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i mainly write for f!reader & for series jujutsu kaisen and haikyuu!
heed tags and warnings for each work.
jujutsu kaisen masterlist
haikyuu! masterlist
recent content
-> yandere monk / suguru geto (jjk)
drabble, sfw, yandere vibes, monk sacrilege
-> warrior kiyoomi / kiyoomi sakusa (hq)
drabble, nsfw, noncon, communication issues
-> come fall down / yuuji itadori (jjk)
14k, nsfw, historical, cult, orgies | a prisoner far from home and the son of a disgraced knight. a darkness which beckons them to join in folly, to claim back what was lost.
current wips
jjk sukuna historical!au
jjk toji yakuza!au
jjk yuta horror!au
jjk gojo ancient egypt!au
jjk yandere monk!geto
gi childe snezhnaya time skip!au
gi abyss lumine & childe!au
reading recommendations: jjk / hq / mha / others
tags if you want to filter: nene!talks (any bs i talk) / nene!reblogs.discourse (any topic discussion rb) / nene!reblogs.art (fanart rb) / nene!appreciation (nice asks i reply to, doesn't include written content) / nene!answers (any asks i reply to including those w written content)
summary: a prisoner far from home and the son of a disgraced knight. a darkness which beckons them to join in folly, to claim back what was lost.
tags & warnings: nsfw + historical au + mentions of war & pows + implied ideation of suicide (no depression) + mention of sexual assault & violence + cult & dark worship w/ animal sacrifices + implied drugging + orgies + exhibitionism + body/soul possession + sukuna makes an appearance + dubcon + brief monsterfucking + details of blood, violence & some gore + it goes without saying that yuuji is an adult
notes: this has been in drafts for nearly a year, it was supposed to be finished in summer 2021, then for kinktober, then for winter… it decided to write itself when it was ready. 47 pages of madness. let’s go!
The sun lays high above the castle, illuminating the hovering dust in the stifling room.
It is midday and soon the young men in the courtyard will freshen from their spar, then resume until the sun lowers to the west. The same routine you’ve seen them follow since arriving here, bound and dragged to this rotten place following your country’s fall to the enemy kingdom—no thanks to the brutal assault and pillaging of the bordering villages led by this castle’s very own lord.
Your forehead presses against the murky window, ignoring the other servant behind you. Already a full moon since then, but the image of houses set ablaze in the night and the distressed wailing of children ring in the back of your mind; the misery of the raid extinguished what little willpower you previously had, accepting whatever fate the enemy prescribed you. The jeers of ridicule as you were forcibly hauled through the mud—by the haughty duke and the leery soldiers who never seem to sober in the wake of victory—still burn your body in humiliation, and you press your eyelids shut before turning away from the window. The loss of a country you had no hand in governing, yet burdened by the dishonor of being among its people conquered.
And though they still have to further disgrace your person beyond forcing your hands to labor around the castle, the possibility of suffering a fate worse than death at the hands of these people still floats at the back of your mind and has had you considering jumping down from this window in front of the men outside more often as the days trickle by.
A familiar knock on the door. The other servant moves to check.
naoya zen’in x f!reader (w/ a smudge of toji fushiguro)
word count: +2.9k
summary: troublemaker naoya, who has a peeping problem, decides to have some fun with the head’s new wife.
tags & warnings: nsfw + slight noncon touching at the beginning + voyeurism including ‘incestual’ + ntr & cheating (?) + implied virginity loss + ‘uncle toji’ is the clan leader
notes: pure filth. i was wondering if naoya’s excessive admiration for his cool uncle toji bordered on some form of incest. also is it cheating when you’re not married yet but bang someone days before?? hence the (?) next to cheating.
He shouldn’t be here; if he were to be caught by his uncle’s loyal servants, he’d be accused of indecency and of bothering innocent victims again. The same old routine that’s landed him in hot water with the head too many times, sullying his reputation as the member of a respectable clan among the noble circles.
But what kind of host would he be if he didn’t show the family guests proper reception?
summary: you are an outsider to the clan, unaware of the dark rumors on the grapevine—until you unfortunately catch his eye.
tags & warnings: nsfw + master / servant relationship + misogyny + dubcon + slight degradation / humiliation + a sprinkle of exhibitionism + fingering (f!receiving) + mentions of death (of no major characters) + implied dark end + naoya and his bullshit
notes: if man bad then why hot? using the -sama suffix here because it’s fitting. i usually don’t.
“This one.”
There is a hesitant silence, the aides tentatively wanting to make him reconsider his choice without offending him, in fear of retaliation.
The other servants–mostly women–are still; some relieved, others anticipating the development of the current situation. You ignore the pitying looks, eyes strained on the patterns of the wooden floor instead.
In retrospect, you should have cut ties with the clan the moment you began noticing the red flags; the hunched shoulders of the female servants, their exaggerated compliance, silent downcast looks when on duty. But you were naive, sure that you were special and free from misfortune befalling you–everyone grows with such optimism until they hit their bad luck and lament their choices.
What sets some individuals apart from others is the way in which they face these moments and take them in stride, with enviable strength and conviction that it will all pass and make way for better days.
“She will do.”
There is no room for refusal or dissuasion. He is easily the next highest-ranking person under this roof after the head; the servants lining the hallway bow at their lowest before him.
quick intermission from my writing break but WTFFF I INCLUDING THESE POLITICAL DETAILS IN MY ANCIENT SUKUNA FIC THATS BEEN ROTTING IN MY WIP SINCE 2020 (not that I’ve touched it since)
Sesshomaru who takes you in the heat of a rut, who’s only ever fucked humans for necessity, because they’re easy, always wet, always warm, always pliant and willing and crying as he takes them.
Sesshomaru who orders you to beg, who uses his intimidation to make you moan and scream and cry his name as he fucks you.
Sesshomaru who raises an eyebrow when you refuse, when you stay quiet and deny him the satisfaction despite your legs trembling, your slick dribbling between your thighs. Despite the way you clench around him, squeeze him tight and push your hips back on him.
The silence is painful. So much so he can’t even finish properly.
Sesshomaru who changes his approach, not for your benefit of course…but for his own. Sesshomaru who flips you on your back, who leans over you, looks you in the eye, kisses you softly, licks up and down your body, craves you and appreciates the softness of your skin, the plush thickness of your thighs.
Sesshomaru who immediately feels the difference when you sigh, when you hum and purr as he grinds into you instead of pounding into you. Sesshomaru who groans in tandem with the soft little whimpers spilling from your pretty lips. Sesshomaru who glances between your bodies to watch himself sink into you and becomes entranced by the scene before him.
Sesshomaru who fills you, all the way up so much so it feels as if your stomach will expand as he spills thick sweeping loads of his cum into your cunt. The wails of your pleasure finally reaching his ears as your nails dig into the skin on his back.
Sesshomaru who thinks mating in this way may be better than he originally presumed.
summary: after your family has fallen out of grace in the sorcerer world and you lose everything, it is decided by the higher-ups that you'll marry someone worthy for you; suguru getou. a troublesome sorcerer with no prominent family lineage, sway, or power in your world. it is a punishment, a laughing stock, and a badge of disgrace.
| arranged marriage au. mostly smut. a little angst or comfort if you squint. |
word count: 5.7k....this is a drabble to me ://
tw: smut, loss of virginity, dub-conish, one slap from the reader to getou and he kinda likes it, strange and unhealthy dynamics, getou has a corruption kink, slight blood? overstimulation. let me know if i missed anything!
author's note: first time posting writing on this blog!! this has been plaguing me!! this was supposed to be a little drabble!! and here i am!! anyways…this could be and i have thoughts on it being a whole fic. it could potentially take place somewhere before volume 0 and after he’s graduated from jujutsu tech. maybe. i didn’t think hard enough ab it so you shouldn’t either. is this out of character? likely!! enjoy!! let me know what you think!!
The night of your wedding to Suguru Getou, you are filled with ire and contempt.
The crescent moon is a sickle arch in the sky to look down on you, the curve of it as sharp as a mean smile, as a hooked knife. You glare hard at it through the window, hold tight to the silk robe you had been ushered into after the ceremony. All pearly on your skin and loose, shiny, smooth to the touch. Wrapped like a present for you new husband.
You grit your teeth.
("So proud for such a disgraced girl," Suguru tsks, your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up into the darkness of his eyes. You look up your nose at him defiantly. His thumb moves to your bottom lip, swipes there boldly, in a way that makes heat race over your face. It flusters you terribly. It makes you furious. It makes you shake.
You jerk your head from his grasp and he allows his hand to fall away, flutter down by his side.
"And so stubborn."
You sneer at him, gripping your skirts to hide your tremble, "what were you expecting? For me to simper and posture for you?"
His eyes dance bemusedly over you, the corner of his lips quirking up in the most horrible way. You have half a mind to strike him with nails and palm and bitterness, swipe the look right off his face.
"I'd hoped for someone a little sweeter, I suppose." He tells you and for some reason, this stings worse than it should, makes your anger grow teeth and claws inside of you.
"A good wife." You spit.
"Yes," he admits, "something that is finally mine. Only mine."
Later, he will tell you he always wanted something Satoru Gojo couldn't have but wanted. He wanted something everyone wanted. Instead, he got you. Instead, you got him.
"I will never be yours." You hiss through your teeth like a little asp. A warning sound, the way a dog growls before it bites.
"You'll be married to me whether you like it or not. Whether I like it or not." He says coolly, gazing down at you in a way that you can't place, in a way that makes you shiver.
"I may marry you, but I will never be yours–"
And when you catch the gleam in his eyes now, plum dark and glimmering, you know he took it less as a warning, and more of a challenge.)
You steel your courage. You breathe through your nose.
You untie your robe and let it slip from your shoulders.
It pools on the floor in a decadent swath of fabric. It looks like a swan, like a dead dove at your feet.
When you turn to look at Suguru over your shoulder, you are at least pleased to see that he is mildly surprised, brows arched upwards slightly, mouth parted.
He recovers quickly, "my, isn't this a surprise–"
"Don't." You snap. Your bottom lip trembles and you sink your teeth down into it to stop it. When you don't fear what your voice will sound like, you say defiantly;
"Do what you want. I'm not scared of you."
And you jerk your chin up again, too proud, too stubborn. Even when you are bare, even when your defenses have been stripped from you, even when his eyes are lightless, bottomless like the sea, infinite like the night sky as he gazes at you.
He approaches slowly, almost lazily, a predator that lopes closer to his prey. The breeze from the window makes you shiver.
"Look whose being brave," he coos, reaching out with his knuckles to touch your cheek, a brush of his skin. It's the first touch he gives you of the night.
He savors it. You try to hold still.
"Are you sure?" He asks and there is something unreadable in his face now, something monstrous at the edges, the flicker of it, of that hunger–a maw, opening wide in front of you to swallow you down like his curses, "I was going to let you have tonight."
"How merciful," you say, all heat and viciousness, all teeth. You jut your chin up, glare up into his face and say, "it doesn't matter. Like I told you; I will never be yours in any meaningful way."
The touch at your cheek becomes bigger, a palm that slides to the nape of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair. He holds you in a way that makes you feel the control, so you can feel the strength of his broad hand. The power in it. Horribly, it makes you feel small, too, to be cupped in his hands like that, to be guided.
His smile is lazy, almost aloof, like the sickle curved moon, but the burning of his eyes tells you differently. All violet heat, like the night sky swathed around that moon.
Tenderly, he promises, "I will strip you of your pride tonight. It will be the first thing you have to put down if you want anything good from me."
"I'll make you bleed," you promise back.
He laughs, low and soft and heated, before he says, "I'll tame you someday."
And he sways forward, lets his nose brush along yours, tilts your head up at the neck so your lips are offered to him like sacrifice, like a lamb.
"I'll kill you someday." You vow, just a whisper that brushes against his lips.
You can feel his smile when he kisses you, deep and slow and horribly burning. Leisurely, he forces you open, rolls his tongue into your mouth, forces you still, forces you to like it.
You feel your hands come up to tighten in his clothes, ruining them. You feel yourself go slack in his hold. You feel yourself warm to his touch, to his mouth, to his tongue.
For a fleeting moment, you wonder if he's trying to devour you, too, if he also thinks of you as his curse.
He bands an arm around your waist, forces you to press your bare body to his clothed one, fits his big hand along the curved cage of your ribs. And you feel–
You twist in his arms when you feel how hard he is, when it makes your stomach flip and then frightens you, when it makes heat swim up your chest and neck.
He can feel your shyness, moves his arm down to the dip of your waist to force your squirming still. He makes you feel him.
You part from his kiss, panting a little, pushing against him fitfully. He tightens like a snake around you, until you go still for him again.
"Undress me," he murmurs.
You swallow hard.
But with shaking fingers, you move to begin stripping him of his layers. Tanned, bare skin is revealed to you; silvery scars race and arc over his chest, along his shoulders and biceps. His stomach is toned, dark hair running down, further into–
You look away stubbornly when you get to his lower half. Your hands work blindly, until he says, "ah, ah, ah–" and he grabs your chin, makes you look at his face, makes you look down at your little hands near his stomach, near his hips– "Don't look away."
You swallow hard. You glare at your hands, heat rising swift and harsh to your chest, up your neck, to your cheeks. His clothes come away beneath your hands, leaving him bare, too.
You fight the urge to look away again.
"Touch me," he murmurs, watching your face, and you don't–you don't know why you listen. But as if possessed, you obey him.
He's hot to the touch, heavy in your hand, and you realize you can hardly breathe.
His intake of breath is sharp, coupled with your forced little exhale. You glare up into his face, jaw set tight with ire, face on fire. Embarrassed. Angry.
"Oh, if looks could kill." He hums, pressing his hips up into your hand. Uncertain but trying, you stroke slowly, carefully, get used to the feeling in your hand. "Such contempt on your face right now, wife."
"Enjoy it while it lasts," you try to snap, but your voice has gone thinner. You've lost some of your bite.
He laughs when he kisses you, meaner this time, teeth in your tender lip, his brutality like a slow ambling leopard. It's still leisurely, intimate in a way that is frightening, in a way that makes you feel like he's got you between his jaws.
He starts walking you back to the bed, crowding you, guiding you. And not for the first time, but certainly the most concerning time, do you realize how big and broad he is. Blindly, you let him urge you back. You let him lay down first, you let him take your hand, you let him–
"You want me–" on top? Your voice has a tremble in it.
"Scared?" He asks, tugging your hand, tugging you onto the bed. Over him. Holding your hand in his, laced fingers, palm to open palm.
"No, I just thought you'd want to–" You don't finish the sentence as you ease into straddling his waist, keeping up on your knees, away from him.
"Want to what? Say it."
You can feel your embarrassment come back up to strangle you.
"In what ways did you think I'd want you? Underneath me? Belly up and vulnerable? On your stomach with your back arched? On your side?" He asks and his voice is low, soft to your ears, but dark. One large hand of his grips your waist, fits itself around the curve, and forces you forward. You stumble a little, catch yourself on his chest.
"How did you think of this night? What way did you hope for?"
"None of them." You snap. "I don't want you."
"Liar." He says back, and he moves so his palm is on your lower abdomen, thumb moving dangerously close to the apex of your thighs, "if I touch you here, what will I find?"
You jerk away from his touch as if burned.
He readjusts his hold on your waist to force you still again as if dealing with an unruly child. This time, when his thumb swipes between your legs, it is through silken folds, slippery and gentle.
You strangle the moan that dares to bubble up, stifle it with an even smaller noise. He is so embarrassingly slow and careful with you, almost loving with the way he strokes, that you want to hide. You want to cling to him. You want to kill him.
"Ah, see? That's what I thought–" Suguru's thumb dips barley inside, and even that, just one finger, is bigger than what you're used to. His whole hand spans wide across your body. "–so wet for me."
You look away, attempting to bare it, teeth firmly stuck in your bottom lip. He never breaches you. Just strokes, slow and soft, painfully good and sweet, enough to make your hips cant a little. He doesn't say a word now, just listens to you breathe, to the small, slick sound between your legs.
It's so–
"I won't prep you more than that." He finally says and you feel your heart rabbit hard in the pit of your chest, like it might take off and run away from you. You look at his face. He must see your fear. "Unless you'd beg for my fingers inside you. Unless you'll beg me to be kind."
As if to emphasize, his thumb pauses, just outside, barely inside.
You can't bring yourself to ask for it. You won't beg. Even if you're shaking in his hold, even if you want to drop your hips a little, squirm until his thumb slips inside.
"Do what you want." You say again, stubborn and furious.
Suguru sighs lightly the way adults do with children. Have it your way, he seems to say, before he takes his hand away entirely. You watch as he fists himself, as he strokes himself easily. And then he's there, at the crux of your legs, and you panic a little because he's big and you remember the weight in your hand and–
"Wait–"
He forces you down onto him with one large hand gripping your waist. Your nails sink into his shoulders, body bowing forward as pain spasms through you, in you. You hiccup a breath, strangled, tears pricking your eyes sharply.
His mouth falls open, brows drawing together in mock sympathy for you. "Oh, you should've swallowed your pride, wife."
You whimper. He hisses.
"Maybe there is something you're useful for," he breathes, fingers flexing in your waist, moving to your back and then lower to grab and ease you up, ease you back down. You can feel him now, through the pain, deep and heavy inside of you. It's so raw, so strange and vulnerable, that you can't help the sudden swell of emotions.
Searing anger. Shameful arousal. Lingering fear. They all blend and blur.
He curses softly against your temple, "–knew, if nothing else, that you'd be good for this–"
Bastard.
You strike him with an open palm.
It cracks against his cheek, whips his face to the side. His cheek blossoms all hot and pink with it instantly. Satisfaction sinks into you. You feel him twitch inside you, feel your stomach flip with the look on his face.
He laughs, seizes you in a kiss, forces you down deeper onto him, "–knew you'd be perfect. Knew for how wretched you were that you'd be perfect for me." He says against your open mouth.
He lifts you, drops you onto him even slower, not to mitigate the pain by suspend it. You can tell he's being cruel, grinding you down onto him, trying to etch the feeling of him like this inside you forever.
You can't even speak and you force any noise that might come out of you down, down into the depths of you. You can feel your walls cling to him, latched tight, fluttering desperately. You can feel the way he burrows himself so deep inside you that you might be sick with him. You try so hard to breathe, to bear it, to take it. But it's too much–it's too much–
A small sob finally bursts out of you, shameful and tender.
"Wrap your arms around me." He commands, soft, almost a coo.
You don't know what to do but obey, wrap your arms tight around his neck, chest to chest, press yourself as close and desperately to him as you can. You tuck your heated, angry face into the crook of his neck, tears finally rushing hot and quick down your cheeks.
"I hate you," you cry into his skin, mouthing there, teething there. He controls you as you go limp in his arms, lifting and dropping your hips onto him like you weigh nothing. "I hate you."
"I know," he hushes, consoling you, one hand soothing over your back, "I know."
He tries to pull away fractionally, just to look at you, but you whine and cling harder, nails digging into the skin of his back.
"Look at me, darling," he says again and tentatively, you peak at him through your angry tears, brows furrowed, glare firmly marring your sweet face. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, burning into you, and says;
"I will be the only person to hurt you like this. I will be the only person to soothe you like this."
It's a command. It's a vow.
You let your hand slip into his long, dark hair, tangle in it until it's a small fist. You pull to tilt his head back up to you, move your hips on your own finally, rock them tentatively, a small, aborted motion. And then you say, through your tears, through your anger and shame;
"And I'll be the only one you ever want like this. The only one you can't have fully."
"I have you now." He rasps, a little enamored, a little slack jawed.
You shake your head fractionally, lip curled, maybe in pain, in anger, "I don't love you. I won't ever love you."
You can tell this does something to him, hurts him in a way that he isn't prepared for. You aren't prepared for it, either, the look on his face. The way he kisses you after that, like he's trying to win you over, like he's trying to soothe you, just like he said he would.
"I don't need your love," he murmurs, spit-slick against your lips. Your hips stutter a little.
"Liar," you echo him and it's your turn to smile a little against his lips, the curve of it mean, your eyes still glossy with tears as the next roll of your hips becomes more sure.
You finally let out a little moan and he hums, "there, that's it, starting to feel better?"
And then, "maybe. Maybe this is all you're good for–"
A moan punches out of him.
He thrusts up into you this time, hard, a little spiteful. You yelp, tears stinging, and he kisses you as if to half-heartedly apologize.
You curl around him again, though, and he doesn't even need to guide your hips anymore. It still aches, in the core of you, throbs in pain, but it's beginning to feel syrupy and warm, the feeling of fullness becoming familiar. Almost welcome. A burning type of pleasure that you start to ease into.
You bite into his throat. You tell him how terrible he is, you dig your nails into his back, you warn him not to get used to this.
He kisses you hard and slow. He tries to own you. He let's you ride him, take from him, give to him. He draws his tongue over his teeth marks in your skin.
He builds you up, finally touches your breasts, your body, his hands feverish and scorching over you. He finally gives in to what he wants, gives in to your pleasure, lets you roll your hips in a way that has you crying out–in pain, in pleasure, in some horrible combination of both.
You can feel it all build in you, feel it all balloon beneath your skin, hot and too big for your own body. Too much. You need more, need just a little more–
You get just shy of begging, but don't, bite your tongue until it bleeds, let him lick into your mouth and taste it.
"So stubborn," he grunts against your throat, "I know you like this. I know what you want from me." And then, "is it everything you thought of? Or should I fuck you on your back? Press you down into the bed and–"
"You're vile," you moan brokenly, half cry, "you wish."
And when he forces you down into his lap, digs his face into the crook of your neck, into your hair, and comes deep inside you, you think it might be over. He groans into your skin, grips you so tight you're certain you'll bruise.
Whatever pleasure that had been growing inside of you comes to a frustrating halt. Your hips twitch, unsatisfied, seeking.
You can't decide if you're disappointed or relieved. You hold him against your chest, hands in his hair, body shivering. He holds you back, let's you squirm a little, let's you get used to the feeling of him filling you like this.
You try to move first but he tightens his hold on you and once more you are reminded of a snake constricting it's prey into stillness. You go limp again and that seems to appease him. He lays you back, into the bed. Into your wedding bed.
He pulls out of you slowly, gently this time, and it still makes you whine in pain. It still makes you wince. You're going to be so sore tomorrow–
At this point, you expect him to roll over and go to sleep.
But he kisses you tenderly, open-mouthed, tongue soft and pressing into yours. Seeking. Heat rekindles. He teases, drowns you in his lazy sort of affection; like he has forever to please you, like it is all he was meant for.
And then his lips cascade downwards, with his tongue trailing over your chest, and right over the bud of your breast to catch it in his mouth. So warm and soft, enough to make you arch a little, enough to make your hands come back up into his hair. You bite your lip but your hips twitch.
Dissatisfaction builds in you, squirms under your skin. It makes you become fitful in his arms, beneath the attentive warmth of his mouth. He moans a little around your breast when you pull on his hair. He rolls his eyes up to you lazily, half-lidded, almost asleep.
He is strangely content now, for all his unnerving, crackling energy. That restlessness that seems to live deep inside of him is soothed for the moment, with you beneath him, in his mouth.
His lips travel lower, over your stomach. You know it's a mess, can't imagine why he would ever–
"Suguru," you say and the fear in your voice is palpable. He pays you no mind, "Suguru–"
When his mouth opens against your core, warm and soft and wet, you aren't expecting it. You jolt a little but he's got his arms around your thighs, forces you open.
"Hold still for me, darling." And the lull of his voice does something to you, coaxes you to relax in his hold again. He hums lightly, "that's my girl. Going to let me enjoy you now? Suddenly quiet, aren't we?" he muses.
You glare down at him but it's lost a lot of the heat of your anger. Still, you say stubbornly, "just do what you want."
His lips quirk up and you feel it, feel it against your core when he drops a brief open-mouthed kiss there. A noise works out of you, small and desperate and unable to be kept down.
He tongues at you slowly, through soft ribbons of flesh, gentle and sweet. Adoring. He looks up at you with plum dark eyes, lashes fanning over his cheek.
He does what he should've done first.
You realize dully, faintly, through the haze of your mind, that he's done it purposefully. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to soothe you after.
And you are sore, aching horribly, but his mouth is so warm and soft, so eager and strange as it moves against you.
“I’ll make you feel better now,” he murmurs, “I’ll chase away the pain.”
He licks long and flat stripes up and down, making a mess, making you burn. Making you love it. Making you hate it.
You twist a little in his hold, start to get desperate for it. You fist your hands in his long hair, twine them around your fingers to pull, to feel the rumbling purr of his moan against you.
You try to resist maybe, at first, the peak he's bringing you to. The pleasure he's giving you. But then it sneaks up on you and suddenly your breathing hitches all tight.
And he stops.
You look down at him. His mouth is on your inner thigh. His eyes flick up to you. He watches you keenly, like a cat, and waits.
He bites into the flesh of your thigh, sucks a love bite into it. Leaves the marks of his teeth in your skin. And when your breathing has slowed enough, he moves his mouth back to your center.
His tongue lolls out again, sliver of pink muscle darting out to taste you again. You whimper. You throw your head back. You give in to this one easily. He works harder, gets a little rougher, tongue moving quicker.
But then he's gone again, when you're about to fall over that edge. This time, you sit up onto your elbows to look at him. He quirks a brow at you, mouth all over your thigh again.
"Something wrong?" He asks, dropping a messy kiss to your core.
"Suguru, stop it–"
"Stop what? You said do as I please and I am."
He opens his mouth against your center again, scorching hot, dirty in a way that makes you keen sharp and high. You tilt your hips up into his mouth this time, offer yourself willingly, open yourself to him. His tongue delves inside, squirms and pushes and slides through you. It's almost gross– too vulnerable, too close, and makes your eyes slam shut.
He muffles a soft laugh, you can feel it against you, can feel the flush of your embarrassment and annoyance.
He pulls away. This time your glare is pointed. Sharper.
"Say what you want." Suguru says. "And I'll give it to you."
You stare hard at him, chest heaving, face overcome with heat. Your pleasure ebbs away, held back.
He does it again. Mouth on you. Thumb holding you open, dipping inside barely again. He pulls away when you move at all, when you allow yourself to give in.
You come down again. You get built up again. Until he finally presses his thumb inside, makes his tongue roll slow and tender against you.
His name comes out, desperate, almost pleading–
He stops.
And this time, frustrated tears rush back to your eyes.
"Stop it," you try to snap, but its wet and soft sounding, a little cry.
"Poor thing," he coos, "but you know what you have to do."
"I hate you."
He smiles like the cat that has got the canary between his sharp, sharp teeth.
"C'mon, it's not so bad–"
You grit your teeth. You try to breathe. He tongues at you again, slow and soft and teasing.
"Just let it go, let go of your pride and ask me. I'll indulge you. I'll give it to you." He opens his mouth against you again, adds pressure, adds suction, adds a finger inside you again. You twist, desperate, so close it hurts.
He draws off you again.
"Let go of your pride and I'll give you everything." He murmurs.
And again he builds you up and again you refuse to give in. Again and again until you're outright crying, until you're heaving with it, until you're just a live-wire, an aching, open wound.
And again he does it, adjusts so he sits up with you, so you're near bent in half, so he can look down at you now. It's so horrible, it's so embarrassing–
One more. He knows it, can feel it, hear it in your little hitching sobs.
And then finally, finally;
"Suguru, please–please, I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry–"
It hits you so hard that all you can manage is a strangled gasp. Your peak is a head rush, a full body surge, a wave that goes still for a moment before crashing hard and fast. You cry openly, twist in his hold, let him lay you back down, let him guide you through it. You pulse and burst on his tongue, throbbing, aching in a way you've never felt before.
"Good girl," he rumbles, and it's so–it's so proud. It's so condescending. You want to be mad. You want to push him away and scratch and kick and bite, but when he holds you, you just cry. And cry. And he kisses you hard on the mouth again so you can taste yourself. He says it again while you're still mindless, "good girl. That's it–that's my girl. My good little wife."
"You're the worst," you get out, even as you let him bundle you into his arms.
"I know–I know." He hushes. "And I'll be worse still."
When you feel his fingers prod gently at your entrance, you start fighting him a little, "no–no, I'm done–I can't–"
"Yes, you can." He hums, "because I said so. Because I want you to."
His fingers slip in gently, so big, bigger than your own. Two feel like such a stretch and all he does is move them slow and crooked. You whimper, tears leaking out, cascading down your cheeks.
And he makes you come like that, too. And again on his mouth. The next all he does is fit his thigh between your legs, while he kisses you slow. Humiliates you. Strips you of all your dignity. For the last time, he lines himself back up, let's his length slip through your folds a few times. He watches himself against you, admires how deep he must reach in you, how wet you are for him.
You're so swollen. So sore and tired. You barely realize it at first. And then you feel the head of him catch and you stir, "wait–no, no–please, I can't–!" You hiccup.
He fills you in one smooth thrust. Makes you claw down into his back until you're sure you've drawn blood. You wail a little, embarrassingly, into his throat. You claw and fuss and fight him this time, renewed a little, feeling him root down inside of you.
He kisses at your tears, tastes them, "Look at you–" he husks, "crying like this for me. Look at the mess I've made out of you. Not so proud now, are we?"
He kisses your palm that tries to push his face away.
He bites your tender lip. He takes your hands in his own and laces his finger between yours to force them down onto the bed. He quells your fight. He ruts into you deep and hard.
He does that until you come again, so brutally around him that all you can do is tremble in his arms, that you feel as if you've fractured apart into little pieces. Your walls get so tight that he can't help himself, starts to babble a little, thrusts growing reckless;
"I'm never letting you go–you'll be mine if it's the last thing I do. I'm going to covet you. I'm going to ruin you, I'm going to fucking ruin you–"
You bite his shoulder so viciously that you start to taste blood.
He grabs your jaw, he squeezes until it hurts. He squeezes until you release.
"I'm the only thing you have now." He growls, thrusts turning mean, ruthless. Desperate. "I'll be the only thing you'll ever have now."
You glare through your tears, and get out his name, and then you croak, "I've already ruined you–look at you. Look at you."
A few more artless thrusts and he comes with a broken groan, raw, against your jumping pulse. You feel him fill you again, deep, and warm. Strangely soothing after everything, after all of it. You go slack for a moment as you heave, as you feel him breathe against your chest.
And this time he is done. This time, he holds you, even when you try to weakly push him away.
"Stop fussing," he scolds softly, stroking slow over your sides, petting you, soothing you. You feel so boneless that you listen, settle down into the bed, into his touch, into his weight still atop you.
He's weakened you to him, stripped you down so you're limp and exhausted, and in need of care. His care.
He bathes you. And before that, he makes you wrap your arms around him to carry you to the bathroom. He doesn't carry you like a bride but with your arms around his neck, with your legs around his waist, wants you to nose into his throat, to be pressed fully to him. He doesn't allow you something so dignified as being carried like a bride.
And he doesn't allow you privacy, either, not to use the bathroom or to clean yourself. He does it for you. You think about asking him to leave you. You think about begging him. You swallow it down and can't decide if it's pride now that holds your tongue or something else. If it's worse to beg now or if it's worse to be cared for like this. You can't decide if it's more embarrassing to ask him to leave or to let him stay and see it all.
He sits in the tub with you and wipes your tears. He runs the warm water over your shoulders, along your arms. He cleans inside you, even when you make a noise of protest.
He shushes you gently as his fingers delve into you again, "just settle. Relax." And when you go limp against him, head on his shoulder, he praises you in low, soft tones, "that's it–there. That's all, darling."
He is surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly subdued and at peace while he cares for you.
He dries you. He carries you back to bed. You're sore and tender, can feel all his marks and bites and the ache between your legs now very acutely.
He lays atop you, head on your chest, limbs thrown around you. You allow your hands to delve into his hair and you realize much of what he said is true;
He is all you have now. And the sorcery world is to blame, the ones who outcasted you and your family. Him.
Shyly, you draw a finger over the line of his brow, the slope of his nose. He is all you have. He is who you're stuck with, for better or for worse. You let it settle in you, deep and unmoving.
He is all you have.
You hold him tighter, know that maybe he could ruin you or that you could ruin him. You hold him tighter and know that he'll be yours. Or maybe you'll be his.
But more importantly, you know that he could ruin for you. He could ruin all of them.
As if possessed, you whisper it.
You whisper what you want him to become in his ear, as you trace over the scratches and the bites and the wounds. As you hold him to you. As you willingly wrap you arms around him. You tell him you want him to become a monster. You want him to avenge you, avenge himself, to tear it all down. You give him all your ire and contempt. You give him everything ugly while he sleeps and dreams and sighs into your neck.
You poison him. You curse him.
You will ruin them all. You will be something powerful. Something horrible. You will change everything. You will ruin everything.
All I have to do is ask, you think. All I have to do is ask.
note: this is officially my longest fic, I literally could not stop thinking about this angel of a man and he's just so so so big. I look at him and all my brain can think is '....big' im so dumb for this man. also I tagged literally everyone who has ever interacted with me about jiraiya, sorry y'all
For one of the greatest shinobi of all time, it's surprisingly easy to forget how big Jiraiya is.
He's practically a wall, an impenetrable wall constructed from bricks of muscle stacked on top of each other until they tower over anyone and anything that approaches. His robes and scrolls and three-inch sandals fortify that strength; they add another layer of power below the wild mane and spiked protector atop his head -- a crown befitting a steadfast, indomitable king.
Jiraiya is massive.
And yet, despite his rock-hard body, despite how he has to arc his neck down to look at you, despite his ability to navigate a crowd like a God parting waves, you always manage to forget that fact.
Years of clandestine missions have sewn grace into the sinewy muscle. His body seems destined to be a clumsy mess, tripping over itself and running into the smaller, lesser peons around him. But Jiraiya is nothing if not lithe with quick feet only matched by his quicker wit.
In fact, it seems like every part of his personality is meant to ingratiate the legendary Jiraiya the Gallant into a world that's far too small for a man like him: an inviting smile that disarms even the most nervous of conversationalists, poorly-timed jabs that help him be the butt of the joke, a contagious ease that allows a less powerful person to safely and comfortably tell him to fuck off (quite frequently, in fact, but less often than most like to think).
It's so easy to forget who Jiraiya is. It's so easy to forget that he is one of the three legendary Sannin. It's so easy to forget that, if he chose, Jiraiya could demolish mountains and destroy villages without breaking a sweat.
It's so easy to forget that. Usually.
But when he's above you like this, when his body covers yours and his jasmine-scented hair curtains your face, you can't think about anything else. It's like he does everything he can to overwhelm your senses: The way he noses at your jaw, the messy kisses he lines down your throat, the surge of his clothed cock against your bare cunt -- all with one big hand holding you at the small of your back and the other grabbing at any skin he can find. He's just...
So fucking big.
"What was that, sweetheart?" Jiraiya's lips curl up against your pulse point and he makes an effort to grind against your clit, just so he can hear that cute little half-moan, half-intelligible thought that comes out of your mouth. "I'm big? Is that it?"
You can only manage a weak uh-huh with a soft nod but that's enough for Jiraiya. He pulls back as far as you'll allow, just enough so his sharp eyes can meet your own glassy ones. But you can still see the playful smile on his lips.
"You're gonna break my heart, princess," he teases. He makes as if he's about to stand up, as if he's about to leave you on the soaked sheets, your dripping cunt left wanting -- "I don't want you to get stuck with a man who's too big for you." -- but you tug him back down by his hair and try your hardest to not roll your eyes at his giddy, smug laugh.
Jiraiya's lips are like the rest of him. Plump and firm and seeming to encompass both of yours easily. They're sure in their movements, whether he's using them to actually speak or do unspeakable things to your body. The low timbre of his voice makes you shiver when he's this close. He hums into your mouth, a pleasant sound, one that reminds you of comfort, of home.
It doesn't matter how many men you've seen, how many men you've felt. Jiraiya is another beast entirely.
He notices everything, saves every little twitch and moan in his mind so he can use them against you until you're both spent and exhausted. He savors you, unwilling and unable to cave to baser urges until he deems it necessary. He's impossible to coerce, not when he's with something as precious as you. Jiraiya knows best. And even if you sometimes beg and plead, you know that as well as him.
He takes his time taking you apart, piece by piece, heart set on dismantling you methodically just so he can build you back how he sees fit. Even though you've spent the past half hour begging him to undress, to remove the rest of his clothes as he did with his tunic lying on the floor, Jiraiya hasn't budged. He'd much rather tease you, much rather rut against your core until you soak through the fabric of his pants, much rather kiss and choke and lick your throat until you can't quite form a proper word.
Jiraiya would much rather ruin you before the main course even begins. He'd prefer to take his time, to savor your skin, your mouth, your pussy in a way that you'd never allow him if you had your way. Like how you keen against him right now. You can beg all you want, but Jiraiya is patient.
Please.
Need you.
Feel so empty.
The words only inflate his ego -- a justifiable ego that is as big as the rest of him and is far too often ignored. But the rush of power to his brain spreads to his loins. The way you grasp at his bare back and arch into his chest makes his mind go blank in a way only you can manage.
"Patience, kid," Jiraiya chides against your lips. He grabs one of your wrists, makes sure your eyes are on his hand as he engulfs it, and pins it by your ear before he repeats the motion with your other hand. "You trust me, don't you?"
You bite your lip and nod.
Fuck, if that isn't a power trip for Jiraiya. The sight of a younger woman trembling below him, arching into his aged body, begging for any scrap of his attention is enough for him to lose control. But he manages. He remembers the countless women he's had below him, the countless women he's given nights of ecstasy. If there's one thing in this fragile world that deserves reverence, Jiraiya thinks, it's the body of a woman.
But you're still here. You're still clinging to him, needing him, trusting him even after that first night. You're like a goddamn virgin underneath his hands, like you haven't been touched before (though Jiraiya supposes you might have never been touched right).
He brings an air of levity to such a carnal act. He laughs and talks and smiles in a way that no other man seems to manage. But in Jiraiya's head, you're something else entirely -- something totally separated from the usual, something that can completely engulf his mind. He's never touched youthful skin that felt so... familiar, like coming home -- something Jiraiya's never truly had.
Fuck -- Jiraiya would live in your pussy if you'd let him.
So when he asks if you trust him and you just nod, so sweet, so honest, and stare at him with those wide eyes, he can't help smiling. His free hand moves up your body until two fingers prod at your half-open lips and Jiraiya swears he can't get harder when you part them so easily and moan at the taste.
"What a good girl." His voice is caught somewhere between fondness and condescension and the syrupy, deep sound makes your eyes glaze over. He presses down on your tongue, pushes further until you take him to his knuckles.
Jiraiya's breath picks up when he sees you like this, almost blissed-out without a single touch to your needy little cunt, just overwhelmed and drunk on him. And he wants to do anything he can to make that worse.
A third finger joins the other two and you can't stop the trickle of drool that spills past your lips but you can't find it in yourself to care -- not when Jiraiya stoops down lower, not when he's breathing at the shell of your ear and filling up your mouth so perfectly, not when he opens his mouth and tells you the three words that make you keen so pretty and just for him:
"My good girl."
You whimper at the praise, at his insistence that you're good, that you're his. Because that's what it feels like. When Jiraiya infiltrates your every sense like this, you feel claimed. There's nowhere you belong besides square underneath his thumping heart.
He takes his time fucking your mouth with his fingers, never enough to make you gag, just enough to fill at least one of your needy holes. Just enough to remind you of what he can do.
But no man is completely impervious to desire. And Jiraiya can't stop himself when he slides his other hand from underneath your back and winds it down your body, tracing his fingertips over your clenching, dripping hole, teasing you until he can fit one, until he can fit two, until he can fit three -- until he can mirror his movements at both ends of your body.
Jiraiya supposes most would be surprised that he can reduce you to this state. He's the Pervy Sage after all, the man who (supposedly) strikes out nearly every day. And Jiraiya is just fine with that assumption. He's not one to lord his proudest conquests, to add the image of you cumming until you physically can't to his already impressive resume.
The truth is that those decades of experience don't only apply to his ability as a great shinobi. His years of pleasing women are obvious when you're underneath him, and he can't think of a better way to put his skills to use than taking apart a pretty little thing like you every single night.
Thick strings of drool connect Jiraiya's fingertips to your lips when he finally finishes using your mouth. The mess is delicious but not as delicious as the slick that coats his other hand. He licks his lips at the sight, almost swallows them whole, but controls himself. He wants -- he needs -- to treat you like you deserve. Even if that means giving something up for himself.
And what greater sacrifice could Jiraiya make than the mouth-watering taste of your pussy?
He changes hands, stuffing your aching cunt with his spit-soaked fingers and petting over your tongue with your own juices. He smiles down at you as you take him so well.
"That's it." Jiraiya is nearly purring with pride. He angles the wrist between your legs up, touching your walls where only he can reach until your heels kick out and you arch under his chest. "Tastes good, doesn't it, sweetheart?" You moan in agreement around his fingers and he chuckles.
As much as Jiraiya loves ruining you, that toxic tendril of jealousy boils up in his throat as you slobber over your taste. Your throat and pussy take him so well, making room for his size and welcoming him whole. The sensation goes straight to his cock -- it's an unbearable tightness underneath his clothes. But it's not the desire to sheath himself inside you that's causing Jiraiya so much stress. No, he needs to taste you, to drink you like a man in the desert.
You whine when he pulls both hands away. God, you're too fucking cute. Jiraiya wipes your drool on your cheek, spreading it with his thumb while he lets you nuzzle into his palm, into his hand that could swallow you up if he's not careful. But he doesn't spare a second, doesn't let you come down from the onslaught of sensation. Rather, he wraps his slick-coated hand around your throat and squeezes the sides.
"Look at you," Jiraiya says. If you were anywhere close to sanity, you might detect the hint of strain in his voice. Your pulse races under his touch and Jiraiya's head feels dizzy. "Just a needy little thing." He presses down harder.
"Look at you," he repeats. "Getting like this for an old man like me." Jiraiya laughs. "Must be doing something right, huh?"
He's infuriating, how he drags out your misery like this. You stake your heels into the small of his back in a futile attempt to pull him closer.
"Jiraiya," you whine. "W-why'd you... Why'd you stop?"
Your eyes can't focus but you can tell by the pomp in his voice that he's taken on his favorite lecturing posture. How can he sound so casual when he has a hand on your throat?
"I just can't let you taste yourself like that -- not when I'm all the way up here," he explains. He cocks his head. "You don't mind, do you, sweetheart?"
He's already inching himself down your body, kissing each bit of skin he finds along the way. When he finally arrives at your core, when his breath skates across your sensitive lips, he peeks back at your fucked-out face.
"You don't mind if I indulge a little?" Jiraiya asks with the hint of a smile along his lips. "It is my favorite meal, after all."
He doesn't wait for your answer. His lips are wrapped around your clit before you can even force out a syllable. He sucks hard, not pulling away until he needs a breath.
Jiraiya holds you down so easily. You can try to writhe away from his hot tongue all you want but he keeps your center still with just a single hand against your stomach. He giggles when your hips seem to buck towards and away from him at the same time and just pushes down harder as he slips his tongue in your hole.
He sounds like a kid eating a popsicle, slurping and licking and giggling straight against your cunt. If you didn't know better, you'd think he was glued to you as he easily follows your every twitch and thrash. Jiraiya sounds filthy. He always does. Shame doesn't suit a legend like Jiraiya. And where else should someone be shameless if not nose-deep inside a beautiful woman?
The way Jiraiya feasts on your cunt is mind-numbing. His too-big tongue fucks your hole like his cock, his too-big hands keep your thighs flush against his ears, his too-big hair sticks up in odd places as he shakes his head and spreads your mess across the bottom half of his face. He works without a goal, without a destination, just accepts his fate as a desperate addict. And he doesn't leave you anything to do except take it.
Your face heats up when you watch him (and your cunt clenches down). The brazen way he keeps his tongue flat and licks at your leaking lips, keeping his mouth still while he angles his neck up and down -- he's like a dog, you think -- almost makes you cover your eyes. You would... but how could you look anywhere else?
He's just as talkative as usual, even if most of his words are muffled between loud slurps and moans of delight. You catch bits and pieces here and there, mostly when he reluctantly comes up to breathe.
I could live between these thighs, princess, I swear.
Oh-ho, you liked that, baby? No? Let me try again.
Why're you trying to run away, sweetheart? You wouldn't want a man to starve, would you?
When Jiraiya senses your restlessness, when you're tugging at his hair and trying to hump against his tongue, against his nose, he finally pries his fingers off the meat of your thigh. It's so easy to slide three fingers inside you when you're this wet, so easy to arc them up, so easy to make you convulse around his hand while he sucks at your clit like his life depends on it. Because there's one thing Jiraiya loves more than your taste, it's making you cum straight into his mouth.
You swear he's chanting a muffled verse, a muted plea for you to c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, let go for me, sweetheart, make a mess, that's it but you can't focus on the sound. Your ears are overtaken by the deafening rush of blood as you snap on Jiraiya's fingers, winding your own into the mane of white on his head and rutting against his face.
If you looked down, you'd find him grinning as you release, as you let go and squirt over his chin, his mouth, his nose when he sucks too hard and flips his tongue on your aching clit over and over and over again. By the time you finally come down to earth, chest heaving, Jiraiya's face is covered in your slick and he graces you with an ecstatic grin.
He climbs back over your body, covering you once again, before he pulls you into a messy kiss, petting his tongue over yours so you can taste yourself -- so you can taste what he does to you.
He beams down at you when he finally pulls off of your tongue, cock twitching at your spent, satisfied sigh. Your mouth is still open and before he can stop himself, Jiraiya is pursing his lips and letting a string of spit drip in your mouth. He swears he's dreaming at the way you swallow so eagerly, accepting any part of himself he's willing to give.
That's my good girl.
He knows you can't do much more than be a good little toy, knows you can't do much more than take what he gives you. And Jiraiya wouldn't have it any other way.
He never understood why men complained about taking the time to make a woman shake and quiver and cum her brains out. How is that reaction anything but a gift? The fruits of his labor are right in front of him: his pretty little toy, so open and pliable, laid out like an offering that only he will ever be able to taste.
"C'mere," Jiraiya murmurs. He slides his arms under your back and holds your limp body to his chest until you finally bring a weak hand to his back, trying to keep him closer. Your brain is barely functioning, that much you can tell when all you can think about is how big his shoulders are, how your hand can barely reach the middle of his back when one of his arms can wrap around your entire body. You moan and nuzzle into the sculpted, scarred pectoral at your cheek.
Even though your walls are still clenching with aftershocks, the thought reignites the coals in the pit of your stomach. Jiraiya brings something out in your soul, something carnal, and you can't help but press your clit against his hard thigh. Jiraiya laughs.
