Summary: When you moved halfway across the world to work nights at PTMC, the last thing you expected was for your soulmate string to lead straight to Dr. Jack Abbot—who’s already happily married to his own soulmate. So you bury your feelings beneath friendship, trauma shifts, and years of silence… until tragedy changes everything, and both of you begin to realize that maybe soulmates were never about fate, but choice. Or, the Soulmate AU with Jack Abbot.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader (Can still be read by anyone! It’s not super specific)
Warnings: 18+ Soulmate String AU, Unrequited Love to Requited Love, Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Hospitals, ER, ANGST, Fluff, Crush, Blood, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Hurt-to-Comfort, Longing, YEARNING, Major Character Death, The Pitt AU, Grief, Tragic Heroine, Tragic Hero, Widow!Abbot, Depressed!Abbot, Anger, Crying, GSW, Happily Ever After, COVID-19, Kissing,
Word Count: 22.5k
A/N: We're gonna take a break from Ducky and Robby for a bit. Welcome, Jack Abbot. You are in my domain now >:D ALSO, I HIT THE LIMIT ON SPACING SOOO THE FORMAT MIGHT BE FUCKED IDK. Sorry :(((
Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/keeryscupid. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!
Songs: Orbiter by Noah Kahan, Brush Fire by Gracie Abrams, and If You Let Me by Maisie Peters (with Marcus Mumford)
| Jack Abbot Masterlist | Main Masterlist |
2018
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The first thing you notice about the Pitt isn’t the noise.
It’s the pace.
Everything moves fast, but no one looks rushed. People pass each other like they’ve done this a thousand times, sliding through narrow spaces without looking, voices overlapping in half-finished sentences, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms that somehow don’t throw anyone off.
Organized disaster is exactly what an emergency department should feel like. You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag as you follow Lena down the hall, trying not to stare at everything like it’s your first day on Earth.
New country, New hospital, New job.
Night shift.
Your body still hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s supposed to be in, but adrenaline is already kicking in, that familiar hum under your skin that always comes when you step into an ER. You tell yourself you’ve handled worse. That you’ve worked typhoon nights, mass casualty drills, and overcrowded government hospitals with half the supplies you needed.
You can handle this.
Lena pushes the double doors open with her shoulder, not even breaking stride. “ER’s through here,” she says. “You said you worked trauma before, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” you answer automatically.
She glances back at you immediately, “Drop the ma’am. You’ll make everyone feel old.”
Heat creeps up your neck, “Sorry. Habit.”
“You’ll fit in,” she mutters, half amused, half distracted as she scans the room.
You step through the doors behind her—and the sound hits all at once. Phones ringing, a monitor alarming somewhere in the back, sharp and insistent. A patient down the hall is yelling that he’s been waiting for three hours and he’s going to sue somebody.
It’s loud and crowded, but very alive and all too familiar. Your shoulders drop just a little, tension you didn’t realize you were holding easing out of your spine.
Lena stops near the central desk, scanning the board, then jerks her chin toward the far side of the room, “That’s Dr. Jack Abbot. He’s on trauma tonight, so you’ll probably be with him most of the shift.”
You follow her gaze without thinking.
He stands near the counter, scrolling through a chart on an iPad, stethoscope hanging loose around his neck like he forgot it was there. Curly salt and pepper hair slightly messy, the kind of tired that comes from too many night shifts in a row.
He looks up when someone calls his name, and the moment your eyes land on him, your wrist burns.
You suck in a small breath, instinctively looking down. There’s a red string looped around your wrist, thin, bright, and impossible to miss.
Your stomach drops so fast it makes you dizzy. Because what the actual fuck? No. Not here. Not now.
At some point, you’d convinced yourself maybe you simply didn’t have one. Maybe the universe skipped you.
The thread pulls slightly, like something on the other end just moved, and your fingers curl around it before you even realize what you’re doing. A voice in your head tells you not to look… but you look anyway. The string stretches across the room, weaving through people and stretchers and equipment like it doesn’t care about physics; it never has.
Your breath gets stuck in your throat as you follow it as it leads straight to him—Jack Abbot.
Your heart stutters hard enough that you feel it in your ears.
No.
No, no, no.
