was hers—or his own.
´ཀ`
The night settled heavy in the ruins, the sky bruised black and streaked with faint stars where the city lights used to be. You had made camp in what was left of a laundromat, the walls tagged with graffiti, the scent of mold thick in the damp air.
A fire burned low in a tin barrel, just enough to take the chill off your skin. You sat on the cracked tile floor with your knees drawn up, blade resting near your thigh. He sat opposite you, broad shoulders hunched, long hair hanging like a curtain around his pale face.
It had been weeks now—weeks of him trailing you, watching you, hovering like a shadow you couldn’t shake. At first it had been maddening, nerve-shredding.
Now, though, you found yourself almost… used to him. You’d begun to talk more, even if most of the time his answers came out clipped, single words that sounded like they were dragged up from somewhere deep and painful. But tonight felt different.
Maybe it was the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. Maybe it was the way his chest rose deeper than usual, like breath wasn’t as much of a fight as it had been before. Or maybe it was simply exhaustion loosening your tongue, your body too tired to keep every thought inside.
“You know,” you said, staring into the flames, “if the world hadn’t ended, you’d probably be the worst roommate ever. Never sleeping, never shutting up with all that breathing…” You smirked faintly. “Not to mention standing over me while I’m out cold. Imagine explaining that to a landlord.”
A rasping noise escaped him—half groan, half choke. For a moment you thought he didn’t get it. But then he shifted, shoulders shaking faintly, and the sound cracked again. It wasn’t a groan this time. It was a laugh. Rough, broken, but a laugh.
Your head snapped toward him, startled. “Did you—did you just laugh?”
His lips parted, showing faint teeth, and his eyes lit with a spark you hadn’t seen before. “Funny,” he said, voice hoarse but clear.
Something warm twisted in your chest. You blinked at him, stunned, and then—before you could help yourself—you pushed the joke further. “Well, at least you wouldn’t eat my leftovers. Perks of living with the undead.”
This time, the laugh came easier. Short, low, and strange in his throat, but real. His lips curled faintly, and you caught a flash of something that looked so human it made your stomach drop.
You froze, cheeks heating. You weren’t used to him being like this. You weren’t used to seeing light in those shadowed eyes and weren’t ready for the faint flush that spread over his cheeks, pale skin tinged with the softest hue of red.
“Wait,” you said softly, eyes narrowing. “Are you—are you blushing?”
His head jerked slightly, as if the word confused him. He blinked, then reached up, fingers grazing the skin of his cheek. His eyes widened, lips parted, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked embarrassed.
The sight made your breath hitch.
You didn’t know who leaned in first. Maybe it was him, drawn forward by something he couldn’t name. Maybe it was you, caught in the pull of that impossible warmth in his eyes. Either way, suddenly he was closer, the firelight painting his features sharp and shadowed, his breath cool against your mouth.
Then his lips crashed into yours.
The kiss was hard, messy, and desperate. His mouth was cool but insistent, his lips cracked but pressing hungrily against yours. You gasped into it, hand fisting in his shirt, and that was all the invitation he needed. His tongue pressed forward, slick and strange, darker than it should be, sliding against yours.
It tasted like copper and ash, like flesh and something foreign, but you didn’t care. Your body lit up, heat pooling low in your stomach as you kissed him back just as hard, just as recklessly.
He groaned into your mouth, a sound raw and needy, his hands trembling as they cupped your face, his thumbs smearing faint dirt across your cheeks. His body pressed close, and you felt the hard line of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh as he kissed you deeper.
You pulled back just enough to breathe, panting, eyes broad as you stared at him. His lips were wet and parted, a string of saliva connecting your mouths for a heartbeat before it snapped. His pupils were blown wide, a faint flush still burning across his cheeks.
“Choso…” you whispered, your chest heaving.
He swallowed hard, voice breaking as he rasped, “Warm.”
The word snapped through you, dragging a needy ache between your thighs. Your body pressed closer on instinct, and his cock jerked against you, heavy and swollen. He whimpered low, a sound that cracked like it was torn from deep inside him.
You kissed him again, hard and bruising, his tongue sliding messily against yours, your teeth clicking as you pulled at his hair. The heat of it, the need in him, was overwhelming. He kissed like he’d been waiting lifetimes, like he’d never thought he’d be allowed this. His hands shook as they slid down your back, gripping tight, holding you as if you might vanish.
By the time you tore yourself away, your lips were swollen, your thighs slick with need, and your chest pumping like you’d run for miles. He stared at you, panting, his cock straining so hard it pressed against the zipper of his jeans. His whole body trembled, caught between hunger and restraint.
You forced yourself to step back, to pull your blanket over your shoulders.
“We should… we should sleep,” you muttered, voice unsteady.
The sound that escaped him was pitiful—a broken whimper, quiet but sharp, his eyes clouded with need as he reached out a trembling hand that never touched you.
You turned from him, curling under your blanket, heart pounding so hard you swore it might shake the tiles. Behind you, his breathing grew coarse and thin, as if each inhale fought the weight of his own arousal.
And as your body burned with want and his cock throbbed painfully against denim, neither of you found sleep easily.
´ཀ`
Rain hammered against the city ruins, turning the broken streets into slick veins of water. You walked with your head low, coat drawn tight, trying to pretend he wasn’t a shadow at your back. Every time you veered to the left, he followed. Every time you slowed, he slowed too. And after that kiss—after the way his tongue had slid into your mouth, the way his cock had pressed thick against your thigh—you couldn’t bear to look at him.
Not when you’d spent the night with your own fingers between your legs, gasping into your blanket while imagining his mouth, his hands, and the roughness of his voice rasping “warm” against your skin.
But when you dared to glance back at him now, he looked different. Not fully alive—never that—but not as hollow as before. His cheeks held faint color, his lips were fuller, and his eyes were brighter in the dim light. It made your stomach twist.
He looked at you like a stray dog left in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, shoulders hunched, still trailing close as if distance would break him. You tightened your jaw and forced yourself to turn away, quickening your steps.
“Don’t,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t do this.”
Your fingers twitched at your sides, remembering the way you’d curled them deep inside yourself last night, biting your own hand to keep quiet, imagining his weight pressing you down. You shook your head hard, trying to drown it out, trying to focus on the rain, on the slick roads, on the ache in your thighs.
The growl came from behind you.
Before you could spin, cold hands were on your shoulders, yanking you back. You screamed, blade half-raised, but then the weight tore away. Choso’s body slammed into the creature, driving it to the ground with a feral roar. His hands ripped into its throat, dark blood spilling over his pale fingers. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving as he tore it apart, piece by piece, until the snarls faded into silence.
You stood frozen, rain plastering your hair to your face, heart pounding as he rose from the corpse. His hands dripped red, his lips parted, and his eyes were wild—and it hit you low in the gut, sharp and hungry. You had never been so turned on by violence.
“Choso…” you breathed, barely audible.
He groaned at the sound, stumbling toward you. His hands, still wet with gore, caught your waist, dragging you close before his mouth crushed against yours. The kiss was filthy, his tongue slick and insistent, the taste of blood and rain mixing with the faint sweetness that made you pause. He tasted better now, fresher, almost human.
Your eyes flicked open mid-kiss, and against his mouth you murmured, “Did you… steal my mints?”
His chest shook with a rough huff that might have been a chuckle or might have been a growl. He answered not with words but by dragging you backward, lips never leaving yours, until your spine hit the wall of a derelict building. The wet bricks scraped your back, but you barely noticed. His hips pressed into yours, cock straining hard against his jeans, grinding into your heat with desperate, clumsy rhythm.
“Fuck it,” you gasped between kisses, voice cracking. “Haven’t seen a live man for years—”
He cut you off with another kiss, wet and messy, his tongue filling your mouth as he groaned. Each buck of his hips sent sparks shooting through your stomach. His hair was shaggy, plastered to his face with rain, with strands sticking to your lips as you kissed. He bit your lower lip, sharp enough to sting, then sucked it into his mouth, groaning like he couldn’t stop himself.
You whimpered, legs trembling, and he moved fast—hands sliding down your thighs, gripping tight as he hauled you up against the wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, locking him closer. His cock pressed heavy and hot against your soaked shorts, the friction obscene as he rutted up against you, breath breaking in your ear.
His hands slid under your shirt, fingers still smeared with blood as they palmed your breasts. You moaned loud, too loud, arching into his touch, and panic flared hot in your chest at the thought of drawing more monsters. His hand flew up to cover your mouth, palm heavy, smearing the taste of iron across your lips as he pressed you harder into the wall. His eyes burned into yours, wide and urgent, as if begging you to stay quiet.
You muffled a cry into his hand as his other slipped down, pushing under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers brushed hot over your folds, then found your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles that made your vision swim.
“Choso—” you whimpered against his palm.
He groaned your name in answer, his forehead pressing into your temple, his hips bucking against you in helpless rhythm. His voice cracked, hoarse, as he whined it again, your name ripped out of him like a prayer.
Your thighs trembled, back arching into the wall as his fingers worked you faster, dragging wetness over your clit until your breath came in ragged gasps. His mouth moved down to your neck, teeth grazing before biting hard enough to leave marks. He licked the sting away, groaning into your skin, smearing blood and spit as his lips sucked bruises into the curve of your throat.
“Don’t—don’t turn me,” you gasped between moans, your voice desperate and thin.
His hips bucked harder, cock grinding into your soaked shorts, leaking pre-cum that dampened the fabric. His brows furrowed, face twisted with something sharp, almost pained. “Think… you’re turning me,” he rasped, voice hoarse, broken.
Your body shuddered at the words, heat flooding through you. His cock twitched hard against you, so close you could almost feel the head press at your folds through your clothes. His fingers moved faster, slick with your wetness, rubbing hard against your clit until you were moaning into his palm, muffled and messy.
He whimpered again, broken and needy, as his mouth dragged down your throat, biting harder, tasting the mix of rain and blood on your skin. Your thighs clenched around his waist, body straining, every nerve on fire under his touch.
The two of you were brutal and desperate, clinging to each other like the world could end all over again at any second. And maybe it already had. Because right there, with his bloody hands under your clothes and his tongue branding your skin, you didn’t care what he was. All you cared about was the way he made you feel—alive, burning, warm.
Choso lowered you carefully, one large hand cupping the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the ground too hard. The floor was cold beneath your back, the concrete slick from rain seeping through the roof above, but you hardly noticed with the heat of him crowding over you.His breathing was uneven and rapid, his dark hair falling in damp strands around his face as he hovered above you.
For a moment, there was only the sound of rain hammering against the boarded-up windows and the frantic thud of your heart.
Then his mouth found yours again.
It wasn’t gentle—he kissed like a starving man (which technically he was), like he didn’t know if you’d ever let him again. His lips dragged hard over yours, wet and hungry, tongue sliding past your teeth to twist with yours, tasting you deeply. His groan rumbled through your chest as you arched up into him, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling until he gasped into your mouth. He swallowed every sound you made and kissed you until your lungs ached, until you were dizzy with want.
His hand trailed lower, sliding over your ribs and your belly, until his long fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. They weren’t cold, but they weren’t fully warm either, some strange in-between that sent a shiver crawling over your skin. His thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing slow, maddening circles that had your thighs twitching. Two fingers pushed inside you, stretching you open with a deliberate curl that made your hips jerk.
You gasped, breaking the kiss, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his fingers curled again, dragging along your inner walls. “Choso—”
He groaned at the sound of his name, lowering his forehead to yours. His dark eyes glowed faintly in the dim light filtering through the cracks in the walls, pupils wide and blown as he worked his fingers deeper, faster. Your breath hitched, a whimper slipping from your lips as his thumb circled harder over your clit, coaxing your body toward the edge with every motion.
The rain thundered harder outside, and somewhere in the middle of it he pulled back just enough to shove his pants down, the sound of wet denim tearing at the seams filling the air. When your gaze dropped, your breath caught.
His cock was thick, impossibly so, heavy enough to hang toward his thigh even as it twitched in his pale palm. Veins stood out dark and roped along its length, pulsing faintly, the flushed head beading with pre-cum that gleamed in the low gray light. He wrapped a hand around the base, stroking once, slow, and the sight made your stomach clench.
Your eyes widened, a shocked laugh escaping before you could stop it. “What the hell…”
The head of his cock twitched at your voice, precum spilling over his fingers, and he groaned low in his throat. He didn’t answer—just pressed his fingers faster inside you, curling until your back arched off the ground, until your eyes rolled back. The wet squelch of your pussy mixed with the sound of the rain, and you moaned, helpless, hips rocking against his hand.
“Please,” he rasped, voice breaking, his dark hair hanging in his face as he stared down at where his fingers disappeared inside you. “Please… cum.”
You did. Your body clenched around him, your orgasm tearing through you in hot, messy waves that had you crying out, your thighs shaking as your slick coated his hand. He groaned, dragging his fingers out only to bring them to his lips, licking them clean with a hunger that made your chest tighten.
Before you could fully come down, he hooked his hands under your knees and shoved your shorts down, not caring about the grime or the blood smeared across your thighs. He pressed your legs up and over his shoulders, spreading you open so wide you gasped, the angle obscene, your swollen pussy glistening in the gray light.
Then he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and before you could speak, before you could beg or protest, he pushed in.
It was overwhelming.
Your breath caught sharp, your nails digging into his biceps as the stretch burned and then bloomed into something hotter, deeper. He groaned, a sound almost like a sob, his brows furrowed, his hair dripping onto your chest as he bottomed out with one steady, unstoppable thrust.
“Too—too big,” you gasped, your voice breaking.
He nodded against your shoulder, teeth clenched, but he didn’t pull back. His cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt, the wet squeeze of your walls making him shudder violently. His breath fanned against your neck as he stayed there for a moment, shaking, trying not to move.
Then you dragged your nails down his arms, a silent demand, and he broke.
He started slow, dragging his cock out until only the thick head remained inside, then thrusting back in with a wet slap that had you moaning. His pace picked up quickly, each thrust harder, rougher, his hips snapping against yours until the sound of his balls slapping against your ass drowned out the rain. The air was thick with the noise of your pussy squelching, sucking him in with every movement, soaking him as his pace turned frantic.
He dropped his head, catching your mouth in another bruising kiss, swallowing your cries as he pressed you into the concrete. His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, folding you nearly in half until your knees pressed against your chest. Each deep thrust forced a choked moan from you, and he whined against your lips, fucking into you like a man who’d just learned how to live.
“You—” His voice was broken and raw as he thrust deeper and more forcefully, his cock stretching you with every push. “You feel… so good. So tight. So—”
“Stop talking,” you gasped, your hand tangling in his hair and yanking his mouth back to yours.
He whimpered against your lips, muffled and helpless, rutting into you with desperate, messy thrusts. His balls slapped against your ass, the sound filthy and wet, his hips grinding down at the end of each stroke until you felt him everywhere.
He broke the kiss only to drag his mouth down your chest, his teeth catching your shirt and tugging it up until your breasts spilled free. He latched onto one immediately, sucking hard, teeth scraping against your nipple until you gasped, hips jerking. His other hand squeezed your breast roughly, fingers pinching, and he groaned, muttering against your skin.
“So… warm,” he panted, his hips bucking faster. “God—so warm—”
Your thighs trembled, sore from how wide he’d spread you, but you didn’t care. “Faster,” you hissed, and his body obeyed instantly.
He drove into you stronger and faster, his rhythm almost brutal now, each thrust making the abandoned building echo with the wet slap of your bodies. His teeth marked your breasts, your collarbone, and your neck, leaving bruises that would bloom tomorrow. He kissed you again, sloppy, your teeth clashing, tongues tangling, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths.
His hips stuttered once, twice, then he was cumming, hard, his cock jerking deep inside you as hot, thick ropes of cum spilled against your cervix. His breath broke into a strangled cry, forehead pressed against yours, his entire body shuddering as he filled you.
The sensation dragged you over the edge again. You came with a cry, your walls fluttering around him, milking him for every drop until it spilled out around his cock, dripping down your ass to the cold concrete below.
He kissed you through it, sloppy and messy, your lips and teeth colliding as he groaned into your mouth, still twitching inside you. When the last of your orgasm left you shaking, he collapsed against your chest, breath ragged, cock still buried deep.
The rain kept falling outside, but in that ruined building, all you could hear was your own heartbeat—and the quiet, trembling sound of him whispering, almost reverent, “Alive.”
Your legs were still shaking when he pulled out—just barely, just enough for the wet slap of his cock against your inner thigh to echo between you. His release dripped down your slit, thick and hot, and for a moment you thought he might be done.
But then he grabbed your hips, turned you over, and shoved back in from behind with a guttural sound that made your breath catch.
The angle was brutal, his cock driving deep enough to make your elbows buckle. Your cheek pressed against the cold concrete as he rutted into you, his hips snapping forward in sharp, desperate thrusts. The wet squelch of your cunt swallowed the sound of the rain outside, each movement sending his balls smacking against you with obscene rhythm. You cried out into your arm, your body rocking forward with each thrust, and he leaned over you, his chest pressed against your back, groaning into your hair.
The position had him bottoming out with every push, his cock grinding into the deepest spot inside you until your toes curled and your vision blurred. “Choso—” you gasped, voice muffled by the floor.
He whimpered, actually whimpered, hips faltering for just a moment before driving in harder, faster, like he couldn’t help himself. “Warm,” he choked against your ear, his breath wet and hot, his pace turning sloppy. “So warm—please—don’t stop—”
When you pushed up on your hands, he grabbed your arms, yanking you upright until you were on your knees, his cock still buried to the hilt. His hands slid up your ribs to cup your breasts, fingers squeezing, rolling your nipples between them until you were shaking. His thrusts slowed to deep, dragging strokes, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open. Your head fell back against his shoulder, mouth open, gasping his name as he fucked into you slow and heavy.
Then you reached back, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging until he groaned. “Harder,” you panted.
And he obeyed.
He pushed you forward until your palms hit the ground again, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. This time his pace was merciless, hips snapping hard enough to make your knees scrape against the floor. You could feel his cock hitting so deep it almost hurt, the head dragging against that perfect spot until you were keening, wetness spilling around him.
The sounds were obscene: the wet slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your slick, and his low, ragged groans mixing with the broken little noises that spilled from your throat.
When your arms gave out, he flipped you over completely, dragging your legs apart until your back hit the floor again. He pressed your knees to your chest and sank back in with a growl, his body covering yours, his face buried against your neck as he thrust into you. This position was worse—better—each push forcing a sharp cry from your throat as he pounded into your soaked cunt.
You felt his tears before you saw them, hot drops hitting your collarbone as his rhythm faltered. You reached up, cupping his face in your bloody hands, forcing him to look at you. His cheeks were streaked wet, his lashes clumped, and his expression wild and desperate.
“Choso,” you whispered, thumb swiping across his cheek.
He made a broken sound, hips rutting into you harder as though he could crawl inside you and stay there forever. Your walls fluttered around him, clenching tight as he whined your name again and again, the sound cracking like a prayer.
Your orgasm hit fast and hard, tearing through you as you clawed at his biceps, your body convulsing around his cock. He fucked you through it, crying into your neck, until his hips jerked forward and he spilled inside you again—thick, hot ropes that made your stomach feel molten.
And then—silence.
For a long moment, he stayed there, trembling, buried to the hilt. Then his head jerked like he’d been struck, and he pressed a hand to his chest.
You blinked up at him, confused, until you saw it. His chest rose deep, and beneath your bloody palm you felt it: a pulse.
Your breath caught. “You—”
His wide eyes searched yours, terrified and awed all at once. His skin was still pale, but not the gray-blue of death—there was a faint flush now, a sheen of sweat. The veins that had been dark and ropey looked softer, his lips pink, not cracked.
“You’re warm,” you murmured, and he nodded once, swallowing hard.
When your hand slid down between your bodies, his cock twitched hard inside you, still half-hard, still wet with both your releases. The pulse was there too, throbbing against your walls.
He moved before you could say anything else, capturing your mouth in another bruising kiss, his hips pulling back only to drive forward again. This time it was slower and deeper, each stroke deliberate, filling you until you felt him in your stomach.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, locking him closer as he fucked into you, sweat dripping from his temple onto your chest. His cum was already leaking around him, making everything wetter and louder, every thrust a squelch that echoed off the walls.
When you whimpered, he pressed his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound as his pace built again. His hands slid under your shirt, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until you moaned into his mouth.
“Please,” he whispered against your lips, voice raw, “again.”
And you did.
You came with a choked cry, nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave welts. He followed immediately, hips jerking, cock twitching as he spilled another hot load inside you, groaning into your neck as if it hurt to stop.
The air was thick with the smell of sex and blood, the rain still hammering outside but fading beneath the sound of your ragged breathing.
When he finally collapsed beside you, you stayed there together, tangled and filthy, your skin slick with sweat and his cum still dripping out of you onto the floor. His head rested on your shoulder, his hair sticking to your chest, his arms wrapped tight around your waist like he was afraid you might slip away.
Choso stayed there for a long moment, still buried inside you, his cock softening but not leaving your cunt. His face was pressed against the curve of your neck, lips parted, breath warm against your damp skin.
Finally, with a shudder that felt reluctant, he eased out of you, the wet drag leaving you stretched and sticky. His cum spilled from you in a slow, thick drip, running down the inside of your thighs. He watched it like a man hypnotized before tearing his gaze away and shifting closer, catching your hips before you could move.
He helped you roll onto your side, his big hands surprisingly careful, steadying you as he pulled your ruined shorts fully off. He grabbed what was left of his shirt, ripping it down the seam, and used the softest piece of fabric to wipe between your thighs. His movements were clumsy, hands trembling, but gentle—so gentle it made your throat tighten.
“Easy,” you muttered, your voice hoarse but softer now. You reached down, covering his hand with yours. “You’re not going to break me.”
He glanced up at you through damp strands of hair, eyes glassy, lips pressing together like he was trying to hold something in.
“Here,” you said, guiding his hand. “You’re missing—there.”
His thumb brushed over your swollen clit as he wiped the last of his fluid away, and you twitched, breath catching. He froze immediately, eyes wide, but you huffed out a quiet laugh.
“Relax,” you said, settling back down. “At least your cock isn’t the only thing with blood flow now.”
His brows furrowed, like he was trying to understand the joke, and then he let out a low, broken sound that might’ve been a laugh if his throat weren’t so wrecked.
When he finished, he set the rag aside and leaned over you, kissing your temple carefully. His fingers brushed your hair back from your damp forehead, lingering at your cheek, tracing you like he was memorizing the shape of you.
You let him.
Your muscles ached, your thighs were sore, and your chest was still rising and falling too fast. He seemed to notice because he tugged you into his lap, settling you so your back rested against his chest. His hands wrapped around your waist, holding you there, not pushing for anything more—just keeping you close.
The quiet felt heavier now, charged but not tense. You let yourself rest against him, letting your head tip back against his shoulder. His pulse thrummed under your palm when you reached for his chest, feeling the beat steady and strong. He was still pale, still otherworldly, but less corpse-like now—his veins less dark, his lips fuller, his body warmer.
You turned your head enough to look at him. His lashes were wet, cheeks streaked with dried tears, but his expression was softer now, calmer.
“You’re not going back, are you?” you asked quietly.
He swallowed, eyes dropping to where your fingers still rested over his heart. “…no.”
“Good.”
You leaned up and kissed him again, slower this time, a lazy, wet press of lips that tasted like blood and rain. He responded almost shyly, cupping your face with hands still faintly stained red, deepening the kiss just enough to leave you breathless again.
When you finally pulled back, you stayed there in his arms, the both of you bloody, sweaty, and exhausted. Your thighs were still tacky with the mess he’d left inside you, but you didn’t move to clean up again. You just let him hold you until the sound of rain faded completely and the only thing you could hear was his breathing—and the steady, living beat of his heart.
Do not plagiarize my work. Do not translate or copy onto other sites. All rights reserved to @nimueshell.
Summary: The school is watching two grown adults have the pettiest power struggle in history over who gets the principal position. The sexual tension is just a tragic side effect you’re pretending not to notice. Spoiler: you notice.
Substance: MDNI!, f!vice principal reader, Gojo!vice principal, ooc nanami, violence, vice principal au, enemies to lovers, smut with plot, oral (f receiving), hate sex, bickering, petty sabotage, hallway arguments, dark humor, vulgar language, desk sex, semi-public sex, power struggle, banter, comedy, ridiculous drama, office pranks, fingering, sexual tension, unprofessional behavior, rough kissing, hair pulling, face grabbing, name-calling, dirty talk, degradation (consensual), brat taming, spanking, overstimulation, thigh riding, marking, hate-fueled makeouts, mutual pining, inappropriate use of school property, eventual feelings.
Word Count: 15.6k
A/N: gosssh sorry I haven't uploaded in weeks, I've been depressed haha. but I fucking lost it writing this one..because i didn't sleep so i wrote it sleep deprived. but it's like honestly my favorite ones I've written, and i hope you guys enjoy it.
The morning started like every other at Jujutsu High: burnt coffee steaming in a dented pot, half-stale donuts sagging on a paper plate, and the faint smell of bleach that never quite masked the rot of adolescence clinging to the hallways. You sat at the long conference table with your arms crossed, eyes flicking around the room like you were already preparing to body-slam anyone who breathed too loud. Faculty meetings were hell on earth.
Teachers yammering about funding for the drama club, whispering gossip about who got caught drunk at last week’s football game, and Yaga mumbling through another agenda as though anyone here gave a damn.
Except today was different.
Yaga cleared his throat, beard twitching with the weight of the words, and said it like it wasn’t the equivalent of dropping a bomb in the middle of the staff room: “I’ll be retiring at the end of the semester.”
The silence was thick. Teachers froze mid-sip, paper shuffling stilled, and somewhere in the back, a PE teacher muttered a curse under his breath. Your jaw tightened. Your shot. Finally. Principal. The top seat. The crown jewel of this miserable high school kingdom. You could practically see your nameplate on the desk already.
And then, across the table, he moved.
Gojo Satoru.
The human migraine.
He was sitting there in a custom navy suit that looked like it cost more than your entire yearly salary, jacket unbuttoned like he wanted to make sure everyone noticed the crisp white shirt and the faint gleam of a watch that belonged in a jewelry ad. His silver hair gleamed under the fluorescent lights, styled like he had a personal assistant to fluff it every morning.
He leaned back in his chair, legs spread just wide enough to make you want to drive your pen straight into his thigh, lips curved into that ridiculous smirk he never seemed to wipe off. He adjusted his glasses with a lazy flick of his finger, as if this was his meeting, his retirement announcement, his throne.
Your blood boiled.
“Guess we’ll finally get some competent leadership around here,” you said, loud enough that the whole room stiffened.
Gojo tilted his head, sunglasses catching the light. “Aw, sweetheart, don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you’ll make a great secretary.”
The table groaned like a collective wince. Your nails dug into your palms.
“You look like a cologne ad had a stroke,” you shot back, words sharp enough to cut glass. “That suit? Overcompensating. And those glasses? No one thinks you’re mysterious. You look like a magician whose rabbit filed a restraining order.”
Gojo’s grin widened, delighted, like you’d just handed him a bouquet. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his voice low and sing-song. “You’re cute when you’re angry. Do you always shake like that? Or is that just for me?”
You could feel heat crawling up your neck, not blush–rage. Pure, unfiltered rage. “The only thing I’d shake for you is your obituary,” you hissed.
He chuckled, slow and smooth, tapping a manicured finger against the table. “You wound me. Here I was, thinking we’d make a power couple. Vice principal and… vice principal, battling it out in bed and in the boardroom. Sexy, no?”
“Sexy?” You barked a laugh, mean and humorless. “If they put you in charge, the school would be in flames by lunch. You’d spend the budget on silk ties and flavored lube.”
“Mm,” Gojo hummed, tilting his head with faux thoughtfulness. “Flavored lube is actually a pretty good investment. Morale booster.”
The math teacher nearly choked on his coffee. Someone muttered a prayer. You wanted to climb across the table and strangle him with his own tie.
“You don’t even take this seriously,” you spat. “You treat this place like your own personal playground, and the kids–God help the kids–actually like you. Which is tragic. They need discipline. Structure. Not some overgrown frat boy in designer clothes.”
Gojo’s smile dipped into something sharper.
“Discipline, huh?” He leaned closer, lowering his voice until it was just loud enough for you and maybe the unlucky few sitting nearby. “Bet you’d love to be the one handing that out. Ruler in hand. Skirt hiked. ‘Yes, sir, principal.’”
Your stomach twisted with hot fury. He said it like a joke, but his eyes glittered behind those glasses, watching the way you stiffened, waiting for the explosion.
“Say something like that again,” you growled, “and I’ll report you to HR so fast your fancy suit will be on a clearance rack at Goodwill.”
Gojo smirked, tilting his head. “Joke’s on you. HR quit after my last evaluation.”
The laughter that bubbled up from him was infuriating–loud, unbothered, and echoing through the room like he’d already won. Every word out of his mouth was gasoline, and you were the match. The staff were frozen, horrified witnesses to the verbal carnage unfolding between you two.
Yaga sighed into his coffee like a man counting down the minutes to retirement, no longer interested in pretending he had control.
You slammed your hand down on the table, coffee sloshing.
“You think this is a game, Gojo? You think this is cute? When I get that promotion, I’m cleaning house, starting with you. You’ll be begging me to keep you on as hall monitor.”
He leaned back again, smug and effortless, and let his gaze linger over you in a way that wasn’t just insulting–it was predatory. “Begging? I like the sound of that.”
It hit you like a slap. Not because of the words, but because of the way he said them, low and silky, dripping with innuendo. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t rattled. He was enjoying himself. He lived for this–your anger, your insults, the sparks flying like shrapnel.
You opened your mouth, ready to gut him with the sharpest insult you had, but Yaga stood, his chair screeching back.
“You know what?” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t care which one of you takes this school down. I’ll be on a beach somewhere. Enjoy the war.”
And just like that, he left, muttering under his breath, leaving the staff stunned and you and Gojo staring each other down across the table like generals preparing for battle.
Gojo’s lips curled, lazy and taunting. “May the best vice win.”
Your hand itched for something sharp. Instead, you grabbed your cold coffee, chugged it in one go, and stared him down with eyes full of venom. “I’m going to bury you.”
His grin widened, teeth flashing white. “Promise?”
The teachers scattered as soon as the meeting ended, desperate to avoid the blast radius. But you stayed, glaring at him, and he stayed, lounging in his expensive suit like he owned the place. And somewhere, in the pit of your stomach, beneath all the fury and loathing, you felt it: that sick, humiliating heat.
You hated him.
You hated how much you wanted to wipe that smirk off his face.
And the desire to have him pin you to the desk while you worked was something you absolutely detested.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
The morning air was sticky, the kind of wet heat that clung to your shirt and made the polyester slacks feel like a personal hell. You stood outside near the flagpole with a bundle of fabric heavy in your arms, the stars and stripes folded wrong because you didn’t care enough to do it properly.
Your teeth ground together as you watched him stroll across the lawn, late, sunglasses on, and suit jacket slung over one shoulder like he was walking a runway instead of school grounds.
Gojo Satoru moved like he was untouchable–hair perfectly styled despite the humidity, shoes so clean they practically reflected sunlight, and a smug grin already plastered on his face before he even opened his mouth. You could feel the insults boiling up before he got close, because of course today you were stuck on flag duty together. Of all people.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice cutting through the early quiet, loud enough for the janitor sweeping the steps to hear. “All patriotic and shit. Bet you touch yourself to military commercials.”
You didn’t even flinch. “At least I don’t jack off to my own reflection in the vending machine glass.”
He chuckled, deep and infuriating, sauntering closer. “Only when the angle’s good. Can’t help it if God decided to make me look this fine.”
You whipped the flag out, shaking it hard enough that it snapped like a whip in the air. “Fine? You look like a fucking cracked-out Ken doll in a discount suit. Every time you open your mouth, the entire school loses brain cells.”
Gojo stopped a foot away, slipping his jacket on with an obnoxious flourish. “That’s rich, coming from you. You look like you crawled out of the clearance bin at Walmart and decided to cosplay as ‘angry substitute teacher.’ What’s the endgame here? Yell at kids until they piss themselves and call that discipline? ”
Your knuckles whitened around the rope on the flagpole. “Better than prancing around like a fruity peacock, flirting with every student’s mom at conferences. You’re a fucking joke.”
He smirked, stepping in closer so the flagpole separated you like a line drawn in battle. “Yeah, but I’m the joke everyone wants to fuck. You? You’re the sad, bitter bitch they warn the freshmen about.”
Your voice came out sharp enough to cut. “The only thing they warn the freshmen about is not to get trapped in your office after hours because you’ll talk their ears off about your dick size.”
The words cracked through the air like a whip, and Gojo laughed so hard he threw his head back. It wasn’t joy–it was mockery, loud, filling the schoolyard like he wanted the whole building to hear.
“Jealous?” he asked when he caught his breath, leaning on the pole like he owned it. “Don’t worry, princess, if I become principal, I’ll let you kneel under the desk once in a while. Equal opportunity.”
Your eyes narrowed, voice dropping low and venomous. “If you were the last man alive, I’d rather fuck the flagpole.”
The tension was electric, thick with every insult flung across the short distance between you, until a gravelly voice broke it.
“For fuck’s sake,” Yaga barked. He was standing ten feet away, arms crossed, expression dark enough to kill weeds on sight. “You two sound like middle schoolers with Tourette’s. Shut the fuck up and raise the damn flag.”
You snapped your mouth shut, jaw tight, but the fury in your chest didn’t fade. Gojo smirked wider, clearly enjoying every second of Yaga’s disgust, and gave you a little wink as he tugged the flag from your hands. He hoisted it with exaggerated flair, rope snapping as it pulled taut, the flag climbing higher while he hummed the national anthem off-key.
“Proud to be an American,” he crooned, his voice deliberately awful. “Where at least I know I’m free.”
“Free from brain cells,” you muttered.
“Free from your fashion sense,” he shot back.
“Free from your whore mother’s dignity,” you said without blinking.
That one landed. He let out a low whistle, shoulders shaking in delight. “Goddamn. You’ve got claws today.”
Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about retirement not coming fast enough. “If either of you says another word, I’ll personally staple your mouths shut.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peace–it was restraint, thin and trembling, with both of you glaring across the pole as the flag finally reached the top. The moment Yaga turned his back, you leaned in close enough that only he could hear.
“I’ll burn that fancy suit in the parking lot before I let you sit in the principal’s chair.”
Gojo’s grin flashed. “Then I’ll just fuck you on the ashes.”
You shoved past him, heat crawling up your throat, nails biting into your palms to stop yourself from swinging.
The rest of the morning crawled, every class period dragging you closer to an inevitable explosion. By the time lunch rolled around, you were already simmering, ready to snap at the next idiot who crossed your path.
When you stepped into the teacher’s lounge, the air was thick with stale coffee and donut sugar, and there he was again–Gojo, holding court like a king on his throne. He’d brought donuts, no surprise. A dozen glazed donuts are stacked in a pink box on the table, as if sugar could cover up the stench of his ego.
“And then,” he was saying loudly to a cluster of teachers perched uncomfortably around him, “she starts yelling at me about the flag. The fucking flag! Like it was personally my fault she dresses like a menopausal lunch lady with anger issues. Can you imagine that? That’s our future principal.”
The math teacher laughed nervously. The gym teacher made a sound halfway between a grunt and a plea for mercy. You stayed by the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, listening as he twisted the knife.
“Honestly, it’s pathetic,” Gojo continued, leaning back in his chair with one hand draped over the box of donuts. “Every time she opens her mouth, it’s like someone fed a pitbull vodka and gave it a microphone. The kids don’t respect her. Hell, I don’t even think the copier respects her. At least I’ve got charisma. At least I’ve got style. She’s just… angry. All the time. Like, go get laid or something.”
The laughter this time was louder, uncomfortable but real. You could feel it prickling against your skin, hot and humiliating, but you didn’t give him the satisfaction of snapping. Not yet.
You walked in slow, every step deliberate, heels clicking against the tile. You didn’t say a word. You just went to the counter, poured yourself a cup of coffee so black it looked like tar, and took a seat across the room. Your silence was louder than his voice.
Gojo’s smirk grew. “Oh, look. Speaking of the devil. Or is it the bitch? Either way, she’s here. Perfect timing, sweetheart–want a donut? Might sweeten up that sour mug of yours.”
You didn’t look at him. You sipped your coffee, eyes on the wall, but your side-eye cut across the room like a blade. His words filled the space, dripping with venomous charm, but your stare told him exactly where you’d like to shove those donuts.
Gojo picked up a glazed, held it in his hand, and in a move as obscene as it was deliberate, crushed it into his palm until sugar and dough oozed between his fingers. He licked the glaze off with exaggerated slowness, tongue curling against his knuckles, never breaking eye contact.
The room went dead silent.
You stood, coffee in hand, chair screeching back against the tile, and walked out without a word.
Behind you, his laughter followed–low, smooth, and triumphant.
You didn’t stop walking. Not until the door slammed shut behind you, cutting off the sound of his voice, leaving only the bitter taste of coffee and fury burning down your throat.
The rest of the day at a slow-burn nightmare, the kind where every bell that rang only seemed to stretch your patience thinner. Classes came and went, students shuffled through the halls with the same glazed stares, and all the while Gojo lingered like a goddamn specter, always in your peripheral vision.
He leaned in doorways, wandered into classrooms he had no business being in, and threw smirks your way every time you passed. You could feel his presence the way one feels a migraine–an ache waiting to detonate.
By the time the last period ended, you were wound so tight you could have strangled someone with a shoelace. You stomped through the front office, ready to grab your things and get the hell out, when you felt it: a hand sliding deliberately across your lower back, grazing lower until it cupped the curve of your ass like he owned it.
You froze.
Gojo’s voice was right at your ear, smooth and venomous. “Stress relief. You should thank me.”
You spun so fast you nearly knocked over a potted plant, both hands launching for his hair. Your fingers tangled into the silver strands, and you yanked with all the strength of someone ready to scalp him. His smug grin twisted with a flash of pain, but it only seemed to delight him further.
“Jesus Christ!” You snarled, twisting your other hand into his pristine suit jacket. “Touch me again and I’ll fucking castrate you with a pencil sharpener!”
The office exploded into chaos. The secretary–a woman who could barely find the copy paper on a good day–fumbled the phone, shrieking, “Yaga! Sir! They’re at it again!”
Gojo laughed even as you shook him, his long frame bending with the force of your grip. “Castrate me? Sweetheart, I’ll still have more sperm left than you’ll ever handle.”
“Keep talking and I’ll shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll taste leather!” you spat, tugging so hard at his suit jacket that a seam audibly ripped. Buttons clattered to the linoleum like gunfire.
Teachers peeked into the office like rubberneckers at a car crash. A math teacher muttered a horrified prayer. The PE coach grinned like it was free entertainment. The secretary just kept flapping her arms uselessly, squealing, “Principal! Help!”
Yaga finally stormed out of his office, his face red, veins bulging at his temple. “For the love of–get the fuck off each other!”
You didn’t hear him. You were too busy shoving Gojo against the desk, papers scattering to the floor, snarling into his face like you’d rather set him on fire than breathe the same air. Gojo only egged you on, his laughter filling the office, his voice a taunt that made your blood boil hotter.
“You think this is how principals act?” he drawled between chuckles. “No wonder you’ll never get the job. Who the fuck would promote a rabid dog?”
That was when you tried to slam his head into the desk. Yaga lunged, arms like iron bars, and pried you off him with enough force to nearly lift you off your feet.
“Both of you shut the fuck up!” Yaga roared, dragging you back by the arm while Gojo straightened his torn suit with infuriating calm. “This isn’t a goddamn circus! I should fire both of you and let the janitor run this place!”
Gojo smirked as he adjusted his glasses, hair wild from your assault. He winked at you across Yaga’s broad shoulder. “She’s passionate, I’ll give her that. Too bad passion doesn’t make principals.”
Your chest heaved as Yaga dragged you toward the hall, your hands still twitching for violence.
“I’ll kill you,” you shouted over Yaga’s grip, voice cracking with rage. “You’re fucking dead, Gojo!”
“Promises, promises,” Gojo sang back, grin wide, eyes sparkling like the whole spectacle had been staged for his amusement.
The school day finally bled into dismissal, the hallways emptying into the parking lot. The air outside smelled like exhaust fumes and sweat, with cicadas buzzing in the trees as the sun dipped low. Teachers shuffled to their cars, exhausted, drained, and desperate to get home.
You strode across the asphalt with your bag slung over your shoulder, jaw tight, every nerve still buzzing from the fight in the office. Your keys jingled in your fist, ready to escape this hellhole and drink yourself stupid just to forget Gojo’s smug fucking face.
But he wasn’t done. Of course he wasn’t.
He sauntered up behind you, the sound of his polished shoes tapping on pavement, and before you could react, his hand smacked against your ass, loud enough to echo across the lot.
You stopped dead, blood surging hot in your veins.
“Nice view,” Gojo said, voice casual, almost lazy. “Might be the only reason you’re still employed.”
Your fist swung before your brain caught up. It connected square with his face, the impact reverberating up your arm, knuckles stinging. His head snapped back, sunglasses flying off and skittering across the asphalt.
Gasps rippled through the handful of staff still milling around. Someone dropped their coffee.
Gojo staggered, one hand clutching his nose, blood already trickling over his perfect lips. He looked up at you with wide eyes–and then he laughed. A ragged, bloody laugh that shook his shoulders, spreading across his face like you’d just given him the best gift in the world.