"Not enough for you, sweetheart?" he teases. "Need more of Jiraiya the Gallant?"
In a moment like this, Jiraiya does feel like one of his greatest characters. There's no rush, no battle, that could make him feel more alive than he does right now.
You can barely get anything out besides a faint please but that's more than enough for Jiraiya. He's fast, flipping himself on his back and taking you with him. In the back of his mind, he wonders if he should have taken his pants off completely but he'll settle for unlacing them without complaint.
You're malleable like this, unquestioning and grateful when he nudges his cock against your slit. He knows you're prepped, knows you'd open up so beautifully for him but Jiraiya thinks waiting just a little longer to truly indulge won't hurt -- even if you're begging for him.
You're a bit fussy but nothing Jiraiya can't handle. He shushes you gently when you try to push yourself up with shaky arms -- a laughable attempt at trying to take control -- and pulls you flush against his chest. No use in letting you try, not when he's the one who makes you feel this good.
A hand comes behind your head, tucking your face into his neck while the other engulfs your hip, steeling it in his grip so he can slide you against his cock how he wants.
"That's it," he praises. You whimper. "Now doesn't that feel good?" You can't lie; you can't do anything but nod. Jiraiya groans at how his tip catches on your needy hole. "Just slow down a bit, sweetheart. Really feel it."
Jiraiya is a master at reducing your entire universe to a single pinpoint. Nothing exists in this moment beyond the feel of his cock against your lips and you can't think of anywhere you'd rather be.
Jiraiya's patience starts to slip and he tentatively angles his hips up, lets his cock slide into you by just an inch. You cling to the sensitive head, force him to exhale through his teeth. He knows you want to sink down onto him. And while he knows you can take it -- you have so many times before -- he still has that lingering hint of doubt in the back of his mind. He feels like he's splitting you in half with just the tip of his cock. How do you handle him over and over without breaking in two?
You make such beautiful music for him, squirming and whining and arching your back as if you know better than the legend that lays below you. It's cute. Jiraiya loves to play with you, loves to ease back into the soft pillows just like this and give you a tiny taste of his massive cock.
"Careful, kid. You're gonna hurt yourself." He presses an extra inch into you, in a sadistic show of mercy. "Just let the master take the lead, yeah?"
How he manages to keep such a playful tone is beyond you. You suppose the years of undercover missions have given him the ability to keep his head cool under pressure. But Jiraiya's never felt a pressure quite like the tight clench of your pussy and he's losing his control by the second.
"J-Jiraiya," you stutter. "Jiraiya, please." You wish you could be more eloquent, could fully articulate that if you don't feel his cock soon, you might combust on top of him but you can only manage the simplest of words.
Luckily, that's all Jiraiya needs.
Well, because you asked so nicely...
He spears you down on his cock, forces your pussy to open up for him in one fluid motion. When you finally meet his pelvis with a loud squelch, you can't do much else beyond dig your nails into his chest, bite at his pulse point, and let out a relieved thank you that you don't even realize left your lips.
Jiraiya hums while he savors your tightness. He brings both of his hands to your hips, pulling you almost all of the way off his cock, and yanks you back down.
Your scream is one of instinct, a carnal thing that makes Jiraiya shake underneath you.
"Oh, fuck, sweetheart." His fingertips dig into your skin as he repeats the motion. "Th-that what you wanted?"
You manage to nod but the words spill over your tongue before you can help yourself.
"B-big," you stammer. "Jiraiya... t-too -- you're so big."
Fuck.
Jiraiya tastes iron in his mouth before he realizes that he's bitten his tongue. He almost pulls you up again but decides to push back, to draw you over his cock, back and forth, to grind against your back walls so you convulse and shake and beg for more.
"That's right." Jiraiya's voice pitches down almost an entire octave; you can feel it rumble in his chest. "That's right, baby. Just feel it. Feel that big cock, princess."
And you do. You don't think you'll ever be able to feel anything else. The cooed praise in your ear, the constant refrain of what a good girl, is enough to make you go insane. You're not sure if you want to drool or scream or weep so you settle for clinging to his broad shoulders and humping across his lap as much as he'll allow.
Jiraiya loves how you keen at his sugarcoated words, squirming and speared between the filth on his tongue and the mess where your bodies meet. One of his hands leaves your skin to prod at your parted lips, his attempt to calm you down just enough to keep you still. And as you suckle at his fingers, Jiraiya can't stop telling you how fucking perfect you are for letting him ruin you like this.
You're dripping all over me, sweetheart. Can you hear it? Can't even help it either -- just need my cock that bad, huh?
So good, such a good girl for me. Such a good girl for letting an old man like me have you. 'S the best pussy I've ever had, this tight little cunt sucks me in so well.
Squeezing me so tight, kid. Don't wanna let me out -- that it? Careful or you're gonna give me a heart attack. Gonna -- fuck -- gonna make this old heart give out. Don't worry, gonna take care of you first, promise. Just gotta take this big cock, just lemme make you feel good.
Nice and full, yeah? All stuffed full? Tch, look at you. Sayin' I'm too big and still begging for more.
You're so pretty, the way you allow him to grind you against his cock. But your needy mewls and unintelligible pleas are nothing compared to the way you fall apart on him, the way you squeeze his cock so tight, Jiraiya isn't sure if he'll ever be able to pull out.
Your cunt holds onto him, greedy for his cum but it's the way you whimper his name that makes Jiraiya lose control, spilling himself inside you and coating your insides until there's nothing left untouched by him. He pushes and pulls you on his cock, bucking his hips up so his tip kisses the back of your walls, letting out heaving, stuttering breaths as he falls apart.
His heart is racing as he comes down from his high, suddenly aware at how you lay on his chest, limp and shaking and nuzzling at his neck. Even sweaty and exhausted, you somehow manage to be the most beautiful thing Jiraiya's ever seen.
Jiraiya sighs, a content, pleased sound, as he wraps his arms around your back to pull you tight to his skin. He's warmth and comfort and home in a single body.
It's easy to forget how big Jiraiya is, you think as you listen to his pulse under your ear. But as his heart thumps in time with your breathing, you're positive that you're not going to forget again.
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{ demon!mahito x fem!virgin!reader / junpei yoshino x fem!virgin!reader } { 20k words }
៚ · SPOOKTOBER MASTER LIST | PLAYLIST
៚ · there is nothing more romantic than giving your high school sweetheart your virginity, right? well, what happens when he gives it to the devil instead?
⌾๑ˊૢᵕˋૢ๑ warning! { dubcon , violence/gore , murder , blood, devil worshiping/summoning , resurrection , virginity loss, virgin sacrifice , light degradation , humiliation , oral (fem receiving) , rough sex , cuckolding , claiming/marking , creampie , biting , squirting , blood kink , overstimulation , mindbreak , dacryphilia , dumbification , size difference , power dynamic }
"You don't think it's..." Your fingers smooth over the ivory silk, tips tickled by the fine threads, and your flesh burning with a fire you had not even realized been set until, after Junpei took your wrists to seize the excessive running of your hands over the wrinkles in the front of the slip, you recognized the great contrast in temperature between your warm palms and the cool of Junpei's.
The more you eye yourself in his mirror, unsurely twirling back and forth in the provocative slip dress that, if it were not for how it semi-modestly comes down to your knees, would have been too much, the more self-conscious you begin to feel. You touch the laced hem, finger the plunging neckline, and twist the spaghetti straps but with no success in finding what disturbs the otherwise classy lingerie.
You look, in some odd way, absolutely stunning, and yet, somehow, you find yourself repulsed by the sight. Perhaps it's the fact that the ivory does so little for your eyes, or maybe it's just the lighting in the room not letting you get the full essence of the dress — whatever it is, you find yourself curling in on your body, and shying away from your reflection.
"Maybe there is still time to exchange it, yeah?" You ask with a lilt of hope, turning on your heel to face Junpei who, up until this point, had been sitting on the corner of his bed as you stepped into the gift. He stands taller than you now, raven strands of hair messily dusting his jaw and his eyes burning deep, searing holes into your own — the sparkle you had in your pupils begins to dull.
His fingers are like tiny icicles as they scrape along your biceps, giving the soft skin a reassuring squeeze that has the hairs at your neck standing. He is always so cold, every touch as if the crisp winter wind is biting you again for the first time. It makes you feel all the barer, and your arms cross over one another as a makeshift shield.
The truth of the matter is that, despite asking, you are certain that any sort of last-minute trip would be remotely impossible, and so hearing him shut you down is far less disappointing than it could have been, "You know," His voice is sullen despite the gentle dragging of his knuckles over the highest point of your cheek, "There isn't enough time... we've been planning this for so long."
A tremor wracks through your body, and you briefly find yourself fearful of Junpei, briefly. Something about this night is plucking at every nerve in you, and you are sure its the fact that you have glorified tonight your entire life — curse the stigma surrounding the concept of virginity.
"Don't think about it." His hands cup your face, the same way one would smush the face of a puppy that is far too cute to ignore, "To me," Something dark cradles within the windows of his eyes, "You look perfect."
Your heart soars and all sense of dread or impending doom completely caves in and is ultimately replaced by the magnetic, pooling sensation of desire. The feeling festers like a disease, spiderwebbing all through your innards and swelling deep within your belly to the point where, if you had not allowed yourself to sink into his open arms, you may have collapsed under the weight.
Junpei, despite the judgment of your peers that carried from school all the way into your adult life, is your everything. No amount of bad-mouthing or torment could ever change that, no sort of rumor or lie could bring you to the point where you would ever say, 'I can't do this anymore.'
If you could describe it as anything, he is your Earth. You are completely and utterly wrapped around his finger, bending at his every need and want, you live and breathe him. He is, in your own words, your everything. There is not a waking or dying moment that he does not creep into your mind, nor a second of peace where you find yourself blind to a fantasy of him.
Even now, clinging to him with your pretty nails, the neat manicure accentuated with cutesy decals, he feels so far away. That longing just never seems to dissipate, no matter how little space is shared between you both.
"I know," You manage to whisper, your voice carried by peaceful gusts of wind that scent of ginger, "I just feel..." You pause a moment to try and find a way to word it, the fingers in your head sifting through files upon files of information, deep diving and whisking through all of the data and knowledge that has been gathered through your decades of living... all for that one word.
He is so patient with you, the dull tips of his nails raking over your scalp and, if you had the ability to, you may have even started to purr. He treats you like the finest porcelain, that grip at your waist, despite it being the stability you need to not slip from his arms, is not nearly tight enough to create crescents in your skin.
You feel like a princess, the world's most humble princess who may not have chests of gold and closets full to the brim with real fur and leather boots and snakeskin purses... but a royal with the most charming, handsome prince one could ever dream to call their own — you suppose, technically, that would make you a queen... but to be fair, it makes you feel older than you are. Princess is more darling.
"I don't wanna mess up..."
His fingers stop, "Mess up?" He says it as if it were the most ridiculous thing you could ever say, "Did you forget this is my first time, too?" You had not, but still, in your mind, you are fully convinced that Junpei has it in the bag, that he could do absolutely no wrong... but you? What if you are too loud? What if you hold him too tight? What if you look horrible underneath him? Or above... you are still unsure of who goes where.
Nonetheless — you feel as if this is the most defining, crucial moment in your life. That if you screw up your first time with Junpei, that if you make this a terrible experience for him, or worse, make him hate sex altogether... you are not sure you could ever show your face again, let alone live with the shame and embarrassment.
Junpei went through all the trouble of buying you this dress. Something so simple and yet it makes you look transformed with how the top hugs the curves of your breasts, and hangs loosely around your waist but is a little snugger at your hips, how your panties peek out from the bottom hem if you lean a certain way... truly, you are not sure you have ever looked, let alone, felt more pretty. Sexy.
He went through the trouble of cleaning his apartment, laying down new sheets for you, and even lighting a few corny little candles around his bed. All for the sake of you.
Yet, the nerves remain and despite his semi-reassuring talk about this also being his first time, you still feel intimidated. Perhaps, with the sixth sense he developed throughout his time as your boyfriend, he could sense that — the small tremors in your body, how your grip on his arms is a confusing hybrid between apprehension and need, or every time you meet his gaze you immediately downcast your eyes and further hide your face in his chest.
You would be silly to so much as assume he could not tell what you are feeling, especially with how it is written in a bold red marker right across your head.
"You can't mess up," He whispers into your scalp, pressing a kiss right there, "I don't think it's possible, y'know?" His tone drops into one that is awkwardly sultry, something just so Junpei and yet nothing like him at all. Every word sends a stronger quake through your body, tides of heat crashing into your soul and that ache gradually begins to grow, "All you have to do is look pretty... okay?"
His words repeat in your mind — all you have to do is look pretty.
A simple sentence should not completely transcend you into something of an orb of fire. Your limbs melt into the flickering wisps of red and orange, blowing wildly in a nonexistent wind. You feel like the most heavenly star, the brightest one that people see first as the sky falls, and the very same star that children wish upon at the foot of their beds.
Everything feels so fuzzy, and though it is only, as you said, a feeling... you swear that you can materialize it. A fuzziness not like that of a knitted sweater, it does not have a rough and itchy base. Nor is it like a kitten's fur, so velvety it's like your fingers phase through it. That fuzziness is like burying your face into the hairs of a leather coat, hemmed with pelts from a rabbit. Soft, smooth, and just so real as your skin caresses every inch of stitching.
But none of that is real, merely a feeling that is so intense you think you could touch it.
Junpei looks at you as if nothing and no one could ever so much as measure up to what you are, this hunger in his eyes that you just cannot place no matter how many times your tongue licks the back of your teeth. A habit you picked up during school, something so simple yet effective when the cogs in your brain stall — could it be lust?
Your eyes are like saucers, big and confused and bright and just so empty yet so telling. He looks into them with intent, reading every word and worry written in your pupils, "I won't hurt you," He husks into the shell of your ear, teeth like hot pearls as they drag over the thin cartilage, "We can take it slow, as slow as you want."
Those words would have been reassuring if it were not for the anticipation turning your insides gray with mold, an anticipation that is neither good nor bad but right there in the middle. A concoction of excitement and dread, one that rattles around the inside of your skull.
Doubt should have crossed your mind like it would for any woman who is teetering between the realities of virginity. Yet, as his cold palms smooth down your sides in a way that could very well be awe, perhaps even curiosity, you willingly lean into his touch — silent permission for him to continue.
The world seems to stop spinning at that very moment, the room slowing and every action like that of being trapped in time. Almost like you are moving underwater, unbearably sluggish in the transition between staring up at him with doe-ish eyes to reaching with your hands to cup his face.
Something about it is so sensual, so erotic. You wonder if everyone experiences this the first time, if their vision blurs and everything around them suddenly begins to spin or move at a pace that makes even a snail look fast. Do their bodies ignite with sparks? Does every touch on their body feel like voltages of electricity stinging their veins?
"Junpei-" His name sticks to the back of your throat, remaining there all throughout his attack on your neck — chaste kisses peppered just beneath your ear, or along the junction of your jaw, slowly descending towards your shoulder.
Your mind blanks, succumbing to him entirely and allowing yourself to dance to the rhythm he sets. You tilt your head as he guides you to become lax and hold him tighter, giving him the entirety of your body. Nothing feels quite right until he tells you it is, reassuring your restless conscious that it is natural to feel an ache between your thighs, that you should not be ashamed at the subtle gyrating of your hips when his lips suckle on that sweet, special spot at your nape.
"Relax," He reminds you when your body begins to stiffen, a result of fighting back the urge to chase the friction his knee provides with how it has pinned itself between your legs. Unfortunately for you, the smugness leaves as fast as it came because, when your eyes open again, he is sitting at the edge of his mattress just as he had been minutes prior. Your thoughts fail you but with a simple pat on his thigh, you find yourself already diving in until a hand stops you, "Not like that."
You look dumbfounded, to say the least, unsure of what else he could have possibly meant other than you straddling his thighs and making yourself comfy, and he seems to catch on to your cluelessness. Rather than explain it to you and waste his breath, in one cultivated swoop he spins you around by the hips until your backside faces him, "Now sit— good, just like that. Comfy?"
"Mhm," Perhaps you underestimated his finesse when it came to all things sensual and romantic, or maybe he has been cheating you out of this side of him for all these years. Whether it be the first or the latter, neither really matters, not when his knees nudge yours apart until your legs fall open provocatively over his taut thighs.
Junpei is almost too calculated in his movements, so smoothly waltzing you about this new experience, it almost feels like he has done it a million times — which is as far from the truth as far goes.
His body is like a furnace pressed against your back, warming you up in seconds despite the crisp night air that had been nipping at your skin since you first changed into your current attire. He is not at all a powerhouse of muscle, however, adulthood has been kind to him in more ways than just one. With the disappearance of teenage acne and awkward patches of growing facial hair, not to mention that ridiculous body odor all boys get in their youth — a set of new characteristics was introduced.
There is much to admire about him, whether it be the fact he decided to grow his hair out and keep it clipped back so you can admire his entire face, scar and all, or the few inches he put on in height... maybe even the fact that he has a glow that anyone would envy or the prettiest set of pearly whites that always look flawless when he grins.
A sudden readjustment of your body in his lap seems to knock you out of your own head, and though it was brief, that grind of his clothed dick between your legs was enough to send a million ticklish kisses all throughout your body. You almost feel silly for the sound you made, soft and nearly inaudible other than the hushed gasp beneath it.
"Did..." He clears his throat, and though you cannot see his face, which he has strategically pressed at your temple, you can feel him swallow against your shoulder, "Does it feel good when I do that?"
Words fail you at the simple question, a result of the bleeding shame that blankets you. Sure, he had told you to relax, to not be ashamed — but how can you heed his consolation? You are put off by the thought of doing what you want, of confidently rubbing your clothed cunt against the growing tent in his sweatpants... it just feels dirty.
Junpei seems to read your very thoughts because, before you can marinate in your own self-pity, his hands are on your hips. The way he holds you is unlike before, commitment present in the way his fingers dig into your flesh, no longer handling you like fine china. You find it flustering, to say the least.
The sudden switch leaves you breathless, your lips sealed tight and your lungs throbbing with a need that you just cannot bring yourself to fulfill as of this moment. Your every conscious thought is consumed by him and how good it feels when he begins to control your body. Everything he does feels good, true, yet nothing compares to the sensation that overwhelms every other as he teaches your body that sweet rhythm of rocking back and forth in his lap.
Every drag is like fireworks going off between your legs, your clit insatiably catching on to his dick that presses impatiently against his pants. You have to bite back your moans, tongue caught painfully between your teeth because, even now, as you hump his lap, you cannot find the confidence to spill the dirty sounds festering at the back of your mouth.
But he still hears them, he hears the hitch in your breathing and the squealing hiccups that you swallow back down every time they shoot up. You sound adorable, like a real virgin. All he is doing is grinding your panty-clad pussy against him, rubbing you on his cock because if it feels good for him, it must feel good for you.
"I-I feel it—" Your hips sputter when he holds you down on his cock, just for a second, long enough to plant his heels into the carpet and rudely jerk his hips into yours over and over and over, "Feels good... whatever you're doin'."
"Y-Yeah," He chuckles, briefly peeling his body from yours long enough to glance between you both at where your body meets his, "Shit—" His fingers pluck away the skirt of the slip dress so he can get a better look, eyeballing how your panties wrinkle with every pull backward, only to stretch when you move forward. He swears, he can make out what looks to be a dark spot in his sweatpants, a spot that is equally shared at the crotch of your girly pink panties.
Junpei's composure, though it may be better than yours, is not nearly as good as you expected. He reeks of desperation, which is something that you do not see often in him. One of his hands cascades downwards, slipping underneath the white silk and wasting no time feeling around. His palms are cold, but the smoothness of them, lacking the callouses most men have, makes up for the temperature.
You can feel his fingers fiddling with the boring lace that maintains your modesty, pinching the thin cotton and pulling, snapping the elastic against your skin using playful tugs. Really, if it were anyone else, you may have gotten annoyed by the third or fourth time he did it.
"Cute," He murmurs, just barely loud enough for you to catch, "They're so tight, barely even fit you." The pads of his middle and ring finger trace that fine line between skin and cotton, outlining the dip of fat where the panties hug tightly.
"I can feel how hot you are," His words do not piece together right away as they wisp across your temple and swirl around in the shell of your ear. His hand travels with polish, something you never knew he possessed, slowing its movement from your trembling abdomen down between the sheepish spread of your thighs, "Right here."
Oh, you're hot... it took you a moment, brows cinched together in confusion up until the tips of his fingers pressed just above your clit. Your panties remain as this safety barrier between his bare skin and yours, but it does not hinder the butterflies that hatch inside of your belly.
Junpei toys with the area, tracing shapes against the skin just above your clit, dissecting your every move whilst doing so — watching for that little twitch in your thigh, the arch in your back when you chase his running digits, the squirming and sighing and gripping of the sheets. He watches for it all up until, with a heavy hand, he presses the pads of his middle and index against the hood of your clit.
All he does is gently push on your clit, and yet it sends an electrifying zing through your spine that makes your body jump. He does not even have to move before you find yourself chasing for more, jerking your hips forward in hopes of creating the friction you so desire; however, Junpei is always a step ahead, his heavy arm tight around your waist and locking your body so firmly against him it almost feels claustrophobic.
"Fuck, you're on fire—" He rubs light circles into your clit, eyeing how the soft cotton lazily moves with the pressure, how a buildup of your arousal begins to stain the light pink of your crotch and turn it into a pretty, deeper bubblegum tone, "You're gonna take is so easy, I can just tell." He gives the wet patch a curious stroke, "Look how wet you are..." Pleasantly surprised that when he lifts his fingers, a bubbly string of slick webs between his nails and the very spot he had just been toying with.
Your eyes can barely lock onto the lewd scene without being overcome by a new wave of tingles through your core, "It... it felt good— whatever you were doing."
"R-Right here?" He presses down on your clit again, "Felt good here, right?" A slow rhythm of circles begins, dragging your clit around agonizingly snail-like.
Your hips begin to move on their own, pushing forward and gyrating the best they can in order to combat his teasing fingers. Junpei finds it amusing, to say the least, how desperate you are from this being the first time a hand other than your own has touched you there.
"What's wrong, (name)?" He mocks you, cupping your pussy and making it hard to achieve that same pressure you had before — but the heel of his palm, while still disappointing, does the trick.
However, you cannot find the means to appreciate that, "Stop teasing," Comes a whine with a dramatic throw of your head, your skull knocking into his shoulder and upturning until you can get a good look at him, "Please?" Your tone is extra sugary and sweet, a meek little plea that, even if he wanted to, could not be denied.
He fingers the fabric a moment longer, dreary little pulls up and down and all around that wet spot, "Take them off."
For a moment, it sounds nothing like him. That delicate husk is replaced by something more primal, growling back at you like a feral animal — it sends shudders through you, and you almost pull away just to make sure that the chest you are pressed again is, in fact, his.
But you listen, and without another second of hesitation, you do exactly as he asks, of course, not without a request of your own, "Help?" You knew that regardless of whether or not you asked, he would have invited himself to shimmy you out of them.
Junpei removes the flimsy cotton terribly slowly as if to punish you for being so impatient. The lace is ticklish on your bare legs, catching on your bulbous knees and needing a bit of a tug to fall the rest of the way down to your ankles, where they of course get stuck as well. They quickly become your worst enemy, kicking your feet around until, with a climactic fly into the abyss, the pink terror is gone.
Before your legs can even resume their position over his own, he is delving his fingers right back where they had been before, smoothing over your humid cunt with a curiosity he had not previously shown. He is gentle with how his middle finger presses between the puffy folds of your pussy, feeling that gooey slick that had been soaking through the thin crotch.
The sensation is not at all like when he touches your clit, but in its own way it still feels good, enough for your hips to buck forward — you are not sure what you expected it to feel like, his bare skin against yours, but you never imagined it to be like this. His hands are impossibly soft, and that leathery print etched into the pads of his fingers provides this texture that is just so much better than the cotton grinding into your clit.
"That feel good?" His voice is sudden, nearly slipping by without your notice with how blinded your are by bliss; eyes sealed shut and your head hanging back against his shoulder, if Junpei did not know any better he may have thought you were high, "Can— Can I see you?"
His fingers are strategic, sneaky in their ministrations; deep, slow circles soothed by kind taps that cause the likes of your nerves to tremble and jump. You feel giddy almost, ticklish leaps deep within your belly, and this searing fire only grows.
You clear your throat, mostly as a means to hinder the moan bubbling up, "See me?"
"Yeah, like—" His fingers stop in favor of holding the fat of your inner thigh, "Y'know, you can lay down on my bed? 's just hard with you in my lap..."
Sure, yeah. You had been expecting, at one point or another, to be bare beneath him, however, now being in that position does not compare to the several times you fantasized about it.
You trust Junpei more than you trust yourself, you are positive he would not, could not, judge you for your body. To put it simply, it just is not in his nature, not after years of endless torment for his own appearance — he loves you, cares for you, adores you... he is willing to wait all night for an answer if he has to, you are sure of it.
But you know your answer, it may not be verbal, but the way in which you slide yourself from his lap rather bunglingly is enough. The linens wrinkle beneath you with every press of your hands and knees as you crawl your way up his bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight and it is only when you lay yourself flat on your back that it evens out.
One could describe you as angelic, your hands brought together over your chest and the white slip glowing in the pale lighting of the room. The silky skirt does little to maintain what little modesty you still have, and the positioning of your legs, bent at the knee and your heels digging into his sheets, gives him a clear view right up your skirt.
He eyes the shimmer of your cunt, slick glistening against the pale lamp light and it takes all of his self-control not to abandon what he had stood up to do. Junpei's eyes downcast, and for a moment you can make out a pink hue creeping its way onto his cheeks, that is until he begins to tug the hem of his shirt up.
That poor piece of fabric is worn so much that the color is faded, and whatever graphic was put on the front has long since become nothing but speckles, and splotches of color. You have seen him shirtless countless times, yet every time feels like the first. His skin is like ivory with this golden undertone that makes him glow — he looks more lively, in a sense, that added color accentuating his strongest features.
And though Junpei may not be the brute of the bunch, with no defining muscles or chiseled curves to his abdomen and arms, he has the loveliest skin one could ever hope to have. His mother must have blessed him with good genes, not a bump or scar in sight. No evidence of ever having acne, let alone, a simple breakout. Not to mention the even tone all throughout, and the fact that he is as smooth as butter; you could stare, let alone, touch him for hours.
His hands nervously wipe on the front of his sweatpants, and you feel relieved to know it is not only you whose palms seem to be perspiring more than usual, "Do you trust me?" He is breathless when he asks it, panting out each word and so clearly fighting to remain focused. His confidence toned down, replaced by that anxious man you know so well.
"Of course," You respond with sass that says his question is nothing but stupid, "I trust you with my life."
One of his hands takes hold of your ankle, a gentle gesture with no intent. Junpei simply holds it as he joins you on the bed, crawling up your body until, as you expected, his knees knock into the backs of your thighs. His eyes are like dark pools you could get lost in given the chance, but with the alluring touch of his nails, as they migrate from your ankle up your calf, you find your lids fluttering shut — something about it just helps you feel okay.
He skims, just barely touching you, and yet the sensation is there, fingers titillating in their journey north; sliding over your knee with a stroke that is fluid and calligraphy-like in how steady his movements are. The stillness of his hand does not match his face, lips pursed in concentration, sweat beading at his brow, and lines wrinkling into his forehead; he is on edge.
Only when he grabs a handful of your upper thigh, squeezing the fat so tightly that it pools between the gaps of his fingers, do you release that breathe you had been holding, "Junpei—" His name intermingles with your exhale, "Touch me more, please."
He swallows, "Please?" His voice is laced with amusement and a lilt of disbelief, your honesty and straightforwardness are so out of character — he likes it. He likes how quick you were to say it, how your thighs fell open the moment that demand left your pretty lips, how you gave him those doe eyes of yours and batted your lashes because you just know how much he likes it when you do that, "Where do you want me to touch you?"
Your hips wiggle with a sheepish grin and you shimmy yourself further up the bed, "Don't make me say it." A cadence of attitude intermingled with desperation, a look that translates into your puckered lips and puffed-out cheeks, "You know where."
"Do I?" If words could kill, those would be the final blow — the taunting tone, the chaste lay of his palm over that flat of skin above your pussy, the drop in octaves as each syllable rolled off his tongue. Two short words and yet they felt like some hot, steamy, lewd poem that had just been recited with grandeur and grace.
There is nothing royal or rich in his choice of a rebuttal, yet you shy away with shame at the fact that you did not see that cocky retort from a mile away.
Junpei leans down and kisses your knee, a smile stringing through his lips as his eyes never once leave yours, "Hey, 'm just joking." As much as he wants to continue to pester you, to jab and pinch every little inch his fingers can grab, he relents with a softening gaze. His hands hug your hips with so much love that you pardon how he manhandles your body further up the bed until your head is pressed into his goose-feather pillows, "But we're gonna do it my way, 'kay?"
"Your way?" You echo his very words, to which he says the exact same back — 'yes, my way.' spoken with confidence and this hint of something, you are not sure how to word it, but something that says save your questions for later. A thought that rests your worries and blankets you with the comfort of knowing that he is sure of himself.
Feverish kisses are planted along the underside of your neck, trailing down between the valley of your breasts — to which you find yourself disappointed by the fact that the slip dress obstructs his lips from touching your bare skin — until his mouth is centered between his resting hands, still tightly holding you in place.
Junpei looks... pretty. The candle's aura gives his complexion so much more color, and you never noticed how his raven hair has this purplish undertone. The shadows of his eyes and jaw make him look older, but in a good way, mature and husky and just so appealing. You get warm all over, fantasizing about what a middle-aged Junpei would look like, but even better, if you would be with him long enough to see that.
You hope so.
"'m gonna kiss you," He says into your hot flesh, lips mouth at your abdomen and if you were not wet already, you are soaked now, "Close your eyes."
You act without question, the world around you turning black — you tell yourself over and over again to trust him, that he would never do anything to make you uncomfortable, let alone, anything that would hurt you. Part of you wonders if you are telling yourself that to convince yourself it's true, or more so just to keep your nerves calm enough to live through whatever he is prolonging.
But then you feel it, soft and delicate and virginal, as chaste as a kiss to your clit can get. His lips are honeyed in how they brush your bare pussy, teasing you and letting you squirm with every butterfly peck to your pretty pearl, "Junpei—" You gasp his name, thighs closing around either side of his head and squeezing, just a little, "Tickles."
His hands pry your legs back open, a chuckle vibrating against you and causing a jolt to shoot through your palpating core, "I know, I know— just keep still," Your thighs gradually open, "Yeah, like that."
Junpei makes himself comfortable, shoulders pressed into the back of your thighs and his mouth snug against your cunt as he tastes you for the first time. To him, you taste sweet, sugaring onto his tongue with every greedy lap. The whole thing is messy and sloppy and gross, wet smacks of his lips and the tip of his nose nudging your clit over and over again, all so he can stick his tongue in places you never really imagined a tongue should be.
But, as brazen as it is, it feels good — you can barely choke back the little mewls that start before you can stop them, whimpered pleas and utters of his name, hips gyrating and pushing down on his mouth as he completely devours you.
"You—" He kisses your clit, chuckling when a long whine spills from your tongue, "You taste good." Another kiss, "I don't know what I thought you'd taste like," And another, "But it's better than whatever I had been thinking." And one more right at your cute hole that clenches around absolutely nothing.
"Don't say that," You complain with a shove of the heel of your palm into his forehead, his mouth detaching from you with a wet smack, "You're perverted."
Junpei ignores you in favor of shoving aside your wrist and pressing his face between your legs again, suckling on your heated clit and making sure he keeps his eyes locked with yours. Your eyes bubble with tiny tears of pleasure, giving your already beautiful eyes this even more angelic sheen to them, one that matches the sparkles of the sweat caking across the rest of you.
Everything about you is just so intoxicating, from the experimental drag of your fingers through his scalp, down to how your press your heels into his back to keep him from pulling away — not that he ever meant to. You would need a crowbar to get him off at this point, especially with how invested he is in showering your swollen clit with all the love and attention it's been craving since he first got you in his lap.
"Junpei, 's so good—" Your pitiful whine is like music to his ears, ringing in his head and encouraging him, "Feels so..." You hiccup over your own words and the added arch of your back lets him know that whatever his tongue is doing to you right now is working some sort of magic.
He tongues your clit with no real rhythm or coordination, flicking back and forth, dragging it flat over your pussy, tonguing that tight hole of yours until you start to attempt at riding his face. You are so needy and so insatiable, everything he does is just right but none of it is ever enough for you.
Not until the tip of one of his fingers presses there, circling around your hole a few times just to test your reaction, which, at the moment, is curiously propping yourself up on your elbows and looking down your torso where his mouth meets you, "Is... will it hurt?"
"I'll be gentle," He murmurs into your thigh, kissing the faded stretch marks there before prodding at your cunt a few times, "Tell me to stop if you don't like it, yeah?" You can only nod, worried your words would fail you, but your answer is at least enough of an indication for him to slowly inch his finger inside of you.
The stretch is barely there, not necessarily painful but not exactly pleasing either. The sensation is bland, more like pressure, but it does not feel bad per se. Junpei works his wrist back and forth, eyeing how your body reacts to it, and only when he is sure that you are okay, does he curl it inside of you.
That curl, mixed in with the bumping of his thumb against your clit, is enough for you to slothfully fall flat on the bed again. He likes feeling your clench around him, how your walls squeeze and loosen with every drag and push, scraping your gummy insides with the pad of his finger, "It feels nice," You shakily report, "I like it— I like it a lot, Junpei."
He presses a second finger, not at all shoving it in but easing it alongside the first finger in a way that nearly makes it invisible to you. In fact, you barely feel it when it finally slots itself inside of you, not until Junpei altogether changes the course of his action. The shift is sudden, but not startling, rising onto his knees and angling his arm better so that his hand is imitating that sign for 'I love you', his middle and ring still deep within your cunt.
Junpei does not move his fingers yet, but the heel of his palm grinds down into your clit, "Comfortable?"
"Mhm," You nod with a small smile, chewing at your bottom lip and eyeing him with this nervous itch, "It's... it's like pressure, and when you move your fingers around I can feel it in my stomach— but it feels nice, I promise. I really like it." Your explanation is cute, unsure and naive, but cute. He especially likes how eager you are to reassure him as if he could not tell you enjoyed his ministrations.
Before his hand begins to move again, he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss — slow and sloppy with how his lips smear against yours, teeth uncomfortably clicking together, tongues rubbing against one another with no real dance in mind. Everything about it is so on the spot, the complete opposite of sexy, and yet it sends a fresh wave of something down between your legs.
"Mm—" You moan into his mouth, curling your fingers so tightly in his hair that it stings, "Nngh," Tiny gasps in between needy kisses, stealing his breath away each and every time, "Junpei, more."
And he can feel it, if the sudden tensing of your body were not already a given sign, the wetness that's beginning to gather around his knuckles is.
Every inch of you feels fresh from a sauna, sticky and humid and so pliable that he is almost taken aback by how easy it is to work you open. The hints of unsurety are still present in the tension of your muscles, but the effortless dragging of his fingers inside of you seems to be reversing whatever stiffness there still is.
For a moment, his lips parted from yours, and the two of you share breath after heated breath with eyes so deeply stunned that you can see the devils of lust swimming about the sea of charcoal mist that make up his irises. They are such a bland and lifeless color, yet you like them no less, and if the position of you both so allowed it, you may have even kissed both of his eyelids.
"Junpei, you're so pretty—"
His forehead knocks against yours, nose tips nuzzling one another as a moment of shared passion is exchanged. Not once does his wrist falter in its rocking, delving his fingers in and out from your core that has since welcomed the foreign affections of his fingertips kissing different patches of your gluey insides, "You're so soft," He huffs, "Can't wait to be inside of you."
"I want it, too—" The words leave your lips like a bolt of lightning, just in time for your nails to bite at his shoulders "I'm ready, Junpei. Please."
He had barely had his fingers inside of you, barely let his mouth explore you, and you are already hopping onto the next train — he finds your impatience endearing, but against what he wants deep down, he shakes his head. He does not want to rush this.
You whine brattily, "But Junpei," You tug his face closer, smashing your nose into his cheek and hooking an ankle around his back, "Pretty please, I want it... I can take it, I promise."
Words fail him, rather, he speaks through his actions; his unoccupied arm is quick in gathering the backs of your knees against the outside of his forearm, pushing them both forward until they nearly knock into your cheeks, "Just a lil' more, I just wanna..." His eyes get lost between your thighs, it's so easy to imagine his cock in place of his hand.
"Gotta make sure you're, uh—" He clears his throat, the confident high he had just been on nothing more than a memory now, "Wanna make you cum first, okay? Just once... it'll make it feel so much better when I fuck you, alright?" Every sentence he says seems to be a means of soothing you, and yet at the same time, it is also to reassure himself in some fashion. To reinstate that power he loses every time he looks at you, really looks at you.
No more than strangled whines spill from your pouty lips, clearly disappointed by the wait, but nothing he cannot solve by jamming his fingers back inside of you and wiggling them around a little. He does not hit that spot immediately, clumsy pokes and prods and curls at your slippery walls, but when he does, he likes to watch your back arch off the bed and your thighs shake with bliss, "There it is."
His fingers abuse the spot relentlessly, your ankles grabbed in one hand and the other beating between your legs, "Does it feel good?" He leans in real close, enough so that he only has to whisper for you to hear him against the filthy wet squelches of your pretty cunt sucking his fingers clean, "Right here..." The heel of his palm lays flat over your clit, giving your pussy a good shake, "Feels good right here, yeah?"
"Y-Yes," Your response is more like a yelp, toes curling because that is all you can really do with how he has you folded, "I love it, Junpei— love it so much, feels like 'm gonna—" A high strung squeal interrupts your own brainless tirade. When had he gone back down there? How did you miss him slithering his way down between your thighs?
Your legs fall carelessly over his shoulders, making it easy for him to fit his face between them and give your clit that much-needed attention it wanted. He is so gentle when it comes to using his mouth, applying feather-like kisses over your clit, kisses you almost barely feel when in comparison to how his fingers brutally plow in and out of your overworked cunt.
"Junpei—" You hiccup, back arching into him as that knot deep inside of you begins to grow tighter, "S-Something— feels like..." Your eyes squeeze shut, your entire body contracting in on itself as pleasure borders overstimulation, nearing that high you have heard so much about but never felt like this before, "Junpei, please— please, please, please— I can't, I can't—"
He gives your clit a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, "C'mon, (name)." He growls and gives your clit another kiss, "You want me to fuck you, right?" You immediately nod in response, your head bobbing up and down wildly, "Then you gotta give it to me, just gotta cum once."
In a matter of seconds, and with a few measly flicks of his tongue over your throbbing, aching clit, you lock up — your arms and legs drawn in on themselves, curled up and shaking as the tides of your high carry you weightlessly. The feeling is unlike anything earthly possible, a million and one electric bolts pricking you over and over and over; you feel like you might explode, or something like that, no words can describe it.
"That's it," He chuckles, the bed shifting under your weight, "That's it, baby. You're doing really good, y'know?" His fingers slow in their pace, dying down from their previous vigor to a more relaxed, lazy drag against the top of your spongey walls, "There we go..."
Your vision is white, and everything around you feels like being underwater; muffled, weightless. You can hear him, but you cannot hear him — his words are no more than this haze of noise that goes in one ear and out the other. It's like those movies where the character regains consciousness and their vision is nothing but pixelated silhouettes and muted voices.
"You're perfect," You can barely decipher what he is saying, "So fuckin' perfect, I'm so fuckin' lucky." A hand is placed over your spasming abdomen, applying just the right amount of pressure to soothe that overwhelming burst of fireworks going on inside of you. The sudden weight also proves to be distracting, enough for him to ease his fingers from your dripping cunt with a soft, gentle squelch.
Webs of your cum string between his fingers which he moves in a scissoring motion, making a show of what he did to you — a certain level of shame pools within your heart, one that urges you to slam your thighs shut and turn your knees away from him, "Junpei," You pout, pressing the heel of your foot into his side, "Stop doing that, it's embarrassing."
"Why?" He muses with a shit-eating grin plastered from cheek to cheek, and you can feel your stomach drop deep within the pit of your stomach when his fingers are slowly brought to his mouth, "You didn't seem to care when you were crushing my head between your thighs." His voice is laced with a tone meant to tease you, making sure your eyes remain on his when he sinks those two fingers into his mouth.
An almost pornographic hum rumbles at the back of his throat, dragging them out with a wet pop and making sure not a single drop of you is still on them. Something about it has that heat springing back to life, even though you were sure Junpei had snuffed that flame the second he pushed you over the edge. You cautiously rub your thighs together, doing your best to be discreet but, as much as you try, he knows you too well.
Junpei is like a cat on the prowl, crawling up your body until he has you caged beneath him. You cannot do anything other than grasp onto his arms and do your best to maintain his gaze, "What's wrong?" He husks, kneeing your legs apart and slotting his body between them, "Still want me to properly—"
"Yes," You cut him off before he can finish, knowing that his word choice would be enough to make you cum a second time, "I want it more than anything, I wanna be completely yours." Your hands cup his face and with a little bit of struggle, you manage to lift yourself just enough to peck his lips with a shy smooch. "Please, I did what you wanted, right?"
He smiles at that, a tender kiss placed above your eyelids, just like he does before you both go to sleep. You even lean in for more, missing his lips every second they are not on you, they are your favorite part of him! The very lips that kiss you every chance they can get, that whisper sweet nothings in your ear, that tell you 'good morning' and 'good night', the very lips that have told you 'I love you' a million times over.
"I love you," You whisper, shying away from him until one of his hands catches your chin, "I love you so much, Junpei— I only want you, I wanna be with you every day." The floodgates open and you can feel a monsoon of emotions crashing through and drenching you, all of your affections laid out for him, and really, you do not expect him to say anything. You just need him to know that you adore him like no other.
For a moment, he is speechless. You begin to worry that maybe you came on too strong, but he reassures your anxieties with a gentle kiss between your brows, "I love you, too..." He whispers against your skin, tickling your skin with his warm, candy-scented words, "We'll be together always, okay?"
"Oka—"
Your voice dies in your throat, you saw something shine out of the corner of your eye and that was all. It was so effortlessly quick, that after a few seconds of hiccuping over your own neck, you almost believe that maybe you inhaled your own saliva and needed to just cough this one out.
But that feeling never went away, it was not even really pain, more of a deep burning that can best be compared to when a surprise wave falls down on you and you inhale an overabundance of water — it stings your eyes and your sinuses, and the back of your throat.
You find yourself struggling to breathe, grasping at your neck because, up until this point, you had no idea what was wrong. Your vision had even left you, nothing but flashes of white springing about and obstructing your view. The world felt like a blind maze, one that is solved the second your hands come to grasp around your hot throat spilling over.
"Ju—n—peh—" His name does not come from your slack jaw, but rather, in between your fingers which hold tightly at the laceration in your throat. The sound is awful, this gurgling, atrocious noise that makes you sick to your stomach. You do not even want to try and talk again, not if it means you have to hear yourself speaking through the cut in your neck.
When the initial shock subdues and your vision returns, something inside of you lurches at how Junpei just sits there. Not an ounce of concern or panic on his face, in fact, he looks rather bored by whatever he must have done to you. There is no other explanation for what happened, and as much as you hate to think it, Junpei is the only reasonable culprit... and that makes your heart break.
Perhaps if he looked away it would have helped, because that meant he felt remorse, that he could not look at you without suffering his own guilt. However, he watches with an eerie silence, not a sound other than you choking on your own blood and heaving to try and catch a breath, not realizing that with every forced drag of air you are speeding up the process of drowning yourself.
"You're hurting yourself," He says with a frown, placing the box cutter you had not noticed was still clutched in his hand on the bedside table, "Stop doing that." Junpei pins your shoulders to the soaked mattress, his eyes are like blocks of coal — no light or color, no soul... just this dark abyss of absolutely nothing that makes you tense up in fear.
Had he always looked at you that way? Was there ever any genuine twinkle in his eyes? Somehow, everything you knew about him becomes muddled together, and doubt wells up like bile in the back of your throat. A question of whether any of it was real or not plagues your dying thoughts, making it all the more difficult to let go because, in your dreams, you had hoped that if you ever died you would at least be able to with the thought of Junpei and his unconditional love for you on his mind.
But now, as you succumb to the cut-throat wound and your own blood pooling into your lungs, you are distraught that you have been living a terrible lie.
"That's it," He hushes, petting his bloodied hand over your wet cheek, "Just relax..." As sick as it is, his hand comforts you, and with what little strength you have left you lean into his palm.
There were hundreds of theories you had about dying — heaven, hell, reincarnation, living as a ghost... but this was different. It felt like floating underwater, with no real temperature to the place, in fact, it felt like when you are in between dreaming and consciousness; there's a stillness to the atmosphere. Not even your own hands and feet were visible to you, just empty space.
In a way, maybe you would have preferred your chances in hell, not that you ever did anything to deserve it, rather than float around in whatever afterlife this is. Somehow it is more ominous, being alone with no real entertainment or sound, and you are positive that within the hour you would absolutely lose your mind. Whether it be the suspense, the isolation, or maybe just not knowing what comes next... whatever it is, you would rather die a hundred times over than be in this position.
What feels like hours, perhaps was only a few minutes, maybe even seconds, but gradually you succumbed to your own restlessness. You think you are looking around, moving, and you cannot be certain without your vision, but it feels like you are walking... swimming? Something like that, but you feel it. The swaying of your limbs, your muscles contracting, you swear you feel it.
No matter how far you travel, if you are even traveling at all, your roaming hands do not come into contact with anything, in fact, not once was there any sign of, well, anything. You never bumped shoulders into a solid surface, never stubbed your toe, or knocked your finger. No sound to be heard for miles, though, you are certain that such measurements of distance do not exist in this dark neverending abyss.
But you smell something, this charred, earthy scent that reminds you of camping — a fresh, crackling firepit fueled by dried twigs and branches, burning hay, and whatever else could be found. That calming, smoky odor sticks to your clothes and hair for weeks no matter how much shampoo or perfume you use.
You blindly follow it, a teasing game of cat and mouse with only your nose to guide you; turning one way only to realize it is wrong and retrace your steps, trial and error time and time again. To be honest, you are not even sure if you made progress at all, perhaps this entire time you have been making large circles and currently stand where you started.
Then you see it, something flickering off to your right, this deep maroon that, as you scurry to get closer, blossoms into bright pinks and lethargic fuchsias. It reminds you of spring, the colors of dewy flowers but the physical form of a small fire. No heat radiates from it, but when you hold your hand up to it, you can see the silhouette of your palm and fingers.