Lena is still talking beside you, something about assignments, but the words blur together. “…good with procedures, just don’t let him skip charting, he tries— Abbot!”
He looks up again, this time, at you. The string pulls tight between your wrists. For a second, neither of you moves. Then he walks over, casual, pumping sanitizer on his hands like this is just another shift, just another new nurse, nothing important happening at all.
He’s taller up close.
Tired-looking in a way that somehow makes him seem softer instead of intimidating. Curly salt-and-pepper hair slightly messy, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stethoscope hanging around his neck like he forgot it was there hours ago.
“You the new one?” he asks. His voice is warm and easy. Maybe a little rough around the edges from too much coffee and too many overnight shifts.
You force your brain to function.
“Yeah,” you manage. “First night.”
He nods once, then holds out his hand.
“Jack Abbot.”
Your hand hesitates for half a second before you take it. The second your skin touches his—the string snaps tight. It feels like something deep in your bones clicks violently into place.
Your pulse jumps hard beneath your skin, and for one horrifying second you think maybe he can feel it too.
But Jack just smiles politely, completely unaffected.
Because he can’t see it, not fully. The thread only loops faintly around his wrist before disappearing, incomplete and one-sided.
You swallow hard, “Nice to meet you.”
“Welcome to the Pitt,” he says. “Try not to run.” You let out a shaky laugh before you can stop yourself, “Too late for that.”
A faint smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, like he likes your answer. By God, that tiny expression alone nearly kills you.
Then he shifts the iPad under his arm—and you see the ring.
A silver band on his left hand.
Your entire body goes cold.
For a second, you genuinely can’t process what you’re looking at. Of course, he’s married. Because, yes, the universe would do something this cruel.
You force yourself to look away before your face gives you away—and that’s when you notice her.
A woman stands near Central holding a paper bag against her hip, looking around the department with the comfortable familiarity of someone who’s been here a hundred times before.
Waiting for him.
Jack notices her immediately, and his whole face changes. It softens enough for you to understand instantly how much he loves her. “Hey,” he says quietly, already walking toward her.
The incomplete thread around his wrist brightens faintly.
She smiles the second he reaches her, “You forgot dinner again.” Jack laughs softly, taking the bag from her, “I was busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She rolls her eyes affectionately, and he leans down automatically to kiss her cheek. It’s absent-minded and natural. The kind of intimacy built over years. Loving her is as easy as breathing. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist feels unbearably tight. Because the universe already chose—it’s not you. Never you.
Lena nudges your shoulder lightly, “You good?”
You blink quickly, forcing your expression back under control before anyone notices the way your soul feels like it’s collapsing inward. “Yeah,” you say, your voice almost sounds steady. “Just jet lag.”
Lena nods distractedly and turns back toward the board.
Across the room, Jack says something under his breath that makes his wife laugh. The warm and happy sound carries across the department.
You look down at the string around your wrist one last time before pulling your sleeve over it completely.
You can do this—you’ve survived harder things than heartbreak.
You square your shoulders, take the iPad Lena hands you, and step fully into the chaos of the Pitt.
So when Jack glances back at you a moment later, smiling like you’re just another coworker starting a shift, you smile back, pretending that your heart didn’t just fall through the floor.
A FEW MONTHS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT SHIFT
By the time the Pitt starts feeling familiar, it’s already too late. You know the rhythm of the department now, the same way you know your own breathing. Which monitor is about to alarm before it starts screaming. Which psych patient is one bad interaction away from throwing a urinal at security, or a resident is about to panic during a difficult intubation.
You know the trauma bay doors stick when it rains, and Lena hides the good coffee above the Pyxis because Ellis steals the decent stuff first, and the fluorescent lights over Hallway C flicker around three in the morning like they’re barely holding on, and you know Jack Abbot’s footsteps before you even see him.
Well, to be honest, that part happens slowly. Shift after shift. Trauma after trauma. Somewhere between your first week and your third month, working beside him stops feeling intimidating and starts feeling natural.
You know how he likes his trauma setups organized. You know he taps his pen twice against the desk when he’s thinking too hard. You know he rubs the back of his neck when he’s exhausted and trying not to show it. And worse—he knows you too.
“Lifeline!” Ellis’ voice cuts across the department as you walk out of Trauma Two carrying an empty suture tray. You stop mid-step. “You people are never letting that nickname die, are you?”