“Goddamn,” he muttered, grinning through the crimson smear. “You hit harder than I thought.”
You shook your hand, teeth bared, adrenaline still roaring in your ears. “Touch me again and I’ll make sure you’re sipping lunch through a straw for the rest of your life.”
He wiped at the blood with his sleeve, eyes glinting in the fading sunlight. “And here I was, thinking you’d be gentle. Guess I like you mean.”
The parking lot went quiet, teachers frozen between horror and fascination. You stormed off to your car, fists still trembling, leaving him standing there with blood dripping down his chin and a smile that promised this war was nowhere near finished.
Gojo tilted his head back, laughed again, and called after you, his voice carrying across the asphalt.
“You’ll never be principal, sweetheart!”
But his grin–red-stained and hungry–told you he wanted this fight to last forever.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
The next morning at Jujutsu High carried the kind of strange quiet that only comes after a storm. The sun hadn’t fully burned off the fog that settled over the parking lot, the air thick with humidity and the faint reek of diesel fumes from the idling school buses. Teachers shuffled toward the building with their coffee cups and their dead eyes, every one of them grateful Yaga was finally days away from permanent retirement.
And you–God help you–you were already plotting. You’d pulled into the principal’s spot without hesitation, the wheels of your beat-up sedan crunching triumphantly over the painted word “Principal” like it was a goddamn trophy.
If anyone asked, you’d tell them the truth: the office was empty, the chair was open, and you were already running the school better than anyone else.
You stormed down the hallway with your bag slung over your shoulder, a fresh cup of scorched coffee clutched tight in your hand. Students scattered out of your way like you were Moses parting the Red Sea. By the time you shoved open the principal’s office door, already rehearsing your victory lap speech, the sight that hit you stopped you dead.
Gojo Satoru was lounging in the leather swivel chair like it was his personal throne.
The bastard had his long legs kicked up on the desk, ankles crossed, the morning light streaming through the blinds like some smug spotlight on his ridiculous figure. He was dressed in yet another immaculate suit–today’s was a pale gray with a blue tie, crisp enough to look like he’d walked off the cover of Men’s Health: Dickhead Edition. His sunglasses were perched low on his nose, and the smirk that curved his mouth made you want to hurl the coffee at his face.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You snapped, slamming the door behind you.
Gojo turned the chair lazily, spinning it a quarter turn before leaning back, arms stretched across the armrests like he was posing for a goddamn Renaissance painting.
“Good morning to you too, sweetheart,” he drawled. “Just testing out my new office. Gotta make sure the chair’s comfy enough for my delicate ass.”
“Your office?” You stalked forward, coffee sloshing dangerously in your cup. “You delusional string bean. This isn’t your office. You don’t get to just waltz in and play principal because you’ve got a hard-on for power.”
He raised a brow, eyes glittering behind the dark lenses. “Bold words for someone who parked in the principal’s spot. What, you think asphalt makes you principal now? Congratulations, sweetheart, you’re the asphalt queen.”
Your teeth clenched so hard you thought you might crack a molar. “I parked there because I’m actually capable of doing this job. Meanwhile, you’re sitting there like a knockoff Bond villain with the IQ of a rock.”
Gojo’s laugh was low, the kind of sound that made your skin itch. He tilted his head, smirk widening. “You know what I love about you? You’ve got all this rage, all this fire… and it still doesn’t make you principal. Must sting, huh?”
“Not half as much as it’ll sting when I strangle you with that cheap tie,” you snapped, slamming your coffee down on the desk so hard it rattled the pens. “Get the fuck out of that chair before I make you.”
Gojo leaned forward, elbows on the desk now, and lowered his glasses to peer at you properly. His eyes were bright, sharp, and full of amusement. “Make me, huh? That sounded almost kinky. Should I be scared or turned on?”
You lunged half a step forward, ready to rip his hair out strand by strand, when the office door creaked open.
“Goddamn it.” Yaga’s gravelly voice cut across the room like a whip. He stood in the doorway, looking ten years older than he had yesterday, his hand rubbing at his temple like your very existence gave him migraines. “Do you two ever shut the fuck up?”
You straightened, gesturing wildly at Gojo. “He’s sitting in the chair like he owns it!”
“And she’s out here claiming the parking lot makes her the boss,” Gojo chimed in smoothly, spinning the chair back and forth with a lazy push of his foot. “So cute. Really, she’s like a toddler pretending to drive a car.”
You glared, fists clenched at your sides, your voice dropping into venom. “Keep talking, Satoru, and I’ll make sure your funeral wreath says, ‘Here lies the dumbest prick alive.’”
Before Yaga could bark back, another figure stepped into the room behind him. Broad shoulders filled the doorway, a neatly pressed suit of his own, though nothing about it screamed vanity the way Gojo’s did. His blond hair was perfectly parted, his face calm, and his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His very presence filled the space with authority, measured and precise.
“Everyone,” Yaga said tightly, glaring between you and Gojo like he wished the earth would swallow you both whole. “This is Mister Nanami. He’s the new principal.”
The silence was brutal.
Gojo’s smirk faltered for just a split second before he was on his feet, sliding out of the chair in a single smooth motion.
“Nanami Kento,” he said brightly, extending a hand. “It’s an honor. Really. Big fan of your… uh, whole vibe.” His smile was wide and saccharine, every inch the kiss-ass. “I was just keeping the chair warm for you. Leather holds body heat, you know. Wouldn’t want you uncomfortable.”
You stared, jaw slack, utterly gawking at the shameless display. Gojo Satoru, the man who called you a rabid dog in front of the entire staff, was now practically on his knees for the new principal.
Nanami’s handshake was firm but brief, his expression unreadable. He gave Gojo a curt nod, then turned to Yaga.
“Show him around,” Yaga ordered flatly, already halfway out the door. “And for the love of Christ, try not to make the school board regret hiring him before lunch.”
Gojo was still smiling like an idiot, his voice dripping with fake warmth as he said, “Absolutely, sir. It would be my pleasure.”
You snorted so loud the secretary outside probably heard it. “Jesus Christ, Satoru. You’re sucking him off so hard I’m surprised he can still breathe.”
Gojo’s head snapped toward you, the smile never faltering but his eyes narrowing. “Better than being the bitter bitch in the corner, sweetheart.”
Nanami raised a brow, clearly unamused, but didn’t comment. He stepped further into the office, setting down a sleek leather briefcase on the desk that had just been Gojo’s throne. His presence was grounding and professional, and it made your own rage feel childish in comparison.
Still, you couldn’t resist twisting the knife. “Hope you’ve got knee pads, Gojo. With the way you’re sucking up, you’re going to wear through those fancy slacks in a week.”
Gojo’s laugh was sharp and brittle at the edges, but he didn’t look away from Nanami. “Just showing proper respect to our fearless leader. Something you clearly have no concept of.”
You rolled your eyes, scooping your coffee back up and muttering under your breath, “Respect my ass. You’d kiss his shoes if you thought it’d get you a gold star.”
The war between you and Gojo hadn’t ended–it had just found a new battlefield. And with Nanami standing there, silent but observant, you knew this fight was only going to get uglier.
Because now there was someone worth impressing. And Gojo, smug bastard that he was, had already declared himself the teacher’s pet.
The asphalt outside Jujutsu High was already simmering when you trudged back to the parking lot, keys in hand, the morning sun bouncing off the hood of your car like it was mocking you. You’d been so damn proud pulling into that spot, the words “Principal Reserved” painted under your tires like proof you’d finally earned something. Now it just felt like a scarlet letter. You jammed the key into the ignition, muttering every curse you knew as you backed the car out with unnecessary aggression, tires squealing. A few students turned their heads at the sound, and you flipped them off without hesitation.
By the time you parked in the “Vice Principal” spot–wedged between the dumpster and the nurse’s ancient Corolla–you were already fuming. You slammed the door shut, grabbed your bag, and marched back inside, the whole building vibrating with that peculiar energy that came with the start of the day: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, and the faint stench of cafeteria eggs wafting through the vents.
When you caught up to the tour group, Nanami was in the middle of showing polite interest in the science wing. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, his posture calm, his suit perfectly fitted without the faintest wrinkle. Yaga had vanished, leaving Gojo to bounce at Nanami’s side like an overgrown golden retriever. You took your place on the other side of the group, arms crossed, face set in the kind of scowl that made freshmen scatter.
And then, as the group rounded the corner toward the math classrooms, you saw him. Suguru Geto, tall and broad-shouldered, leaning against the doorframe with his shirt sleeves rolled up and dark hair pulled into a lazy half-tie. He was flipping through a stack of papers, glasses perched low on his nose, the kind of academic hot that made you bite your lip without realizing it.
Your gaze lingered too long.
Gojo noticed instantly.
“Christ,” he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, leaning down toward your ear. “You’re drooling like a bitch in heat. What’s the plan? Bend over a calculator? Let him solve for X between your legs?”
You snapped your head toward him, cheeks flushing hot. “Shut the fuck up.”
But he wasn’t done. Gojo’s grin sharpened, eyes glittering. “Bet you’d moan fractions. ‘Oh yes, Daddy, divide me harder. Multiply it. Carry the one.’”
Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re obvious,” he shot back, his voice dripping smugness. “Math teacher gets a side-eye, and suddenly your panties are writing quadratic equations.”
You’d had enough. With one sharp shove, you planted both hands against his chest and sent him stumbling sideways–straight into Nanami.
Nanami froze mid-step, the impact making him shift but not stumble. He turned his head slowly toward Gojo, expression flat, eyes narrowing just enough to telegraph pure disdain.
“Vice Principal Gojo,” Nanami said evenly, voice calm but cold, “I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from behaving like a child in front of staff.”
Gojo clapped a hand over his own mouth like he was physically holding back laughter, his shoulders shaking. His muffled snicker leaked through his fingers anyway, infuriatingly delighted.
You gritted your teeth, heat crawling up your neck, and forced your eyes forward as Nanami adjusted his tie and resumed the tour. The way Gojo glanced at you from behind his hand made you want to break a chair over his head.
Later that afternoon, the teacher’s lounge was unusually crowded. Lunch period always brought a mix of exhausted sighs, clinking coffee mugs, and the sound of vending machines coughing out sugar. You shoved open the door, ready to grab a stale donut and ignore everyone, when the sudden hush hit you.
Several teachers were standing near the bulletin board, whispering. Their shoulders were hunched, their eyes darting, and when you followed their gaze, you saw it.
A sheet of printer paper, taped dead center to the corkboard.
It was a drawing.
Of you.
Caricatured, sloppy but cruelly recognizable: your hair, your glasses, your scowl. Only this version of you had cartoonish lips stretched wide around a cock crudely sketched into your mouth, with lines of drool scribbled down your chin. Above the image, in black marker, someone had scrawled, Vice Principal Slut.
Your vision tunneled. The entire room seemed to go silent except for the roar of your own pulse. You stormed forward, ripped the paper down with such force the tack snapped, and crushed it in your fist.
“This is fucking harassment,” you spat, glaring around the room. “Whoever did this, I’ll have your goddamn job.”
Behind you, a chair creaked.
Gojo.
Leaning back with his long legs stretched out, sunglasses perched on his head, and a half-eaten donut dangling lazily from his fingers. His smirk was sharp enough to cut.
“Aw, don’t be so sensitive,” he drawled, voice light but aimed like a dagger. “Honestly, they were generous. That mouth? You could probably take the whole thing. Hell, I bet you could deep-throat a microphone and still give the morning announcements.”
The teachers went stiff, eyes wide, caught between horror and fascination.
Your blood boiled. “Say that again, Satoru, and I’ll ram that donut so far up your ass you’ll be shitting sprinkles for a week.”
Gojo only grinned wider, his voice dropping into a mocking whisper. “How deep can you take it?”
The room erupted–some with stifled laughter, some with awkward coughs, and most with a tension so thick it pressed against your skin. You stood there, fists trembling, the crumpled drawing in your hand like a physical wound, while Gojo lounged in his chair like the king of chaos, smirk dripping arrogance, daring you to swing.
And you knew, without a doubt, this war was nowhere near finished. It was just beginning, and the whole school was watching.
The end of the day left the halls quiet and weirdly hollow, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as you stalked toward the principal’s office. Your mood hadn’t improved since lunch–if anything, the whole incident in the teacher’s lounge had lodged a splinter under your skin that no amount of caffeine could shake loose. Gojo had vanished into whatever hole he slithered into after making a spectacle of himself, and for once, you were grateful.
When you stepped into the office, Nanami was there, standing near the desk and reviewing a file. He didn’t look up right away–he never seemed to move without intention–but when he did, his gaze was calm and steady. It was unnerving. You’d been avoiding really talking to him all day, keeping your responses clipped and your glares sharp, making it clear that this position should have been yours. But now there was no Gojo to deflect your attention, no excuse to storm out mid-sentence.
Nanami said your surname finally, closing the file and setting it neatly on the desk. His voice was calm, the kind of calm that made people straighten their posture instinctively. “What’s your favorite ice cream?”
You blinked at him. “Say who, hey?”
Nanami’s expression didn’t flicker. He simply repeated, evenly, “What is your favorite ice cream?”
There was a long pause where you just stared at him, the silence so awkward it felt like being held underwater. Then you dragged a hand down your face and answered, flatly, “I… I hate ice cream. I’m lactose intolerant. Makes me do diarrhea in my pants.”
It came out sharper than you meant, and his brows lifted a fraction–just enough to tell you you’d managed to surprise him.
“Can you excuse me for one second, please?” you added quickly, desperate to get out of the room before you drowned in the unbearable weight of civilized small talk.
From her desk outside the office, the secretary’s cracked voice chimed in: “Did I hear ice cream?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Goddammit,” you muttered under your breath, loud enough for Nanami to hear.
Without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and left, heading down the hall toward the students you’d had to wrangle earlier. You’d practically begged them to stage a walkout to prove a point about the state of the school, and the little fucking bastards hadn’t done it. Now you had to go deal with their half-baked excuses and the fact that Gojo was probably somewhere nearby, waiting to make the worst joke imaginable about lactose and leadership.
The intercom crackled overhead, its grainy buzz cutting through the hallway just as you were rounding the corner. Nanami’s voice came through, steady and low, as if even school-issued speakers couldn’t distort his composure of your surname, then:
“Please come to my office.”
You stopped dead, groaned audibly, and smacked a hand against the locker beside you. Students in the hall glanced your way, then quickly scurried off when you shot them a glare sharp enough to peel paint. Muttering curses under your breath, you turned and trudged back toward the principal’s office, every step heavier than the last.
When you pushed the door open, Nanami was behind the desk, seated with his posture impossibly straight. He wore a sand-colored suit today, crisp and pressed, the tie knotted perfectly. His hair was parted with clean precision, not a strand out of place, and his expression was that same unreadable mask he carried everywhere–calm, controlled, the kind of composure that made you want to throw something just to see if he’d flinch.
“Have a seat,” Nanami said, voice level.
You hovered in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “You want the door, uh… closed, right?”
His eyes flicked to you, then to the hallway beyond. “Yes. Thank you.”
You sighed, shut it, and crossed the room to sit, your bag sliding to the floor with a heavy thump. The leather chair across from his desk squeaked as you settled in, arms crossed, trying to mask the way your pulse ticked a little faster under his steady gaze.
“It appears that someone has filed a complaint against me with the school board,” Nanami said evenly.
You raised your brows, tilting your head. “Hm. That’s interesting.”
His gaze sharpened a fraction. “Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?”
You shifted in your seat, brushing a hand through your hair, angling it just so like maybe the light would catch you at a better angle. “I mean,” you said, voice a touch too airy, “nothing really comes to mind.”
Nanami picked up a sheet of paper from the desk, scanned it briefly, then read aloud in that same steady tone: “Well, this complaint says, and I quote, ‘He’s not very smart, and if he’s in charge, this school will suffer in a horrible way. Mr. Nanami only cares about himself. He really thinks he’s something.’”
You blew out a sharp breath, leaning back in your chair. “Now, who would write such a thing? ”
“I don’t know,” Nanami replied smoothly. “I’m not sure.”
“Does it say who wrote it? ” you asked, lifting your chin like you could bluff your way out.
Nanami’s eyes met yours, calm as a scalpel. “Why, yes. It does.”
You exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping. “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. I wrote the complaint against you.”
Nanami set the paper down, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed through his teeth. For the first time since you’d met him, a flicker of weariness cracked through the composure. When he dropped his hand, though, his expression was sharp again, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.
“I’ve been doing this for some time now. Whenever a new principal shows up at a school, you can guarantee that people feel like they’ve been passed over. Often, they resent the new principal.” His tone didn’t rise, but the weight behind it was iron. “I can live with people resenting me. That’s fine. But from now on, you’re going to be very cooperative and very pleasant when dealing with me. Because if you’re not cooperative, and if you’re not pleasant…”
His eyes fixed on you, unblinking. “…I will drag your face all up and down the parking lot of this motherfucker. Now, do we understand each other, miss?”
Your throat went dry. You swallowed hard, cheeks flushing, and managed, “Yes, Mister Nanami.”
“Wonderful,” he said, sliding the complaint into a folder and closing it with meticulous care. “Now, I would like for you to come in two hours earlier every morning. I want you to join the morning Driver’s Ed program. That means I need you here at 5:10 AM. Is that a problem?”
You shook your head quickly. “No, Mister Nanami.”
“Great,” he said, adjusting his tie. “You’re dismissed. Have a blessed day.”
You stood awkwardly, dusting off your pants like that might erase the humiliation clinging to your skin. “You… have a blessed… day too,” you muttered before slipping out of the office, heart still pounding against your ribs.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
The next morning at 6am, the sun was slowly bleeding bleeding over the parking lot, throwing long shadows across the cracked asphalt. Only the cafeteria staff had already arrived to prepare for breakfast, leaving the schoolyard eerily quiet except for the faint buzz of the cicadas in the trees. There you stood with your arms crossed, leaning against the hood of your car, watching Gojo from across the lot.
He was leaning against his own car, cigarette between two long fingers, suit jacket unbuttoned, collar loosened, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had been humiliated all day. The smoke curled lazily around his head, catching the orange light, and you couldn’t stop the grim satisfaction of knowing Nanami had him by the throat just like he had you.
You lifted the walkie clipped to your hip, thumb pressing the button. Your voice crackled through the quiet, dry, and sharp: “Kento’s got you by the balls.”
Gojo’s laugh came through the static, deep and amused. He took a drag and blew smoke into the air before pressing his own walkie button. “Driver’s Ed. Tough break.”
You scowled, lifting the walkie again, eyes locked on him across the lot. “Yeah, well, at least I’m not bending over and taking it up the ass with a smile like you are. Over.”
Gojo tipped his head back and barked out a laugh before answering, his voice low now, conspiratorial. “You have no fucking clue. While you’ve been throwing your little tantrums and filing your complaints, I’ve been learning his weaknesses. And when the time’s right, I’m gonna stab that bitch in his stupidly muscular back.”
You raised a brow, pushing off your car, the corners of your mouth twitching despite yourself. You brought the walkie to your mouth again. “I thought you loved Mister Nanami.”
Gojo flicked the cigarette to the ground, grinding it out under his heel before answering. “Please. He doesn’t deserve to sit behind that desk. That should’ve been me. And if not me…” His voice softened, teasing. “Then maybe you.”
You smirked, walking toward him now, slow and deliberate. “You need to flip your shit around. Me, then you.”
He rolled his eyes, stepping forward as well, closing the distance between you until you met in the middle of the lot. He stood there in front of you, tall and loose-limbed, that infuriating grin playing over his lips. “Whatever, babe. Just not him.”
“Fuck him,” you said simply, chin tilted up.
Gojo’s grin sharpened, his voice low and certain as he echoed, “Fuck him.”
There was a beat of silence between you, the cicadas buzzing loud in the background, the air thick with something that wasn’t quite hostility but wasn’t peace either. Gojo extended his hand toward you, palm open, his smirk curling like a challenge.
“Now,” he said, eyes glinting, “he’s my enemy, and he’s your enemy. And my enemy’s enemy… is my friend. Shall we align… friend?”
You stared at him for a long moment, suspicious, weighing every ounce of smugness in his tone, every ounce of insanity it would take to join forces with him of all people. Then you stepped closer, your hand sliding into his.
Your mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Let’s take that motherfucker down.”
Gojo’s grin widened, his fingers closing around yours as if you’d just signed a contract written in gasoline.
This wasn’t a truce. It was war–organized, mutual, and about to be twice as destructive.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
Later that morning, Jujutsu High lingered with the scent of cheap coffee, floor wax, and the faint hint of teenage despair in the halls. The teacher’s lounge was already buzzing, teachers gathering their mugs, muttering about lesson plans, and studiously avoiding the sight of Gojo Satoru hovering near the counter like he was barista of the year. He had his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, and one long hand stirring sugar into a cup with exaggerated flair. The smirk plastered across his face was smug enough to choke on.
You came in dressed like you had deliberately set out to piss people off–office siren core incarnate. Your blouse was silky, clinging in the right places, your skirt hugged your hips like it had been tailored for sin, and the click of your heels on the tile was enough to turn every head in the room. You knew exactly what you were doing, and so did Gojo. His eyes tracked you instantly, lingering far too long before flicking back to the mug in his hand.
“No creams and one sugar, my ass,” Gojo muttered as he stirred Nanami’s coffee, loud enough for you to hear. “He doesn’t need coffee. He needs a fucking blowjob. You gonna give him one, sweetheart?”
You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt, walking over to the clock on the wall. “Goddamn it. Is it 7:45? ‘Cause my watch says 7:51 to me.”
Gojo smirked, setting the spoon down with a clink. “Dick needed a coffee.”
You turned, arms crossed, glaring at him with all the fury you could muster. “We need to be coordinated on all fronts. All right? If we set a meet, you show up at the goddamn meet time.”
“All right! I fuckin’ heard you!” He barked back, lips twitching with amusement. “Shut the fuck up!”
“You shut the fuck up,” you snapped, slamming a heavy binder onto the counter between you. The thud made a few teachers flinch.
Gojo raised his brows, curious now. He leaned closer, one arm sliding casually behind your waist as he bent over to peek at the binder. The heat of his body was too close, his cologne sharp in your nose, and you had to fight not to recoil.
“All the information I was able to gather on He-Man,” you said through clenched teeth, flipping the binder open. “Personal data, government documents, financial papers.”
His smirk slipped, replaced with something closer to impressed. “You put this together yourself?”
“Yes, motherfucker. I have one on everybody in this school.”
Gojo scoffed, fingers brushing deliberately against your hip as he leaned further over the binder. “You better not have one on me.”
You didn’t answer. The silence was enough.
He snorted, snapping the binder shut with one hand. “I processed the information. Now destroy it.”
“Bullshit,” you said flatly.
“I have a photographic memory,” Gojo replied smoothly, tapping his temple with one finger. “I’ve retained the pertinent information and discarded the rest.”
“Did you memorize the part about him firing every other vice principal he’s ever worked with?” you shot back, folding your arms again.
Gojo blinked. “W… where did it say that?”
“Page one, dumbass. At the last three schools he’s taken over, he cleared out the front office and replaced them.”
For once, his grin faltered. “Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “What do we do?”
“It means we have to play nice; we can’t be fucking idiots,” you said, sliding the binder back into your bag. “Now, this man will fire you and me and anybody else he doesn’t like. And don’t make it easy on him. Keep your head down. Start playing the fucking game.”
Gojo sighed, leaning back against the counter. “Then what?”
You blinked. “Then what what?”
“Then who seizes power,” he clarified, his tone serious now. “You or me?”
You snorted, brushing past him toward the coffeemaker. “When we shit-can this dick, it’s every motherfucker for themselves. This is a temporary alliance. To be honest, Gojo, I still think you’re a fucking dipshit.”
His grin crept back, sharp and dangerous. “Well, I think you’re a fucking dipshit too.” He leaned closer, the space between you shrinking, his voice dropping into a near-growl.
“You’re a fucking dummy,” you snapped back. “I think your tie sucks.”
“I think you’re stupid, and your face is ridiculous to me,” he countered smoothly. His eyes dropped deliberately to your skirt, his smirk curling. “Tight-skirt-wearing motherfucker. Fuck your face. Fuck your butt.”
You blinked, heat flaring in your cheeks, your jaw tightening. “The point is… I can’t destroy him all alone. Psh.”
Gojo tilted his head, eyes glinting as if he’d already won something. “You’re goddamn right you can’t. Tryna take the lead when I gave you the idea. Tryna operate this by yourself.”
You grunted, shoving the binder strap higher on your shoulder. “I agreed to your terms last night. We take him down, and then best man… or woman wins.”
Gojo leaned in one last time, close enough that his breath brushed your cheek, his voice low and taunting. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. When the dust clears, I’ll still be the one sitting in that chair.”
You didn’t flinch. You just met his gaze, steady, venom dripping from every word. “Over my dead fucking body.”
The tension in the break room was electric, every teacher pretending not to stare. The war wasn’t over–not even close. It had just found new weapons.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
The weeks that followed were chaos stitched together with cigarette smoke, whispered plots, and the kind of vulgar exchanges that would’ve gotten anyone else fired ten times over. You and Gojo found yourselves in an alliance so toxic it made sense–every sabotage against Nanami was half genius, half disaster.
You swapped out his presentation slides at the board meeting for lurid stock photos, forcing him to stand stoic in front of a projector that flashed a close-up of a hotdog dripping with mustard. Gojo tampered with his car radio so it blasted 80s porno music at full volume when Nanami started the engine.
You orchestrated a subtle strike in the cafeteria–food shipments arriving late, teachers mysteriously “forgetting” to order milk cartons, and students staging a miniature riot over tater tots.
But for every clever win, Gojo fucked something up spectacularly. The worst was the night you watched flames flicker against the sky from two blocks away. Nanami’s house.
Gojo had sworn it was just a “small distraction”–something about fireworks, gasoline, and “lighting up the evening”–but the fire department had been called, neighbors yelling in their bathrobes. Nanami himself stood outside in a shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his jaw tight, looking like the embodiment of silent fury.
You cornered Gojo in the dim light of your office later that evening, your pulse hammering with equal parts rage and the unbearable tension that seemed to crackle every time you were in a room alone with him.
“You almost set his fucking house on fire,” you snapped, arms crossed as you stood over him.
Gojo lounged on the edge of your desk, legs spread casually, smirk carved into his face like he wasn’t seconds away from you clawing it off. “Relax, sweetheart. Insurance exists for a reason.”
You slammed your hands down on the desk, leaning in close, fury radiating off you. “You check yourself before I check you. You think this is a game? I had to fire the poor old secretary because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about half the stupid shit you’ve pulled.”
“Yeah?” Gojo cocked his head, sunglasses dangling from his fingers. “Maybe you should’ve fired yourself while you were at it.”
Your teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Promises, promises,” he drawled, his grin widening when you grabbed his tie and yanked him forward, your nose nearly brushing his. The silk bunched in your fist, the heat between you spiking like a live wire.
Gojo didn’t flinch. He leaned back slowly, bracing himself on his palms against the desk, eyes glittering like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His free hand drifted upward, threading through your hair, tugging lightly at the strands just enough to make your breath catch.
“You gonna kill me, huh?” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “Or just kiss me like you’ve been dying to?”
Your lips crashed together before you had time to second-guess, the tie tightening in your fist as you tried to keep control. His mouth was hot and insistent, his tongue sliding past your lips with shameless confidence. You made a sound–half moan, half curse–that vibrated between your teeth.
“Fuck–” you tried to pull back, but his hand tightened in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to deepen the kiss. The sound that escaped you was humiliating and desperate and only spurred him on.
“You’re such a fucking idiot,” you muttered against his lips between kisses, tugging harder at his tie like you might choke him with it. “Stupid fucking dipshit–”
He groaned into your mouth, like every insult was gasoline, like he got off on your rage. His kisses grew hungrier, his teeth grazing your bottom lip as his other hand slid down your side, bunching up the hem of your skirt.
Your nails dug into his chest, but when his palm cupped your ass, squeezing through the thin fabric, your hips tilted forward despite yourself. He smirked against your mouth, breath ragged, and whispered against your lips with a wicked glint in his eye:
“Lace? For me?”
You froze for half a beat, every nerve in your body on fire, and his grin widened as if he’d just discovered the school’s darkest secret.
The tension between you, already unbearable, snapped into something molten–ugly, desperate, inevitable. He kissed you harder, your tie-grip tightening, your hips pressing forward against his as he devoured every insult you threw like it was foreplay.
And in the back of your mind, a terrifying realization unfurled: somewhere between sabotaging Nanami and tearing each other apart, you’d crossed a line you could never walk back from.
The air between you was already too thick, the office still humming with the aftershock of that kiss. You bit down on your lower lip, trying to reel yourself back, but the way Gojo’s eyes tracked the movement like a predator sealed your fate. His long fingers slid up, unbuttoning your blouse one button at a time, slow and taunting.
Each click of the button felt louder than the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. Heat crawled up your chest, and before you could tell him to fuck off again, you stepped back and twisted the lock on his office door. The quiet click of the lock sounded like betrayal in your own ears.
Gojo smirked, smug as ever, and dropped back into his massive leather swivel chair like a king on his throne. He leaned back, legs spread wide, one hand drumming lazily on the armrest before he reached out and grabbed your thighs. His grip was hot and strong, guiding you closer until you straddled his thigh. The chair squeaked under the weight of both of you as he pulled you down, pressing you into the firm muscle of his leg.
His mouth was on you immediately, hot and greedy, claiming your lips in another bruising kiss. His tongue slid past your lips, overpowering and tasting, and when you moaned into his mouth, he groaned right back, grinding you harder against his thigh. You could feel the friction already–lace catching, nerves sparking–as he started kissing down your jaw and your throat, his teeth dragging lightly until he reached the swell of your breasts.
His hands groped roughly, palms covering your chest, fingers squeezing through the thin fabric of your lace bra. He sucked against the swell, wet heat searing through the fabric, then tugged one cup down just enough to catch your nipple with his tongue. His teeth grazed before he latched on, sucking hard enough to make your back arch.
“Fuck,” he groaned, low and raw, hips bucking up as your grinding grew faster. His thigh was solid beneath you, every drag of your soaked panties across it making your body hum with need. You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again, your other hand fisting the loosened tie at his chest.
He slipped one hand from your breast down to your thigh, gripping the soft curve, sliding higher until he grabbed a handful of your ass. His fingers pressed into you firmly, dragging you harder against his leg, grinding you against him like he wanted to wear you down to nothing. His mouth kept moving–licking, sucking, biting against the swell of your breasts–his tongue slipping under the lace as his voice rasped into your skin.
“You’re fucking soaked,” he growled against your chest, the vulgar edge in his tone sending a sharp heat straight through you.
You whined, the sound spilling past your lips before you could catch it. Gojo’s grin widened against your skin, and in one swift move, he yanked his tie from around his neck and shoved it between your lips. The silk gag muffled your next sound, leaving you with nothing but the taste of him on your tongue and the ache of his hand gripping you tighter.
His fingers slipped under your panties, hot and thick as they dragged through your folds. You trembled against him, every nerve ending screaming, the tie muffling the broken sounds you couldn’t hold back. He circled your clit with slow, deliberate pressure, his long fingers moving with expertise, rubbing until your hips were jerking against his thigh without thought.
“Fuck, yeah… You like that, huh?” He muttered, his breath hot against your breast. “Grinding on me like a desperate little slut.”
The words burned, humiliating and intoxicating at the same time. You clutched his hair harder, pulling at the silver strands until he groaned deep in his chest. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow–his fingers pressed harder, circling faster, then slipped lower, sliding thickly against your entrance before pushing inside.
You gasped around the tie, muffled and sharp, back arching as he slid one finger, then another in, stretching you with deliberate slowness. His palm ground against your clit with every curl of his fingers, each drag inside you striking so deep your thighs trembled against his.
“Yeah,” he groaned, his head falling back against the chair, lips glistening from your skin. “Tight around my fingers already. Imagine my cock–fuck–you’d fall apart so fast.”
You whimpered into the tie, your nails dragging down his chest through the fabric of his shirt, leaving faint creases as your hips rocked helplessly against his hand. He leaned forward, licking over your breast again, sucking deep until you moaned louder. Then he tilted you back slightly, his arm curling around your waist, forcing your body to arch and giving him room to finger you deeper, harder.
Your head tipped back, eyes half-lidded, every nerve alive with the stretch of his fingers and the relentless pressure on your clit. The chair creaked under the pace of your hips, the slick sounds of his fingers working you echoing shamelessly in the closed office. His grin never faltered; if anything, it grew sharper, hungrier, as your moans broke against the silk gag and your thighs quivered around him.
“God, you’re perfect like this,” he rasped, lips brushing your chest as he curled his fingers deeper. “Soaked, trembling, gagged with my tie. Bet you’ll fucking scream if I make you cum like this.”
You clutched him tighter, the tie digging between your teeth, your voice breaking as your body fought to hold on against the way his thick fingers stretched and stroked you. His other hand squeezed your ass roughly, pushing you down harder against his thigh, forcing you to grind against him even as his fingers drove you higher, deeper, closer to the edge.
And when he groaned again, low and rough, tongue dragging across your breast, you realized you were seconds from unraveling completely–right there in his chair, gagged, grinding, and ruined under his hands.
Your body was already teetering, every nerve stretched so tight you felt like you might snap. Gojo kept you there–just on the edge–his fingers curling deep, thumb rubbing slow circles over your clit as if he had all the time in the world. His mouth stayed busy at your chest, teeth scraping, sucking until your skin felt branded by him. The chair creaked with every desperate roll of your hips, your thighs trembling, slick soaking into his fingers and the fabric of his slacks where you straddled his thigh.
You tried to fight it, tried to keep control, but the coil in your belly became too tight. His fingers thrust deeper, knuckles brushing with every stroke, thumb grinding against your clit just right until it was too much. You broke around him with a muffled cry into the silk tie, hips jerking as the orgasm ripped through you, blinding and hot. Your whole body trembled, clamping around his fingers as he coaxed every last wave out of you, hissing curses against your skin like he was drunk on the sound.
And then, as your hips ground through the last pulse of it, you felt him tense. Gojo groaned low, his head tipping back, breath ragged. You realized what was happening a second before it did, the sharp buck of his hips under you giving it away–he was coming, hard, right there in his damn pants.
You ripped the tie from your mouth with a wet pop, panting, and then you laughed. A mean, breathless laugh that had him glaring at you even as his chest heaved.
“Oh my god,” you said between gasps, still sitting on his thigh. “You just fucking came in your pants. Like a horny teenager.”
He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh of his own, shaking his head as his hand slipped out from your panties, glistening with you. “Shut the fuck up.”
“You’re so pathetic,” you said, smirking despite your own ruined state. “You talk all this shit and you can’t even last–”
Gojo grabbed your hips, standing up abruptly and setting you off his lap so fast your feet stumbled against the floor. He fixed his tie loosely back around his neck, still breathing hard, and pointed toward the door with a grin that was all teeth.
“Get the fuck out of my office,” he said, voice low, still catching his breath.
You snatched your panties from where they’d slipped down–only for him to grab them first, holding them up between two fingers with a wicked smirk.
“These are mine now,” he said, twirling them like a trophy before tucking them into his pocket.
“Fuck you,” you muttered, smoothing your skirt down as you headed for the door.
“Fuck you,” he shot back immediately, grinning wider when you slammed the door behind you.
The office still smelled like sweat, sex, and coffee, and the sight of your panties hanging out of his pocket had him chuckling to himself as he dropped back into the chair, leaning his head against the backrest with a satisfied groan.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
Nanami didn’t even know what hit him. Over the next few weeks, you and Gojo turned sabotage into an art form–textbook guerrilla warfare, executed in pencil skirts and expensive ties. The copier mysteriously “jammed” every time Nanami tried to print school-wide memos, the cafeteria order sheets were mysteriously swapped so all he got were pallets of mayonnaise and canned peaches, and somehow a life-size cutout of him ended up on the roof holding a sign that read Daddy of Discipline.
Every time Nanami’s jaw clenched and his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, you and Gojo would exchange a victorious glance before bickering about who had the better idea.
And somewhere in the middle of that chaos, you started kissing him.
The first time it happened, it was after a disastrous attempt to tamper with Nanami’s car that ended with Gojo slipping on oil in the parking lot. You dragged him by the tie into the teacher’s lounge to berate him, furious and flushed, and he kissed you just to shut you up.
You tried to shove him away, but he pinned you against the counter, kissing you harder until you gave in and kissed him back, biting his lip so hard he groaned. From there, it got worse–closets, empty classrooms, the backseat of his car in the far corner of the lot. Each time was rougher, hotter, and more desperate.
It escalated one late afternoon, the two of you locked in a supply closet after a near miss with Nanami catching you sneaking out of the principal’s office.
The supply closet smelled like dust, copier toner, and faintly of lemon cleaner–and somehow it made the tension between you even sharper. You had him shoved back against the shelves, your hand fisted in his tie as you hissed through your teeth.
“You almost got us caught, you stupid son of a bitch. Do you have any idea how fast Nanami would’ve had our asses out of here if he saw us coming out of his office?”
Gojo didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look sorry. He just grinned that sharp, infuriating grin, leaning back against the shelves like he owned the place, and let his tie go slack in your grip. “Relax, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and infuriatingly calm. “You’re worked up. Again. You need me to take the edge off?”
You opened your mouth to snap at him – but he didn’t give you the chance. His hands shot out, catching you by the hips and dragging you closer until your knees bumped his.
“You need to check yourself before I–”
Your words dissolved into a sharp gasp when his lips crushed against yours. The kiss was hot and consuming, more fight than affection, his tongue sweeping in before you could push him away. His hands were everywhere–up your thighs, squeezing the backs of them until you were half-braced against him. When he pulled back for air, his grin had only widened, his chest rising and falling fast.
“Yeah,” he said, breath ghosting against your mouth. “You’re definitely worked up.”
Before you could fire back, he sank to his knees in front of you. The sight alone made your pulse kick. Gojo kneeling–smirk intact, tie dangling–looking up at you like he was about to ruin you just to prove a point.
“Sato–” you started, but the word came out shaky.
He shoved your skirt up with one big hand, the other hooking into the waistband of your panties and tugging them down your legs in one swift motion. He didn’t even look away as he helped you step out of them, balling the thin lace in one hand before tossing them onto a shelf behind him like a trophy.
“You talk too fucking much,” he muttered, and then his mouth was on you.
The first slow lick made your knees buckle. You grabbed for the metal shelf above you, gripping it hard, the cool steel biting into your palm. Gojo groaned against you like he’d been starving, his tongue tracing you intentionally slowly before sucking your clit into his mouth. The wet, obscene sound of it filled the tiny room.
“God–fuck–” you gasped, your other hand flying to tangle in his hair. You yanked, hard, and he groaned like he liked it, pulling you closer to his mouth.
“Hate you so much,” he said against your skin, tongue circling your clit with maddening precision. “Hate your fucking attitude.”
“Good,” you breathed out, hips grinding down against his face despite yourself. “Hate you too. Hate your stupid tie–”
He laughed into you, and the vibration made your thighs shake. He shifted, licking deeper now, his nose pressing against you as he fucked you with his tongue, his hands gripping your ass so hard you knew he’d leave marks.
“Shut up,” he said, pulling back just long enough to speak, chin wet and glistening. “Shut up and let me taste you.”
Then he shoved two fingers into you without warning. You gasped loud enough to echo, your knees nearly giving out as he pumped them slow, curling them just right while his mouth went back to your clit. The rhythm was relentless–every drag of his fingers inside you matched the flick of his tongue.
You bit your wrist to keep from crying out, the sound still muffled and desperate. Your hips moved on their own now, grinding down against his face, riding his tongue, his fingers, chasing the heat that coiled tighter and tighter in your gut.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to look up at you with that smug, wild grin. “You’re soaking my hand, sweetheart. You like me down here, huh? Hate me all you want, but your pussy doesn’t lie.”
You cursed him, breathless, yanking his hair hard enough to make him hiss–and he went right back to licking you like he wanted to make you cry. When you came, it hit fast and hard, your back arching against the shelves, nails digging into the metal. Your orgasm tore through you, white-hot, your hips jerking as his fingers kept pumping, his tongue coaxing every last wave until you had to shove at his head, trembling and boneless.
Gojo didn’t stop until he’d licked you clean, slow and lazy, leaving you gasping for breath. When he finally stood, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning down at you.
“You’re a fucking menace,” you panted, still half-braced against the shelf.
“Yeah,” he said easily, stepping closer, crowding into your space. “And you keep letting me.”
Before you could spit back another insult, he grabbed your jaw and kissed you again, filthy and wet, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You bit his lip this time, just to make him groan, and the sound he made had heat pooling low in your stomach all over again.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
The PTA would be talking about Nanami's spectacular collapse for years to come. It wasn't a clean or dignified fall. For weeks, Gojo and you had been working toward it, tightening the screws one sabotage at a time.
It started with the emails. Gojo “accidentally” forwarded one of Nanami’s dry but mildly condescending staff memos to the student mailing list–the one where Nanami had written that “the faculty must uphold higher standards than the general riffraff.” The kids had a field day with that, making memes and plastering screenshots all over social media.
Then came the budget fiasco, thanks to your very subtle swap of expense reports–suddenly, Nanami was being questioned about why the school had ordered a thousand dollars' worth of lube (Gojo's idea) and three crates of glitter glue.