So you reach for it, expecting to be burnt, but the pain never comes. Rather, it feels warm. You like it, to be able to feel something for a moment, to not be completely alone in this sad excuse of an afterlife. You hold the strange ball of fire closer to you, hugging it despite it being no larger than a baseball, and allowing its cozy embrace to lull you into what feels like sleep, but soon feels like a surge of life.
You have never been resuscitated by a defibrillator before, but if it felt like anything it would have for sure felt like that — this sharp, piercing pulse that ignites every nerve inside of you. For a moment, it's as if you lost absolute control of your body, and your limbs thrashed freely. Your stomach does flips and your fingers seize up just as your arms and legs do, and this stiffness overcomes your neck.
But then it stops, just as quick as it started, all of it stops... except for this pounding in your ear that you can also feel in the tips of your fingers and toes, this rhythmic beating that, if you were not crazy, would have sounded — felt — like a heartbeat.
"O Father, O Satan, O Sun—
Ov Fire, Ov Light.
I offer Thee a Virgin most true,
and with a heart most pure.
O Father, O Satan, O Sun—
Ov Fire, Ov Light.
For this dearly departed Virgin,
I ask Thee for power to act on retribution."
Those very words awoke you from the coma you had been in, the volts that you had felt earlier, the ones that restarted your dying corpse, reawakened your body. Though it may have taken a moment for your shell to regain consciousness and its senses, when it did, you shot up like the undead.
If you could describe the feeling as anything, it was like you got up too fast. Your head suddenly weighed a million pounds, and if it were not for your positioning on the floor, you may have just flopped right back down.
Maybe it was all just some bad dream, you try to convince yourself, maybe you passed out and when you open your eyes Junpei will be right there with concern written on his face, and the moment you say his name he will tell you all about how scared he was and that he is so happy you are okay.
Your eyes blink open, readjusting to the near pitch-black room, safe for the few candles lit around you. There is no comfort to be found, in fact, fear quickly begins to well up inside of you and the way your blood-soaked dress continues to cling to you does little to ease your anxiety. There is nothing familiar about Junpei's room, had it always been so menacing in the dark? Did his weird posters always give you these chills, or the fact that he has so much macabre decorum nearly curdles whatever your last meal was?
Junpei, just the thought of him, terrifies you—
"Dearly departed," A voice sounds from behind you and if you had not just risen from your grave, you are sure your soul would have taken a hike right then and there, "She is dear, but I don't think she is departed." The voice is sinister, and playful, making it hard to decipher their character by their voice alone, "Not that I really mind, but if you're going to kill your girlfriend you should make sure to do it right."
Your blood goes cold, spinning around on the floor to find whomever that voice belongs to, but you have not even pinpointed where Junpei is. There is so little illumination in the room, at most you can see yourself and the ground beneath you, defiled by your blood. Not knowing who or what lurks within the darkness does not help with your rapidly increasing heartbeat, thrashing into your ribcage to the point it hurts.
"Junpei?" You squeak, clearing the grogginess from your throat, "This isn't funny..." You kick at the floor uselessly, your strength still weary and you have no means of harnessing enough of it to push yourself onto your feet, "Junpei," Another pained cry, "I'm scared, please—"
But then the hairs on your body stand, just as they do when the feeling of eyes seem to follow you, "Shhh," You whip your head around when a hiss comes from behind you, dumbfounded by the darkness that conceals their identity, "Why are you calling for him?" The voice is that of a man, but it's not Junpei — it is lighter with a playful lilt, no agitation or violence evident in his way of speaking, in fact, it's as if this situation is a game to him.
You refuse to move, squeezing your eyes shut and sitting as stiff as humanly possible. If you disregard him, whoever he is, maybe he will just go away.
But he does not, in fact, he sinks into the candlelight and gradually your eyes are graced with inch after inch of this terrifying man, if that is what you can even call him. There is nothing quite human about him from the glowing of his heterochromatic eyes, to the majestic ram horns growing from the crown of his head, down to the claws that scratch along the hardwood flooring as he stalks closer to you.
He is like an angel of darkness, absolutely gorgeous but not without the lingering sense of doom that hangs over him, "Did you think you were dreaming?" You keep yourself from nodding, though it was tempting, if you feed into him he will only continue to pursue you for attention. Your eyes stubbornly remain shut, and so do your lips, "Ignoring me?"
His hand grabs your chin roughly, giving your head a good shake until your eyes rattle open. You find the room brighter than before, catching what looks to be someone else's outline just adjacent to where you are being held, "Junpei?" You call again, hope etched into his name and praying that, against your better judgment, he can provide some explanation as to what is going on
"Go on," The voice instigates, "Tell her what you did, you seemed pretty confident before she woke up."
"You— You tricked me." Junpei stutters in the darkness, "I did what I was supposed to, I did everything right—" His footsteps are heavy on the ground, advancing towards where you sit until, having grabbed one of the candles he had strategically set on the ground around you, he was visible. Seeing him like this, your blood soaked into the bare skin of his torso and the gray of his sweatpants made you absolutely sick.
The demon, as you have settled on calling him, uses his grip to jerk you forward, "Not even an apology?" He squeezes your cheeks together, making your lips move to his words, "Don't you feel bad for hurting me, Junpei?"Despite your struggle to turn your head away, a pitiful attempt to free yourself, his grasp does not loosen up.
Junpei's face contorted into one of distress, his lips pulled down into a scowl and his browns cinched together — an expression you have never seen on his face. It is an ugly, demented look and it makes you want to look at anything but him. That terrible recollection of what he did to you replays over and over like a broken record; he had no remorse, no sorrow, and no love to show for his actions.
"I... this—" Junpei begins to hyperventilate, "This is all wrong, this is not what was supposed to happen— the book said—"
"Books say a lot of things," He releases your face in favor of cupping the front of your neck, right where you had been gushing blood no more than twenty minutes ago, "But I've never read one that tells the reader to sacrifice their girlfriend—"
Junpei turns hot on his heel, "STOP SAYING THAT." He is explosive, and if cartoons were anything like reality you are sure smoke would be steaming from his ears, "I didn't— it doesn't matter, I did what I was supposed to and now you have to finish your end of the deal." His tongue seethes with venom, dripping with nothing but hate and rage. There is no sign of the Junpei you know, no remains of that sheepish grin he would give you, no awkward linking of his pinky with yours or overlapping your legs if it means being even closer together than before.
You have nothing to show for years of love you so generously, happily gave away.
The room falls eerily silent after that, not a sound other than Junpei's labored breathing and the chattering of his teeth. It doesn't matter, he said. You do not matter to him, just a pawn in whatever game he thinks he is playing, a game that clearly is not working in his favor... and for that, you are even more devastated than you already were. The tears fall freely and wet your cheeks, and as much as you try to be discreet about your sorrow, the shaking of your shoulders paired with the whimpers you swallow give you away.
The figure behind you disappears, and as crazy as it sounds, you almost found him comforting in your state of vulnerability. You feel pitiful, pathetic; sobbing into your palms on the floor of your boyfriend's room... ex-boyfriend you should say. No amount of praying could ever get you to forgive him for this.
But then that sensation returns, that feeling of being watched — you feel him before you heart him, his chin resting against your shoulder and allowing his head to tilt to the side so that he can press his ear to your pulse, "Poor thing," He sighs monotonously, arms snaking around your waist nonchalantly, as if he had done this a million times before with you, "Y'know, I may be evil..." He nestles deeper against the side of your neck, inhaling the lingering odor of perfume, "But I'd never lay a finger on something like you."
For the most part, he sounds genuine, but who are you to trust the words of the devil?
He holds you all the tighter, and your rational thinking begins to slip away, the trauma thrown at you tonight rendering your thought process and you instinctively seek comfort in whoever is closest and most endearing, "Do you remember what happened?" He asks, the tip of his nose dragging along the side of your cheek until his lips are pressed at the shell of your ear, "How it felt?"
You feel sick to your stomach just thinking about it, dreading sobs bubbling at the back of your throat, and that lump that forms at the back of your tongue reminds you of how it felt to choke over your own blood, "My throat—" You wail into your own hands, muffling your less than attractive noises, "It was cut so deep I could talk out of it— the sound it made," You suck in a breath, shaky and rough and more like a gasp than a genuine breath, "I couldn't breathe."
He coos at you, turning you around so that he can cup your pretty face and wipe your tears with his thumbs, "That must have been scary...," One of his hands travels south, caressing the very spot, "You were planning to give him something special, weren't you? Something no one else could ever have..." His voice drops several octaves, sending a shiver down your spine — he is gentle with you, leaning in close until every exhale wafts across the skin of your neck, "He doesn't deserve it."
A gasp hitches at the back of your throat when hot lips are smushed against the center of your throat, kissing over where a wound should be, "I made it all go away," He tells you in secret, pressing another kiss in the same spot, "You're just too cute to be laying dead in your own blood."
"Made it... go away?" You whisper, more to yourself than him, trying to piece together what he could mean by that, "Like— bring me back to life?"
For the first time tonight, as his face draws away from your throat, are you able to get a proper view of him. He is pretty, really pretty. With long lakeshore blue hair that falls over his broad shoulders in thick bundles, and big heterochromatic eyes in the colors blue and gray with heavy lashes to frame them. You had not even noticed until he leaned in closer the pale etchings in his skin, almost as if he were taken apart and sewn back together.
There is this charm to him, his beauty not conventional in the slightest but perhaps that is what makes him so alluring.
And he also does not deny your question.
"No," You huff out, turning your face away when he hungrily kisses at that tender spot just beneath your ear, "Are— you're really a demon?" The question had sounded less ridiculous in your head, but the vibration of his chuckles that make your ears ring tell you otherwise.
You catch a glimpse of Junpei from over Mahito's shoulder, a certain look in his eyes that makes your blood run cold, "Mahito." He whispers, large hands cupping your face and guiding you to look up at him, "That is what you will call me." He stares at you a moment, admiring how your little head fits so perfectly in his palms — he has always been fascinated by the delicacy of humans, "Say it."
"Mahito—" His thumb presses into your mouth as you annunciate the 'o' in his name, pinching your tongue that tries to shrink away from his long nail. Your mouth is so warm and soft, he likes how squishy your cheeks are and the smoothness of the backs of your teeth. You look adorable with your mouth stuffed, too embarrassed to keep eye contact so you shut your eyes altogether.
"What are you doing to her?" Junpei interjects but does not make any move to get closer.
He pauses his assault on your mouth, dragging his finger down your bottom lip and watching it remain pinned against your chin, "I don't think it matters, you gave her to me." Mahito releases you with a grin, his sharp canines shimmering against candlelight, "I can do whatever I want..." He says it dreamily as if he were already thinking of all the things he could possibly do with you, "Why do you care?"
You had not realized you were being made a show of until Mahito brought your face close to his, granting enough room for Junpei to get a good look at you, "Want her back?" He asks it, but he does not care to wait for a response, in fact, no matter what Junpei says he has no intention of listening to him, "I don't think she wants you anymore... do you, (name)?" He shakes your head for you, "No, of course, you don't... I wouldn't wanna hang around someone so pathetic, either!"
"I never asked for her back—" He chokes up on his words, scowling at the childishness of Mahito teasingly devouring that sweet spot at your nape. Emotions arise without his consent, a burning pit of jealousy swirling about his insides and the worst part about it is he cannot do anything to stop it. He feels foolish and insulted that he genuinely believed some funny words would do anything but screw him over.
When he killed you he did it with the resting knowledge that you would die belonging to him, and although he had willingly "gifted" you to the devil he called upon, he never expected to see you reanimate and be defiled by that same dark spirit. Something about it rubs him in all the wrong ways, seeing you be touched by someone else, by someone he has no power or control over.
Junpei feels just as he did in primary school, cornered and vulnerable, and helpless. He is transported back to his days spent locked up in the boy's bathroom during his lunch and study period to avoid any altercation with his bullies. To the days when he would get to school early just so he could find somewhere to hide, and stay in school late until no one else is around and he can sneak off home.
All in a matter of minutes he feels so small again, and that repugnant feeling of having to lay in bed knowing no one gave a shit about him but his mother resurfaced. He feels ignorant for thinking that it would be that easy to reverse everything, to finally be the one in control — and while with you he, in some fashion, had that power he craved, he knew at the end of it all you had the power as to whether you wanted to keep him around or not.
Without you, he would be nothing... and he could not live with that. Even if it meant sacrificing you, at least it provided him a chance at being able to prosper whether or not you were prettily hanging from his arm.
"Junpei," Mahito's fingers are hot on your spine, dragging his claw through the delicate silk maintaining your modesty, "Did she taste good?" The ripping of the fabric is deafening, and regardless of whether you can look Junpei in the eye or not, you can see the stiffness of his body when he too catches the noise of your dress, "Did she sing for you?"
Shamelessly he plucks the straps off of your shoulders and watches how, in one graceful dance, the dress falls in a small heap of white and crimson before you. You feel like no more than an attraction to restless tourists, the eyes of both men cracking what little composure you still had left. There is nothing right about this situation; your hands neatly folded in your lap and your legs tucked under you, blood still sticking to your skin in blotches of dried murky red... you are a gift, not even human, a prize to be owned.
And you have fallen into the hands of something sinister.
Mahito creeps up behind you, reaching underneath your arms and grabbing a handful of your chest without hesitation, "These are nice," He coos, giving you a playful squeeze just to hear you squeal, "Has he ever touched you here before?" You do not know why you were so quick to answer, maybe it has become second nature while being under the influence of the demon currently fondling you, but you shake your head quickly, "No?"
Your body is hauled backward, forced to sit between his thighs, knees over his, and your back so firmly pressed to his torso you can feel his heart thumping against your spine. There is a certain level of intimacy to it, you never thought a demon could have a heart, not in the metaphorical sense but a literal sense... you suppose everything that is "living", in some shape or form, has a heart of its own.
You would never openly say it, but having the privilege to feel it thumping steadies the instability within you. It brings you peace. The rhythm is balanced, with no sign of apprehension or doubt or anything but utter confidence. He is dripping with finesse, every point of action executed, although unconventionally, with a certain level of something that just gets you — from how he places his lips right at your ear, whispering sweet little instructions to you, watching how easily you follow each and every one of them, only to shower you in praise you just are not used to.
Mahito pinches your perked nipples, enjoying the lovely little noises that rumble in the back of your throat, "Do you touch yourself when you're alone?" The question makes you squirm, knees knocking together in retaliation to the sudden warmth that spreads through your belly, "Do you think about him while you do it?" Mahito drags his fingers up the length of your torso, cupping underneath your tits and observing your body's instinct to arch into his touch.
"Do you imagine him taking you slowly for the first time?" He grows louder with every question, holding you tighter and grabbing you in places you had never been grabbed in such a way before, "Laying you down just like he had you, locking your fingers together just... like..." He leaves you hanging for a moment, allowing your senses to hone in on the ticklish sensation of his nails skipping down your arm, "This?" His fingers lace together with yours and only now are you able to fully dissect how large he is in comparison to you.
His palms may very well be the size of your head, perhaps even larger. There is a certain level of panic in that, but with an undertone of eroticism. Your fingers squeeze around his and you find yourself, against the odds that are laid out before you, falling for his charmingly devious sense of self.
You feel unholy in every way, and not because a demon is caressing every inch of you, or whispering foul things into your ear in an ever so alluring tone of voice, but rather because of how your body is attracted to that. There is this unspoken magnetism that grows harder and harder to ignore, "When you imagine it... is he gentle enough so that it doesn't hurt?"
You choke up, thighs pressed so tightly together they might as well go through one another, "N-No more—" Your lungs burn, every labored breath you take is like inhaling the fumes of a bonfire — smoke and flame and ash and everything in between that makes your respiratory system cry out.
The air feels stubbornly hot, and his body pressed tightly against yours does little to alleviate that, "Are you one of those virgins that has violent sexual fantasies?" His heart pulsates against your back and yet all you can imagine are the countless nights your fingers shimmied under the hem of your panties, rubbing clumsily at your confused pussy as your mind wandered to several scenarios in which Junpei would take you.
Your favorite was always the one where he tugged your panties down to your knees and bent you over his desk, scolding you because of your insufferable habit of hanging onto him while he works. As he said, in his own words, 'You're too needy for your own good.' He would grab you by the back of your neck, or dig his fingers into three fat of your thigh. The bits that always got you to cum were when you imagined his spanking you, degrading you.
"That's it, isn't it?" Mahito rejoices with a chuckle, "Look at me." He turns your face to him sternly, "Tell me I'm right."
Little tears of humiliation prick the corners of your eyes, lashes fluttering at him like the wings of a butterfly. He finds it cute how emotional you get knowing your dirty secret is out, and the tears really add to the effect. You are just too easy to rile up, every little thing seems to set you off in some direction and perhaps he likes that unpredictability of your swaying emotions — one second in fear, the next rubbing your thighs together shamelessly, and now tearing up in pure embarrassment.
Your tongue feels numb in your mouth and you almost think to defy him entirely, to keep your lips sealed shut and ignore his demand for a response. However, all that your body wants to do is behave. You want to be good, to do as he asks because, as far as your assumptions lay, if you do what Mahito says he will be nice to you. You want him to like you.
At first, your voice is rough, and you swallow down your reservations before trying again, "Y-You're right," You barely manage just those two words, no louder than meek whimpers and neither spoken without a teeny stutter, "You're right."
Mahito seems to like that answer because his lips curl into a sinister grin, "What do you imagine, (name)?" His interest is piqued and based on the wild look in his eyes, feral and desperate to know what goes on in your head, you are sure he will not take anything but the truth for an answer.
"I..." He taunts you with only his eyes, your reflection swimming in them, "Being called names," His hands loom at your knees, nudging your legs apart, "Being... Being bent over and—" Mahito's body slips between your legs with an uncalled-for amount of elegance, guiding you to wrap your legs around his waist. You do not want to say the last part, it had been hard enough to say the first two, but you just cannot find the courage to speak one simple word.
"Tell me, (name)." He husks at the valley between your heavy tits, suckling and nipping at the tender flesh, "It can be our little secret, just you and me."
The world seems to slow at that moment, your body undivided in its attention, solely focused on how his mouth treats your skin, "Mahito—" You whine, hesitant in reaching for his hair, "I like— I like..." Your fingers sink into his thick hair, holding gently and rubbing the strands in between your fingers, "Spanked," You say so quietly, he almost does not hear you, "I wanna be spanked."
He eyes you from below, his soft lips latched onto a patch of skin adjacent to your perky nipple and sucking at it. You can feel his tongue and teeth grinding against the meat, no doubt in an attempt to mark your flesh with a reminder of him. The mark throbs with its own heartbeat and your eyes almost deceive you into thinking that it is pulsating with life, the mark is barely visible against your complexion, no more than the imprints of his teeth and a sheen of saliva.
"Oh, really?" There is mock disbelief laced in his response, brows lifted to feign surprise but you are sure he is anything but such, "Is that all?" He prods and pokes at you because really, nothing gets him off quite like fucking with the feeble, fragile mind of a human. To be able to dissect a human without taking them apart is the most rewarding process, in his humble opinion.
Mahito levels his face with yours, his long wisps of lakeshore blue hair create a beautiful curtain around your face. At that moment, it feels like there is nothing and no one but the two of you. The tips of your noses kissing one another, and if you did not know any better, you would have considered such an act to be romantic, sensual... intimate.
Perhaps, you do not know any better.
"I dunno," You shamefacedly tell, fingers dancing across the various features that make him so incredibly beautiful — you trace his jaw up until his chin where your fingers then ascend upwards to smooth over his lips, smiling at how incredibly velvety they are beneath your fingers. You almost want to ask what lip balm he uses, "I've had other dreams, but— well, I've only been really interested in those main three... I'm still a virgin, Mahito."
His charm is unconventional, not the charm that an ancient vampire has when seducing a beautiful damsel in distress, nor the charm of a sociopath seeking out their latest victim... he has this wonderous charm, one that is not at all meant to be salacious, but rather hold this unspoken of curiosity that reels you in. When you are with him, you feel ageless, and that in itself invokes a wave of clumsy, amateur hormones that in turn carries nostalgia.
None of it makes sense, you realize, but nothing good ever has a clear answer. Regardless of whether it is genuinely "good" or not.
His large hand grabs your face, your chin resting between his thumb and index finger, and squeezes your cheeks together just enough for your lips to pucker, "Yes, you are..." He hums, and his tongue, which you only now realize is long and forked, wets his lower lip, "Does that scare you?"
"Scare me?" You echo with a confusing twist, "Like— does being a virgin scare me?"
Your body is flipped over without warning, hips elevated by one of his arms tucked underneath you and lifting your lower half up just enough for your rear to meet his front. It feels raunchy, and although that is something that, in some other universe, may have disturbed you, in this given reality your body lovingly presses back further until the outline of his cock is sandwiched against your puffy cunt.
Something about it just feels so right, your cheek smushed into the hardwood flooring, just as your tits are, and his hands fondle the fat of your ass with such adoration and care. He kneads the meat, rubbing and spreading and shoving his cock into you just right so that it tugs on your little, needy clit. He knows your body better than even you, guiding your hips back as he presses forward and breathes the little whines that hang from your pouty lips.
"You don't seem scared to me," He sings into your ear, "You almost seem excited to get rid of it..."
Perhaps you are. Maybe this is what you have wanted for as long as you can remember, the burden of your virginity is heavy and suffocating and the older you get the more difficult it is to lie to your friends that you have had sex with Junpei. Your lips always move faster than your head, and before you knew it, the lies began to pile up — boasting that he is so big and that he can make you cum three times in one round, or the time you gushed about how he has taken you on every surface in his apartment...
All of it lies, simply because, against your own comfort, you are embarrassed by your lack of activity.
"I want it—" You bite your tongue, hiding your shame in the walls that your arms create around your head, "Junpei—"
A hand grabs the back of your throat and pulls, harshly turning you so that your eyes remain solely on the heterochromatic ones that scrutinize you, "Don't say his name." Mahito hisses with a furrowed brow, clearly offended that even now, as Junpei cowers off to the side to lick his own wounds, you still manage to weep his name, "He had his chance..."
Mahito uses his thumb to tug your pussy open, spitting a scalding glob of drool onto your tight hole, "You're gonna be so sweet," He buzzes with a sunny grin, eyeing how his saliva dribbles down to your swollen clit, "I want you to bleed on my cock." There is risk in his voice, and yet your only reaction is to push back on his thumb that circles your needy cunt, "Can you do that for me?"
"Mhmm," He rewards you with a swipe over your clit, towing it back and forth, "I'll— I'll do it," Another driblet of slobber hits you, and his fingers rub it in until your pussy sparkles, "I want it, Mahito, I need it— I need you."
"Do you need me, little lamb?" He asks, and you can hear what sounds like the undoing of his clothes, "Does it feel like you'll die without me?"
'Yes,' You want to say, 'I'll die without you.' But even in your head, those words sound nothing like you — they sit heavily on your tongue, beckoning to be freed, for you to breathe life into the idea of a world where Mahito is your everything. You need him, you want him. You have nothing and you are nobody without him.
There is this looming thought of doom. Little lamb, he said. A pet name he thought up just for you, an exclusive honorific to replace your name, a term of affection. Without connotation it is lovely, it makes you feel special... though, little lambs, in just about every movie ever, never do make it far. They are the first to be laid on the slab, the first to suffer a tragic end.
That is what you are meant to be; the sacrificial lamb. The darling virgin given to the devil to satiate his hunger, a gift to entertain this evil spirit until he grows bored of you. Your fate had been sealed for years, you were always destined to be in this position with your legs spread deliciously for the Lord of Darkness.
"Say it." His voice carries through to your innermost thoughts, coaxing your slack jaw to become of use and emit those simple words he expects from you, "Say it and I'll give you whatever you want... anything at all."
The first thing that crosses your mind is Junpei, you cannot even bring yourself to look at him, but he dallies at the back of your mind. Would you be able to forgive yourself if you selfishly wished for revenge? Could you sleep knowing you were just as demented as he is?
"Mahito," His name is like honey on your tongue, you would say it over and over if it meant filling your mouth with that same sweetness, "I'll die without you." You are almost winded when you hear yourself, it is just so wrong and yet, as you feel his lips curl into a smile against your shoulder, all you feel is unconditional satisfaction.
"That's right," He laughs, dragging his fingers along the indentations of your spine, "You'd die without me, I'm all you have now, aren't I?"
He is right, you have no one. You have no one but him, and as he traces your body down to the plush fat of your ass, squeezing your heavy cheeks before holding them apart to admire your twinkling pussy, you know you are okay with that.
There is no process to it for him, no unique finesse when it comes to pressing the blinding tip of his cock at your cunny, "I think you're boyfriend worked you open just fine," He speaks rather confidently, a big toothy grin on his otherwise pretty face, "You'll sing for me, won't you?"
Sing for him, you smile into the back of your hands at that, who knew such simple words could make you feel so fuzzy? Mahito smooths a hand over the small of your back, pushing down until you give him a pretty arch, your upper half sinking into the floor beneath you while the rest remains propped up nicely for him to admire. You are so fragile, he notes, even the tiniest of grabs and pinches seem to make you gasp — he forgets his own strength.
"'s not gonna fit—" You realize when his tip rubs snug at your hole, his tip is like a searing coke can as it mushes around at your stubborn lips, "Mahito," He hums at the sound of his name, though his voice sounds distant, and you doubt he is genuinely paying attention, "'s it gonna hurt?"
The demon sighs at that, and you nearly believe you might have upset him, but then his hand falls heavy onto your left ass cheek; hard enough to be a spank with an added grab and shake of the fat, "It might," He says nonchalantly, playing with your rear end and ignoring how intimidating it is for his huge dick to be flush against your virgin pussy, "Pain is only temporary, think of how good it's gonna feel after... I bet that," One of his arms loops around your waist, fingers dancing from the hood of your clit up to your navel, "My dick will reach all the way up here."
Mahito presses the tips of his fingers into your tummy, massaging that sensitive spot just below your bellow button until you start to squirm, "Does that scare you, little lamb?" He is not at all concerned, only amusement etched in between his words, "I promise not to tear you in half."
You can only nod, you simply do not have the heart to tell him how little his words helped to ease your worries.
One of his hands holds you open for him, gripping your left cheek and spreading, the sound of your pussy lips pulling apart is deafening; like smacking your tongue against the back of your teeth. It makes you cringe almost, knowing Mahito has such a personal view between your legs, you feel judged beneath his eyes. Not a word or sound is spoken and doubt begins to tumble within you, are you not good enough?
But then he is huskily smearing the tip of his cock between your parted folds, watching how it begins to sparkle with the collection of your arousal, "So cuuute~" His words are breathless, "Can't even fit the tip in..." There is this frustration to him, every gentle nudge against your puckered hole only results in your cunt disregarding him entirely — no amount of coaxing by rubbing your clit, or stretching you with his fingers seems to open you up enough.
However, he is no quitter, and that scares you, "Well," He sighs with disappointment, "I wanted Junpei to watch your face while I made love to you, but I suppose this will have to work." Your body is manhandled onto its back, legs in the air, and your arms pressed into your chest, "I'm lucky your front is just as pretty as your back." Mahito guides your limbs into a very specific position, pretzeled in half with your knees just below where your arms are folded over your tits.
"So pretty," He muses, shuffling until his knees are at the back of your thighs, your ankles doing their best to wrap around his waist but the firm grip he has on your knees makes it difficult for you to move your legs from their pinned state, "What do you want?" He is taunting you, teasing you. That look in his eye that says you are at my mercy.
"You," Mahito grinds his cock between your legs, "I want you, Mahito, please—" A hand drags down the length of your thigh, cupping the back of it and using his thumb to press down on his cock to guide it. Not once do your eyes leave him, too embarrassed to look down your body where the two of you meet — though he still feels inhumanly large pressed against you, the position provides a bit of relief when you can feel what is only the beginning of him easing his tip through that first barrier of muscle.
Everything seems to be still; your breathing, the trembling, the nerves. Your conscience solely focused on that pressure between your legs, how uncomfortably good it feels the more he fills you up. You almost think to let the breath you had been holding out, fully convinced that this entire time you may have been overreacting about the whole ordeal.
But then he stops, and you feel why he stops, "'s gonna hurt, isn't hurt?" His eyes flicker up to you, a pout on your pretty face and your teeth stressing your bottom lip. Your eyes, for the first time, flicker down and you almost feel sick. There is still so much of him not yet stuffed in your gooey cunt, and already he is nudging at that little wall of skin that marks you as pure.
That thin curtain mocks you, makes fun of you — even just the tiniest of prodding elicits this string of sensitivity, and your thighs, as a result, try to close around him, "No, no, no..." He seethes, lowering himself until your legs are trapped over his shoulders and his nose tickles the highest point of your cheek, "All you have to do is keep still, be a good girl for me and close your eyes— yeah, just like that... 's not hard following directions, right?
"No, but—" He hushes you, lips peppering fresh kisses around your face, just as he knows you humans like it, "Ow—" You had not even realized his intentions were to distract you, and though his onslaught of affections proves to be warming, it does not entirely rid you of that tearing feeling, "Mahito, it hurts— wait."
You feel it pop, just as quick as he started to press inside of you. Your entire body curls in on itself and your nails, with nowhere else to reach but up, claw his shoulders raw. You look like absolute perfection if he has ever seen such a thing, you have such a cute pain face; bottom lip caught so viciously between your teeth that it begins to bleed, eyes squeezed shut to match the cinch of your brows... but his favorite part? How madly your insides clench around him.
He could just eat you up where you are, starting with those soft lips of yours.
The kiss is feverish and messy, no rhythm planned out and it is more like you both are sucking on each other's faces than anything. Your teeth knocking against his, eyelashes mixing together, and noses being crushed — it is hot and disgusting and you love it. All you want to do is taste his tongue on your forever, wet spongy muscles curling around one another and dragging over teeth; he tastes like cinnamon and pistachio. Two flavors you never thought could taste so harmonic.
Your body melts against his and you completely forget about the searing pain inside your belly, the lax state of your muscles allowing him the window he needed to jam as much as he could inside of you until, much to his dismay, his tip kissed your tender cervix. He knew he found it the second you seized up with a gasp, whining that it hurt.
"Open your eyes," He whispers into your ear, granting you a brief few seconds of nothing but a view of his ivory complexion and his beautiful lakeshore blue hair that fell over your face like a blindfold, "You did so well, look how full you are— touch right here, yeah." You press down on the spot, feeling this subtle bulge underneath the pudge of your belly, "Can you guess what that is?"
Really, it took no rocket scientist to figure it out, but that did not keep you from playing coy, "Doesn't matter," There is a certain level of desperation in your voice, one that makes it so very clear to him that you are absolutely weak to his flirtations.
And he knows part of the reason for your reservations is due to the gray eyes ever so present across the room, Junpei is, in every way, a kettle pot boiling over. The young man does not have a hint of an idea of what to do with himself and it is painfully obvious with his boyish shuffling, leaning against his windowsill — Mahito knows exactly where his eyes are trained, pupils blown wide as if he had eaten a tray of edibles and yet glowing with his unmistakable vexation.
But the college student whips his gaze up to the demon he sold his girlfriend to, and at that moment, jealousy joined the mix; hate, frustration, betrayal, jealousy. He drips with animosity, and though he is well aware that he has no power over the situation, at least he can glare. Junpei has no one to blame but himself and his own sinister selfishness yet he projects it onto the entity before him, the entity that has taken his place.
That should be him, he thinks to himself, watching as your eyes roll back into your skull and a breathy sigh spills between the spaces of your teeth. You look entirely different from this angle, wisps of candlelight making you radiate under the flickering flame, your lashes casting a feathery shadow over your cheeks... but what really gets him is the suckling of your bottom lip between your teeth, something you would often do after parting your kiss swollen lips from his.
He remembers how worked up you would get over so little, and kisses were always the death of you — sizzling, watery, disorderly kisses that left drool sticking to your chin and your lips aching with how many times teeth nipped and tugged at them. Those very kisses would result in the squeezing of your thighs, rubbing them up and down against one another until, with a shadow of humiliation hanging over you, you would scurry off to the bathroom to press a cold rag to your face.
"She's real soft," Junpei's eyes snap back up from where they had fallen to the floor in the midst of his reminiscing, "Tight, too— can barely even move." He accentuates his point with a slow dragging of his dick from your gooey cunt, the action stimulating a pitiful whine from you. The envy inside of him flourishes, spreading like a virus to the point where he altogether turns away from you both — but there is no escaping your pleasured croons.
Or Mahito's psychological warfare, describing every bit of how your pussy hugs him, how you get all tense if he pulls out too fast, or the fact that every time he nudges his tip at that special angle you seem to lose it. That tangible fantasy of his, one he has had most days since you both started dating, the one where you are beneath him and he is fucking years of pent-up desire right inside of you, crumbles before his eyes.
He is an idiot.
"Mahito—!" God, you sound even cuter than he thought you would, ignoring that foul name you call, "Slow down, 's too much too fast." You draw him in like a siren, charming him to turn back around as quickly as he had turned away. Your little whines and struggled gasps flow through him like an angel's singing, and against his previous wishes, he is once again staring at your body.
Your skin glows with a sheen of sweat and he wonders if that is how you had looked earlier when he was the one making you sing. Did you roll your eyes into the back of your head when his mouth first kissed you down between the valleys of your thighs? Were you gasping in between each and every stroke his fingers gave your gummy walls? Had your toes curled and your jaw gone slack when you came undone beneath him?
Against his inner turmoil, he can hear your pussy being torn apart; with every smack of skin meeting skin comes the echo of wet squelching, your spoiled cunt moaning right along with you. And as much as it disgusts him to see another man— a devil defiling you, even he cannot bring himself to feel shame as he watches with deep interest how Mahito rocks his hips with yours.
"Takin' it so well, I knew you'd be a good girl— isn't that right, little lamb?" You nod your head vigorously, less out of a means to please the man above you and more as a result of how violently his hips jerk your body. He had hoped for a more verbal response, something needy and adorable, "Since you're so cute, I'll let that slide... but I wanna hear you more."
One of your thighs is released from its prison against your chest, gradually unwinding from the muscle-aching mating press he had you in up until now — your hip pops when that very leg falls on the outside of his, and only when you are maneuvered onto your side with one leg hoisted over his shoulder, do you realize what his intension is.
The first thrust inside of you upon the position change nearly makes you see stars, his cock going as deep as it can manage without bruising your poor cervix. You feel so full it hurts, and yet simultaneously you want more of it. The grip you have on the wrist pinning your thigh at your shoulder is ambiguous as to whether you are trying to push him away or tug him closer, maybe a bit of both.
"Th-There—" You practically choke out, "Right there, Mahito—" He watches his cock plunge inside of you, the erotic spread of your puffy lips, how scalding and swollen your poor cunt is, the little hints of blood smeared on his pulsating dick. You are an absolute mess, still cute, but absolutely ruined.
"Right..." His palm, the one not holding your leg, pressed down at your tummy right where he feels himself through you, "Here?" He chuckles, slowing his blinding thrusts to better push and rub your tummy, admiring how quick you are to go lax and just roll your hips against him, "Does that feel nice?" There is a certain level of faux naivety to his question, and, in some demented manner, that sends ripples straight down between your legs
Mahito is relentless in how he fucks you. There is no rhythm or pattern, just uncoordinated, desperate sex through and through. His hips are erratic in how they pound against you, stuttering over one another, and yet not once does he miss that patch of heaven deep inside of you. He knows you from the inside out without even trying, he knows where to pinch and squeeze and bite and kiss and he does it just right.
"Can't imagine sacrificing this pussy for anything," He jabs at your boyfriend, "Nothing could get me to give this sweet thing up, you'd have to kill me." There is truth to his words, really, what was Junpei thinking? You are the epitome of perfection, so quick to spread your legs and listen to what you are told to, so quick to play it naive and innocent if that is what he wants... if he were not the devil himself, he may have thanked God for letting you stumble right into his lap.
"Shut the fuck—"
A high squeal interrupts him, in fact, multiple mewls and keens. Your breathy whimpers and deep-throated whines quickly accelerate into something more passionate, straining your vocal cords and bouncing off of the walls of his bedroom.
The devil above you leans forward into your space, his hips not once stalling in their abuse, merely slowing down into long, hard pumps that have your toes curling with anticipation with every inch that pulls out, and your body lurching when his hips slam into you with a force that will leave the backs of your thighs bruised with welts. His mouth splays a million and one teasing nips and kisses along the side of your sweaty face, the taste of salt pungent on the tip of his tongue — they almost taste as good as your tears.
"I can feel you," He huffs, your skin burning with the warmth of his breathing, "All of it, can tell how close you are..." He emphasizes his words with a tight squeeze of the thigh belonging to the leg thrown over his shoulder, "'s too much for you, isn't it?"
"Yes," You practically throw up the words, your eyes loose in your skull and merely bouncing around the room with how difficult it is to focus on one thing long enough to readjust your vision, "'s too much, Mahito— feels like 'm gonna," You cut yourself off with a pained cry, palm pushing at his hips, "'s too deep, 's too deep— oh, God—"
You get no response other than a manic chuckle, his eyes looking down at your little hand shoving at his waist to no avail. You are just so much smaller and weaker than him, no amount of weight you put behind your arm causes him to budge, "'s not too much, little lamb..." He coos lovingly, kissing away the stray tears that stick to your cheeks, "You've been so good, don't start misbehaving now~"
Something about the way he says it makes you bite your tongue, not wanting to upset him and make him see you as anything less than perfect — you want Mahito to like you, to care for you, to enjoy being with you. And he finds that cute, he does not need to be able to read minds to know how badly you want him to think kindly of you; it is written in your face, in the rocking of your hips to meet his thrusts, but especially in how you moan his name extra pretty.
And because he appreciates all the effort you are putting into being a good doll for him, he snakes one of his slender hands between your thighs, "You can't cum until I say so, m'kay?"
"Yes, Mahito— promise not to cum, 'm not gonna!" He rewards you with slow and steady circles, smiling at how quickly it crumbles what little self-control you still had. You can feel your body unwinding rapidly, all the knots and kinks dissipating beneath your skin, that coil inside of your belly becoming unbearably tight to the point it almost hurts.
He admires your determination, never did he think a puny human like yourself would be so enthusiastic about pleasing him. It almost makes him like you a little more, having someone as doting as you crawling around would be fun; he just knows you would be the perfect pet, answering to your name, and doing adorable little tricks — maybe he will keep you.
Mahito slows down his thrusts, watching every drag of your swollen cunt along his cock, eyeing the icky goo that your disgusting hole leaves on his length, "Fuck," He curses with a grin, using the thumb that had been stroking your clit to instead tug one of your lips open, "'m gonna breed you," He blurts out with this dark lilt hanging from his tongue, "Gonna fill you right up, make that tummy ache go right away."
You have no sense of rational thinking left, all that your mind processes are that he is going to make you feel good— better than good. The thought of his cum running hot in your belly is enough to have you desperately tugging his body closer; arms, ankles, legs, and the rest wrapped around him like a threatening boa constrictor — your only goal is to wrestle him as close as atoms will allow.
"You're being too greedy," Followed by your hips being put in their place, the hardwood flooring creating no cushion or comfort between your side and the floor, "Be nice and still... just like that, wasn't so hard, right?"
A new wave of tears slips from your lashes, "'m sorry, Mahito— 'm sorry, 's just sooo much... I wanna cum so bad," You hiccup over your own whimpers, body curling forward so that you can watch his cock sinking inside of you, "F-Feels so good, feels so so so good— can I cum? Please, can I cum?"
He feigns a look of contemplation, humming at your request all the while blindly fucking you whilst his eyes look up as if an answer may just materialize before him. He is so very clearly mocking you, and if you were not so cock drunk, you might have realized that. However, you lay there with anticipation, and suspense all in the hopes he will give in to your whiny begs and puppy dog eyes.
Mahito presses on your clit, hard and mean, enough to get your knees buckling and quivering, "How about this..." He starts with a soft smile that is absent of any ridicule, sin, or sadism, "I'm going to count down from ten, and once I say zero, you can cum. Does that sound fair?" Coming from his lips, it sounds simple enough, just ten seconds before you can feel heaven start at your head and run down to your toes.
You naively nod your head, your voice far too gone and consumed by the erotic sounds he keeps pulling from you. Luckily, your answer is enough, and as he stated, he begins to count — slowly.
"Ten..." He returns to rubbing your clit gently, creating that divide between a little too much and complete overstimulation. Your head feels like it is spinning the moment his thumb pulls one full circle, your clit bloated and turning colors from Mahito's fluctuating kindness towards it. You know that come tomorrow, your poor pussy will feel bruised and hurt even more than it had when he first jammed his dick inside of you.
Mahito, bored of the position he has had you in, rolls you onto your stomach and arches your hips in the air. Just as he had you earlier. The change has your head feeling heavy, and for a second you feel your consciousness fade, only to be revived when he plows his cock right back as it had been, "Nine..."
His thrusts are with purpose, fucking you into the floor as if his life depends on it — there is no room for sweet talk or sappy words of encouragement, in fact, not much else comes from his mouth other than labored huffs and shuddering gasps. That, mixed in with the lewd smacking of skin and the sloppy wetness between your supple thighs. The room is simply an orchestra of eroticism, even Junpei's unintentional voyeurism invokes a sort of kinkiness to this act, "Eight..." God, you hate how slow he is counting.
The new position causes difficulties in maintaining what little dignity you still had, Mahito can see everything — the white ring of your arousal building up at the base of his dick, the webs of your slick that stick and snap with every depart of his balls from your cock-hungry cunt, but even more how your jaw has gone absolutely slack and a pool of saliva spills onto the floor beneath you, "Seven..."
Your entire body, your entire thoughts, are completely plagued by that itching deep within your center. Every time you get close enough to teetering over the edge, he pulls his thumb from your clit, and even worse, he laughs at your struggle to find it again, "Six..." He knows exactly what he is doing to you.
"Five..." With your body limp, all of your strength focused on not letting your knees buckle out from beneath you, Mahito takes advantage of your pliancy and hoists your torso up against him — your body knelt before him with your back flush to his front and your hips arched just enough for him to, with his arms tucked under yours and pinning you in place, tugging your body down onto his cock with every thrust upward, "Four..."
If you thought the previous position was torture, this one must be hell; and not necessarily in a bad way. He reaches all those special spots, all those tender patches within your gummy, gooey, sticky cunt. He always makes sure to bump his tip at that sweet lump that sends currents of electricity straight to your core, before pushing forward with little regard as to how badly he has bruised your tender cervix, "Three..."
Every thrust is a blinding mixture of pain and pleasure, the lines becoming blurred and the longer he rocks your body onto his cock the more those two feelings turn into nothing more but a scalding need for release, "Two..." He deliberately drags it out, knowing how you are just barely hanging by that worn thread he has been working, "Tell me how badly you wanna cum."
You groan in frustration, he was so close — you almost feel stupid for not realizing he would do anything to torture you a tad longer; that sadist. No longer are those somersaults in your belly like fireworks, but instead, they have grown to be sickening. You feel yourself becoming nauseous the longer he has you like this, and all you want right now is for it to end, "Please, Mahito— please, please, please—" Your cries are pitiful.
When he does little to satiate your pleas, you reach up for his arms, and your nail dig into his boney wrists, "I can't do it anymore," You sob, head thrown back against his shoulder and shamefully wriggling your hips to see if anything could trigger that switch, "I need to cum, 'm gonna explode— 's makin' me sick, I need to—"
One of his arms slides down your body, the tips of his middle and marriage finger slipping between your thighs and applying that needed pressure to your clit, "Then cum," He deadpans, "Cum for me since you waited so nicely."
He had not even finished his sentence before your body began convulsing, thighs shaking worse than any earthquake known to man, your knees just barely holding your weight not that it mattered with his vice grip around your front. Not a sound escapes you, no more than strangled gasps and rasped whines that start quietly at the back of your throat before gradually raising in volume — you almost look possessed, eyes rolled back and drool running from the corners of your mouth.
The warmth of his cum is a soothing pool within your tummy, heavy and thick and just so right as it settles deep inside of you. You can practically feel it sloshing around with every dying thrust he fucks into you, his cock dragging with a lack of purpose other than to just ride you through your high; it works, though it was sadistic. His cum is unreasonably high in temperature, and it makes you feel so full.
And if the power of your orgasm, which has you seeing stars and planets, were not enough, his hand, hot to the touch, lays flat over your lower abdomen — it starts off just unbearably smothering like he is giving you too tight of a hug, but eventually, something like that of scorching magma begins to etch into your flesh. You do not know much about branding, but if you were to ever experience it, you are sure this is what it would feel like.
His hand, as much as you try to squirm your way out of its grip, keeps its steady spot; flat and calm right where it had been, and for a good ten seconds or so it stays there. What you imagine could feel far worse is numbed by your adrenaline and overstimulation, dulling what little pain you already feel. It is not until he removes his hand, allowing a gust of cool air to fan over the itchy patch of flesh, that you are able to make out what it is that you had felt.
A set of intricate lines are burned into your skin, swollen and welted, the design complicated but extremely high fashion. It reminds you of pinstriping on a car, the center of the design a pretty heart surrounded by blossoming curls that resemble flowing wings, or perhaps flames. You can hardly make it out from this angle.
"Don't you just look cute," Mahito purrs with a satisfied, cocky grin, "Now you're all mine~" He says it as if he ever had to share you in the first place, which, as far as you knew, was not established at all considering Junpei had practically relinquished your rights to this evil spirit.
Speaking of Junpei, who stands rather awkwardly just as he had been twenty minutes earlier, he has no interjection. There are no words that he could ever say to convince you to feel safe with him again, let alone, no words would ever be enough of an apology for you. In his mind, he knows that he sacrificed not just you, but your trust and undivided love and attention. Something about it stings, in some selfish way, but he cannot argue — you are not his to fight for.
The mark at your belly, which had been throbbing mere seconds earlier, subdues into a sensation far more relaxing; like a cool tide flowing through you. The tattoo-esque design looks as if it has been healed for months, all the swelling and rawness fully healed in a matter of three agonizing seconds. You should be in awe, but there is hardly any room to even process half of what is going on at the moment.
All you know is that you want to sleep forever, your body slumping into Mahito who, with not a hint of emotion in his expression, allows your frail body to sink against his. Begrudgingly he guides you into a more comfortable set-up, stretching his legs in front of himself, and only after coaxing you to slide your pretty self off of his softening dick, tugging you to straddle his waist and rest your head on his shoulder.