Ellis swivels around in her chair with a grin. “Absolutely not.”
The nickname started during your second week after a pediatric code that had gone catastrophically wrong.
A seven-year-old nearly drowned—no pulse on arrival. The room had dissolved into controlled chaos within seconds—respiratory trying to secure the airway while one of the newer residents nearly froze trying to place an IO line.
Shen, still early enough into residency that panic sometimes beat experience, had looked one second away from completely spiraling.
But through all of it, you had stayed calm.
You’d guided Shen through the tibial IO placement while simultaneously pushing epinephrine prep toward Jack and coordinating compression rotations so nobody burned out too early.
At one point, Ellis had looked up from the monitor and muttered, “Jesus Christ. She’s everybody’s lifeline in here.”
Unfortunately for you, the name stuck. Now, half the ED used it more than your actual name.
“Lifeline, Trauma Two,” Lena calls without looking up from the board.
“On my way.”
Jack steps out of the trauma bay at the same time you do, peeling bloody gloves off his hands. “You steal my nurse again?” he asks Lena.
Lena snorts. “You don’t own her, Abbot.”
“That’s not what I said.”
There’s something easy in the exchange that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through you.
Jack falls into step beside you automatically as you head toward Trauma Two.
“You eat yet?” he asks.
You glance at him suspiciously. “Are you asking because you care or because you need me conscious enough to survive this shift?”
“A little of both.”
You huff out a laugh. Because that’s the problem with Jack. He’s kind in ways that sneak up on you, a quiet attentiveness that drives you nuts. He notices when you haven’t sat down in seven hours or when your hands shake after a bad pediatric trauma and when you’re pushing yourself too hard, and casually hands you a granola bar like he didn’t specifically go looking for one because he knew you skipped dinner.
The kind of doctor who stays with family members after delivering bad news instead of disappearing the second the conversation gets uncomfortable, and the kind of man who wears his wedding ring like it means something sacred.
Which somehow makes all of this hurt even more. Because every soft look. Every quiet joke at three in the morning or moment beside him in a trauma bay—belongs to someone else.
And you know that.
The universe reminds you every single day that the red string hidden beneath the cuff of your scrub jacket pulls tight whenever he gets too close.
You’ve gotten good at ignoring it or pretending to.
TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT
Tonight’s MVA is a disaster. Twenty-six-year-old male. Ejected through the windshield. Hypotensive on arrival. The second EMS wheels him through the ambulance bay doors, and the department shifts gears instantly.
“BP seventy over forty,” Ellis says from the monitor. “Heart rate one-forty.”
“Breath sounds diminished on the left,” Shen adds quickly, trying to keep up.
“Alright, let’s move,” Jack says sharply.
You’re already there.
Trauma shears cut through blood-soaked clothing while respiratory preps for intubation. You place oxygen and start hanging fluids while Jack performs the FAST exam. Free fluid in Morrison’s pouch appears on the screen almost immediately. Internal bleeding, most likely splenic rupture.
“Call OR,” Jack says. “He’s going upstairs.”
“Already on it,” you answer, grabbing the phone before he even finishes speaking. Jack glances toward you over the patient. There’s blood smeared across the sleeve of his scrub top, exhaustion pulled deep into the lines around his eyes. Yet still—that small flicker of trust when he looks at you. He knows you’ll catch whatever he misses.
You hate how much that matters to you.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
By four in the morning, the Pitt settles into its strange version of quiet. You’re charting near Central when the elevator doors open.
Jack’s wife walks out carrying six pizza boxes stacked in her arms.
The entire department visibly brightens.
“Oh thank God,” Ellis says dramatically. “An angel sent from heaven.”
“You people are unbelievable,” she laughs.
Ellis immediately takes two boxes from her. “Respectfully, I would die for you.”
“That’s deeply concerning,” Lena mutters.
“You’re just jealous she likes me more.”
“I absolutely am not.”
You can’t help laughing softly under your breath. There it is again— that awful ache in your heart. Because she’s truly, genuinely wonderful. The universe could’ve at least made her cold, cruel, or difficult.
Instead, she remembers everyone’s coffee orders and asks about your family back home, and brings food for the night shift because she knows none of you remember to eat unless somebody forces you.