By the time the Board showed up for a surprise meeting, Nanami was frayed at the edges, his suit jacket discarded, his sleeves rolled up, and his jaw tight as he tried to defend himself. It didn’t matter that he was right about most of it. The optics were too perfect–he looked like a man about to snap. And when Gojo “helpfully” pointed out that the copier jammed every time Nanami tried to print a defense, the Board made their decision.
He was out by lunch.
You and Gojo sat in the back of the empty staff lounge, trying not to grin too obviously while the rest of the faculty buzzed in a horrified hush. When the announcement came over the PA–that Nanami had “stepped down effective immediately”–Gojo let out a bark of laughter that made a few teachers glance over in disgust. You couldn’t stop smiling, your stomach flipping with a rush of triumph.
“Holy shit,” you whispered, leaning across the table. “We actually did it. We got him fired.”
Gojo grinned like the cat who ate the canary, spinning his chair in a lazy circle. “Damn right we did. And you said I was too reckless.”
“You are too reckless,” you shot back, smirking despite yourself. “But I guess sometimes it works out.”
The rest of the day passed in a blur–students gossiping in the halls, teachers whispering in corners. By the time the last bell rang, the school felt half-empty, the halls echoing with that eerie stillness that came after a storm.
That was how you ended up in the principal’s office at sunset, leaning against the desk with your arms crossed while Gojo sat sprawled in the leather chair like he’d been born in it. The light from the windows painted the room gold, catching the dust motes in the air.
“Look at us,” he said finally, gesturing between you. “King and queen of Jujutsu High. We should be celebrating.”
“This is celebrating,” you said dryly, gesturing around the empty office. “Look at the empty desk. Look at the lack of condescending sighs. It’s beautiful.”
Gojo grinned, then tilted his head, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “How about this,” he said, leaning forward. “Last to cum is principal.”
You blinked at him, scoffing out a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”
“You’re scared,” he teased, grin widening. “Pussy.”
That word hit like a spark. You narrowed your eyes, then reached behind you, twisting the lock on the door until it clicked. “Fine.”
His grin turned downright feral as you stripped off your blazer and tossed it onto the chair. Your blouse followed, buttons slipping free one by one until the lace of your bra was visible. Gojo stood slowly, shrugging out of his jacket, fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt.
You tried not to stare–really, you did–but the sight of his abs, pale and sharply defined under the fading light, caught your breath anyway. And then he stripped off the rest, dropping his pants until there was nothing between you and him.
He was already hard–flushed, heavy, hanging thick, and almost absurdly pretty. It would have been unfair if he weren’t already so smug about it.
“Like what you see?” he asked, voice low and taunting as he kicked his pants aside.
You swallowed hard, rolling your eyes for effect, but your body betrayed you with the way your thighs pressed together. “Shut up,” you muttered, shoving your skirt down over your hips and stepping out of it.
Gojo leaned back against the desk, his hand wrapping lazily around himself as his grin sharpened. “Better hurry up, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and rough now. “Clock’s ticking. And I’m not planning on losing.”
You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, your own pulse hammering in your ears. His mouth was on yours, hot and insistent, devouring every curse you spat against his lips until all you could do was cling to him. The taste of him made your pulse stutter, his tongue dragging against yours as his hands explored every inch of you. When his palms slid lower, gripping your ass, he used his strength to spin you, pressing you chest-first onto Nanami’s old desk.
The polished wood was cool under your skin, but Gojo’s body was searing against your back, his hips flush with yours as his mouth trailed to your neck. He kissed and sucked at the sensitive skin there, tongue wet and hot, teeth scraping lightly until you squirmed. His hand snaked between your thighs, fingers brushing against your damp folds through your panties. You gasped, clenching the edge of the desk as his touch lingered, teasing, before finally shoving the lace aside.
“Already dripping,” he muttered into your neck, his voice rough and mocking. “You’re a goddamn mess for me.”
Your face burned, but you ground your hips back against his hand anyway, desperate for more friction. “That’s–that’s cheating,” you managed between ragged breaths, fingers clawing at the wood as he teased your slit with the pads of his fingers.
He chuckled darkly, pressing a kiss just under your ear as he pushed one long finger inside you. The stretch made your body jerk, your thighs trembling as he set a deliberate pace.
“Cheating?” he growled, curling his finger so perfectly you nearly lost your balance. “Sweetheart, this is just me winning.”
You gasped again when he slid a second finger in, his knuckles brushing against you as he worked them deep, stretching you. He pressed closer, his chest flush against your back, his teeth nipping along the curve of your shoulder as his fingers pushed deeper.
“So tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, almost reverent. “Fuck, I can feel you clenching already.”
Your body betrayed you, rocking back against his hand as the wet sounds of your arousal filled the office. Every drag of his fingers, every curl, had you moaning louder, your hips moving in desperate rhythm against him. Slick dripped down his hand, sticky and hot, enough to slick his palm and smear against your thighs. You heard it patter faintly onto the floor, obscene, and it only made you grind harder.
Gojo’s mouth never stopped. He licked along your shoulder blade, his tongue hot and deliberate, before biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You hissed, but the sting sent a shiver down your spine, your nails digging so hard into the desk you thought you might gouge the wood. He kissed lower, down your spine, his teeth scraping each new patch of skin he uncovered. His hand gripped your hip to hold you steady while his mouth claimed every inch of you–biting, sucking, marking.
He shifted lower still, teeth grazing the swell of your ass as he spread you wider with one hand. You let out a strangled moan, shame and pleasure mixing as his tongue darted to lick the curve there before biting again, hard enough to make your thighs shake. All the while, his fingers pumped faster, each thrust sharper, wetter, and louder. The squelch of your slick-coated cunt filled the office, shameless and filthy.
You couldn’t hold back anymore.
“Fuck–Satoru–” you cried, your voice breaking as his fingers scissored and curled, reaching places inside you even you hadn’t been able to find. You ground down against his hand helplessly, every nerve alight, your body rocking forward with each thrust.
He groaned against your skin, his tongue dragging over the bite mark he’d just left. “Louder,” he rasped, thrusting his fingers harder, deeper. “Let the whole goddamn school hear how much you love my fingers in your tight little pussy.”
You moaned louder, raw and guttural, your body betraying you with how close you were. The desk rattled with the force of it, every inch of you trembling under his relentless pace. And just as you thought you’d break, he ripped his fingers out of you, leaving you gasping and empty.
You turned your head in protest, only to see him lift those soaked fingers to his lips. His grin was feral, eyes burning into yours as he sucked them clean, groaning low in his throat as he tasted you. His other hand slid up, gripping the back of your neck, forcing you to arch as he pressed closer.
“God, you taste fucking perfect,” he growled, his voice low and vibrating against your ear.
You shuddered as he shifted behind you, the heat of his cock pressing against your ass. He guided himself lower, the thick, flushed head of his length sliding against your soaked folds. He rubbed it up and down deliberately, teasing, smearing your slick over his head as his breath grew ragged.
“Fuck,” he groaned, shuddering as he pressed against your entrance, the blunt head probing just inside, stretching you open inch by inch. His grip on your neck tightened as he leaned over you, chest to your back, his lips brushing your ear. “Feel that? Big enough to ruin you.”
The blunt pressure made your toes curl, your breath stutter, and your nails claw at the desk as he hovered there, pushing just enough to make your body throb with need. His cock pulsed against you, flushed and hot, the mushroomed head pushing at your entrance as if daring you to beg.
The moment he pushed into you, the air punched out of your lungs. He was big–too big–stretching you open in a way that made your thighs quake against the desk and your fingers scrabble for purchase on the polished wood. The blunt head forced you to take him slow, inch by inch, until he bottomed out and the desk groaned beneath you.
“Holy–fuck,” Gojo hissed, both hands gripping your hips so tight you were sure you’d see bruises later. His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath hot and harsh as he gave a low, feral laugh. “Goddamn, you’re tight. Squeezing me like you’re trying to break my dick.”
You were still reeling from how full you felt, how impossibly thick he was inside you, when the brat in you reared its head. “Your dad never had any complaints.”
Gojo barked out a sharp laugh–then brought his palm down hard against your ass. The crack echoed through the office, making you yelp and jolt forward, your walls clamping down on him even tighter.
“Oh, that’s cute,” he said, voice dark with amusement. His hand smoothed over the sting before he spanked you again, harder this time, making you gasp and bite your lip. “Mouthy little slut thinks she’s funny.”
You laughed–breathless and half-broken–even as you moaned. “I am funny.”
“Not for long,” he growled, pulling back only to slam back into you with a sharp thrust that made the desk shake. The force made you cry out, your nails dragging against the wood as he set a brutal rhythm, every stroke deeper than the last.
You felt every inch of him, every drag of that thick length, the stretch almost too much but never enough. Each thrust was punctuated with the wet slap of skin on skin, the sting of his hand coming down on your ass in rhythm with his hips. He grunted with the effort, his words rough and broken between thrusts.
“Fuck–you’re so tight–” smack “–can’t believe–” smack “–I ever let you run that mouth in meetings.”
Your reply came out garbled, half moan, half laugh. “You still–mmm–can’t shut me up.”
He spanked you again, this time so hard you cried out, your hips canting back to meet him. “You love this,” he snarled, leaning over you so his chest pressed to your back. “Love my cock in you. Love me fucking you stupid.”
You couldn’t even deny it–not with how your body was milking him, how every thrust had you seeing stars. The tension coiled low in your belly until it snapped, your orgasm tearing through you so suddenly you cried out loud enough to echo off the walls.
Gojo groaned at the feel of you clenching down around him, hips stuttering as he held you through it, one hand still gripping your ass while the other pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the desk.
“Fuck, yeah,” he groaned, his pace never slowing. “Cum on me. Make a mess.”
You whimpered as wave after wave rolled through you, slick gushing around him until it dripped down your thighs, soaking his cock, the desk, and the floor. And still he didn’t stop–he just kept driving into you, each thrust a little rougher, a little deeper, like he wanted to fuck the sound of your orgasm into muscle memory.
When he finally slowed, it wasn’t to let you catch your breath–it was to flip you over. His strength was effortless, hauling you up and turning you until you were on your back, skirt bunched around your waist, hair mussed and sticking to your cheeks.
“Wanna see your face when I ruin you,” he said, grinning down at you as he spread your legs wide.
Before you could sass him, he lined himself back up and thrust in hard, forcing you to take him to the hilt again. Your head fell back against the desk with a choked moan, legs trembling as he pressed them back, folding you nearly in half.
“You’re too fucking much,” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders as he fucked you deep, his hips rolling with a precision that had you moaning with every stroke.
Gojo kissed you then, hard and messy, swallowing your sounds as he thrust into you. You bit his lip, tugged at his hair, or did anything to ground yourself as the desk rattled under you.
His pace was brutal, his hips snapping forward until you could feel him everywhere–stomach, ribs, throat. He didn’t let up, didn’t give you a chance to recover from your first orgasm before another built hot and fast, your nails digging into his back.
“Look at me,” he growled, pulling back just enough to make you meet his gaze. “Look at me while I fuck you.”
You did, your wide eyes locking with his as you came again, this one louder, harder, your body shaking with it. He groaned, hips stuttering, his pace breaking as his own orgasm crashed over him.
He stayed buried deep, his release hot and thick as he emptied himself inside you, gripping your thighs so tight they’d bruise. His head dropped to your shoulder, breath ragged, before he pressed a slow, wet kiss against your throat.
For a moment, the office was silent again, save for the sound of your heavy breathing and the creak of the desk under your combined weight. Then Gojo leaned back, grinning down at you, sweat slick on his temples.
“Guess that means I win,” he panted, hips giving one last lazy thrust.
You laughed weakly, shoving at his chest even as you tried to catch your breath. “You’re an idiot.”
“Yes, but your idiot principal,” he corrected smugly, leaning down to kiss you again–softer this time, but still with that same infuriating grin against your mouth.
｡⋆୨୧˚✎
It had been a month since Nanami’s clean firing, and the school had settled into a new rhythm–one where Gojo Satoru sat at the helm, wearing the crown he’d fought for with smug ease. He strutted through Jujutsu High like he was born for it, tailored suits hugging his tall frame, sunglasses glinting even indoors, and his grin sharp enough to cut. The teachers hated it, the students whispered about it, and you… you despised how good he looked in that stupid suit.
You stood at the counter in the main office that morning, arms crossed as he breezed in with his ridiculous swagger. The staff looked up from their coffee, already anticipating the sparks. Gojo flashed his principal’s badge of authority–his perfect teeth, his expensive suit–and dropped a stack of papers on the desk with theatrical flair.
“You look like a used-car salesman,” you called out flatly, your voice carrying in the too-quiet office. “All you’re missing is a balloon arch and a ‘low APR’ sign taped to your dick.”
The secretary coughed into her mug to hide her laugh. The PE coach openly smirked. Even a kid–late to homeroom and trying to sneak past–froze in the doorway to watch the spectacle unfold.
Gojo didn’t miss a beat. He tilted his head toward you, lips curving into that smug, infuriating grin. “At least I sell. You? You couldn’t close a deal if you spread your legs and handed out coupons.”
The staff gasped, scandalized. The student’s jaw dropped. And you? You just smiled, sharp and dangerous, before slamming your clipboard down.
“Keep talking, asshole,” you said, your eyes glinting. “Let’s see how fast I make you choke on those words.”
Gojo winked at the room at large before retreating into his office, his laugh trailing behind him like smoke. He thought he’d won. But you followed, heels clicking hard against the tile, shoving the door shut with a slam that rattled the blinds. Teachers craned their necks, the kid gawked, and then–click–the lock slid into place.
Gojo had only enough time to smirk before you stalked over, yanking the blinds down one by one until the room was swallowed in dim, private light.
“Oh?” he drawled, settling onto his brand-new leather sofa, lounging like a king on his throne. “Couldn’t wait to get me alone, huh?”
“You’re insufferable,” you snapped, standing over him, chest heaving with adrenaline and frustration.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively, his hand already sliding up your thigh, under the hem of your skirt. His palm cupped you through your panties, pressing just enough to draw a moan from your throat before his mouth found yours.
The kiss was intense, filthy, and needy–your teeth colliding before his tongue swept in, claiming you. His moan vibrated against your lips, and when you tried to spit another insult, he muffled you with his hand, his palm pressing over your mouth.
“How’s your day been?” he asked against your lips, his tone casual, conversational, like he wasn’t palming your soaked panties in the middle of his office.
“Fhkk yhh,” you managed against his hand, your voice muffled but clear enough.
Gojo chuckled, pulling back just far enough to smirk at you. “We’ll get there,” he promised, his voice low and dark, before pushing you back onto the leather sofa.
In a blur, he was between your thighs, spreading them wide with his hands, his mouth already warm against the inside of your thigh. He kissed there first–mocking patience–before dragging his tongue upward, his breath fanning against your soaked lace.
Then he pushed your panties aside and went hog-wild.
His mouth latched onto your pussy like he’d been starving for it. His tongue flicked against your clit, then dragged lower, plunging inside you, lapping up everything you gave him. His groan was obscene, vibrating against your cunt as his hands dug into your thighs to keep you open. The leather creaked under your shifting weight, your back arching as he devoured you.
“God–fuck–Toru,” you moaned, one hand slapping against the wall behind you, the other tangling tight in his hair. You pulled hard, trying to ground yourself, but he only groaned louder, burying his face deeper between your thighs.
He ate you like it was punishment, like every slick drip was his to claim. His tongue circled your clit relentlessly, alternating between fast flicks and slow, heavy drags that made your thighs quake. Then he’d shove his tongue deep inside you again, licking and slurping like he couldn’t get enough.
The sound was obscene–wet, sloppy, shameless. Every suck echoed in the small office, and every moan you couldn’t bite back bounced off the blinds and walls. His nose pressed against your clit as his tongue thrust into you, his hands holding you wide and helpless.
“Fucking perfect,” he muttered between licks, his voice rough, vibrating against you. “Can’t get enough of this.”
Your head fell back, nails dragging through his silver hair as he groaned into your pussy, spit and slick smearing his chin. He shifted one hand, spreading you wider, his thumb pressing against your clit as his tongue slid lower again. The combined stimulation ripped another cry from you, your hips jerking helplessly.
“You’re–fuck–you’re insane,” you gasped, tugging his hair so hard his head tilted back for a moment. His grin was feral, chin glistening, eyes bright with hunger.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low, before diving back in.
He slurped shamelessly, his mouth sealing over your clit, sucking hard enough to make your thighs clamp around his head. He groaned like he liked it, like your thighs trapping him there made him harder, rougher. You could feel the vibration of his moans in every nerve, every slick drag of his tongue pulling you higher, closer, tighter.
Your orgasm tore through you suddenly and violently, making you cry out loud enough that the staff outside probably heard. You bucked against his face, shaking, but Gojo didn’t let up–he kept licking, suckling, and groaning into your cunt until you were squirming away from the overstimulation.
When he finally pulled back, his face was a mess–chin soaked, lips red and wet, eyes bright. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like the devil himself, before leaning up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“I can’t wait for us to get to home,” he murmured against your lips, his voice ragged but certain.
And you hated how you even ended up with your worst nightmare, but also loved....the man of your dreams.
Do not plagiarize my work.
Also please like, reblog, comment (if you wanna 😛 I thought this piece was peak comedy)
Did you copy spearofheaven’s symbiosis or did she copy you
What an odd thing to ask, I've never read their fanfictions and didn't even know that they had the same title as mine, I just read theirs and it's totally different.
So I see no issue, titles get re-used just as much as AU's do.
Summary: You thought isolation kept you safe, but he makes safety feel like a curse. Toji tangles himself in your world, your body, until you can’t breathe without him.
Substance: MDNI, tangled-ish au, rapunzel!f!reader, thief!toji, pet crow, slow-burn, violence, angst, blood, oral (reader!receiving), boat hj, fingering, hair pulling, loss of innocence, naive reader, rough sex, overstimulation, possessive toji, power imbalance, touch-starved reader, begging, toji’s got a BIG cøck,messy kisses, creampie, push and pull dynamic, porn with a plot, multiple positions, dirty talk, pinning, overstimulation, begging, rough but playful sex, semi-death, hair bondage, reader corruption, softening toji, happy ending.
W/C: 15.9k
a/n: I forgot how the movie went, I went based off memory lmfao, i changed...a few things. ya, ya'll have a pet crow named geto & not a lizard, sorry. also pls check out my other works, like, follow, reblog for more writing please.
The tower was an eyesore and a miracle all at once. It rose out of the treeline like some long-forgotten tooth, jagged and white against the green canopy. Moss clung to its base like it was trying to drag the thing back into the dirt, but the stones were stubborn, sharp-edged even under decades of weather. Ivy climbed the length of it, swallowing bricks whole, but the crown of the tower still jutted clean into the sky, capped with a roof of dark slate.
Whoever built it hadn’t wanted it hidden. They wanted it impossible to miss, standing alone in the middle of a clearing where the forest broke open into a ring of ferns and wildflowers. It looked less like a home and more like a prison some rich bastard decided to dress up pretty.
Toji stood at the edge of the clearing, scowling at it the way a wolf might scowl at a fence. His back ached from running, his knuckles were still sore from the fight, and his pack felt too damn light without the payout he’d been chasing.
He could already hear the hounds on his trail in his head–maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Always eventually. He needed somewhere high, hidden, and hard to reach. And there it was. Some fairytale nightmare tower waiting to be looted.
“Hell of a joke,” he muttered, rubbing at his jaw as he stepped into the open. Grass crunched under his boots, dew soaking his ankles. He gave the tower a once-over, measuring it the way he’d measure an opponent: height, weak points, lines he could use. No door at the bottom.
Just smooth stone wrapped in vines, no doubt slick as oil if the rain came down. Windows near the top–narrow, but big enough if he shoved his way through. He adjusted the strap of his sword on his back and grunted. “Great. Love it. Tall, shiny death trap. Exactly what I needed.”
Still, his hands itched. Climbing wasn’t new. He’d done worse for less. The idea of sleeping with dirt in his hair tonight made his bones want to crack. A roof, even one on a damn cursed tower, sounded worth the trouble.
Toji walked a slow circle around the base, boots sinking into damp moss as he muttered under his breath.
“No door. No ladder. Real friendly architecture. Probably a wizard’s dick-measuring contest.” His fingers found a groove in the stone, nails scraping over the rough edge. He gripped it, tested the hold, then spat into the grass. “Yeah, sure. Why not break my neck tonight. Sounds fun.”
He slung his pack over tighter, spat again for luck, and dug in. His boots caught on the vines first, and the stone bit into his palms. He hauled himself up with a grunt, muscles straining as the tower wall pressed close to his chest. The ivy shifted under him, flaking off bark and dust, but he kept moving.
One hand over the other, gritting his teeth as his shoulders burned. “If I wanted a workout, I’d have charged more,” he grumbled through clenched teeth, dragging himself higher, “not climbed Rapunzel’s damn chimney.”
The higher he got, the more the forest opened beneath him, the treetops spreading in every direction. He could see the faint silver vein of a river glinting in the distance, the moon catching on its back. The wind shifted, cool and sharp, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth.
Toji shoved his face against the stone for a second, muttering, “Nice view, shame about the fucking ladder,” before forcing himself up another few feet. His thighs ached, his forearms screamed, but the window was getting closer. Dark. Open just enough.
“Better be empty,” he growled under his breath, fingers clawing for the sill. “Better be nothing but dust and spiders. If it’s another pissed-off noble with a crossbow, I swear to god–” He pulled himself up, shoulders bunched, and grunted as he swung one leg over the edge. His boots scraped against the stone, and for a heartbeat he hung there, halfway in, half out, the forest yawning below him.
“I’ll kill him and take his bed.”
And with that, Toji shoved himself inside.
The landing was harder than he expected. Toji’s boots scraped against stone as he heaved himself through the narrow window, rolling one broad shoulder and muttering curses until he finally got both legs inside.
He straightened slowly, chest heaving, arms burning from the climb. A roof over his head–finally. He dusted his palms on his thighs, the faint sting of scraped skin reminding him how high he’d dragged himself.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn’t musty like he expected, not the rotting dampness of some forgotten hideout. It smelled… lived in.
Candle wax burned low, faint herbs dried in bunches somewhere overhead, and something sharper lingered beneath–iron, maybe, or dusted blood. His gaze swept the room in a single, instinctive pass.
A lantern painted black and gold sat in the corner, surrounded by a halo of oddities: cracked skulls of small animals stacked carefully in rows, a scattering of teeth in a bowl, and dark oil paintings hung unevenly along the walls.
He couldn’t make sense of half of them, just shapes at first, but when he leaned closer, one canvas revealed a woman bent at unnatural angles, her face smeared into streaks of black. Another showed a forest on fire under a moonless sky.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Creepy. Great. Should’ve known.” His voice was low, more for himself than anyone else, though the quiet of the tower seemed to swallow it whole.
On the floor, strands of hair trailed in careless loops. They snaked across rugs and wood like threads of spun silk, catching light in strange ways. He squatted, rubbing one between his rough fingers. Not rope. Not yarn. Hair. Real hair, long enough to coil around the chair leg three times over.
He frowned, lip curling as he muttered, “What kind of freak…” before standing again, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sudden rush of wings cut through the air. Toji jerked instinctively, hand snapping to the hilt of his sword, body low and ready. A crow shot down from the rafters with a ragged caw, talons flashing before it landed on the painted lantern. Its head cocked, black eyes unblinking as it studied him. Toji growled, swinging his arm to shoo it off, but the damn thing didn’t move.
“Yeah, alright,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re the welcoming committee.”
The crow cawed again–loud, sharp–and in that moment something heavy smashed into the crown of his skull. Pain shot white-hot through his vision. Toji’s breath punched out of him in a grunt, his knees buckled, and the world turned dark before he could catch himself.
When the fog started to lift, it came in fits and starts–dull throb at the back of his skull, the faint scent of candle wax, and the uncomfortable bite of rope digging into his wrists.
Only when his vision cleared did he realize it wasn’t rope at all. His arms were lashed down, chest pressed back into a wooden chair, strands of hair binding him tighter than leather ever could.
The sound of humming drifted across the tower chamber. He turned his head with effort, jaw clenching against the ache, and saw you.
You stood before a warped mirror, tilting your head this way and that, a crown of jeweled silver perched on your hair. The jewels caught the firelight, scattering it over your face in glints of red and blue. Your lips moved faintly as you spoke to yourself, eyes fixed on your reflection, as though testing the weight of the crown with your words.
The dress you wore was dark gray, heavy at the hem but clinging to your curves, the fabric hugging the line of your waist and falling snug over your hips. Thin sleeves slipped just off your shoulders, exposing the sharp angle of your collarbone, and every move you made seemed to drag the fabric tighter over your breasts.
The lantern’s light flickered over you, darkening and revealing in alternating turns, leaving Toji staring longer than he should.
His mouth tugged in something close to a grin. Of course. Locked in a tower, draped in jewels, prancing around in front of a mirror. The absurdity was almost better than the pain in his skull. His gaze lingered–first on the crown, then inevitably lower–until his throat rumbled with the need to speak.
He cleared his throat deliberately. The sound was rough, echoing in the quiet chamber.
You jumped like a startled deer, spinning fast enough that the crown slid askew. The frying pan you’d left on a nearby stool was back in your hands in an instant, raised in front of you like a weapon as you glared at him.
“Who are you?” Your voice was tight, eyes narrowed.
Toji leaned back against the chair as much as the bindings allowed, head tipping lazily to the side. His grin widened, slow and deliberate, until it turned into something he probably thought was charming. A smolder, if one could call it that–cheek angled, eyes half-lidded, lips crooked into a soft, practiced curve.
You blinked once. Then again. Your brow furrowed, nose wrinkling. “…What are you doing with your face?”
The smirk cracked, and a low chuckle spilled from him. “That’s my look, sweetheart. Women usually like it.”
“Looks like you’re in pain.” You didn’t lower the pan.
Toji laughed again, short and rough, before letting his head fall back against the chair. “Name’s Toji,” he said finally, letting his grin relax into something sharper. His eyes never left yours.
You tilted your chin higher, crown glinting as you studied him from across the room. Your grip on the pan tightened.
“I know this place,” Toji went on, voice a drawl. “Infamous tower. Belongs to a girl named Rapunzel.” He let the name hang there, mocking.
Your brow arched. “That’s not my name.”
Toji’s grin sharpened, eyes glinting even through the ache in his skull. Bound to a chair, hair digging into his wrists, a crow glaring from the lantern, and you standing there with firelight dancing on the jeweled crown.
For the first time that night, the tower didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like the start of trouble.
Your grip on the pan didn’t loosen, but your eyes wandered. It wasn’t your fault. He made it impossible not to. Even tied to a chair with his wrists tangled in your hair, he carried himself like someone who wasn’t used to being contained. His shoulders filled out the chair’s frame, broad and heavy, stretching the fabric of the dark shirt that clung to him.
The top buttons were undone, exposing the sharp cut of his collarbone and the faint trail of muscle running down his chest. The shirt itself looked travel-worn, with sleeves rolled up carelessly to his forearms and tucked into black trousers that hugged his thighs.
A leather belt cinched around his waist, his sword conspicuously missing from its sheath–now leaning against the wall where you’d stashed it. His hair was a mess, strands falling across his forehead, but his face was maddeningly calm, mouth curved into that smug, practiced grin.
His eyes–green and sharp under the flicker of the lantern–shifted deliberately. He noticed. The way your gaze lingered too long, the way you blinked hard like you could burn the image out of your head. His grin widened.
“See something you like, princess?” His voice was low, edged with amusement. He rolled his shoulders against the chair’s back like he wasn’t bound at all. The strands of hair pulled tighter against his wrists, but he didn’t flinch.
He almost seemed to enjoy testing them. “Careful. Staring that long makes a man think you want something.”
Your lips pressed together, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. You adjusted the pan in your hands, tilting it just enough to look dangerous again. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, princess?” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Or should I try sunshine instead?”
You huffed, tilting your chin up. “You’re in no place to be giving me names. And don’t forget–you’re the one tied up.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Mm. Tied up by you, no less. Maybe I should be worried.”
“I’m keeping your weapon.” You gestured toward the corner where his sword leaned against the wall. “And you’re going to take me outside. Past the forest. To see the lights.”
His brows flicked up. “Lights?”
You shifted your grip on the pan, trying to steady your voice. “The lanterns. They release them every year in the kingdom. I’ve seen them from here. I want to see them up close.”
Toji chuckled, low and rough. “That’s it? All this,” he tugged faintly at the hair binding his wrists, “for some candle party in the sky?”
“It’s not a party,” you snapped, though your voice softened as you went on. “It’s… it’s everything. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to see.”
For the first time, his grin faltered. Not much, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But then he leaned forward as far as the chair allowed, his voice a teasing drawl again. “And what makes you think I’ll just agree to that?”
You stepped closer, slowly, until your knees brushed the chair. His eyes followed you, a predator’s patience wrapped in something sly. Without a second thought, you shifted onto his lap, straddling him with your knees against the chair’s arms. You raised the pan under his chin, the edge pressing faintly against the line of his jaw.
His body went still. Then his grin returned, sharper than before.
“You got guts, princess,” he murmured, voice low enough to stir heat against your cheek. His hands twitched against the hair, testing. “Not sure you realize what you’re doing, though.”
Your heart hammered, but you held steady, face close to his. “You’ll take me to see them. Or I’ll keep your...uh...bejewled hair band until you rot in this tower.”
He let out a short laugh, head tipping back against the chair. “Bejewled...hair band? Damn. Didn’t think I’d find a woman up here, let alone one bold enough to sit on my lap.” His grin twisted. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
You frowned, confused, pressing the pan harder. “What are you–”
His smirk deepened. “You tied me up easy enough. Bet you’d be even better at using that hair in bed.”
The words hit like a spark. Your face burned, ears hot, and lips parted without sound at first. Then, clumsily, you muttered, “You mean like… those books? The ones–the smut novels?”
His laugh rolled out low and wicked. “So you’ve read ‘em.”
“I didn’t say that!” you blurted, heat flaring in your cheeks. The crow swooped from its perch at that moment, cawing sharply as if to punctuate your embarrassment.
Toji grinned wider, leaning as close as the bindings let him. “You’re red as a cherry, sunshine. Cute.”
You scrambled back, rising from his lap with the pan still tight in your grip. The crow, Geto, landed on your shoulder, wings fluttering as it settled, glaring at him like it shared your fluster.
“Fine,” you snapped, trying to regain ground. “You’ll take me. To the lanterns. That’s the deal.”
Toji shifted in the chair, muscles bunching under the dark fabric as he smirked up at you.
“Guess I don’t have much of a choice.” He tugged at the strands binding him, eyes flicking from the crown still crooked on your head back down to the curves your dress didn’t bother to hide. His grin softened into something dangerous and promising.
“But let’s be clear, princess. The minute I’m out of this chair, you’re the one tied to me.”
The chair creaked when you finally stepped behind him, tugging on the strands binding his wrists. The knots loosened with effort, but you didn’t let him free completely–not yet. Instead, you gathered the hair that was coiled around him, twisting it into thick lengths and looping it around his wrist like a leash.
The moment he realized what you were doing, Toji’s head tipped back, lips curling in that cocky, infuriating grin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You tugged harder, the hair biting into his skin as you stepped toward the window. “If I let you walk free, you’d run.”
“You’re not wrong,” he said lazily, though the grin didn’t fade. “But dragging me out like a dog on a leash? That’s cold, princess. Almost makes me like you.”
The word “like” made your face heat, though you tried to keep your expression flat as you approached the open window. Outside, the world stretched wide–an ocean of trees shifting under a wind you’d never felt so close. The air smelled different here, raw and alive, full of earth and green and something sharp you couldn’t name.
You stepped closer to the ledge, and your stomach dropped. The ground was so far below, dizzying in its distance. You gripped the sill tight with your free hand, gulping hard, the weight of the world pressing heavy in your chest.
Behind you, Toji’s laugh was quiet, low in his throat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never actually been outside.”
You didn’t answer. The crow beat you to it. With a rough caw, it launched from the lantern where it perched, wings flashing in the firelight as it swooped past your head. It flew straight out the window, circling back once before hovering in the air, its sharp cries echoing back at you. A demand. A push.
You nodded quickly, as if the crow’s call alone gave you courage. Gathering the strands into both hands, you looped them over the wooden support that jutted out from the tower wall just above the window–a weathered beam once meant for pulleys or baskets. The hair caught and held, thick enough to bear the weight. Your palms slickened with sweat as you tested it with a hard tug.
“Wait,” Toji said suddenly, straightening in the chair. His grin slipped, his eyes flicking to the drop. “You’re not–”
But you were. With one sharp inhale, you leapt forward, dragging him with you.
The world spun. The air rushed cold against your cheeks, whipping your hair and skirts around you. Toji cursed, his deep voice breaking into something almost like panic as he shouted over the roar of wind.
For one terrifying heartbeat, your stomach seemed to drop through you, the weight of the fall pulling you both toward the earth. You screamed, high and sharp, and to your surprise, his voice joined yours–low, raw, and unguarded–as you both fell together.
Then the hair went taut. The beam groaned, the swing caught, and momentum carried you in a wide arc. Toji’s body slammed against yours as gravity tugged, his warmth and weight pressing you closer than you’d ever been to another person. His arm jerked instinctively around your waist, holding you flush to him, a reflex you were too panicked to notice.
The swing slowed at last until your boots scraped the grass. Then, with a sharp snap, the hair slipped free of the beam, and the two of you tumbled onto the clearing below.
The grass was cool against your back, the air different here–bright, almost blinding compared to the filtered glow inside the tower. You sucked in deep breaths, staring at the sky. It wasn’t the same pale disc you’d seen from your window–it was vast, endless, with clouds drifting slow and heavy across its blue stretch. You rolled in the grass, the blades tickling your cheeks and arms, laughter bubbling from your throat, unrestrained and dizzy.
The crow swooped low, wings slicing through the sunlight as it cawed triumphantly, settling onto a branch above.
Toji, meanwhile, shoved himself up fast, hair falling loose from his wrists. He stumbled once before planting his boots solidly into the dirt, muscles tense. His chest heaved, shirt clinging to his skin from the sweat of the climb, the swing, and the sheer panic that flickered in his eyes before he masked it again. His gaze cut to the tree line, sharp, calculating. A man planning escape.
He moved. Quickly and deliberately, turning on his heel to bolt toward the cover of the woods.
The crow saw it before you did. With a furious cry, it launched from its branch, black wings flashing as it barreled into him. Its talons raked across his shoulder, its beak snapping dangerously close to his ear.
Toji snarled, ducking instinctively, swiping at the air with one hand. “Damned bird!”
The crow wheeled back, readying another dive.
You laughed harder, still rolling in the grass. The world spun above you, every sound sharper, every smell more vivid–the mossy damp earth, the wildflowers nodding in the breeze, the sheer noise of life buzzing all around. You dug your fingers into the dirt, let the sun soak your skin, and let the crow’s furious caws and Toji’s shouted curses weave together into music.
For the first time in your life, the tower was behind you, and the outside world was yours.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The forest stretched endlessly in all directions, the path narrowing into a thin line of dirt flanked by roots and rocks. Your skirts dragged through damp ferns, snagging now and then on stray brambles, but you didn’t care. The woods were alive in a way your tower never had been–birds fluttering overhead, squirrels darting through the underbrush, the air thick with pine and the musk of earth.
Every time you looked up, another wonder caught your eye: mushrooms blooming in shades of red and white, shafts of golden light piercing the canopy, and a deer drinking from a stream so still it looked like glass.
You gasped and twirled like a child, bare feet pressing into the loamy ground, toes cold with dew. “It’s so–so big,” you whispered, eyes wide.
Behind you, Toji groaned. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his dark shirt hanging open at the chest, exposing the sweat-slick muscles beneath. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it is!” You gestured wildly at everything around you–the trees, the flowers, the sky. "Are you aware that this is the first time I've seen a pinecone? Or smelled rain-soaked moss? Or–”
He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, sunshine, congratulations. The world’s damp and dirty. You’ll be sick of it in a day.”
But when you looked back, he was watching you, and for a brief moment, you thought his lips twitched with something other than mockery.
By the time night fell, your legs ached, and Toji led you off the trail to a small clearing. He made camp with a practiced ease, striking flint and piling sticks until a fire sparked to life. You sat close to the flames, warming your hands, your hair coiled beside you like a second blanket.
Toji leaned against a fallen log, long legs stretched out, a knife glinting in his hand as he sharpened it lazily. The crow perched on a branch above, feathers black as tar, as he watched the two of you.
You tilted your head back, staring at the sky. Stars spilled across it in streaks of silver, more than you had ever counted from your tower window. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured.
“Mm,” Toji grunted, eyes on his blade. “Burning rocks. Real romantic.”
You rolled your eyes, hugging your knees. “You’re impossible.”
The next day, he guided you further along the path until the trees broke, revealing a cluster of crooked buildings huddled at the edge of a river. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of rowdy voices spilled into the dusk.
The tavern loomed at the center, its sign swinging heavily from rusted chains. A massive carving of a gnarled finger jutted from it, knuckle swollen, nail long and black, etched with curses and strange symbols. The wood around it was weathered, claw marks gouging the frame. You froze, staring at it with wide eyes.
“What is that?” you whispered.
“The Cursed Tavern,” Toji said simply, striding forward without hesitation. “Perfect place to lay low.”
You hesitated, clutching the strap of your dress. “It doesn’t look… safe.”
His grin was wolfish. “Don’t worry, princess. It’ll be fine.”
But the moment he pushed open the heavy doors, the world shifted. The tavern was dark, lit by guttering candles dripping wax onto warped tables. Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging your eyes, and the stench of sweat, alcohol, and blood clung to every corner. Men and women hunched over their drinks, their garments dark and heavy, faces half-hidden in shadows. At the sight of Toji, a murmur rippled through the room, and steel hissed from scabbards.
Dozens of swords rose in unison, their tips glinting in the firelight as they leveled toward him.
Toji froze mid-step, his grin faltering as his hands lifted slowly in mock surrender. “…Okay. Maybe not fine.”
A rough laugh broke the silence.
From the back of the tavern, a man stood. His hair was a tangled mess, his chest bare beneath an unfastened vest, scars crossing his skin. His voice rasped as he leaned over the bar, pointing a finger at Toji. “Well, well. If it isn’t Toji Fushiguro. The bastard is worth more gold than this whole tavern combined.”
Toji’s jaw tightened. Sweat beaded at his temple, though his smirk returned quickly enough. “Shiu Kong,” he muttered. “Figures you’d be here.”
“Figures you’d be stupid enough to show your face.” Shiu’s grin was sharp as he snapped his fingers. Half the tavern lurched to their feet, chairs scraping back, weapons raised.
Before you could even breathe, chaos erupted.
The first blade swung down, and Toji dodged with a curse, grabbing your wrist and shoving you behind him. He ducked under a swipe, his fist crashing into the nearest man’s jaw, sending blood spraying.
Someone else lunged at his back, and Toji spun, seizing a length of your hair and yanking you forward. You stumbled, but before you could cry out, he looped the hair around his attacker’s arm, jerking hard until the man crashed into the floorboards with a sickening crack.
“Toji!” you gasped, clutching the pan you’d hidden in your skirts.
He smirked at you, wild, with blood on his cheek. “Not bad rope, sunshine.”
The brawl swallowed the room whole. Tankards shattered, tables overturned, and men grunted and screamed as fists and blades tore into each other. Blood smeared the floor, slick and hot, and the crow screeched from the rafters, wings beating the smoke-choked air.
Toji was a blur of movement–grabbing, punching, and twisting bodies until they fell limp at his feet. Once, he swung your hair like a whip, lashing it around a man's throat to choke him before throwing him against a wall.
You froze in the middle of it all, pan clutched tight, heart hammering.
Then, in a rush of reckless courage, you scrambled up onto one of the overturned tables. The wood rocked under your weight, but you lifted the pan high above your head.
“STOP!” you shouted, your voice cutting sharp over the clamor.
The fighting slowed. Dozens of heads turned, bloodied and bruised, eyes narrowing at you. You swallowed hard but forced your chin up, your crown still crooked on your head. “He’s with me!” you cried, voice trembling but strong. “Toji is mine!”
The words rang out louder than you intended, heavy and certain. The tavern went still.
Toji froze mid-swing, a stunned look flickering across his face. The room of killers stared at you, silence settling like dust after a storm. It sounded romantic–too romantic. And once it was spoken, there was no taking it back. You stood tall anyway, frying pan gleaming in the smoke and blood, daring anyone to argue.
The silence that followed your declaration stretched long and uncomfortable, broken only by the crackle of the tavern’s hearth and the faint drip of spilled ale onto the floorboards. Then, from behind the bar, a woman’s voice rang out, syrupy sweet.
“Well, isn’t that just precious,” she cooed, her tone mocking. She leaned against the counter, one hand propping up her chin, cleavage spilling over her corset as she smirked at you. “The little lady claiming her brute.”
Laughter rippled through the bloodied crowd. It wasn’t kind laughter–it was sharp, edged with disbelief and menace. Somewhere in the back, a piano began to play, notes jangling out of tune as one man slurred into song, his voice too high, too eager to ride the moment into farce.
The song ended in a spray of blood. Someone swung a blade in one clean stroke, and the man’s head toppled across the keys. The piano gave a discordant scream before going silent. The body collapsed forward, blood pooling over ivory.