"Mm, how fun—" He sighs, tracing shapes into the bruises on your sides, "I quite like this one, Junpei..." Mahito hums to himself as if agreeing with his own observation. He can feel the start of his cum spilling from your insides, running steadily over the thigh you had chosen to straddle in your sluggish struggle to get comfy, "You may not believe me, but I like cute things... cute things with even prettier—"
He knows Junpei is drowning him out, he can see it in how the young adult stares not at him but through him. His lack of attention, though irritating, is entirely called for, despite Mahito finding it baffling how quick Junpei had been to give you up for some silly magic. He finds it interesting — he finds you and Junpei quite fascinating, far more entertaining than the average human.
"I may be technically evil, but I'm no monster!" Mahito cheerily declares, and when he opens his eyes again, those beautiful heterochromatic orbs have turned into a more ominous shad of crimson, glowing against the darkened room.
"And I always offer my time to fair trades... so what were you interested in?"
[ nsfw ] — role-play (and a smidge of dub-con in said role) but it's silly ; insecure bakugou bc it makes me feral.
[ disclaimer ] — i'm sure this goes without saying, but this is based on my own personal interpretation of bakugou and not meant to insult or offend. ♡´･ᴗ･`♡
[ word count ] — 3.9k ; this was just supposed to be short and silly idk what happened LOL
katsuki is shy.
as soon as he sees you — rushing out from the kitchen, grabbing the laundry basket that's been filled with some of his things — his face is already turning pink. blush growing, just like his scowl.
he doesn't say anything at first, just eyes your jumpsuit and your boots and little mask, and then his work bag hits the floor with a resounding thud. "the fuck are y'doin'?"
"oh, no!" you cry dramatically, pressing a hand to your forehead as you look down in the basket — which holds two of his watches and a pair of shoes gifted from his mom and even a few of the nicer necklaces he's bought you over the years. "pro-hero dynamight has caught me!"
and then he knows exactly what you're up to.
still, he says nothing, even though you wait to see if he'll play along, grinning all the while. under your gaze, he shifts awkwardly, screwing up his lips as he tries to ignore the low cut of your outfit, swallowing when you push your boobs together with your arms.
"i better get out of here," you say loudly, as if he hadn't heard you. "i don't want such a big, strong hero to arrest me!"
the temperature of his face rises, but your corny line has his attitude returning with a vengeance. "what are you doing?"
a streak of insecurity runs through you, but you grit your teeth together, steeling yourself so that it doesn't show. you don't miss the subtle way he tries to wipe his hands on his sweatpants or how secretly he tries to tug at them — and that gives you all the confirmation that you need.
your boyfriend is a big pervert, and you're determined to prove it.
(last week, katsuki was on night patrol and had gone into the agency around 7pm. the shirt he grabbed had been the wrong one, a black sleeveless tank with a giant tear in the side that he had yet to sew up, and he'd called to ask if you could bring him a new one.
sure, no problem; when you got to his office, he'd been sitting at his desk in just his tac pants and boots, scrolling through mindless paperwork while waiting and he'd looked — really good. you see him without a shirt all the time, but mostly he's in sweatpants or fresh out of the shower, and there was something about seeing him so geared up and ready to go that struck you differently.
you don't often watch the replays on tv of his work because it scares you, but to witness him as dynamight —
it had you feeling mischievous, suffice to say.
you sat quietly on his desk, watching him close out of his computer, smiling to yourself as he logged off. he thanked you for the shirt with a kiss to the cheek and then he expected you to head home; you could see it in his eyes, watching you — a little wary — as he fiddled with the material in his hands.
"there's, like, nobody in here."
katsuki shrugged, little kissable pout on his lips. "s'almost 8, everyone's at home."
you hummed, turning around to stare out his open office, down the long line of sleeping monitors in their cubicles. "we could have sex in here and nobody would know."
it made him choke, and he stepped back from you to cough into his fist before looking at you with wide eyes. "what?"
of course, it was his reaction at that point that had you feeling wicked. "c'mon, you got 10 minutes?'
his eyes danced to every corner of the room, cheeks flushing in the low light from his desk lamp, before he leaned to look out the door, too. checking, you think.
"i—what? no, i-i don't. pinky's waitin' for me out there."
you were only being cheeky—at least mostly—so you'd simply stuck your tongue out at him and shrugged. "okay, fine." and then he sighed, like he'd narrowly gotten away from something, before leaning back to shove his hands in his pants. you grinned, watching as he adjusted himself. "i mean, i can be quick, if you want."
"shut. up." he hissed, and it wasn't until he removed his hand that you realized exactly how hard he was, palming at his bulge roughly, as if he could smash it down until it was gone.
just from that. just from the suggestion of fucking on his desk. you laughed and he glared and then kicked you out, after a furious kiss that was firmer than usual.)
katsuki is very — particular about sex. something he likes to take his time with, despite being lightning quick about everything else in his life. it's only in the last year that he's allowed himself to be a little more vocal in bed, moaning openly against your skin, telling you how good you feel in his quiet, broken little voice.
as far as kirishima lets on, this is his longest relationship and, even though he's surely not a virgin, you wonder if he's ever really been comfortable with himself sexually. he's got an absurd amount of testosterone raging through his body at all times, but he always acts so unsure, like he's worried he'll do something to embarrass himself; you're determined to free him from that fear.
and — seeing him get worked up over you is half the fun, anyway.
you carefully set the laundry basket down — which also holds an older model of his left gauntlet — before moving like you're going to run right out the front door, only to unfortunately stumble straight into him.
"oh, no!" you say again, hands flat against his chest as you sink into him. "please don't arrest me dynamight, i'll do anything."
his throat works hard, eyes jumping between your face and the front of your tiny jumpsuit, which is unzipping the more you arch your back and push against it. he rasps, "what is this?"
you pout at him before dropping straight down to your knees, twirling the string of his sweatpants around your finger as he gapes at you. "i'm a horrible, horrible villain," you explain, "and we've been playing this little cat-and-mouse game for too long! and you've been chasing after me for months and now you've caught me here in the solitude of your own home and, much to your surprise," you unzip the rest of the top for emphasis, smiling when he slumps back against the front door. "i'm a woman!"
katsuki is — still speechless, though you can see the gears turning in his head as you nuzzle against the swelling bulge in his soft sweatpants, mouthing at his tip through the thick material.
"i'll do anything, dynamight, sir." you goad, and you wait and he's not breathing, just furrowing his brows down at you. you try not to make a face at him and purposely cup him through his pants, hard.
it makes him nearly jump out of his skin. "wh-what's with—the fuckin' getup?"
you slump, leaning your cheek against his thigh to pout up at him some more. "i got it at the costume store, baby, but that's not..."
the cool, air-conditioned breeze is nipping at your exposed skin the longer you sit in front of him like this and it's chasing away all the sultry confidence you had before he came home.
it's not even like you actually think katsuki's a pervert, you just want him to be kinky without being ashamed of it, and, much as you want to fix that now, maybe you're going about this the wrong way. maybe this is something you two need to sit down and talk about. maybe there is something he's not telling you, on purpose.
he stares straight ahead, mouth open like he's waiting for his words to come out, and you watch as a bead of sweat slips from his hairline down to his jaw before hiding your face in his leg and groaning quietly; you're not mad, just a little embarrassed that you thought this is what would work on him.
"okay, okay," you say, standing back up to re-zip your suit. "i'm done, sorry for ambushing you."
his eyes snap to yours, though he's still quiet, and he eventually closes his mouth, gritting his jaw so hard that his ears wiggle once. you plant a kiss on him, quick and dry, before turning to head back to your room so you can change, pulling the cheap eye-mask over your head. the string catches against your head and snaps you once, and you mumble a quiet ow before reaching for the door knob.
very carefully, you feel katsuki's fingers dance over your waist, and he reaffirms his grip after you pause. he pushes you forward flat against the wood gently, not at all how he would to a real villain, and then he buries his face in your neck, hot breath coming quick as if he'd been running.
you try not to smile because the curve of your cheeks will give you away, and so you stay quiet, waiting. you feel him breath in hard through his nose, grunting once before speaking.
"where...d'y'think you're goin'?"
his ears are burning into your skin, but when you roll your hips back against him, he reciprocates, fingers tightening as he pins you firmly to the door.
you try again. "are you going to arrest me, dynamight?"
"uh," katsuki breathes, pulling his head back to look behind him towards his bag. "i, uh," his hesitation is so endearing that you can't help but to grin, "i've only got, um, zipties in—"
"ow!" you squeal, arching into him, though the sound makes him jump back a step. with the new space, you twist your arms around your back, grabbing your own wrists in a false bind. "please be gentle with me, sir!"
he huffs, shaky, before purposely grinding his hard length against your ass. one of his hands curls around both of your own, firm in keeping you "caught", while his other goes to grab at the fat of your hips.
his breath warms behind your ear again and he nips at your neck once. "uh...the hell're you doin' in my house?"
you're happy and so you want to laugh, but you know he'll take it the wrong way, especially as nervous as he seems. instead you struggle in his hands, hardly serious, rubbing against him until he huffs again.
"i'll never tell you!"
"well, then," his arm slips fully around your waist, resting for a moment against the doorknob before turning it. "i'll—fuckin' make you."
you gasp loudly, spinning to back into the room until your knees hit the bed, collapsing down and trapping your hands beneath yourself. "you can't do this!" you struggle some more, wiggling your hips and straining against the tight jumpsuit so it'll start to force open again. "you have to let me go!"
katsuki is clearly at a loss, stepping up to the bed as he half-shrugs, uncertain. "no."
you smile despite yourself and it turns his face beet red, but you quickly school your expression back into fake shock. "i'll scream."
what you want him to say is something along the lines of, oh yeah baby i'll make you scream, but that is — simply not him, and you think he's not breathing again, just watching the zipper of your suit as it slowly struggles. it's so cheap and poorly made, you're surprised it hasn't broken yet.
you arch up at little, finding your mask sitting on the floor by the door, and you exaggerate a moan. "my identity," you whimper, making big, sad eyes at him. "i've been discovered."
katsuki shuffles again, glancing at the floor before bending to pick up the tacky thing. you hadn't meant for him to get it for you, but he tugs at it before coming closer, kneeling on the bed so he can pull it over your head.
as if, maybe he wants you to wear it.
you feel a little zing up your spine, wrapping your legs around his waist when he adjusts the string so it's more comfortable for you. his eyes go wide, hips falling forward until he's brushing against your core by accident, leaving you both a little breathless.
whatever patience you'd had before is whisked away when you feel how turned on he is, once your underwear clings against your skin with how wet you've unknowingly become.
"i bet you've been thinking about this," you whisper, heady, as you slowly grind up against him. "tying me up, all to yourself."
a sharp exhale leaves him, though he tries to close his mouth around it, cheeks burning as he struggles to maintain eye contact with you. "i-i thought—"
you nod, encouraging him with a breathy, "uh-huh?"
"i thought i didn't know you were a chick until now."
you stop, head dropping back to the bed as you stare at him.
well. shit. you did say that.
you shake your head, sighing when one of his hands closes around your hip to keep you moving. "okay, pretend you already knew." he nods his head, a little vigorously, before pressing you into the mattress, grinding against you with purpose now. the pressure is good enough that you feel your eyes lidding, a dull throb building where you're most sensitive. "i bet you've been thinking about punishing me all by yourself, dynamight."
it makes his face and neck burn, and katsuki has to squeeze his eyes shut once before dropping his elbows to the bed and leaning just barely over your lips. "yeah," is all he says, voice wavering.
you lean up to brush your nose against his, but you don't kiss him. "and how're you gonna do that?" he angles his hips, deliberately catching your clit when he ruts against you, and it draws the first, genuine moan from your lips. you think he can tell, because he grits his teeth and does it over and over. "are you gonna fuck me or what?"
katsuki just nods, quickly sitting back up on his knees so he can pull his shirt up over his head. it reminds you of what started this mission in the first place and you take in the sight of him, muscles taut with anticipation, his adonis belt that stems into the low band of his sweats.
"i've been thinking about it, too," you say, dragging your eyes up his body slow, so that he can watch your appreciation, "because you're so big and strong and power—"
he cuts you off with a firm kiss, digging a hand into your hair so that he can slant your head. when you gasp at the tug on your scalp, katsuki swirls his tongue with yours, slow and sweet, eliciting another soft moan that has him breathing in hard through his nose.
"damn woman," he grunts, sitting back up to yank at the zipper on your suit, cheeks burning when he eyes your lazy grin. "tryin' to fuckin' kill me."
you laugh. "on the contrary, dynamight, i'm actually—" katsuki pulls you into a sitting position, tugging your suit back over your shoulders until it hits your elbows.
and then you both look at each other.
"um," you swivel on the mattress just a bit, thinking; maybe wearing a one-piece jumpsuit wasn't a great idea, when being "bound" is involved, or you should have at least waited until he got you naked. "let's just pretend—"
"yeah, yeah," katsuki nods, scratching his head as you unwind your arms quickly and slip them through the sleeves, falling back over your hands as he tugs the whole thing down your thighs. your boots are still on, but he doesn't bother with those, just ducks under the bridge of clothing until he's against you again.
you squirm in your tiny, mesh underwear, a gasp echoing out of you when he mouths at the skin below your belly button, moving lower and lower until his tongue is meeting the thin material that separates you. this — wasn't part of the plan; you were expecting him to just shove his pants down and bully his way inside of you, which was fine for this scenario, but the wet glide of his tongue has you forgetting about everything except for how hot he's making you.
your back arches as the material begins to saturate — both from you and him — and you moan, growing needy for more; his mouth on you feels amazing as always, but your underwear, the partition between you, are already starting to grate on your nerves. katsuki must know because he can read you so well, and he hooks his fingers around the thin mesh before yanking that out of his way, too.
"fuck," you gasp, hips jerking when his tongue swipes against your swollen bud, and you let out another whiny noise when he closes his lips around it. you feel — soaked, but gilded, trying to catch the breath he keeps pulling from you.
both his hands come up to stroke over your hip bones, holding you down as you tremble, pulling you close so that his nose drags against you, too. the added pressure makes you shudder and your head falls back to the mattress as his messy kiss coils something tighter and tighter in your belly.
"katsuki," you moan, wanton, and rip your hand from underneath your back to fist a handful of his hair, legs closing around his head as his tongue slips inside of you. "fuck, 'm—"
the strain against his scalp makes him groan, open-mouthed, and you try to remind yourself to take note of that, but the vibration of the sound leaves you quivering. your hips move of their own accord, bucking up against the flat of his tongue as you feel the warmth dripping down your spine, as your toes begin to curl, as your mind goes blank.
and then he's pulling away from you all too soon, surging up to plant a wet, heady kiss to your lips, to share the essence that's still sweet in his mouth. he's panting into you, one of his hands palming roughly at your breast while the other reaches back to rip one of your boots off.
you maybe shouldn't have tied them so seriously, because it takes him a few horrible moments before he can get the laces loose enough to tug off your foot, pulling the rest of the jumpsuit down one leg.
"you're," he breathes, hands going back to your hips to grip them firmly. "supposed to be tied up."
katsuki flips you onto your stomach, pulling you to the edge of the bed, on your knees so that he can run a hand up your back. gently, he toys with you; testing different pressures around your neck, tugging at your hair again, wrapping his hand back around both your own.
when you feel the thick weight of him tap against your swollen slit, you cry out softly into the mattress, wiggling your hips back with all your impatience. he runs his length against you, coating himself before teasing at your entrance, and then he hesitates again; as if he's trying to say something, you hear the open and close of his mouth several times before he just swallows, shaking his head before he begins to sink into you.
the stretch has your eyes rolling back in your head, mouth falling open silently as his strained groan fills the room. the sound is music to your ears, and you could almost laugh at how worried you were before all this — if he wasn't seating himself so deep inside of you, making you moan against the sheets.
katsuki hisses out a string of curse words, free hand going to the dip of your waist to pull you back to meet his rough and unsteady thrusts. there's almost no rhythm and he seems to lose it as soon as he finds it, and that paired with how roughly he's breathing is enough to send you over the edge.
it's like he's — desperate, too frenzied to think straight.
you try to muffle your embarrassing whine into the mattress as your thighs shake, as he continuously hits that spot inside of you that brings tears to your eyes. it doesn't deter him in the slightest, only encourages him to fuck you through your orgasm as you scramble a bit on your knees, overwhelmed by the sounds the both of you are making.
it dawns on you distantly, as you come through the haze, that he's actually enjoying this, keeping a firm grip around your hands so that you can't escape. you feel euphoric, elevated to a new high as all your nerves sing.
your throat is dry and you have to swallow several times before you can speak, stuttering, from how hard he's pounding into you. "d'you like this? fucking the—oh—villain you've caught?"
it makes him still, just for a moment, as he runs his hand up your back again, adding pressure just between your shoulder blades and groaning before returning to your hip. "i think you, hah, fuckin' like this," katsuki breathes, grip tightening to a painful degree before he slams into you again, making your toes curl. "getting f-fucked by the hero."
hearing him play along makes your stomach flip, has a drizzle of warm honey spreading up your spine, just like before, as you squirm again under his hands. you feel warm, almost numb to anything except for the weight of him behind you, the pleasure that never stops throbbing between your legs.
you squeal when he angles himself particularly deep, though the sound is nearly drowned entirely out by his groan, the low oh fuck, oh fuck, fuck he chants as his body goes taut and curls over yours. his thrusts grow shallow but never stop, as he cums so hard it almost sounds painful, and he finally takes his hand from both of yours to steady himself against the bed.
you both groan when he pulls out, katsuki falling down beside you on the mattress to catch his breath and blink slowly at the ceiling. he's so red, sweaty and worn out, and you watch him through bleary eyes for a long moment before realizing that he's purposely not looking at you.
it makes you laugh, light and lilted — which screws his face up — as you slump forward, eyes lidding as exhaustion coats you in a thin sheen.
"you're a pervert," katsuki finally mumbles, pushing his hair off his forehead before rubbing his eyes. when you laugh again, he glares at you, but doesn't move away as you shimmy closer.
"what can i say? i'm no match for big and strong dynamight—"
"cut that shit out," he groans, rolling over to bite at your cheek, bearing his weight down on you when you squeal.
"i'll never commit a crime again," you squirm when he pinches at your side, trying to hold on to your words through a fit of giggles. "your incredible hero cock has turned me—"
"you fucking—" he's quick to lean back and flip you over, cradling your face in his hands as he smashes his lips to yours — almost too eagerly.
"katsuki!" you shriek, wiggling beneath him helplessly as he tickles you. he pays you no mind, just continues trying to press kisses into your open mouth until tears are sprouting at your waterline from laughing so hard.
finally, you get reprieve as his hands slip up your body slowly, taking your wrists between his fingers so he can hold them together above your head. he presses his forehead to yours, eyes lidded and relaxed, with the ghost of a smirk on his face, and he murmurs, "it's dynamight to you, missy."
synopsis: in what you believe to be your final moments, you make one last phone call that changes the shape of your relationship with Izuku forever.
tags: AFAB reader, NSFT, eventual best friends to lovers, eventual smut, near death experience (descriptions of drowning and being trapped under a building), angst and fluff, quirk assisted injury recovery, resolved romantic and sexual tension, symptoms of PTSD (flashbacks), aged up characters (Pro Hero Deku & Pro Hero Dynamight), reader works in Hero Public Relations, reader is carried but Deku can literally lift a bus so we good, handjobs, spit as lube, light masochism (hair pulling; m! receiving), mention of being on contraception, oral and fingering (f! receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, spooning position
wc: 17k
For a few moments, lasting as long as a lifetime, you are in a home that is yours and yet not your own. It’s bright, the windows are ceiling to floor and flooding the room with heavenly light, and sitting by the balcony is a figure bathed in green. Bangs held back by a shoelace tied into a makeshift headband, the upper half of his hero costume unzipped and loose around his waist as he fiddles with his gloves. You had not felt the sun's warmth, not until he lifted his head to meet your gaze, freckles lining the swell of his cheeks as he smiled. He opens his mouth to say something, perhaps your name, but his lips part and the crashing sound of running water passes through his mouth.
As you are abruptly pulled into consciousness by a blinding flash of pain, you cannot help but appreciate how incredible the human body could be.
Your chest heaves, rising and falling with each laborious breath, shock trembling throughout your body as you try to calm your frantic thoughts. A dream, it had only been a dream, a little piece of solace conjured by your brain to protect you from the trauma. It’s all so dark here in comparison, your sight adjusting just enough to make out the silhouette of your arm where you reach out into the shadows for leverage. You pull yourself up, supported by rebar spearing through the nearby wall, and almost collapse in utter agony as you lean your weight onto your left leg.
Still loud, a cacophony in your ears, is the rush of water at the far end of the room. Instinct alone has you moving in the opposite direction, the space you’re in getting narrower with each step, dragging your broken limb awkwardly behind you. There is no source of light, no way out, solid jagged surfaces surrounding you from every corner.
Your memory is disjointed. Fractured. You’d been working at your desk, coffee percolating by your computer as you’d slumped into the keyboard, a litany of random numbers and letters unrolling across the desktop screen. As Head of Communications for the Dynamight agency it fell to you to appease and placate; may that be the press, the local government, fellow heroes or the public. It was exhausting, but admittedly it was never boring, and you loved the people you worked with.
It’d been abrupt. You recall the way the building had shook, how you’d gotten to your feet and rushed out into the lobby only for the glass panels to suddenly shatter, the aftershock of a nearby explosion reverberating throughout the room and knocking you to your feet. Everything had fallen still then, just for a few seconds as the other employees regained their bearings. It was not until the third explosion that people had started to genuinely scream, sprinting towards the exit empty handed, while you had foolishly rushed to check the other meeting rooms for strays.
While you might’ve only been a business student, after all the villain attacks UA had ingrained evacuation and safety protocol into you and your classmates bimonthly until it became as familiar as breathing. An ever present, incessant buzz beneath your skin seemed to pilot your movements, something that felt like an intertwining of instinct and intuition. You didn’t need to think — your body just moved. Knowing that the heroes were not in the building you’d forced a tone of authority into your words as you guided people out to the front.
It must’ve been somewhere between the fourth explosion and present time that the building had fallen, ten stories of cement, brick and timber caving in on top of you. From above there is only a haunting silence, and below is the echo of death, the water levels slowly rising, its wet embrace creeping toward you. Your body sinks down onto the displaced rubble at the realisation that you probably weren’t going to make it out, sharp where it digs into the back of your thighs. The pain in your left leg is so great that it begins to numb.
Finding your phone in your pants pocket brings little relief. You press the home button and it lights up, iridescent cracks cutting across the homescreen image, an old picture of you and Izuku at his going away party. You’re leaning into each other heavily, he’s flushed with alcohol and glassy eyed, though that could mostly be attributed to the tears he’d shed all night.
You brush the pad of your thumb over his face and feel your throat begin to swell, a familiar burn in your sinuses, cheeks damp before you even realise you’re crying. While you still spoke to your best friend as often as your schedules allowed it, you hadn’t seen him since the day he left for America, following in his mentor's footsteps to touch hearts in a global effort.
If only he’d known that he took your own heart along with him.
The device in your hand is heavier than you remember. There are unread texts and missed calls from your friends and coworkers gradually blinking onto the screen, delayed by the single bar of signal mocking you from the top corner. You unlock it, shaking as you tap the call icon, blood smearing along your list of contacts as you scroll.
There wouldn’t be much time either way. Make a final call with the remaining air you have, both in the room and in your lungs, or simply wait until the water takes it from you. There’s no time like the present — that’s how the saying goes. If only you’d taken it to heart two years ago, liquid courage in your veins and a confession on your tongue, then maybe you wouldn’t have to die with regrets.
Impatience spikes through your chest the longer the moment draws out. The dial tone rings repetitively, the speaker pressed so tight to the shell of your ear that it’s uncomfortable, but you can already feel moisture filling the soles of your shoes.
You’re almost pleased that it runs to voicemail. What little vision you have blurs at the sound of his voice — I’m either sleeping or on patrol, so I can’t pick up! Sorry, but– leave a voicemail! I promise I do listen to them — followed by the muted beep to indicate the recording has started. Four minutes, that’s all you’d have before it cut out, but judging by the cold kiss around your ankles it would likely end around the three minute mark
You try valiantly to keep your voice steady as you speak, strong enough to be heard over the running water, and pray that the microphone wasn’t damaged in the collapse. “Hi, Izuku…” you begin.
All the words you want to say are there, cloying where they sit in your oesophagus, where they’d been rotting away for all the years you’d known him. It felt as if you’d developed a premeditated reaction to any urge to confess, almost like your psyche was protecting itself. Your body wanted to live, you wanted to be happy, you wished to never hear the words “I’m sorry” or see the uncomfortable yet regrettable smile pull at his mouth.
“I know we’d usually speak tomorrow night but I just needed to talk to you before…” your pant leg clings to your calf, wet, and you cannot see the water for it is as dark as the room, “…there are a lot of things I’ve wanted to say to you but I never had the courage. I always felt so… cowardly, standing beside you. Proud, but cowardly”.
It’s difficult, you think, to find the right words amongst the mess. Which ones will hold less weight, which ones will be lighter for him to carry, which ones will leave him without lifelong guilt. Knowing Izuku it wouldn’t matter all that much, because he would ruminate over them until they served as self punishment, and he would likely never be able to let go of them.
“I saw your big fight on the news the other day! Bakugo was playing it on the TV in his office, don’t tell him I told you that, though—” he’ll kill me, you almost say.
“I just wanted you to know how incredibly proud I am of you and that… that I miss you a lot. All the time. I bought a short sleeved t-shirt with the English word ‘sweater’ on it because I thought of you. Isn’t that dumb?”
You laugh softly, though it sounds more like a sob, and it ricochets through the empty air left above your navel. It’s cold, oddly soothing where it ripples around your broken leg, the buoyancy leaving it weightless.
“You make me so happy. You make me want to be a better person, you always have. Even back in our days at UA,” and it’s hard to keep the words from cracking as you recount them, “your smile was always so bright, it was like looking directly at the sun. I wonder if you’re aware at all, of just how many hearts you’ve saved…”
“…I know people call you plain but— you’re handsome too! When you smile, I mean,” the waves are lapping at your chest, now grazing the line of your collar. It’s ridiculous that even as the pressure increases, as space becomes narrow and your vision is rendered useless, you’re still tiptoeing around the thing you truly want to say.
“I don’t know when you’ll listen to this. You might already know what’s happened to me, though I’m not sure when they’ll be able to find me under… all of this”.
As it crawls up your neck you tilt your chin up, nose pressed uncomfortably against the ceiling of the room, the panic finally beginning to set into your bones. Thoughts frantically running amok — I don’t want to die, somebody please find me — silently praying to every God and Deity you’d read about since you were a child.
“I should’ve told you before you left. That night, at your party, I tried to but I thought it would be selfish of me,” water at your jugular, tear stained cheeks and composure slipping through your fingers, “but I love you. I’m in love with you and I’m sorry I didn’t say it. You deserved to know”.
You try to withhold hysterics as you feel the first licks of moisture against the back of your phone. Soon it will seep into the charger port, beneath the screen and smother the microphone. The device will be swallowed first, mercifully quick, and then you will follow.
“You’re my best friend, and I was so lucky to have you, Izuku. I love you. I love you, thank you for… for all you do, for letting me into your life, thank you for—“
With eyes squeezed painfully tight, you continue to ramble even as the small source of light cuts out, even as the speaker begins to glitch and the last goodbye sinks into the depths. As you’re pulled under with his name still on your lips the water rushes in, a surge of intense pain ricocheting through your ribs and around your torso.
Still, you heavily claw at the rubble, instinct thrashing in the grips of death. Vibrations boom through the water from above, but the panic has already begun to fade into numbness, your pulse increasingly weak. The line between conscious and unconscious blurs until there is no feasible difference, no light, no sensation or thought.
You curl into yourself, suspended in time, and your heart slows to a stop.
Death is odd, or at least that’s what you think. You had expected it to be something of an abyss, devoid of sensation, a stark nothingness — yet there is a tangible something, still. Though you’d died encased in a little pocket of water your body feels as if it is at sea, muffled voices penetrating the surface, your consciousness at odds with the push and pull of the waves.
Words distort until all you can hear is a continuous, repetitive beep to your left, the pitch incessant in your ears. The black behind your eyelids fades into a dull, murky shade of red and you squint as they open, flinching shut against the brightness surrounding you.
A pleasant, thick sensation thrums through your veins, movements made sluggish as you try to understand where you are. Maybe this was death, then. Perhaps you had done enough in the living world to deserve this, swaddled by soft blankets and bathed in sunlight, the weight of a familiar hand holding your own.
At your bedside, curled over the mattress edge to rest his head against his forearm while the other reaches for you, is Izuku. His hair is a little shorter on the top than you remember, the deep green a sharp contrast to the white of your sheets, freckled cheeks darkened through the summer months.
You couldn’t decide whether it was kind or cruel of your mind to summon up an apparition of him. After all that’s the only thing he could be, because Izuku is still in America following in his mentor's footsteps, thirteen hours in the past and still unaware of what had happened to you. But he’s oddly warm, fingers threading through his loose curls, his shallow breaths stuttering for a moment as he wakes.
The bridge of his nose wrinkles, turning into the crook of his arm with a quiet complaint, one foot in consciousness and the other in sleep. You poke the crease between his brows, smoothing it with your thumb, a growing confusion at how real he felt beside you. When he truly wakes his back suddenly straightens with an exaggerated inhale, gaze unblinking and tears swelling, the pitched beep on your left increases its rhythm.
He exhales, your name catching in his throat. It’s so much clearer when it isn’t said through your phone's speaker.
“You’re finally awake,” he gives a watery smile, nothing like the broad and beaming reassurance he would give the public. Here, with you, he knew he didn’t need to be Deku — just Izuku Midoriya, your dedicated best friend of many years.
Your eyes linger on the fresh scar curved over his jawline, still raised and pink, a wound he had told you about during your last phone call but you’d not yet seen. With that thought the sunlight dulls, what seemed ethereal becomes a muted white, the reality setting in.
You’re lethargic, confused. You frown at the uncomfortable pull of the IV nestled in the crook of your arm as you lift it towards your face, cautiously feeling the thick plastic mask held firmly around your nose and mouth. A hand covers yours; Izuku is gentle as he pries back your fingers with his own, crooked and thick from years of being pieced back together.
“You shouldn’t take that off yet. Not— not until the doctor has cleared you,” he says.
You take a breath, rasped as the air scratches the tender muscles in your throat. “I don’t understand. Where am I? How are you here?”
His expression softens, a hint of heartbreak oozing through the cracks though not surprised, expected. Like he’d anticipated your questions, and only hoped you wouldn’t ask them.
“We’re at Tokyo General Hospital. Paramedics rushed you here once Kirishima resuscitated you at the scene,” he tentatively explains, “after the attack you were trapped in the water under the debris. He broke through the concrete with his quirk and pulled you out”.
He strokes the pad of his thumb along the dips and peaks of your knuckles as he speaks, distracting enough that his words barely register, hearing the relieved intonation more than the story. “That was four days ago. As soon as I heard your…” voicemail. He stalls for a moment, meeting your half lidded gaze and seeing the anxiety simmering behind your pupils. The monitor skips again at the sight of him and you fight the urge to rip the pulse oximeter from your index finger.
He squeezes your hand, his smile tightening at the sound. “As soon as I heard what happened I booked the next flight back to Japan,” he says.
The memory of your final goodbye floods through you. He really had heard it then — the voicemail. The confession. The poorly disguised fear and your unspoken pleas, the rush of the water as it consumed you, the way your words had blurred together as you hastily tried to say them all.
“Why?” you croak.
Tenderness twists as his brows draw together in frustration, appearing offended by even the mere notion of not returning to see you, but still you continue. “It’s okay, Izuku. I’m okay, so you don’t need to feel guilty or… or make it up to me. We can forget I ever said anything—”
“—no,” he interrupts, the desperation in his voice ringing true. It is then that your doctor steps into the room, the door sliding open loudly with total disregard for the conversation. He’s a tall man but otherwise unassuming, the tension in the room depleting as he introduces himself as Araki Kenji.
“It’s fantastic to see you awake and cognitive,” he offers you both a polite nod, leaning forward to rest the clipboard held to his chest down on your left bedside table. He indicates to you with his hands, penlight held between his fingers and silently seeking your permission to check your pupils. You push back the urge to blink as he grasps your chin, tilting your head and watching the black shrink into your irises.
“And now follow my finger,” he murmurs, guiding his index finger side to side in your eye line, “good… good. How are you feeling? Any nausea or pain?”
“No”.
“Alright. I heard you talking before I came in. Any slurring? Trouble with your thoughts or memory?”
“No I… I remember all of it, I think,” you admit weakly, tongue heavy and dry where it sits in your mouth. Araki hums in acknowledgement and pulls the length of his silver stethoscope from behind the collar of his shirt to listen to your lungs. You inhale deeply as he instructs, a quiet sense of relief at how your chest balloons until it hurts, at how you’re still able to breathe. You exhale and he requests you repeat the action twice more, Izuku completely silent on your right side.
“Okay,” he straightens his back with a sense of finality, and your grip on Izuku’s hand tightens, “you look to be recovering nicely. It's a small mercy that because of the temperature of the water you were submerged in, most of the oxygen in your blood was diverted to protecting your organs, so there appears to be no lasting damage aside from your broken leg”.
He picks up the clipboard, a thin pen half full of ink hanging from it by a string, which he then grabs to write up his observations while he continues to speak. “Our orthopaedic specialist was thankfully available when you came in. Her quirk is called marrow mache — a silly play on paper mache — which means she was able to reset and patch up the break in your bone”.
You can feel Izuku’s fingers twitching, the ever present and habitual itch to understand one’s quirk, the restless excitement he felt in his gut at the thought of gaining new information. But still, he is charitably quiet.
Araki further explains that the ability allows a cast to be created around the bone, rather than a patient wearing an external cast, and that while it’s much more efficient it will still take a week for it to completely set. “You will not be able to bear much weight on it, if any at all, as it is quite fragile for the first few days,” the scratch of his pen comes to a stop, “I can discharge you but I recommend you have someone around to help you during the recovery”.
“I’ll be here for the week,” Izuku finally cuts in, “so that won’t be a problem”.
Araki’s eyes flicker towards him and endearingly, the hero begins to shift under his appraisal, as if he were anxious to make a good enough impression. You however, are far too stunned to even object, the passing thought of perhaps asking your neighbour for assistance quickly dismissed. Before you know it Araki is nodding in agreement, causing Izuku’s nerves to settle as his shoulders sag forward, and bidding you goodbye with the promise of release in no more than an hour.
“What do you think you’re up to?” you rasp, then pulling down the mask around your mouth to hang by your collar, “why did you volunteer yourself like that? You have far more important things to get back to”.
You had made peace with it years ago — the fact that even if he did ever happen to reciprocate your feelings you would always be second to the greater good, to the things he felt were right. Loving him would always come with the view of his back. Izuku, kind hearted and well intentioned as he is, would not be able to sit still in your small one bedroomed apartment for a week while the rest of the world needed saving.
“There’s a lot more to heroics than we thought in high school, you know that,” he says with a weak smile, “I’ve got plenty of reports to write up while I’m here, and I trust the people I work with to keep everything afloat”.
He casts a lingering look to the space between your bodies where your fingers intertwine, he adds: “you’re important to me too”.
You’re discharged from the hospital soon after with strict instructions to return for X-rays in a week, crutches laid across your lap where you sit stiffly in the wheelchair they’d given, Izuku at your back and pushing you towards the car he’d called. At your further insistence that he return to his work he admits that the vacation days had already been signed off on, having cited it as a family emergency before his hasty exit from the country.
Then, “Not— not that I just view you as family, or anything—!” in an attempt to spare your feelings.
Tired and exasperated, all you’d needed to say for a few minutes of silence was his name. The looming knowledge that he had certainly listened to your voicemail confession, and that he was ignoring it for your own sake, gnawed away at your chest until it hollowed. A part of you wished you’d have taken advantage of the situation and claimed temporary amnesia, maybe then he would not feel the need to baby you out of guilt.
“I should at least try to use my crutches,” you swallow the swell in your throat as his hand rests against the small of your back, searing through your loose shirt. He’s too close, his other arm resting atop the car roof for leverage as he helps you onto the pavement, bringing you into his firm chest. The street isn’t crowded but there are still more than enough pedestrians to be cautious — that’s all this is, caution — his distinct green hair already forced under an All Might themed cap.
Despite your adamance you lean all your weight onto the uninjured leg while keeping the other from touching the floor and he notices. His lips move against the crown of your head, speaking under his breath as he holds you for a second too long. “You can. I promise, when we’re in your apartment where the ground is more level,” his nose brushes over your temple, words warm along your skin, “you should be careful for today”.
“I’m supposed to take that advice from you of all people?” you're relieved at the opportunity to tease while he sinks you back into the wheelchair and tucks your crutches beneath his arm, the evening light blanketing him in a hue of orange and pink as he meets your eyes. The memory of how you’d told him he was handsome echoes through your thoughts, and his stare is so intense you can’t help but fear he can hear them.
A stray, mossy curl peeks from behind his ear no matter how often he pushes it beneath the hat. Crow's feet wrinkle above his cheeks as he smiles, head tilted and endearingly playful. “I haven’t broken my legs since second year,” he huffs, making his way around the chair to begin pushing you through the lobby with a wave to the driver.
Security greets you happily by the elevators and you return it in kind. You’re thankful for their discretion when their eyes linger on Izuku, who has never been a master of disguise even with his best efforts. Still it is comical to observe as he shrinks into himself, Dynamight branded hoodie stretched across his shoulders and deep charcoal sweatpants over his stirrup leggings.
“Which floor?” he asks, quickly wheeling you into the lift.
“Fourth,” you watch in the large mirror as he reaches over to press the button only to be caught off guard by your own reflection. It’s the first time you’re seeing yourself since the accident; eyes slightly sunken and dark, a sickly undertone across your skin and your hair lifelessly flat. There’s a sense of humiliation to him seeing you like this, and yet you still feel entirely comfortable with him, selfishly wanting him to see every version of you and love them as they are.
The elevator begins to move and gravity washes unpleasantly through your stomach. “I look like a corpse,” you mutter, the words then followed by a visible wince. Izuku meets your stare in the mirror, silence permeating the air and it hangs like humidity, heavy and stifling. As the cables come to a halt, trembling slightly at the sudden brake, the two doors open with the ding of a bell.
“Tough crowd…”
His mouth twists in the reflection as he begins to back out into the corridor, the corner of his bottom lip trapped between his canines, an expression you’d seen more times than you could count. “Are you trying to make me cry again?” he says.
Your wheelchair jolts slightly over the gap between the doors and the floor, both of you murmuring a soft spoken apology. Thankfully your apartment is not much further into the building, and Izuku too seems intent on getting you inside sooner rather than later, struggling to slot his spare key into the lock the first time in his haste.
You are led in first with the forethought of getting you over the genkan. Even with his apologetic warning you startle as you’re tipped backwards, wheels lifting easily over the step and onto the landing. He toes off his shoes and lines them up by the cupboard, evenly balanced on the balls of his feet as he crouches to take off your own, all the while ignoring your protests.
“Izuku, I promise my arms still work. I am perfectly capable of taking off my own shoes,” you say wryly, emphasising your point with a firm pinch of his cheeks. He’s at your level like this, eyes wide in earnest and his thighs thicker as he kneels — you’re at a loss of where to look. Between your fingers is his newest scar, the skin raised and a pale pink.
“I don’t remember you ever being this reluctant to accept help from me before,” he tilts into your hand, stare half-lidded as if he could see right through you, “so stubborn”.
Before.
“I’m not a toddler,” you tell him, “or are you going to help me bathe, too?”
You didn’t want to be smothered with his regret. The purposeful distraction would only make him overthink later on, but it allowed you a few minutes of reprieve — a niggling of satisfaction curling into your chest at the first flush of red by his ears, gaze no longer analysing you in favour of ducking his chin. It has always been easy to fluster him.
“Okay. Just…” you look at him expectantly, and whatever it is he was going to say he decides the better of it, “…nevermind. I’ll order food while you’re in the bath”.
Your body deflates with slight relief, exhaling a sigh as you slip an arm through the crutches. “Thank you,” you murmur, Izuku assisting you just enough that you can bear your weight against the handles. The length is perfect for you, though there is already an ache spreading along the heel of your palms.
You move through the apartment with an awkward gait, feeling pressure build in your upper arms as you move. You sense Izuku hovering a few steps behind, offering to shift your furniture and make navigation easier but still respecting your wish for independence. Exhaustion befalls you by the time you’ve reached the bathroom, propping one crutch up against the tile while you use the other to lower onto the edge of the tub.
Through the thin walls you listen to Izuku’s muffled voice, accompanied by restless footsteps, no doubt pacing the living room as he spoke. He hadn’t been to your place in years and you idly wonder what he thinks of it; him being an unexpected guest you hadn’t had the time to clean it up, and while Izuku was something of a maximalist you knew the mess of paperwork and laundry dotted throughout was quite different to that.
You huff in exertion and reach over to turn the taps. The stream splutters slightly and begins to pool in the basin, spiralling into the open plug as you wait a moment for the temperature to warm beneath your fingers. Deep inside your sternum you feel something twist, a weightless panic settling at the pit of your stomach.
For some reason the sound is that much louder, a rush of running water echoing through your ears. Familiar fragments of trauma still festering. You tremble and inhale slowly, realising just how narrow of a space your bathroom truly is, incognisant of the taps now scolding your hand.
You briefly close your eyes to collect yourself, only to wake again beneath the rubble of the Dynamight building with death forcing its way into your lungs, and distantly you feel yourself drop the crutch still held in your right hand. You resurface at the impact, an obnoxious clatter, and the door swings open.
“What happened? Are you alrig—!”
You clutch desperately at the fabric of his hoodie, body wracked with shakes that you can’t put to rest, and hear yourself say his name. Then he’s right there, pulling you into his gentle embrace, and the water is no longer running. “I’m here, it’s okay,” he settles you between his legs on the bathroom floor and subtly rocks you side to side.
“Sorry,” you rasp between breaths, “m’sorry”.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he strokes a hand along the curve of your spine, “we’re at home. You’re safe here”.
The use of 'we' goes unnoticed. With your ear pressed against his chest you hear the rhythmic beat of his heart and the baritone of his voice, lulling you back into security. The palpitation behind your breast doesn’t quell even as your breathing steadies, embarrassment quickly filling the spaces left by your anxiety. In the arms of a man who has witnessed and fought atrocities for most of his adolescence — you were trembling because of bath water.
You swipe your damp cheeks with the sleeve of your shirt, inhaling sharply through your nose and ignoring the sting in your sinuses. “I don’t know what came over me,” you lean back and try to smile up at him as you speak, smile and reassure him just as he would for you.
“I’m okay. I just got overwhelmed,” you say.
His eyes flit across your features in search of discomfort or dishonesty. While he doesn’t look convinced, his expression is one of understanding, and that alone is comforting enough. “It has happened to all of us at some point or another,” he says, “you don’t need to be ashamed of it”.
“You’ve told me before that you have nightmares every so often,” you murmur in recognition, tracing the seam of the large orange ‘X’ across his front, “how did you deal with it?”
“A lot of therapy,” you snort lightly at the monotony and he visibly brightens, “…and if I ever had a bad night, I’d uh— I’d talk to you”.
There were a few times that really stood out to you, the first in particular. It would have been around four in the morning for him at the time, which you’d found uncharacteristic, as he was always adamant about you getting enough sleep. His breathing had been laboured, his voice pitched and a little thick as he’d asked you to tell him about your week. About anything that you could think of.
At the time you hadn’t really registered the significance, thinking that maybe he just couldn’t sleep, and you were so happy to hear from him that you didn’t question it. He sought you out for comfort in his darker moments just as you had. With fingers curled around his bicep, a hand now resting on your lower back, your words are muffled against his collar.
“I’m happy I can be there for you too,” his pulse is notably faster and you are inexplicably pleased by it, “honestly, in our friendship I’ve always felt kind of helpless”.
His eyes are smiling down at you, too. Glittering under the cheap luminescence of your bathroom light, like he knows something you don’t. “Stubborn and dense. Maybe I really have been gone too long,” he teases.
You level him with a faux glare, sniffing furtively. “Whatever. Make yourself useful and get me something to change into,” you continue as his lips purse into a pout, “I’ll be fine. The shower shouldn’t freak me out as much”.
“Alright. What… what do you want me to pick out for you?”
“Shorts and a big hoodie should be okay,” you tell him as you thumb the material of his own and he nods with appled cheeks. The nervousness is as endearing as always, and just as bad for your heart.
He leaves to quickly grab the clothes while you push up onto one leg, keeping the other off the ground as you sit back against the tub and pull out your foldable stool from the shelf. Atleast with this you’d be able to sit and wash yourself beneath the spray.
As you’re tugging your socks from your feet, Izuku materialises in the doorway and forces a cough to draw your attention. You look up with mouth parted to speak, the words dying in your throat at the sight of him beaming with his merchandise in hand.
“I can’t believe you have this one,” he says excitedly, flipping it over his forearm so the hood hangs low and the bunny ears unfold, “the first edition of my costume! It was limited, right? Why didn’t you tell me you wanted it? I would have sent something over—”
“Izuku,” your tone errs on warning, his speech slowly blurring in his enthusiasm. Heat crawls along your cheeks as you snatch the clothes from his grasp, averting your eyes toward the tile grout, and he laughs breathlessly.
“Sorry, sorry. I just want to see you wearing my stuff,” he rubs sheepishly at the back of his neck. How can you say that so easily? you want to ask. It’s cruel.
“I’ll wear it if that’ll make you happy. Just go wait for the food,” you assent, the exasperation in your voice betrayed by how tightly you are holding the fabric to your chest. A muted flush of humiliation passes over you as he shuts the door, following your instruction. This hoodie is the one you usually slept in, but he didn’t need to know that.
Your shower is quick, albeit clumsy, still too cautious to put your left foot flat to the floor. You use a crutch to support your body in front of the mirror hung above the sink, muscles relaxed from the hot water and struggling under your weight. The Deku hoodie hangs slightly loose on your frame, having bought it oversized for comfort, the hem stopping by your thighs and almost covering the edge of your shorts.
Colour is already beginning to return to your skin and you appear considerably brighter. At the very least you can say you no longer look as if a light breeze will keel you over, scrunching the wet ends of your hair into your bath towel before pushing it back from your face.
Izuku has seen you happy, angry, unwell and panicked. He has witnessed you inebriated, and then deathly hungover, he has gracelessly walked you home a number of times without complaint. Him seeing you like this shouldn’t be any different — yet as you are coaxed from the bathroom with the tantalising smell of your favourite food, you feel warm at the domesticity of it all.
And beneath that is the knowledge that he’s entirely aware of your feelings for him.