“You must be Lifeline.”
You blink, startled when you realize she’s suddenly standing beside you.
Up close, her smile is warm and effortless. You force yourself to smile back. “That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, very,” she says easily. “Jack talks about you all the time.”
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs.
Before you can recover, she continues casually, “Apparently, you’re the only reason this department functions after midnight.”
You laugh weakly. “That gives me way too much credit. Obviously, Lena holds everything down.”
“Have you met these people?” she asks quietly, glancing around Central. “I’m pretty sure Shen would eat expired yogurt if left unsupervised.”
“That happened one time,” Shen shouts.
“You were hallucinating by hour two,” Ellis replies.
You laugh again before you can stop yourself, and somehow, talking to her is easy. Isn’t that cruel? Because you like her immediately, she asks about the Philippines, about your family, and how you plan on surviving Pittsburgh winters.
You’re halfway through explaining that black ice feels like a personal attack when Jack walks out of Trauma Two. He tosses his gloves into the biohazard bin before sanitizing his hands automatically. His curls are damp with sweat at the temples now, scrub top wrinkled from the shift.
Then he looks up to find the two of you talking and smiles—soft around the edges in a way that makes your eyes water.
“Well,” his wife says immediately, “there he is.”
Jack points toward the pizza boxes. “You bribing my staff again?”
“Your staff?” Lena repeats flatly from across the desk.
Jack ignores her completely.
His wife gestures toward you. “Lifeline and I decided you’re actually the problem in this department.” You blink. “We did?”
“We did now.”
Jack looks genuinely betrayed, “That was fast.”
“She’s nice,” his wife says simply. Jack’s eyes flick toward you for half a second, warm and amused. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She is.”
Your pulse skips hard enough you nearly miss it. Coward, coward, coward.
You look away first while his wife grins triumphantly. “See? I win.”
“You gang up on me constantly.”
“Because you’re easy to bully,” you say before thinking.
Jack stares at you in mock offense. “Wow. Okay.”
“You walked into that one,” Ellis says.
“You’re all terrible people.”
His wife reaches up automatically to straighten the collar of his scrub shirt. Such a small gesture, absent-minded and intimate. The kind of touch that only exists between people who know each other completely.
Your wrist aches beneath your sleeve as the string pulls tighter. Still connected to him. So very impossible and still wrong. But somehow, standing there laughing with both of them at four in the morning, you realize something infinitely more dangerous than loving him.
You’re becoming part of their lives.
CENTRAL WORK AREA — LATER
The shift slows near dawn as you’re charting near Central when Jack drops into the chair beside you with a tired exhale.
“You ever think about leaving emergency medicine?” he asks suddenly. You glance sideways. “Every shift.”
“That’s healthy.”
“I think about becoming a florist at least twice a week.”
Jack huffs out a tired laugh. “You’d last six days.”
“Rude.”
“You yelled at a surgeon yesterday.”
“He was wrong.” You pointed out.
“He was technically right.”
“He was spiritually wrong.”
That earns a real laugh from him, the low and warm kind. God. You hold onto sounds like that more than you should. Silence settles comfortably between you afterward—the kind that only exists between people who know each other well. Then, almost absentmindedly, Jack asks, “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
Your fingers stop over the keyboard. For one horrible second, your entire body forgets how to function. But your face stays calm, because years in emergency medicine have made you terrifyingly good at composure. You keep typing as you reply, “Nope.”
Jack glances sideways at you. “At all?” You shrug lightly, forcing your voice steady. “Might just not be in the cards for me.”
Something softens in his expression immediately. Jack looks at people like he wants to understand them, not fix them. “I doubt that,” he says quietly. You stare at the chart on the screen because looking at him feels too dangerous. The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly heavy.
“I mean it,” he continues softly. “Whoever ends up with you is gonna be lucky.”
Your throat tightens painfully as you force a laugh under your breath before the emotion can show on your face. “Smooth.”
“I’m serious.”
The worst part is—he means it. You finally risk looking at him. His eyes are tired and honest in that devastating way that makes lying to him feel terrible.
“I hope whoever you love…” he says quietly, almost like he’s thinking out loud, “loves you back just as much.”