You blinked, the sight slamming into your stomach like a fist. The room tilted, the smoke, the iron stench, the painted lanterns flickering along the walls–all of it spinning. Your knees buckled, and you swayed.
Toji's arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall to the ground, dragging you against him with such ease that it was infuriating. His chest was hot, sweat and blood dampening his shirt.
He leaned close, his voice low against your temple. “Don’t faint on me now, sunshine. You wanted the outside world? This is it.”
You clutched at his shirt, gulping hard, forcing yourself upright again. When your eyes opened, the crowd was staring at you, dozens of faces lit by firelight and suspicion.
“Are you turning him in?” Someone growled from the corner, voice sharp.
“Toji’s worth more than all our heads combined,” another snapped. “If she’s smart, she’ll sell him.”
Your chest heaved, but your chin lifted. “No,” you said, steadier than you expected. “I’m not turning him in. I’m going to see the lanterns.”
The room buzzed with disbelief.
A sleazebag with greasy hair and rotted teeth shoved his way forward, grinning wide.
“Lanterns? That’s rich. A girl like you, wandering with a cutthroat like him, just for some floating candles? You’ll be dead before you get near the kingdom walls.”
Murmurs rose. Some men laughed, others spat, and a few leaned in with offers too foul to repeat. Through it all, Toji stood beside you, silent, hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.
Then the doors crashed open.
“Royal Guard!” a voice thundered.
The tavern erupted. Armor clattered as soldiers poured in, swords raised, torches hissing as they cut through the smoke. Patrons dove for weapons, tables overturned, and bottles shattered. Toji cursed under his breath, seizing your wrist in one brutal grip. “Move!”
He dragged you through the chaos, ducking under a swing of steel, kicking a stool into another man’s shins. The crow swooped low, screeching as it clawed at a soldier’s face, blood streaking across the man’s cheek as he screamed.
Toji’s hand found a trapdoor hidden beneath an overturned rug. He yanked it open with a grunt, shoving you down the ladder first. “Go!”
You tumbled into darkness, your skirts snagging on the rungs until you hit the damp stone floor. Toji landed behind you with a heavy thud, slamming the trapdoor shut above just as steel clanged against it.
The tunnel was narrow, walls slick with moisture, the air thick and stale. Water dripped from above, pooling around your ankles. Toji grabbed your hand again, dragging you forward through the twisting passage.
Shouts echoed behind you, boots pounding. You ran faster, the tunnel sloping downward until the air grew colder, wetter. Then the roar began–faint at first, then deafening. The sound of rushing water.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a cavern, its walls glistening with moss, the river below flooding fast and merciless. You froze at the edge, the current surging through the cave mouth, blocking any chance of escape.
“We’re trapped!” You cried, chest heaving. The water surged higher, licking at your calves, cold and violent. Panic clawed up your throat.
Toji only planted his boots wide, expression unreadable. He wasn’t panicking. No, not even now.
The water climbed, rushing against your thighs, pulling so hard that your knees buckled. You clutched Toji's arm, fear choking you.
Then something happened.
Your hair started to light up.
The glow began faintly, as a shimmer along the strands, before spreading out in waves of golden light that painted the cavern walls. The river shimmered with it, transforming the rushing black water into a flood of fire. The glow pulsed with your heartbeat, illuminating a crack in the rock wall just ahead, revealing a narrow passage that was previously invisible.
Toji stared, eyes wide, water soaking his chest as he caught your gaze. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead, he grinned faintly. “Guess you’re full of surprises.”
You had no time to respond. The water surged higher, sweeping you both off your feet. Toji’s arm wrapped tight around your waist as the current dragged you under. You screamed, the sound swallowed by rushing water, your hair blazing around you like a halo as the current funneled you through the narrow crack.
The two of you shot out into open air, water exploding around you before gravity seized again. You crashed into the river below, the world spinning, lungs burning.
When you broke the surface, gasping, the night sky stretched above, stars wide and endless. The current carried you both downriver, your hair still faintly glowing in the dark. Toji held you tight against him, chest rising and falling steadily even as the river roared.
You coughed, shoving wet hair from your face. He chuckled low in your ear, unshaken.
"Do you still think this was a good idea, Princess?"
And with the river sweeping you onward into the unknown, you almost laughed.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The fire crackled weakly in the clearing that night, its glow painting the trees in orange and gold. The smoke curled into the canopy and vanished into the stars, leaving the air cool enough that you pulled your damp skirts tighter around your legs. Your hair pooled around you like a second blanket, still heavy with river water, catching burrs and twigs from the forest floor.
Toji sat cross-legged across from you, sharpening his knife with short, efficient strokes. His shirt hung loose at the chest, the collar gaping open, and his skin was marked with the shallow slice across his palm from earlier. He noticed you struggling to tug a stubborn burr from your hair and sighed, pushing to his feet.
“Hold still,” he muttered, crouching behind you. His calloused fingers worked surprisingly carefully, plucking debris from the strands, brushing through snarls without yanking. Every so often his knuckles brushed the back of your neck, warm and rough, making your breath catch.
“I can do it myself,” you murmured.
“You’d scalp yourself by morning,” he said flatly, tossing another burr into the flames.
When his hands stilled, you turned and caught sight of the cut in his palm again, raw and ugly. Without a word, you gathered a strand of hair in your fingers, letting it shimmer with the faint glow that had always come so naturally. You wrapped it around his hand, watching as the light soaked into the wound until the skin knit closed.
He flexed his hand slowly, brows drawn low. “You’ve got tricks,” he said finally, voice low.
“It’s not a trick,” you whispered. “It’s mine.”
He didn’t press. Not with words. Instead, when you finally lay down near the fire, he dropped heavily beside you. His arm folded across your waist, his hand resting firmly on your hip. “For warmth,” he said simply, his tone gruff.
Your whole body went tense, your face burning as his chest pressed flush against your back. His breath stirred the hair at your neck, and his grip tightened once, pulling you closer.
But the warmth he sought wasn’t the only thing on his mind. His jaw clenched as he tried to will away the images crowding in: your damp dress clinging to your thighs, the sheer patches where water had made the fabric translucent, and the way your breasts had pressed against him in the river. His hand twitched against your hip, and he shut his eyes hard, biting back a sound that threatened to escape.
Above, the crow swooped low with a sharp caw, wings rattling the branches. Toji’s glare shot upward.
“Mind your damn business,” he growled. The bird cawed louder, as if mocking, and you stirred sleepily, curling closer into his chest. His breath stuttered once before he muttered a curse under his breath and stilled.
The night grew darker, the fire dying low until shadows stretched long over the clearing. You weren’t fully asleep when you heard it: a voice threading through the dark, familiar, and cruel.
“My poor girl.”
Your head jerked up. Across the fire, she stood. Your mother. Draped in dark silks that seemed to ripple though no wind stirred, her face was pale and sharp, eyes glinting cold.
“Out here with him?” she hissed, voice dripping with venom. "Do you know what he is? A murderer. A thief. He’ll bleed you dry and leave you in the dirt.”
You shook your head quickly, whispering, “You’re lying.”
Her smile was brittle and cruel. “Lying? Look at him. Already touching and twisting you. He’ll promise you freedom, and when you’ve given him everything–your hair, your power, your body–he’ll vanish.” She stepped closer, firelight spilling over the deep lines in her face. “You think he cares? He’s laughing at you. At your childish wonder. At your obsession with lanterns.”
Your lips trembled, your chest tight. “He’s not like that.”
Her voice sharpened, a lash. “He is exactly like that. You are nothing without me. Do you hear me? Nothing. You will come crawling back from whence you came...darling mother knows best.”
Tears burned hot in your eyes, but you clenched your fists. “You’re wrong.”
Her figure rippled, shadows twisting, before dissolving into the dark. The clearing was silent once more, save the faint crackle of the fire.
Toji stirred beside you, eyes half-open. “What the hell are you doing awake?”
“Nothing,” you whispered, curling back down beside him.
He didn’t push. He only pulled you tighter, his hand firm on your hip until the tremor in your body eased enough for sleep.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Morning came gray and wet, dew soaking the grass until your skirts clung heavy again. Toji kicked dirt over the last of the embers, his satchel slung across one broad shoulder. You caught the glint of something inside as the flap shifted–your jeweled crown, hidden neatly between his gear, like he’d tucked it there without telling you.
You didn’t comment.
The road was quiet, sun breaking slowly through the canopy as the two of you walked. You were still humming softly to yourself when the forest suddenly shook with a crash.
A white stallion burst through the trees, mane flying, eyes blazing blue. Its hooves struck the dirt like thunder as it landed squarely in the path, muscles bunching as it lowered its head to glare at Toji.
He froze, hand flying to his sword. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The horse lunged. Toji dodged barely, its teeth snapping dangerously close to his arm. He stumbled back, swore, and rolled to his feet as the stallion wheeled around, blocking his path again.
“Damn demon horse!” Toji spat, shoving his sleeves up.
The stallion’s eyes flicked to you, and its demeanor shifted instantly. You stepped forward, one hand outstretched, your voice calm. “Easy…”
Its breath huffed hot against your palm, and you let your hand smooth over its muzzle. The leather strap around its neck shifted with the movement, and you leaned close to read the etched letters: GOJO.
“Gojo,” you whispered. The name fit strangely easily on your tongue.
At the sound, the stallion nudged into your shoulder, gentle and protective.
“Great,” Toji muttered, scowling. “First the crow, now the horse. What’s next, sunshine? You gonna charm a bear?”
Gojo stomped a hoof and, with deliberate precision, nosed at the saddlebag on his flank. A parchment slipped free, flopping to the ground. You bent to pick it up, smoothing it open–
A wanted poster.
The face inked onto it was unmistakable, though rough. The jaw was sharp, the hair long, and the scar cut crooked across the mouth.
Your eyes widened.
“That’s not me,” Toji said immediately, yanking it from your hands. He stared at the sketch, jaw tightening. “Scar’s on the wrong side. Longer, too. They never get the scar right.”
“So it is you,” you said softly.
He grumbled, crumpling the parchment into his satchel. “Close enough.”
Gojo’s ears flicked back, his eyes never leaving Toji.
You reached into your small bag, pulling free the last of the apples you’d tucked away. Holding it out, you offered it gently. The horse took it from your hand, crunching loudly, then pressed his nose to your cheek.
“See?” you whispered, stroking his mane. “He’s not so bad.”
Toji groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect. You’ve made friends with the horse.”
Gojo huffed through his nose, the sound almost smug. His eyes cut back to Toji, sharp and warning, like he would never forget who he was dealing with.
So the four of you set off toward the kingdom: you bright-eyed, petting Gojo’s mane as he walked faithfully beside you; Toji cursing under his breath, his satchel heavy with both blade and crown; and the crow circling high above, feathers catching the sun. And though the road stretched long, you could feel the pull of lantern light waiting at the end.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The village was alive long before the sun dipped into its final glow. Lanterns hung from ropes strung across narrow streets, paper painted in bright reds, golds, and blues. Music thrummed from the square at the center, a blend of fiddles and drums, fast enough that the crowd swayed with it. Children darted between legs, women balanced trays of roasted meat, men shouted for ale, and the scent of sweet spice clung to the air.
Toji lingered at the edge, his broad frame shadowed beneath an overhang, watching you.
You had never seen color like this. Your eyes shone with every detail–the cloth banners fluttering, the painted masks, and the sparkle of lantern light catching against jewels. You moved with a restless awe, brushing against everything, touching flowers laid out on a merchant’s cart, and gasping when sparks burst from firecrackers overhead. Laughter slipped from you, raw and untrained, and you twirled barefoot on the stones, your skirts sweeping with the motion.
Toji half-smiled despite himself, a grunt low in his throat. The way you looked, flushed with excitement, wide-eyed like the world was finally spilling itself open for you–it almost made him forget how dangerous it all was. Almost.
And then came the hair.
A group of girls caught you near the fountain, giggling as they beckoned you closer. You let them sit you down, your hair spilling over their laps as nimble fingers worked through the strands. They braided it with practiced ease, weaving small flowers into the loops, petals catching the glow of lanterns until you looked almost otherworldly.
Toji’s jaw clenched. His eyes dragged down your figure, the soft swell of your breasts where the dress clung, the curve of your waist, and the bare skin flashing at your ankles when you spun. He shifted against the post, one hand dragging across his thigh, fixing the tension already straining his pants.
Fuck.
He gritted his teeth, trying to pull his gaze away, but his mind betrayed him. The image was too sharp: your legs parted beneath him, your hair tangled in his fists, flowers falling loose with every thrust. He could hear it–your breathy cries, the desperate pleas, and the sound of his name on your lips. His groan was quiet but real, and he pressed his palm hard against himself through the fabric of his pants, willing the ache to settle.
Beside him, Gojo stamped a hoof, glaring at him with those ice-blue eyes.
Toji snapped his head sideways, scowling. “Don’t start with me.” He shoved at the stallion’s muzzle when it pressed too close, muttering curses under his breath. “The hell do you care?”
But when he looked back, you were already on your feet again, hair braided, flowers tumbling through the strands as though the girls had crowned you with them. Your face was flushed with laughter, and the music pulled you into the square.
You danced.
The villagers caught your hands, spinning you between them. They clapped and stomped in time with the fiddles, skirts and sleeves flaring all around you. You laughed with them, twirling faster, your eyes catching every burst of light, every flicker of flame.
And then–your hand caught his.
Toji stiffened as you tugged him forward. “Dance,” you insisted, your voice full of joy.
“No,” he said immediately, but you only laughed, pulling harder until he stumbled into the circle. His body resisted, but your grip was stubborn, and the crowd surged around you both, swallowing him in music and light.
The rhythm carried you apart, partners trading with each beat. Toji’s hands were forced on others, villagers grinning as they shoved him along, spinning him until he almost cursed. But every time, your figure caught his eye again–the way your skirts flew, the braid swayed, and flowers tumbled as you spun into another man’s arms, only to be pulled away again.
It was chaos, and for once, Toji didn’t fight it. His chest heaved, sweat dampening his hairline, but his eyes never left you. He wanted you back in his arms, not theirs. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and undeniable.
At last, the dance shifted, the partners spinning back into each other, and you collided with him again. His arms wrapped firm around your waist as he caught you, and with one swift movement, he dipped you low over his knee. The crowd cheered, stomping harder.
You gasped, one hand clinging to his shoulder, the other pressed against his chest. Your hair cascaded down, flowers falling to the ground, your braid loosening against the stones. His face was so close, his breath hot against your lips, eyes dark and heavy with something far from playful.
For a long moment, the music blurred. It was only him, staring at you, and you staring back. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, his chest pressed solidly to your ribs, and you felt the low rumble of his breath.
And then, with impeccable timing, Geto landed on his head.
The crow’s talons dug into Toji’s hair, wings beating furiously as it cawed in his ear. Toji jerked back with a furious snarl, nearly dropping you in the process.
The crowd roared with laughter.
You stumbled upright, flushed, hiding your face behind your braid as the villagers clapped and cheered. Toji ripped the crow off his head, shoving it skyward with a string of curses, his jaw clenched so tight it could break.
But still, his eyes lingered on you, the image of your lips close enough to taste burned into him, and no amount of mocking laughter from the villagers–or caws from Geto–could erase it.
The festival bled into the night with laughter, music, and the smell of roasted meat still lingering heavy in the air. The villagers carried baskets of lanterns down to the riverbank, their faces glowing with anticipation. You followed, your skirts brushing against the grass, bare feet cold with dew, but you didn’t care.
Everything shimmered–candles flickering in glass jars, fireflies rising in spirals, and children squealing as they clutched paper lanterns shaped like flowers and suns. The crowd’s joy infected you, your heart thrumming with excitement as you clutched your braid woven with wilted blossoms.
Behind you, Toji walked at a lazy pace, hands shoved into his pockets. His green eyes flicked from face to face, always calculating, but when they landed on you, his jaw slackened just slightly. He didn’t say a word, though he grunted when Gojo nudged his shoulder with an indignant snort.
“Yeah, yeah,” Toji muttered, shoving at the horse’s muzzle. “I’ll watch her. Like you don’t.”
The stallion huffed, blue eyes flashing, but his focus shifted when Toji tossed a bag of apples at him with a sharp swing of his arm. “Here. Go play guard somewhere else.”
Gojo stomped, nostrils flaring, but lowered his head to crunch the fruit. Geto, the crow, settled smugly on the horse’s head, wings folded like a crown, glaring at Toji as though he’d sentenced him to the gallows.
Unbothered, Toji moved closer to you, his gaze sliding to the small cluster of wooden boats tied along the riverbank. While the villagers busied themselves lighting candles and singing old songs, he untied one rope with practiced speed, steadying the boat with his foot.
“Get in,” he muttered.
You blinked, glancing from the boat to the crowd. “But it isn’t ours–”
“It is now,” he cut in, voice low. “Unless you want to fight the entire village for it.”
You bit your lip, then nodded, climbing in carefully. The wooden frame rocked under your weight, water lapping gently against the side. Toji followed, settling opposite you, his broad shoulders dwarfing the space. With one shove of the oar, the boat drifted into the river, away from the shore.
The lanterns lifted.
One by one, flames flickered alive in the villagers’ hands, set carefully inside paper shells before being released to the night sky. They floated upward, soft and golden, hundreds upon hundreds blooming into the darkness like stars reborn. Fireflies joined them, caught in the glow, turning the air into a curtain of light.
You gasped, hand pressed over your heart. “They’re… they’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
The awe in your voice made Toji pause. He leaned back against the bench, the oar forgotten, his eyes fixed not on the lanterns but on you. The glow reflected in your wide eyes, your parted lips, and the soft line of your throat as you tilted your head skyward.
Something in his chest tightened.
For once, his smirk softened. “Guess they’re worth the climb,” he said roughly, though the words carried a warmth that surprised even him.
You turned to him, smile bright, your braid slipping over your shoulder. The lanterns painted your face in gold, and you leaned forward slightly, your voice quiet. “Do you want to know my real name?”
His brow arched. “I thought it was princess.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Then you told him. The sound left your lips like a secret released into the night air, heavy and soft, a name that belonged to you alone.
He repeated it under his breath, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to carve it into his memory. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and when you looked back up at him, the distance between you seemed suddenly unbearable.
His hand moved first. Fingers sinking into your braid, he tugged gently until your head tilted back, your breath catching in your throat. He leaned in, lips brushing yours before pressing deep. The kiss was filthy–hungry, wet, and claiming. Your eyes flew wide before fluttering shut, your body tumbling forward into his lap.
You clutched at his shoulders, your arms wrapping tight around his neck as his tongue slid into your mouth. He groaned low when he heard the first whimper escape you, the sound vibrating against his chest. His arm banded around your waist, dragging you closer until you straddled him, your skirts bunching as you ground down on his lap.
His cock was already hard and thick, straining against his slacks. He shifted, grinding up into you, making you moan into his mouth. Breaking the kiss with a harsh breath, he pressed his lips to your ear. “Feel that?” His voice was hoarse and ragged.
You nodded against him, hips rolling instinctively. “Y-yes…”
He grunted, his grip bruising on your thighs as he pulled your skirts higher, his big hands sliding up until his palms squeezed the softness of your flesh. The boat rocked beneath you, but he didn’t care, grinding your soaked core across the thick ridge of his cock. Each drag made your breath break into soft, desperate gasps.
Your hands trembled as they pressed against his chest, sliding lower, pawing clumsily at the ties of his slacks. “Let me–please, let me help you,” you begged, your voice small but urgent.
His jaw clenched, a curse spilling under his breath. The sight of you pleading unraveled him. He kissed down your throat, teeth grazing your skin as he muttered, “Do it.”
Your fingers slid inside, trembling as they brushed his length. Heat seared your palm–thick, heavy, throbbing against your touch. You wrapped your hand around him, tugging him free. His cock curved into your grasp, thick and swollen, the tip flushed dark, catching the lantern's glow and gleaming wetly in the night.
Your lips parted, the words spilling before you could stop them. “It’s so… big.”
He chuckled darkly, his hips jerking up into your hand. "You say that frequently."
When your palm pressed against the tip, his voice turned into a grunt, smearing the slick across the length. You stroked clumsily, your eyes wide as you watched his face twist in raw pleasure. His hand closed over yours, guiding the pace, making you stroke tighter, faster.
“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. "That's great, princess. Keep going.”
Lantern light burned gold across the river, paper suns drifting skyward in an endless tide. The little boat rocked gently with the current, though it wasn’t the water making it sway–it was you, half in Toji’s lap, skirts hiked high, palm wrapped clumsily around the thick weight of him. His cock throbbed in your grip, slick gathering along your hand as you stroked him, the lanterns above catching every wet sheen that spilled from the flushed head.
You were getting better at it–your grip surer, the pace steadier–your body shivering at every groan torn from his throat. His hips bucked up into your palm, driving the length deeper through your fist, making your eyes widen at just how heavy he felt. You leaned in, lips searching blindly until they found his, the kiss turned into a messy clash of teeth and tongue. Your breath mingled with his, your whimpers swallowed as he growled low in his chest.
Then his hand slipped beneath your skirts. You gasped into his mouth when his fingers pressed against your soaked panties, the thin fabric clinging to the swollen heat between your legs. His thumb found your clit easily, circling slowly, rubbing in tight motions that sent sparks up your spine. The noise you made broke slowly, a moan spilling against his lips as he husked a laugh, pleased.
“Sensitive, huh?” His voice was dark, his teeth dragging over your lower lip before releasing it. His fingers pressed harder, rubbing over the damp patch until it grew wetter, his cock twitching in your palm at the sound of your needy gasps.
Your thighs trembled around him when he pushed the fabric aside. Two thick fingers slid against your slit, spreading you open before he pushed them in deep, knuckle after knuckle, until your walls clenched tight around him. You cried out, forehead falling against his shoulder, your hand squeezing him harder as he fucked you with his fingers.
He groaned, the sound guttural, his jaw clenching as he felt you flutter around him. “Tight little pussy… gripping me already.” His pace quickened, long fingers plunging in and out, curling against that spot that made your body jolt every time. His palm pressed flush against your clit, grinding down with every thrust of his hand.
You were losing your mind. Your hips rolled helplessly into his palm, your mouth spilling broken words into his shoulder. “More–please, more–Toji–”
The boat rocked harder as his other hand grabbed your hip, pinning you against him. His cock brushed against the inside of your thigh where your panties gaped, the swollen head dragging heat over your skin. The sensation made your head spin, the thought of him splitting you open while his fingers worked you pulling a desperate sob from your throat.
You pumped him faster, your small hand working over his length as slick leaked thick from the tip, wetting your palm. Your strokes grew frantic, matching the thrust of his hand inside you. The head of his cock nudged against the opening of your panties, smearing precum against the thin fabric while his knuckles plunged deep in your cunt.
His face buried between your breasts, his nose pressing into the swell as he inhaled deeply, grunting like a starved man. His tongue dragged over the damp skin where your dress had slipped low, his teeth grazing before his mouth latched and sucked. Your moan broke sharp, your body arching against him as his fingers moved faster, harder, rubbing your clit mercilessly with his palm.
The lanterns blurred into streaks of light as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clamped tight around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his hips as you sobbed his name. He groaned into your chest, grinding harder against your dripping pussy, his cock jerking violently in your palm.
“Fuck–” The word ripped from him as he came. Hot ropes of seed spilled over your knuckles, thick and white, staining your palm and streaking across the crotch of your panties where his cock dragged against you. The heat of it combined with your own slick, soaking the thin fabric until it was wet and sticky.
You slumped against him, trembling, his hand still buried deep inside you, fingers slow as your walls spasmed around him. He tilted your head up, lips crashing into yours in a deep, filthy kiss, swallowing the last of your moans.
When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice low and hoarse. He whispered your name–your real name–like it was something sacred, then kissed you again, slower, longer, as the lanterns drifted overhead, carrying your secret into the night sky.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The clearing was dark but restless, the fire nothing more than a bed of coals glowing red against the black. The forest pressed in at every side, insects hummed in the tall grass, and an owl cried in the distance. You sat rigid on one side of the fire, your arms wrapped around your knees, every flick of your hair across your cheek like a whip of irritation.
“You think this is all a game, don’t you?” Your voice cracked through the night like glass breaking.
Across the flames, Toji looked up from sharpening his blade. His green eyes gleamed in the low light, his smirk already curling. “What’re you crying about now?”
“You mock me.” The words came fast, sharper than you meant them. “You mock me every time I’m in awe, every time I say something you don’t find useful. You think I’m just… naïve. A child.”
He set the blade down, the clink of steel on stone snapping through the clearing. He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, his gaze flat and cold. “Because you are.”
The words hit harder than the fire’s heat.
“You don’t know real danger,” he went on, voice low and rough. “You’ve lived in a tower staring at lanterns while I’ve been running with a knife at my throat. You want the world? Here it is. Ugly. Brutal. And it’ll eat you alive if you don’t stop twirling around in your bare feet like you’re untouchable.”
Your throat closed around a sob, but fury shoved it back. “And that makes you better? You bleed, kill, and lie with pride. That doesn’t make you stronger–it makes you cruel.”
Something in his jaw flexed. Then the air shattered.
He surged up, and so did you, your bodies colliding across the dwindling firelight. His mouth crashed against yours, a savage kiss, his teeth catching your lip, your fists tangling in his shirt. He shoved you down into the grass, your braid splaying wild across the dirt, and he followed, his weight pressing you hard into the earth.
You writhed beneath him, not to escape but to pull him closer. Your legs spread instinctively, wrapping around his hips, your skirt riding high. He growled into your mouth, his tongue pushing deep, swallowing your gasp. His hand fisted in your braid, yanking your head back so he could kiss you harder, deeper, until your lungs burned.
When he tore away, his breath scorched against your cheek. “You want to know what’s real?” he hissed, voice jagged with hunger. “This… This is real."
Before you could answer, he slid lower.
Your thighs parted wide under his palms, his grip bruising as he shoved your skirts up around your waist. The night air licked your bare skin, gooseflesh rising as your soaked panties clung to you. He didn’t hesitate–he hooked a finger under the fabric and shoved it aside, baring you to the dark.
Then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, the sound echoing into the trees as his tongue slid through your folds in one long, devastating stroke. He groaned at the taste, deep and guttural, the vibration making your whole body jolt. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub until your eyes rolled back.
“Toji–oh, gods–”
He only groaned again, dragging his tongue slowly and purposefully against every swollen inch of you. His hands pinned your thighs apart, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks. He shifted, lapping lower, his tongue plunging into you, thick and wet, curling inside until you bucked helplessly against his face.
You clutched at his hair, your braid tangling around his head, the flowers you’d woven earlier falling loose into the grass. He growled, the sound muffled against your dripping cunt, and fucked you with his tongue until you were sobbing his name.
Then his fingers replaced it. Two thick digits dug into your heat, stretching and pumping quickly and harshly. His mouth never left your clit, his tongue circling and flicking mercilessly as his fingers curled, hitting that spot inside that made your body quake.
You were losing yourself, every nerve burning. “More–please, more–”
His response was a groan that shook your core. He curled his fingers deeper, his palm grinding against your clit as his pace quickened. Your thighs shook around his head, your hips grinding down against his face, desperate for every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his hand.
And still he wasn’t done.
You felt the heat of him shift and something hard pressed against your thigh. You looked down through hazy eyes and saw his cock in his fist, thick and flushed, glistening with precum. He stroked himself in rough, fast pumps, groaning into your cunt as his hand dragged down his shaft. The sight made you whimper louder, your pussy clenching around his fingers as slick poured from you.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he grunted, dragging his mouth off your clit just long enough to spit against it before sucking hard again. His other hand pumped his cock faster, precum slicking his fist, the thick head nudging against your inner thigh as he pressed closer.
Your vision blurred with tears, your body trembling under the onslaught. Every flick of his tongue sent shivers down your spine, every thrust of his fingers made your stomach tighten, and the sight of him jacking his cock while devouring you sent you spiraling.
You screamed his name as your orgasm broke.
Your walls clamped tight around his fingers, your body convulsing against his mouth. He groaned like a man starving, sucking your clit harder, fucking you with his fingers until your juices coated his chin. His cock jerked in his fist, thick ropes of cum spilling across your thighs, hot and sticky, staining your panties and soaking into your skirt.
He collapsed on your body, panting, his mouth smeared with your wetness, his cock still twitching against your thigh. He caught your lips again, the kiss filthy and desperate, the taste of yourself on his tongue. His forehead pressed to yours, and he whispered your name, low and rough, like a vow.
Beyond the clearing, danger lurked.
Footsteps crunched faintly in the distant woods–slow, careful, stalking. But you didn’t hear them. Gojo had pressed himself behind a tree, his hooves covering his ears as if blocking out the sounds could make them vanish. Geto perched above him, wings folded over his head, muttering sharp caws muffled in his feathers.
You and Toji were blind to it, consumed by fire, by sweat, by the shudder of release. The forest held its breath as shadows moved closer. And though the night wrapped you both in its heat, danger watched, patient, waiting for its moment to strike.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The fire had long since burned down to ash, the forest wrapped in that strange, heavy silence that comes just before dawn. You lay tangled against Toji, your head on his chest, his arm thrown lazily around your waist. His warmth sank into you, grounding you against the night’s chill. His breath was slow and steady, and his face softened in sleep in a way you’d never seen before. The rough edges dulled; he looked almost human, almost gentle.
Your braid was a mess across his torso, and your skirt bunched up around your thighs where his hand had settled earlier and never moved. It was the first time you had let yourself drift to sleep so easily, curled against someone else. His heartbeat had been the last sound you remembered before dreams took you.
But the world shifted when the dreams curdled.
The forest fog thickened, rolling in pale waves across the clearing. The air grew cold and damp, so sharp it made your breath catch even in sleep. Somewhere distant, boots crunched against the earth.
By the time you stirred, Toji was gone.
Your eyes snapped open to emptiness–his warmth missing beside you, his arm gone from your waist. Panic clenched your chest. You pushed up onto your elbows just as the fog parted.
Through it, you saw him.
Toji stood bound, wrists tied tight with rope, his body forced upright against the mast of a long, shadowed boat. The crown you had once worn gleamed in one captor’s hand, jewels flashing faintly in the mist. He didn’t look at you, his face hidden by distance and shadow, but his broad frame was unmistakable.
Two figures emerged from the fog, their voices low, amused.
The first was Sukuna. His presence was impossible to mistake: tall, broad, his arms marked with black ink tattoos that ran from shoulder to wrist, curling across his skin in strange, sharp patterns. His hair was pale, his eyes a deep, violent red that seemed to cut through the mist. His grin was jagged and feral, the kind that promised ruin. His garments were rich but loose, dark robes lined in crimson, draped open at the chest to reveal muscle lined with more ink. His every step carried a predator’s grace.
Beside him was his twin, Itadori. Where Sukuna’s presence was sharp and cruel, Itadori’s was softer at first glance but no less dangerous. His hair was wild, a burnished pink; his eyes were warm brown but hardened; and his smile was disarmingly boyish even as he carried a blade loosely at his hip. His clothes were simpler, a dark jacket and trousers, but the way he stood screamed of confidence earned in blood.
They came to a stop in front of you, casting long shadows in the fog.
“Wake up, little bird,” Sukuna crooned, his grin splitting wider. “Time to see things as they really are.”
Itadori tilted his head, his smile sharp but almost pitying. “You didn’t think he cared, did you? That mercenary?” He jerked his chin toward the boat where Toji stood tied. “You’re just another job to him. Another climb, another trick.”
Sukuna lifted the crown in his tattooed hand, the jewels glinting faintly. “He only ever wanted this. The gold, the prize. You were never part of it.”
The words cut deep, jagged and cruel. Your lips trembled, tears pricking hot at your eyes. “No… no, that’s not true–”
Sukuna gestured lazily toward the boat, where Toji tugged against the ropes, his head bowed. “Look at him. He’s already sold you out. Already running with your treasure. It was never real.”
You staggered back a step, your chest seizing. The fog made it hard to breathe, the world tilting around you. Every moment of warmth, every kiss, every whispered word–it all threatened to crumble beneath their voices.
Behind you, Gojo snorted, stomping the ground. His blue eyes flashed sharp suspicion, his ears flicking as though he, too, didn’t trust what he saw. Geto cawed harshly from his perch on the stallion’s head, wings flaring wide in defiance, the sound echoing like protest.
But the doubt was already worming into your chest.
Your breath hitched, your vision blurring as hot tears spilled down your cheeks. You turned, running blind into the trees, away from the fog, away from the sight of him bound and silent. Your skirt snagged on brambles, your braid whipped against your back, but you didn’t stop.
And then, she was there.
Your mother.
She stepped from the trees as though she had been waiting all along, her dark silks glimmering faintly in the dawn’s weak light. Her smile was sharp and brittle. “Oh, my poor girl.”
You stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. “He–he didn’t–”
“I told you,” she said, her voice laced with venomous triumph. “I told you he would betray you. That he would use you. You are nothing to him.”
You shook your head, tears streaming. “You were right.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth. “You were right.”
Her smile widened. “Come home.”
Her hand reached for yours, cold fingers curling around your trembling ones. You didn’t resist. You followed her through the trees, the fog swallowing the fire, the coals, the horse, the crow, and the man left behind.
–
You didn’t remember the journey back. Only the weight of your mother’s hand, the coldness of her voice, and the crushing emptiness inside your chest.
The tower loomed again, its stones glistening with dew, its shadow swallowing you whole.
When you stepped inside, the air was colder than you remembered. The trinkets and bones glared from their shelves, the painted lantern in the corner flickering dimly. The mirror stood tall, catching your reflection as your mother guided you past it. You barely recognized yourself–your braid tangled, flowers wilted, and cheeks streaked with tears.
“You see?” she whispered, her voice like a knife slipping into flesh. “You belong here. With me. Safe.”
Chains waited at the base of your bed, cold iron shackles biting into your ankles as she fastened them. The clink of metal echoed through the hollow chamber. Your hair pooled across the floor, dull without the lantern light.
You sank to your knees, staring at the floorboards.
Outside, the forest stirred. Danger lingered still in the distance–footsteps moving through fog, the twins’ laughter carrying on the wind–but you didn’t hear it.
All you heard was her voice, soft and poisonous in your ear: “You’ll never leave me again.”
And the tower closed in, darker than it had ever been.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Toji rode like a man possessed. The tavern scoundrels had cut his ropes, Gojo had practically dragged him onto his back, and every curse that left his mouth was aimed at the red-eyed bastards who had dared to touch what was his.
The dim, storm-soaked sky matched his fury, clouds roiling like they’d been summoned just to echo his rage. His hands clenched the reins so tight the leather bit his palms raw, but he didn’t care. He spat another curse into the wind, calling Sukuna and Itadori every filthy name he knew, vowing in his chest to snap their spines the next time he laid eyes on them.
The tower appeared in the distance, tall and black against the bruised sky. His jaw clenched. He hadn’t wanted to return to that cursed stone, but the thought of you trapped inside burned like acid in his throat. His voice tore from him, hoarse but desperate, carried on the damp wind: “Let down your hair!”
From the window above, golden strands uncoiled. They gleamed faintly even in the dim light, twisting like a rope into the mist. He grabbed hold without hesitation, boots braced hard against the wall as he scaled upward, his muscles screaming with effort. The higher he climbed, the colder the air pressed against him, but his grip never faltered. He would get to you. Nothing else mattered.
The window yawned open at the top, the chamber beyond dimly lit by guttering candles. The trinkets glimmered faintly: skulls stacked in corners, dried herbs hanging limp, and the painted lantern casting shadows that moved like crawling hands. The air stank of damp stone and old blood.
His breath came heavy, his knife already drawn. His eyes swept the chamber–empty. Too empty.
Then he saw movement.
Chains clinked. From the far side of the room, you were being dragged across the floor, iron shackles biting your ankles, your face pale and wet with tears. The sound of metal grating against the stone floor shot through his ears like thunder. You stumbled, falling to your knees, the chains yanking you forward toward a hatch in the floor.
“Toji!” Your voice cracked with desperation.
He ran. His boots slammed against the stone, every muscle taut, his knife raised–
The flash of steel was too fast.
Agony tore into him as the blade slid deep into his side. He staggered, breath punched out of him, his vision spinning. Standing behind him, her smile wide and sharp, was your mother. Her laugh was a shrill, rotting sound that filled the chamber as she twisted the blade deeper into his flesh.
“You fool,” she hissed, her voice dripping poison. “Did you think you could save her? She belongs to me. She always will.”
Toji’s knees buckled. Blood soaked his shirt, hot and fast, his knife clattering against the floor. You screamed, scrambling to him, catching his weight before he collapsed completely. His blood stained your hands and your dress, pooling hot around your thighs as you dragged him to your chest.
You reached for your strands of hair, gathering the glow in trembling fingers, ready to lay it across his wound. But his hand shot up, rough and shaking, and grabbed your wrist. His green eyes locked with yours, fierce even as the light dimmed in them.
“No.” His voice was a broken rasp. He dragged his blade across your hair in one violent swipe. Strands fell heavy, lifeless, coiling on the stone floor. The glow died instantly, plunging the chamber into shadow.
Your mother froze. The scream that ripped from her was inhuman.
Her face collapsed first. The flawless skin split and sagged, lines etching deep as her cheeks hollowed. Her hair withered into brittle gray, falling in clumps. Her flesh shrank and cracked, peeling from her bones in wet sheets. Eyes that had once glinted with venom sank into her skull, clouded white and wild. Her hands were gnarled into claws, nails black and curling. The stench hit–rot, thick and sour, like a carcass left too long in the sun.
She clawed at the air, staggering toward the last severed strands of your hair. Her body shuddered, skin sloughing from her arms, teeth snapping in her collapsing mouth. “No! My beauty–my life–” Her voice broke into shrieks as she tried to seize the fading glow.
A shadow swept past.
Geto dove from above, wings beating furiously, his claws raking across her ravaged face. She shrieked louder, stumbling backward toward the open window. Gojo reared behind her, his massive hooves striking the stone with a thunderous crack. With one final beat of his wings, Geto slammed into her chest.
Her body pitched out the window, her scream echoing as it faded into the storm. The thud when she hit the earth below was sickeningly final.
Silence crushed the chamber.
You cradled Toji in your lap, your tears spilling freely down your cheeks. His blood soaked everything, his breaths shallow, slower each time. His hand trembled as he lifted it, brushing a strand of hair from your face, smearing blood across your cheek in the motion. His lips curved in a faint smile, though his eyes were dulling.
“You’re… free,” he whispered. “Don’t cry, princess. You’re free.”
His chest stilled.
“No,” you sobbed, shaking him, clutching him harder. “No, you’re not leaving me–don’t you dare–”
Your tears fell onto his face, onto his wound. They glistened strangely, shimmering faintly against the blood. The glow spread, sinking into his skin, knitting torn flesh, sealing the gaping wound with warmth that pulsed brighter and brighter until you had to shut your eyes.
When the glow faded, silence lingered–until he gasped.
His body arched, breath dragging in ragged and desperate, his eyes snapping open wide. His chest heaved as if he’d been drowning and had finally broken the surface.
You choked on your sob, your hands cupping his face. “Toji–”
He grabbed you before you could finish, his hand fisting in your hair, dragging your mouth down to his. The kiss was savage and desperate, his lips hot and harsh against yours. His tongue pushed into your mouth, claiming and swallowing your cries of relief.
You kissed him back just as hard, tears streaming down your face, your body trembling against him. His mouth crashed back onto yours, harder this time–hungry, bruising, teeth catching your lip until you gasped. He shoved his tongue between your lips, tangling with yours, swallowing every shaky breath.
His body pressed into you, hot and heavy, his hand sliding up your ribs until it palmed your breast through the stiff fabric of your corset. He groaned low in his chest at the feel, fingers digging in, kneading hard enough that your back arched into him.
“Been wanting this,” he rasped against your mouth, grinding his hips up into you. The bulge straining his pants left no room for denial. His other hand dragged down your front, tugging sharply at the laces until you gasped. “Get this fucking thing off.”
Together, fumbling, you tore at the corset strings until the fabric gave, spilling you free. He shoved it aside and dropped his mouth to your breasts immediately, tongue hot and greedy. He licked up the curve, closed his lips around your nipple, and sucked until you moaned his name loud enough to echo against the stone walls. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, his saliva was wet and sticky against your flushed skin, and he growled like he couldn’t get enough.
You writhed beneath him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair instinctively–only for his hand to seize your wrist and slam it back against the floor. His eyes flicked to the severed strands scattered across the stone, still long and thick despite their dull glow. He smirked, feral.
“Perfect.”
Grabbing a long strand, he twisted it in one hand, the rope coarse as he looped it around your wrists. You whimpered, your arms forced behind your back, the knot biting as he tied you tight. “Toji–”
“Shut up,” he muttered, kissing you hard again as he shoved you flat against the ground. “You’ll thank me for this.”
His hands were everywhere–gripping your bound wrists, palming your tits, sliding down your waist until they found your skirt. With a rough yank, he shoved the fabric up, exposing your thighs, your panties soaked through. His mouth trailed hot kisses down your chest, across your stomach, until he was kneeling between your legs, staring at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
“Pretty little pussy,” he muttered, hooking a finger into the waistband and tearing the thin fabric aside. You gasped, your body exposed to the cool air before his mouth.
He spat.