His back is turned as you enter the living room, busy pulling hot tupperware out of paper bags, and you’re met with an odd sense of melancholic affection. In all the years you’d known him he was always just ahead of you, destined for greater things and higher purpose. It might be easier to stomach the distance if he did not always look back at you, like he expected you at his side.
“Ah! I hope you still like this as much as I remember. I ordered from our usual place,” he says as he turns on his heel, facing you with a grin and two hands full, “the delivery guy was the owner's son, Daichi! I can’t believe he’s already nineteen”.
“You sound like an old man,” the dull ends of your crutches thud against the flooring even as you attempt to carry more of your own weight, all too aware of your downstairs neighbors. Izuku makes an aborted motion to help you as you begin to walk but ultimately lets you reach the couch on your own merit, instead opting to set out the food on the coffee table.
He lifts it with ease, dragging the table close enough that it is within your reach, lining up the cutlery neatly either side before taking the remote. You notice then that the television is paused at the beginning of a new thriller that you’d been wanting to watch.
“Did he freak out when he saw you?”
The audio starts to play, eerie and drawn out as the fog across the screen clears. Sheepish, Izuku smiles. “He asked for another autograph,” he says, “told me it’s different from the first one I gave him. Like I levelled up, or something”.
You hum, pleased that he was receiving recognition, though most of your attention remains on the food. Chopsticks tucked into the crook of your thumb, you begin to eat, and he takes a seat on the other end of the sofa.
“You are kind of a big shot,” you remind him between bites, idly licking the flavour lingering on your lip, “it’s one thing to be known in Japan. But you’re also loved in a lot of the West now, too”.
He stares at your mouth as you speak, noodles spun tightly around his fork and suspended mid air as if he had stalled, eyes following your tongue briefly. “Izuku?”
You observe his subtle flinch and the way he shovels the fork onto his tongue, the shell of his ears a tint of red. Then he holds up a finger as if to tell you to wait while he chews, eyes firmly on the fictional crime scene unfolding on screen. Buying time to collect his thoughts, you realise.
“I guess that’s true,” he abruptly clears his throat and you lift your tupperware to hide a smirk behind the plastic, “kind of like having a signature from All Might in his Silver age, and another from his Golden Age”.
“Can I have one too, then?”
You hear his small noise of flustered disbelief, throat bobbing as he swallows deeply. It’s endearing, even with the actress crying through your TV speakers. Behind him are the balcony doors, curtains still hooked open, and as the sun is blanketed his silhouette darkens against the evening until his cheeks match that of the skyline.
“I mean— yes, but why?”
“I’m proud of you,” you tell him plainly, pushing your remaining food around the corners of the tub, “I still have our graduation book with your signature in it. So I want another one”.
That had been his second time ever writing out his autograph, if you didn’t include the years he’d spent wishfully perfecting it since he was a child. His first had gone to Eri, something she had asked for right away after you’d explained the purpose of a hero's signature. The moment was deeply engraved in your heart, his face had been so red you’d expected plumes of steam to be coming from his ears.
And he had cried, of course. Both times.
“Okay,” and there’s that quiver again in his lower lip, “I’ll write one for you before I go back”.
Eventually the conversation dies down into a gentle simmer, Izuku murmuring commentary under his breath as the movie progresses, laughing quietly at your offhand complaints about the effects or the dialogue. You feel the weight of his stare on you as the hours change, your living room fading into grey and lit only by the wide screen of your television. When you turn to him you see it reflected brightly in his eyes, his expression overcast by shadows but still warm.
He’s completely relaxed now, in a way that most people will never get to witness. You can see it in his posture — how he has finally let himself sink into your plush cushions and stretched out his legs, an arm laid along the back of the sofa with his head tilted back. In your periphery his fingers twitch as if they’re reaching for you.
“What’re you staring at?”
“You,” the corner of his lip curls up into a minute smile, his eyes straying back to the film as he speaks gently, “I missed you”.
It’s incredible how three simple words could have such a profound effect on you, shallow breath hitching with a surprised inhale. Now it is your turn to look, to appraise how soft and malleable he can be when he’s at ease like this, his body close and turned towards you even if it means uncomfortably angling his neck. Something kindles in your chest at the sincere fondness on his face, spreading lovingly even as the flames spit.
“You’re being weird”.
“You’re being obtuse,” he retorts, and you know what he's really referring to.
He’s coloured blue as the lighting changes with the scene, ironically fitting. “I just don’t want all this to be from a place of guilt,” you breathe, watching on as the characters begin to mourn. Almost an hour into the film, you do not remember a single thing about the plot.
“I can’t lie and say I feel no guilt for not being here to prevent what happened. But that has nothing to do with why I’m here now,” his arm folds inward and hangs over the back of the cushion, fingertips brushing the soft hair on your forearm.
“I want to help you because you’re precious to me. I’m not here to play the hero. I— I was so scared,” his brows draw together, eyes earnestly wide as if silently begging you to believe him.
“And I know it's selfish, but I want to be the only one you rely on,” he sags with the confession, the beginnings of a pout to his lips, “I’m here because I want to be”. You release a light, breathy laugh, taking his hand from your wrist and hearing him inhale as you trace the line of his fingers.
“I missed you too,” you tell him. It’s heavy on your tongue, the flimsy confession crowded in your throat. Friends will say that kind of thing to one another all the time, you yourself have done so before, but this felt like the cautious dip of toes into scalding water. Even if you let yourself acclimate to it — the temperature, or namely, him — he would still be gone by the weeks end. You just didn't want to be hurt.
A few beats of hesitance, shadows flickering along the walls with each change of frame, the protagonist sweeping a man into a passionate embrace. Quiet but firm, he says “I don't want to keep avoiding the voicemail you left me”.
Sensing your unease, he threads his fingers through your own until your palms kiss, scar tissue raised and rough against skin. There was too much potential for hope in such a small gesture, and you feel your heart quicken. “I know,” you murmur, “it’s just a lot for one day”.
He hums in understanding, adjusting himself to inch closer, the movement drawing you into his magnetism until you’re leaning a cheek against his shoulder. The proximity is nothing new to you, sorely missed but not new, and yet it still felt as such. There’s an ironic connection between the navigation of your feelings and your recovery; held on crutches, unsteady and hesitant to put a foot forward, but too far ahead to suddenly give up.
“Kacchan texted a few times and said he’d come over tomorrow morning,” his chin resting atop the crown of your head, moving as he speaks, “so maybe after he’s gone, we can…”
“Yeah,” you nod shortly and ignore the lump in your throat, “tomorrow would be— I’m okay with that”.
Seemingly appeased, Izuku merely nuzzles into your hair, the television screen darkening with a slow fade to black until the lines of the room disappear. Blanketed by night, your senses sharpen and his shallow breathing accompanies the silence.
“Katsuki, huh?” you mumble to yourself, “he must be worried if he feels the need to check on me”.
His shoulder shakes beneath you, and a smile pulls at your lips, influenced by his silent laughter. “I think he’s more worried that I’m the one staying with you,” he says as he shifts to pull his phone from his pants pocket. The screen lights up with a photo of the two of you from years ago, to which he quickly swipes up, unlocking it and opening his messages.
He tilts the device so you can see the texts.
Dynamight (Kacchan) 18:03
You’re staying there? You can barely take care of yourself. I’ll be over tomorrow to make sure you’re both still alive.
Me 18:05
(u_u) we’re fine though kacchan! I just ordered some food!
Dynamight (Kacchan) 18:37
Lazy shit. Atleast you won’t burn the place down.
And I’m not joking about visiting. It’ll be early.
Me 18:59
(＞人＜;) !!
Dynamight (Kacchan) 19:06
Stop using those fucking emoticons.
“See?” he sulks.
You glance up at him, soft features illuminated by the white light of his phone. When he returns the gaze you feel the warmth of his exhale, his nose only an inch from your own. Your cheeks burn and you look away.
“He’s partially right. You always used to burn the stovetops, and you were awful at keeping up with your physiotherapy”.
“In highschool—!”
“I’m just saying,” you quickly interrupt with amusement glittering in your voice, the nerves stirred by your intimate moment now settled by familiarity, “he knows you. It’s his own way of showing you concern. I bet he missed you too, even if it’s just a little”.
“Kacchan missing me?” he makes a small, theatrical sound of wonder, “you really do want to see me cry”.
“Idiot,” you murmur fondly, an ache in your cheeks and light in your chest. Izuku laughs again, though it’s far more of an abashed giggle, and his hand squeezes tight as his thumb strokes along the back of your own.
“We missed the end,” he refers to the movie, “want me to rewind it?”
With you in agreement he reaches for the remote and flicks back to the last scene you remember watching, settling into your side as it plays. The effort is futile, because in the darkness swaddled by his warmth and calmed by his touch, you soon find yourself lulled to sleep.
Through the dips in consciousness you feel your body carefully jostled, a weightlessness beneath your legs and a firm chest, something soft beneath your head and a hand on your cheek. When you do eventually wake you’re laid in the middle of your bed, the sheets up to your shoulders and tightly tucked in, the late morning sun already phasing through the curtains in scattered streams.
You don’t remember going to bed, nor do you remember anything beyond the forty minute mark of the movie. Being here could only mean that Izuku had carried you to bed himself, and while you were aware he could lift three times your weight before he had even graduated, the idea still embarrasses you.
You survey the surroundings. He isn’t here and there’s no sign he had been, which means he must’ve slept on the couch, though you shouldn’t have expected otherwise. Leant against your bedside table are your crutches, and atop it is a phone — brand new and plugged in to the charger. As you lift it the screen flickers on and you sigh at the time blinking back at you. 11:04. The background would appear to be a default image to anyone else, but you recognise it as a picture of the New York skyline that Izuku had sent you two months ago.
You’re slow to notice the item left underneath it, a pale blue sticky note, corners slightly curled upwards in age. On it is Izuku’s distinct, quick handwriting, reassuring you that most of it had already been set up for you to use. At the end of the message are two clumsy hearts, one roughly scribbled over in what you think might be embarrassment, and the other a little bigger as if he had talked himself into redrawing it.
As you pull back the covers, you almost forget about the injury to your leg, feet hanging just an inch above the carpet as an uncomfortable tenderness begins to radiate through your calf. The morning is chilly, which only seems to add more heat to the sensation, still only in your sleep shorts with nothing to shield the cold.
With the help of your crutches, you’re finally able to stand comfortably, hobbling towards the bedroom door. You hear Katsuki before you see him, the rough intonation of his voice reverberating through your apartment walls with ease. Though your gait is cumbersome and heavy there’s no longer a sharp ache when you put your foot down, smiling as the fond aggravation gets louder in your approach to the kitchen.
“…then be useful and go get some, shithead. Better than you hovering around here like a ghost!”
Izuku whines, and as you turn the corner you see his upper body leant childishly across the counter top where he sits at the breakfast bar. “Kacchan—!”
Before Katsuki can reply he sees your movement from the corner, immediate in his intense appraisal of your body, deep red lingering on the way you cling to the door frame for support He’s in his gym wear, shorts low on his hips and compression leggings underneath, black hooded jacket half zipped. “Exactly what time do you call this?” he huffs.
It’s then that Izuku lifts his head, cheekbone pink where he’d pressed it to granite, only spreading pinker at the realisation that you’d heard him complaining. “Good morning,” he smiles hesitantly, eyes brightening as they inadvertently flicker between you and his childhood friend. The man in question wrinkles his nose with disdain.
“Morning? It’s almost noon,” Bakugo turns on his heel to forcefully pull open your fridge door as if to emphasise how appalled he is, “and your kitchen is fuckin’ empty”.
His concern, though a little aggressive, is endearing and entirely welcome. “It’s good to see you too, boss,” you reply, smiling at the familiarity. In your periphery, Izuku appears to mope at the interaction.
“What were you guys talking about?” you ask, limping towards the counter where Izuku is seated, scratching an underlying urge to reassure him of his inclusion. Katsuki narrows his gaze, but mercifully he doesn’t mention it.
“I’m sending him on a grocery run while I’m here. You can’t eat takeout all week,” he explains while knocking your fridge door shut, “the nerd won’t leave you by yourself so I’ll stay while he goes”.
“But—!”
Izuku shuts up at the exasperated glare sent his way, a pale finger pointed between his brows that he peers up at with crossed eyes. Katsuki pokes his forehead harshly: “people recovering from injury need real food. You volunteered to play caretaker so go get it. And no fucking ramen!”
You bite back a grin as Izuku relents, pushing his stool back to get to his feet and feeling around his sweatpants pockets, and you realise they’re the same ones he’d worn the day before. “You could at least give me a list or something,” he complains, fingers grasping the outline of his wallet just to ensure it’s still there.
“Fruit, vegetables, green shit. Stuff that’s good for you, Deku. If you’re really that lost then call Auntie when you’re out!”
It’s as good a time as any to insert yourself into the bickering. “You could stop by there, too, maybe pick up some more clothes for yourself while you stay here,” you gently suggest. Izuku sags at your reasoning, while Katsuki claps his hands together.
“There you go, sorted. Now get on with it!”
You have nothing but the image of a solemn puppy to compare to the expression Izuku sends your way as he moves to leave the apartment, withstanding further irritable comments from Bakugo as he lingers in the small genkan, leaning out into the hallway to wave goodbye to you.
The door closes with a resounding thud, followed by the click of Katsuki’s tongue. “That was easier than expected,” he mutters.
“It was?”
The look he gives is nothing short of incredulous. “You were damn near dead, you do know that right?”
“Hard to forget something like that,” you swallow down the dryness at the back of your throat, finger idly tracing a small scratch etched into your countertop. Katsuki exhales loudly, and after years of knowing him you know it’s just to smother his frustration, grounding himself before he speaks again.
He sidles up beside you and offers his arm, bent at the elbow as it waits in suspension. “Come on, idiot. You should sit down and rest,” he indicates once more that you accept his assistance. Touched by the consideration, you wrap your hand around his bicep and lean into the support.
“Thank you,” you say. He quietly grunts in response.
The sofa is still made up as a makeshift bed for Izuku. He'd clearly found the spare blankets from your closet, most of them laid across the couch cushions and your spare pillow at the foot of it. Katsuki insists on helping you lower yourself onto the sheets, and while you know it’s not necessary, you can recognise it’s to alleviate some of his own anxiety about your condition.
You know better than to thank him twice aloud, so you simply smile at him, and the tension bleeds from his shoulders as he sits.
“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I promise you didn’t need to check up on us,” you lean against the back cushions as you brace yourself for the inevitable lecture. With the extra quilts it’s much more comfortable, embraced by the still-lingering scent of Izuku even after he’d left.
“Who do you take me for?” he rolls his eyes, though not unkindly, but more like he’d been expecting what you said, “you work for me. It’s my responsibility to check up on you”.
He bristles at your raised eyebrow, turning away from your dubious stare. The longer you look the tighter he’s coiled, fist tightening and uncurling restlessly. “Whatever. I guess we’re friends too— tentatively,” he’s sharp in his endeavor to silence you, already anticipating your interruption, “anyone that brings me homemade food is a level up from just being coworkers. Just don’t tell the other shitheads I said that, because they’ll start calling favouritism”.
“A friend…” you mumble softly to yourself, a smile lifting the swell of your cheeks, “…nice to know all our years together puts me a single level above your receptionist”.
“That’s the spirit,” he makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and you feel a little lighter for it. Silence temporarily descends upon the two of you, not uncomfortable in the slightest, yet still anticipatory. You got the feeling that there was still much left unsaid, and that alone set you on edge, as Katsuki was never the type to withhold his thoughts.
“Heard you got everyone out that day,” he’s fiddling with some of the stray thread in your spare blanket, the crease between his brow smoothened in contemplation, “thanks”.
“All those times Aizawa shoved our classes into the USJ really paid off I guess,” you close your eyes briefly to reminisce, nostalgic for the days when life was a little simpler, even if you hadn’t appreciated it at the time.
“Though I still managed to get myself trapped and nearly ended up dead, so maybe not”.
His lips press together into a thin, tight seam as he ignores your self deprecation in favour of observing your apartment. He’d only ever been here once, a brief drop by to discuss a work matter on your rare day off a few months after you’d moved, but back then it was undoubtedly emptier than it is now. He pauses at the framed photographs of you and some of his classmates, a few were taken at the reunion party, pressed cheek to cheek and flushed with alcohol.
“It was ears that found you,” his voice held a tone of regret, uncharacteristically soft spoken. Jirou had found you. The knowledge takes refuge on the back of your tongue, the lump you cannot swallow, the guilt you cannot stomach. “She heard you talkin’ on the phone under all that concrete and rubble. Immediately sent Ei to dig you out,” he says, “just in time too. Your… heart had stopped”.
Honestly you’d avoided asking any sort of questions pertaining to the accident because it frightened you. Not only to realise that you truly had been teetering on the edge of death, but to know how it’d hurt the people around you too. For Jirou to have heard your desperate last words, and Kirishima to have pulled your lifeless body from the depths — it forms a cacophony of emotions in your chest; gratitude, embarrassment, regret, relief.
You should call them soon.
“Ei, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he quips with a snort, now finally looking back at you. His expression gives way to bated breath. A true reflection of his feelings on his face, no veil of annoyance or anger. You would not call it warm, nor soft, but it is entirely sincere and brimming with solitude.
“I’m glad you’re alright”.
You inhale, tucking your hands between your thighs to smother the trembling, your lungs expanding in the confines of your ribs. Your eyes sting as you exhale, lashes damp in the effort to blink away the swell of tears.
“Me too,” you whisper, the words rough and catching in your throat. You stare at the other threads peeking from the old blanket beneath you, perhaps more likely to have been pulled apart by time, but you can picture Izuku laid along the sofa picking at the fabric nervously as you sleep in the other room. You curl it around your finger as you miss him.
“He told me about the voicemail you know,” Katsuki murmurs, the vibrations of his voice oddly comforting, somewhat like a purr. “Made a big fuckin’ mess, crying all over me in the middle of the hospital. I wish you’d have just told him before he left”.
You do, too. You don’t think there’s anything you regret more than tucking your feelings for him away until it felt it was too late. “I just… He never acted any differently with me, so I’ve always been sure that there was nothing between us. I thought it’d burden him”.
“Christ. It’s like when you’ve been around a bad smell for so long that you don’t even notice it anymore,” the edge of exasperation is returning to his voice, your intimate moment passing quickly. The implication that everything you’d wanted had always been within reach is frustrating, but you can’t help smiling either, giddiness thrumming around the cage of your chest.
“He was always mooning over you in highschool, and long after we graduated,” a vaguely vindictive grin spreads across his face, “he was always jealous that you came to work for me too”.
“I doubt that—”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“—but speaking of work,” you make a point to raise your voice to be heard over his loud complaint and he settles unwillingly, “I noticed you’ve been pretty quiet on the press front. Does that mean you’re avoiding them until I’m back to tone down your bullshit?”
He grunts, like admitting it was painful for him, but it’s as good a confession as any. “Wow,” you mumble in soft surprise, “you really do feel guilty”.
“I know the blame doesn’t fall on me for the building collapsing. But I was part of the team trying to lead the villain away from civilians and she still blew up the area anyway,” — he sinks forward to lean an elbow against his thigh, resting his head in his hand — “so I do feel some responsibility for that. It’s like I said, I’m just… glad you’re alright”.
In the short, thoughtful pause between words, there is a thud from outside your balcony that rattles the doors on their hinges. Katsuki startles to his feet, dropping out of his defensive stance with various curses tumbling from his mouth as he stalks over to the windows where Izuku is waiting. There’s a duffle bag at his back, the strap crossed tightly over his chest, and two grocery bags in each hand.
“Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Katsuki slides open the balcony door and yanks the groceries from his grasp, kicking his ass as he ducks into the living room. You laugh at Izuku’s yelp, and he’s drawn to the melody of it, glare already softening into a smile.
Katsuki continues his verbal assault while he carries the food to your kitchen, bags clattering on the countertop as he unloads them — fuckin’ roof hopping bastard. What kind of idiot enters using someone’s balcony, I should put you in cuffs myself — but Izuku pays him no mind.
“I’m home,” he says. It settles like hot coffee in your stomach. He looks better already, having changed out of his previous clothes into some loose basketball shorts and a plain t-shirt, mossy curls still slightly damp from what must’ve been a quick shower.
“Welcome home,” you reply.
Katsuki pulls his lip back to sneer at Izuku as he walks over to hand you some painkillers and a cool glass of water. “Please tell me nobody saw you”. Your gaze flickers back and forth between the two of them as you drink down the pill, grimacing at the residue on your tongue.
“Nobody saw me,” Izuku reassures him offhandedly while pulling the strap over his head. Now holding the dufflebag by his side, Izuku makes his way across the threshold to set it on the breakfast bar, “and I got plenty of veggies too. Aren’t you proud of me, Kacchan?”
“Thinks he’s so clever,” Katsuki mutters, eyes narrowing further as you cough to hide your own laughter. He takes the glass back from you once you’ve finished and turns toward the kitchen where Izuku waits with a pleased grin, sliding it over the counter.
“You’re both being stupid, so I need to get out of here ‘cause it’s infectious and I’m around enough of it as is,” his hand comes down heavily on Izuku’s head, flattening the dark curls and bringing him closer to murmur something inaudible before glancing over his shoulder to address you.
“Behave, alright?” his eyebrow lifts as if to taunt you, “and get your shit together. I need you back at work ‘cause I can only keep my mouth shut for so long”.
“Kacchan needs his leash back,” Izuku laughs, entirely unperturbed by the short smack Katsuki gives him, affection flooding your senses at the sound.
“And you need to get a clue, nerd!”
The friendly bickering follows them all the way to the front door, Izuku sagely bidding Katsuki goodbye and ignoring the mocking comment of this is a fuckin’ door, you use them like this as he leaves. In their absence you pick up one of the crutches laid at your feet and allow it to bear your weight as you stand.
It’s still early afternoon, though darker than expected, clouds suppressing the late spring sun. On the panes you see the beginnings of rain. You approach the open balcony door and the sound floods in, a small puddle forming by your socks and you shrink against the frame, sitting back to watch grey overcast the city. For a moment you are free, tethered only by the patter of rain on the skin of your arm, heavy but light in your chest.
You feel Izuku’s presence at your side without needing to look at him. The warmth from his body so prominent in the cool air of the impending storm, embraced by the smell of petrichor as his muscled thigh presses against yours. In that breath, you could be deluded into believing you were the only two people in the world.
“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning into you a little more, “you look like you’ve been crying”.
“Yeah. I just realised a lot,” your stare follows the stream of droplets running down the window, the pitter-patter growing louder as the pressure strengthens, “I didn’t think he’d feel so responsible for it all”.
He hums a regretful note, close lipped as he ducks his chin, hair falling over his eyes. “While you might know it’s irrational, it’s still hard not to blame yourself in our profession. Even I…”.
“…you?”
“I feel like I should’ve been there, that I could’ve gotten you out before— before you’d been hurt,” he smiles despite himself and reaches to shape his hand around your leg, right where the clean break had been.
“I know logically that there’s nothing I could’ve done, that I was thousands of miles away and everyone at the scene did their best. But what good is it… being a hero, wielding all this power, if I can’t protect the people precious to me?”
You rest your hand atop his own, thumb stroking along the dips of his knuckles, lifted by scar and bone. Back there, beneath the collapsed Dynamight building, you’d submitted to death and immediately attempted to tie up your final loose end. What you’d left unsaid had been your one regret — your dying regret — and it was eating away at him.
Maybe the voicemail had been a little unintentionally cruel. Selfish might be a better word for it. While you had given your confession without expectations of it being reciprocated, only wanting him to know that he’d always been loved, you hadn’t given thought to how it would affect him. Standing by a casket, hands cupped together and holding your love for him, living the rest of his life not knowing where or when to put it down.
“Jirou found me because I was talking to you on the phone,” you tell him, voice wavering as he turns over his hand to hold yours, “she heard me while they were searching for survivors”.
You tighten your grip. “So I guess in an odd, roundabout kind of way, I was saved because of you,” his breathing stutters slightly beside you as you continue to speak, “I don’t regret calling you, but I’m sorry you had to listen to that”.
The rain comes down harder as the wind picks up, mercifully blowing in the opposite direction, water no longer building at the foot of your doorframe. Izuku pulls your intertwined hands into his lap. “If this hadn’t of happened, would you have ever told me?”
“I don’t know,” you quietly admit, “I suppose it sounds bad when I say it outloud but I just… accepted that you belonged to the world”.
“You’re a part of that world too, you know”.
You smile weakly at his lighthearted attempt of comfort, pushing through the shame twisting throughout your sternum. “I know that, and I know you care. But it’s more than that. I— I wanted you to belong to me”.
A sting radiates through your cheeks and pricks by your eyes, lips still moving to fill the empty spaces, too scared to know what he was thinking. “I didn’t want to hear your rejection. And I know you, Izuku. You’d try not to act any differently but it… it wouldn’t be the same anymore”.
The weight of his gaze is poignant and you find yourself rambling. He’s quiet as he listens, so quiet you think he might’ve held his breath, and you look over to find his left cheek sucked between his teeth. Green swallowed by black, pupils expanding, his eyes are warm. Too warm, lovingly warm, a disquieting sense of hope kindling in your chest.
When he finally speaks, the flames only grow. “What makes you so sure I would reject you?” he asks, the words softly encouraging as if he were attempting to overturn the stones in your mind that you’d refused to touch.
Your jaw slacks in disbelief.
“Do you think I’m this affectionate with all my friends, that I would do all of this for them?” he continues with an endeared smile, pink blossoming beneath his freckles and eyes squinted, “I’m a hero and I pride myself on doing what I think is right, but I’m not that good of a guy”.
He cautiously repositions himself at your side, switching the hand you’re holding for the opposite as the heat from his arm radiates by your lower back, hesitant to touch you; and so you let yourself sink into his chest. The tension leaves his body, his relief almost palpable, and you’re charmed by how nervous he’s being even with the sure knowledge of your feelings.
“The version of myself that I give to the world and the one I give to you, they’re different. No one… no one has ever had me the way you do”.
The insinuation barely registers. “How long have you…”
“I realised when you profiled me in the fall of our third year,” he readily admits, “it was for your media relations assignment. Whenever you met with me in the library you’d bring a hand warming pack because you knew my joints would get sore in the cold”.
“All that time,” you mumble.
He hums. His nose ghosts over your temple into your hair, his lips wet and soft against your cheek, and he lingers there to breathe you in. Beneath the hand that rests by his collar, you feel the flicker of his heartbeat under your palm, and his fingers tighten around the other. You feel held, cradled.
“Then, you really were jealous that I went to work with Bakugo?” He tenses for a moment and relaxes again, a puff of air by your ear as he snorts, grumbling an inaudible complaint of ‘why’d he have to tell you that…’.
You laugh, the truth of it both amusing and childish. He lowers his face to your shoulder with embarrassment, nestling into the crook of your neck, instinctively tilting to give him more access. “You never know. If you finally decide to set up a base somewhere after your travels, I might come and work for you instead”.
“Really?!” his head lifts, leaning further until he excitedly meets your eyes, his own wrinkling at the corners. It melts into something a little more playful as he says: “I heard it’s dicey to work with the person you’re dating, though”.
“So we’re dating now, huh?” — he at least has the decency to appear sheepish, holding air in his cheeks as he pouts — “even… even though you’re leaving so soon?”
“I want to,” he exhales, a longing intonation in his voice, “I want to be with you. I know I still have seven months left in the States but I promise I’ll give twice the effort. I’ll call every day that I can and set an alarm to— to text you good morning and—”
“Izuku,” you cover his mouth with your palm, effectively cutting off his rambling. “Breathe,” you tell him. And he does. Still, as you remove your hand he pushes on, catching your wrist mid air and eyes widening with a plea.
“You deserve better. You deserve someone that can be here with you. I know that and it scares me,” he says, “but I want you. I’ve wanted you. I almost lost you once and I can’t let this go, not anymore”.
He brings you back, has you cupping his cheek, and he turns into your touch. His eyes do not stray from yours as he tilts ever so slightly to press a featherlight kiss to your heart line, visibly swallowing his nerves. “I love you. Will you let me?”
The atmosphere thickens, dipole strengthening so harshly it’s almost painful to deny it — the magnetism that has you crawling into his lap, ignorant of the ache spreading through your healing leg as you raise your other hand to cradle his face.
He looks elated, wrapping both arms around your waist to keep you in place, bright like the surface of the sun. It fills you up, brimming in your chest and spilling over, unadulterated love and lust and temptation and satisfaction. With one simple question he has given you permission to want him, a saccharine feeling of relief, so many closed doors now hold the possibility of being opened.
You want to open them.
In the doorway to your balcony, caressed by the damp afternoon breeze, you finally lean forward to kiss him. His lips are full, pillowy and soft, hastily moving against your own. The first is chaste, you pull away barely an inch just to look at him, his eyes already half lidded and watching you. Being this close you could count his lashes, dark as they fan across his cheeks.
“Don’t stop,” he mumbles, and you feel it between your thighs. The next kiss is longer, greedier. Your lips part to mirror him, his tongue tantalisingly dipping along the seam, coaxing you back into his mouth. It becomes hungry, insatiable as you swallow his breathless sigh, hands slipping to play with the hair on the back of his neck.
It evolves into something more desperate. You murmur his name — Izuku — and he plucks it from your mouth, responding with a helpless moan. You can feel him in your stomach, along the surface of your tongue and your teeth, bruising at your waist. Barely catching your breath, so lost in the throes of impatience that you’re barely cognisant of your hips grinding circles against his firm thigh, pulling him impossibly close.
You try to readjust, to spread your knees a little wider for more leverage, but as you shift the weight of your body a hot flash of pain flashes through your leg. Izuku is quick to pull back at the wounded sound.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
He’s so beautifully dishevelled, hair unkempt and face coloured pink, that you’re almost too proud to care about your injury. You steady your breathing as the throbbing dulls into a soft ache.
“I’m okay baby,” you say, reaching down to squeeze at your calf, “see? All good. I just leaned too far onto it, I think”.
He stares back at you with his lower lip caught between his teeth. “What?” you ask, but he only leans forward again, releasing the bitten smile as he kisses you.
“Baby,” he repeats, voice a little thicker than before, “I like that”.
“Yeah?” pride rears its head once more, the push and pull between mystified and smug, fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt and watching his eyes flutter. It was you who did this, you who could pull all these reflexive reactions from him.
“Yeah”.
You slip your hand up, his abdomen flinching against your palm. Between your bodies you can see the outline of his cock, hard and leaking, the fabric of his shorts darkening as it’s saturated. As your touch furthers, brushing along the divots of his stomach and over thick pecs, the shirt pools around your wrists and lifts with them. Impatient, he crosses his arms to take it off completely.
“You can touch me,” he tells you, though it sounds less like a suggestion and more like please touch me. You indulge him, and yourself, by doing as he says.
His skin a litany of battles fought and won. Fought and lost. There were plenty of victories that you knew he hated himself for. You trace the outline of each mark, follow the pale sheen of stretch marks traversing his hip, connect the dark freckles dotted across his torso and shoulders. You feel him shudder and relish it, pleased as you observe the surface reaction to your touch, the goosebumps and the blush.
“You really are handsome,” you breathe.
“So you’ve said,” he grins, though the teasing has far less impact when it’s spoken so breathlessly. You feel yourself flush, want leaden where it sits in your belly, wet at the sight of his clothed cock twitching by his thigh. You trace your fingers over him, curling them around the fabric and squeezing, his hips jolting upwards into your palm.
“Can I see more of you?” you ask. His jaw slacks as you hook into the waistband of his shorts, only pulling them down when he gives you the go ahead, just enough that his cock sits flush against his navel. It’s pretty, a little darker than the rest of him and blushing red at the tip, tufts of neatly trimmed dark hair around the base. Only in the light can you see the slight green hue.
“So big,” you gently circle your thumb over his slit, spreading the arousal over his frenulum. You feel his thighs tightening beneath you, his cock fat and heavy as it twitches at your touch. After years spent imagining it, of fucking yourself to the thought of it, you want to see him come apart.
His hands slide up your thighs to your waist, pausing to grope each new centimetre of skin, aimlessly pawing at your hips as he watches you bring your hand up to your mouth. Saliva pools beneath your tongue and your lips part, spitting directly into it. Izuku rasps your name, drawing your attention, and he mirrors your actions. You feel yourself throb as he drools into the same hand, his eyes never leaving yours, the string of spit slowly thinning between his lip and your palm.
You slide your fist down his cock, coating it with the mix of you and himself in one fluid motion. He tucks his nose to your temple as he whimpers, nails digging into your soft hips as you fuck him with your hand. “Good?” you murmur, alternating your pace and finding a rhythm that he likes.
“S’good,” he rasps, the words warm against the shell of your ear. He ducks to kiss you again, mouth still wet, sloppy as he licks over your tongue. With every gasp for breath he appears to flush pinker; skin like a summer evening when the sun and the stars are able to meet for a brief moment. You praise him unabashedly — so beautiful, Izuku, so pretty like this — and it only seems to pull him deeper.
“Fuck,” he’s whining, his body beginning to squirm. It’s tectonic how his muscles shift, his chest rising and falling the closer he gets, fingertips bruising where they’re anchored in your flesh. Just as you think he’s going to cum, he grabs your wrist to stall your movements.
“Not yet— I want…” there are dark, stray hairs stuck to his forehead, a cloud of red spreading up his neck, “…not as tight and— a little faster, maybe. Please. Please”.
“Like this?” you loosen your fist and let him guide you, focusing your touch around the tip of his cock in fast, light strokes. His abdomen clenches, eyes fluttering shut with his brows pinched together. Oh, you realise. He likes to draw it out a little longer, to tease himself as he’s teetering on the edge, coiling tighter as he curls into you.
“Yes,” he gasps, “fuck, baby. Just like that, m’so close—”
“Let me see you when you cum,” there’s nothing in the world that could keep the pleading tone out of your words, your free hand threading into his hair and pulling him back. Your grip tightens at his scalp and as he meets your gaze his lips part, a silent sob pulled from his chest, and his muscles seize for a short moment.
Like the string of a bow pulled taut, when it is released his body slacks in relief, trembling through each wave of his orgasm as it passes. As he cums it coats the top of your fist, flicking against his belly as you continue to fuck him through it, and he doesn’t stop you even as he softens.
“Fuck. So perfect, look at you,” — you’re so wet that it’s almost painful, the throbbing between your own legs still neglected — “you like it when it hurts a little, don’t you?”
“A little,” he presses his forehead to yours as he comes back to himself. Slowly, he litters chaste kisses across your face, to your brows and your cheeks, your nose and your lips. “I love you,” he mumbles.
You laugh at how satiated he sounds. “Down for the count already?”
Hearing the challenge in your voice he leans back, a glimmer of mischief in his irises as you feel his hands slip around the back of your thighs. With newfound vigor he gets to his feet, hoisting you up, chuckling at your surprised squeak. “Don’t drop me—!”
“As if I could,” he smirks crookedly, your legs tightening at his sides as he carries you through to what you assume will be your bedroom. You suppose he has every reason to be a little smug, holding all of your weight as if it were nothing at all.
He readjusts his grip to gently lower you into the centre of the bed, forearms then resting either side of your head to cage you against the mattress. With both hands you cup his jaw, still soiled as you brush your thumb along his lip, slipping it into his mouth as he opens up for you.
“How’s it taste?” the question breathless and thick. Izuku pulls off with an obscene pop, lips a deeper rouge and mildly bruised, and hums contemplatively. Then the bridge of his nose wrinkles.
“…I don’t know if I want you to taste that,” his lips pursed as he bites back a laugh, though yours comes freely, turning your cheek into the covers when he dips to hide his face in the crook of your neck. He hums, a pleased rumbling that you think mimics a purr, and kisses your pulse point.
“I like when you laugh,” he begins to descend the length of your torso, cautious at first as if seeking your permission, continuing once your chest curves up into him. You feel his hand, rough and so much larger than your own, slip beneath the material of your hoodie.
“I like you in my colours,” he pushes it up until it sits below your chin and takes a handful of your breast, your nipples perking up between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes, reflecting his hunger, watch closely how you react to his touch.
And you, embarrassed by his apparent reverence of you, can only murmur his name. He takes you between his lips, flicks his tongue, pushes your tits together as he mouths across your chest. “I like when you’re flustered, too,” he grins.
“Stop teasing and kiss me,” you huff — bordering on a whine. He only beams wider as he crowds back up into your space, his display of giddiness entirely contagious. Cradling either side of his face, you feel the heat in his cheeks, and tilt up to kiss him.
He freezes. “Wait, but it—!”
“I don’t care if it’s bad, I want to taste you,” you encourage him with the squeeze of your thighs either side of his hips, the soreness in your leg gone as it rests elevated on his back. It doesn’t take much, just a soft please and he’s there again, nipping tenderly at your lower lip.
He groans as you slip into his mouth, picking up only a faint bitterness on your palate, making a point of sucking his tongue to consume all remnants of it. It didn’t matter if he thought it was bad, because it was him, and you wanted every piece. He presses you further into the bedsheets, weight sinking as he moans, rutting his hips forward against your own.
The friction is staggering despite the discomfort, his cock already half hard again and heavy against your pussy. After spending all this time untouched you feel some relief to the ache, fabric soaked as it clings to skin. “I want to taste you too,” he breathes, “can I take these off?”
He twangs the waistband of your shorts against your pelvis, stomach jumping at the sting. He’s so gorgeous above you, curls framing his face with such adoration in his gaze. “Yes,” you awkwardly lift your hips so he can drag the fabric down your thighs and pull the hoodie over your head, laid bare beneath him.
“Careful,” he pauses to kiss the top of your healed calf, rubbing over the spot as if it were ointment, “tell me if it starts to hurt at any point, okay?”
“Okay”.
Time seems to slow as he pulls your knees apart, hands slipping to the apex of your thighs, thumbs settled in the creases to gently part your labia. You feel yourself twitch, and you know he sees it too, breath hitching at the sight.
He plays with you out of pure indulgence, passing a finger through your arousal and spreading it over your clit. The pressure is barely there, massaging slow methodical circles against you. You watch through half lidded eyes as he swallows, as if his mouth had begun to water, and the thought shoots straight to your cunt.
“You’re so wet already,” his finger toying with your entrance, your hips chasing the feeling. He sinks into you gradually, pushing until he meets resistance and waiting, smoothly curling up into a come hither motion.
“More,” you croon. He shuffles further down the bed until he is laid between your legs, lips quirking into an amused smile at your noise of complaint, which is soon silenced. He presses a long, gentle kiss to your clit, sticky as he pulls back for breath. The next kiss is wet, open mouthed with his tongue rolling languidly through your folds, groaning shamelessly at the taste.
He, a man left in the dry sun, and you, the water he greedily drinks. You feel any and all rigidity bleed from your body, his arms hooked beneath your thighs and lax as he holds you, letting you grind down into his mouth.
“Fuck, baby”. His nose knocks against your clit while he fucks you with his tongue, the lewd squelch of arousal and spit reverberating throughout the bedroom. You’re obscenely worked up, pulsing and clinging to him each time he slips out of you, coiling that much tighter as he pushes into you again.
You stretch readily around two of his fingers, and he gently works you open, taking you between his lips and tracing tantalisingly slow shapes against your clit with his pointed tongue. Something ripples through you as he sinks in a third, other hand shifting to spread you open further for him. What was a steady trickle begins to swell as he curls up towards your belly, peering at you from the apex of your thighs to appraise your reactions, following the path your body lays out for him.
“Izuku,” a thrill dances through you, “Iz—Izuku, I’m going to—!”
Your hands thread into his hair, anchoring yourself and keeping him exactly where you wanted him to be, grip tightening as your legs begin to tremble. He moans wanton against your clit and you pull harder, encouraging him further. You’re squirming, frantically chasing the sensation, desperate for it not to slip away from you.
Distantly you hear his quiet murmurings, words slurred and disjointed, muffed into your pussy between breaths. “That’s it baby… fuck, that’s it…”. Your head tilts back into the pillows, eyes squeezed shut and jaw loosening around his name, expression pinched in awe. Your orgasm crashes over you, an unsuspecting wave that drags you further from the shore, clenching tightly around his fingers as you cum.
His soft kisses keep you by the surface. They’re dotted across your inner thighs and your stomach, your calves and your chest. Slowly he makes his way back to you, appearing in your line of sight as he hovers above on his hands, pink cheeks wet and lifted with his grin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
“So are you,” you tell him, running your hands up the length of his arms, appreciating how firm and thick they are. Years and years of work carved meticulously into his body, all for the sake of keeping others safe. Even with his incredible build, the compliment renders him boyish, reluctant to meet your eyes.
You tilt your chin, indicating you want him to kiss you, and he understands without need for words. You lick yourself from his lips, his own peeking between the seam to brush yours, before turning to kiss his jaw. There, you quietly ask for more.
“Want you to fuck me,” you murmur. He exhales, the air shaken in the space between your bodies.
“Are you sure?” You nod. “Do you have condoms? I can get tested for you this week if—”.
“Have you always used condoms when you have sex?”
His eyes narrow minutely, nervous as he appraises your expression, like he was expecting it to be a trick question. “Yeah, I mean. Of course”.
“So have I. I know I’m clean, and I’m on contraception. So…”.
“You want… you’re okay without using a condom?”
“If you are,” you hastily reassure him, pushing the hair back from his face to cradle his cheeks, “we can if you want to. I just— I want all of you”.
Heat rushes to the surface of your skin at the confession, at the underlying implication of it. I want you to cum inside me, you think. Now that you finally had him you’d let yourself be greedy with the knowledge that he would always try to give it to you, because in his own selfish way, Izuku was a limitless giver.
As if sensing your inner turmoil, he leaves a lingering kiss to your lips, tender and slow as you share a breath. You hear his soft whisper of ‘okay’, the mattress dipping with his weight while he tugs off his shorts. At the foot of the bed he lifts your ankle, slipping a thumb beneath your sock.
“Want me to take these off?” he asks, “you look kinda cute in them like this, though”.
His odd perversion makes you laugh. The room fades into grey as a darker cloud passes over the sun, and in that quiet moment you remember that it is raining. “You can leave them on then,” you say.
His cock is completely hard now, twitching as he kneels between your thighs, the tip swollen pink against milky white. You force yourself limp as he bends your knee and rotates your body so you are laid on your side, one leg resting atop the other, and settles himself behind you.
“This comfortable for you?” happy with the position he scoots closer, smoothing his hands along the curve of your hip, “if we’re doing this I don’t want to hurt your leg”.
Your torso twists back slightly to look at him over your shoulder, only to find that he is already there, big enough to lean over you. One arm slips under to pillow your head while the other crosses over your chest as he cradles your jaw, thumb stroking the swell of your cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, this is good,” you say, a little breathless at how well his body shapes around your own, cock heavy and twitching against your ass.
He slides a knee between your thighs, pelvis pushing up against you as he holds you to his chest. With a kiss to your shoulder he murmurs: “get me nice and wet first”. You reach to guide him, a light push that has him slipping smoothly through your folds, fingers brushing along the underside of his cock and rubbing against the frenulum.
Your senses prick at the soft, slick sound of your arousal, releasing a quiet sigh as he passes over your clit with each back and forth of his hips. The tip of his nose is pressed to your temple, a low and pleased hum vibrating by your ear.
With one last push the tip of his cock is nudging your entrance and you’re arching back against him, savouring the gradual stretch as he sinks into you. The feeling satisfies something within yourself that you’d never been able to itch, the firm musculature at your back and the secure embrace, surrounded by him, him, him. He sighs, your name tumbling from his lips, whimpering as you clench around him.
You reach back to thread your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as he draws back, the drag of his cock indelible. Then he’s rolling forwards, filling you up again, fucking himself a little deeper each time. The sound it pulls from your sternum is startling, erring on wounded, still sensitive and alight from your previous orgasm.
“Izuku— baby,” the next thrust stutters, your fingers tightening around his curls and you smile blissfully. Your neck tilts as he mouths along the curve of your throat, a trail of gentle nips at your jugular.
“Feels so good, baby. You feel so good,” he breathes, turning your cheek so your foreheads meet, eyelids heavy as he looks down at you. He’s flushed, lips parted and swollen, a brushing temptation against your own mouth. You want to kiss him again, you think.
The intimacy is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. The loving expression he bathes you in feels like lying in a sun spot, such a stark contrast to the harsh plunge of his cock into your cunt.
A familiar kindling spreads, with every gasping breath you feel yourself wound tighter around him. His hand leaves your cheek only when he’s certain you won’t look away from him, palming at every plush part of you he can reach, fingertips finally bruising at your waist as he drags you back against him.
Your heart beats incessantly in your chest, the palpitations felt all throughout your body — in your throat, in your stomach, in your pussy. He must feel it too, the desperate clench as he pulls out, the way you cling to the tip. “Thought about this, about you, for so long,” the words are warm against your mouth, “fucked myself thinkin’ about you”.
“Shit, Izuku,” his expression slacks at the broken call of his name, his pace stumbling. You then feel the wet pads of his fingers press lightly against your clit, flickering back and forth with a deliberate rhythm even as you squirm, arching into his chest.
“Wanna hear it again,” he murmurs, “say it again”.
He looks enraptured. Green peeks behind black, his pupils blown and swallowing the iris; his tongue, pink and dipping into your mouth. “Izuku,” you whine, thighs reflexively clamping around his hand, muscles tightening around his cock. He groans — again.
“Izuku. Izuku,” not unlike the times you had touched yourself thinking of him, whispering his name into the night air and hoping he would feel it. He’s here, you’re swaddled by him, loved and wanted by him: “please, baby. I’m—!”
“Cum for me”.
It pulls down to your core, bearing down on his cock as you find yourself trembling. So contradictory is the unrelenting coiling in your belly as the tension bleeds from your limbs, surrendering yourself to the safe tide as it takes you. You pull at him, tethered to his hair and encouraged by the moan that builds in his chest, breath caught in your throat as you crest.
You might still be saying his name, you think. Perhaps not, your jaw slack around a silent cry as he continues to fuck his cock into you, mumbling sweet praises against your cheek. “Love you,” the breath catches in his throat, his brows pinched in concentration as he gazes back at you, “so— I’m so close”.
“Inside me,” you tell him, “wanna feel you to cum inside me”.
He clutches your hip, fingers sodden with your arousal, the grip bruising as he lets himself go. You don’t want to miss a thing, intently watching the emotions flit across his face as he reaches the edge. He tenses, eyes shuttering closed as the rigidity threads through him, and he moans. There is no space left between your bodies as he roots himself deep inside you, filling you with his cum. And you — still pulsing with the aftershocks, back flush to his front — gently milk his cock.