The cruel irony nearly splits you open. Because you already know exactly what loving him feels like. It feels like swallowing it down every single day, pretending friendship is enough because it has to be, while standing three feet away from your soulmate, while he talks about his wife with soft eyes and absolute devotion.
Your eyes sting suddenly, and you blink hard before he notices. “Me too, Jack,” you whisper. You mean it so much it hurts.
“Me too.”
2020, COVID PANDEMIC
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
The world changes fast. One week, people are joking about a virus overseas between trauma calls and coffee runs, and then the next week, the Pitt is overflowing.
Then, suddenly, every hallway smells like bleach and sanitizer, strong enough to burn your nose through the mask. Every shift feels like drowning—N95s cutting grooves into your skin, face shields fogging every time you breathe, and isolation gowns crackling every time you move.
The emergency department transforms into something unrecognizable almost overnight. There are no visitors or waiting rooms full of family. Alarms, intubations, oxygen sats dropping, and the sound of ventilators become part of the background noise of your life. Everyone starts looking exhausted, and then everyone starts looking haunted. You stop recognizing your coworkers without PPE. Even you stop recognizing yourself.
Through all of it, Jack keeps working.
You think maybe the entire world could collapse around him and he’d still show up for trauma shift fifteen minutes early with coffee in one hand and exhaustion carved into his face. Some nights, the two of you barely talk beyond patient updates. There isn’t time. Not anymore. Every room is full, and the waiting room looks like a war zone; people are dying faster than you can process. But even through the masks and face shields and layers of plastic, you still know him.
You know the crease between his brows when he’s worried and the exhaustion in his posture. The look in his eyes when a patient reminds him too much of somebody else.
To add to that, around the beginning of the pandemic, his wife dies. Not from COVID, which somehow makes it more merciless.
Pedestrian versus drunk driver—DOA. The call comes in just after midnight. You don’t know it’s her at first. Female in her late thirties. Severe head trauma. Massive internal injuries. CPR in progress.
The paramedics wheel her through the doors while respiratory rushes to clear Trauma One. For one horrible second, before you even see her face, the red string around Jack’s wrist burns.
You freeze, not because you understand yet. Because something deep inside you already does.
Then Jack steps into the trauma room, and everything stops. You watch recognition hit him in real time, the way his body locks up and how color drains from his face beneath the mask.
“No,” he says immediately, as if he says it softly enough, maybe reality will change its mind.
“No.”
Lena moves first.
“Jack—”
“That’s my wife.”
The room goes dead silent. Even with monitors alarming and compressions ongoing, along with Shen asking for another round of epi.
It all disappears under the sound of Jack’s voice breaking.
You’ve seen grief before—you work in emergency medicine, so you see it every day. But nothing prepares you for the sound a person makes when their entire life shatters in front of them. Jack tries to step forward, but Lena catches him immediately. “Jack.”
“No, let me—”
“Jack.”
“She’s still warm—”
His voice cracks apart on the words. The paramedic quietly says they found no pulse on scene. Prolonged downtime. Non-survivable head trauma. You can’t breathe—nobody can.
Jack looks at his wife lying on the trauma bed like he genuinely cannot understand what he’s seeing; his brain refuses to process it. Blood in her hair and on the sheet, with her wedding ring still on her hand. Suddenly, the red string around your own wrist pulls painfully tight—before snapping loose.
Jack stares at his own wrist instinctively. The string tied there—gone. His face crumples. All that’s left is a man realizing the universe just took something from him that it can never give back.
COVID restrictions mean none of you are allowed at the funeral. No gathering or reception. No sitting beside him in church or placing a hand on his shoulder in comfort; bringing food to his house while relatives fill the rooms with noise and stories and grief.
Only Zoom.
Fucking Zoom.
You sit alone in your apartment at three in the afternoon after night shift, still in scrubs because you were too tired to change, laptop balanced on your kitchen table.
Everyone’s little squares flicker on-screen. Lena is crying silently, Ellis is muted, while Shen is trying and failing not to cry. Multiple other night shift staff are trying their best to pull themselves together—to be brave for Jack.
While Jack is sitting alone in a black button-down shirt in a house that suddenly looks too empty.
He looks hollow. That’s the only word for it. Hollowed out from the inside. You realize halfway through the service that he hasn’t stopped twisting his wedding ring around his finger once. Maybe he believes that if he keeps touching it, maybe she’s still here somehow.