The warm droplet landed directly on your folds, slicking you further. His tongue followed, wide and hot, dragging up your slit until you cried out. He lapped at you like a starved man, his saliva mixing with your arousal until everything was wet and messy. His fingers spread you wide, two thick digits sliding in deep without warning, stretching you open.
Your back arched violently, a moan ripping from your throat as his fingers plunged again and again, curling against that spot inside that made you shake. His tongue circled your clit relentlessly, sucking, flicking, and humming deep in his throat like he enjoyed every shiver of your body.
“Gods–you’re soaking for me,” he groaned, lifting his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you. His lips were slick with you, his chin wet, and his eyes dark. “All this for my cock, huh?”
You whimpered, writhing against the restraints, your wrists straining against the rope of your own hair. “Yes–Toji–please–”
He grinned sharply, tongue dragging slowly up your slit before plunging back onto your clit. His free hand reached for his shirt, yanking it off in one motion, muscles flexing under the flicker of candlelight. He was all scars and strength, his chest heaving, his cock visibly straining his pants, the outline thick and swollen.
The room still stank of blood and rot, the tower’s air heavy and damp, but the weight of it was nothing compared to the heat rising off your bodies. You were spread out beneath him, wrists still bound behind your back with the thick coil of your own hair, breasts flushed from his mouth, panties the only barrier left clinging to you. Your cheeks burned, chest heaving as your voice broke into a whisper.
“Toji… please. I need you.”
His gaze dropped to your ankle, where the cold iron cuff still clung, a chain dragging against the floor. He grunted, reaching for his blade with one hand. The metal gave with a sharp snap as he slashed it loose, the cuff falling away. He caught your ankle in his rough hand, bringing it to his lips.
The kiss was shocking in its softness–his mouth hot against the delicate skin of your ankle, his eyes staring at you the whole time. His smirk returned as he pressed another kiss higher, dragging it up your calf before letting your leg fall back open, exposing your soaked core to him again.
“You look so damn helpless like this,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. His hand grabbed your panties, tearing the thin fabric off your hips until it fell in tatters on the stone. “Panties were useless anyway–just keeping me from what’s mine.”
The words made your stomach tighten. He pressed two fingers to your clit, rubbing hard, circling it in tight motions that made your body jerk. “Look at you, dripping,” he taunted, sliding his fingers lower to gather your slick, coating them until they shined. “All for me. You begging for my cock like you were made for it.”
Your wrists strained against the hair-ties, desperate to touch him. He noticed, his grin sharp.
“Fine. You want me so bad? Watch closely.”
He freed himself from his pants in one rough motion. His cock slapped against his stomach, thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the tip. Precum smeared across his shaft as he gripped himself, groaning deep in his chest. He pressed his cock against your slit, dragging the thick head through your slick, smearing it along his length.
The wet sound was obscene in the silence of the tower, echoing with every stroke.
When he finally pushed, you gasped. The thick head breached your entrance, stretching you until your nails curled against your palms. He groaned low, head tilting back, voice hoarse. “Fuck–tight. So tight. You’re squeezing the life out of me already.”
Your back arched, wrists straining behind you, but then he bent low, hooking your bound arms over his neck and dragging you up into him. His mouth found yours in a wet, messy kiss–tongue shoving deep, his teeth catching your lip as you moaned into him.
Then he thrust.
The sound cracked through the room: skin against skin, wet, filthy, your slick soaking his cock as he buried himself deeper. Each roll of his hips made the chain on the floor rattle, the walls echoing with the obscene noise of your bodies slamming together. He groaned into your mouth, his breath hot, every thrust harder than the last.
“Take it all,” he growled against your lips. “Every inch, princess. You feel that? That’s me splitting you open.”
Your walls clenched around him, making his hips stutter. His mouth dropped to your breasts again, sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, teeth scraping until you cried out. His other hand gripped your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he drove into you.
He shifted, rising onto his knees, dragging you with him until your body tilted up. Your hair trailed uselessly against the floor, your legs falling wide around his waist as he fucked you deeper.
The angle changed, his cock hitting deeper with every thrust, the tip slamming against that spot inside that made your breath choke. He growled when your moan broke into a scream, his hand snapping to the back of your thigh, hauling one leg up over his shoulder.
“Yeah. That’s it. Open up for me.” His voice was rough, filthy. “Let me in deeper–fuck–you were made for this cock.”
The wet smack of his thrusts filled the chamber, every slam of his hips shaking your body, his balls smacking against your ass. His teeth grazed your breast again as his pace quickened, his grunts harsh and ragged.
Your own moans echoed back at you, bouncing off the stone walls until it sounded like the tower itself was full of your cries. His cock drove harder and faster, filling you again and again until your vision blurred.
“Toji–please–I can’t–”
“Yes, you can,” he snapped, thrusting harder, dragging his cock out almost entirely before slamming back in to the hilt. The pressure made your toes curl, your back arch, and your cries split the air. “Take it. Take every inch. That’s my girl.”
His hand squeezed your ass tighter as he pulled you harder onto his cock, rutting into you with brutal precision. Your body convulsed, slick gushing around him, soaking his cock until it dripped down his thighs.
He groaned, voice breaking. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t think about anything but me. Until this tight pussy knows who it belongs to.”
The tower was suffocating with heat, every surface slick with sweat and echoing with the slap of wet skin. Your hair–once long, heavy, glowing–was no longer a crown to wield. After Toji’s blade had sliced through it, it fell in uneven, jagged tufts around your shoulders, chopped strands sticking to your flushed cheeks and damp neck. No braids, no flowers–just you, raw and undone, and him, a force of muscle and hunger driving into you.
He had you flat on the stone first, wrists tied behind your back with one of the fallen lengths of hair, your body shuddering as his cock split you open, his mouth a savage mix of teeth and tongue on yours. When you begged, breathless and shaking, he cut the cuff from your ankle, tossing the chain aside before catching your foot and pressing a kiss to the bone of your ankle. His eyes burned as they raked down your body–corset shredded, breasts swollen from his mouth, your choppy hair damp with sweat.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice low and sharp. “Hair or no hair, you’re still fucking mine.”
Your panties were ripped away in one brutal motion, the sound echoing, and then his fingers circled your clit with cruel precision. His cock throbbed, slick with your arousal as he dragged the fat head through your folds, spreading the wetness down his shaft.
When he shoved inside, you screamed. The stretch was obscene, his cock filling every inch of you, the head punching against your cervix as his groan split the air.
“Clamping down like a vise,” he rasped against your mouth, biting your lip until you moaned. “You feel that? That’s me inside you, princess. All the way in.”
Your bound wrists looped over his neck, dragging him down into another filthy kiss. His hips snapped forward, faster, harder, the tower filling with the wet slap of his balls against your ass, the squelch of your soaked cunt milking him. He broke from your mouth only to latch onto your breasts again, sucking harshly, growling around your nipple as his cock drove deeper.
Then he shifted. With a grunt, he slid out, your slick dripping down his length, before hauling you into his lap. He dropped to the floor with his back against the bedframe, positioning you straddled over him. His hands gripped your waist tight, lifting you, then slamming you down on his cock in one punishing thrust.
The cry you let out bounced off the stone walls. His mouth crashed against yours again, messy and wet, his tongue forcing its way in as his hands dragged you up and down his cock. Each time he bottomed out, you felt the blunt head slam against your cervix, making your whole body jolt.
His hand smacked your ass, the sound sharp, his cock twitching inside you as he hissed, “Take it. Take it all. Fuck, you were made to squeeze me like this.”
Your choppy locks clung to your sweaty cheeks as you cried into his mouth, grinding down helplessly as his thumb found your clit again, rubbing fast and relentlessly.
Your climax tore through you violently, slick gushing down his cock, soaking his thighs. Your scream cracked against his lips as your walls clamped down, pulsing around him.
He cursed, his thrusts faltering, his cock twitching hard. “Fuck–coming–” His voice broke into a guttural growl as hot cum spilled deep inside, thick and endless, filling you until it leaked back down his shaft.
But he didn’t stop.
Still hard, still leaking, he stood with you in his arms, his cock buried to the hilt. He tossed you onto the bed, flipping you onto your hands and knees before you caught your breath. His hands gripped your hips hard, bruising, and with one savage thrust he slammed back inside.
“This position?” He grunted, pounding into you so hard your knees slid on the sheets. “They call it doggy style.”
You sobbed his name, eyes rolling back as the angle forced him even deeper, his cock grinding against every spot inside you. The wet slap of skin echoed loud, his balls hitting your soaked pussy with every thrust.
He leaned over you, one hand tangling in your short locks, tugging your head back until your mouth fell open in a broken moan. His teeth grazed your ear as he snarled, “Moan for me. Let the whole fucking world know who you belong to.”
Your orgasm hit again, fast, brutal, and slick, pouring out of you and dripping around his cock as you screamed his name. He groaned, hips stuttering, then came again, another hot flood spilling into your cunt.
With a grunt, he pulled out, his cum immediately leaking down your thighs. He spread your ass with one rough hand, watching the mess spill out before he shoved himself back inside with a growl.
“Not wasting a drop,” he muttered, fucking his seed back into you, the wet noise obscene.
He slammed deep one last time, his voice ragged against your ear. “We’re never leaving this tower. Not after this. Not when I’ve fucked you so full you can’t think of anything but me.”
And the tower filled with the sound of your cries, his grunts, and the endless slap of wet flesh as he fucked you harder, sealing you as his.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The tower never emptied. The kingdom stayed at a distance, its lanterns no longer a dream but a memory, and the stone walls that once felt like a prison became something else entirely. With Toji, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore–it was theirs.
The broken trinkets were cleared, the mold scrubbed, and the hearth built into a steady fire that never quite died. Vines grew wild along the stone outside, flowers rooting where once there had only been rot.
You wore no crown in the kingdom’s courts. Instead, you wore his ring–heavy, simple, hammered from stolen gold, and tied around your finger by his calloused hand. There was no parade, no fanfare, only his gruff voice muttering a promise as he slid it on, his lips pressed to your knuckles like he had to brand the vow there.
The tower, once the site of your chains, became your sanctuary. And in its high windows, where you had once begged to see the lanterns, you now let him use you however he pleased.
One evening, the storm clouds swelled black, lightning flashing across the horizon. The open window stretched before you, wind pulling at your choppy hair. Toji had you bent forward against the sill, your chest pressed to the cool stone, your palms flat against it. The rough edge dug into your ribs as his chest blanketed your back, hot and heavy.
His cock slid into you with one sharp thrust, so deep it made you cry out, your voice carried on the wind outside. His hand gripped your hip hard, the other tangled in your shortened locks, yanking your head back until your moan broke in the air.
“Look at this view,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Kingdom down there, lights so far away–and you, spread for me right here. My wife. My little princess.”
The word dripped filth from his mouth, mocking but tender, his thrusts brutal as he slammed into you again and again. Each rut of his hips forced your body against the sill, your breasts pressing hard to the stone, your toes barely clinging to the floor. The tower echoed with wet, obscene sounds–your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs as he pounded into you from behind.
You gasped, your voice breaking, “Toji–deeper–”
He grunted, his pace unrelenting, balls smacking against you with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, dragging your head back until his teeth bit your shoulder. “You’ll take every inch,” he growled, fucking harder, his cock dragging against your walls until your body convulsed. “I don’t care if the whole kingdom hears you scream.”
The storm cracked overhead, thunder shaking the tower as your cries filled it. Your climax tore through you, your body convulsing against the sill, slick pouring around him in a gush that spattered his thighs. His groan broke in your ear, guttural, raw, as his cock twitched violently inside you.
He spilled hot, thick cum deep into your cunt, his hips snapping forward again and again as if he could push himself deeper, make it stay. He pressed you into the sill, his breath ragged against your neck, his cock pulsing until you were leaking around him, his mess dripping down your thighs to stain the stone.
His lips pressed to your ear, rough and low, still panting. “This tower’s ours. You, mine. Forever.”
And when he pulled you back against his chest, keeping himself buried inside you, the storm rolled on outside, but within the tower you knew there was no kingdom you would rather belong to than the one built between his hands and your body.
Do not plagiarize, copy, translate any of my work. All rights of this work belong to Nimueshell™.
Summary: You swore you hated the game, but in his arms you’re nothing but heat and noise, ruined over and over while he fucks you like it’s the only thing that matters.
Substance: too hot to handle au,contest! f!reader, contestant!hiromi higuruma, looong read, oral fixation (f!receiving), sexual tension, flirting, jealousy, unprotected, size kink, handjobs, mutual masturbation, markings, nipple play, oops you broke the rules, oops you did it again, mutual pining, possessive hiromi, public teasing, pussy drunk hiromi, fingering, shower sex, thigh-grabbing, missionary, multiple positions & rounds, overstimulation, begging, elimination, sharing a bed, “oh no he’s hot", happing ending.
W/C: 16k
The heat pressed down heavily, the kind that stuck to skin and made the pool glitter like an invitation. You hadn’t signed up for this. Not really. The show had promised luxury, promised a villa with unlimited sun, unlimited food, and unlimited drinks, and you had thought–why not? A free vacation sounded better than sweating behind the counter of the café or dealing with bills piling up on your desk.
What they hadn’t told you until the cameras were already rolling was that it was that show. The one you’d seen friends roast on Twitter, the one with the ridiculous cone-shaped robot that lectured grown adults about not fucking for prize money. Too Hot to Handle.
The villa was stunning, far too good for the line of desperate faces filing in one by one, each attempting to outdo the other with how flirty and chaotic they could be before the cameras panned away.
You stayed off to the side, legs dangling lazily in the pool, sipping from a glass of something cold and sweet, not bothering to pretend you were interested. If they wanted messy hookups and drama, they’d have to film someone else, because you were here for the shrimp cocktails and the view.
Of course, that was when he walked in. Hiromi Higuruma.
The producers must’ve known exactly what they were doing. He didn’t look like the rest of them and didn’t come in with that forced swagger or that I’m-here-to-party grin. No–he stepped through the archway of white stone and sunlight in a simple, clean linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, trousers that didn’t cling too tight, and a gaze so sharp it felt like he had already judged the entire villa in one sweeping look.
His hair caught the breeze, brushing back to show the cut of his jaw, and when he stopped at the edge of the pool to survey everything, you felt it like a quiet ripple under the chaos.
Everyone else was talking too loudly, posturing, and pairing off as if they were hunting. Hiromi stood there with his hands in his pockets, unimpressed. You didn’t even try to hide the little smirk tugging at your lips as you watched him from your perch. Finally–someone who looked just as miserable to be here as you were.
You dipped your glass toward him in a silent toast. He noticed, of course he did, and the corner of his mouth curved, almost imperceptibly, like you’d passed some kind of test. He didn’t join the mob by the bar and didn’t slide into the pool to make a splash. He came to sit on the chair next to yours, his shadow long over your shoulders, his voice smooth but low when he spoke.
“So,” he said, eyes flicking toward the pool where someone was already screaming about body shots. “Are you here for the money, the love, or just the catered menu?”
You took another sip, biting back a laugh. “Definitely the menu.”
That was the first moment the cameras caught you both together–two people sitting just far enough away from the chaos, leaning toward each other, already breaking the unspoken rule of the villa: don’t get comfortable with the person who might actually ruin your plans.
And yet, you thought, watching the way Hiromi leaned back in his chair, detached but curious, like a lawyer dissecting evidence–he didn’t look like anyone’s plans mattered to him. Not the prize money, the hookups, or even the cameras. He was just here, bored, brilliant, and annoyingly difficult to avoid.
✧₊⁺
Dinner the first night was loud, the kind of staged chaos that the producers loved. Plates of seafood and roasted vegetables lined the table, cocktails in every shade of neon sweating against the humid air. Contestants flirted shamelessly, exchanging seats, brushing shoulders, and squealing over half-hearted compliments intended more for camera time than connection.
You ended up at the far end, plate balanced in front of you, picking at grilled shrimp while someone named Cassie loudly declared her intentions to kiss every man before the first night was over. Across from you, Hiromi had been cornered by another contestant–a tall guy with bleached hair and an even bleachier smile who kept trying to get him to talk about his “type.”
“So, man, c’mon,” the guy drawled, leaning forward on his elbows, voice already grating. “Are you into blondes, brunettes, like… What’s the vibe? You gotta give us something.”
Hiromi, unbothered, speared a piece of roasted zucchini with deliberate slowness, chewed, and then lifted his gaze. His eyes, sharp and almost bored, skimmed over the guy like he was scanning a poorly written brief.
“I don’t have one,” he said simply.
Bleach Boy laughed too loudly. “What? No type? You expect us to believe that?”
Hiromi shrugged, a ghost of a smirk curving at his mouth as he finally glanced in your direction. “I expect nothing from you.”
The table erupted in a mix of laughter and ooh’s, the kind of background noise that made reality television thrive. You attempted–but failed–not to grin into your drink.
Later on, when the others migrated toward the fire pit to drink more and drape themselves over each other, you slipped back toward the pool, stealing another cocktail from a tray. The lights around the villa glowed soft and golden, reflecting off the water. You sat at the edge, dipping your toes in again, savoring the relative quiet.
“Escaping already?”
You looked up. Hiromi stood there, shirt untucked now, sleeves pushed up higher, a glass of wine in hand. His expression was incomprehensible, but the fact that he sought you out spoke volumes.
"I'm not built for the'shotgun your beer and grind on strangers' crowd," you admitted.
“Neither am I.” He sat beside you, his long frame folding with controlled ease. For a moment, the silence between you was companionable, not awkward–two people opting out of the script.
Then, quietly, he leaned closer. “They’re all already breaking rules they don’t even know exist yet. You realize that?”
You arched a brow. “You sound like you do know.”
His lips twitched, a humorless smile. “Let’s just say I’m good at spotting the fine print. Nothing’s ever as simple as it looks.”
There it was–that strange intellectual flirting he carried like second nature, sharp edges softened with deliberate charm. He didn’t have to wink or lean back cockily like the others; his words slid in like hooks, pulling you toward him without trying.
You tilted your head. “So what’s the fine print on me, then?”
His eyes swept over you once, deliberate but not crude. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and calculated. “You’re not here for love. You’re not even here for the money. You’re here because this”–he gestured at the pool, the villa, and the villa’s overindulgent spread–“is easier than being anywhere else right now. And because the catering is decent.”
Your lips parted, but no words came out at first. He wasn’t wrong. Not exactly.
“Congratulations,” you muttered, trying to sound unfazed. “You psychoanalyzed me in record time. Are you charging by the hour, or is this free for first-timers?"
He chuckled under his breath, the sound low, private, and not meant for the cameras that lingered nearby. “Consider it a complimentary session.”
The producers probably hated it–the two of you weren’t loud enough, weren’t volatile enough, and weren’t falling into the easy traps of poolside hookups. But there was something brewing there all the same, something that didn’t need neon lights or body shots to feel charged.
And the villa noticed.
✧₊⁺
The villa itself felt like a resort out of a brochure, a polished cage lined with infinity pools and lounge chairs, stocked fridges, beds that looked too pristine to touch, and cameras so subtle you almost forgot they were there until you shifted your bikini strap and realized someone would be zooming in on it later.
Like flies in sugar water, the majority of the other competitors were already chatting about who was the sexiest in a swimsuit, arranging their shots, and sprawling out on daybeds in a disorganized hierarchy.
You weren’t interested. You were in the pool, stretched out along the ledge, hair damp and clinging to your face, a one-piece hugging your curves while you sipped on something bright blue and disgustingly sweet. They could play their little mating dance. You were here for sun, food, and maybe some background noise of drama to laugh at when boredom struck.
Hiromi wasn’t interested either. That much was obvious. He sat off to the side, not near anyone, not really participating–long legs stretched out, sunglasses perched over sharp eyes that tracked everyone without committing to their conversations.
When someone tried to rope him into a flirtatious game of "who’s single, who’s looking," he cut them down with a polite but cool dismissal that made them blink and pivot away. He looked like a man who had stepped into the wrong show entirely, like a misplaced scholar in a sea of horny degenerates.
You noticed it because he mirrored you. You seemed immune, and he seemed immune, while everyone else was in heat. You caught him glancing your way once or twice as you laughed at the others bickering over shot glasses, your laughter a little too genuine, a little too amused at the chaos instead of being part of it. When your eyes locked once, he looked away so sharply you smirked. Interesting.
The day blurred on until the sky deepened into shades of pink and orange. That’s when the voice came.
The speakers hidden around the villa crackled to life, and the AI chime rang out.
“Hello contestants.”
Every conversation froze, and then the shrieking began–half excitement, half nerves. People stumbled toward the center courtyard, laughing and clutching each other’s arms like kids at summer camp waiting for a counselor.
You climbed out of the pool slowly, dripping, wringing out your hair, and slipped into a white wrap around your waist. Hiromi was already standing in the courtyard, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t look amused.
“I am Lana,” the voice purred. “Welcome to Too Hot to Handle.”
The squeals doubled in volume. Someone shouted, “No way!” while another girl screamed, “I knew it!”
Your mouth fell open–not in shock, but in a kind of groan. You pressed a hand to your forehead. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered.
Hiromi’s head turned slightly at that. You could feel his eyes on you before he spoke. His voice was serene, deep, and almost dull. “You don’t look thrilled.”
You barked a laugh. “Thrilled? I thought I was on a knock-off Love Island for free cocktails and a pool. I didn’t come here to be celibate.”
Someone nearby laughed at your bluntness, but Hiromi’s lips only twitched, as if against his will. He faced forward again, but you swore the corner of his mouth had almost curved.
Lana continued: “Over the course of your stay, you will form deeper emotional connections–without any sexual contact. That means no kissing, no heavy petting, and definitely no sex.”
The group collectively wailed like they’d just been robbed. One of the men clutched his chest. “You’re kidding!”
You crossed your arms under your chest, sighing dramatically. “Figures. The one time I get a free vacation and they decide to ban orgasms.”
That made Hiromi actually glance at you, sharply, like he hadn’t expected the words to come so casually from your mouth. His eyes flickered downward, just for a split second–your breasts pushed together in the one-piece, the way the water still glistened across your collarbones–and then he snapped his gaze away, inhaling slow and steady like he’d caught himself.
Inside, he was screaming. He told himself he didn’t care, that he wasn’t here for this, that your laugh shouldn’t echo in his chest the way it did. But when you threw your head back and laughed again at the groaning complaints of the others, he looked one more time, just long enough to punish himself with it.
“Every infraction,” Lana droned on, “will result in money being deducted from the $200,000 prize fund. Consider your actions carefully.”
The crowd erupted again. Numbers were shouted, debates already starting about what counted as “light touching.” You disregarded them. You were observing Hiromi, noting the slight furrow between his brows and the way his shoulders tensed. He hated this. He hated the premise, the circus of it all. And the more you realized how much he didn’t want to be here, the more you couldn’t stop the grin tugging at your mouth.
“Bet you’re thrilled,” you teased, sidling closer to him just enough for your voice to reach.
He gave you a long, unreadable look. “This is ridiculous.”
“Yeah, but at least it’s free food,” you said, deadpan. “If I play it right, I can eat like a queen without spending a dime.”
That took him off guard. His eyes flickered over you again–quick, assessing, lingering just a moment too long at the playful curl of your mouth before he blinked away.
“You’re not here for… them?” He gestured vaguely toward the group, which was already arguing about whether holding hands counted as a deduction.
You snorted. "Oh, God, no. Half of them couldn't spell or practice celibacy. "I'm here for the drinks."
For a moment, just a fleeting one, something softened in his expression. He almost smiled. And then, like he realized, he schooled his face again and looked away, pretending to examine the villa instead of you.
But you saw it.
You leaned in slightly, just enough for your shoulder to brush his arm, feigning casual. “Guess we’re both the wrong casting choices.”
His jaw flexed, a slow breath escaping through his nose. He didn’t answer right away, but his silence wasn’t dismissed. It was something else–something he didn’t want to name. And when you tilted your head, eyes bright, waiting for him to finally say something, he forced his gaze back to the horizon instead of your lips.
Inside, he was cursing himself, wondering why your laugh still rang in his chest.
And just like that, a few hours later everyone was breaking the rules. The longer you sat in that ridiculous circle of bodies writhing and flirting like a high school basement party, the more your skin itched.
Everyone was already draped across each other’s laps, hands wandering under tank tops and bikini straps tugged at like the cameras weren’t two feet away, and all you could think about was how badly you wished you’d packed weed. Your fingers raked through your hair, tugging at the roots in a restless habit, the low moans and squeals around you grinding against your last thread of patience.
You didn’t even notice Hiromi until his shadow fell over you. He had that same flat expression, the one that could pass for patience or disdain depending on who looked at him. He didn’t speak immediately–he just bent at the waist, leaning close enough so you could catch the faint cologne off his skin.
“You’re going to give yourself a headache if you keep that up,” he said, nodding toward your hair-tugging. His voice was even, calm, and almost too calm against the backdrop of groans and laughter echoing in the lounge.
You huffed out a sharp laugh, your hand falling away. “I think the headache’s inevitable here.”
For a moment, the corners of his mouth twitched like he almost smiled. Almost. Then his gaze flicked down, and you caught it: the split-second betrayal of composure, the way his eyes snagged on the neckline of your one-piece, just enough to notice the curve of your breasts before he tore them away, straightening his spine as if burned.
“Come with me,” he said abruptly.
You blinked at him, half amused. “That’s your line?”
“It’s not a line. You look like you’d rather drown yourself in the pool than sit here another minute.”
He wasn’t wrong. So you let him lead, following him down one of the villa’s shadowed hallways until he slipped into a room that was, for the moment, mercifully empty. The hum of the air conditioning replaced the groans of lust-drunk strangers, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
Hiromi leaned against the edge of the dresser, arms crossed. His eyes followed you as you sat on the edge of the bed, stretching your legs out like you’d just stumbled into an oasis.
“You hate it as much as I do,” you said, tipping your head back against the headboard.
“Hate is a strong word,” he replied, though his tone was sharp enough to cut. “Let’s call it… disinterest.”
"Disinterest," you repeated with a smirk. “That’s one word for wanting to crawl out of your own skin.”
He watched you for a long second, the silence stretching until it started to feel heavy. “So. Why are you here?”
“Pool,” you said without hesitation. “Not just the menu, surprising I know.”
That time, he did smile, small and fleeting but there. “Practical.”
“And you?” You tilted your head toward him, studying the way his dark eyes shifted, like he hadn’t planned on answering.
“I lost a bet,” he said eventually.
You snorted, nearly doubling over with laughter. “No way. You? Mister cool and detached Hiromi Higuruma lost a bet?”
His gaze cut to you, sharp but not cruel. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“God, that’s even better,” you wheezed, wiping at your eyes. "And here I thought you signed up to meet your soulmate with fluorescent lighting and camera crews."
He rolled his eyes, but you caught it again–the tiniest falter in his composure, the way his jaw clenched, and his gaze slipped back to you, softer this time, caught between irritation and something far warmer.
Your laughter softened as you stood, grabbing the edge of your suitcase from where production had unceremoniously dropped it earlier. “Well, soulmate or not, I’m done with tonight.” You dug through clothes until you pulled out your pajamas, holding them up like a trophy.
Hiromi raised an eyebrow. “Pajamas. Already.”
“Trust me, you’ll thank me when I’m not half-dead tomorrow,” you said, clutching the fabric to your chest as you slipped into the bathroom. The sound of your voice bounced off tile and wood when you added, “Unlike everyone else, I don’t plan on getting fined before sunrise.”
When you came back out, hair loose and soft from the humidity, your body wrapped in the thin cotton of your pajamas, Hiromi’s eyes flicked up once, caught on the neckline before he forced them to your face. He cleared his throat like nothing happened.
You flopped back onto the bed, tugging the blanket up over your waist. “So, what, we just hide out here? Until everyone passes out or gets caught by the little robot?”
He tilted his head, studying you like he was measuring something. Then he walked over, pulled the desk chair close, and sat beside the bed with his arms folded again. “It’s the most logical choice. Less noise. Less stupidity.”
“Less temptation,” you teased, smirking as you turned on your side.
Hiromi did not respond to the bait. But his gaze lingered just a little too long before he looked away.
The night pressed in, quiet and strange, both of you cocooned in a bubble the show’s cameras hadn’t reached yet, and for the first time since stepping foot in the villa, you didn’t feel like clawing your skin off.
✧₊⁺
The villa appeared different in the morning, as if it had been a different location just hours before, one that had been the scene of writhing bodies, film crews, and cheap red Solo cups. It was quieter now–too quiet–just the whir of the AC, the muffled clatter of pans in the kitchen, and the faint splash of someone doing their early-morning influencer workout in the pool.
What wasn’t quiet, though, was the screaming inside your skull when you opened your eyes.
You didn’t move at first, just blinked into the streak of sunlight pouring through the gauzy curtains, your brain trying to reboot after last night’s chaos. Then you suddenly realized that you were not in your own bed and that there was someone standing next to you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of his body even though you weren’t technically touching.
You snapped awake, your stomach dropping like you’d swallowed a dumbbell. Your head whipped to the side.
Oh. Oh no.
Hiromi Higuruma.
Dead asleep, his face angled toward you, the early light sharpening his jaw and softening everything else. He looked… calm. Too calm. Like he hadn’t just broken several unspoken villa rules by falling asleep beside you. Like he wasn’t the reason your chest felt like a bass drum.
“Fuck,” you hissed under your breath, instantly sitting up, your hair sticking out in wild tufts from last night’s tossing. “Shitshitshit.”
You scrambled upright so fast you nearly tripped over the blanket, your hand automatically reaching up to flatten your hair even though there was no mirror in sight. The panic only deepened when Hiromi’s eyes fluttered open.
“Mm,” he hummed, his voice low and gravelly from sleep. He stretched lazily, like this was normal, like this wasn’t a nightmare waiting to go viral on Twitter.
You stared at him, wide-eyed. “We–did we–?!”
His gaze slid over to you, steady and unreadable, before he sat up, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Relax. Nothing happened. You were cold. You fell asleep. That’s it.”
You gawked. “That’s it? Do you realize how fast Lana will crucify us if she finds out?”
Hiromi shrugged, entirely unbothered.
"So don't tell her." He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his shirt from the chair, and pulled it on like it was any other Tuesday. “I’m going to get changed before production barges in.”
And just like that, he was gone. The door shut quietly behind him.
You sat frozen for another full thirty seconds, brain looping in a scream, before you jumped into motion. Clothes. Clothes. Pajamas were a death sentence; you needed armor. You rummaged through your suitcase like a raccoon in a trash can, throwing shirts and skirts over your shoulder until you came across something presentable. Quick change, messy teeth-brushing in the bathroom, splash of cold water on your face, and boom–you looked slightly less like someone who had just been caught in a situationship.
You braced yourself, inhaled, and walked out into the main lounge.
The girls were already at the table, drinking coffee like vultures. Their eyes lit up the second they spotted you, and you felt your stomach drop.
“Good morning,” one of them sing-songed, the edge of her grin sharp enough to cut glass.
You squinted. “Why are you smiling like that?”
Another girl leaned forward, chin in hand. “You’re glowing.”
You let out a strangled laugh. “Glowing? Babe, the only glow I have is from stress sweat. Don’t start.”
They exchanged looks, and that was enough. You slammed your cup down on the table and narrowed your eyes. “What did you hear?”
“Nothing,” one of them said quickly, too quickly. “But you didn’t sleep in your bed last night, did you?”
Your mouth fell open. “Excuse me? Who’s keeping attendance on beds?”
They laughed, a chorus of giggles that made your skin prickle. “We’re just saying, the cameras didn’t catch everything. Yet.”
“Yet?!” You threw your hands up. “God, you guys sound like TMZ. I literally just–” you hesitated, lowering your voice, “–fell asleep, okay? It’s not that deep.”
“Fell asleep where?” one girl asked, arching a brow.
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “On the moon. In hell. Take your pick.”
Before they could press further, a robotic beep filled the room. The cone rolled in–Lana, the show’s AI host, perched atop a stupid orange plastic traffic cone with wheels and a voice modulator that somehow managed to sound smug.
“Good morning, contestants,” Lana droned, her voice filling the villa. “As you know, money is deducted from the prize fund when contestants break the rules.”
Your blood ran cold.
Lana paused for dramatic effect. “This morning, I regret to inform you that four thousand dollars will be removed from the total prize. Two thousand for Couple A, who was caught sneaking off to the balcony last night. Two thousand for Couple B–" her cone spun slowly, as if savoring the moment, "–who decided to share a bed."
You had just taken a sip of water. You spit it everywhere, nearly choking as the girls burst into cackles.
“WHAT?!” you sputtered, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Couple B?! Who the hell is Couple B?!”
Everyone was staring at you now. The guys, the girls, even someone’s leftover pancake mid-bite. And then all eyes flicked over to the hallway, where Hiromi had just reappeared in a fresh shirt, calm as ever.
Your jaw dropped. “Oh, no. No, no, no. This is rigged. This is actually rigged.”
The girls dissolved into laughter, pounding the table like they were at a comedy show. You whipped around to glare at them. “Snitches. Absolute snitches. Who told?!”
One of them wiped tears from her eyes. “Babe, we didn’t tell anyone!”
"Bullshit," you retorted. “The cuddle session was top secret. That was a vault situation. And now everyone knows because somebody got loose lips.”
They kept laughing, but one girl swore up and down between giggles, “Seriously! We didn’t tell! The cone must’ve seen you!”
Lana’s cone swiveled toward you ominously. “Indeed. Nothing escapes me.”
“Fuck you, Lana!” you yelled, throwing a napkin at her. It bounced off the cone with a pathetic fwip.
Hiromi just walked past you, collected a coffee like nothing had happened, and sat down. Cool. Unbothered. In the meantime, you were practically bouncing off the walls.
They were all still staring at you, waiting for you to blow up. You slumped back in your chair, glaring at your drink like it had personally betrayed you. “Great. Perfect. Day one, and I’m already being framed for crimes I didn’t commit.”
The girls, of course, didn’t let up. “Cuddle crimes,” one of them corrected, smirking.
You groaned into your hands. “I hate it here.”
But Hiromi’s calm voice cut through, flat and even, “She’s telling the truth. Nothing happened.”
That only made the room explode with "ooohs" and laughter again. Because of denial? That was basically an admission of guilt in Villa-speak.
Even though you wanted to yell, argue, or even throw Lana into the pool so she could short circuit, you knew deep down that you were in a bad spot. Because once the villa had blood in the water, they didn’t let go.
You still felt heat crawling up your neck even after the breakfast fiasco, still trying to shake off the way everyone had stared at you like you and Hiromi had committed some cardinal sin instead of–what? Accidentally falling asleep?
You'd spat your juice halfway across the table, Lana's cone-shaped hologram flickering with self-satisfaction as she deducted the money, and the girls had been no help, smirking at you with wide eyes and swearing up and down that they hadn't told anyone about your little cuddle session. Snitches or not, you were still sitting there with your face hot while Hiromi remained calm, expression almost bored, as if his reputation hadn’t just been stained with the accusation of spooning.
The hours after breakfast stretched into a strange haze, contestants already slipping into swimsuits, drinks in hand, eager to rinse out their embarrassment with bottom-shelf tequila. The villa was alive with early-morning laughter, glass clinking, and the occasional shriek of someone cannonballing into the pool. Still, your focus wasn’t on them. Not anymore.
Hiromi had retreated to a quieter corner of the villa, one of the shaded sitting areas, where a long couch sat beneath gauzy curtains that swayed lazily with the breeze. He was in a simple linen shirt and dark shorts, neat as always, with his hair brushed back and damp from his morning shower. He didn’t look like he belonged here at all.
He looked like he’d wandered off from a law firm retreat and was just waiting for someone to bring him a case file. His jaw was clean-cut, faint stubble along the edges catching the light, and his eyes–calm, dark, steady–followed the words of the book in his hand.
You told yourself you were just walking by. That you weren’t staring. But your gaze lingered on the sharp line of his nose, the way his lashes caught the light, and the veins faintly showing through the back of his hand as he turned a page. He was composed in a way that felt almost alien in this house of chaos. Everyone else wanted to touch, drink, kiss, and fuck. Hiromi sat there reading as if the cone itself had invited him on an intellectual retreat.
Perhaps you wanted to test that composure.
“Book club at the villa, huh?” you teased, standing with one hand on the back of the couch. You were still in that beige bodycon dress you’d thrown on after changing, hair down, the fabric hugging every curve, soft and tight in ways that weren’t forgiving. You noticed his eyes flicker–not downward, not obviously–but you saw it. The glance that almost betrayed him before he snapped back to control.
He closed the book with one hand, a finger marking the page. “Better than watching everyone else grope each other like they’ve never heard of cameras.”
You couldn't stop yourself from laughing, hand covering your mouth.
“You’re not wrong.” You shifted, leaning your hip against the couch armrest. “You really don’t care about any of this, do you? The rules, the prize money, the… fun?”
His lips twitched–his version of a smile, small and sharp. “Fun is subjective.” He gestured faintly toward the pool with his book, where two contestants were already in each other’s laps. “If that’s what people call fun, then no. I don’t care.”
You tilted your head, watching him too closely now, studying the way his shirt clung faintly to his chest when he shifted, the way his collarbones peeked through the dip in the fabric. He appeared to be a man designed for order who fell into a chasm, but instead of collapsing, he surrounded himself with walls.
“So what is fun for you then?” You inquired, your tone softer than you felt. “Cause if you say reading, I’m gonna throw you in the pool.”
His gaze flicked to you again, steadier this time. Longer. “Conversation. Quiet. The absence of stupidity. And coffee.”
You laughed again, this time louder, your hand pressing to your stomach. “Oh my god, you sound like a ninety-year-old man.”
“And yet you’re standing here instead of with the others,” he countered smoothly, his words sliding past you like a soft knife.
His eyes actually lingered this time, sweeping over you with a deliberate calmness that made your laughter falter and catch in your throat. Not hungry. Not obvious. However, it was just enough to warm your skin beneath the beige dress, to draw your attention to how tight it was across your chest, and to show you how the neckline dipped just enough to frame your breast swell.
You shifted, feeling warm all of a sudden, and tugged at your hair to keep your hands busy. “Maybe I just like shade more than tequila,” you muttered, though your pulse betrayed you.
The air between you was heavy in a way you hadn't anticipated. You were too aware of the sound of the pool behind you and of the way Hiromi’s thumb rubbed absent circles along the book spine as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to your mouth for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his lap, and you thought you might combust right there.
You turned away before your face gave you away, biting back a smile as you looked out at the pool. The others were already sloppy, drinks in hand, shrieking and laughing as if the cameras weren’t recording every second of it. They were getting closer, hands sliding under wet fabric, legs tangled together, Lana undoubtedly keeping tally.
You sighed, muttering under your breath, “God, I wish I had some weed.”
Hiromi’s voice came quiet, almost amused. “Wouldn’t change how loud they are.”
You glanced back at him and caught his eyes again. His composure never faltered, but you swore there was something in the set of his jaw, in the way his gaze lingered–something restless, just beneath the surface.
There was a chance it was the tequila screams in the background, a chance it was the beige dress clinging too tight, or a chance it was the fact that Hiromi was the only sane person in this insane villa. Whatever it was, you stayed there with him instead of drifting back to the others.
His eyes darted to you every few seconds as if to remind himself that you were still there, but he was reading, leaning against the couch, too close, too close. It felt like a tether drawing you closer and closer into his orbit each time he looked.
✧₊⁺
The villa was quiet for once, the pool lights glowing outside like soft blue ghosts and the hum of crickets pressing against the walls. Everyone else had either passed out drunk on the couches or stumbled to their assigned rooms, too busy giggling and grinding to even notice when you’d slipped away.
You’d been relieved–finally, a moment without the heat of stares, without the constant hum of people trying to hook up and pretending it wasn’t going to cost them money.
Hiromi had followed, not saying much as usual. He just moved like a shadow, grabbing a pillow on his way in, sliding into the same bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You hadn’t minded. He was quiet company, and if anyone was safe to lie next to, it was him. Or at least that’s what you told yourself when you curled on your side, pulling the blanket to your chin.
But safety wasn’t the word that fit when the silence stretched, and you felt the weight of his arm settle low across your waist, his chest warm and heavy against your back. He hadn’t meant to–it was instinct, maybe, half-asleep comfort–but the way his breath ghosted the back of your neck, steady and slow, made your thighs rub together.
You swallowed hard, eyes half-shut, pretending it was nothing. Except it wasn’t nothing, because Hiromi shifted again, closer, his hips brushing into you from behind in the kind of motion that couldn’t be written off as an accident.
Even through the fabric of his sweats, his cock was thick and hard against the curve of your ass. You froze, but his hand tightened on your waist, holding you in place, and his face dipped until his mouth brushed your shoulder. A sound left him, low and muffled, like he was cursing himself in his throat.
Then, hot and ragged, he whispered, “Don’t move.”
But you did–you shifted just enough, a tiny roll of your hips, and the sharp inhale he gave nearly undid you. Hiromi buried his face against the back of your neck, his lips dragging slow kisses up the slope of your skin to your jaw, desperate and shaky like he’d been holding back for weeks. His hips rocked forward, pressing his cock into the soft give of your ass again and again, each slow grind drawing a quiet groan that vibrated against your skin.
You bit your lip to smother the sound threatening to escape, but he wasn’t having it. His hand slid from your waist to your mouth, palm firm against your lips as he whispered against your ear.
“Quiet. If you make a sound, everyone will know.” His voice was husky, dripping with something that made your stomach clench.