His eyes remain closed as he catches his breath, repeatedly dipping to press short kisses to your lips between each inhale, your hand moving from his curls to caress his cheek. He softens, finally meeting your gaze as he slips out of you, his release drooling down the back of your thigh.
He shifts and you roll onto your back, quickly catching the wince you make at the movement. “Is your leg okay? Was I too rough?”
“It’s not my leg that’s sore,” you laugh. He smiles shakily, flushing from his chest to the tip of his ears, and you’re glad he doesn’t apologise for it.
For a few minutes you both collect yourselves in silence, becoming sleepy as he twists your hair around his finger, another innocent kiss to your temple. Outside it is still raining, the wind whistling an eerie song through your hallway when it dances through your still-open balcony doors, you dread to think how wet your carpet has gotten.
“We made a lot of mess,” you sigh, too satiated to be irritated by it, “I hope there aren’t any puddles in my living room right now”. There’s certainly one on your bedsheets.
“I’ll take care of everything,” the promise is followed by the low rumbling of your stomach, his lips twitching into a smirk, “and I’ll make you something to eat, too”.
“Not without supervision you’re not,” you murmur. He snorts, abrupt and less than charming, and it makes you laugh. A part of you is tempted to pinch yourself, another still warding off the anxieties that came with every what if; the spot below you grows damper but you can’t bring yourself to move just yet, soaking up the moment as it is, as much as you can.
“I can hear you thinking”.
Though ‘thinking’ doesn’t quite seem like the right synonym for ‘suppressing every worst case scenario you can think of’, you smile at his perception. “Aren’t you?”
“I’m okay,” he takes your hand and intertwines your fingers, bringing it to his lips, “I think we both will be. I don't think I could ever regret trying”.
synopsis: now back in the place you grew up you’re quickly drawn to an old flame and those you would always call family. with careful hands you work to repair the ties that you’d cut, and maybe end up creating something new.
tags: afab reader, childhood sweethearts to exes / exes to lovers, lost connections, returning home, single dad!osamu, original child character (miya mamoru), minor character death (oc), mention of pregnancy complications (preeclampsia; cerebral haemorrhaging), dealing with grief and guilt, falling in love, alcohol (but no one is drunk), food to communicate love (reader does eat fish; osamu watches you eat), angst and fluff, family feels, eventual smut, no power dynamics, emotional + protected sex, oral (f! receiving), multiple orgasms, shower sex, hand jobs
wc: 15.5k
Despite being the capital city of the Hyōgo prefecture, Kōbe was like a black hole slowly pulling your body apart. You feel a growing, malignant dissonance as you stand silent in the centre of your new apartment, the disturbing sensation that time had passed and yet nothing had changed. Nothing but you.
There wasn’t anything particularly wrong with Kōbe. The city held all your childhood memories, your first steps and first friends, your first words and your first love, but through your adolescence you’d slowly begun to fear that you’d unwittingly shackled yourself to one place. You wanted something more, something bigger. There was grief, too. The loss of what, of who, you’d left behind had followed you all over the country. Even though you’d left, this place held onto a part of your soul with a white-knuckle grip that you never did shake.
Now you are back where it all started, your home so familiar yet so foreign. The apartment is a little bigger than your last, surprisingly seen as the rent was the same, and the walls housed full length windows that allowed light to flood into the space. An ache spreads along your arms, tissue deep, strained from a long weekend of moving heavy furniture and placating neighbours. Your stomach twists with hunger, and you grimace at the thought of your empty fridge.
Food it is.
An atmosphere of melancholy settles around you like a weighted blanket as your feet carry you further into the city, the collar of your coat popped and shielding your neck. Memories linger like a ghost, eyes drawn to all the places you would go when you were younger. Voracious laughter, running home against the harsh fall winds, the hesitant brush of fingers, sharing food under the shelter of the bus stop and the patter of rain, dry lips pressed clumsily to yours.
The smell of freshly made food fills your senses as a stranger steps out in front of you, warmth kissing your cheeks as the heat from the restaurant momentarily blows out onto the street before the door swings back shut.
Loose strands of hair irritate your eyes as you look up, the breeze sharp as she passes. Anxiety and disbelief chip away at you as you register what the sign says. It must be fate playing a bad joke, you think.
Onigiri Miya.
The curiosity is a little too strong for you to ignore. There’s a small queue at the counter and you take your place at the back, shifting the weight of your body between your feet as you wait nervously. You are the only one that appears so tightly strung, the other customers all at ease, the low tones of their voices carrying throughout the restaurant above the sound of cutlery and moving chairs.
His voice, though, is unmistakable. Something expands in your chest, a swell of longing filling a space you weren’t aware of until now. Osamu had always been handsome, a different flavour of charming than his brother. He carries himself in a manner that sets you at ease, just the same as you remember, but his shoulders were wider, arms somehow thicker with muscle yet softened with time and faint lines by his eyes as he grins.
You approach the counter and he lifts his head from the money he’s counting in his hands, mouth parting to greet you with a rehearsed script before he truly registers who you are.
He says your name with a lilt of disbelief, but happily nonetheless, and the pressure seeps from your chest.
“S’that really you?” he breathes.
“The one and only,” you laugh dryly, pressing your clenched fists further into your pockets and fighting the urge to hide in the collar of your coat. He pulls his cap from the crown of his head and runs a hand through his hair messily until it is pointed in various directions, a nervous habit of his you remember quite well.
“How long s’it been, six years?” he grins, “ya’ look good!”
“So do you!” You cannot keep the sincerity out of your voice, the teasing tone that comes so naturally when talking with him, and his grin softens into an alluring smirk.
Like everything else in Kōbe, your feelings for Osamu had stood still.
“Wait, before we get caught up,” he slips the cap back over his hair— now his natural colour, the silver painted over —and nods his head toward the menu taped to the counter surface.
“What can I get’cha?”
The menu is vast, but you had expected it to be. Osamu lived to cook, he loved to bring joy to others with food and the dedication to his craft showed. There were the traditional ingredients such as salmon, umeboshi, and tsukudani; but he made sure to include other options, such as tuna, shrimp, scrambled egg, chicken, tarako fish roe, and mentaiko fish roe.
Your eyes are drawn to the small text box in the corner of the paper, titled ‘the special’ in what appeared to be a child’s handwriting with the days ‘Tuesday and Thursdays only’ beneath it.
“Well, what about the special?” You murmur, pointer finger tapping against the paper, “it’s Tuesday today, right?”
His lips part in minute shock, as if he’d just remembered something important, and he coughs to clear his throat.
“That’s right. Today the special is ‘katsuobushi’, chef's choice,” he replies. There’s a hesitance in the air that wasn’t there before and it sets you on edge.
“Wouldn’t that be you?”
He grins, still unnaturally tight but fond, warmth returning to his eyes, “I have a helper on those days, he’s the one that chooses”.
“Pa?”
A small voice sounds from the doorway to the kitchens before you can speak. Osamu turns, and in doing so he reveals a little boy that can’t be any older than five or six. He’s pressed against the doorframe, half hidden, wide eyed and cautiously staring at you like waiting to be scolded for interrupting.
Osamu wipes a hand against his apron, crouching to the boy’s height and beckoning him out of the shadows. “Everythin’ alright, little man?” He says.
The boy steps forward, though still looking at you, and nods. He’s darling, you think. A cherub. It’s as if someone had taken a polaroid of Osamu when he was a child and pulled him from the image into this reality. His hair is a deep brown, the odd golden shine reflected under the lights of the restaurant, and brushed neatly aside from a stubborn little cowlick curl.
The swell of his cheeks are dusted in a youthful pink, nose wrinkling under his fathers nagging touches as Osamu begins to wipe stray seeds of rice from the boys mouth, and he wrings his hands into the material of his sweatshirt; one you recognise to be for Atsumu’s current professional team.
And pinned to his chest is a little name tag with ‘Mamoru’ written on it.
“Ya’ been snackin’ back there?” Osamu asks amusedly.
You try smiling at the boy to put him at ease, his steadfast and curious gaze still locked onto you over Osamu’s shoulder. You’re struck again by an aching sense of otherness, as if you were infringing upon something just by existing in that space in time. Osamu is a father. He has a son, and presumably a wife. You hadn’t seen a ring on his finger, but he could’ve simply taken it off while he worked for safe keeping.
It’s a little cruel, maybe. Like being presented with the image of what you could have had, and then doused with the knowledge that it would never be yours.
“A little,” the boy replies, “made ya some ‘giri, too”.
Endearment seeps through your chest at the enunciation of his words, his sweet little kansai twang, and the way his back straightens with obvious pride of what he’d done. Osamu shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, leaning forward to press an obnoxiously loud kiss to his son's forehead, causing the boy to laugh.
“Speaking of onigiri, my friend has an order for ya,” Osamu grins, glancing over his shoulder toward you, “think yer up for it?”
Unbeknownst to the boy, you could see how he’d appraised your expression, an anxiety behind his eyes that wasn’t there before. He was worried about your reaction.
His son follows his gaze back to you and the hesitance is gone. Mamoru steps into the role of a ‘chef’ in the way only a child can and stands tall, as tall as is possible for him, while confidently nodding in affirmation.
“Comin’ right up!” He chirps, before scurrying into the back.
Osamu rises to his feet, wincing at the click of his knees, and returns to his place at the counter. You’re thankful in that moment that you’d stumbled across the place near closing hours, still the only remaining customer, giving you more time to speak to him.
“Will he be alright by himself?” You find yourself asking, instead of the obvious question. His shoulders relax.
“S’like I said, he helps out a lot, and I got some extra staff back there with him,” he replies in a fond, far off voice, as if remembering every time the boy had joined him in the kitchens.
“Yer katsuobushi is in good hands”.
“I’ll trust your judgement,” you say, “how old is he?”
“Turned five in January,” he replies. He rests his forearms on the counter surface, bracing his weight against it and looking significantly more relaxed by the typical parent small-talk. You refrain from following his example, ignoring the incessant pull that would have you lean into his space. Five in January. Your mind fills with intrusive thoughts and mental maths, feeling selfishly relieved that the child was conceived at least a year after you had left – like that would make the bruise any less tender.
“Looks like you had your hands full then, with…” you swallow back the tickle in your throat, awkwardly waving your hand around the restaurant, “...everything”.
He smiles, barely-there and knowingly. Osamu had always been able to see right through you, and no doubt he knew you were trying to drag out the conversation. Even after six years the need is there, the habitual urge to lace your hands together until your palms kiss, to play with his fingers aimlessly and watch his eyes brighten as he speaks.
The truth is, you do not know where the lines are anymore; not only was he your first love, he had been your best friend, he’d grown alongside you from being an infant and written himself into your blueprints. Irreversible. The typical boundaries that you might enforce with an ex cannot, and will never, be applicable to him.
So you simply talk – the only safe way you know to syphon his attention. Talking was innocent enough.
“I had a’lotta help, believe me I needed it,” he releases a shallow laugh, and it doesn’t sit right in the air. The ‘you weren’t here’ may not have even crossed his mind, but it crosses yours, and guilt sinks like lead into your stomach.
“In any case, I think you’ve done well for yourself,” you reply — purposefully gentle. An unspoken apology.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, tucking his chin to his chest in an abashed manner to hide his smile from you, licking his lower lip as he changes the subject, “what about y’self? Ya back for a visit?”
“M’back for good actually,” and his head lifts in momentary shock, a wide eyed expression adorns his face. It’s then that Mamoru returns holding a small cardboard tray, two oddly shaped onigiri seated inside it and wrapped in nori seaweed.
Children are perceptive, and you’re reminded of that fact by the way his eyes squint at the two of you, apprehensive about whether or not he should speak up. You give a small wave of encouragement and he makes the decision to toddle up beside his father.
Osamu takes notice, immediately reaching down to slide something out from beneath the counter, the sound of wood scraping along tile sharp in your ears. It must’ve been a stool, you think, as the little boy takes a careful step forward and grows 10 inches taller. With small, shaking hands, he slides the tray onto the counter for you to take.
He looks just as Osamu had before – quietly seeking out your approval. There are more grains of rice littering his cheeks, even more decorating his sticky hands, clear evidence of his hard work. You look to the onigiri and hum appreciatively, ensuring that he hears you as you lift one delicately between your fingers.
“That’ll be 500 yen!”
Without needing to be prompted, you hand the 500 yen over to Mamoru, and he shines under the responsibility of handling the money. Osamu accepts it with a proud grin, counting it and putting it into the register.
“These look delicious,” you say with sincerity, “I can’t wait to eat them. Thank you, Mamoru”. The boy’s face flushes with colour, bouncing on his toes where he stands with ands clinging to the edge of the counter to balance himself. He leans into Osamu’s hip, beaming up at him excitedly.
You pull the cardboard tray to your chest, saliva pooling beneath your tongue and stomach cramping in hunger as the smell clouds your senses. You take a quick glance at the clock and Osamu appears to recognise that you’re going to take your leave, stuttering over your name as his hand falls to the small of Mamoru’s back to steady him on the stool.
“You said yer’ back for good, right?” he asks, a desperate lift to his tone. You nod your head, not trusting yourself to speak as hope balloons in your chest when he seems truly happy with your answer.
“If ya want to catch up, you’re welcome to join us for food this weekend,” he says, squeezing Mamoru’s shoulder with a smile, “we’re gonna cook for everyone, aren’t we?”. The boy watches the exchange with curious eyes, curling his fingers into the material of his fathers apron in a half embrace.
“If it’s really okay, I’d be honoured to eat more of your cooking, Mamoru,” you reply directly to him, a small part of you also seeking out his approval. You wanted the boy to feel comfortable around you, and though Osamu had extended the invitation, you wouldn’t go if Mamoru didn’t want you there.
“What about his mother?” you wanted to ask, but you feared the answer.
“We’re makin’ yaki udon,” Mamoru mumbles shyly, “s’ma favourite… You can have some, if ya want”.
“Thank you,” you smile, and feeling the weight of Osamu’s stare you meet his eyes, half lidded and affectionate. Too familiar, overwhelmingly familiar.
“M’number is the same if you still have it,” Osamu says and your grip tightens, the cardboard wrinkling slightly beneath your fingers. You hold the Onigiri to the breast of your coat, wanting to preserve the warmth, and exhale shakily.
“Yeah, I have it. Mine is too,” and wasn’t that painful. A thread left rotted and swaying, untouched for years. Two decades of connection dissolved into undelivered text messages, thumbs hovering over the call button and searching for an excuse, any reason to push it but finding none other than the need to hear his voice.
“I’ll text you then,” he replies with promise and you force your feet to move, eyes prickling once you step out into the cool evening air. You shield the onigiri with your hands as you near your apartment, relishing the soft tendrils of warmth against the skin of your palm, and try to process everything that’d just happened.
The place is just as you’d left it, unsurprisingly, though it feels much emptier now. You slide the tray onto the coffee table, weight falling back into the plush of your sofa and your coat bunching up around you. You inhale as you pick up one of the onigiri, moulded with inexperienced hands and yet perfect as they were. The rice is golden, likely a result of too many bonito flakes, as expected of a child with an affinity for savoury things.
It’s soft as you bite into it, the rice parting between your teeth and pillowy against your tongue. As you anticipated it’s a little saltier than it should be, and it fills your stomach in more ways than one.
You reach for the next, pressing the seaweed of the first into your mouth. Your cheeks swell as you chew, eyes catching on a small piece of paper tucked at the bottom of the tray, hidden beneath the rice balls.
You unfold the post-it, slowly revealing a stick figure with a big smile. The lines of the body are jittery, drawn in pen held by an unpractised hand, and Mamoru has given the figure a hairstyle similar to your own.
As silly as it might seem, you find yourself choked up at the sentiment, tracing the jagged lines with your finger. You’d have to put it on the fridge door, a new little piece of home.
Pulling your phone out of your coat pocket you snap a quick picture, scrolling through your open chats to the last time you’d spoken with Osamu. The messages you’d never been able to bring yourself to delete; his last texts.
I miss you. Left on read.
You send him the picture alongside a thank you. It was as good a conversation starter as any, and at least this way you wouldn’t have to spend the entire evening fretting over the right thing to say. He responds quickly, a short ‘he’s happy you liked it’ followed by ‘it was good to see you’.
The days leading up to Friday are long and spent settling into your new workplace. Your colleagues are friendly, welcoming and playfully teasing of how your accent had dulled during your time away. You hadn’t expected the sense of loss that came with that realisation.
Osamu texts everyday. Short, simple messages that would appear innocent to anyone. You replied in kind – toeing the line between teasing and flirting every so often, only to turn your phone off for the night once shame got a hold of you.
You’d missed him, and you had never been the type to drip-feed. When you wanted something you wanted all of it, wanted him, but the possibility of that happening was now slim to none. It was startling how much and how little he had changed, his quips and humour still never failing to make you laugh, his memory of the things that a normal friend wouldn’t see any importance in. Somehow Osamu had stepped back into your life as if you’d never left his, not a speck of dust on him.
It was unsettling, because you were both so clearly skirting around the topic of Mamoru’s mother.
Come Friday you’ve already pictured every possible worst-case scenario and resolved them. Tonight was about rekindling the friendships you left behind, nothing more and nothing less, a mantra you repeat again and again. With that thought in mind you walk toward the entryway to slip into your shoes, passing the open archway to the kitchen and catching sight of the little stick figure on the fridge. You linger there, dwelling on an idea and breathing through the push and pull of uncertainty. It couldn’t hurt to give Mamoru a proper thank you with a little sketch of your own, a miniscule way of showing your appreciation.
By the door sits the shoe cabinet, a small decorative bowl atop it holding your keys, some spare yen and a pen, with a post-it pad beside it. The pen is almost out of ink, resting heavily between your fingers as you draw out a quick rendition of Mamoru holding an onigiri and the characters for ‘delicious!’ (うまい ; umai)
Osamu had texted you his address a few hours ago. You’d recognised the street immediately as one only a few blocks from where his mother and grandma lived, and smiled freely in the privacy of your bedroom. He had always been a mama’s boy.
The drive is faster than you anticipate. You pull up to the curb to park and somehow the car seems smaller, one hand curled around the handbrake and the other gripping the wheel as the engine continues to hum quietly. Your pulse is incessant, loud in your ears while your eyes drift to the house in question. It’s a typical Japanese home, a little on the smaller side, two stories with a balcony on which a futon cover has been hung out to dry.
The atmosphere is shattered by a firm knock to the passenger side window. Your body flinches, a sharp inhale of fear as you push down the handbrake to stop the car from moving. Kita stands beside your car with a gentle expression, the same patience and understanding that he’d always worn but you knew that this time the reasons were much different.
He points his thumb over his shoulder toward the house, wordlessly questioning whether or not you were coming, and you answer with the turn of your keys. The engine cuts off and the car settles, the heat beneath your seat slowly dissipating, and you push open the door.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Kita smiles kindly, eyes following while you walk around the front of your car to greet him, opening his arms as you near him. He embraces you solidly against his chest, much broader and firmer than you last remembered, the gentle smell of fabric softener and ripening wheat swaddling you.
The warmth of his hand seeps through the material of your shirt. “S’good to see ya, Kita,” you mumble, voice muffled where you’re pressed into his shoulder, eyes falling shut for a short moment to blink away the stinging mist.
“A’ was surprised to hear from Osamu that you were comin’,” he says as you pull away from one another. You press your lips together into a tight smile, fighting off your grimace with a dry swallow.
“Well… I guess home was callin’,” you reply with awkward finality, the words sounding timid even to your own ears. Kita simply cradles the crown of your head in his calloused hand, patting your hair in an oddly paternal manner.
“And ya’ finally answered,” he murmurs, “we’re happy to have you back”.
You walk side by side to the door, the distant and distinct bickering of Atsumu flooding out into the front garden. It’s there again, the anxiety that you are invading something that was not meant for you – no matter the reassurance, you still felt as if you didn’t deserve to be welcomed back so kindly.
Kita, sensing your unease, opens the front door and pulls you gently with his fingers circled around your forearm. You’re greeted by an open space leading into a living room and dining area, brightly lit with walls littered in framed photographs. Atsumu is lounging on the sofa, arm stretched along the back and yelling to wherever Osamu is standing in the kitchen, his eyes drawn to the sudden intrusion.
You shy away from his stare, bending to place your shoes neatly in the corner of the entryway alongside Kita’s, and as you straighten back up you startle backwards at Atsumu’s sudden appearance.
“Damn, an’ here I thought ‘Moru was lying,” he beams, appraising you as he steps aside for Kita to get by him.
“I told you uncle ‘Tsumu!” Mamoru’s small, exasperated voice calls from the kitchen.
“Lying?” You ask, enunciated with nervous laughter.
Atsumu hums in contemplation before sweeping you into a hug of his own. Similarly as it had been with Kita, you notice that he has grown enormously as indicated by the firm press of his biceps around your waist. You give into the affection easily — Atsumu had always been tactile with his friends, and you felt relief that he still considered you as such.
“He said his pa had invited a ‘pretty friend’ to join our little get together,” Atsumu recites from where his chin rests atop your head, “didn’t believe him. ‘Samu doesn’t have any friends, nevermind pretty—”
“Shut yer trap!”
“— well, he didn’t. Hasn’t. Not for a while,” Atsumu continues speaking over his brother’s interruptions, pulling away with a crooked grin, “wouldn’t‘a thought in a million years that it’d be you”.
You smile through your mess of confused thoughts, fizzling and incessant like white noise as you try to maintain composure. You didn’t want to make assumptions and yet, if you were to take Atsumu’s word at face value, it’d mean that Mamoru’s mother wasn’t in the picture.
You breathe in, deep and slow, your chest rising beneath your shirt. And you smile.
“S’nice to see you too, Atsumu,” you lean into his side as he begins to lead you further into the house, “I guess you finally got your hands on some toner while I was away”.
“I guess you finally got your hands on some toner while I was away,” he repeats back to you mockingly with his voice a few octaves higher, Osamu’s contagious laugh echoing through the lower level of the house.
“Pa, what’s toner?” You hear Mamoru ask, and you tuck your chin to your chest in an effort to hide your grin.
Atsumu guides you to the dinner table, Kita already pulling a chair out for you before taking the seat opposite. There’s already glasses set out, a pitcher of water in the centre and an open bottle of sweet white wine that you recognise to be a personal favourite of his mother. Years ago you’d sneaked a taste of it with him while she was sleeping with breathless laughter, hushing one another every time the house creaked beneath your feet.
The soft, hurried footfalls of Mamoru rushed past you to the head of the table, climbing up by his knees into the spot adjacent to you. “Hi,” He chirps, squirming in place as he sits, “you’re really here!”
“I am,” you reply, entirely endeared by his excitement and the post-it note weighs heavy in your pocket, “I wouldn’t miss this for the world”.
Osamu walks out of the kitchen with two bowls in hand, one a little smaller than the other, meeting your gaze as he leans forward to set it in front of Mamoru. He looks… ambivalent. Happy, but conflicted, rushing back to the kitchen to plate up more of the food.
Mamoru stares at the yaki udon with hunger, his small hands pressed flat either side of the bowl as he waits politely for the adults to be served too.
Kita and Atsumu begin talking to one another but the conversation is muffled, like cotton has been stuffed into your ears. You’re distracted by the lines of crayon staining the wood of the table, the homemade placemats that Mamoru must’ve made at school, the toys strewn across the floor in an organised mess that screamed Osamu. He’d always hated if a room was too bare, it always needed a little bit of chaos. ‘A little personality’ he’d call it.
“What about you?” Atsumu drags you back into the conversation, his body curling over the table surface as he leans his cheek against his fist. He smirks amusedly, though not in malice, as you fumble over your answer.
“What about me?” you ask stiffly, embarrassed to have been caught snooping.
“We were talkin’ about what we got up to this week,” Kita fills in the blanks for you kindly, “Atsumu just got done explaining his new team’s roster. Ya didn’t miss anythin’”.
Atsumu releases a theatrical sound of offense, one that makes Mamoru burst into a fit of giggles, a clear and purposeful attempt at making the boy laugh judging by Atsumu’s then triumphant grin.
“My week wasn’t all that interesting. I got settled in the new office and I unpacked everything without trouble,” you recite, conscious of how boring your answer is and of Osamu now entering the room with another set of bowls, sinking back into your chair as he places it in front of you.
“Though Mamoru did make me some delicious okaka onigiri,” you add with the appropriate gravity, wanting to acknowledge him and include him in the conversation. Colour floods his face and you watch as he struggles to bite back a grin. When he fails to do so he tucks his chin to his chest to hide his pleasure.
An inherited gesture.
“So you really are stayin’,” Atsumu marvels, more of a comment to himself than a question, “honestly thought we wouldn’t see ya again”.
You murmur noncommittally, uncertain of what to say, because neither had you. And for all the wrong reasons.
Back then you spent weeks, months, walking in circles around the possibility of leaving. The thoughts evolved into something parasitic, a dark cloud ruminating above you, so much so that neither leaving nor staying seemed like the right thing to do. And no matter who you asked, the answer had always remained the same.
‘Do what you think is right for you’.
And you had known as soon as you moved away that it’d been the wrong choice. But you couldn’t have known that until you’d left, and after making such a fuss about uprooting your life to chase your dreams you were far too embarrassed to turn back.
Osamu finally takes his place at the table to your left, and Atsumu shares a pointed look with him that is so lacking in subtlety it’s close to offensive. You can feel the heat of his body beside you, his shoulder brushing your own as he reaches for his drink, the contact brief but reverberating through your arm nonetheless.
He sighs, long and exasperated, lifting his glass up. Everyone follows his lead, including Mamoru with his hands clasped around a plastic cup of fruit juice, and glass collides softly beneath the joyous yell of ‘cheers!’
“Now tuck in before it gets cold,” he takes the chopsticks between his fingers and immediately twists the thick noodles around them. Mamoru does the same, though his chopsticks have two plastic loops for his fingers while he still learns how to use them.
“Thank you for the food,” you murmur before shovelling the food into your mouth, teeth sinking into the thickness of the noodles and savouring the tang of the umami sauce. You can practically taste the heart put into it, and it is heady.
A pleased, exaggerated hum builds in Mamoru’s throat as he eats, and Atsumu mirrors him playfully. Something in your chest releases, the tightness dissipates into foam and slowly you allow yourself to enjoy the atmosphere. It’s… loving. Cosy.
The conversation slows while the five of you dig in, mostly dominated by Mamoru whose voice is slowly gaining strength with each answer he gives, and you’re grateful the scrutiny is not on you. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d shared a home cooked meal with someone, not in the years that you were away, and Osamu’s food reveals an obvious yearning that you’d kept locked away for a long time.
You eat and listen sedately as Mamoru tells you about how Osamu has started letting him make his own lunch for preschool, about the fish tank that his teacher keeps in the classroom, about the cool bugs he found in his grandmother's yard – he’d tripped over the words and Osamu had supplied that it was in fact a rhinoceros beetle – and that he’d named it Haruko.
“After mama,” he’d explained with a boyish grin that lifted the chub of his cheeks, “cause mama is everywhere!”
Decidedly, you do not touch that topic with a ten foot pole.
“Don’t talk with yer mouth full,” Osamu scolds him mildly in a stern yet loving tone – one only a parent could use. Mamoru obeys but does not cease to speak, instead he continues to tell you things between the dutiful chewing of his food, and you steal a glance at Osamu to enjoy the softness in his face as he entertains his son’s whims.
“That was wonderful as always, Osamu,” Kita speaks politely after he finishes, washing the food down with a sip of the white wine, “a meal always tastes better when eaten with family, don’t’cha think?”
“Yes!” Mamoru speaks after chewing his noodles, mouth and cheeks stained in golden brown sauce, “Pa says ya only need two things! all y’need is love in your life–”
“–and food in your belly,” you quietly recite alongside him, your voice barely above a whisper. You’re quick to smother the sting in your eyes, many a memory of Osamu embracing you and murmuring those exact words against your mouth, the shell of your ear, the curve of your neck.
“That’s right little man,” Osamu murmurs as he stands and circles around the table to Mamoru, taking his chin between his fingers and tilting his head so he can wipe it clean. The boy makes a noise of complaint as his father then slides his hand up to squeeze his cheeks together, lips jutted into a misshapen pout.
“Ya did a good job of finishing it all,” he continues, biting back a smirk at his son's whining, “now it’s time to wash up. Comin’?”
Mamoru pulls away, rubbing the heels of his hands against the pinkened fat of his cheeks, his eyes quickly glancing in your direction as he shakes his head. “Don’t wanna,” he demurs petulantly, and you’re honest enough to admit that pride swells in your chest.
Osamu notices his line of sight and huffs, ruffling his hand through Mamoru’s hair until it’s a directionless mess. “C’mon now, we’re the men of the house so we’ve gotta clear the table,” he reaches down to lift Mamoru with no exertion and settles him on his feet.
“Fine,” Mamoru grumbles and scurries a few feet ahead of his father to the kitchen while Osamu stacks the bowls on top of each other, his body curling over you as he reaches for yours.
Atsumu raises an eyebrow at you as Osamu leaves with the dishes, the lip of a glass of wine pressed to his smirk. “Interestin’,” he says before tipping his head back and downing the remaining dregs from the cup.
“Don’t start,” you warn tiredly, ignoring the giddiness thrumming through your body at Osamu’s actions.
“Alls am sayin’ is I didn’t get a weird hug from the back when he picked my bowl up,” he purses his lips in faux innocence as he shrugs and turns to Kita, “did you?”
“I did not,” Kita assents, the corners of his mouth twitching into a soft smirk that only seeks to encourage Atsumu’s teasing.
The twin cups a hand to his cheek to whisper conspiratorially across the table, “he’s single, if yer interested”.
“That’s— stop reading into things,” you reply evenly, taking a sip from your drink, fixing your eyes to the clean bottom of the glass and continuing once it’s finished, “that was a long time ago. It isn’t like that anymore”.
“It could be, if ya wanted it to,” Atsumu adds, giving the words weight, figuratively putting the decision into your hands. Kita must notice your discomfort, because his hand lands solid on Atsumu’s shoulder in warning.
“Stop tryin’ to orchestrate things,” he asserts, “let ‘em figure it out themselves”.
“There’s nothin’ to figure out,” is muttered under your breath and Atsumu wears his irritation plainly on his face.
“There is an’ you should!”
“Atsumu,” you say, this time pleading, and his resolve crumbles easily as he sinks into the back of his chair in defeat. A pocket of silence encircles the table, tense and suffocating, accompanied by distant clashing of plates and murmurings from the kitchen.
“M’sorry,” he begins to awkwardly trace out the lines of crayon left behind on the table, “just want ya both to be happy, y’know? You’re like family to me”.
“I know,” Kita watches the scene unfold calmly, his gentle gaze drawn to the anxious movement of Atsumu’s fingers.
“We missed ya’” he admits, smile pulled taut and thin, “didn’t matter that you and ‘Samu broke up, ya still could’a called”.
“I know,” you murmur again, grimacing at how dismissive your repetitive answers sound, searching for the right thing to say and coming up short.
“I should’ve kept in touch. I wanted to but it hurt, Atsumu,” the words bloat egregiously in your throat, hoarse as they leave your quivering mouth and quiet for fear that Osamu would hear the conversation across the room, “I’m back now and I want to make up for it”.
Mamoru charges into the room excitedly, coming to a halt as he reaches the table, the enthusiasm soon sapped from his expression. His pupils are dilated, flitting from your forced smile to Atsumu, his little mouth twisting in displeasure.
“Right, all done!” Osamu claps his hands together as he re-enters the room, and like his son he appears to catch on quickly to the dampened atmosphere. He glares accusingly at his brother, knowing and frustrated, and the legs of your chair scrape against the floor as you get to your feet.
“Thank you both so much for inviting me over,” you say, directing the words to Mamoru to emphasise that he is included in your gratitude, “but I have an early start at work tomorrow, so I think I should call it a night”.
“Are ya sure?” Osamu asks, at the same time that Mamoru whines in protest. Their desire to have you stay lightens the weight on your chest remarkably; it would be a lie to say their little family had not already sunk their claws in your heart.
But you hadn’t lied, not entirely. You did need to be awake early, but you knew that no matter what time you left the Miya house you would not be able to sleep tonight.
“Do ya really haf’ta leave?” Mamoru mumbles, accent thickening with his sullen expression, and you step forward to crouch before him.
“I do, but I swear I’ll come back,” you promise earnestly to assuage his worry, reaching your hand into your pocket where the quickly drawn rendition of Mamoru sits, “but before I go I need to give you this”.
The look on his face when you present it to him is something that you memorise instantly.
“Oh,” he murmurs, chubby little fingers holding the edges of the paper like it is something precious. He examines it from all angles, colour blooming across his cheeks, before telling you with painful earnestness, “Thank you!”
“Just a small gift for you in return,” you say, stepping back from the boy. “Hardly as good as your drawing, but I hope you like it all the same”.
When you steal a look at Osamu you find his expression sweetening with a parent’s tenderness as he receives the second-hand joy of his son’s happiness.
Mamoru holds the sketch to his chest as if he were cradling it as turns to his father to ask, “Pa! Can we stick it on the fridge next to mine?”
Osamu runs his fingers through Mamoru’s curls and tells him yes. Privately you acknowledge the gravity of the moment, of having a small piece of yourself kept in the heart of the house. You feel yourself soften, like wax over a flame, fondness twisting into your ribs.
You bid them goodbye. Kita wraps his arm around your shoulders and rubs a rough hand down the length of your bicep with the promise of seeing you soon. Atsumu drags you into a hug, face pinched into a look of regret that you quietly try to quell against his shoulder. It was not his fault you were a coward.
Osamu walks you to the door, his presence heavily felt at your back while he watches you slip into your shoes. “Did’ya mean it? You’ll come back?” He asks.
Nineteen year old Osamu holds you impossibly close to his chest, the fabric of your hoodie slowly darkening beneath his free falling tears. “Promise yer gonna come back,” he’d begged.
“I meant it,” you reply quietly, to him and to the memory.
For the next week and a half, your days are spent like a bird in a designated flight path. You endeavour to keep your promise to Mamoru by going out of your way to stop by the restaurant after work on the days you know he’ll be there, and even on the days he isn’t. “Hard to stay away when the food is this good,” you’d tell him.
Osamu texted you infrequently at first, and Atsumu’s comments play on an incessant loop in your mind. Over time the messages grew in length and confidence as you became comfortable with one another once more, leaving you awash with a feeling of giddiness that has you clutching a pillow to your chest.
Maybe he had been right. Maybe there was still something worth salvaging. Something worth rebuilding.
On the Saturday night as you’re stepping out of your bathroom, you hear your phone buzzing loudly from the bedside table. The caller ID shows Osamu’s name in large white letters, and your thumb lingers cautiously over the accept button.
“‘Samu?” You say after picking up, the device pressed firmly against the shell of your ear as you lower yourself to sit on the edge of your bed.
You hear his long sigh of relief. “Sorry for callin’ ya so late but I couldn’t ask anyone else”.
“Is everything alright?” You nervously curl a hand into the thin fabric of your sleep shorts, picking at the frayed seams.
“Yeah s’nothing bad. I just got a call from the owner of the florists next door, y’know the one?”
“Yes…”
“She told me they’ve had a leak, an’ since we share the buildin’ she’s worried I might have some water damage in the kitchens'”.
“Shit, would she be liable if there is any?”
“Nope, it wasn’t anticipated an’ it wasn’t a result of any carelessness,” you can hear the exhaustion in his voice as he explains, easily picturing him ruffling his hair in frustration.
“But that’s not why I called. I’ve gotta go take a look and make sure there’s no water near the electrics but there’s no one available t’watch Mamoru”.
“I’d be happy to,” you offer, already getting to your feet and padding over to the chest of drawers to find something to wear, “I’ll be there in ten”.
“Yer a life saver,” he breathes through the line before ending the call.
You quickly pull on some leggings and a t-shirt, stumbling as you go. The cold air nips at your skin while you lock up and climb into your car, body still warm from the blissful heat of your home, and you pull out onto the road.
You approach the house with much less apprehension than the first time, breaking into a light jog as you near the front door. It opens without needing to be knocked, Osamu stands debauched in the entry already awaiting your arrival wearing a quickly-thrown-together outfit not unlike your own. He ushers you in with another quiet thank you, mumbling that he wouldn’t be long as he slips his arms into his coat.
“I love ya!” Osamu calls out once more over his shoulder, and with great embarrassment you have to restrain yourself from saying it back as Mamoru replies in kind. The sound of the door clicking shut snaps you from your stupor, noticing the laden atmosphere veiling the inside of the house.
You find Mamoru swaddled in a blush coloured blanket, thick and made of fleece, surrounded by a chaotic assortment of toys and pictures. He smiles up at you tiredly, his eyelids falling shut between breaths as he struggles to keep them open. Playing quietly in the background is a children's movie, one from your own childhood, the light of the screen casting a soft glow across the room.
“Hi sweetheart,” you greet him feebly, lowering yourself onto your knees and taking a seat on the floor beside him. He mumbles and gravitates towards you immediately, shuffling into your space.
He’s holding a small photograph between his chubby fingers, the edges awkwardly cut and clearly a few years old. In the picture is a woman, her head thrown back in laughter and familiar curls billowing in the wind. The background of the image is busy, a carnival of sorts, everything lit up with bright lights and colours and yet your eyes are always drawn back to her.
She’s beautiful.
“What’ve you got there?”
His grip tightens under your gaze, the pressure crinkling the edges of the paper, and he holds his hands a little further out from the protection of his blankets so you can see more clearly.
“It’s mama,” he tells you solemnly.
“She’s very pretty”. He hums in agreement, his lips pressed together tightly as he stares down at the photograph. His nose scrunches as he sniffles, blinking away the beginnings of tears and turning further into your side to nestle there. You rub your hand down his back, the plush fabric velvety under your touch. He seems so much smaller now he’s tucked against you.
“Pa told me that she was kind an’ funny,” the words are barely audible and muffled, but you hear them, curling your body over his in an attempt at comfort, “an’ he said she loved me a whole bunch”.
“I’m sure she still does, Mamoru. It’s just like you said at dinner, she’s always with you”.
You both fall into a comfortable silence, his attention now on the animated pictures playing on the screen that you can see moving in the reflection of his glassy eyes. As the movie comes to an end you look at the clock hung crooked on the wall and note that it’s almost 10pm.
“Shall we go to sleep?” you gently squeeze his arm through the quilt, and he nods. You lift him with barely any exertion, marvelling at how little he weighs, cradling him to your chest as he yawns.
You make your way up the stairs to the second floor, your uncertainty about navigating the house immediately erased as you find a bright coloured sign hanging on one of the doors with Mamoru’s name.
The door is easily pushed open with your foot and you approach the child sized bed, a gentle smile pulling at your lips at the bedding decorated with depictions of Anpanman.
Mamoru sinks into the mattress as you lie him down and pull the sheets up to his chin, tucking the edges in for him. He yawns again, a squeak tumbling from his open mouth while he stretches.
“Pa stays with me ‘til I sleep,” he mumbles and you surrender to his request, kneeling beside the bed with your arms folded atop the quilt.
“I can do that for ya,” you say and he grins, mischievous, like he knows something you don’t.
“What?”
“Ya sounded like me,” he whispers, squirming in happiness over something so innocuous in the way only a child can and you feel it too. The odd sensation of relief that your accent is returning to you.
“Can I ask a question?” He huffs, shuffling further up the bed to peek his face entirely over the top of the covers, “pa said I shouldn’t be nosey without askin’”.
“Course ya can”.
“Do y’wanna kiss my pa?”
You inhale sharply in surprise, swallowing down the uncomfortable dryness forming in your throat and at a loss of words. Unsure of the right thing to say and not wanting to overstep any boundaries, you simply say:
“I care about your dad very much”.
To your relief he accepts the answer with a sober nod, the seriousness in his expression highly endearing.
“He likes—” he pauses between words to yawn loudly, teeth bared like a small cub, “—he likes ya! Pa told me so”.
You hum in acknowledgement and he takes it as disbelief, eyes squinting in offense, bottom lip jutting into a pout. You attempt to placate him by threading your fingers through his hair, hoping to coax him into sleep, and you feel triumph when his eyes flutter shut.
You don’t know how long you sit at his bedside with your hand cradling his head, nor at what point you managed to fall asleep with him. You rest fitfully, your consciousness rising to the surface at every car that passes by, every creak of the house as it settles.
The front door opens and your body moves first to shield Mamoru, relaxing only upon the sound of Osamu’s voice calling out that he’s home.
You listen as he climbs the staircase and the fourth step up groans under his weight, the light flooding into Mamoru’s bedroom from the hallway soon shadowed by his silhouette.
He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, head tilting while he takes in the scene. You wonder what he’s thinking, willing your eyes to adjust to the darkness so you might see his face. Instead you get to your feet and follow him out into the hallway, grimacing with each step as blood rushes back through your legs like white static.
“Is everything ok?” You ask, keeping your voice low as you descend the stairs, still aware of Mamoru’s open door.
“S’all fine on my end, thank God,” he snorts humourlessly and makes a beeline for the kitchen with tension held in his shoulders, “I did get caught up helpin’ next door though. Sorry 'bout that”.
You linger close by, observing as he reaches into the fridge and pulls out the familiar bottle of white wine from the lower shelf. He motions it toward you tacitly, wordlessly inquiring if you’d like a glass, and you nod.
One would be fine. And you didn’t want to leave yet.
“Did he behave?” he asks,
“Better than you ever did,” and he laughs, pride rearing in your chest at the stress visibly leaving his body. He fills a third of each glass with wine, handing one over to you as he passes through the threshold to sit on the couch and you move to join him.
You tuck your legs onto the sofa cushions, the rim of the glass cool against your bottom lip, and inhale the sweet scent of the wine while Osamu takes a first sip. His eyes fall to the photograph of Hanako still left out amongst the toys and reaches for it, smoothing out the creased corner with his thumb, resting his elbows on his knees where he sits.
“You aren’t going to ask?” he murmurs curiously. The lighting is still as low as you’d left it, the room dimly lit by the standing lamp in the corner and the TV screen now dark. Your eyes lift to meet his stare and you shake your head.
“That isn’t my place,” you reply after a few beats of contemplative silence, “though I guess I am curious why you haven’t mentioned her yet”.
“Wouldn’t want ya to run off again,” he muses playfully, grin widening once you reach to swat his arm with your free hand.
“You didn’t scare me off!”
“No, s’pose not,” he exhales in exasperation, and before taking another sip of his wine he says “but ‘Tsumu did”.
You hum a flat affirmative, embarrassed at how you’d fled so quickly after such a short confrontation. “Did he tell you…”
“What he said?” He finishes the question on your behalf as your voice loses some of its strength.
“Course he told me,” there’s a solemn shadow cast across his face, teetering on regretful, “would’a wrung his neck if he didn’t”.
“I’m sorry. I know I overreacted,” you say, eyes lowering to watch as your drink lap at the insides of the wine glass. Osamu exhales deeply across from you.
“Ya didn’t, it was a lot to take in; an’ I know exactly how pushy ‘Tsumu can be,” Osamu breathes a laugh, warm as he looks back to the picture, and for a moment you feel like you’re intruding upon something you shouldn’t be.
“She passed away after Mamoru was born,” he begins to explain, stroking the pad of his thumb over Hanako’s figure, “we weren’t really together exclusively. It was casual at first, met her at a seminar when I was trying to start up ma’ business the year after you left”.
“She told me 'bout the pregnancy right away. Pretty soon the midwife started pickin’ up that her blood pressure was high, she started gettin’ headaches an’ problems with her vision. Doctors said it was preeclampsia, recommended that she be monitored at the hospital with the baby”.
As he speaks you allow yourself to reach out to him, circling your hand around his wrist and squeezing. He leans into the support, resting his head atop yours, your cheek now pressed to his shoulder.
“I was scared shitless but she was strong. Sometimes it felt like she was holdin’ me together, too,” his voice quivers and the words crack, catching in his throat, “eventually it got worse an’ after the birth she died from a cerebral haemorrhage”.
The words ‘I’m sorry’ sit uncomfortably thick on your tongue. How many apologies had this family received? Would yours make any notable difference?
“Mamoru is a wonderful little boy,” you say instead with a forlorn smile, blinking away a mist of your own, “you’ve done an incredible job, Osamu. I’m sure she’d be proud of you”.
“He got all the best parts of me,” he grins, crooked and fond, “she gave me my little boy an’ I’ll never be able to thank her enough”.
The wine is dry on your tongue, the warmth spreading throughout your belly as you drink. He sets the photo back amongst the mess of Mamoru’s toys so that the boy might find it again, and upturns his hand so your hands slip together, slowly filling the spaces between your fingers.
His hand feels much bigger than you remember, roughened with time and hard work. You tighten your grip until your palms kiss, willing away the beginnings of guilt crawling into your stomach. The silence is heavy, but it is comfortable.
He finishes his glass and wonders aloud if you want another. “I shouldn’t have anymore,” you sigh, stretching your legs out from beneath your body, “I’ll have to drive home”
“Y’can stay in the guestroom,” he offers as he looks over to check the time, “it’s late”.
That wasn’t a solid reason to stay and you both knew it. You lived only a quick seven minute drive from his house, the weather was clear and it wasn’t even nearing midnight. But you wanted to stay, to have all the time with him that you’d lost.
“If you’re sure,” you reply and his eyes brighten. After you wash down the last of your wine he guides you to the upstairs bathroom, oddly restless as he quietly shows you how to turn on the shower.
“Ya gotta let it warm up a bit first, s’always been a bit awkward like that,” he rambles as he wipes the sweat of his hands against his pants, “body wash an’ everything is there. Feel free to use whatever”.
He places some of his spare pyjamas atop the laundry basket before throwing you a thumbs up. “Thank you,” you murmur amusedly as he takes his leave, unable to keep yourself from smiling at his apparent nervousness.
As you wait for the water to heat up you rub the material of the pyjama top between your fingers, the feeling of it not unlike Mamoru’s blush coloured blanket. You cautiously lift it to your nose as if expecting to be caught and inhale, pleasantly surprised by the entangled scents of Osamu and lavender fabric softener.
You shower quickly, lathering yourself in Osamu’s body wash and preening at the simple idea of smelling like him for the rest of the night. Accompanied only by the harsh spray of the water you process everything you’d learnt, from both him and Mamoru, the child’s earnest words still ringing in your ears.
“He likes ya!”
As you leave the bathroom with hair still damp against the nape of your neck but otherwise dressed and dry, you are followed closely by tendrils of steam that plume into the hallway. Osamu appears in the door to his own bedroom in only his sweatpants, eyes appraising your figure and not at all shy about admiring how you look wearing his clothes. Your pulse stutters at the attention, in your chest and between your legs.