You cry with your microphone muted.
Afterward, nobody knows what to say. There are no casseroles or hugs. No standing together in shared grief. Only little squares blink off one by one until Jack is the last person left in the call.
You stay after everyone disconnects. “You should sleep,” you say quietly. Jack lets out a humorless laugh, “Yeah.”
But he doesn’t move, and neither do you. Finally, he says, “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
There it is… the unbearable part, because she died instantly—no final words or closure. She was there one second—gone the next.
You press your lips together hard enough that they hurt as you faintly say, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He nods once because he’s heard it too many times already. Then his face folds inward suddenly, grief cracking through whatever fragile composure he’s been holding together. You’ve never seen him cry before, not really. Now he looks destroyed by it.
“I keep thinking she’s gonna walk through the door,” he whispers. “I keep forgetting for like… five seconds.”
Your lungs ache so violently that it feels unbearable.
Because despite everything—despite the string and the guilt and all the ways you tried to keep your distance—you love him. And loving someone means you cannot stand there and watch them suffer alone.
Not him.
Never him.
So you stay.
At first casually, then constantly, you start checking on him between shifts. You bring coffee, he forgets to drink, and force him to eat crackers during overnight shifts because grief has hollowed him thin. You sit beside him in the break room when he can’t sleep between traumas.
Some nights he talks, and there are nights he doesn’t. Later on, you learn grief has moods. Some days he’s numb, and some days he’s angry. Or days, a patient wearing the same perfume as his wife nearly sends him spiraling mid-shift. Once, after losing a COVID patient around his wife’s age, Jack locks himself in the stairwell for twenty minutes.
You find him there eventually. Still in PPE with his face shield shoved onto the top of his head, breathing hard like he’s trying not to come apart.
You sit beside him without saying anything. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The stairwell is cold through your scrub pants, concrete hard beneath you. Somewhere beyond the heavy metal door, the hospital keeps moving. Monitors alarming. Phones ringing. Ventilators hissing.
Life continued like his world didn’t just end.
Jack sits one step below you, elbows braced against his knees, surgical cap shoved halfway off his head. His N95 hangs loose around his neck now, leaving angry red pressure marks across his skin. He appears worn out in a manner unrelated to sleep. The type of tiredness that becomes bone-deep.
For a while, all you hear is his controlled breathing, but then, you know, if he lets himself lose control for even a second, he’ll never stop. Then quietly, without looking at you, Jack says, “I don’t know who I am without her.”
You nearly shatter at his confession, because it’s proof he loved her so completely. You saw it every day in small, ordinary ways. In the way his face softened when she walked into the department carrying takeout, or the absent-minded way he leaned toward her without realizing it. In the wedding ring, he twisted whenever he talked about her during quieter shifts. He loved her with the kind of certainty people spend their whole lives searching for, and somehow that only makes you love him more.
You look down at your hands, clasped tightly in your lap.
“At work?” you say softly after a moment. “You’re still Jack.” A weak laugh escapes him, humorless and tired, “Very inspirational speech.”
“I’m serious.”
You glance toward him carefully. Even now, he’s still wearing blood on the sleeve of his isolation gown from the code downstairs. His curls are damp with sweat, exhaustion carved deep into the lines around his eyes.
"When everything hurts," you say carefully, "you don't have to figure out how to survive the next ten years."
Jack finally looks up, with his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and devastatingly tired. "You just find the next thing." His brow furrows slightly as you keep going, "The next cup of coffee that tastes okay."
A faint huff of breath leaves him.
"The next shift." You offer a small smile. "The next stupid joke Shen makes that isn't actually funny."
That earns the ghost of an eye roll—you take it.
"The next hour. The next day." Your throat tightens, but you push through it, "And eventually..." Your voice softens. "Eventually you realize you've made it farther than you thought you could."
Jack stares at you, fully paying attention and listening.
"The pain doesn't disappear," you admit quietly. "Some losses stay with you forever. But one day you wake up, and it isn't the first thing you feel."
The stairwell falls silent again, and you watch as Jack's eyes close briefly as if the possibility of hope hurts. When he opens them again, there's something unbearably raw there—something stripped bare. "You really believe that?" The question comes out almost broken, and you don't hesitate as you reply, "Yes."