Then his other hand slipped lower. Past your stomach, past the hem of your sleep shorts, into the heat between your thighs. He tested you by rubbing his fingers over your slit once and twice. When he sensed how wet you were already, he hissed through his teeth as if the information had struck him.
“Fuck–”
He pushed two fingers inside you without warning, burying them deep, stretching your walls until you whined against his palm. He kissed you hard then, lips firm and hungry against the corner of your mouth, swallowing the moans you couldn’t hold back as his fingers curled inside you, dragging slow, filthy circles against the spot that made your legs twitch.
The bed creaked softly with each of his thrusts, his cock grinding against your ass in time with his fingers plunging into your cunt. Your body betrayed you, hips rocking back into him as if begging for more. His breathing grew heavier, hotter, each groan muffled against your skin as he lost control of the pace, fucking his fingers into you rougher, faster, until your slick spilled down your thighs.
“God, you’re soaking,” he growled against your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin. “Clenching around my fingers like you’ve been waiting for this.” He curled them just right, and you nearly cried out, your walls fluttering tight as heat spread up your stomach.
He kissed you again to silence it, tongue sliding into your mouth while his hips stuttered against your ass, his cock grinding hard through his sweats as he got off just on the feel of you writhing against him. His hand pinned your mouth, his body caged yours, and the wet squelch of his fingers moving in and out of you filled the quiet room like the filthiest secret.
Your body tensed, back arching against him as the wave crashed–your orgasm tearing through you while you shook against his chest, clenching tight around his fingers as he fucked you through it. His lips stayed on yours, kissing you hungrily, drinking every muffled whimper as your thighs trembled and your stomach knotted with bliss.
He didn’t stop, even when you went slack, his cock grinding harder into you, his breath ragged as if he was right there too, humping against you like he couldn’t help himself, like he was going to spill in his sweats just from the thought of being inside you. And maybe that was the only thing that saved you–that last shred of control keeping him from losing it completely, from giving the cameras something no one could take back.
His fingers didn’t cease even as your body shuddered, even as your thighs trembled against the sheets and your muscles went weak, spasming around him. Hiromi was behind you, chest pressed to your back, his lips moving desperately along your neck like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss or bite, the noises slipping out of him low and raw. Every thrust of his fingers was wetter and messier, your slick coating his knuckles and dripping down your thighs until it was obscene.
He was grinding hard against you still, cock straining against his sweats, rutting into the curve of your ass with little control left. His free hand moved quickly and harshly from your mouth to your clit, causing your entire body to lurch forward. Your eyes widened and you gasped, but before you could utter a sound, his mouth was over yours, his tongue sliding against yours as he gave you a forceful, sloppy kiss that smothered every scream.
“Fuck–god, fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice breaking. Then his hand left your clit and fumbled at his own waistband, pulling the cloth down just enough to free his cock, before his hips bucked harder and again.
You felt the hot, heavy length press between your thighs, smearing precum against your skin as his fist wrapped around himself and started stroking in a frantic, messy rhythm.
He continued to fuck you with three fingers while his other hand remained buried inside you, curling and stretching you until you were keening into his mouth. He pumped himself hard, hips jerking in time with the wet thrusts of his fingers, his breath worn and desperate in your ear.
Your vision blurred, with white flashing at the edges as his thumb found your clit again, ruthless and fast, rubbing tight circles until your back arched and your walls clamped down around his hand. The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, your whole body seizing, thighs shaking uncontrollably. You screamed into his kiss, muffled and broken, your nails clawing at the sheets as you came so hard you thought your chest might split.
Hiromi lost it. His groan was guttural, chest-deep, his hand jerking faster along his cock until he spilled hot across your thighs and stomach, his lips crushing yours to stifle the sound. His fingers still worked inside you, pumping through every spasm of your cunt until he was twitching against you, his hand messy and wet, his body shaking as he came apart with you.
The room went quiet again, save for your shared gasps, the slick sound of his fingers finally slowing as he slipped out of you. He broke the kiss, panting against your cheek, then without thinking he brought his soaked fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, groaning low at the taste while his cock twitched weakly against your ass.
Then there was awkward silence, hot and heavy, with you both still too near. He slumped onto his back beside you, one arm flung across his forehead, the other reaching instinctively to rub slow circles into your stomach like he was grounding himself. His breath was ragged, his chest heaving, and he didn’t look at you when he muttered, almost too soft to catch, “...fuck.”
✧₊⁺
The third week came with heat that wasn’t just from the sun. By then, the villa had become a circus–half the contestants spent their days finding new ways to grope each other under Lana’s watchful cone-eye while the other half sulked about their dwindling prize fund.
Like some unintentional gravitational pull that pulled you straight into Hiromi's orbit, you had settled into an odd rhythm and were orbiting him more than you wanted to acknowledge.
That night, it was late–too late for anyone sober to still be awake. The air was thick and warm, clinging to your skin like sweat. Most of the house had gone to the pool to drink and grind against each other, but Hiromi had found himself leaning against the headboard of one of the quieter rooms, book in hand. You slipped in after him, claiming you were bored of the commotion. He didn’t argue.
You were in a soft set of shorts and a tank top, hair falling around your face as you sat cross-legged on the bed. He didn’t even look up at first, eyes scanning the page, but you could feel him watching you from the corner of his vision. And when you finally stretched out beside him, flopping on your back with a dramatic sigh, he closed the book.
“You’re exhausting,” he muttered.
“You love it,” you shot back, tilting your head to grin at him.
However, the silence that ensued was unexpected. Not sharp, not annoyed–heavy. His gaze lingered on you, and before you could make a joke, his hand slid down your thigh. The brush of his knuckles over your skin made your breath hitch.
It wasn't really a decision at all. One moment you were smirking at him, the next his mouth was hot on yours, swallowing every gasp, every teasing laugh you tried to let out. The kiss was slow but messy, his lips demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your stomach tighten.
You didn’t remember shifting, but suddenly you were straddling his chest, his palms sliding up your thighs, pushing the flimsy fabric of your shorts higher until your core hovered just over his face.
“Sit,” he rasped, voice gravel-deep, pupils blown wide. His breath was already hot against you.
You froze for half a second, your face heating. “Hiromi–”
But he didn’t give you time to protest. His hands gripped your thighs and yanked you down onto his mouth, forcing your weight to settle against him. The wet heat of his tongue pressed hard against your clit, and you choked out a strangled sound, fists clutching the sheets.
His groan vibrated into you, shameless and hungry, his tongue sliding through your folds like he couldn’t get enough. Every flick, every circle was relentless, and his fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you pinned where he wanted you.
“Fuck–” you gasped, the word tearing out of your throat as your hips jerked involuntarily.
You barely even realized you had reached back with shaking hands until your palm wrapped around the thick weight of him. He was already hard, flushed, and scorching to the touch. Your thighs shook around his head from the hiss that left him when you caressed him.
“Goddamn–” he broke off with another muffled groan, tongue laving over your clit like a man starved. His hips bucked against your hand, precum smearing across your fingers as you pumped him.
The sound was obscene–your gasps, his guttural moans buried in your cunt, the slick squelch of your arousal against his mouth, the wet slide of your palm over his cock.
He tilted his head just enough to suck your clit into his mouth, and your vision sparked white. Your hand faltered, squeezing around him as your body trembled. You were pushed even farther over the edge by his moan at the taste of you.
You came with a cry, thighs clamping down around his head, body spasming as his tongue refused to let up. He devoured you through it, swallowing every drop, groaning like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
Even as you slumped forward, gasping, your hand continued to work on him. His cock throbbed in your grip, heavy and flushed, veins pulsing under your palm. He was cursing against you now, pulling back just enough to breathe, his lips slick with you, chest rising and falling hard.
“Fuck–don’t stop,” he growled, his hand covering yours as he fucked himself into your grip, hips snapping up with desperation.
Your thighs were still shaking, your body wrung out, but you didn’t stop. You jerked him faster, watching his face tilt back, his brows drawn tight, and his mouth open as groans spilled out uncontrolled.
His hips stumbled against your palm as he came, thick ropes of cum dripping across his chest and stomach. His moan was raspy and broken, and it made your cunt clench all over again just hearing it.
When the haze cleared, you were both panting, staring at each other like you’d just committed a crime. He was sprawled out beneath you, chest heaving, sweat and cum smeared across his skin, lips slick from where he’d drowned himself in you.
You slid off him slowly, your legs still unsteady, collapsing onto the bed beside him. Neither of you said anything at first. The silence was filled with the sound of your breaths and the faint hum of the villa outside.
He finally dragged a hand across his face before giving you a sidelong glance. His voice was hoarse.
“Guess Lana’s gonna kill us tomorrow.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh, turning onto your side to face him, hair clinging to your damp forehead. “Worth it.”
His lips curved, just slightly, and he reached over to rest a hand on your stomach.
The room had gone quiet, just the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint roar of voices by the pool. The air was heavy with sweat, musk, and the lingering salt of your orgasm. You were both a mess–his chest streaked with cum, your thighs damp and trembling–but neither of you moved to get up.
Hiromi tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was trying to get his breathing under control, but his hand was still sprawled across your stomach, thumb stroking absent circles against your skin. You turned toward him, dragging yourself closer until your nose brushed the sharp line of his jaw.
“Hiromi,” you whispered, voice small but loaded.
He turned his head, brown eyes hooded and blown, meeting yours with a heat that made your stomach clench. You didn’t even realize you were kissing him until his lips were slanting over yours, slow and rough, like he needed to taste himself on your tongue.
The kiss deepened until you were pressing against him, one leg thrown lazily over his hip, your fingers curling into his hair. His breath shuddered against your lips, his body still wired, not satisfied in the slightest despite the orgasm he’d just had. He broke away only long enough to mutter against your mouth, voice gravel-thick.
“Get under.”
You blinked, confused, until he dragged the blanket up over both your heads in one swift motion. It cocooned you in pitch-darkness, swallowing the room whole. The air under it grew thick and humid instantly, your skin prickling with sweat, his heat pressed flush against you. You couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t see a thing, and it only made every sound sharper–every wet kiss, every muffled moan, and the slide of skin on skin.
“Too hot,” you choked, laughing breathlessly, but he cut you off with another kiss. His hand slid down, tugging your shorts off completely, leaving you bare under the suffocating covers. You gasped into his mouth as his fingers brushed against your folds, slick again, the ache in your cunt insistent and greedy.
“You’re fucking insatiable,” he groaned, his lips ghosting over your cheek and your jaw before burying in the curve of your neck. His voice was husky and primal, like it hurt him to admit it. “Can’t stop, can you?”
You whimpered, your hand slipping down between your own thighs because you couldn't take the empty throb for another second. Your fingers slid through your folds, messy and wet, circling your clit until your back arched. His breath caught when he felt you move, his hand catching your wrist, guiding it harder, rougher.
“Good girl,” he whispered, kissing you again, sloppy and needy. “Touch yourself for me.”
The blanket trapped the sound, amplifying it–the slick squelch of your fingers, the muffled suck of his mouth on yours, and the frantic rasp of your breaths. You couldn’t see him, but you felt everything: the twitch of his muscles, the tremble in his breath, and the way the mattress shifted when he pushed his shorts down.
You broke the kiss with a gasp when his fist closed around his cock, the sound obscene in the darkness–glossy skin against skin, every stroke loud and wet. He groaned deeply, biting at your bottom lip before burying his face in your neck.
“Fuck,” he hissed, hips stuttering up against his hand. “I’m gonna lose my mind with you.”
Your clit throbbed under your touch, your slick dripping down your hand, the air under the blanket growing impossible to breathe through, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Every muffled curse and hot groan from him brought you closer.
“Hiromi,” you whined, your voice muffled by the blanket as you clutched at his shoulder with your free hand.
He kissed you again, swallowing your moan, his breath stuttering against your lips as his hand moved faster. The blanket pressed down heavy, the air sticky and hot, every inhale like fire in your lungs.
“Say it,” he groaned, teeth dragging against your jaw. “Say you want it.”
“I want it,” you gasped, thighs trembling as you rubbed yourself harder, faster. “God, I want it so bad.”
His moan broke against your mouth, loud and guttural, his cock throbbing in his grip. He was close; you could feel it in the way his kisses turned hurried and sloppy, his tongue gnashing against yours.
“Together,” he panted, forehead pressing hard to yours. “Don’t you dare stop.”
You cried out, muffled under the covers, when your orgasm hit–your body jerking, thighs spasming around your hand, and cunt pulsing as you rubbed yourself raw. He came with you, a strangled growl torn from his throat, his cum spilling hot across his stomach and your hip as his fist worked him through it.
The sound of it was filthy–the squelch of your wetness, the slick slap of his fist, and your cries tangled with his groans until the blanket felt like it was vibrating with it all.
When it finally ebbed, you collapsed against him, chest heaving, the blanket sticking to your sweat. The air was stifling, thick with heat and sex, but neither of you moved to throw it off. His lips found yours again, softer this time, his hand smoothing down your damp back.
“Gonna suffocate in here,” you muttered weakly, giggling against his mouth.
“Then at least I’ll die happy,” he murmured, kissing you again, slower, savoring.
The blanket was too hot, every breath too heavy and shallow, but neither of you cared. Your fingers were still trembling against his skin, his cum smearing across your stomach where he pressed against you, the taste of him still on your tongue.
And even though Lana’s voice would blare in the morning, announcing the deduction and everyone’s outrage, right now it was only the two of you, tangled under the suffocating heat, chasing the kind of hunger no rule could ever contain.
✧₊⁺
That morning, the sun was merciless, illuminating the pool deck with its golden rays, causing everything to shimmer, including the water, the skin, and the condensation dripping from glasses of watered-down mimosas. The air smelled like chlorine and coconut sunscreen, and it was loud with splashes and laughter, the kind of noise that made your temples throb.
You leaned back against the lounge chair, stretching your legs out in the two-piece bikini you regretted packing because of how much attention it brought. The bottoms sat high on your hips, your ass cupped perfectly by the thin fabric, and you knew eyes were on you whether you invited them or not. As you moved, the top's straps pressed against your skin, glinting in the sunlight as if to draw attention to you.
Sure enough, one of the guys–muscular in a too-obvious way, his teeth too bright from all the constant grinning–strode over with his drink in hand. His sunglasses reflected you back at yourself as he gave you a smile you’d seen him rehearse in the mirror before the cameras turned on. He crouched near your chair, drink dangling from his fingers, and leaned closer than he needed to.
“Didn’t think you’d actually come out here today,” he said, voice pitched low in what was clearly his idea of seductive. “Thought maybe you were hiding that bikini from us.” His gaze lingered far too long on your chest before trailing down to your thighs. “But… I’m glad you didn’t.”
You tilted your head, slow, unimpressed. His words rolled right off of you like the beads of sweat forming on your skin, and you blinked at him, your lips parted slightly in mock interest. You weren’t here for this. Not for the smirks that came too naturally, not for the practiced pickup lines, and most definitely not for the way his hand delicately touched the edge of your chair as though being close could make you feel attracted to him.
“Mm,” you hummed, pushing your sunglasses up your nose, “original. Real smooth. What’s next? You gonna tell me you’ve never met anyone like me before?”
The teasing tone made him chuckle, but he didn’t back off. He leaned closer, the smell of his cologne suffocating under the sun, and your stomach turned with the effort of pretending to entertain him for even a moment.
However, you didn't have to act that way for very long.
You felt it before you saw it–the weight of his gaze, steady and grounding even from across the deck. Hiromi was seated by the edge of the pool, one leg bent, his arm resting casually across his knee as he nursed a bottle of water. His dark eyes, usually unreadable, sharpened as they landed on you and the guy leaning into your space. His jaw flexed, subtle but noticeable, the faintest twitch of annoyance tugging at his otherwise calm expression.
He didn’t move right away. That was the thing about him–you’d started to notice he didn’t act without measuring it first. But his gaze was a tether, and you could feel it coil around you tighter the longer he stared, as if the guy in front of you was already irrelevant.
The contestant hadn’t noticed. He was too busy licking his lips and letting his eyes shamelessly trail down your body.
“You know,” he continued, his voice lowering, “if you ever get bored of sitting out here alone, I could keep you company. Show you a good time. Something worth breaking the rules for.” His hand brushed lightly against your ankle, an intentional touch masked as casual.
Your brows furrowed, lips parting as you gave him the kind of look reserved for things you scraped off your shoe.
“Did you really just say that to me?” you asked, your tone dry, disbelief dripping from every syllable. “You’re advertising yourself like a cheap Groupon.”
He laughed, thinking you were teasing, and leaned closer still.
Hiromi, however, had left the pool. By the time you blinked, he was standing, walking over with a steady, unhurried pace that only made the air around you feel heavier. He wasn’t dramatic about it–no raised voice, no obvious claim. Just a quiet, firm presence.
“Move,” he said, his voice deep and unbothered but leaving no room for argument as he stopped beside your chair. When he spoke, he let the word fall like a stone into water without even glancing at the other competitor.
The guy scoffed, shifting back a little but not standing yet. “What, you think she needs you to play guard dog?” His smirk returned, faltering slightly under the weight of Hiromi’s stare.
Then, slowly, Hiromi finally gave him a look, and aside from the slightest hint of contempt in his eyes, his face was unreadable.
“She doesn’t need me to do anything,” he said evenly, “but I don’t like repeating myself.”
After muttering something under his breath, the other competitor stood and gave you a half-embarrassed, half-annoyed look before turning back to face the other competitors at the pool. Silence lingered for a beat as Hiromi dropped down onto the chair beside yours, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle like nothing had happened.
You tilted your head toward him, one brow raised. “You know,” you said, voice low and edged with amusement, “you didn’t have to do that. I was handling it.”
His eyes flicked toward you briefly, then back to the pool. “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of water. “I know.”
However, his gaze lingered when he thought you weren't looking. The beige bikini clung to your skin, the sun sharpening every curve and line on your body, ready to cut him from the inside out. He caught himself staring too long at the swell of your hips, the way the fabric pulled tight across your ass when you shifted. Heat rose unbidden and unwelcome, but he didn’t look away fast enough.
And you noticed.
“Were you staring at my ass just now?” you asked suddenly, a sly grin curling your lips as you turned your head to face him fully.
His jaw twitched, and he exhaled through his nose, finally meeting your gaze. “You really want me to answer that?”
You leaned back on your chair, smiling like a cat who caught the canary.
"No," you said with a playful tone, "but the blush on your ears told me enough."
For once, Hiromi broke eye contact first, gazing toward the pool as if the water could swallow him whole if he stared long enough. But his hand tightened slightly around the water bottle, the plastic creaking beneath his grip.
The others were too loud to notice the tension simmering quietly between you two, too busy drinking and laughing in the sun. But for you, the air was charged, thick with unspoken things that neither of you had signed up for but kept getting drawn deeper into.
Then as you stretched out on your chair, deliberately arching your back, you felt his gaze return–brief, stolen, but undeniable. He looked at you like you weren’t supposed to be his problem, but every second you existed in that bikini, under the sun, you became exactly that.
✧₊⁺
The sun sat high over the villa, hot and unrelenting, casting a white glare on the pool. Everyone else had already started on their early cocktails, music spilling from the speakers, laughter and splashing making the air heavy with humidity and noise. You weren’t paying much attention to them though–you were sitting in a lounge chair, a towel draped loosely over your lap, a drink sweating condensation onto your fingers.
He sat beside you, broad shoulders relaxed, sunglasses shielding the sharp dark of his eyes as if he wasn’t paying attention either. Hiromi looked so unbothered, so detached, stretched out in swim shorts with his head tilted back slightly, throat bared to the sun. But when you shifted, crossing one thigh over the other, you caught the subtle twitch in his jaw. His gaze flicked down and back up again behind those glasses like nothing had happened, but the burn of it lingered on your skin.
The towel was only an excuse at first–you’d wrapped it around your waist when you got out of the pool, mostly because the lounge chair was scorching hot. But now it acted as a curtain, a shield, and he took advantage of it. His hand slid under, casual enough that no one would notice, fingertips brushing your bare thigh in a way that made you stiffen and swallow down the sudden heat crawling up your neck.
“Relax,” he muttered thinly, his voice a lazy rumble against the din of the party.
You tried, but your chest was already rising faster, your heart thudding. His fingers dragged higher, and when they cupped the warmth between your legs, you bit your lip so hard you tasted metal. He chuckled quietly, dark and satisfied, his breath ghosting against your shoulder as his hand worked beneath the cover of terrycloth.
“You’re already wet,” he said your name under his breath, not as a question but as a fact, the kind of blunt observation that made you shiver.
Your eyes darted around nervously, watching the others, but they were too busy flirting, laughing, and drinking. No one cared about you two. No one was looking. That didn’t make it any easier when his fingers slipped between your folds, teasing at your clit in lazy circles that made your stomach tighten, your thighs wanting to snap shut around his hand.
You tried to keep your voice even, tried to hold onto composure, but then his middle finger slid inside you, slow and deliberate, curling in a way that made your toes curl against the lounge chair. You hissed a quiet gasp, immediately clapping a hand over your mouth, but he leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear.
“Shh,” he murmured, a grin in his voice. “Don’t want everyone knowing how needy you are, do you?”
Your head tipped back against his shoulder when he added another finger, working you open while his thumb pressed harder against your clit, the towel still covering everything but the movements of your body giving you away if anyone bothered to look close enough. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, the thin fabric of your bikini top doing little to hide how hard your nipples had gotten, the cool air raising goosebumps along your arms.
You bit down on the urge to whine, muffling it into your own knuckles, but he wasn’t having that. His free hand slid up, cupping the back of your head as he leaned in, his mouth finding yours before you could resist. The kiss was filthy, messy–his tongue pushing past your lips, swallowing every broken sound you made as his fingers pumped faster, harder.
Your hips rolled without permission, chasing the pressure, grinding down against his hand under the towel. He groaned into your mouth, the vibration deep and desperate, and you realized with a sharp pang of lust that he was hard–so hard–that you could feel the twitch of him against your side where his swim shorts did a poor job of hiding it.
“Ah, you’re squeezing my fingers,” he whispered between kisses, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it right here.”
You could only gasp against his lips, your thighs trembling as heat pooled and tightened inside you, his thumb circling mercilessly over your clit while his fingers thrust into you deep, curling up in that maddening spot. Your vision swam white for a moment when it hit, your body shuddering under the towel, hips jerking helplessly as your orgasm ripped through you.
He caught every sound you tried to make, swallowing it with his mouth pressed hard to yours, his tongue filling you as thoroughly as his fingers did. His groan was rough, almost pained, when your spasms clenched tight around him, your body shaking against his chest.
It took everything in you not to collapse into the chair and scream. He pulled his hand away only when your legs finally stopped jerking, but not before dragging his soaked fingers across your lips in one final taunt, smirking when you whimpered at the taste of yourself.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you up from the chair. Your knees felt weak, your whole body buzzing and oversensitized, but he kept walking, pulling you toward the shaded corner near the villa.
“You’re fucking evil,” you muttered under your breath, your cheeks burning, but he only gave a crooked grin, still breathing heavily as his hand settled on the small of your back.
“You liked it.” His voice was faint, cocky, and dripping with heat.
The rays of the afternoon still clung to your skin as he dragged you inside, his fingers wound tight around your wrist like a man who had no intention of letting go. The others were still drinking and shouting by the pool, oblivious, their laughter echoing across the villa while you stumbled after him, legs still trembling from the mess he’d made of you beneath that towel.
He didn't say anything, didn't even look back at you; his pace was quick and possessive. The only things that betrayed him were his chest's rapid rise and fall, as well as the sharp twitch in his jaw.
The moment the bedroom door shut behind you, he shoved you toward the bathroom. The air inside was already damp from the summer humidity, and when he turned the shower on, the spray hit the glass with a hiss, steam blooming in the small space. His swim shorts hit the tiled floor with a wet smack, and your breath hitched when you saw the thick length of him spring free, hard and heavy, veins straining as if he’d been holding himself back since the second his hand slid under that towel.
“You are making me fucking insane,” he said your name like a curse, his voice gravelly, the sound scraping down your spine.
Your back hit the cool glass, the sudden cold making you gasp, but his hands were already on you, tugging at your bikini, pulling the fabric down clumsily. The top came undone with a snap, falling somewhere on the wet tiles, and his mouth was on your breasts before you could catch your breath. He groaned like a starving man, lips closing around your nipple, tongue dragging over the sensitive peak while his large hands kneaded the soft weight of them, thumbs rolling over the dusky buds until you whined.
He sucked hard, pulling back just enough to watch your flesh bounce when he let go, his eyes dark, his breath ragged.
“I think about these every time I close my eyes,” he muttered, voice muffled against your chest before he sucked at you again, teeth scraping just enough to make your back arch. “God, you were meant to be touched like this.”
Your thighs pressed together, desperate for friction, but he shoved them apart with his knee, pressing his hips into yours so you could feel the thick heat of his cock drag across your stomach, smearing precum over your skin. He groaned again, the sound low and guttural, like he was in pain from wanting you so badly.
When his mouth finally pulled away from your breasts, his hand was already moving between your thighs, dragging the last scrap of your bikini down until you were bare, pinned against the slick glass. He guided himself to your entrance, his swollen tip rubbing against your folds, catching on your clit just to hear the broken gasp that fell from your lips.
“You’re already dripping for me,” he said, his voice almost mocking, though his hand trembled as he lined himself up. “You want me to fuck you in the shower like I’m no better than any of those guys out there, don’t you?”
You wanted to say no. You wanted to say you weren't like the other girls here, who threw themselves at anyone who gave them attention, but the words stuck in your throat. Because when he pushed forward, when his cock stretched you wide and forced your walls to flutter around him, all you could do was cry out and claw at the fogging glass behind you.
The stretch was obscene, your body struggling to take him all at once, the thick girth burning and filling you so deeply it felt like you might split. His groan was rough and piercing, his head dropping against your shoulder as he forced his way in to the hilt, his cock buried to the base inside you.
“Fuck,” he growled, holding you there, his hands gripping your ass so tight you felt his nails dig into your skin. “So fucking tight–like you were made for me.”
Your lips parted on a shaky breath, your thighs trembling as he gave you no time to adjust before he started moving. Each thrust slammed you harder into the glass, your breasts bouncing with every push, the slick wet sound of your body giving way to him echoing in the tiled room.
Water sprayed hot and heavy over both of you, plastering your hair to your face and sliding down your chest in rivulets that he bent to lick from your skin, his tongue tracing along the swell of your tits before he closed his lips around your nipple once more.
You could feel his obsession in every movement, the way he latched onto your breasts as if he couldn't get enough, groaning into your skin every time your tits pressed against his face from the force of his thrusts. His hips snapped forward with a relentless rhythm, every stroke burying him deep inside you, dragging against that sweet spot until you were whining into his ear, your fingers threading desperately through his damp hair.
“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just far enough to watch his cock sink into you, the wet squelch of your body swallowing him up making his eyes roll back. His hand smacked against your ass, the sharp sting making you cry out as your hips jerked.
“Fuck–this ass,” he groaned, grabbing a handful of it, squeezing like he wanted to leave fingerprints in your skin. He slapped it again, harder this time, the sound echoing off the glass. “Bouncing so pretty every time I fuck you.”
You felt defiled, just another body in his bed like all the rest, yet when he slammed into you again, the thought scattered, replaced by pure sensation. Your walls stretched deliciously around him, every nerve in your body tingling with heat, and the glass was so foggy you couldn't see your own reflection.
His pace grew rougher, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing with every thrust, his chest pressed to yours so hard you could feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat. He licked at your tits, sucking and biting, his teeth scraping over tender skin before soothing it with his tongue. His obsession with them left your chest slick with spit, your nipples stinging and aching, but the way he moaned against them made you squeeze tighter around him, eager for more.
“God, you’re clamping down on me,” he groaned, his voice breaking as his hips snapped forward again. “You love it–getting fucked raw against the glass, letting me handle you like this.”
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your moans muffled against his neck as he drove you closer to the edge. Every thrust hit deeper, harder, your body shaking with the force of it, your breasts bouncing against his chest as he bit at your collarbone, leaving marks that burned even under the spray of water.
He shifted his grip suddenly, hauling one of your thighs up to wrap around his waist. The angle changed everything, his cock slamming into you deeper than before, forcing a loud cry from your throat that rattled off the bathroom walls. He growled at the sound, rutting into you harder, his hand kneading the fat of your ass as if he couldn’t decide whether to worship it or bruise it.
Your head fell back against the glass, your mouth open, your voice breaking with every thrust as heat pooled low in your belly, threatening to unravel you. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath ragged, his eyes menacing and wanting.
“Cum for me,” he growled, his hand sliding between your bodies to press hard circles against your clit. “Cum on my cock–show me how much you fucking desire it.”
The pressure built too quickly to resist, your walls clenching desperately around him as your orgasm tore through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder. Your whole body shook, thighs quivering, nails raking down his back as the hot rush of release left you weak, your pussy spasming around him.
His groan was uncontrollable and raspy, his hips snapping forward even harder as he chased his own end. “Fuck–you’re squeezing the life out of me,” he gasped, his voice breaking as his thrusts grew sloppy, desperate.
He slammed into you once, twice, before his cock pulsed deep inside you, spilling hot ropes of cum with a shuddering growl. His forehead slammed against your neck, his mouth open against your skin as he groaned through every spurt, his hand still clutching your ass like he’d never let it go.
The glass behind you was fogged and smeared with handprints, the shower water still spraying over your tangled bodies. Your legs were trembling, your chest heaving, your breasts marked with red from his mouth, and your ass stinging from the way he’d manhandled it.
You wanted to tell yourself you were just another girl to him, just another notch in his bed, but when he finally pulled out and his cum dripped down your thighs, when he kissed your tits one more time like he couldn't resist, and when his hands smoothed possessively down your ass as if reminding himself it was his–something inside you knew it wasn't that simple.
✧₊⁺
The music was pounding so hard through the walls that it made the glass in your hand tremble, condensation slipping over your fingers while you swayed your hips lazily to the bass. The party had turned sloppy hours ago; half-empty bottles lined the counters, glitter from somebody’s makeup had smeared across the leather couches, and at least two people were passed out by the patio doors.
You weren’t even trying to be provocative as you let yourself get tugged into a circle near the pool where bodies pressed close together, but it just happened that way–your laugh spilling free as someone spun you by the wrist, the sway of your hair catching the dim lights, your bikini top sparkling faintly under the glow. You didn’t even notice him watching at first.
Hiromi was across the way, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, his jaw tight enough that the veins in his neck stood out, and his eyes locked on you like there wasn’t another soul in the place. He wasn’t the type to scowl or stomp over like some cartoon caricature of envy, but it sat in him, heavy and sharp, burning right through the easy posture he usually wore. It was when some guy’s hands lingered too long on your hips, pulling you just a little closer during a beat, that Hiromi pushed off the wall, the lazy tilt of his body gone.
You felt it before you even saw him–heat against your back, his hand wrapping firmly around your waist, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear. He didn’t say anything at first, just pressed close enough that the hard lines of his chest grazed against your shoulder blades, staking his claim with nothing but the slow grind of his body into yours. The guy who had been flirting faltered, his hands lifting away as if scorched, muttering something about needing another drink before vanishing into the crowd.
“Having fun?” Hiromi murmured, his voice crisp and fluid but overpowered with something you hadn’t heard from him before. His grip stayed locked on your hip, pulling you flush against him so there was no mistaking who you belonged to.
His teeth nibbled your shoulder as he leaned in, lips trailing across the curve of your neck in what looked like nothing more than casual affection to anyone else, but you knew better–the faint scrape of teeth promised bruises if he wanted to leave them.
Your skin shivered under the heat of his mouth, your breath hitching as his lips dragged higher, up the column of your throat, each kiss a little deeper, wetter, and more insistent. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was marking, asserting his territory, his tongue flicking against the sensitive spot under your jaw until your knees buckled. His other hand skimmed down the slope of your stomach, fingertips brushing the waistband of your bikini bottoms like he was daring you to stop him.
“Thought I’d let you dance a little,” he muttered, lips swollen as they hovered by your ear, “but you don’t know how fucking hard it is to watch someone else put their hands on you.” His words spilled hot against your skin, the weight of them grounding and overwhelming all at once.
When he pulled back enough for you to see his face, there was nothing calm about him anymore. His eyes were dim, pupils blown wide, and his jaw clenched like he was holding back from doing something reckless right there in the middle of everyone. The sight of him like that–Hiromi, usually so chill, so steady, unraveling because of you–sent heat racing straight between your legs.
The song shifted to something faster, the crowd became more enthusiastic, and yet the world felt muted. His mouth descended again, open and ruthless this time, sucking a bruise into the side of your throat where everyone could see.
You gasped, clutching at his arm, but he only pressed closer, groaning low in his chest as his lips latched onto the swell of your breast just above your bikini line, biting down until your breath caught. Your body arched helplessly into him, the sharp press of his teeth sending a shock down your spine.
Your laugh slipped out, nervous and shaky, when he finally pulled back, his lips wet and flushed. “You’re not subtle,” you whispered, though your voice lacked any true scolding.
He smirked, thumb brushing the edge of your bikini top where his mouth had just been, slow and deliberate.
“Good. Don’t want to be.” His voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise of the party, searing right into you.
Then he was pulling you tighter against him, holding you close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off his body, close enough that your pulse skipped when his lips ghosted along your ear again. The night pressed on around you, laughter and music swallowing everything, but none of it mattered with his mouth claiming your skin and his jealousy simmering hot enough to burn.
The music outside had died down long ago, the villa quiet except for the sound of the waves crashing beyond the glass walls and the heavy thrum of the ceiling fan above. His hand was rough around your wrist, dragging you through the low light of the bedroom like he couldn’t even wait for the idea to settle.
He pushed you back onto the mattress, his chest rising and falling fast, his eyes catching yours in the dimness, sharp and possessive. You barely had time to adjust before he climbed onto the bed after you, his mouth already crashing against yours, hot and desperate, the taste of salt from the ocean still clinging to your lips.
Your dress had ridden up halfway down your thighs during the walk back, and his fingers shoved it higher until it bunched at your waist. His palm smoothed down your thigh, squeezing hard, dragging over the swell of your ass until he groaned into your mouth like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this.
He pulled back only to murmur against your lips, voice rough, “I’m not letting you go tonight. You hear me?”
You didn’t even get the chance to answer before he turned you, your back hitting his chest, his hand bracing on your hip as he guided you onto his lap. His cock was already hard and heavy, pressing against the seam of your panties, and when he shoved them aside and slid into you, you cried out–too loud for how quiet the villa was–but his hand clamped over your mouth as he groaned, head tipping back.
“Fuck… you’re so tight.” His breath was ragged, his teeth clicked, and his other hand locked around your waist to keep you down on him.
The stretch was dizzying, his cock thick and dragging against every part of you as you shifted. You whined into his palm, your hands clawing at the sheets as you squirmed. He leaned forward, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Don’t run from it. Take it.” His voice was grizzled, deep, and full of restraint, though the way his hips lifted beneath you gave away how close he was to snapping.
Your body ached with every drag of him inside you, every deep thrust as he shifted beneath you. The angle had him buried so far you could feel the press in your stomach, the pressure blooming into pleasure that made you exhale and moan, muffled against his hand.
“Hiromi–” you tried to breathe out, but it came out as a pathetic whimper, your eyes fluttering shut.
His lips curved against your jaw, kissing down to your neck before he sucked hard enough to make you squeak.
“Say my name again,” he muttered, moving his hand from your mouth only to squeeze your tits through the thin dress. “Louder.”
You gasped, your nails digging into the sheets as your hips rolled down against him, your body betraying every ounce of restraint you thought you had.
“Hiromi–” it came out choked and broken, and he growled low in his chest, bucking up into you harder.
The sound of your slick around him filled the room, obscene and wet, blending with the heavy slap of skin as he thrust up into you. Your voice cracked into little mewls, high and needy, each one spurring him on. He tipped his hips until you screamed, your thighs trembling as he hit that spot deep inside.
“There it is,” he groaned, sweat beading on his brow as he forced you to ride him. “Don’t hold back now.”
Your body betrayed you completely, shuddering, gasping as every nerve sparked white-hot. But the orgasm didn’t come easy, not with the way he slowed at the edge, pulling you back down into his chest and holding you still as he ground against you instead. Your legs shook, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as frustration welled up.
“Please–” you whined, your voice breaking, “don’t stop–”
He chuckled against your wet skin, kissing the side of your neck before sucking another mark.
"You beg with such sweetness." His hand trailed down, pressing between your thighs, rubbing your clit hard enough to make your body jolt.
He pressed his rough voice to your ear and said, "Come on, give it to me."
You sobbed out his name, your body spasming, vision blurring as the orgasm finally ripped through you. He swore, raw and deep, fucking you through it as you screamed, your thighs clamping around his, your cunt pulsing tight around him. Even as your body trembled and gave out against him, he pounded his hips into you and gave you a passionate kiss while swallowing your sounds.
Your chest heaved, sweat slicking your skin, and still he didn’t stop. His pace decreased, but his cock was still hard, still pushing deep as he leaned back and pulled your knees up, folding you until they were over his shoulders. The angle had him driving into you so deep you nearly screamed, the obscene sound reverberating off the walls. He groaned into your calf, biting against your soft skin as he thrust harder.
Your voice trembled as you sobbed and gasped, half-broken. “It’s too much–”
“No,” he grunted, sweat dripping down his temple, his hands gripping your thighs like vices. “You can take it.” His tone was harsh with lust but undercut with something gentler, something possessive that wouldn’t let go.
The noise was loud–wet, messy, his balls slapping against you, your gasps and cries mingling with his low curses. He kissed your calf, then your ankle, groaning as his cock twitched inside you, thick and flushed and desperate for release. He kept you there, pinned and spread open beneath him, your cunt clenching futilely around him as he fucked you deeper and deeper, the mattress shaking with every thrust.
Your hands grasped for him, drawing him closer until his mouth found yours again, sloppy and desperate, your tongues tangling as he groaned into your throat. You tasted yourself on his lips, felt his body quiver against yours, and yet he still didn’t stop, still chasing another high even after you’d already been undone.
The room was filled with the symphony of it–your whimpers, his grunts, the slap of skin, the messy wet sounds between your thighs–louder than anything else, unrelenting, consuming the night.
✧₊⁺
With sunlight streaming in through the villa's large windows and casting a more clinical than warm glow on every inch of glass and polished marble, the morning stretched on like any other. The lounge was filled with weary people, some still wearing bikinis from a quick swim, and others drinking coffee as if it were their only source of support. The air was heavy–half from the humidity, half from the collective tension that had been thickening for days now.
The chime then sounded. That robotic, high-pitched note that never meant anything positive made people's stomachs turn. Like a heartbeat, Lana's cone glowed and pulsed red on its pedestal.
“Greetings, competitors.” Even though the words were a knife to the room, her robotic voice was as cheerful as ever. “Unfortunately, despite repeated warnings, rules were broken once again last night.”
You shifted in your seat, the towel you’d thrown over your bikini clinging to your damp skin. Hiromi sat beside you, one arm stretched lazily over the back of the couch like he had all the time in the world, his expression unreadable.
Lana continued. “Due to multiple infractions involving sexual contact, penetration, and repeated disregard for my instructions, the group prize fund has suffered a total deduction of seventy-two thousand dollars.”
Some people's jaws dropped in the ensuing silence. Others cursed under their breath. A few pairs of eyes darted directly toward you and Hiromi like daggers, mouths curled in disgusted disbelief.
You raised your brows at them, calm as ever. You hadn’t wanted to win money anyway, not really. You weren’t here to play nice with strangers, to sit around pretending temptation wasn’t gnawing at every single one of them.
Lana wasn’t finished. "As a result, and in order to ensure the continued integrity of this retreat, I regret to inform you both–" the light shone brighter, focusing squarely in your direction "–that Hiromi," she said your name, "will be leaving the retreat immediately."
Gasps. A few scoffs. Someone muttered, “Good riddance.”
Hiromi chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, as if this was exactly what he'd been hoping for. He leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, “Finally.”
Your lips twitched into a smirk, the corner of your mouth tugging upward as you felt every stare burning holes into you. You didn’t even look back at the group. Allow them to fester. Allow them to count the money you had bled from their prize pot.
You stood, Hiromi rising with you, his hand casually settling at the small of your back as though to stake his claim one last time in front of everyone. The gesture was intimate and unapologetic, a silent message that he didn’t regret a single thing.
Walking out of the lounge, the murmurs and glares followed you, but their weight rolled right off. Hiromi pressed the villa door open, sunlight hitting the both of you with an almost blinding intensity. Freedom.
He let the door close behind, his hand still resting against your back as the sound of waves reached your ears, the villa fading further with every step.
“Guess we’re free now,” he murmured, his tone smooth, almost amused. “No rules. No eyes. Just us.”
You looked at him, the grin tugging on your cheeks finally breaking through. The truth was, you hadn’t cared about the cameras or the retreat from the start. But this–leaving with him, stepping out into whatever came next–felt better than any prize money ever could.
✧₊⁺
The knock rattled through your apartment like a warning, and when you opened the door, Hiromi was standing there. His hair was disheveled, his shirt clung to his chest with a sheen of sweat, and his eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at you, jaw tightening and chest heaving. Then he surged forward, crowding you against the wall, his mouth crashing onto yours like he’d been holding his breath for months.