Bathed by the light of the bathroom he looks inviting, soft and sleep mussed. As he stares at you, you stare back at him, cataloguing all the ways in which his body changed in the years that have passed. He’s broader still, but not as lean as he was in high school, fine dark hair littering his chest and trailing from his belly button beneath the waistband of his pants.
You swallow audibly, swiping your tongue across your dry lower lip. “Night, ‘Samu,” you murmur.
“G’night,” he breathes, and you continue to feel the weight of his eyes on your back as you enter the guest room, gently shutting the door behind you.
Morning comes like a gift. You stir at the light's warm touch, laid in an unfamiliar bed, the memory of the night before trickling back into your mind with a slow drip. Still sunken into the pillows and wrapped up in the sheets you hear the door open, the handle clicking as it flicks back into place and announcing Mamoru’s arrival, his small bare feet padding noisily across the room.
For a few passing moments you pretend to be asleep, curious as to what the little boy would do. A small hand rests on your cheek, patting you gently, and you remember vividly how Osamu used to wake you the same way whenever you fell asleep in class.
You open your eyes gradually, blinking against the light from the windows where the sun had already shifted. Mamoru’s sweet face resting on the edge of the mattress, the youthful swell of his cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright as he grins, “you’re still here!”
“I am,” you mirror him with a smile of your own, the young boy's joy entirely contagious.
“Let’s eat breakfast together!”
He begins to jump on the spot as you kick back the covers, swinging your legs over the mattress and getting to your feet. He giggles, lifting his hand for you to take it, and you let him guide you to the kitchen. It smells delectable, Osamu stands in the sweatpants from the night before, an apron covering his bare chest.
“I’m makin’ omurice at little chef’s request, fancy some?” He asks as he turns slightly away from the stove top to look at you.
“Sure,” you reply as Mamoru pulls you over to the sink, a brightly coloured stool already waiting on the tiles for him, “it smells delicious”.
“Everythin’ Pa makes is delicious!” Mamoru exclaims, stretching his entire torso across the counter just so he could reach the taps and turn on the water.
“We gotta wash our hands ‘fore we eat,” he instructs you dutifully while mimicking his father’s voice.
With clean hands and unkempt hair, Mamoru takes a seat beside you at the table and inhales exaggeratedly once the food is placed before him. Breakfast is a quiet affair, the silences filled with the scratching of chopsticks against ceramic and the odd sound of Mamoru verbally enjoying his food. There isn’t much time to enjoy it, because soon after the plates are licked clean Osamu is herding Mamoru upstairs to get him ready to visit his grandmother, casting an apologetic smile toward you as he goes. By the time Mamoru is dressed and presentable you’ve already cleared the table, hands submerged in warm suds and scrubbing the remains of egg from a saucepan.
“Need help putting yer shoes on?” You hear Osamu ask followed by Mamoru loud protests that he’s a big boy and is fine doing it himself. Your eyes linger on the children’s chopsticks held between your fingers, pressing your thumb against the small plastic loops and remembering how small Mamoru’s hand had been in your own.
It strikes you how right it feels to be here with them in domestic bliss, wrapped in Osamu’s clothes with a full stomach, the familial chaos filling you with a sense of fulfilment that you’d never felt before.
“Ya didn’t have'ta do that,” Osamu’s voice sounds from behind you, the water rippling against the basin as you startle. He sidles up beside you and you quell the thoughts of disappointment at the sight of him fully clothed.
“You gave me a place to sleep and fed me, this is the least I could do,” you avoided meeting his eyes in fear that he’d see right through you, reaching for a kitchen towel to dry your hands, already slightly wrinkled and softened. He hums thoughtfully.
“Y’can keep those clothes for now,” he says, “sorry to rush ya. If I don’t get him to mama’s by ten she’ll file a missin’ persons report”.
You laugh abruptly at the truth of his statement. Their mother raised the twins alone, fiercely and lovingly, she was adored by every child in the neighbourhood. But if there was one thing she’d never been lenient with, it was curfew.
“I won’t keep you then,” you smirk gently, tugging at the hem of your oversized shirt, “I’ll wash and return them to you another time”.
He watches the action, looking you over once more with unsatiated longing, the moment returning to him as his son yells impatiently from the entryway. In the rush you pull on your shoes, frowning as the heel tab folds inward awkwardly and rubs against your ankle.
You make it to your car, but not without first being accosted by Mamoru who demands that you see his new trainers, stomping forcefully against the pavement and grinning as he seeks your approval. The shoe lights up with various blinking colours, running patterns along the length of his soles, and you coo with the appropriate amount of awe.
With a sudden wet kiss to your cheek, Mamoru is rushing toward his father's car in joyous embarrassment. Osamu snorts fondly at his antics, spinning his keys around his index finger.
“The shop will be shut fer a few days while contractors are in to sort out the pipes, but we’d still like to see you,” he says, unlocking his car with the click of a button and observing as his son climbs into the seat with an exhausted huff, “Mamoru will miss you”.
Perhaps a little emboldened by their hospitality and affections, you laugh and say “just Mamoru?”
“And me,” he adds, “I’ll miss you”. The answer is unexpectedly honest, and your heart stutters in your chest like a hummingbird's wing.
You receive a text from him a few days later as you’re waking up, the sleep still in your eyes, asking if you’re free for dinner that night. You give a definitive yes, and the thought carries you throughout your workday, dragging the hours on insufferably.
You arrive five minutes later than intended, having spent a little too long fretting over your appearance despite the fact that Osamu had seen every side of you, and knock on the door weakly.
As he lets you in you realise the house is tidier than it had been during your last visit, strikingly so. The toys have all been put away, blankets and throws folded neatly atop their basket, framed pictures realigned and crayon marks scrubbed from the coffee table. Well, mostly.
It is also notably quiet, and the upper floors lights are all switched off, darkness permeating the hallway where the staircase sits. Only the living room and kitchen are lit, albeit dimly, the warm hue of the lamps adding a strange feeling of intimacy to the atmosphere.
“Is Mamoru not here?”
“…He isn’t,” Osamu replies awkwardly, apparently weary of your realisation that you are alone together.
“Then it’s just us,” you deduce, “is this a date?”
“If yer comfortable with it”.
“Why would I be uncomfortable?”
“It’s a possibility,” his shoulder lifts into a weak shrug then schooling his expression into something more serious, “I feel like a’ kinda tricked ya by not clarifying”.
“You could’ve just asked me,” you say as you shuffle where you stand, toeing off your shoes and lining them up with your socked feet.
”Just didn’t want ya to think you needed to say yes out of obligation, ‘cause of our history,” his words are followed by the ruffle of his hand through his hair, the familiar mannerism making his own nervousness known again.
“I don’t do things I don’t want to do, ‘Samu,” you reply, to which he grins.
“Good, ‘cause I want you willing, or not at all,” he says evenly, dark eyes lingering. Blood rises to the surface of your skin, the heat sweltering beneath your cheeks and a swooping sensation passing through your stomach.
Subconsciously, you lick your lower lip, and his pupils dilate as they track the motion.
“So what’ve you made for us?”
You pause to look over the dining table in awe with arms wrapped around your front. He’d covered the surface in a thin white decorative cloth to hide the stains and make it presentable, one you recognise as belonging to his mother. The meal is set out for each of you, consisting of a small bowl of miso soup, two side dishes and ahi tuna steaks for the main meal.
“I thought somethin’ a little more traditional might be nice,” he murmurs with uncertainty, and you feel the need to quickly reassure him.
“This is incredible ‘Samu,” you breathe. The clear time and effort he’d put in is… romantic, for lack of a better word.
He takes the chair opposite you and you begin to eat. The vegetables have been simmered in fish broth and seasoned with mirin and sake, the taste obvious on your tongue. You pair them with the steamed white rice, a pleased hum building in your chest at the fluffiness of it.
Osamu has barely touched his own food in favour of watching you eat, a tender dream-like expression on his face at the delighted sound you make once you bite into the crispy outside of the steak and meet the lush centre.
You drink between bites and the wine lends a sleepy weight to your arms, the muscles entirely relaxed, but your mind energised and inspired. “Are you trying to impress me?” you say, nearing breathless at the time and effort he’d clearly put into the meal. He grins, back straightening and preening like a stroked cat.
Something in the space between you shifts, narrows, a pull of magnetism between your bodies. “Depends. Is it workin’?”
You duck, chin to your chest, the corners of your mouth lifting into a pleased grin. When you raise your head you peer coyly through half lidded eyes and ask, “if I don’t say yes, will you keep trying?”
“Ya know I will,” he murmurs.
You finish your meal, the food laden where it sits in your stomach, yet you are not even close to satiated.
There comes a point when you both move over to the living room, sitting closer than needed on the same sofa, hands only a few centimetres from one another. Your fingers twitch with the urge to touch him.
The conversation is directionless and natural, minutes to hours spent reliving old memories with hearty and contagious laughter. It’s easier, you think, to reminisce on the good now that you have hindsight.
It begs the question of why you ever left.
“Then a’ remember you fell flat on yer face in front of the Kobe green area—”
“Shut yer trap!” you pinch the skin of his bicep between your fingers as you scold him and laugh unabashedly, freely, for the first time in weeks. As you quieten you realise he’s staring at you, though not out of shock, he appears to be taking a mental image of you in that moment.
“What?” you ask, conscious of the volume of your voice, of how many teeth you may have bared, of how your laughter lines had deepened through the years.
“Your accent came through a little just now,” he drawls earnestly, “it was cute, that’s all”.
“Mamoru said somethin’ like that, too,” you mumble feebly. There was some part of you that felt vulnerable, flayed in front of him, and you wanted to hide your expression so he wouldn’t see the relief. Or the regret.
“He likes ya, y’know. A lot,” he tells you, the confession dipped in fondness, and you refrain from sharing that Mamoru had told you the same thing about him. A small part of you wanted to keep the boy's confidence, and it felt equally important that you don’t reveal his secret.
“He’s definitely an easy child to love, isn’t he?”
Osamu's grin widens, wine flushing his cheeks a sweet pink and the lids of his eyes hanging heavily.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says as he lifts his left arm and rests it along the back of the sofa, which also happens to be behind where you sit. In doing so he shifts closer, the force of your dipole strengthening as you feel crowded by him.
“Can I kiss ya?” he rasps, and your heart feels brittle. You meet his hopeful gaze, and for a few beats neither of you speak. His hand slips subtly down the back cushion, the warmth of his skin barely grazing the curve of your shoulder.
“Is that really ok?” You breathe, wringing your hands together tightly in your lap to disguise the tremor, “I feel like I don’t deserve… this. It’s as if I’ve stolen someone else’s place”.
“I see yer still in the habit of catastrophizing everythin’,” he murmurs, fond as fingertips ghost along your cheeks and he closes the remaining distance between you. His nose brushes against yours and your eyes instinctively fall shut, head tilting ever so slightly to accommodate him, lips parting with a shaken breath.
He kisses you tenderly. A sweet, chaste press of his mouth to yours before pulling back a breadth to speak.
“This?” He kisses you again, this time to your left cheek. “This is yours. This was always your place in my life”.
He kisses your right cheek.
“But what about…” your voice trembles, the words trailing off, unsure if it’s appropriate to ask. Unsure if it’s selfish.
“Hanako?” He finishes your question for you.
“Hanako was a friend. I cared about her, an’ she cared about me. It just so happens that we didn’t take enough precautions and were blessed with a son”. While he speaks you feel his fingers slip down the curve of your neck, curling around to your nape as if to keep you in place and bringing your foreheads together.
“Even if she’d survived, we wouldn’t have been together. I know it’s frowned upon but it’s what we both wanted”.
“Look at me,” and you do. His eyes are shining, wet and desperate, but the solace woven into his features is stark. He’s relieved, maybe that you still cared or that you respected Hanako’s importance in his life, you couldn’t be sure.
“I told her about ya, y’know,” his other hand falls to where yours are tightly woven together, gently prying them apart and rubbing the pad of his thumb over the crescent moons left by your nails.
“You did?”
“Had to,” he breathes a laugh through his nose, shifting his wrist so he is able to interlock your fingers, “you were still here. Everywhere. Not just in pictures – I hadn’t even washed the shirts ya used to wear”.
Aching. It had been the same for you; hell, you’d been unable to change your phone background for an entire year and your co-workers had all thought you were already in a relationship.
“I regretted leaving almost immediately but… I think if I had the choice, I would still go,” you say, eyes concentrated on the intertwined hands that now rest warmly against your thigh.
“I was a stranger to myself. I was so fixated on the idea of being somebody that I might’ve resented you if I stayed,” you continue, “I know it sounds arrogant but I wanted to be special”.
“You were already special t'me, dumbass,” he mumbles affectionately and your throat swells with apologies, dry and uncomfortable. Instead you laugh, abrupt and deliriously happy, the sound much closer to a sob than anticipated.
“I know that now,” you reply wetly, “I should’ve appreciated that more”.
“S’alright,” he tilts his chin forward to kiss your forehead, “now I get to learn about ya all over again”.
Laughter bubbles in your chest, breathless as you try to keep up with his loving touches. Your body arches towards him and he takes the initiative, wrapping an arm around your lower back and pulling you into his lap. You feel all the edges blur together until the only thing you can hear or feel is him, pliant and perching beautifully on his thighs while your bodies rock together.
This languid dance continues for what feels like hours, the simplicity of embracing each other, hands traversing each other’s bodies, hot breaths and wet kisses. He hums, the purr is deep and rough and pleased, and then he pulls away with reluctance; he smirks as you follow the path of his mouth, whining when he leans forward again only to merely brush your lips.
“Can I take ya to bed?” he pants, and you curl your fingers tightly into his hair as you say ‘please’.
As you fall back onto the king sized mattress your thoughts finally catch up with your body, and you ask, “have you been with other people? After Hanako, I mean”.
“A few,” he replies distractedly as he works the tight material of your jeans over your thighs, pulling you halfway down the mattress in the process. You giggle, breathless and giddy, helping him and kicking them off with your feet.
“They all extend their thanks, by the way,” and the confused crease of your brow is enough to make him grin as he braces his body over yours. He clarifies between tender kisses along the line of your bare throat, “y’know, since ya taught me how t’eat pussy”.
White hot arousal pools into your lower stomach at the thought of him thinking of you during those encounters. Remembering you, what you’d liked, how you sounded.
“Lucky them,” you murmur, tilting your head back as he descends down your torso, feeling his warm huff of laughter over your stomach. He rolls the flat of his tongue through your folds as if he were still kissing you, languid and smooth, tensing the muscle only as he passes over your clit.
“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he mumbles to himself. You exhale deeply when you feel his fingers tease your entrance, lashes fluttering as he carefully sinks them into you alongside his tongue until you’ve taken him to the knuckle. He curls them upwards until your heels are kicking out along the bed, hips bearing down onto his wrist.
He holds you still with the press of a hand over your stomach, his strength evident as you writhe beneath him, the muscles of his arm tensing with the effort.
If there is one thing Osamu is good at, it's eating. Brazen as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the tip of his tongue massaging tight circles against you while he fucks you on his fingers. He barely stops to take a breath, groaning against you like you’re sharing the touch, hunching his weight forward as your body begins to convulse.
“Osamu,” you gasp, pitched and warning. A wounded sob catches in your throat as your breath is stolen from you, hands fisting into his hair without any thought other than chasing your end, pressing him roughly to your pussy while your orgasm washes over you.
His ragged praises and encouragements are barely audible over the rush of blood in your ears, but you feel the soft path of kisses along your stomach he creates as he waits for you to come back to yourself.
Osamu comes into view, bracing himself over you with forearms either side of your head, and you pull him into a desperate kiss by the back of his neck. You tempt him into your mouth, his face obscenely wet and the taste of yourself lingering on his tongue.
“Yer so gorgeous like this,” he murmurs, alternating between chaste kisses and licking into you sinfully, mapping out the line of your teeth. It was all consuming, as if he were savouring you.
“I want you,” you whine restlessly, thighs bracketing his waist and squeezing with impatience. He grins sharply.
“What d’ya want, baby? Tell me”.
“Fuck me”.
With one last firm kiss he sits back on his heels to pull off his shirt, glaring in annoyance as the buttons slip between his fingers, before throwing the garment aside and standing to pull off his jeans.
“Condom,” you stutter between breaths and he reaches for the bedside table, tugging the drawer open awkwardly and taking a packet between his fingers.
“Ya don’t gotta tell me twice,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching into an amused smirk and you laugh brightly. With a cheek turned into the plush of his pillows you watch as he rolls the condom over his cock and strokes himself to relieve the ache.
You shake as you reach for him and slide your hands across the expanse of his chest, the tremors of your orgasm still fluttering between your legs. The hair is fine and coarse against the pads of your fingers.
Your legs curl around his hips, feet suspended lazily in the air, and he ducks his face into the curve of your throat to nip at your skin. Osamu rolls his hips forward, his hard cock sliding through your wet folds, a hoarse gasp falling from his lips.
Threading one hand through his hair to cradle his head to your collar, you reach the other between your bodies to line him up with your entrance. His hips jump as you touch him, groaning at the kiss of your cunt to his tip.
He sinks himself into you until skin meets skin, the weight of his body swaddling yours. All rigidity bleeds from your limbs as he pulls out with a gratifying pace, the stretch of his cock inside you indelible. With each thrust of his hips your breasts shake and he leans forward to latch his lips around your nipple as he fucks his cock into you over and over again.
The rhythm is fervent, a hot coil in your body twisting tighter with each pump of his hips, the obscene wet slap of skin reverberating throughout the room. He moans, unabashed and bordering a whine, and the sound has your toes curling against the bed.
“Fuck, ‘Samu,” you whine between stuttered breaths, too far gone to be ashamed by the clumsy jerking of your own hips as you attempt to meet his timing, “more, need more”.
“I got you, sweetheart,” he rasps. The canting of his hips is incessant, he shifts his knees and encases you in his embrace until he overwhelms all your senses. He doesn’t speed up, instead pulling out until he’s barely inside of you and sliding into you completely, your body rocking up the mattress beneath the force. He fucks you hard, deep, every movement completely deliberate.
“That’s it,” he says as your thighs begin to seize, his voice thick with want, “feel so fuckin’ good”.
“Gonna cum,” you arch into his chest with a hiss, arms hooked beneath his and nails embedded into the soft skin of his shoulders.
“Cum for me,” he pants desperately, “cum on my cock”.
Pleasure sweeps through your lower stomach, blood rushing in your ears as your eyes squeeze shut, grip tightening around him in a feeble attempt to cling to reality as your orgasm hits you a second time.
As you resurface you feel his hips rock into you once more before they abruptly still, his large body quivering over you as he cums into the condom. His breath is hot against the underside of your jaw where he nuzzles into your pulse point, limbs still wrapped around him to keep him from getting up.
You don’t want to let go. He pushes up enough only to lean his forehead to yours, eyes held shut and relishing in the afterglow, your pussy still pulsing gently around his softening cock. Slowly, a grin spreads across his face, pushing into the swell of his red cheeks. He meets your stare.
“Shall we high five like we used to?”
“Oh my god,” your head drops back into the thick of his pillows in fond exasperation, “we aren’t eighteen anymore, ‘Samu”.
His grin only seems to get wider, taking his bottom lip between his teeth as he brushes his nose against yours in an intimate show of affection. “No, we aren’t. S’much better now, ain't it?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, blanketed in satiated bliss and love. He presses a light kiss to your cheek, then once more to your lips, shifting on his knees as his cock slips out of you.
“Gonna get rid of this an’ then we can sleep,” he murmurs against your mouth, and you hum tiredly in acknowledgement. As he makes his way to the bathroom you fight to keep your eyes from falling shut, a small seed of fear buried deep in your heart that maybe this really was just a dream and this was it’s conclusion.
But Osamu comes back. Still naked as the day he was born and smiling happily, crawling toward you with his too-big body and crowding you against his chest. He runs his hand along the length of your back.
“What d’ya want for breakfast?” he asks quietly.
“Onigiri,” you reply, the words slurring as sleep pulls at your body. The last thing you hear is his huff of laughter.
As consciousness returns to you, you begin registering your surroundings one thing at a time. You can hear the pitched song of birds outside, a distinct call that only occurs during the early hours of the morning. There’s an arm thrown over your naked waist, a hand resting against your stomach, and warm puffs of air ghosting the nape of your neck.
You pry your eyes open slowly, squinting against the morning light before turning in Osamu’s embrace to shield yourself. His body moulds around you seamlessly, accommodating the change of position even in sleep. You shuffle yourself closer and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, just below his eye, and you notice the twitch of his eyes behind their lids.
He stretches as he wakes, groaning with the movement before his arms soften back around your body like elastic returning to its original shape. “Mornin’ baby,” he mumbles, accent thicker with sleep. You return the greeting shyly, not wanting to break the intimacy of the moment.
“Sleep well?” he asks, shivering at the touch of your fingers against his chest. One side of his face is pink from how he’d slept, hair unruly and eyes a little puffy as he adjusts to the light. Your throat tightens with gratitude that you get to see him like this again.
“Best sleep I’ve had in a while,” you murmur honestly, “someone must’ve tired me out”.
“Glad t’be of service,” he grins, eyes falling closed again for a few moments with a relaxed sigh, “I hate to leave you in bed but Mamoru is s’posed to be home soon”.
“Ah. I can leave, if you need me to–”
He interrupts you quickly, squeezing your waist in reassurance, “s’not what I meant”.
“Okay,” you settle immediately, letting him pull you closer to his front, “we should probably shower before he gets back, then”.
It is with great resistance that the two of you finally get out of bed. Osamu suggests that you get the shower started while he grabs the towels, and when you lean across to turn the taps the cold water spits from the head furiously onto your bare shoulder. The fine hair on your arms raises at the sudden change in temperature, body still warm from Osamu’s embrace.
You step into the shower and reach for a cloth and the body wash you’d used last time, leaving the frosted glass door slightly ajar for him to join you. The pressure of the spray is a little higher than the one you have at your apartment, giving the sensation of a satisfying firm sting across your back, and you tilt your head to wet your hair as you lather your arms.
Osamu steps in, his eyes dragging over your figure from your feet to your lips. He closes the door behind him and steps forward, the space barely enough for the two of you, and he crowds you against the tiles.
“Give me that,” he smiles. Grabbing the washcloth from your grasp he pours a generous helping of body wash and holds his hand up, “front or back?”
You turn around wordlessly and he starts at your neck. His soapy hands slide over your soft skin, from your neck to your waist, and further down to grip your ass.
“Somehow I don’t think you’re just tryin’ to be helpful,” you mumble, head tilting forward as your muscles completely relax. He snorts, tapping your bicep to have you turn. He starts up top again, cleaning your neck and shoulders, his thumbs massaging firm circles into your skin. His hands descend to cup your breasts, giving them a light squeeze.
“Let me do you,” you beckon for the washcloth and he gives it over, raising a brow as you press your damp body to his front to let him pass, “don’t get any ideas. Stand under the water”.
“Yer the boss,” he smirks, the spray splashing off the planes of his back, hair darkening and sticking against his forehead as it becomes saturated with water. You slide your fingers through the strands and push them away from his eyes, his expression visibly softening.
You repeat his actions, indulging yourself and groping at the soft muscles of his shoulders. He was so strong and yet so malleable, pecs twitching when you lather his chest in soap in much the same way he had done yours.
Instead of having him turn you reach around under his arms to scrub his back, skin to skin, the weight of his cock now obvious against your thigh.
“Need a little help?”
Everything feels much warmer now, plumes of steam enveloping you both in the small space. “Y’can ignore it,” he assures you, unconvincingly, his shaky exhale barley heard above the sound of water hitting tile.
You set the washcloth aside, hands traversing his body once more to rinse him of the suds before you gently encircle your fingers around his cock, your grip just on the right side of tight.
“What if I don’t want to?”
He ruts into your fist, gasping quietly and tucking his chin to his chest with relief.
“You’re so handsome, ‘Samu,” you tell him, hoping he can hear the heat in your voice, hoping he knows it to be true.
He lets out a unintelligible groan as you slide up and down his cock at a cruel pace, alternating your grip and letting him clumsily thrust forward, fucking into your hand. Your eyes remain on his expression, wanting to watch his seams come undone.
You stroke him again while twisting your wrist, rubbing your palm over the head and enjoying his sharp inhale. You hear your name fall from his lips and it sounds like a plea as the pad of your thumb circles against his frenulum.
He curses, the word drawn out and rough. His eyes flutter closed, brows drawn up and together, lips parted and jaw slacked. He cums with a breathless moan, hand slipping on the shower tiles. You work him through it, the movement of your fist slowing as Osamu’s release coats your fingers and paints white streaks over his navel, and watch as the water washes it away.
When he sweeps you into a fervent kiss he has barely caught back his breath, cradling your face between his hands. Before you’re able to reciprocate, the shrill sound of an alarm cuts through the spray of the shower.
“Shit,” he mutters against your lips, kissing you a final time before manoeuvring your bodies so he can climb out, “I set an alarm just in case. He’s gonna be home in five minutes”.
“Take as long as ya need, alright?”
You can’t help but grin at how flustered he is, at how he’d anticipated that he would get carried away with you. Despite what he says you get out of the shower not long after he flees the bathroom, towel drying your hair and pulling on the fresh clothes left by the door.
When you step out into the hall you can hear a commotion downstairs at the front of the house. Mamoru must’ve just gotten home, you realise, and slowly make your way towards the stairs.
Curiosity gets the better of you, and so you lower yourself to sit on the top step. You stay hidden in the soft shadows at the crest of the staircase, listening to Atsumu’s voice carry into the house. It’s muffled but so clearly teasing, a pointed remark about the marks on Osamu’s neck and the flush of his cheeks. There is no reason to hide your smile here.
The sound of light sprinting feet echoes along the hallway below until Mamoru is standing at the first step of the stairs. His face brightens as he sees you, and you beckon him with a conspicuous wave of your hand.
“Are we hidin’?” He whispers excitedly.
“I’m hiding from yer uncle,” you tell him “he’s gonna bully me if he knows m’still here”.
“I’ll protect you!” Mamoru crowds into your space, and you lift your arm so he can slot up against your side comfortably. He isn’t heavy, but the weight is pleasant. Alleviating.
“My hero,” you murmur fondly and he beams. The two of you startle at the sound of the front door closing, followed by the click of a lock. Osamu appears just as Mamoru had, his content expression warming into endearment when he catches sight of you.
“What’re you troublemakers schemin’ up there?”
The question flicks a switch in Mamoru, immediately abuzz with restless energy and excitement, and once Osamu takes a slow step forward with his body lowered you understand why.
“Run!” You gasp, and Mamoru squeals as he rushes across the landing toward his bedroom. You follow close behind, peels of laughter reverberating throughout the house. Osamu is hot on your heels, the thundering of his steps up the stairs only marginally louder than the beat of your heart.
You roll onto Mamoru’s bed alongside him, and he crawls into your lap for protection. Osamu stands by the door and holds his hands up in front of his chest, fingers hooked like claws.
“M’gonna getcha!”
He tackles the two of you on the bed. You can tell he’s being gentle and withholding his strength but it’s exciting to Mamoru all the same, his squeals and pitched giggles growing in volume. You play your part well, pretending to fight his father off and holding the boy to your chest.
Osamu meets your eyes over the top of Mamoru’s head, eyes alight with joy. You smile, and hope he can see the love in yours.
summary: a prisoner far from home and the son of a disgraced knight. a darkness which beckons them to join in folly, to claim back what was lost.
tags & warnings: nsfw + historical au + mentions of war & pows + implied ideation of suicide (no depression) + mention of sexual assault & violence + cult & dark worship w/ animal sacrifices + implied drugging + orgies + exhibitionism + body/soul possession + sukuna makes an appearance + dubcon + brief monsterfucking + details of blood, violence & some gore + it goes without saying that yuuji is an adult
notes: this has been in drafts for nearly a year, it was supposed to be finished in summer 2021, then for kinktober, then for winter... it decided to write itself when it was ready. 47 pages of madness. let’s go!
The sun lays high above the castle, illuminating the hovering dust in the stifling room.
It is midday and soon the young men in the courtyard will freshen from their spar, then resume until the sun lowers to the west. The same routine you’ve seen them follow since arriving here, bound and dragged to this rotten place following your country’s fall to the enemy kingdom—no thanks to the brutal assault and pillaging of the bordering villages led by this castle’s very own lord.
Your forehead presses against the murky window, ignoring the other servant behind you. Already a full moon since then, but the image of houses set ablaze in the night and the distressed wailing of children ring in the back of your mind; the misery of the raid extinguished what little willpower you previously had, accepting whatever fate the enemy prescribed you. The jeers of ridicule as you were forcibly hauled through the mud—by the haughty duke and the leery soldiers who never seem to sober in the wake of victory—still burn your body in humiliation, and you press your eyelids shut before turning away from the window. The loss of a country you had no hand in governing, yet burdened by the dishonor of being among its people conquered.
And though they still have to further disgrace your person beyond forcing your hands to labor around the castle, the possibility of suffering a fate worse than death at the hands of these people still floats at the back of your mind and has had you considering jumping down from this window in front of the men outside more often as the days trickle by.
A familiar knock on the door. The other servant moves to check.
“Change of guards.” A different man, at the same time of the day. He’s the second to come, and after him will be one more for the night shift.
You don’t understand the need for such tight security; you nor any of the servant girls could ever best a trained man, perhaps topple one at most by surprise, but the relatively green soldiers have been strict regarding their watch. You would understand the mental strain and suspicion of the trenches following them to their homes if these were war-trained men, but these were fresh trainees, some of them likely to be younger than you. Perhaps a show of obedience while their lord is away to make up for the fact that they haven’t been sent to war?
The servant and the guard exchange a few friendly words in the back, taking no notice of your person. “There will be a new rota in the coming days. The men who returned from the last unit will get settled in.” The young man then quietly stands by the entrance of the hall, but it is of no consequence to you.
The days are marred by bleak clouds, like the permanent darkness of the foggy woods stretching to the edge of the horizon.
The chill of the wind reaches the bones of your fingers. But no matter how much you scrub, the stains fail to come out. Stubborn grime.
They’ve finally realized it is more worthwhile to assign all the prisoners to some serious work than to leave you rotting in peace—you must earn your bread, and bread is brought by the men whose clothes have been soaked in blood so dark, your fingers are nearly about to fall off.
Squeezing the murky water out of the rags, you think they’ll forget about you all soon enough, and you will end up another faceless peasant stuck in this stone-cold castle without any merit nor future, without a place to call home.
In the near distance, the clanking of swords echoes through the open grounds, fierce and harsh. There are more men than before, with the last of the duke’s army marching home days ago following the kingdom’s absolute triumph over the continent. There are many faces you don’t recognise, out of place with your routine observations, none of them any friendlier than before. Rather you notice a notable difference between the returnees and the green recruits, in the sure way they carry themselves with pride and their scarred hands on sharp blades.
“Done with those yet? You still need to air them so they dry before tomorrow.”
Another servant carrying more laundry crouches next to you, snatching your batch and dropping her burden.
“Don’t dally and pick up pace. Now that the men have returned to their lord’s castle, we keep running out of fresh clothes.” Her annoyance hastens her movements. “If only they teach these men to clean after themselves the same way they make them slice throats, we wouldn’t be here from dawn till sunset working ragged to our bones.”
Loud swears resonate through the courtyard. A squabble seems to have broken out between the gathering, but you fail to catch the reason, instead watching as one of the larger men threateningly puts a knife to a frightened young man. If he presses any harder, the poor chap would soil his bottoms. You watch with no real interest, but the servant seems to read something on your face.
“Don’t get involved with them. Even women don’t receive pity from the sharpest edges of their swords.” A show of concern, you recognise, but oddly placed since you don’t even know her name. She jults her chin to the far right of the crowd. “Especially those that have been at the front lines since their youth. Bred for war and ready to die for it.”
A boyish laugh catches your attention at that moment, and also those of the squabbling men. With a deep scar across his face, the man—a knight?—sheaths his own sword and ignores the threatening blade between the dispute; no one makes a move to stop him from sliding in between the two men, pushing them away from each other with ease and easygoing chatter. He seems somewhat different from the others; jaunty and all smiles with an innocence unbefitting of the scar carved on his visage, telling of the horrors of the war he likely partook in. You think he shines with a certain charm, and transfixed, you observe him deescalate the situation, stoutly standing in the center; making you wonder who he is, what he has achieved.
Once the offender relents and turns away grumbling, the scared young man spins on his heel and catches your gaze across the courtyard as if he felt it. Guilty of being caught, you quickly look down at your dirty basket and shaky fingers, ears burning.
The pitter-patter of the starting rain is soothing for the first time since you arrived here. You take your time smoothing out the linens under your palms.
Surprisingly, nothing of note has happened yet, other than the rising and piling number of chores delegated to the prisoners-now-servants, thanks to the increased traffic among the castle’s populace and the chance to deal with all sorts of cleaning, with the lord away to the capital.
You go about your work, slowly and meticulously to keep you indoors until the weather outside clears, ignoring the guard’s presence and his watchful gaze on your back. The dusty boxes and chests of this particular supply room keep you occupied, and you try not to yelp when a handful of critters make their appearance. A lull falls upon the otherwise eventless room.
The knight observes your movements, then skirts his gaze about the corners of the turret storeroom, darkened by the overcast sky outside. Nothing out of the ordinary for this dull place. Just a few cobwebs you missed, out of your reach.
Rain falls in a gentle spray, softly knocking on the only window of the room to be let in. You’re struggling with something, and behind the hunch of your shoulders, the man perceives a silver gleam. He’s over you before it falls on your feet.
Startled, you whip your head to your right. Thunder rumbles in the heavens outside, and a flash briefly illuminates your surprised expression in his eyes. Your gaze briefly trails along the deep gash running between his brows, and the room falls in darkness again, the only sound your tangled exhales and the rising gusts of winds against the window. You only move out of your stupor when you feel his warm breath on your face. Too close!
Stumbling on your rear, you blink at the fact that you never heard him move, not even the rustle of his armor—except you belatedly realize he’s not wearing one.
“You should leave handling these weapons to the knights, my lady.”
“Pardon?”
His lips pull back into a charming grin. “Otherwise you can imagine how easily it would cut through your skin if you hold it wrong, right? Ladies should leave sharp tools to the men.” He inspects the sword you found rummaging in the chest, unwrapping the cloth around its handle to see its handicraft.
When you become aware of the unflattering way you’re sprawled on the cold floor, you scramble to dust off your skirts and stand at a distance from the man. He spares you a friendly glance.
“Thank you…”
“Itadori. Yuuji.”
“…Thank you, Sir Itadori. I didn’t think they would leave a weapon with the linens… but I suppose it was mixed up in all the loot?” You pointedly glare at the leather of your shoes, suddenly very aware of just how awkwardly you stand by him, like you don’t know what to do with yourself.
From the corner of your eye, Yuuji runs the pads of his fingers across the carvings on the hilt, as if trying to make sense of it, before wrapping it away and under his cloak. “I’ll take care of it and make sure that it finds a worthy owner.”
You don’t question it when he secures it by the sword at his belt, only looking expectantly at his kind face. He’s definitely the man you saw days ago in the courtyard in the company of the other soldiers. You remember the way he moved, how he swung his sword before jumping in between the other men. Now, standing so close, you realize how young he looks, despite the deep injury.
“Change of guards!”
You reach your hand out to Yuuji before you’re aware of the movement, then retract it when he looks at you questioningly, biting your lip. “I… am no lady, sir,” you correct him.
Yuuji’s eyebrows raise in mild surprise, but he waves you off with a genteel twinkle in his eyes. “I can’t say I’m too weighted by formalities. All women are ladies to me!”
Oddly elated at his chivalry, his words draw a shy smile from you, and you clamp your mouth shut before you say anything you would regret, cheeks tingling as he leaves.
“I told you to keep your nose out of matters you would regret involving yourself into.”
But you could not forget the shine of his kind eyes in the darkness. Surely there is more to him!
“Please! Tell me what you know about Sir Itadori!”
You’ve practically cornered her with no way out. But the cooker’s pressure is whistling, and you both have tasks to get to.
“Move and get to work.”
“I’ve already finished scrubbing the tiles in the pantry and swept the leaves across the backyard,” you list out.
The servant gives you an expectant look.
“...and I’ve sent the cattle’s feed to the stable boys.”
“As long as you’ve dealt with those beasts, I guess…” You’re into her personal space at once, and she wrinkles her nose at you.
“Fine. Help me chop the onions.” She fully takes advantage of the fact that you’re nearly willing to do about anything for a sliver of information.
Steam clings to the high windows of the kitchen, the sound of knives hitting against wood repeatedly permeating the silence.
She eventually speaks, gathering her words. “This is a sort of… open secret no one talks about anymore, because it’s of no consequence now, but Sir Itadori—Yuuji—is the young boy of one of the previous royal knights.” When you fail to give her an appropriate reaction, she pettily shoves more onions onto your chopping board.
“You country bumpkin,” she huffs and puffs as if personally offended. “How can you not know a single thing about the land you were brought to?”
Then leaning in as if sharing a scandalous secret, she whispers, “The royal knights directly serve the king! They are headed by our own duke. Actually, His Grace’s predecessor and his knights were executed under accusations of treason towards His Majesty, Lord have mercy on his soul. I don’t think I believe any of that, but don’t let anyone catch me admitting it.”
“Oh!” When she sees the pieces starting to fall in place from your expression, the senior servant proudly beams, delighted at having found her newest gossip partner.
“Sir Itadori was such a scrawny, meek lad at the time of the incident that the new duke didn’t even take notice of him and he let him be, as with the other young children of the old knights. I think His Grace eventually forgot about him, since he left straight for the campaigns to take over the surrounding lands. And it’s been such a long time! Hard to believe it’s all over.”
“What exactly happened to his father?” You sniff, stopping your knife.
“Oh, him? He and the whole lot of the previous royal knight lots were beheaded, with their lording duke, of course. I suppose this is the fate of losers, to have their heads hung over the walls, but it surely wasn’t something I can forget. It was a massive scandal in high society. But the boy has grown up rather well and made a name for himself despite his past, I’d say. He is still well-recognised among the older soldiers and servants. Like a grim reminder of what used to be, you know?”
You turn to her, eyes tearing over the onions. “That’s horrible… Surely he might want to seek revenge?”
Aghast, the servant dramatically grips her bosom, “And why exactly would he do that?! Would you like to send him on a one way path to dishonor? He has a sensible head on his shoulders, and he’s managed to survive so far because he decided to forget about the past and look forward instead. Now, look! The stew is overflowing!”
Still mildly unsettled with the earlier conversation, you move on with the rest of the day’s work. Evenings are usually rushed, with the last rays of the sunset chasing you to the edge of the castle walls, the items under your arms threatening to fall before you reach the storage area by the outer gate.
Turning around the corner, you miss the shuffling of a soldier’s armor over your head before it’s too late.
“Well, aren’t you a lass I haven’t seen before?”
Face obscured by the growing shadows of the evening, the man has your wrist in an iron-clad grip before you can jump back, refusing to let go when you try to pull free.
“Sneaky of you to come to this area at this time of the evening. Shirking your duties to dip by the men’s quarters, little maid?” Rambunctious laughs join him from behind. You see several men, perhaps half a dozen, some out of their garbs and propped on various carts and barrels.
“No—I—please, let me through—!”
He cuts off your meek cry, leaning forward to block your view, “If you’re finished with work, I know some boys who will be plenty happy to get something else done.” The stench of liquor is heavy on his breath, making you pull back in disgust, retching. More guffaws and whistles, all too ill-bearing and stomach-churning, and your body tenses in anticipation of running. But the man doesn’t let go, relishing in the fear reflected in your eyes.
No! Just when you were getting used to this place without incident. But what a naive mistake to forget and to make; you were still a lone, foreign woman brought as collateral, a booty for men with arrogance bigger than their morals. Images flash in your mind, and you suddenly become very cold, very aware of what they can do—
You start trashing in his hold, with all might, blindly kicking and elbowing where you can reach him. He attempts to contain your struggle, and agitated, the other men come to surround the commotion. Maybe if you make enough noise, someone may come. But with each hold on your limbs pushing you down, you bitterly begin to regret that maybe you shouldn’t have come here so late in the day, shouldn’t have started to get comfortable with the other servants and prisoners, shouldn’t have stopped yourself from—
At the sound of metal clinking and surprised yelps, you’re dropped to the hard ground. You cannot see behind the men’s broad backs, but the sound of a quarrel breaking out gives you the opportunity to crawl back, until your limbs get tangled in stray fabric. The cloth is as dark and thick as yours, but before you get the chance to make sense of its familiarity, a shout alerts you.
“To the open gate!”
Just as a furious hand shoots out to reach for your ankle, adrenaline kicks you in a run through the closest opening without a look to spare back.
You run with all might, willing your limbs to go and go through any open path of the wild groove. It feels like forever; the never-ending stretch of the woods blurring past has your lungs screaming for air and sides cramping. Only once you stumble and halt, you realize that you’ve lost a shoe and you are very alone in the middle of nowhere, the castle walls lost behind the height of the trees long ago.
In the eerie silence of the night, the only sound disrupting the dark are your heaving breaths and the rushing of blood in your ears. There is no way you are going back there—not now, not until you can make sure those men won’t get to you again. But these woods are uncharted territory, and with the sky having bled into darkness, you aren’t any safer here.
Body thrumming with the rush of escape, you jump when the nearby foliage rustles.
“Wow! You could give messenger boys a run for their money.”
“Sir Itadori!” You’re breathless, but the familiar scar across his face makes your shoulders slump in relief. “I’m sorry—! I didn’t—Were you the one who helped me back there?”
“You should have called for me earlier!” Yuuji dusts off his armor, a stray branch caught in his cropped hair. Forehead damp with cooling sweat, you mumble, “How could a servant dare call for a knight…” Frowning, you zone on your dirty foot.
He looks straight at you, face uncharacteristically serious. “I will always come for you.” And then lightly, “But thankfully I was at the right time at the right place, however the saying goes, right?” Your cheeks warm at his serious expression melting into a fond grin, heart rate picking up in a growingly-familiar thump thump. Tiny stones press into your bare heel, and you shyly whisper under your breath, “You don’t have to.”
Yuuji runs a hand through his pink locks, stepping towards you. “But I do,” he whispers under his breath. But he’s not walking to you, instead brushing by your shoulder and continuing the opposite way from the castle.
“Wait, I don’t think that’s the way—!”
“Those guys back there aren’t gonna get up anytime soon, and I doubt they will want their superior to know that they let a single woman run through six of them, right? I think it would be good for them to get a taste of discipline!” He looks back at you before you can ask him to elaborate, and in the darkness of twilight, you see his lips pull into a mischievous grin. “Since we’re here, why not make the most out of this opportunity? Let’s go sight-seeing.”
You wouldn’t dare return to the castle without him, so you have no choice but to follow him through the foliage. He somehow seems to know where to go in the darkness and among the indistinguishable trees, and you blindly follow his lead, eyes on the rough shirt on his back. He seems so broad… you’re sure he’s carried deadly weapons into battle and slain countless numbers of men, perhaps some from your own village. And despite his seemingly young age, Yuuji seems reliable and so sure of himself; you remember the first time you saw him among the other soldiers, how he stood out to you. The two of you couldn’t be any different.
You almost miss the dirty bundle resting over his waist. The cloth looks familiar. “Is that the sword I found in the storeroom at the castle?”
You think you imagine Yuuji’s shoulders tense under your inquisitive gaze, which seem to slack once he enters a clearing in the groove of trees. There is nothing that catches your attention, meanwhile Yuuji seems to inspect the soil underneath a particularly large tree. Huh, he must not have heard you.
You pay no mind as he rustles through his belongings, turning away to peek through the height of the foliage to the twinkling stars. You’ve never really looked up to observe the night sky, but you think you can appreciate their gentle glimmer, far, far away from where you stand. They remind you of flicking candles, and your mind briefly wanders to the situation at the castle. The walls would be lit by braziers by now and the night posts would likely be on the lookout for you, probably waiting to throw you to the gutters under the dungeons, never to see daylight again. The kitchen servant’s face flashes in your thoughts, her story reminding you of your companion.
You turn to Yuuji once again, bare toes beginning to lose feeling in the night chill. “Sir Itadori… how much longer? We should return, I don’t want you in trouble because of me…”
He spins to glance at your wringing hands and your disheveled clothes, exhaling through his nose and walking over to dust you down around your skirts. He pointedly eyes your feet, saying nothing about your lost footwear. “Do you like it that much there? I don’t see why you’re so desperate to go back. I figured you would appreciate some fresh air.” The corners of his lips pull down, as if hurt.
You can’t seem to explain why you are so pressed to turn back. The woods have been creepily quiet, despite it only being autumn, when the animals should be making the last of their preparations for winter. It was downright eerie, almost unnatural. But it is another anxiety that has been brewing deep in your belly since quietly following him, perhaps because you’ve never really encroached the woods at night or just simply that you knew it was wrong for a servant, a prisoner, to have run away (even if you really, technically hadn’t); and not that you can claim to know him well, but your senses are telling you that Yuuji is acting odder than usual. But regardless of how bad you wanted to grab him by his arm and drag him back, undoubtedly, he was your token to survival should you encounter a wild animal out here, or worse. So you swallow the growing lump in your throat, the guilt dropping to your stomach.
“I just know that if I don’t return quickly before they find out, they will be hard on me. I didn’t ask for all of this; I don’t want trouble, I just want to live quietly.”
Yuuji raises an eyebrow at your sentimental tone, awkwardly scratching his head. A life of quietude… he could never imagine it. The thunder of battle echoes in his ears, and follows him wherever he goes, to remind him of the path he has chosen. “Uhh, if you’re so worried about being accused of runnin’ away… I assure you that a servant would probably not be high on their list of concern at this moment. And when they find that little group of losers, they’ll have their hands full dealing with their situation.”
As he turns his back to you once again, he tries to reassure you, “And you’re with me, right? Just trust me for now. Honestly.” Yuuji resumes his blind trail further into the darkness of the forest, leaving you with little choice but to follow him, nails digging into the palm of your hand.
With no source of light, the silence feels even more suffocating. The further you follow him deeper in the woods, the worse your vertigo feels, as if you are about to fall into the abyss. Until you hit his back, stiff as a log. You feel Yuuji’s heartbeat under the grasp of his shirt and strain to hear it, but another sound slowly draws your attention instead.
A hazy singing, your mind registers, and over your held breath it continues to flow between the two of you. It can’t be too far; you’ve come quite a distance from the castle, and perhaps there are lodgements among the trees.
Just when you are about to call out to him, Yuuji deeply inhales and strides towards the source of the voice. In your efforts of trying to keep him within your sight, you trip on overgrown roots, stray branches catching your clothes. Music now guides Yuuji and your heart thunders under your ribs at the mellow song, now clear; something dark settles in your stomach and clamps your throat when you see a fire in the near distance.