Because you have to, for him, for yourself, and for every patient you've ever watched claw their way through impossible things.
"Yes," you repeat softly. Jack studies your face for a long moment—searching for something there. Maybe hope or permission. Or proof that somebody still sees him underneath all the grief. Then he gives one small, fragile nod, because he's trying very hard to believe you, too.
A softer shared silence settles between you again afterward. You remain beside him on the stairwell steps while the hospital hums around you. Two exhausted healthcare workers in the middle of a pandemic. One grieving the loss of the love of his life. The other grieving quietly beside him. Then, after a long time, you speak again.
Your voice barely rises above a whisper, "I don't think there's such a thing as a good goodbye." Jack doesn't look away, but you stare at the concrete floor.
"People say it gets easier. That you find closure. That eventually you make peace with it." Your fingers tighten together. "But I think losing someone just becomes part of you. You learn how to carry it." Your throat burns, "There are days when you think you're okay. Days when you laugh and work and breathe normally." You glance toward him. "And then something happens. A song, a smell, maybe a memory.” Blinking back your tears, you revealed, "The grief finds you again."
Jack's eyes shine slightly as you continue softly, "Not because you failed to move on." Your voice wavers. "But because they mattered."
A long silence follows. Then, quietly—"So what am I supposed to do?" When he asks the question, it sounds incredibly trivial.
You look at Jack—at the man who spent years helping everyone else survive. He stayed with frightened soldiers, and loved his wife so completely that even death couldn't erase her from him.
"Keep loving her," you say softly, and Jack's breath catches. "Just don't let her be the reason you stop living, too."
The silence that follows feels sacred, somewhere beneath your sleeve, hidden from the world, the red string wrapped around your wrist aches. Not because it hurts, but because for the first time since she died, you realize you would carry his grief with him for as long as he needed.
Even if he never knew.
2021
YOUR APARTMENT — NIGHT
By late 2021, you recognize the symptoms almost immediately. The exhaustion first. Not normal exhaustion—the kind every ER nurse carries around like a second heartbeat—but something meaner. The sort that becomes deeply ingrained in your bones and wears you out just by standing straight.
Then the fever, then it’s the cough that follows soon after, and the body aches that feel like somebody took a hammer to every joint you have.
You take the rapid test in your bathroom with trembling hands, already knowing what the result will be before the second line even appears.
Positive.
You stare at it for a long moment anyway, “Fuck.”
You’d been vaccinated months ago. Healthcare workers got priority access early on, one of the very few benefits of spending every shift neck-deep in a pandemic. And thank God for that, because without it, you’re almost certain this would’ve landed you intubated in an ICU somewhere.
Still—it hits you hard.
Your immune system has never exactly been reliable. Too many years of stress, skipped meals, night shifts, and pushing yourself past exhaustion had seen to that long before COVID ever existed.
So you quarantine immediately with no qualms or arguments. Immediately, you text Lena and Dana to tell them that you’ve contracted COVID-19. Then you lock yourself inside your apartment and prepare to wait it out.
The loneliness settles in fast after that. The first day isn’t terrible, but the second day is worse. By the third day, you genuinely feel like you’re losing your mind. Your apartment suddenly feels too small and too quiet. Every surface smells faintly of disinfectant and cough drops. Empty Gatorade bottles and medication wrappers clutter your coffee table because you’re too exhausted to clean properly.
You sleep in fragments. Wake up drenched in sweat. Cough until your ribs ache. Then fall asleep again, only to wake up disoriented an hour later. You try texting your family back home once, but hearing your mother’s worried voice over FaceTime nearly makes you cry, so you stop answering calls after that.
You tell everyone you’re fine. You’re not.
One particularly bad night, you sit on the bathroom floor wrapped in a blanket because the cold tiles feel good against your feverish skin, genuinely debating at what oxygen saturation you’d finally call an ambulance.
Ninety-three? Ninety-two?
You know too much…that’s the problem. You’re aware exactly how quickly patients can crash, and what respiratory distress looks like. You know what COVID sounds like when it starts settling deeper into the lungs. And alone in your apartment at two in the morning, feverish and exhausted and struggling not to spiral, you think: If this gets worse, I’m gonna end up at Presby or PTMC.