You gasped against his lips, your hands digging into his shirt as he kissed you with raw desperation, teeth clashing, tongues tangled, messy, and breathless. His groan vibrated into your mouth when your legs wrapped around his waist, and he ground himself against you, the hard line of his cock pressing thickly between your thighs.
“Fuck–” he panted against your lips, biting your bottom one before dragging his mouth down to your throat. “Do you even know how long I’ve been waiting to touch you again?”
His teeth scraped your skin, biting so hard you moaned. His hands slid under your shirt, palms greedy on your breasts, squeezing as if he were starving for the weight of them in his grasp.
Your back arched, a whimper slipping past your lips when his thumb rolled across your nipple. “Hiromi–god, I missed you,” you gasped, your voice breaking as he ground his hips into you harder.
His response was a guttural groan, his face burying into your chest as if he could crawl inside you and never leave. “Say it again,” he demanded, sucking your nipple through the fabric of your shirt until it was soaked with his spit. “Tell me you missed me.”
“I missed you,” you moaned, tugging his hair as his mouth latched onto your nipple, tugging and sucking until your breath hitched. “I missed you so much.”
“Fuck,” he growled, lifting you and stumbling toward your bedroom. The door banged against the wall, and he dropped you onto the mattress, tearing your shorts down in one swift motion.
He didn't hesitate–he dropped to his knees, pushed your thighs apart, and groaned as he saw how wet you already were.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice ragged as his tongue licked a long, sloppy stripe through your folds. “So fucking wet for me already.”
You cried out, your hips bucking when his mouth clamped onto your clit, sucking hard as two fingers sunk into you, curling deep.
“Oh my god, Hiromi!” Your hands clawed at the sheets, your thighs trembling as his tongue moved over you, messy and relentless.
He groaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your whole body shake.
“You taste even better than I remember,” he moaned, pulling back just long enough to look up at you with his mouth and chin glistening. “I’ve been dreaming about this–about you crying on my tongue.”
“Don’t stop,” you gasped, your hand tangling into his dark hair. “Please, don’t stop.”
He smirked, muffled by your cunt as he dove back in, tongue swirling around your clit while his fingers pumped harder. The sounds spilling from your mouth had him rutting against the mattress, his cock straining against his sweats, dripping from the head just from eating you out.
When you came, it ripped through you violently, your thighs clamping around his head, his name breaking from your lips in sobs. “Hiromi!–fuck, oh god–”
He didn't stop. He continued licking and fingering you until you were crying from overstimulation and your body jerked with aftershocks. Finally, he tore himself away, face wet, lips swollen, and eyes dark and hungry.
“Still so fucking gorgeous when you fall apart,” he whispered before crawling over you, lining himself up. His cock pushed inside in one desperate thrust, stretching you until you gasped.
“Shit,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours, his hips snapping hard. “You feel so good–so fucking tight. I can’t–”
“Harder,” you begged, wrapping your legs around his waist, your nails dragging down his back. “Please, Hiromi, harder–”
His groan turned into a growl as he slammed into you, the sound of his cock fucking into your soaked pussy echoing in the room. His mouth latched back onto your tits, sucking and groaning, his words muffled against your skin.
“Been dying for this… wanted your tits in my mouth every night… "I couldn't stop thinking about you screaming my name."
“Shit–I’m close,” you moaned, head falling back as his hips hammered into you. “Don’t stop–please don’t stop.”
He kissed you hard, swallowing your cries as he thrust faster, his hips jerking as his orgasm tore through him.
“Fuck–fuck, I’m cumming–” His groan was loud and untamed, his cock pulsating deep as he gushed inside you. He didn’t stop though–his hips kept moving, fucking his cum deeper while his hand worked your clit until you screamed, another orgasm ripping through you.
Both of you collapsed, sweaty and panting, your bodies tangled as he kissed your throat and whispered against your skin. “Care if I stay here for a while?”
By morning, the tabloids had already plastered their headlines everywhere:
And the two of you? You couldn’t care less.
“Too Hot to Handle’s Chaotic Couple Back Together–And Hotter Than Ever.”
“From Breaking Rules to Breaking Beds: Hiromi and His Girl Can’t Keep Their Hands Off Each Other.”
“Months After Elimination, The Show’s Wildest Pair Still Prove Lust Beats Prize Money.”
All rights reserved to @nimueshell. Do not plagiarize my work.
A/N: 1k follower special :) ty all for supporting me, leaving thoughtful comments, and eating this shit up 🫶
i lost my job I just got lmfao. i'm scraping by & can't afford rent. but! at least I can write. also pls do not write any weird comments bc i will delete them/block u (for ex: anything referring to shipping JJK minors with adults, U KNOW WHO U ARE).
Summary: You thought isolation kept you safe, but he makes safety feel like a curse. Toji tangles himself in your world, your body, until you can’t breathe without him.
Substance: MDNI, tangled-ish au, rapunzel!f!reader, thief!toji, pet crow, slow-burn, violence, angst, blood, oral (reader!receiving), boat hj, fingering, hair pulling, loss of innocence, naive reader, rough sex, overstimulation, possessive toji, power imbalance, touch-starved reader, begging, toji’s got a BIG cøck,messy kisses, creampie, push and pull dynamic, porn with a plot, multiple positions, dirty talk, pinning, overstimulation, begging, rough but playful sex, semi-death, hair bondage, reader corruption, softening toji, happy ending.
W/C: 15.9k
a/n: I forgot how the movie went, I went based off memory lmfao, i changed...a few things. ya, ya'll have a pet crow named geto & not a lizard, sorry. also pls check out my other works, like, follow, reblog for more writing please.
The tower was an eyesore and a miracle all at once. It rose out of the treeline like some long-forgotten tooth, jagged and white against the green canopy. Moss clung to its base like it was trying to drag the thing back into the dirt, but the stones were stubborn, sharp-edged even under decades of weather. Ivy climbed the length of it, swallowing bricks whole, but the crown of the tower still jutted clean into the sky, capped with a roof of dark slate.
Whoever built it hadn’t wanted it hidden. They wanted it impossible to miss, standing alone in the middle of a clearing where the forest broke open into a ring of ferns and wildflowers. It looked less like a home and more like a prison some rich bastard decided to dress up pretty.
Toji stood at the edge of the clearing, scowling at it the way a wolf might scowl at a fence. His back ached from running, his knuckles were still sore from the fight, and his pack felt too damn light without the payout he’d been chasing.
He could already hear the hounds on his trail in his head–maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. Always eventually. He needed somewhere high, hidden, and hard to reach. And there it was. Some fairytale nightmare tower waiting to be looted.
“Hell of a joke,” he muttered, rubbing at his jaw as he stepped into the open. Grass crunched under his boots, dew soaking his ankles. He gave the tower a once-over, measuring it the way he’d measure an opponent: height, weak points, lines he could use. No door at the bottom.
Just smooth stone wrapped in vines, no doubt slick as oil if the rain came down. Windows near the top–narrow, but big enough if he shoved his way through. He adjusted the strap of his sword on his back and grunted. “Great. Love it. Tall, shiny death trap. Exactly what I needed.”
Still, his hands itched. Climbing wasn’t new. He’d done worse for less. The idea of sleeping with dirt in his hair tonight made his bones want to crack. A roof, even one on a damn cursed tower, sounded worth the trouble.
Toji walked a slow circle around the base, boots sinking into damp moss as he muttered under his breath.
“No door. No ladder. Real friendly architecture. Probably a wizard’s dick-measuring contest.” His fingers found a groove in the stone, nails scraping over the rough edge. He gripped it, tested the hold, then spat into the grass. “Yeah, sure. Why not break my neck tonight. Sounds fun.”
He slung his pack over tighter, spat again for luck, and dug in. His boots caught on the vines first, and the stone bit into his palms. He hauled himself up with a grunt, muscles straining as the tower wall pressed close to his chest. The ivy shifted under him, flaking off bark and dust, but he kept moving.
One hand over the other, gritting his teeth as his shoulders burned. “If I wanted a workout, I’d have charged more,” he grumbled through clenched teeth, dragging himself higher, “not climbed Rapunzel’s damn chimney.”
The higher he got, the more the forest opened beneath him, the treetops spreading in every direction. He could see the faint silver vein of a river glinting in the distance, the moon catching on its back. The wind shifted, cool and sharp, carrying the smell of pine and damp earth.
Toji shoved his face against the stone for a second, muttering, “Nice view, shame about the fucking ladder,” before forcing himself up another few feet. His thighs ached, his forearms screamed, but the window was getting closer. Dark. Open just enough.
“Better be empty,” he growled under his breath, fingers clawing for the sill. “Better be nothing but dust and spiders. If it’s another pissed-off noble with a crossbow, I swear to god–” He pulled himself up, shoulders bunched, and grunted as he swung one leg over the edge. His boots scraped against the stone, and for a heartbeat he hung there, halfway in, half out, the forest yawning below him.
“I’ll kill him and take his bed.”
And with that, Toji shoved himself inside.
The landing was harder than he expected. Toji’s boots scraped against stone as he heaved himself through the narrow window, rolling one broad shoulder and muttering curses until he finally got both legs inside.
He straightened slowly, chest heaving, arms burning from the climb. A roof over his head–finally. He dusted his palms on his thighs, the faint sting of scraped skin reminding him how high he’d dragged himself.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn’t musty like he expected, not the rotting dampness of some forgotten hideout. It smelled… lived in.
Candle wax burned low, faint herbs dried in bunches somewhere overhead, and something sharper lingered beneath–iron, maybe, or dusted blood. His gaze swept the room in a single, instinctive pass.
A lantern painted black and gold sat in the corner, surrounded by a halo of oddities: cracked skulls of small animals stacked carefully in rows, a scattering of teeth in a bowl, and dark oil paintings hung unevenly along the walls.
He couldn’t make sense of half of them, just shapes at first, but when he leaned closer, one canvas revealed a woman bent at unnatural angles, her face smeared into streaks of black. Another showed a forest on fire under a moonless sky.
He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Creepy. Great. Should’ve known.” His voice was low, more for himself than anyone else, though the quiet of the tower seemed to swallow it whole.
On the floor, strands of hair trailed in careless loops. They snaked across rugs and wood like threads of spun silk, catching light in strange ways. He squatted, rubbing one between his rough fingers. Not rope. Not yarn. Hair. Real hair, long enough to coil around the chair leg three times over.
He frowned, lip curling as he muttered, “What kind of freak…” before standing again, rubbing the back of his neck.
A sudden rush of wings cut through the air. Toji jerked instinctively, hand snapping to the hilt of his sword, body low and ready. A crow shot down from the rafters with a ragged caw, talons flashing before it landed on the painted lantern. Its head cocked, black eyes unblinking as it studied him. Toji growled, swinging his arm to shoo it off, but the damn thing didn’t move.
“Yeah, alright,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re the welcoming committee.”
The crow cawed again–loud, sharp–and in that moment something heavy smashed into the crown of his skull. Pain shot white-hot through his vision. Toji’s breath punched out of him in a grunt, his knees buckled, and the world turned dark before he could catch himself.
When the fog started to lift, it came in fits and starts–dull throb at the back of his skull, the faint scent of candle wax, and the uncomfortable bite of rope digging into his wrists.
Only when his vision cleared did he realize it wasn’t rope at all. His arms were lashed down, chest pressed back into a wooden chair, strands of hair binding him tighter than leather ever could.
The sound of humming drifted across the tower chamber. He turned his head with effort, jaw clenching against the ache, and saw you.
You stood before a warped mirror, tilting your head this way and that, a crown of jeweled silver perched on your hair. The jewels caught the firelight, scattering it over your face in glints of red and blue. Your lips moved faintly as you spoke to yourself, eyes fixed on your reflection, as though testing the weight of the crown with your words.
The dress you wore was dark gray, heavy at the hem but clinging to your curves, the fabric hugging the line of your waist and falling snug over your hips. Thin sleeves slipped just off your shoulders, exposing the sharp angle of your collarbone, and every move you made seemed to drag the fabric tighter over your breasts.
The lantern’s light flickered over you, darkening and revealing in alternating turns, leaving Toji staring longer than he should.
His mouth tugged in something close to a grin. Of course. Locked in a tower, draped in jewels, prancing around in front of a mirror. The absurdity was almost better than the pain in his skull. His gaze lingered–first on the crown, then inevitably lower–until his throat rumbled with the need to speak.
He cleared his throat deliberately. The sound was rough, echoing in the quiet chamber.
You jumped like a startled deer, spinning fast enough that the crown slid askew. The frying pan you’d left on a nearby stool was back in your hands in an instant, raised in front of you like a weapon as you glared at him.
“Who are you?” Your voice was tight, eyes narrowed.
Toji leaned back against the chair as much as the bindings allowed, head tipping lazily to the side. His grin widened, slow and deliberate, until it turned into something he probably thought was charming. A smolder, if one could call it that–cheek angled, eyes half-lidded, lips crooked into a soft, practiced curve.
You blinked once. Then again. Your brow furrowed, nose wrinkling. “…What are you doing with your face?”
The smirk cracked, and a low chuckle spilled from him. “That’s my look, sweetheart. Women usually like it.”
“Looks like you’re in pain.” You didn’t lower the pan.
Toji laughed again, short and rough, before letting his head fall back against the chair. “Name’s Toji,” he said finally, letting his grin relax into something sharper. His eyes never left yours.
You tilted your chin higher, crown glinting as you studied him from across the room. Your grip on the pan tightened.
“I know this place,” Toji went on, voice a drawl. “Infamous tower. Belongs to a girl named Rapunzel.” He let the name hang there, mocking.
Your brow arched. “That’s not my name.”
Toji’s grin sharpened, eyes glinting even through the ache in his skull. Bound to a chair, hair digging into his wrists, a crow glaring from the lantern, and you standing there with firelight dancing on the jeweled crown.
For the first time that night, the tower didn’t feel like a prison. It felt like the start of trouble.
Your grip on the pan didn’t loosen, but your eyes wandered. It wasn’t your fault. He made it impossible not to. Even tied to a chair with his wrists tangled in your hair, he carried himself like someone who wasn’t used to being contained. His shoulders filled out the chair’s frame, broad and heavy, stretching the fabric of the dark shirt that clung to him.
The top buttons were undone, exposing the sharp cut of his collarbone and the faint trail of muscle running down his chest. The shirt itself looked travel-worn, with sleeves rolled up carelessly to his forearms and tucked into black trousers that hugged his thighs.
A leather belt cinched around his waist, his sword conspicuously missing from its sheath–now leaning against the wall where you’d stashed it. His hair was a mess, strands falling across his forehead, but his face was maddeningly calm, mouth curved into that smug, practiced grin.
His eyes–green and sharp under the flicker of the lantern–shifted deliberately. He noticed. The way your gaze lingered too long, the way you blinked hard like you could burn the image out of your head. His grin widened.
“See something you like, princess?” His voice was low, edged with amusement. He rolled his shoulders against the chair’s back like he wasn’t bound at all. The strands of hair pulled tighter against his wrists, but he didn’t flinch.
He almost seemed to enjoy testing them. “Careful. Staring that long makes a man think you want something.”
Your lips pressed together, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you. You adjusted the pan in your hands, tilting it just enough to look dangerous again. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, princess?” His teeth flashed in a grin. “Or should I try sunshine instead?”
You huffed, tilting your chin up. “You’re in no place to be giving me names. And don’t forget–you’re the one tied up.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Mm. Tied up by you, no less. Maybe I should be worried.”
“I’m keeping your weapon.” You gestured toward the corner where his sword leaned against the wall. “And you’re going to take me outside. Past the forest. To see the lights.”
His brows flicked up. “Lights?”
You shifted your grip on the pan, trying to steady your voice. “The lanterns. They release them every year in the kingdom. I’ve seen them from here. I want to see them up close.”
Toji chuckled, low and rough. “That’s it? All this,” he tugged faintly at the hair binding his wrists, “for some candle party in the sky?”
“It’s not a party,” you snapped, though your voice softened as you went on. “It’s… it’s everything. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to see.”
For the first time, his grin faltered. Not much, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But then he leaned forward as far as the chair allowed, his voice a teasing drawl again. “And what makes you think I’ll just agree to that?”
You stepped closer, slowly, until your knees brushed the chair. His eyes followed you, a predator’s patience wrapped in something sly. Without a second thought, you shifted onto his lap, straddling him with your knees against the chair’s arms. You raised the pan under his chin, the edge pressing faintly against the line of his jaw.
His body went still. Then his grin returned, sharper than before.
“You got guts, princess,” he murmured, voice low enough to stir heat against your cheek. His hands twitched against the hair, testing. “Not sure you realize what you’re doing, though.”
Your heart hammered, but you held steady, face close to his. “You’ll take me to see them. Or I’ll keep your...uh...bejewled hair band until you rot in this tower.”
He let out a short laugh, head tipping back against the chair. “Bejewled...hair band? Damn. Didn’t think I’d find a woman up here, let alone one bold enough to sit on my lap.” His grin twisted. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”
You frowned, confused, pressing the pan harder. “What are you–”
His smirk deepened. “You tied me up easy enough. Bet you’d be even better at using that hair in bed.”
The words hit like a spark. Your face burned, ears hot, and lips parted without sound at first. Then, clumsily, you muttered, “You mean like… those books? The ones–the smut novels?”
His laugh rolled out low and wicked. “So you’ve read ‘em.”
“I didn’t say that!” you blurted, heat flaring in your cheeks. The crow swooped from its perch at that moment, cawing sharply as if to punctuate your embarrassment.
Toji grinned wider, leaning as close as the bindings let him. “You’re red as a cherry, sunshine. Cute.”
You scrambled back, rising from his lap with the pan still tight in your grip. The crow, Geto, landed on your shoulder, wings fluttering as it settled, glaring at him like it shared your fluster.
“Fine,” you snapped, trying to regain ground. “You’ll take me. To the lanterns. That’s the deal.”
Toji shifted in the chair, muscles bunching under the dark fabric as he smirked up at you.
“Guess I don’t have much of a choice.” He tugged at the strands binding him, eyes flicking from the crown still crooked on your head back down to the curves your dress didn’t bother to hide. His grin softened into something dangerous and promising.
“But let’s be clear, princess. The minute I’m out of this chair, you’re the one tied to me.”
The chair creaked when you finally stepped behind him, tugging on the strands binding his wrists. The knots loosened with effort, but you didn’t let him free completely–not yet. Instead, you gathered the hair that was coiled around him, twisting it into thick lengths and looping it around his wrist like a leash.
The moment he realized what you were doing, Toji’s head tipped back, lips curling in that cocky, infuriating grin. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
You tugged harder, the hair biting into his skin as you stepped toward the window. “If I let you walk free, you’d run.”
“You’re not wrong,” he said lazily, though the grin didn’t fade. “But dragging me out like a dog on a leash? That’s cold, princess. Almost makes me like you.”
The word “like” made your face heat, though you tried to keep your expression flat as you approached the open window. Outside, the world stretched wide–an ocean of trees shifting under a wind you’d never felt so close. The air smelled different here, raw and alive, full of earth and green and something sharp you couldn’t name.
You stepped closer to the ledge, and your stomach dropped. The ground was so far below, dizzying in its distance. You gripped the sill tight with your free hand, gulping hard, the weight of the world pressing heavy in your chest.
Behind you, Toji’s laugh was quiet, low in his throat. “Don’t tell me you’ve never actually been outside.”
You didn’t answer. The crow beat you to it. With a rough caw, it launched from the lantern where it perched, wings flashing in the firelight as it swooped past your head. It flew straight out the window, circling back once before hovering in the air, its sharp cries echoing back at you. A demand. A push.
You nodded quickly, as if the crow’s call alone gave you courage. Gathering the strands into both hands, you looped them over the wooden support that jutted out from the tower wall just above the window–a weathered beam once meant for pulleys or baskets. The hair caught and held, thick enough to bear the weight. Your palms slickened with sweat as you tested it with a hard tug.
“Wait,” Toji said suddenly, straightening in the chair. His grin slipped, his eyes flicking to the drop. “You’re not–”
But you were. With one sharp inhale, you leapt forward, dragging him with you.
The world spun. The air rushed cold against your cheeks, whipping your hair and skirts around you. Toji cursed, his deep voice breaking into something almost like panic as he shouted over the roar of wind.
For one terrifying heartbeat, your stomach seemed to drop through you, the weight of the fall pulling you both toward the earth. You screamed, high and sharp, and to your surprise, his voice joined yours–low, raw, and unguarded–as you both fell together.
Then the hair went taut. The beam groaned, the swing caught, and momentum carried you in a wide arc. Toji’s body slammed against yours as gravity tugged, his warmth and weight pressing you closer than you’d ever been to another person. His arm jerked instinctively around your waist, holding you flush to him, a reflex you were too panicked to notice.
The swing slowed at last until your boots scraped the grass. Then, with a sharp snap, the hair slipped free of the beam, and the two of you tumbled onto the clearing below.
The grass was cool against your back, the air different here–bright, almost blinding compared to the filtered glow inside the tower. You sucked in deep breaths, staring at the sky. It wasn’t the same pale disc you’d seen from your window–it was vast, endless, with clouds drifting slow and heavy across its blue stretch. You rolled in the grass, the blades tickling your cheeks and arms, laughter bubbling from your throat, unrestrained and dizzy.
The crow swooped low, wings slicing through the sunlight as it cawed triumphantly, settling onto a branch above.
Toji, meanwhile, shoved himself up fast, hair falling loose from his wrists. He stumbled once before planting his boots solidly into the dirt, muscles tense. His chest heaved, shirt clinging to his skin from the sweat of the climb, the swing, and the sheer panic that flickered in his eyes before he masked it again. His gaze cut to the tree line, sharp, calculating. A man planning escape.
He moved. Quickly and deliberately, turning on his heel to bolt toward the cover of the woods.
The crow saw it before you did. With a furious cry, it launched from its branch, black wings flashing as it barreled into him. Its talons raked across his shoulder, its beak snapping dangerously close to his ear.
Toji snarled, ducking instinctively, swiping at the air with one hand. “Damned bird!”
The crow wheeled back, readying another dive.
You laughed harder, still rolling in the grass. The world spun above you, every sound sharper, every smell more vivid–the mossy damp earth, the wildflowers nodding in the breeze, the sheer noise of life buzzing all around. You dug your fingers into the dirt, let the sun soak your skin, and let the crow’s furious caws and Toji’s shouted curses weave together into music.
For the first time in your life, the tower was behind you, and the outside world was yours.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The forest stretched endlessly in all directions, the path narrowing into a thin line of dirt flanked by roots and rocks. Your skirts dragged through damp ferns, snagging now and then on stray brambles, but you didn’t care. The woods were alive in a way your tower never had been–birds fluttering overhead, squirrels darting through the underbrush, the air thick with pine and the musk of earth.
Every time you looked up, another wonder caught your eye: mushrooms blooming in shades of red and white, shafts of golden light piercing the canopy, and a deer drinking from a stream so still it looked like glass.
You gasped and twirled like a child, bare feet pressing into the loamy ground, toes cold with dew. “It’s so–so big,” you whispered, eyes wide.
Behind you, Toji groaned. His hands were shoved into his pockets, his dark shirt hanging open at the chest, exposing the sweat-slick muscles beneath. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it is!” You gestured wildly at everything around you–the trees, the flowers, the sky. "Are you aware that this is the first time I've seen a pinecone? Or smelled rain-soaked moss? Or–”
He snorted, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, sunshine, congratulations. The world’s damp and dirty. You’ll be sick of it in a day.”
But when you looked back, he was watching you, and for a brief moment, you thought his lips twitched with something other than mockery.
By the time night fell, your legs ached, and Toji led you off the trail to a small clearing. He made camp with a practiced ease, striking flint and piling sticks until a fire sparked to life. You sat close to the flames, warming your hands, your hair coiled beside you like a second blanket.
Toji leaned against a fallen log, long legs stretched out, a knife glinting in his hand as he sharpened it lazily. The crow perched on a branch above, feathers black as tar, as he watched the two of you.
You tilted your head back, staring at the sky. Stars spilled across it in streaks of silver, more than you had ever counted from your tower window. “They’re beautiful,” you murmured.
“Mm,” Toji grunted, eyes on his blade. “Burning rocks. Real romantic.”
You rolled your eyes, hugging your knees. “You’re impossible.”
The next day, he guided you further along the path until the trees broke, revealing a cluster of crooked buildings huddled at the edge of a river. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the sound of rowdy voices spilled into the dusk.
The tavern loomed at the center, its sign swinging heavily from rusted chains. A massive carving of a gnarled finger jutted from it, knuckle swollen, nail long and black, etched with curses and strange symbols. The wood around it was weathered, claw marks gouging the frame. You froze, staring at it with wide eyes.
“What is that?” you whispered.
“The Cursed Tavern,” Toji said simply, striding forward without hesitation. “Perfect place to lay low.”
You hesitated, clutching the strap of your dress. “It doesn’t look… safe.”
His grin was wolfish. “Don’t worry, princess. It’ll be fine.”
But the moment he pushed open the heavy doors, the world shifted. The tavern was dark, lit by guttering candles dripping wax onto warped tables. Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging your eyes, and the stench of sweat, alcohol, and blood clung to every corner. Men and women hunched over their drinks, their garments dark and heavy, faces half-hidden in shadows. At the sight of Toji, a murmur rippled through the room, and steel hissed from scabbards.
Dozens of swords rose in unison, their tips glinting in the firelight as they leveled toward him.
Toji froze mid-step, his grin faltering as his hands lifted slowly in mock surrender. “…Okay. Maybe not fine.”
A rough laugh broke the silence.
From the back of the tavern, a man stood. His hair was a tangled mess, his chest bare beneath an unfastened vest, scars crossing his skin. His voice rasped as he leaned over the bar, pointing a finger at Toji. “Well, well. If it isn’t Toji Fushiguro. The bastard is worth more gold than this whole tavern combined.”
Toji’s jaw tightened. Sweat beaded at his temple, though his smirk returned quickly enough. “Shiu Kong,” he muttered. “Figures you’d be here.”
“Figures you’d be stupid enough to show your face.” Shiu’s grin was sharp as he snapped his fingers. Half the tavern lurched to their feet, chairs scraping back, weapons raised.
Before you could even breathe, chaos erupted.
The first blade swung down, and Toji dodged with a curse, grabbing your wrist and shoving you behind him. He ducked under a swipe, his fist crashing into the nearest man’s jaw, sending blood spraying.
Someone else lunged at his back, and Toji spun, seizing a length of your hair and yanking you forward. You stumbled, but before you could cry out, he looped the hair around his attacker’s arm, jerking hard until the man crashed into the floorboards with a sickening crack.
“Toji!” you gasped, clutching the pan you’d hidden in your skirts.
He smirked at you, wild, with blood on his cheek. “Not bad rope, sunshine.”
The brawl swallowed the room whole. Tankards shattered, tables overturned, and men grunted and screamed as fists and blades tore into each other. Blood smeared the floor, slick and hot, and the crow screeched from the rafters, wings beating the smoke-choked air.
Toji was a blur of movement–grabbing, punching, and twisting bodies until they fell limp at his feet. Once, he swung your hair like a whip, lashing it around a man's throat to choke him before throwing him against a wall.
You froze in the middle of it all, pan clutched tight, heart hammering.
Then, in a rush of reckless courage, you scrambled up onto one of the overturned tables. The wood rocked under your weight, but you lifted the pan high above your head.
“STOP!” you shouted, your voice cutting sharp over the clamor.
The fighting slowed. Dozens of heads turned, bloodied and bruised, eyes narrowing at you. You swallowed hard but forced your chin up, your crown still crooked on your head. “He’s with me!” you cried, voice trembling but strong. “Toji is mine!”
The words rang out louder than you intended, heavy and certain. The tavern went still.
Toji froze mid-swing, a stunned look flickering across his face. The room of killers stared at you, silence settling like dust after a storm. It sounded romantic–too romantic. And once it was spoken, there was no taking it back. You stood tall anyway, frying pan gleaming in the smoke and blood, daring anyone to argue.
The silence that followed your declaration stretched long and uncomfortable, broken only by the crackle of the tavern’s hearth and the faint drip of spilled ale onto the floorboards. Then, from behind the bar, a woman’s voice rang out, syrupy sweet.
“Well, isn’t that just precious,” she cooed, her tone mocking. She leaned against the counter, one hand propping up her chin, cleavage spilling over her corset as she smirked at you. “The little lady claiming her brute.”
Laughter rippled through the bloodied crowd. It wasn’t kind laughter–it was sharp, edged with disbelief and menace. Somewhere in the back, a piano began to play, notes jangling out of tune as one man slurred into song, his voice too high, too eager to ride the moment into farce.
The song ended in a spray of blood. Someone swung a blade in one clean stroke, and the man’s head toppled across the keys. The piano gave a discordant scream before going silent. The body collapsed forward, blood pooling over ivory.
You blinked, the sight slamming into your stomach like a fist. The room tilted, the smoke, the iron stench, the painted lanterns flickering along the walls–all of it spinning. Your knees buckled, and you swayed.
Toji's arm wrapped around your waist before you could fall to the ground, dragging you against him with such ease that it was infuriating. His chest was hot, sweat and blood dampening his shirt.
He leaned close, his voice low against your temple. “Don’t faint on me now, sunshine. You wanted the outside world? This is it.”
You clutched at his shirt, gulping hard, forcing yourself upright again. When your eyes opened, the crowd was staring at you, dozens of faces lit by firelight and suspicion.
“Are you turning him in?” Someone growled from the corner, voice sharp.
“Toji’s worth more than all our heads combined,” another snapped. “If she’s smart, she’ll sell him.”
Your chest heaved, but your chin lifted. “No,” you said, steadier than you expected. “I’m not turning him in. I’m going to see the lanterns.”
The room buzzed with disbelief.
A sleazebag with greasy hair and rotted teeth shoved his way forward, grinning wide.
“Lanterns? That’s rich. A girl like you, wandering with a cutthroat like him, just for some floating candles? You’ll be dead before you get near the kingdom walls.”
Murmurs rose. Some men laughed, others spat, and a few leaned in with offers too foul to repeat. Through it all, Toji stood beside you, silent, hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.
Then the doors crashed open.
“Royal Guard!” a voice thundered.
The tavern erupted. Armor clattered as soldiers poured in, swords raised, torches hissing as they cut through the smoke. Patrons dove for weapons, tables overturned, and bottles shattered. Toji cursed under his breath, seizing your wrist in one brutal grip. “Move!”
He dragged you through the chaos, ducking under a swing of steel, kicking a stool into another man’s shins. The crow swooped low, screeching as it clawed at a soldier’s face, blood streaking across the man’s cheek as he screamed.
Toji’s hand found a trapdoor hidden beneath an overturned rug. He yanked it open with a grunt, shoving you down the ladder first. “Go!”
You tumbled into darkness, your skirts snagging on the rungs until you hit the damp stone floor. Toji landed behind you with a heavy thud, slamming the trapdoor shut above just as steel clanged against it.
The tunnel was narrow, walls slick with moisture, the air thick and stale. Water dripped from above, pooling around your ankles. Toji grabbed your hand again, dragging you forward through the twisting passage.
Shouts echoed behind you, boots pounding. You ran faster, the tunnel sloping downward until the air grew colder, wetter. Then the roar began–faint at first, then deafening. The sound of rushing water.
The tunnel opened suddenly into a cavern, its walls glistening with moss, the river below flooding fast and merciless. You froze at the edge, the current surging through the cave mouth, blocking any chance of escape.
“We’re trapped!” You cried, chest heaving. The water surged higher, licking at your calves, cold and violent. Panic clawed up your throat.
Toji only planted his boots wide, expression unreadable. He wasn’t panicking. No, not even now.
The water climbed, rushing against your thighs, pulling so hard that your knees buckled. You clutched Toji's arm, fear choking you.
Then something happened.
Your hair started to light up.
The glow began faintly, as a shimmer along the strands, before spreading out in waves of golden light that painted the cavern walls. The river shimmered with it, transforming the rushing black water into a flood of fire. The glow pulsed with your heartbeat, illuminating a crack in the rock wall just ahead, revealing a narrow passage that was previously invisible.
Toji stared, eyes wide, water soaking his chest as he caught your gaze. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but instead, he grinned faintly. “Guess you’re full of surprises.”
You had no time to respond. The water surged higher, sweeping you both off your feet. Toji’s arm wrapped tight around your waist as the current dragged you under. You screamed, the sound swallowed by rushing water, your hair blazing around you like a halo as the current funneled you through the narrow crack.
The two of you shot out into open air, water exploding around you before gravity seized again. You crashed into the river below, the world spinning, lungs burning.
When you broke the surface, gasping, the night sky stretched above, stars wide and endless. The current carried you both downriver, your hair still faintly glowing in the dark. Toji held you tight against him, chest rising and falling steadily even as the river roared.
You coughed, shoving wet hair from your face. He chuckled low in your ear, unshaken.
"Do you still think this was a good idea, Princess?"
And with the river sweeping you onward into the unknown, you almost laughed.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The fire crackled weakly in the clearing that night, its glow painting the trees in orange and gold. The smoke curled into the canopy and vanished into the stars, leaving the air cool enough that you pulled your damp skirts tighter around your legs. Your hair pooled around you like a second blanket, still heavy with river water, catching burrs and twigs from the forest floor.
Toji sat cross-legged across from you, sharpening his knife with short, efficient strokes. His shirt hung loose at the chest, the collar gaping open, and his skin was marked with the shallow slice across his palm from earlier. He noticed you struggling to tug a stubborn burr from your hair and sighed, pushing to his feet.
“Hold still,” he muttered, crouching behind you. His calloused fingers worked surprisingly carefully, plucking debris from the strands, brushing through snarls without yanking. Every so often his knuckles brushed the back of your neck, warm and rough, making your breath catch.
“I can do it myself,” you murmured.
“You’d scalp yourself by morning,” he said flatly, tossing another burr into the flames.
When his hands stilled, you turned and caught sight of the cut in his palm again, raw and ugly. Without a word, you gathered a strand of hair in your fingers, letting it shimmer with the faint glow that had always come so naturally. You wrapped it around his hand, watching as the light soaked into the wound until the skin knit closed.
He flexed his hand slowly, brows drawn low. “You’ve got tricks,” he said finally, voice low.
“It’s not a trick,” you whispered. “It’s mine.”
He didn’t press. Not with words. Instead, when you finally lay down near the fire, he dropped heavily beside you. His arm folded across your waist, his hand resting firmly on your hip. “For warmth,” he said simply, his tone gruff.
Your whole body went tense, your face burning as his chest pressed flush against your back. His breath stirred the hair at your neck, and his grip tightened once, pulling you closer.
But the warmth he sought wasn’t the only thing on his mind. His jaw clenched as he tried to will away the images crowding in: your damp dress clinging to your thighs, the sheer patches where water had made the fabric translucent, and the way your breasts had pressed against him in the river. His hand twitched against your hip, and he shut his eyes hard, biting back a sound that threatened to escape.
Above, the crow swooped low with a sharp caw, wings rattling the branches. Toji’s glare shot upward.
“Mind your damn business,” he growled. The bird cawed louder, as if mocking, and you stirred sleepily, curling closer into his chest. His breath stuttered once before he muttered a curse under his breath and stilled.
The night grew darker, the fire dying low until shadows stretched long over the clearing. You weren’t fully asleep when you heard it: a voice threading through the dark, familiar, and cruel.
“My poor girl.”
Your head jerked up. Across the fire, she stood. Your mother. Draped in dark silks that seemed to ripple though no wind stirred, her face was pale and sharp, eyes glinting cold.
“Out here with him?” she hissed, voice dripping with venom. "Do you know what he is? A murderer. A thief. He’ll bleed you dry and leave you in the dirt.”
You shook your head quickly, whispering, “You’re lying.”
Her smile was brittle and cruel. “Lying? Look at him. Already touching and twisting you. He’ll promise you freedom, and when you’ve given him everything–your hair, your power, your body–he’ll vanish.” She stepped closer, firelight spilling over the deep lines in her face. “You think he cares? He’s laughing at you. At your childish wonder. At your obsession with lanterns.”
Your lips trembled, your chest tight. “He’s not like that.”
Her voice sharpened, a lash. “He is exactly like that. You are nothing without me. Do you hear me? Nothing. You will come crawling back from whence you came...darling mother knows best.”
Tears burned hot in your eyes, but you clenched your fists. “You’re wrong.”
Her figure rippled, shadows twisting, before dissolving into the dark. The clearing was silent once more, save the faint crackle of the fire.
Toji stirred beside you, eyes half-open. “What the hell are you doing awake?”
“Nothing,” you whispered, curling back down beside him.
He didn’t push. He only pulled you tighter, his hand firm on your hip until the tremor in your body eased enough for sleep.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Morning came gray and wet, dew soaking the grass until your skirts clung heavy again. Toji kicked dirt over the last of the embers, his satchel slung across one broad shoulder. You caught the glint of something inside as the flap shifted–your jeweled crown, hidden neatly between his gear, like he’d tucked it there without telling you.
You didn’t comment.
The road was quiet, sun breaking slowly through the canopy as the two of you walked. You were still humming softly to yourself when the forest suddenly shook with a crash.
A white stallion burst through the trees, mane flying, eyes blazing blue. Its hooves struck the dirt like thunder as it landed squarely in the path, muscles bunching as it lowered its head to glare at Toji.
He froze, hand flying to his sword. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
The horse lunged. Toji dodged barely, its teeth snapping dangerously close to his arm. He stumbled back, swore, and rolled to his feet as the stallion wheeled around, blocking his path again.
“Damn demon horse!” Toji spat, shoving his sleeves up.
The stallion’s eyes flicked to you, and its demeanor shifted instantly. You stepped forward, one hand outstretched, your voice calm. “Easy…”
Its breath huffed hot against your palm, and you let your hand smooth over its muzzle. The leather strap around its neck shifted with the movement, and you leaned close to read the etched letters: GOJO.
“Gojo,” you whispered. The name fit strangely easily on your tongue.
At the sound, the stallion nudged into your shoulder, gentle and protective.
“Great,” Toji muttered, scowling. “First the crow, now the horse. What’s next, sunshine? You gonna charm a bear?”
Gojo stomped a hoof and, with deliberate precision, nosed at the saddlebag on his flank. A parchment slipped free, flopping to the ground. You bent to pick it up, smoothing it open–
A wanted poster.
The face inked onto it was unmistakable, though rough. The jaw was sharp, the hair long, and the scar cut crooked across the mouth.
Your eyes widened.
“That’s not me,” Toji said immediately, yanking it from your hands. He stared at the sketch, jaw tightening. “Scar’s on the wrong side. Longer, too. They never get the scar right.”
“So it is you,” you said softly.
He grumbled, crumpling the parchment into his satchel. “Close enough.”
Gojo’s ears flicked back, his eyes never leaving Toji.
You reached into your small bag, pulling free the last of the apples you’d tucked away. Holding it out, you offered it gently. The horse took it from your hand, crunching loudly, then pressed his nose to your cheek.
“See?” you whispered, stroking his mane. “He’s not so bad.”
Toji groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Perfect. You’ve made friends with the horse.”
Gojo huffed through his nose, the sound almost smug. His eyes cut back to Toji, sharp and warning, like he would never forget who he was dealing with.
So the four of you set off toward the kingdom: you bright-eyed, petting Gojo’s mane as he walked faithfully beside you; Toji cursing under his breath, his satchel heavy with both blade and crown; and the crow circling high above, feathers catching the sun. And though the road stretched long, you could feel the pull of lantern light waiting at the end.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The village was alive long before the sun dipped into its final glow. Lanterns hung from ropes strung across narrow streets, paper painted in bright reds, golds, and blues. Music thrummed from the square at the center, a blend of fiddles and drums, fast enough that the crowd swayed with it. Children darted between legs, women balanced trays of roasted meat, men shouted for ale, and the scent of sweet spice clung to the air.
Toji lingered at the edge, his broad frame shadowed beneath an overhang, watching you.
You had never seen color like this. Your eyes shone with every detail–the cloth banners fluttering, the painted masks, and the sparkle of lantern light catching against jewels. You moved with a restless awe, brushing against everything, touching flowers laid out on a merchant’s cart, and gasping when sparks burst from firecrackers overhead. Laughter slipped from you, raw and untrained, and you twirled barefoot on the stones, your skirts sweeping with the motion.
Toji half-smiled despite himself, a grunt low in his throat. The way you looked, flushed with excitement, wide-eyed like the world was finally spilling itself open for you–it almost made him forget how dangerous it all was. Almost.
And then came the hair.
A group of girls caught you near the fountain, giggling as they beckoned you closer. You let them sit you down, your hair spilling over their laps as nimble fingers worked through the strands. They braided it with practiced ease, weaving small flowers into the loops, petals catching the glow of lanterns until you looked almost otherworldly.
Toji’s jaw clenched. His eyes dragged down your figure, the soft swell of your breasts where the dress clung, the curve of your waist, and the bare skin flashing at your ankles when you spun. He shifted against the post, one hand dragging across his thigh, fixing the tension already straining his pants.
Fuck.
He gritted his teeth, trying to pull his gaze away, but his mind betrayed him. The image was too sharp: your legs parted beneath him, your hair tangled in his fists, flowers falling loose with every thrust. He could hear it–your breathy cries, the desperate pleas, and the sound of his name on your lips. His groan was quiet but real, and he pressed his palm hard against himself through the fabric of his pants, willing the ache to settle.