“Sir Itadori, you’re going too fast!” But Yuuji clearly doesn’t share your reservations, and he enters a sudden clearing in haste, his dumbfounded expression illuminated by a raging orange. Unsure if the flames or the sight burn your face, you stop in your tracks next to him.
“What the…” Yuuji mumbles under his breath.
In a large glade centered by a humongous fire, a number of people lay on the ground, bare, limbs entangled. Chants and the strumming of instruments drown out your hitched breath, and you reach for Yuuji’s arm to retain composure, to keep still on trembling legs. You look up to glance at him, hoping to see the same stupor you feel reflected on his face. But a moment of uncertainty washes over you, clearing the embarrassment from the raunchy display when you see the contorted expression on his face, the fire casting shadows on his features that make you release his arm. “What is this place? Sir Itadori, did you plan this? You knew about this place, didn't you? This is why you didn’t want to return?! This—this witchcraft—!”
The spell on Yuuji breaks. He whips his head at your accusations, eyes suddenly clear and brows furrowed into an intense, cheeks red. “What? Why would I know of—this—you think I would bother to leave post and make trouble for myself to see people fuck in the wild?”
For sure your body burns at his blunt words now; mouth agape with embarrassment, you fail to retort, and Yuuji ignores you to enter the clearing. “Since we’ve come so far from our miserable hole, I should find out who they are. If you want to stay here, suit yourself.” He pays no mind to the people laid on scattered grass and cloth, going straight to a person clad in embroidered robes, the skull of a sort of animal masking his visage.
You want to follow to stay close to him in this madness, but your gaze falls to the roaring flames. You missed it before; the staked head of an animal hangs above, its blood dripping into the licking fire. At the feet of the burning logs, more masked people adorned in various animal bones and colorful, patterned cloth sing and play a misty tune, an accompanying incense wafting under your nose to lull you into a trance. You can’t help but be drawn to the cries and moans permeating the place, from men and women joined in languid movement, caressing and groping in the most brazen and unrestrained ways.
You feel your knees weaken and a heat runs down to your navel; a woman lays on her back, knees held apart by two other women who slide their fingers over and into her cunt, spitting on and rubbing her clit while she gasps between another woman’s thighs who tweaks and pulls at her pert nipples, rocking her hips over her parted lips and wet tongue; you can almost hear it from this distance.
Your head turns away when her intoxicated gaze catches yours and she lewdly smiles at you between her companion’s legs, only to see a man splitting a cunt with his hard, glistening cock, hands grabbing and pushing apart the flesh of her cheeks to reveal the way he reaches up to his balls—while another man holds his face to turn his head back and meet his lips, rutting his own hips into the man before him. The woman under them wantonly moans and snakes a hand under and between her to rub the middleman’s balls into her wet clit.
Head feeling light, you think you are about to faint with heat and the display of desire. You call out to Yuuji, who stands over the masked man, now unclothed and on his knees, hands clasped over his chest with a bundle of his arms. But Yuuji himself stands unmoving, only looking down with an expression you cannot see from behind.
When you move to reach for him, a hand softly runs up your leg, smoothing over your thigh. You look down. A woman on her knees with her hand up your dress, the other clutching the fabric over your hips; her tits jiggle with the movement, her glossy lips shining in the light of the fire. You jolt out of your reverie when she gropes up too high, running to Yuuji and clutching his shirt.
He turns to you, eyes shining with something you cannot truly discern at this moment, that makes you feel like you’ve walked into the lion’s den. He turns away from the kneeling man—you try not to look at his leaking cock—to face you instead, grasping your shoulders gently. “Let’s go back.”
He says it with a gentle, calm face, but it does nothing to shake off the urgency of needing to leave the area, with the mounting singing and moans setting you off the edge the longer you stay. Ignoring the ghost feeling of roaming hands across your ankles and calves, you remind yourself that you cannot return without him, knowing the punishment awaiting you without a reliable word would be worse than standing amidst this madness.
So you follow his slow steps out of the gathering, resisting the urge to cast a glance behind and straining your eyes on his person instead, willing yourself to forget the parade of wantonness.
The days and nights blend into an unending loop. Scrub. Wash. Brush. The gray sky seems to never let up, a constant darkness hanging over the castle, a reminder of the colder times sweeping across the land.
The scene outside the window remains unchanged, the woods the same dark backdrop as before, swathing in mist. But you know better now of its shrouding darkness; it doesn’t help that the sight of Yuuji brings up memories every time you see him.
His gaze rests upon your back, turned to him. You don’t need to look anymore to know it is him; you feel his presence like your own shadow, like a stubborn chill brushing against your skin. But you don’t pay him any attention, dead set on ignoring the weight of his curiosity carried in his stare.
“What are you thinking about?”
What an annoying pest. Sick man.
“Are you still upset about that time? Talk to me.” His sweet innocent facade deserves an applause. The disgust and betrayal all come gushing up like a need to vomit, and if you hadn’t made it clear enough before, you turn your cheek towards him so he can see your resentful grimace.
How silly of you to trust him. The butterflies in your stomach from the first time you saw him perished in ashes of treachery. Should have stood still, heart.
To the servants’ horror, one of the girls was found battered and violated the evening you ran out. It took you days to clock on, how Yuuji was so sure nothing was going to happen when the both of you returned from your excursion. The patrolling guards were indeed busy trying to clear up the incident that they missed your fleeting shadows, and the drunk men were punished for assaulting the girl. For soiling war booty. You felt so sick, so disgusted, as if it was your fault. That was his distraction, his plan. Because Yuuji knew. But why? The frustration and impatience have reached your limit.
You break the silence after a while.
“Is it true they displayed your father’s head along the castle walls because he was accused of treason?” You turn in time to see his face light up when you stop giving him the cold shoulder, but his features quickly stiffen, overtaken by a frigid cold. He says nothing, standing deathly still with his hands clasped behind his back, a dark look over his face. With a scoff, you turn back to the window. Puffs of exhale cling to the cold glass, and you wipe away the condensation with a murky rug.
“You put an innocent girl’s life in harm’s way—for what? Just so you could frolick outside for a few hours of fun?” You scrub the window harder, the squeaks interrupting your words. “I didn’t want to believe it, but it just makes sense. And I cannot forgive you. She was a girl just like me.” You want him to understand. The grim reality that people, girls, like you stick together in the face of men’s war and their consequences. And although you barely knew this girl (and it doesn’t make much sense that you are suddenly so wrought up about this), you had enough time to yourself, to process everything and get a cold reality check—and now you want an explanation.
“It was not me.” Yuuji hisses, head tilted forward so you cannot see his vexed expression. But it just makes you angry. Because it could have been you; you looking over your shoulder in mistrust of these little lords parading in knights’ armor, of men with glinting swords in the shadows. You, clothes in disarray, limbs smeared with dirt and blood, laying cold and forgotten for someone to find.
“But you could have helped her!” You spit, more irate than you have ever felt, partly because you think the worst could have been prevented if he only acted to confront those men and call for help.
Yuuji retains his silence when you turn to look at him, tired. “What I don’t understand is; you’re a knight. You could just walk out with some excuse and they would let you, Sir Itadori. Just why use that poor girl?”
The heavy, cold silence hangs after your bitter words until Yuuji sighs and extends the olive branch.
“I just can’t walk out for any reason.” He admits, scratching his pink hair.
Mildly perplexed, you stand from your crouch to walk closer to him, urging him to continue with a wave of your hand. “Even though you are a knight? Didn’t you come back from months-long expeditions? Isn’t there some sort of, I don’t know, unspoken reward for all your great deeds?” Your words are almost insolent for a servant of your position, but Yuuji doesn’t seem to take it personally.
He cringes, eyes zoning on the dust in the corner.
“You’ve heard of how my father served as a royal knight? I was promoted to a rank high enough to be able to join the same order. Recently, actually. I want to walk in my father’s footsteps,” he recounts with chagrin and pride, mind standing on the same grounds he frequented as a child, accompanying his honored father. “He was so proud of his achievements. And I worked hard to follow him. But… all his efforts—his reputation was just ruined overnight, and I couldn’t just let him down. Kinda like a legacy to carry on, you know?”
You can scarcely imagine it, the figure of a younger Yuuji, without all the hard muscles and scars. He would be so different, just a twig of a boy, wanting to swing a sword like his father and dreaming of romantic explorations at the request of a virtuous lord he would serve.
But it was neither a dream nor romantic, and the flames of nightly passions engulf your vision. It does nothing to explain why and how the two of you stumbled on the… the—
Shaking your head to dispel the image of interlocked limbs, you accusingly glare at Yuuji. “Wait, wait. This still doesn’t explain what on earth we were doing walking in on that gathering in the woods. You remember that, I’m sure? Since you were the one who had the bright idea of following the trail deeper in the woods.”
Contemplating, Yuuji looks at you with pursed lips, on whether or not to tell you the truth. “When I was younger, my father would read me books.” A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he recollects, and you envision a young, mischievous but curious boy. “They had books that read like stories, something that a child wouldn’t be able to resist.
“More than what was good for him, I suppose.” Yuuji adds after a moment of contemplation and grins, recounting a memory of a past long gone. “There’s always been stories and legends of people who live in the darkness of the woods, but they are usually told to scare the children from talking to strangers—enemies outside the castle.”
The wind knocks on the window with renewed force, the rain singing a dark premonition. You’re vaguely reminded of the first day you talked to him; it had been a day with weather like this.
You prompt him, “Or else?”
Yuuji casually shrugs his shoulders, but the thunder outside makes you jump. “They get taken by wild animals and eaten.”
Your mind flashes back to orange flames surrounding the remains of animal skulls, and the crooners adorned with bones But it doesn’t answer all of your questions. “So… in the woods, you just knew it was them? It could have been anyone living out there.”
But Yuuji shakes his head. “They were said to be ancient people, probably settled here long before the lands established a ruler. They likely have a lifestyle different from ours. Doesn’t it just make sense after what we saw?”
He watches the wheels turn in your mind, brows pulling into a frown. “I’m still quite confused… all that from a children’s book? And you left that sword with them though, didn’t you? I haven’t noticed it on you recently.”
The room falls back into silence; the heavens outside close their door to the pouring rain. You think you can hear your own heartbeat through the quiet. Yuuji’s throat bobs up and down with his swallow, his lips stretching into an unsure smile. Then, as if remembering something in the moment, he smacks his fist into his palm. “I gave it to one of the new squires! He needed a new sword after his chipped. Found a way to a new owner, like I promised.”
Yuuji then walks up to you, a satisfied grin plastered on his proud face. “Are you… still mad at me?”
“Change of guards!” An echo runs through the hallway outside.
Hesitating and unable to forget the bitter taste and slight contempt you felt for him earlier, you look at him up and down, ignoring his hopeful eyes. “I guess… but I still can’t forgive you for not fetching help at that moment. That would be difficult for me to forgive.”
He grasps your shoulders into his strong hands after your confession, leveling down so you can see the honest remorse in his gaze. Your skin heats up through your clothes where he holds you. “I’m sorry about that. I promise it won’t happen again, on the honor of my knighthood. I didn’t take the appropriate actions at that time because of my shortsightedness, because I was worried about you.”
With his face so close to yours, and his ardent effort to make you acknowledge his regret, you shy away, shoulders hunching under the warmth of his palms. “Alright, I suppose we all make mistakes, and as long as we regret and learn, we become better people”.
You give him a shy, forgiving smile, and Yuuji thinks he can see your true personality under the burden of living as a prisoner. He wets his lips and gives you a pat on both shoulders before standing straight, all previous bad air now dissipated between the two of you. His face stretches in a huge grin. Your eyes are drawn to the massive scar between his brows once again.
“I’m happy we can be friends again! And… you need to take care too. Make sure you don’t die.”
You raise an eyebrow at his sudden request, giving him a strange smile. “Suddenly asking for my life, are you?” You try to say cheekily, but a glint in his eyes drops a nervous trail to the bottom of your stomach.
Letting his hands run down along your arms and briefly holding your hands before he lets you go, Yuuji delicately whispers, “Something like that.”
The air between the two of you clears after that particular conversation, and Yuuji allows himself to relax in your presence when you are alone.
You pass each other often, with you being busy cleaning and stocking and him leading new trainees and supervising the castle on rotation. Yuuji makes an effort to thread your fingers in his whenever you brush past one another, and gives you brazen looks to draw smiles out of you and make heat bloom in your chest.
It doesn’t go unnoticed by the senior servants; one of them pulls you on the side to remind you of propriety and the fact that servants like you were too lowly to be friendly with knights graced by the king. You don’t take it personally, because Yuuji has a way of making your heart flutter like a young maiden in those short moments of privacy; but you also remind yourself that he is jovial by nature and gets along with everyone, his liveliness brightening the otherwise dull, cold days.
Yuuji’s smile is contagious and inviting, and you see the younger knights in training (squires, Yuuji corrected you once) follow him around everywhere he goes. You feel proud of him although you cannot claim to have helped him achieve anything, however he declared himself to be your friend once when pulling you into a quiet corner to caress your cheeks, so you feel joy for him regardless.
Except you realize, when Yuuji draws you out one breezy night to a remote corner of the courtyard, that your steady infatuation may actually border on something a little more intimate. Standing so close to him without armor has your body heating up in excitement, and you think his wandering hands are as improper as your newfound feelings for him.
Yuuji frees his hands from his leather gloves, grazing his bare thumb over your parted lips and observing you with a certain hopefulness. Asking permission. And you give it to him by closing the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a bashful imitation of your nightly fantasies.
Stopping himself from devouring you completely, Yuuji pulls away after brushing his wet tongue with yours, breathing hotly on your face and peering into the depths of your dilated pupils. “This is royally unbefitting of me to do this, but you’ve been on my mind so often recently, my lady.” He wraps his arms around you in a passionate embrace and burying his face in your shoulder, confessing his thoughts to you, boyishly coltish.
You follow along and play the part of a coy upper class lady, clinging to the fabric of his shirt and returning his affections, looking up to the glimmering moon hovering above your improper tryst. You welcome the quiet and peace of the night, unclouded and chirping with nightlife, in the arms of a man you think you might start to genuinely care for.
And as if jolting into reality at the implications of that tenderness—of what the two of you were engaging in—you find yourself suddenly feeling very small and embarrassed. “Spring; it’s coming soon it seems,” you awkwardly change the topic, and Yuuji questioningly lifts his head from where he presses kisses on your clothed shoulder.
The soft, faded buzzing of night insects fills the night. Yuuji’s expression softens at your averted gaze, a suave smile spreading across his face. “We should go out when spring fully arrives. After all, it is the season of new beginnings. That’s what my father used to say, at least.”
You return his expectant gaze with a look of uncertainty, resting your hands on his chest. “Do you want to get in trouble again?”
Yuuji takes hold of one of your hands, pressing a lingering kiss on the back of it, looking up at you through his lashes the whole time his lips make contact with your skin. “Never. I’ve decided I’ll look after you. I’ll put in a request for a couple days of leave, and I’ll get you some time off too. Like you said one time, I should ask for favors for the great deeds I have performed in war, shouldn’t I?” He sends you a wink, and you bite back a smile. “Or… I can always resort to bribes.”
Releasing your hand and wrapping an arm around your shoulders instead, he guides you back inside, avoiding the nightly patrols he’s claimed to have memorized like the back of his hand so he could arrange time with you alone.
That night, as you settle yourself in your modest bed, crammed with the other girls in the servants’ hall, you have a dream. A young boy walks under the sun in a field of flowers, fingers grazing through the foliage, laughing and running as if playing, until he reaches the edge of the field, approaching a hovering shroud of black. You perceive his curiosity as he reaches his hand to touch the darkness; stopping him too late, the scenery blurs and changes to nothing. You find yourself observing the void, unable to move when a speck in the distance slowly appears closer and closer, until it stops before you and you recognise the height of the flames from the venture in the depths of the woods that one night with Yuuji. There is the same familiar clench in your gut, the tightening of your skin from standing in close proximity to the fire and the soft chanting and whispering in the wind. You almost forget about the young boy, until you hear crying. You strain your hearing to decipher the direction which it comes from but you are frozen in place like an unwilling observer, not even able to twist your neck to check behind you. The cries get louder, until the boy is shrieking with all might and you find yourself closing your eyes in distress; his screams resonate in your ears for what feels like an eternity, until it all stops, and everything goes silent. Unsettled and pulse racing, you open your eyes, and before the fire stands a large tattooed man, naked like the day he was born and observing the couples shedding the layers of their clothes, baring their bodies in the gathering. Your eyes fly to the ground in familiar mortification, instead zoning your gaze on the moving shadows cast by the raging fire. Except they move languidly, almost sinister, and you notice one odd silhouette among them, of the lone man standing over everyone else. As if a cold bucket of water was dropped over your head, a frigid realization washes over you when you notice the large shadow looking straight at you. But with your limbs stuck in a limbo, you can only watch in trepidation as the shadow growls larger into a shape you can only describe as monstrous, creeping closer to you until you feel its chilling hold on your ankles.
With an ominous whisper in your ear, you’re dragged through the darkness and to awareness, jolting awake between your tangled sheets, heartbeat thundering and heaving like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. The silence of the hall has you observing shadows with blown, suspicious pupils, mind still reeling from the vision of your unconsciousness.
After a short while of trying to calm your pulse you realize you’ve broken out into a cold sweat, and that you’ll need to freshen up unless you fancied sleeping in damp clothes. You belatedly realize that you’re also wet between your legs, thighs rubbing together in search of relief, and the thought that you might have gotten aroused from that little show of a nightmare is too uncomfortable to acknowledge at the moment.
The unease from that dream follows you as you complete your duties over the following days. You don’t bring it up to Yuuji when you see him, throat clamping up when the little boy’s screams ring in your ears. You only manage to give him a stiff lift of your lips, unable to meet his gaze when he casts flirty looks your way.
It’s on a mild day when you even remember about Yuuji’s story, when you pair up with another servant close to the duke’s arrival to clean one of the archives piled so high, you can’t even see the walls of the room. You don’t know much about bookkeeping, but you would imagine keeping them tidy was one way to keep them safe for the future. It takes you hours to dust the place and by the end of it you’re both sweating in the stuffy room, deciding to sit on the hard floor to cool down.
While resting with your head on your crossed forearms, your eyes casually roam over the stacks of binded books until your attention is caught by one particular hardcover. Lifting yourself up in interest, you grab hold of it, running your fingers over its front and back, heart rate oddly picking up. And it’s as if you’re alone now, with the object in your hands calling for you to open it. Nervously swallowing, you wonder what it contains, what the words will reveal; is it a story of the likes Yuuji told you, of hidden tribes and malevolent creatures? Would it tell you dark stories to jolt you awake in sweat and arousal?
You reveal the contents, pages flipping open in the quiet room, but your shoulders slump in defeat when you realize you cannot read. The words are foreign, and reality comes crashing to you, leaving you with an odd feeling of despair. It is claustrophobic, and you suddenly want to run away, somewhere wide and open where you can breathe until your lungs hurt and your lips dry.
A hand falls on your shoulder. “What are you doing? You know we can’t touch these.” The servant’s face pops up in the corner of your vision, and her lips stretch in a suggestive smile. “Or… did you find something naughty?”
Closing the book shut and almost catching your nose in its pages, you return her smile with one of your own, dispelling her amusement. “No, just… some boring book about birds.” You return the tome back to a random pile, dusting your clothes and walking out with your companion on your heels, mind swirling with thoughts.
You recount Yuuji’s words; if there were story books kept in the castle as he claimed then the servants would know about it, for what reason would they be kept but to entertain children, usually minded by the older female servants? So on the day the castle would be busiest, the afternoon before the duke is to return from the capital, you make your way to the kitchens and cozy up to the woman whose true skill lies in gossip.
“Say, if I wanted to practice reading the local language, does the castle keep easy books? Those for children?” You’re shoved onions to chop once again, forced to put up with tears for a bit of information.
“Oh, we used to keep a small book room for collections that were not appropriate to keep in His Grace’s study. No one’s checked up on them for a long time though!”
Feeling as if you are about to unearth something, you will yourself to restrain your excitement like a naugthy child. “Where, exactly?” you try to casually ask through the sharp sound of the knife chopping on the board,
“There was an attached store room in the servants hall, but—” You shove the diced onions to her before she can finish, wiping your hands on your clothes, running through the door with a quick thanks. “Wait—!” You hear behind you, however the flames of curiosity have been fanned, lending you strength to skip steps as you climb and navigate through the stone walls of the castle, until you reach your destination.
There is no one else in the servants’ quarters at this time, with nearly everyone busy with dinner duties and furnishing for the awaited arrival. They won’t be missing a pair of hands in this excitement, and you’ll have plenty of time until anyone returns so you push your sleeves up your forearms and start. Even if it was the case that you couldn’t read them you at least had the excuse that you wanted to learn, sure that someone would be willing to help with a trade off of some duties.
But a long while later and you’re still empty-handed; if it was a store room, the door would surely be obvious? There was a separate linen’s room for daily clothes and amenities, so wouldn’t it make sense that there was another room for throw-aways? Set on indulging your curiosity, which you hoped would lead to some elucidation on that ever-troubling dream you convinced yourself to be related to the nightly convocation, you look closer to any cover ups you may have missed.
And you think you’ve found it, when you move a wooden board to reveal—stone. This was the only place left for you to check behind, and bewildered you run your hands over the cold wall. Was the kitchen servant calling you to tell you about this? Inspecting closer, you notice the slightly discolored area, as if this particular part of the wall was new; perhaps sealed off?
“You won’t find anything there.”
You jump at the peeved voice, turning to see Yuuji at the entrance of the hall, visibly irate. What was he upset about? “Sir Itadori! What are you doing here?” you ask, meeting his hard stare with a confused expression.
“I saw you run out from the kitchen.” He steps in the hall, footfalls heavy. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Moving away from the wall you were previously inspecting, you face him with full attention, a warning brewing in your gut. “I wasn’t—not on purpose at least. I’ve just been busy.”
“Hmm. ‘That so?” He stops in front of you, observing your pursed lips with a tilt of his head. He’s appraising your words, you realize; to see if you were lying? It was true that you hadn’t really made the effort to meet with him for your nightly trysts, and you wonder if he was upset because of that. But it wasn’t truly on purpose; your mind was full of other worries, of things you were too embarrassed to share with him.
“They sealed off that little corner years ago. You won’t find any books there.” On top of that, Yuuji seemed unusually sensitive, his oddly serious composure putting you on edge. He’s only been this sangfroid and mystifying when the two of you ran into the gathering in the woods, months ago now. He leans closer to you so you’re eye-level, looking into the depth of your pupils, his breath warm on your face. “I know what you’re looking for.”
Like a child caught red-handed, his words run a chill down your spine, all amiability gone from his countenance. You try to steel yourself from the bite of his words; it’s not like you were doing something that warranted this sort of mistrust, so you straighten your back and lift your chin at him in defense.
“Fine. I wanted to see those books you mentioned last time.” You admit, fisting your hands by your sides. But Yuuji just raises an eyebrow at your defiance, casting a glance to the wall, then back to you. “Why? Do you not believe me?” He narrows his eyes.
It is… too odd. The way he was reacting at the mere thought of you wanting to see some stories from his childhood. A doubt nags you in the back of your mind, telling you that there was something more to it. Yuuji is hiding something from you; a cold realization washes over, and you try not to show it across your expression.
Instead, you opt to give him a yielding smile. “I do. But, someone brought their child to the kitchens earlier, and it reminded me of you. Of what you told me.” Shrugging, you move the headboard back into its place, dusting yourself up and standing in front of him again, to show your sincerity by meeting his unconvinced stare. “But if we don’t have anything, it’s fine. I’m sure there are toys to keep the child busy if he comes again.” Casually brushing past him with your heart thundering in your ribs, you hope he buys your act. You can always come back later; maybe even when Yuuji leaves on another expedition, so you can probe and search at your own leisure and see what this is all about.
But you realize there may not be another time, because Yuuji takes hold of your arm as you pass him, and the dark shadow across his face tells you that something is wrong.
“I don’t think so.”
“Pardon?”
“It has to be tonight.”
The grip on your arms tightens hard enough that a worry crosses your mind, of how easily he could break your bones. But it is forgotten by his confusing words, and Yuuji drags you along with him, uncaring if you are stumbling on your feet to keep up.
“Let go! You’re hurting me!”
“Shut up.”
You feel sick, a foreboding feeling warning you to run away now. But Yuuji doesn’t release his hold on you even with your nails painfully digging into his skin, breaking bloody crescent-shaped marks on his wrist. “Let me go, or I’ll scream!”
“Try all you like. There’s no one here.” His self-assuredness tells you that he’s telling the truth.
“The servants are going to return soon, sir. Please release me.”
He stops to hold your captive arm up, hissing in your face. “They won’t. Unfortunately for you, they are busy.”
A deja vu. Your jaw slackens in shock. “You… You’ve done something again, isn’t it?”
Yuuji’s lip curls in annoyance. “Not this time. It wasn’t planned.”
“What? What is going on?” If something happened again, you needed to know, if only to put your mind at ease.
“The duke is returning earlier than expected,” he bitterly admits, pulling you along through the surely empty corridors and hallways until you reach outdoors. He must be saying the truth, if no one even stopped the two of you and what suspiciously looked like a kidnapping attempt. But you have to remind yourself that you are truly alone, to defend yourself, so you dig your heels in the dirt, trying to stall for time. A drop of hope convinces you that if you stop close enough to the castle walls, someone might see you and help.
“Wait! Where are we even going?! I can walk!” You try to bargain.
Yuuji clicks his tongue in aggravation at your efforts, stopping like you hoped. “We’re going back there.”
Your eyes zone into the darkness of the woods, night having fallen and creating a more sinister vibe. Wind blows through the trees, reverbing the sound through the shroud. “You mean, to that gathering?” Wincing, you try to pull your arm free.
“Bingo. Now stop dawdling.” He’s dragging you again, seemingly knowing which way to turn, ignoring low-lying branches. They all spring back and hit you instead, and your mind presses to come up with something else to stall him further. “What about your father?! Didn’t he warn you from going there?”
Yuuji barks a laugh so unlike his own, like a changed person. Calming, he turns to look at you with an amused expression. “Do I look like a child to you?”
“Well, no, but… I’m sure your father was a great man. He would have wanted his son to keep himself safe. And I don’t think going there is anything close to safe.” Your teeth nearly chatter in nervousness.
“Don’t talk about my father. He didn’t lose his life for such an idiotic reason.” His words are bitter, but they probe an unlikely thought in your mind.
Slowly and carefully, you try, “When you say losing his life, what do you mean?”
Yuuji spins on his foot, uninterested, but eyes look above you, lost in thought. “He lost his life for serving the duke out of his own means, that’s what. But the new king—that usurper—called it witchcraft and evil.” He then looks at you, serious. “My father really was of the knightly order. But what he couldn’t make up for his commoner status, he had to make it with help.” Ominously, “from a power dormant in the woods.”
Scenes of your dream flash across your eyes; of a figure standing over the fire, tall and strong, and devious shadows dragging you in the dark. The children’s books—they were no books at all, but writing about the people and the rituals. Suddenly, it all starts to make sense.
“So your father, he had the power to… summon a beast, a demon that the wood people worship.” You feel nauseous, but you need to know, now that he was willing to indulge your curiosity. “And the king thought it was bad, so he accused your father and the duke of treason.”
Yuuji scoffs. “The spirit dwelling in the woods is ancient, all-powerful. Demon. Whatever you wish to call it. Older than anything and anyone who rules this kingdom.”
“Is it… the demon they feed children to?” You drawl, afraid of his answer. He looks at you mildly astonished, refuting you, “No, you silly.”
“...Then what does it need?”
Yuuji’s grip on your arm tightens. “A few things. Like an ancient blade. And a virgin’s blood on the winter solstice gathering.” He sees your confusion across your face, but provides nothing else and watches the cogs turn.
It takes you moments to understand what he means, and suddenly, you’re retching over your feet, head spinning. Yuuji looks at you unconcerned, lips set in a straight uncaring line. “Well, now you know.”
Taking moments to compose yourself, you ask, disturbed. “...and you’re going to kill me too, this time? What is it now, the spring sacrifice?”
Blowing a stray leaf from his front locks, Yuuji says, “Not quite. The spring equinox needs something else.”
Ignoring his questioning trap, you ask instead, “And why am I coming with you?”
“Because you want out of here.” You only look at him, confused.
“Because you look like someone who needs to escape. That’s what a poor prisoner like you would want, right? To return to your home?” He says with mocking concern. “You just happened to be the first woman I saw when I came back.”
“So? You could have chosen any random person. I’m sure we could find someone willing to accompany you to your sick… freak show… your ritual.”
“You’re telling me that you like this place that much, still?” The reality is, you want to get away. You’ve never settled, mentally, and you want to be as far away from this insanity as possible. But you slowly realize things aren't going to go your way.
“What exactly do you want from me?” Exasperated, you raise a suspicious eyebrow.
He looks at you, conchallant. “I want to have sex with you.”
Taken back by his candidness, you stare at him stupefied, and he rolls his eyes at you. “Come on, haven’t you wanted to have me too? A young, hot-blooded man, strong and confident.” Whispering into your ear enticingly, he teases, “I could show you a good time.”
You push him away in embarrassment, but he doesn't laugh, awaiting your response.
“...Are you actually wanting an answer to that?”
He stares at you, nonplussed.
“You must be joking.” Wringing your hands, tired and imparted at the madness getting to you, you relent. “And after we… do that, you’ll let me go?”
As if making a point, he releases your now numb arm. “Sure.”
“But what exactly are you going to do?”
“You’ll see. It won’t be something that you will ever forget.”
Your shivers reach your bones. As if you are going to literally jump out of your skin. Your pulse quickens the closer you get, heartbeat matching the rhythmic murmurs of the people.
You’re suffocating under the weight of your decision. You want to run.
But your feet feel like lead, and Yuuji’s grasp on your left wrist is absolute—refusing to release you, to bring you to whatever hell his feet drag the both of you to.
You don’t even feel the chill of the night anymore; even when the women surrounding you start to pull at your clothes, tugging up and away and you stand bare next to Yuuji, his body radiating warmth. Almost comforting.
Hands then glide along your limbs and torso, smearing a slightly fragrant, oily substance. Calves. Inner thighs. Buttocks. Stomach. Breasts. Arms. They reach and grope, pulling on the fat of your ass, your tits, running between your thighs. The burning smell of incense hangs in the gathering, relaxing your muscles.
The fire is grander than you remember, and you stand close enough that you feel your skin tighten; turning to your side when the heat becomes unbearable, you see Yuuji standing in bare glory, proud and strong next to you.
His skin glistens with the oil, catching the colors of the flame, and you almost think he’s on fire. Except it is your cheeks that burn under his intense gaze, unmoving from the strained features of your face.
“Sir Itadori—“
A shiver runs along your skin, raising goosebumps when the chants and huffs change course and the surrounding air fills with a foreboding energy.
Yuuji grasps your shoulder, the heat of his palms making you melt, almost making your knees give out under you.
“Yuuji. You must call me Yuuji. Who I am.”
He says it so amicably, the serious, strained look on his face seems out of place. Gone are his smiles and pleasantries, and what comes instead is the beginning of fear and a choking ball of lead that sinks to your stomach. You can’t move, and Yuuji’s hands slowly glide along your upper arms, down the inside of your elbows.
He’s pushing you down until you hit the soft felt of animal hide under your back. Women come surrounding you, their garments long gone, soft hands smoothing away the worries on your face. Their perfumes unknowingly soothe your nerves, and you let them reach to kiss your arms, leave open-mouthed licks across your neck, grope your tits and suck your pebbling nipples.
Yuuji sits back on his knees to watch you slowly unravel, soft moans leaving your lips and hands reaching for the bodies over you, mouthing along someone’s tits. Your knees are pulled away by the women, and transfixed, he languidly watches your glistening folds get wetter. His own cock hardens painfully at the display before him, heavy and hanging, leaking at the tip.
But he reels himself from wanting to sink into your inviting cunt; behind him, a man offers the silver sword wrapped in embroidered cloth. Yuuji raises it before him, the blurred writing catching the light of the fire next to him, still illegible. Carefully, he points the sharp end to your chest, to your heart—bewildered, you stare at him with swollen lips, until he slowly drags the tip between your legs, and you try to close them; the women hold the back of your knees still, and Yuuji moves to flatten the edge of the sword against the wetness of your cunt, the cold making you hiss. He does the same to himself, smearing his own pre-cum with yours.
The sword is then passed along until it lays in front of your gathering, engraving facing the dark sky, the tip pointing to where Yuuji’s knees rest between yours and before the fire.
The humming in the air changes once again and after reaching a crescendo, silences. The women move away, and you absentmindedly see couples and groups forming around you, around the fire, as Yuuji takes hold of your ankles, raising them in the air, his eyes never leaving yours as his fingers run down your legs. Until they reach the puffed out folds of your cunt, waiting to be touched with your bated breath upon your lips, the scent making him woozy, driving him to run the rough pad of his thumb across your slit.
“A pretty pussy like this…” Without warning his mouth is on your awaiting cunt, your sudden gasp breaking the silence of the gathering. The warmth of his face, of his tongue flattening on you makes your hands push against his forehead. Instinctively your thighs come to close around his ears, hips rolling with each lick and suck of his hot mouth. Nothing but your rising moans and whimpers reach your ear, deafening against the silence. When Yuuji’s tongue slips inside you, your face turns to your side, and the sight of being watched so intensely by others has you tensing your and rolling your hips into Yuuji’s chin.
“Yuuji! I’m going to—!”
Yuuji lifts away from you to sit on his haunches, face drenched in a mix of your arousal and his saliva. He says nothing; in your lucid state, the sudden, rapid speaking and chanting fails to startle you—when Yuuji’s hand begins to run along your thigh and your waist, a shiver runs along, and you feel so terribly cold. Empty. Your hands reach for him as he leans over you, trailing along his muscled biceps and shoulders.
A beat of a drum.
You feel his heavy, hot cock against your cunt.
Another.
His lips slot against yours, hot and inviting, tongue brushing against yours.
A third.
You tense and whimper as his leaking tip pushes past your folds, his strong hands coming to keep your legs apart when they come to close. He pushes in, in, until all breath leaves your lungs and you’re gasping against his mouth. But he never relents, pushing past the burn of being stretched to the brim, and when you think your heart is going to stop from being so full, Yuuji breaks his lips away from yours, gaze still holding yours.
“Don’t die.”
There’s a twinkle in his eyes, the intimacy of it washing affection over you. Moans and gasps begin to accompany the rhythmic humming, and soon the air becomes humid and heavy.
Perhaps it is the lack of shame of your company, but you begin to unravel, your voice coming undone by the weight and burden of the man above you. Yuuji’s sweat from the proximity of the fire drips down your collarbone, his eyes never leaving yours, and you are close enough that his hot breath hits your damp cheeks and you see your reflection in his dilated pupils. He doesn’t falter, and his unabashedness spurs you to run your hands down his back, his ass, and in between the two of you to touch where you are joined together to press on your clit, the relief and desire making your gasp. It just feels so good, and soon enough, you begin to see white around your vision, your previous climax returning, coming and coming closer—!
The moment Yuuji feels your cunt pulsating against him, he moves to grab your ankles above his head, stilling the movement of his torso, leaving you in misery and frustration. But before you can raise yourself to your elbows and whine at him, Yuuji’s head whips to the side.
“Do it—now!”
A glimmer of silver and a splatter of warm liquid on your face, before you realize what has happened. Your shrill scream is lost in the darkness encompassing the surrounding woods.
“Yuuji! What are you—?!”
You are hysterical, wetly sobbing and thrashing in his hold but held in place by the sword rammed through the both of you. Yuuji gently smiles through the blood splattered on the two of you, holding your cheeks in the smoothness of his palms in what feels like a horrible, mocking display of affection. He shushes and presses his thumbs under your eyes, your tears running down the back of his hands and wetting the furs under you.
Everything around you is quieter now, with a few silent shivers of pleasure reminding you that you are still at the gathering, an ill-conceived idea you repeatedly told Yuuji on your first visit. You had told him, you told him you had a bad feeling—
But Yuuji’s eyes still hold yours, and he’s talking normally, as if you were back at the castle, without struggle, but the adrenaline and the hysterics wracking your mind have made you deaf. Then you notice it. You think it is a trick under the still roaring flame behind you or the wetness of your eyes, but it happens again. Yuuji’s face twitches and begins to morph and dimple, his hands stiffening and pressing harder into your cheeks to the point you think he might break the delicate bones of your face. His hands feel so much bigger; you think you are hallucinating—except something really is happening to Yuuji’s body, and several horrified gasps around you begin to shake you into reality and confirm your disbelief.
With his form beginning to take a grotesque shape, Yuuji’s voice changes into what you can only image is what a terrible nightmare sounds like, a varying range of voices that begin to make your head wince and tells you to move and get as far as you can, except the end of the sword is still run through you, until Yuuji grows large enough that the thickness of his torso swallows the sword completely. Lumps grow under his arms, and you start feeling sick enough to move and dry heave, to try and crawl away from under whatever was happening—except Yuuji, or this monster, still holds into one hand your ankles with his cock is still inside of you, and soon to begin to feel a burning stretch through the wetness of your cunt that makes you shriek and push him away in pain.
One of Yuuji’s mangled hands comes to hold your midsection, his palm encompassing the width of your waist and holding you down, and you feel his knees against your ass before he starts to resume rocking into your leaking cunt, unbearably stretching around his growing girth. You cry out in pain, but the rutting of his hips above you and his massive, deformed body seems to cover you and block your sight, and you are rendered immobile as he fucks into you until he stills, feel something hot and drippy leak from where you are joined.
The deep, painful growling above you reverberates through your cunt and the rest of your body, and you raise yourself to your elbows to see between your thighs. Yuuji’s—the monster’s cock is nearly as big as your arm, the sight of it making your head spin, taking your mind off the pain of being stretched so wide.
Your head is pushed back to the ground suddenly under a large palm, the sheer size of it covering your neck and suffocating you. Your nails claw at Yuuji’s bulging forearm, the pressure under his strength making your pulse go wild at the thought of him just being able to squash you at any moment. You’re deaf to the sudden screams around you, the voice above your head shaking you to your soul.
“I feel it, the awakening!” An inhumanely deep grumble, the monster over you seems like he has stepped out from the dark pits of hell. Just when you think you are about to die from the lack of air, the pressure is suddenly off of you, and Yuuji’s monstrous cock slips out of you, leaving your cunt gaping and leaking with a ridiculous amount of cum, white dripping down to your ass.
It takes you moments to gather yourself and stop your head from spinning, unaware of the deformed monster howling in pain over you, stumbling in his final transformation and falling into the pit of fire, the hung heads of animals falling and incinerating. The participants of the gathering untangle from each other, some scurrying to gather their clothes. You’re propped up on your elbows and raising your head to see the unfolding carnage, dazedly watching as a woman runs up to the monstrous creature oddly resembling a mocking depiction of Yuuji, spreading her arms up and declaring something you miss over all the noise.
You think it sounds crazy, but you realize the creature has sprouted another pair of arms, hands gripping the locks of pink atop its head, abruptly turning to the preaching woman. He is immensely big, the sheer size of it next to her staggering, and running a nervous trail down to your navel, wet cum rubbing between your thighs. And you must really be out of it, because instead of inspecting the splatter of blood on your torso, your eyes are honed into the monster’s hard, drippy cock instead, swinging with its movement. The woman tries to convey something good-natured, but one of the creature’s massive hands encompasses her in a grip, and it presses a long finger inside her cunt. You can only watch as the finger pulls out graphically out of her, covered in entrails and blood, and as he drops her to the ground.
You don’t have the chance to make out what happens to her, as the monster parading with Yuuji’s visage turns on the gathering, stomping its feet as it parades around, towering as high as the trees. People are caught under his heels, blood splaying everywhere, some sizzling in the uncontrolled fire catching grass and foliage.
He suddenly turns to you amidst the screams and your body freezes, legs trembling and unable to get you up. You crawl back on the now soiled furs, raised knees exposing your bare cunt, and he stops before you to lean down and press his face against your body, nose burying in your still-gaping, wet cunt. Breath held, you don’t dare move a muscle as he sniffs and grins. You’re taken back by his appearance; ink runs down his limbs and face but still so much like Yuuji, and reflexively, you call out to him.
“...Yuuji?”
The monster stills. He lifts its chin to see you, and you see him. Except he grins at you mancingly, sharp teeth bared in a mocking display of recognition.
“Wrong.” The voice is deep and ancient, and it travels through your body, suddenly thrumming in agitation.
He lifts his upper body away from you, all four arms stretched out.
“It is Sukuna.” He laughs then, as if someone had shared a terrible joke, observing his outstretched hands, clenching and unclenching. “This foolish boy… he has called for my divine soul, wretched it out from the darkness of this ancient land.”
He slowly and painfully turns to look at you then. “And by your joining together, he succeeded.” He stands before you unmoving, and it’s as if the world quiets to hear his next words, “Tell me. What do you want?”
You do nothing but stare at him, exposed and bared, but the shame has left you long ago, mind reeling on what is taking place before you. His face—this being calling itself Sukuna—looks disturbingly like Yuuji. You remember his words on the way here then, when you both sealed the deal and marched together towards this madness.
The vision of your dream reels in your mind. Yuuji had rebuked you previously, but still oddly curious, you slowly ask him, “Do you… eat children?” He looks at you with what you think is the same surprise, followed by a laugh. As if it was an adequate answer, he repeats his previous question.
“What do you want?”
“Are… you strong?” Throat dry, you choke on your words, eyes trained on him for any movement. And he is Yuuji, it dawns on you, when his face stretches out in a familiar, cocky grin.
“The strongest.”
You don’t doubt his words. Your eyes fall to his massively hard, standing cock between his enormous thighs, and you swallow nervously, bringing your eyes back to his.
“Then… I want you… to grant me freedom,” you say, regaining some of your confidence. “I want to go far away.” Sitting up properly and composing yourself, you mentally will that Sukuna, for all his boasting, would agree to grant you what Yuuji promised you in exchange for spreading your legs for him. Sir Itadori… if you’re in there, please uphold your end of the deal!
Sukuna observes the surroundings, lifting himself to his full height to observe the horizon over the trees. He stares hard at a particular direction south, where you assume the castle stands, but you keep your eyes on Sukuna’s towering form, recognising the sheer power he now exudes now that he has finished transforming. He truly is inhuman, something worshiped since ancient times, and it seems as if the air surrounding him thrums with power. You realize, heart falling to your stomach, that you have potentially struck a deal with the devil, the conversation you had with Yuuji taking on a whole new meaning if he knew of what was to come.
While you simmer in a bundle of nerves, Sukuna turns his attention to you once again. “As a reward for helping set me free.” You light up at his affirmation, your previous doubts dispelled.
“Yes! Thank you—” Sukuna moves to grab you in one of his hands, the size of it encompassing your torso. It is hard to breathe within his grip; you try pushing away the finger pressing into your chest, breasts uncomfortably squashed. You feel your nipples perk in his hold, the power radiating off of him grazing your skin, warming your body to the point your chest feels tight, and your heart might stop.
“Where are you taking me?!” Struggling, you kick your legs to no avail, the sticky residue from your previous coupling rubbing against your thighs. You’re still very much naked, and so is Yuuji—or Sukuna; his strong, muscled legs walking through the trees with no annoyance, as if they merely scratch him. He’s making way towards the castle, the familiar stone walls and turrets coming closer with every heavy step he takes.
You’re dropped unceremoniously to the ground then, rattling your head. Sounds of conflict rise behind, the shouts of men and screaming women making your head hurt, like the time you were taken away from your home.
You’ve twisted your ankle in the drop, feeling the sharp pain of the quickly swelling ankle as you struggle to stand. Ignoring the chaos overtaking the castle you slowly trek through the woods, leaning on each passing tree for support. You have to get away from here, in whatever state you can. You feel no shame in walking around bare, with seemingly no one following you through the dark woods. Catastrophe mounts in the close distance, and a particularly large blaze makes you turn around with a gasp, hairs rising on your neck. The turrets of the castle are on fire, crumbling down beyond the trees. You can strain to hear the clinking of weapons, but Sukuna’s deep growls reverberate through the darkness, telling you that it is still not over.
Is it Yuuji laying destruction to the castle? His will driving Sukuna to lay waste to the place that mistrusted and killed his father—or the other way around? Questions swarm your mind, the pain of the sprained ankle keeping you awake and aware, lending you a drive to escape as far away from the madness like you should have long ago. The rest of the wildlife escapes along you, birds unsettled in their nests, most flying away from the source of unrest.
You make progress until the pain is so severe you cannot touch feet to ground anymore, taking a moment to lean against the bark of a tree. Your legs are covered with dirt, stones digging in your soles. You’re reminded of the time you lost your shoe after running away from the leery men, when Yuuji followed after you.
The sword.
Suddenly, you have an epiphany. If the sword was the catalyst for Yuuji’s transformation into the monster—the creature calling itself Sukuna—you could potentially reverse the change if you could take it out from his back. Your shoulder falters when you realize the humongous task of needing to climb over him and lodge it out of his skin; would it be hardened around the blade? Would it even slide out? Or need another ceremony of sorts?
Lost in thoughts, you fail to notice when your surroundings still, too late until Sukuna’s bloodied face is next to yours, hot breath on your head. You scream, startled, back hitting the tree behind you. He invades your personal space, jaded eyes on your body as if seeing through you, and you fear he’s heard your thoughts. With his powers you wouldn’t be surprised if he could, somehow, smell the treachery on you. You swallow the fearful lump in your throat, willing him to step back so you could breathe without the threat of death hovering over your head.
“You—did you lie to me? I told you to set me free! I want to get away from here! It was a deal!” Shivering under his unmoving gaze, you manage to choke out. Sukuna says nothing for a bated breath, letting the deafening silence of the woods resonate in your ears.
He speaks when he finally moves to stand. “You will be free.” He confirms, grabbing for you once more. When you try to crawl back into the tree, you notice the shadows at his feet converge and malform into something sinister—just like the dream, your mind interjects—and as his shadow eats up yours, you hear a far off shrill of a young child.
With you trapped in his hold, Sukuna begins to sink into his own shadow, ominously promising you, “There is plenty of space to run free down there.” He’s sinking with you, ignoring the wild trashing of your legs and your bite on his fingers, relishing in the way you scream as he drags you down to the abyssal hell.
The woods remain still until the dark cluster of shadows dissipate from the ground, slowly coming back to life once all threat is gone, leaving no proof or reasonable explanation of what transpired on this night.