Beside him, Gojo stamped a hoof, glaring at him with those ice-blue eyes.
Toji snapped his head sideways, scowling. “Don’t start with me.” He shoved at the stallion’s muzzle when it pressed too close, muttering curses under his breath. “The hell do you care?”
But when he looked back, you were already on your feet again, hair braided, flowers tumbling through the strands as though the girls had crowned you with them. Your face was flushed with laughter, and the music pulled you into the square.
You danced.
The villagers caught your hands, spinning you between them. They clapped and stomped in time with the fiddles, skirts and sleeves flaring all around you. You laughed with them, twirling faster, your eyes catching every burst of light, every flicker of flame.
And then–your hand caught his.
Toji stiffened as you tugged him forward. “Dance,” you insisted, your voice full of joy.
“No,” he said immediately, but you only laughed, pulling harder until he stumbled into the circle. His body resisted, but your grip was stubborn, and the crowd surged around you both, swallowing him in music and light.
The rhythm carried you apart, partners trading with each beat. Toji’s hands were forced on others, villagers grinning as they shoved him along, spinning him until he almost cursed. But every time, your figure caught his eye again–the way your skirts flew, the braid swayed, and flowers tumbled as you spun into another man’s arms, only to be pulled away again.
It was chaos, and for once, Toji didn’t fight it. His chest heaved, sweat dampening his hairline, but his eyes never left you. He wanted you back in his arms, not theirs. The thought gnawed at him, sharp and undeniable.
At last, the dance shifted, the partners spinning back into each other, and you collided with him again. His arms wrapped firm around your waist as he caught you, and with one swift movement, he dipped you low over his knee. The crowd cheered, stomping harder.
You gasped, one hand clinging to his shoulder, the other pressed against his chest. Your hair cascaded down, flowers falling to the ground, your braid loosening against the stones. His face was so close, his breath hot against your lips, eyes dark and heavy with something far from playful.
For a long moment, the music blurred. It was only him, staring at you, and you staring back. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, his chest pressed solidly to your ribs, and you felt the low rumble of his breath.
And then, with impeccable timing, Geto landed on his head.
The crow’s talons dug into Toji’s hair, wings beating furiously as it cawed in his ear. Toji jerked back with a furious snarl, nearly dropping you in the process.
The crowd roared with laughter.
You stumbled upright, flushed, hiding your face behind your braid as the villagers clapped and cheered. Toji ripped the crow off his head, shoving it skyward with a string of curses, his jaw clenched so tight it could break.
But still, his eyes lingered on you, the image of your lips close enough to taste burned into him, and no amount of mocking laughter from the villagers–or caws from Geto–could erase it.
The festival bled into the night with laughter, music, and the smell of roasted meat still lingering heavy in the air. The villagers carried baskets of lanterns down to the riverbank, their faces glowing with anticipation. You followed, your skirts brushing against the grass, bare feet cold with dew, but you didn’t care.
Everything shimmered–candles flickering in glass jars, fireflies rising in spirals, and children squealing as they clutched paper lanterns shaped like flowers and suns. The crowd’s joy infected you, your heart thrumming with excitement as you clutched your braid woven with wilted blossoms.
Behind you, Toji walked at a lazy pace, hands shoved into his pockets. His green eyes flicked from face to face, always calculating, but when they landed on you, his jaw slackened just slightly. He didn’t say a word, though he grunted when Gojo nudged his shoulder with an indignant snort.
“Yeah, yeah,” Toji muttered, shoving at the horse’s muzzle. “I’ll watch her. Like you don’t.”
The stallion huffed, blue eyes flashing, but his focus shifted when Toji tossed a bag of apples at him with a sharp swing of his arm. “Here. Go play guard somewhere else.”
Gojo stomped, nostrils flaring, but lowered his head to crunch the fruit. Geto, the crow, settled smugly on the horse’s head, wings folded like a crown, glaring at Toji as though he’d sentenced him to the gallows.
Unbothered, Toji moved closer to you, his gaze sliding to the small cluster of wooden boats tied along the riverbank. While the villagers busied themselves lighting candles and singing old songs, he untied one rope with practiced speed, steadying the boat with his foot.
“Get in,” he muttered.
You blinked, glancing from the boat to the crowd. “But it isn’t ours–”
“It is now,” he cut in, voice low. “Unless you want to fight the entire village for it.”
You bit your lip, then nodded, climbing in carefully. The wooden frame rocked under your weight, water lapping gently against the side. Toji followed, settling opposite you, his broad shoulders dwarfing the space. With one shove of the oar, the boat drifted into the river, away from the shore.
The lanterns lifted.
One by one, flames flickered alive in the villagers’ hands, set carefully inside paper shells before being released to the night sky. They floated upward, soft and golden, hundreds upon hundreds blooming into the darkness like stars reborn. Fireflies joined them, caught in the glow, turning the air into a curtain of light.
You gasped, hand pressed over your heart. “They’re… they’re even more beautiful than I imagined.”
The awe in your voice made Toji pause. He leaned back against the bench, the oar forgotten, his eyes fixed not on the lanterns but on you. The glow reflected in your wide eyes, your parted lips, and the soft line of your throat as you tilted your head skyward.
Something in his chest tightened.
For once, his smirk softened. “Guess they’re worth the climb,” he said roughly, though the words carried a warmth that surprised even him.
You turned to him, smile bright, your braid slipping over your shoulder. The lanterns painted your face in gold, and you leaned forward slightly, your voice quiet. “Do you want to know my real name?”
His brow arched. “I thought it was princess.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Then you told him. The sound left your lips like a secret released into the night air, heavy and soft, a name that belonged to you alone.
He repeated it under his breath, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to carve it into his memory. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and when you looked back up at him, the distance between you seemed suddenly unbearable.
His hand moved first. Fingers sinking into your braid, he tugged gently until your head tilted back, your breath catching in your throat. He leaned in, lips brushing yours before pressing deep. The kiss was filthy–hungry, wet, and claiming. Your eyes flew wide before fluttering shut, your body tumbling forward into his lap.
You clutched at his shoulders, your arms wrapping tight around his neck as his tongue slid into your mouth. He groaned low when he heard the first whimper escape you, the sound vibrating against his chest. His arm banded around your waist, dragging you closer until you straddled him, your skirts bunching as you ground down on his lap.
His cock was already hard and thick, straining against his slacks. He shifted, grinding up into you, making you moan into his mouth. Breaking the kiss with a harsh breath, he pressed his lips to your ear. “Feel that?” His voice was hoarse and ragged.
You nodded against him, hips rolling instinctively. “Y-yes…”
He grunted, his grip bruising on your thighs as he pulled your skirts higher, his big hands sliding up until his palms squeezed the softness of your flesh. The boat rocked beneath you, but he didn’t care, grinding your soaked core across the thick ridge of his cock. Each drag made your breath break into soft, desperate gasps.
Your hands trembled as they pressed against his chest, sliding lower, pawing clumsily at the ties of his slacks. “Let me–please, let me help you,” you begged, your voice small but urgent.
His jaw clenched, a curse spilling under his breath. The sight of you pleading unraveled him. He kissed down your throat, teeth grazing your skin as he muttered, “Do it.”
Your fingers slid inside, trembling as they brushed his length. Heat seared your palm–thick, heavy, throbbing against your touch. You wrapped your hand around him, tugging him free. His cock curved into your grasp, thick and swollen, the tip flushed dark, catching the lantern's glow and gleaming wetly in the night.
Your lips parted, the words spilling before you could stop them. “It’s so… big.”
He chuckled darkly, his hips jerking up into your hand. "You say that frequently."
When your palm pressed against the tip, his voice turned into a grunt, smearing the slick across the length. You stroked clumsily, your eyes wide as you watched his face twist in raw pleasure. His hand closed over yours, guiding the pace, making you stroke tighter, faster.
“That’s it,” he groaned, forehead pressing to yours. "That's great, princess. Keep going.”
Lantern light burned gold across the river, paper suns drifting skyward in an endless tide. The little boat rocked gently with the current, though it wasn’t the water making it sway–it was you, half in Toji’s lap, skirts hiked high, palm wrapped clumsily around the thick weight of him. His cock throbbed in your grip, slick gathering along your hand as you stroked him, the lanterns above catching every wet sheen that spilled from the flushed head.
You were getting better at it–your grip surer, the pace steadier–your body shivering at every groan torn from his throat. His hips bucked up into your palm, driving the length deeper through your fist, making your eyes widen at just how heavy he felt. You leaned in, lips searching blindly until they found his, the kiss turned into a messy clash of teeth and tongue. Your breath mingled with his, your whimpers swallowed as he growled low in his chest.
Then his hand slipped beneath your skirts. You gasped into his mouth when his fingers pressed against your soaked panties, the thin fabric clinging to the swollen heat between your legs. His thumb found your clit easily, circling slowly, rubbing in tight motions that sent sparks up your spine. The noise you made broke slowly, a moan spilling against his lips as he husked a laugh, pleased.
“Sensitive, huh?” His voice was dark, his teeth dragging over your lower lip before releasing it. His fingers pressed harder, rubbing over the damp patch until it grew wetter, his cock twitching in your palm at the sound of your needy gasps.
Your thighs trembled around him when he pushed the fabric aside. Two thick fingers slid against your slit, spreading you open before he pushed them in deep, knuckle after knuckle, until your walls clenched tight around him. You cried out, forehead falling against his shoulder, your hand squeezing him harder as he fucked you with his fingers.
He groaned, the sound guttural, his jaw clenching as he felt you flutter around him. “Tight little pussy… gripping me already.” His pace quickened, long fingers plunging in and out, curling against that spot that made your body jolt every time. His palm pressed flush against your clit, grinding down with every thrust of his hand.
You were losing your mind. Your hips rolled helplessly into his palm, your mouth spilling broken words into his shoulder. “More–please, more–Toji–”
The boat rocked harder as his other hand grabbed your hip, pinning you against him. His cock brushed against the inside of your thigh where your panties gaped, the swollen head dragging heat over your skin. The sensation made your head spin, the thought of him splitting you open while his fingers worked you pulling a desperate sob from your throat.
You pumped him faster, your small hand working over his length as slick leaked thick from the tip, wetting your palm. Your strokes grew frantic, matching the thrust of his hand inside you. The head of his cock nudged against the opening of your panties, smearing precum against the thin fabric while his knuckles plunged deep in your cunt.
His face buried between your breasts, his nose pressing into the swell as he inhaled deeply, grunting like a starved man. His tongue dragged over the damp skin where your dress had slipped low, his teeth grazing before his mouth latched and sucked. Your moan broke sharp, your body arching against him as his fingers moved faster, harder, rubbing your clit mercilessly with his palm.
The lanterns blurred into streaks of light as your orgasm crashed through you. Your walls clamped tight around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his hips as you sobbed his name. He groaned into your chest, grinding harder against your dripping pussy, his cock jerking violently in your palm.
“Fuck–” The word ripped from him as he came. Hot ropes of seed spilled over your knuckles, thick and white, staining your palm and streaking across the crotch of your panties where his cock dragged against you. The heat of it combined with your own slick, soaking the thin fabric until it was wet and sticky.
You slumped against him, trembling, his hand still buried deep inside you, fingers slow as your walls spasmed around him. He tilted your head up, lips crashing into yours in a deep, filthy kiss, swallowing the last of your moans.
When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice low and hoarse. He whispered your name–your real name–like it was something sacred, then kissed you again, slower, longer, as the lanterns drifted overhead, carrying your secret into the night sky.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The clearing was dark but restless, the fire nothing more than a bed of coals glowing red against the black. The forest pressed in at every side, insects hummed in the tall grass, and an owl cried in the distance. You sat rigid on one side of the fire, your arms wrapped around your knees, every flick of your hair across your cheek like a whip of irritation.
“You think this is all a game, don’t you?” Your voice cracked through the night like glass breaking.
Across the flames, Toji looked up from sharpening his blade. His green eyes gleamed in the low light, his smirk already curling. “What’re you crying about now?”
“You mock me.” The words came fast, sharper than you meant them. “You mock me every time I’m in awe, every time I say something you don’t find useful. You think I’m just… naïve. A child.”
He set the blade down, the clink of steel on stone snapping through the clearing. He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, his gaze flat and cold. “Because you are.”
The words hit harder than the fire’s heat.
“You don’t know real danger,” he went on, voice low and rough. “You’ve lived in a tower staring at lanterns while I’ve been running with a knife at my throat. You want the world? Here it is. Ugly. Brutal. And it’ll eat you alive if you don’t stop twirling around in your bare feet like you’re untouchable.”
Your throat closed around a sob, but fury shoved it back. “And that makes you better? You bleed, kill, and lie with pride. That doesn’t make you stronger–it makes you cruel.”
Something in his jaw flexed. Then the air shattered.
He surged up, and so did you, your bodies colliding across the dwindling firelight. His mouth crashed against yours, a savage kiss, his teeth catching your lip, your fists tangling in his shirt. He shoved you down into the grass, your braid splaying wild across the dirt, and he followed, his weight pressing you hard into the earth.
You writhed beneath him, not to escape but to pull him closer. Your legs spread instinctively, wrapping around his hips, your skirt riding high. He growled into your mouth, his tongue pushing deep, swallowing your gasp. His hand fisted in your braid, yanking your head back so he could kiss you harder, deeper, until your lungs burned.
When he tore away, his breath scorched against your cheek. “You want to know what’s real?” he hissed, voice jagged with hunger. “This… This is real."
Before you could answer, he slid lower.
Your thighs parted wide under his palms, his grip bruising as he shoved your skirts up around your waist. The night air licked your bare skin, gooseflesh rising as your soaked panties clung to you. He didn’t hesitate–he hooked a finger under the fabric and shoved it aside, baring you to the dark.
Then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, the sound echoing into the trees as his tongue slid through your folds in one long, devastating stroke. He groaned at the taste, deep and guttural, the vibration making your whole body jolt. His lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive nub until your eyes rolled back.
“Toji–oh, gods–”
He only groaned again, dragging his tongue slowly and purposefully against every swollen inch of you. His hands pinned your thighs apart, fingers digging deep enough to leave marks. He shifted, lapping lower, his tongue plunging into you, thick and wet, curling inside until you bucked helplessly against his face.
You clutched at his hair, your braid tangling around his head, the flowers you’d woven earlier falling loose into the grass. He growled, the sound muffled against your dripping cunt, and fucked you with his tongue until you were sobbing his name.
Then his fingers replaced it. Two thick digits dug into your heat, stretching and pumping quickly and harshly. His mouth never left your clit, his tongue circling and flicking mercilessly as his fingers curled, hitting that spot inside that made your body quake.
You were losing yourself, every nerve burning. “More–please, more–”
His response was a groan that shook your core. He curled his fingers deeper, his palm grinding against your clit as his pace quickened. Your thighs shook around his head, your hips grinding down against his face, desperate for every stroke of his tongue, every thrust of his hand.
And still he wasn’t done.
You felt the heat of him shift and something hard pressed against your thigh. You looked down through hazy eyes and saw his cock in his fist, thick and flushed, glistening with precum. He stroked himself in rough, fast pumps, groaning into your cunt as his hand dragged down his shaft. The sight made you whimper louder, your pussy clenching around his fingers as slick poured from you.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he grunted, dragging his mouth off your clit just long enough to spit against it before sucking hard again. His other hand pumped his cock faster, precum slicking his fist, the thick head nudging against your inner thigh as he pressed closer.
Your vision blurred with tears, your body trembling under the onslaught. Every flick of his tongue sent shivers down your spine, every thrust of his fingers made your stomach tighten, and the sight of him jacking his cock while devouring you sent you spiraling.
You screamed his name as your orgasm broke.
Your walls clamped tight around his fingers, your body convulsing against his mouth. He groaned like a man starving, sucking your clit harder, fucking you with his fingers until your juices coated his chin. His cock jerked in his fist, thick ropes of cum spilling across your thighs, hot and sticky, staining your panties and soaking into your skirt.
He collapsed on your body, panting, his mouth smeared with your wetness, his cock still twitching against your thigh. He caught your lips again, the kiss filthy and desperate, the taste of yourself on his tongue. His forehead pressed to yours, and he whispered your name, low and rough, like a vow.
Beyond the clearing, danger lurked.
Footsteps crunched faintly in the distant woods–slow, careful, stalking. But you didn’t hear them. Gojo had pressed himself behind a tree, his hooves covering his ears as if blocking out the sounds could make them vanish. Geto perched above him, wings folded over his head, muttering sharp caws muffled in his feathers.
You and Toji were blind to it, consumed by fire, by sweat, by the shudder of release. The forest held its breath as shadows moved closer. And though the night wrapped you both in its heat, danger watched, patient, waiting for its moment to strike.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The fire had long since burned down to ash, the forest wrapped in that strange, heavy silence that comes just before dawn. You lay tangled against Toji, your head on his chest, his arm thrown lazily around your waist. His warmth sank into you, grounding you against the night’s chill. His breath was slow and steady, and his face softened in sleep in a way you’d never seen before. The rough edges dulled; he looked almost human, almost gentle.
Your braid was a mess across his torso, and your skirt bunched up around your thighs where his hand had settled earlier and never moved. It was the first time you had let yourself drift to sleep so easily, curled against someone else. His heartbeat had been the last sound you remembered before dreams took you.
But the world shifted when the dreams curdled.
The forest fog thickened, rolling in pale waves across the clearing. The air grew cold and damp, so sharp it made your breath catch even in sleep. Somewhere distant, boots crunched against the earth.
By the time you stirred, Toji was gone.
Your eyes snapped open to emptiness–his warmth missing beside you, his arm gone from your waist. Panic clenched your chest. You pushed up onto your elbows just as the fog parted.
Through it, you saw him.
Toji stood bound, wrists tied tight with rope, his body forced upright against the mast of a long, shadowed boat. The crown you had once worn gleamed in one captor’s hand, jewels flashing faintly in the mist. He didn’t look at you, his face hidden by distance and shadow, but his broad frame was unmistakable.
Two figures emerged from the fog, their voices low, amused.
The first was Sukuna. His presence was impossible to mistake: tall, broad, his arms marked with black ink tattoos that ran from shoulder to wrist, curling across his skin in strange, sharp patterns. His hair was pale, his eyes a deep, violent red that seemed to cut through the mist. His grin was jagged and feral, the kind that promised ruin. His garments were rich but loose, dark robes lined in crimson, draped open at the chest to reveal muscle lined with more ink. His every step carried a predator’s grace.
Beside him was his twin, Itadori. Where Sukuna’s presence was sharp and cruel, Itadori’s was softer at first glance but no less dangerous. His hair was wild, a burnished pink; his eyes were warm brown but hardened; and his smile was disarmingly boyish even as he carried a blade loosely at his hip. His clothes were simpler, a dark jacket and trousers, but the way he stood screamed of confidence earned in blood.
They came to a stop in front of you, casting long shadows in the fog.
“Wake up, little bird,” Sukuna crooned, his grin splitting wider. “Time to see things as they really are.”
Itadori tilted his head, his smile sharp but almost pitying. “You didn’t think he cared, did you? That mercenary?” He jerked his chin toward the boat where Toji stood tied. “You’re just another job to him. Another climb, another trick.”
Sukuna lifted the crown in his tattooed hand, the jewels glinting faintly. “He only ever wanted this. The gold, the prize. You were never part of it.”
The words cut deep, jagged and cruel. Your lips trembled, tears pricking hot at your eyes. “No… no, that’s not true–”
Sukuna gestured lazily toward the boat, where Toji tugged against the ropes, his head bowed. “Look at him. He’s already sold you out. Already running with your treasure. It was never real.”
You staggered back a step, your chest seizing. The fog made it hard to breathe, the world tilting around you. Every moment of warmth, every kiss, every whispered word–it all threatened to crumble beneath their voices.
Behind you, Gojo snorted, stomping the ground. His blue eyes flashed sharp suspicion, his ears flicking as though he, too, didn’t trust what he saw. Geto cawed harshly from his perch on the stallion’s head, wings flaring wide in defiance, the sound echoing like protest.
But the doubt was already worming into your chest.
Your breath hitched, your vision blurring as hot tears spilled down your cheeks. You turned, running blind into the trees, away from the fog, away from the sight of him bound and silent. Your skirt snagged on brambles, your braid whipped against your back, but you didn’t stop.
And then, she was there.
Your mother.
She stepped from the trees as though she had been waiting all along, her dark silks glimmering faintly in the dawn’s weak light. Her smile was sharp and brittle. “Oh, my poor girl.”
You stumbled to a halt, chest heaving. “He–he didn’t–”
“I told you,” she said, her voice laced with venomous triumph. “I told you he would betray you. That he would use you. You are nothing to him.”
You shook your head, tears streaming. “You were right.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth. “You were right.”
Her smile widened. “Come home.”
Her hand reached for yours, cold fingers curling around your trembling ones. You didn’t resist. You followed her through the trees, the fog swallowing the fire, the coals, the horse, the crow, and the man left behind.
–
You didn’t remember the journey back. Only the weight of your mother’s hand, the coldness of her voice, and the crushing emptiness inside your chest.
The tower loomed again, its stones glistening with dew, its shadow swallowing you whole.
When you stepped inside, the air was colder than you remembered. The trinkets and bones glared from their shelves, the painted lantern in the corner flickering dimly. The mirror stood tall, catching your reflection as your mother guided you past it. You barely recognized yourself–your braid tangled, flowers wilted, and cheeks streaked with tears.
“You see?” she whispered, her voice like a knife slipping into flesh. “You belong here. With me. Safe.”
Chains waited at the base of your bed, cold iron shackles biting into your ankles as she fastened them. The clink of metal echoed through the hollow chamber. Your hair pooled across the floor, dull without the lantern light.
You sank to your knees, staring at the floorboards.
Outside, the forest stirred. Danger lingered still in the distance–footsteps moving through fog, the twins’ laughter carrying on the wind–but you didn’t hear it.
All you heard was her voice, soft and poisonous in your ear: “You’ll never leave me again.”
And the tower closed in, darker than it had ever been.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
Toji rode like a man possessed. The tavern scoundrels had cut his ropes, Gojo had practically dragged him onto his back, and every curse that left his mouth was aimed at the red-eyed bastards who had dared to touch what was his.
The dim, storm-soaked sky matched his fury, clouds roiling like they’d been summoned just to echo his rage. His hands clenched the reins so tight the leather bit his palms raw, but he didn’t care. He spat another curse into the wind, calling Sukuna and Itadori every filthy name he knew, vowing in his chest to snap their spines the next time he laid eyes on them.
The tower appeared in the distance, tall and black against the bruised sky. His jaw clenched. He hadn’t wanted to return to that cursed stone, but the thought of you trapped inside burned like acid in his throat. His voice tore from him, hoarse but desperate, carried on the damp wind: “Let down your hair!”
From the window above, golden strands uncoiled. They gleamed faintly even in the dim light, twisting like a rope into the mist. He grabbed hold without hesitation, boots braced hard against the wall as he scaled upward, his muscles screaming with effort. The higher he climbed, the colder the air pressed against him, but his grip never faltered. He would get to you. Nothing else mattered.
The window yawned open at the top, the chamber beyond dimly lit by guttering candles. The trinkets glimmered faintly: skulls stacked in corners, dried herbs hanging limp, and the painted lantern casting shadows that moved like crawling hands. The air stank of damp stone and old blood.
His breath came heavy, his knife already drawn. His eyes swept the chamber–empty. Too empty.
Then he saw movement.
Chains clinked. From the far side of the room, you were being dragged across the floor, iron shackles biting your ankles, your face pale and wet with tears. The sound of metal grating against the stone floor shot through his ears like thunder. You stumbled, falling to your knees, the chains yanking you forward toward a hatch in the floor.
“Toji!” Your voice cracked with desperation.
He ran. His boots slammed against the stone, every muscle taut, his knife raised–
The flash of steel was too fast.
Agony tore into him as the blade slid deep into his side. He staggered, breath punched out of him, his vision spinning. Standing behind him, her smile wide and sharp, was your mother. Her laugh was a shrill, rotting sound that filled the chamber as she twisted the blade deeper into his flesh.
“You fool,” she hissed, her voice dripping poison. “Did you think you could save her? She belongs to me. She always will.”
Toji’s knees buckled. Blood soaked his shirt, hot and fast, his knife clattering against the floor. You screamed, scrambling to him, catching his weight before he collapsed completely. His blood stained your hands and your dress, pooling hot around your thighs as you dragged him to your chest.
You reached for your strands of hair, gathering the glow in trembling fingers, ready to lay it across his wound. But his hand shot up, rough and shaking, and grabbed your wrist. His green eyes locked with yours, fierce even as the light dimmed in them.
“No.” His voice was a broken rasp. He dragged his blade across your hair in one violent swipe. Strands fell heavy, lifeless, coiling on the stone floor. The glow died instantly, plunging the chamber into shadow.
Your mother froze. The scream that ripped from her was inhuman.
Her face collapsed first. The flawless skin split and sagged, lines etching deep as her cheeks hollowed. Her hair withered into brittle gray, falling in clumps. Her flesh shrank and cracked, peeling from her bones in wet sheets. Eyes that had once glinted with venom sank into her skull, clouded white and wild. Her hands were gnarled into claws, nails black and curling. The stench hit–rot, thick and sour, like a carcass left too long in the sun.
She clawed at the air, staggering toward the last severed strands of your hair. Her body shuddered, skin sloughing from her arms, teeth snapping in her collapsing mouth. “No! My beauty–my life–” Her voice broke into shrieks as she tried to seize the fading glow.
A shadow swept past.
Geto dove from above, wings beating furiously, his claws raking across her ravaged face. She shrieked louder, stumbling backward toward the open window. Gojo reared behind her, his massive hooves striking the stone with a thunderous crack. With one final beat of his wings, Geto slammed into her chest.
Her body pitched out the window, her scream echoing as it faded into the storm. The thud when she hit the earth below was sickeningly final.
Silence crushed the chamber.
You cradled Toji in your lap, your tears spilling freely down your cheeks. His blood soaked everything, his breaths shallow, slower each time. His hand trembled as he lifted it, brushing a strand of hair from your face, smearing blood across your cheek in the motion. His lips curved in a faint smile, though his eyes were dulling.
“You’re… free,” he whispered. “Don’t cry, princess. You’re free.”
His chest stilled.
“No,” you sobbed, shaking him, clutching him harder. “No, you’re not leaving me–don’t you dare–”
Your tears fell onto his face, onto his wound. They glistened strangely, shimmering faintly against the blood. The glow spread, sinking into his skin, knitting torn flesh, sealing the gaping wound with warmth that pulsed brighter and brighter until you had to shut your eyes.
When the glow faded, silence lingered–until he gasped.
His body arched, breath dragging in ragged and desperate, his eyes snapping open wide. His chest heaved as if he’d been drowning and had finally broken the surface.
You choked on your sob, your hands cupping his face. “Toji–”
He grabbed you before you could finish, his hand fisting in your hair, dragging your mouth down to his. The kiss was savage and desperate, his lips hot and harsh against yours. His tongue pushed into your mouth, claiming and swallowing your cries of relief.
You kissed him back just as hard, tears streaming down your face, your body trembling against him. His mouth crashed back onto yours, harder this time–hungry, bruising, teeth catching your lip until you gasped. He shoved his tongue between your lips, tangling with yours, swallowing every shaky breath.
His body pressed into you, hot and heavy, his hand sliding up your ribs until it palmed your breast through the stiff fabric of your corset. He groaned low in his chest at the feel, fingers digging in, kneading hard enough that your back arched into him.
“Been wanting this,” he rasped against your mouth, grinding his hips up into you. The bulge straining his pants left no room for denial. His other hand dragged down your front, tugging sharply at the laces until you gasped. “Get this fucking thing off.”
Together, fumbling, you tore at the corset strings until the fabric gave, spilling you free. He shoved it aside and dropped his mouth to your breasts immediately, tongue hot and greedy. He licked up the curve, closed his lips around your nipple, and sucked until you moaned his name loud enough to echo against the stone walls. His teeth grazed the sensitive peak, his saliva was wet and sticky against your flushed skin, and he growled like he couldn’t get enough.
You writhed beneath him, your fingers tangling in his dark hair instinctively–only for his hand to seize your wrist and slam it back against the floor. His eyes flicked to the severed strands scattered across the stone, still long and thick despite their dull glow. He smirked, feral.
“Perfect.”
Grabbing a long strand, he twisted it in one hand, the rope coarse as he looped it around your wrists. You whimpered, your arms forced behind your back, the knot biting as he tied you tight. “Toji–”
“Shut up,” he muttered, kissing you hard again as he shoved you flat against the ground. “You’ll thank me for this.”
His hands were everywhere–gripping your bound wrists, palming your tits, sliding down your waist until they found your skirt. With a rough yank, he shoved the fabric up, exposing your thighs, your panties soaked through. His mouth trailed hot kisses down your chest, across your stomach, until he was kneeling between your legs, staring at you like he wanted to eat you alive.
“Pretty little pussy,” he muttered, hooking a finger into the waistband and tearing the thin fabric aside. You gasped, your body exposed to the cool air before his mouth.
He spat.
The warm droplet landed directly on your folds, slicking you further. His tongue followed, wide and hot, dragging up your slit until you cried out. He lapped at you like a starved man, his saliva mixing with your arousal until everything was wet and messy. His fingers spread you wide, two thick digits sliding in deep without warning, stretching you open.
Your back arched violently, a moan ripping from your throat as his fingers plunged again and again, curling against that spot inside that made you shake. His tongue circled your clit relentlessly, sucking, flicking, and humming deep in his throat like he enjoyed every shiver of your body.
“Gods–you’re soaking for me,” he groaned, lifting his head just enough to watch his fingers disappear inside you. His lips were slick with you, his chin wet, and his eyes dark. “All this for my cock, huh?”
You whimpered, writhing against the restraints, your wrists straining against the rope of your own hair. “Yes–Toji–please–”
He grinned sharply, tongue dragging slowly up your slit before plunging back onto your clit. His free hand reached for his shirt, yanking it off in one motion, muscles flexing under the flicker of candlelight. He was all scars and strength, his chest heaving, his cock visibly straining his pants, the outline thick and swollen.
The room still stank of blood and rot, the tower’s air heavy and damp, but the weight of it was nothing compared to the heat rising off your bodies. You were spread out beneath him, wrists still bound behind your back with the thick coil of your own hair, breasts flushed from his mouth, panties the only barrier left clinging to you. Your cheeks burned, chest heaving as your voice broke into a whisper.
“Toji… please. I need you.”
His gaze dropped to your ankle, where the cold iron cuff still clung, a chain dragging against the floor. He grunted, reaching for his blade with one hand. The metal gave with a sharp snap as he slashed it loose, the cuff falling away. He caught your ankle in his rough hand, bringing it to his lips.
The kiss was shocking in its softness–his mouth hot against the delicate skin of your ankle, his eyes staring at you the whole time. His smirk returned as he pressed another kiss higher, dragging it up your calf before letting your leg fall back open, exposing your soaked core to him again.
“You look so damn helpless like this,” he muttered, voice thick with lust. His hand grabbed your panties, tearing the thin fabric off your hips until it fell in tatters on the stone. “Panties were useless anyway–just keeping me from what’s mine.”
The words made your stomach tighten. He pressed two fingers to your clit, rubbing hard, circling it in tight motions that made your body jerk. “Look at you, dripping,” he taunted, sliding his fingers lower to gather your slick, coating them until they shined. “All for me. You begging for my cock like you were made for it.”
Your wrists strained against the hair-ties, desperate to touch him. He noticed, his grin sharp.
“Fine. You want me so bad? Watch closely.”
He freed himself from his pants in one rough motion. His cock slapped against his stomach, thick, heavy, and flushed dark at the tip. Precum smeared across his shaft as he gripped himself, groaning deep in his chest. He pressed his cock against your slit, dragging the thick head through your slick, smearing it along his length.
The wet sound was obscene in the silence of the tower, echoing with every stroke.
When he finally pushed, you gasped. The thick head breached your entrance, stretching you until your nails curled against your palms. He groaned low, head tilting back, voice hoarse. “Fuck–tight. So tight. You’re squeezing the life out of me already.”
Your back arched, wrists straining behind you, but then he bent low, hooking your bound arms over his neck and dragging you up into him. His mouth found yours in a wet, messy kiss–tongue shoving deep, his teeth catching your lip as you moaned into him.
Then he thrust.
The sound cracked through the room: skin against skin, wet, filthy, your slick soaking his cock as he buried himself deeper. Each roll of his hips made the chain on the floor rattle, the walls echoing with the obscene noise of your bodies slamming together. He groaned into your mouth, his breath hot, every thrust harder than the last.
“Take it all,” he growled against your lips. “Every inch, princess. You feel that? That’s me splitting you open.”
Your walls clenched around him, making his hips stutter. His mouth dropped to your breasts again, sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, teeth scraping until you cried out. His other hand gripped your ass, squeezing and kneading the flesh as he drove into you.
He shifted, rising onto his knees, dragging you with him until your body tilted up. Your hair trailed uselessly against the floor, your legs falling wide around his waist as he fucked you deeper.
The angle changed, his cock hitting deeper with every thrust, the tip slamming against that spot inside that made your breath choke. He growled when your moan broke into a scream, his hand snapping to the back of your thigh, hauling one leg up over his shoulder.
“Yeah. That’s it. Open up for me.” His voice was rough, filthy. “Let me in deeper–fuck–you were made for this cock.”
The wet smack of his thrusts filled the chamber, every slam of his hips shaking your body, his balls smacking against your ass. His teeth grazed your breast again as his pace quickened, his grunts harsh and ragged.
Your own moans echoed back at you, bouncing off the stone walls until it sounded like the tower itself was full of your cries. His cock drove harder and faster, filling you again and again until your vision blurred.
“Toji–please–I can’t–”
“Yes, you can,” he snapped, thrusting harder, dragging his cock out almost entirely before slamming back in to the hilt. The pressure made your toes curl, your back arch, and your cries split the air. “Take it. Take every inch. That’s my girl.”
His hand squeezed your ass tighter as he pulled you harder onto his cock, rutting into you with brutal precision. Your body convulsed, slick gushing around him, soaking his cock until it dripped down his thighs.
He groaned, voice breaking. “Gonna fuck you until you can’t think about anything but me. Until this tight pussy knows who it belongs to.”
The tower was suffocating with heat, every surface slick with sweat and echoing with the slap of wet skin. Your hair–once long, heavy, glowing–was no longer a crown to wield. After Toji’s blade had sliced through it, it fell in uneven, jagged tufts around your shoulders, chopped strands sticking to your flushed cheeks and damp neck. No braids, no flowers–just you, raw and undone, and him, a force of muscle and hunger driving into you.
He had you flat on the stone first, wrists tied behind your back with one of the fallen lengths of hair, your body shuddering as his cock split you open, his mouth a savage mix of teeth and tongue on yours. When you begged, breathless and shaking, he cut the cuff from your ankle, tossing the chain aside before catching your foot and pressing a kiss to the bone of your ankle. His eyes burned as they raked down your body–corset shredded, breasts swollen from his mouth, your choppy hair damp with sweat.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice low and sharp. “Hair or no hair, you’re still fucking mine.”
Your panties were ripped away in one brutal motion, the sound echoing, and then his fingers circled your clit with cruel precision. His cock throbbed, slick with your arousal as he dragged the fat head through your folds, spreading the wetness down his shaft.
When he shoved inside, you screamed. The stretch was obscene, his cock filling every inch of you, the head punching against your cervix as his groan split the air.
“Clamping down like a vise,” he rasped against your mouth, biting your lip until you moaned. “You feel that? That’s me inside you, princess. All the way in.”
Your bound wrists looped over his neck, dragging him down into another filthy kiss. His hips snapped forward, faster, harder, the tower filling with the wet slap of his balls against your ass, the squelch of your soaked cunt milking him. He broke from your mouth only to latch onto your breasts again, sucking harshly, growling around your nipple as his cock drove deeper.
Then he shifted. With a grunt, he slid out, your slick dripping down his length, before hauling you into his lap. He dropped to the floor with his back against the bedframe, positioning you straddled over him. His hands gripped your waist tight, lifting you, then slamming you down on his cock in one punishing thrust.
The cry you let out bounced off the stone walls. His mouth crashed against yours again, messy and wet, his tongue forcing its way in as his hands dragged you up and down his cock. Each time he bottomed out, you felt the blunt head slam against your cervix, making your whole body jolt.
His hand smacked your ass, the sound sharp, his cock twitching inside you as he hissed, “Take it. Take it all. Fuck, you were made to squeeze me like this.”
Your choppy locks clung to your sweaty cheeks as you cried into his mouth, grinding down helplessly as his thumb found your clit again, rubbing fast and relentlessly.
Your climax tore through you violently, slick gushing down his cock, soaking his thighs. Your scream cracked against his lips as your walls clamped down, pulsing around him.
He cursed, his thrusts faltering, his cock twitching hard. “Fuck–coming–” His voice broke into a guttural growl as hot cum spilled deep inside, thick and endless, filling you until it leaked back down his shaft.
But he didn’t stop.
Still hard, still leaking, he stood with you in his arms, his cock buried to the hilt. He tossed you onto the bed, flipping you onto your hands and knees before you caught your breath. His hands gripped your hips hard, bruising, and with one savage thrust he slammed back inside.
“This position?” He grunted, pounding into you so hard your knees slid on the sheets. “They call it doggy style.”
You sobbed his name, eyes rolling back as the angle forced him even deeper, his cock grinding against every spot inside you. The wet slap of skin echoed loud, his balls hitting your soaked pussy with every thrust.
He leaned over you, one hand tangling in your short locks, tugging your head back until your mouth fell open in a broken moan. His teeth grazed your ear as he snarled, “Moan for me. Let the whole fucking world know who you belong to.”
Your orgasm hit again, fast, brutal, and slick, pouring out of you and dripping around his cock as you screamed his name. He groaned, hips stuttering, then came again, another hot flood spilling into your cunt.
With a grunt, he pulled out, his cum immediately leaking down your thighs. He spread your ass with one rough hand, watching the mess spill out before he shoved himself back inside with a growl.
“Not wasting a drop,” he muttered, fucking his seed back into you, the wet noise obscene.
He slammed deep one last time, his voice ragged against your ear. “We’re never leaving this tower. Not after this. Not when I’ve fucked you so full you can’t think of anything but me.”
And the tower filled with the sound of your cries, his grunts, and the endless slap of wet flesh as he fucked you harder, sealing you as his.
-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-
The tower never emptied. The kingdom stayed at a distance, its lanterns no longer a dream but a memory, and the stone walls that once felt like a prison became something else entirely. With Toji, the silence wasn’t heavy anymore–it was theirs.
The broken trinkets were cleared, the mold scrubbed, and the hearth built into a steady fire that never quite died. Vines grew wild along the stone outside, flowers rooting where once there had only been rot.
You wore no crown in the kingdom’s courts. Instead, you wore his ring–heavy, simple, hammered from stolen gold, and tied around your finger by his calloused hand. There was no parade, no fanfare, only his gruff voice muttering a promise as he slid it on, his lips pressed to your knuckles like he had to brand the vow there.
The tower, once the site of your chains, became your sanctuary. And in its high windows, where you had once begged to see the lanterns, you now let him use you however he pleased.
One evening, the storm clouds swelled black, lightning flashing across the horizon. The open window stretched before you, wind pulling at your choppy hair. Toji had you bent forward against the sill, your chest pressed to the cool stone, your palms flat against it. The rough edge dug into your ribs as his chest blanketed your back, hot and heavy.
His cock slid into you with one sharp thrust, so deep it made you cry out, your voice carried on the wind outside. His hand gripped your hip hard, the other tangled in your shortened locks, yanking your head back until your moan broke in the air.
“Look at this view,” he rasped, his lips brushing your ear. “Kingdom down there, lights so far away–and you, spread for me right here. My wife. My little princess.”
The word dripped filth from his mouth, mocking but tender, his thrusts brutal as he slammed into you again and again. Each rut of his hips forced your body against the sill, your breasts pressing hard to the stone, your toes barely clinging to the floor. The tower echoed with wet, obscene sounds–your slick coating his cock, dripping down your thighs as he pounded into you from behind.
You gasped, your voice breaking, “Toji–deeper–”
He grunted, his pace unrelenting, balls smacking against you with every thrust. His grip on your hair tightened, dragging your head back until his teeth bit your shoulder. “You’ll take every inch,” he growled, fucking harder, his cock dragging against your walls until your body convulsed. “I don’t care if the whole kingdom hears you scream.”
The storm cracked overhead, thunder shaking the tower as your cries filled it. Your climax tore through you, your body convulsing against the sill, slick pouring around him in a gush that spattered his thighs. His groan broke in your ear, guttural, raw, as his cock twitched violently inside you.
He spilled hot, thick cum deep into your cunt, his hips snapping forward again and again as if he could push himself deeper, make it stay. He pressed you into the sill, his breath ragged against your neck, his cock pulsing until you were leaking around him, his mess dripping down your thighs to stain the stone.
His lips pressed to your ear, rough and low, still panting. “This tower’s ours. You, mine. Forever.”
And when he pulled you back against his chest, keeping himself buried inside you, the storm rolled on outside, but within the tower you knew there was no kingdom you would rather belong to than the one built between his hands and your body.
Do not plagiarize, copy, translate any of my work. All rights of this work belong to Nimueshell™.