By day five, your phone is full of unread texts. Lena is checking in, Shen is sending memes, and Ellis is threatening to physically fight you if you don’t hydrate. But then there’s Jack calling twice… then three times.
You don’t answer any of them. Not intentionally. Your brain feels too foggy to function most of the time. Looking at your phone takes effort you barely have energy for. So when there’s suddenly a knock at your apartment door that evening, you frown from beneath your blanket without moving.
Probably the wrong apartment.
Another knock. Then—your real name, muffled through the door in a voice you’d recognize half-asleep.
“Hey.”
Your stomach drops.
No.
Absolutely not.
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when dizziness crashes over you. You stumble toward the door anyway, coughing into your elbow before peeking through the peephole.
And there he is.
Jack Abbot. Standing outside your apartment in full PPE. N95. Face shield. Gloves. Isolation gown. Holding a plastic takeout bag in one hand. You stare at him in complete disbelief before yanking yourself back from the door. “Jack?!”
“Oh, good,” his voice comes through the other side, dry with relief. “You’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” you hiss through the door. “How did you even find where I live?”
“Lena told me… and Dana.”
Traitors.
You lean your forehead briefly against the door, exhausted. “You can’t be here,” you argue weakly. “You could get sick.” Jack snorts softly from the hallway, “Lifeline, we work in an emergency department.”
“That is not comforting!”
“Also,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “is there a reason you’ve been ignoring my texts and calls?”
You close your eyes briefly. Honestly, you hadn’t even realized how many messages you missed.
“Jack—”
“Open the door.”
You blink as you screech, “Are you fucking insane? No.” His voice lowers slightly then, gentler but firmer somehow. “Lifeline.”
Somewhere behind your ribs, the moniker settles heated and perilous.
“Open the door.”
You stare at the wood for a long moment. Then, against every ounce of common sense you possess, you unlock it. The second the door cracks open, Jack’s eyes immediately scan over you clinically. You can practically see the ER doctor in him assessing your flushed skin, fatigue, and mild shortness of breath. The way you’re subtly bracing yourself against the wall to stay upright. In an instant, his face tightens.
"Oh," he murmurs. Somehow, that soft little sound embarrasses you more than if he’d outright said you looked terrible. You cross your arms defensively, “I look worse than I feel.”
“That’s concerning, because you look awful.”
You let out a tired laugh despite yourself, immediately coughing afterward. Jack’s eyes narrow behind the face shield, “How high’s the fever?”
“It’s fine.”
“Temperature.”
“One-oh-one earlier.”
“And oxygen?”
You hesitate half a second too long, and Jack notices immediately, “Lifeline.”
“Ninety-four. I’ve been checking my Apple Watch.”
His jaw tightens, “Okay.”
You step aside reluctantly. “There’s hand sanitizer and ethyl alcohol everywhere. I’ve been disinfecting the place whenever I can.”
Jack walks inside carefully, setting the takeout bag down near the kitchen counter. Your apartment suddenly feels unbearably small with him standing in it. Messy blankets on the couch. Medications scattered across the coffee table. Laundry you’ve been too sick to fold. You suddenly want the earth to swallow you whole. “Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s kind of a disaster.”
Jack glances around once before looking back at you. “I’ve seen residents cry over missing lab results. This is nothing.” That earns another weak laugh out of you while he pulls out one of the dining chairs and gestures toward it, “Sit down before you fall down.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You almost passed out opening the door.”
Rude.
You sit anyway because standing suddenly feels impossible, and Jack immediately starts fussing. Taking your temperature again. Checking your pulse ox. Asking when you last ate.
In a manner that hurts your core, it's somehow intimate. After observing him in silence for a while, you gently inquire, "Why are you here?"
Jack pauses before he shrugs one shoulder like the answer should be obvious. “Because I know you.”
“You don’t have family here,” he continues quietly. “No roommates. No neighbors you’re close enough with to help if things go bad.” He leans back slightly in the chair across from you.
“You moved halfway across the world by yourself,” he says. “So yeah. I came to do a welfare check.” Something warm and painful twists in your chest all at once, so you try covering it with humor. “Am I that unlucky or just that special?”
Jack looks at you for a long moment. Then, softly, he replies, “Just that special.” The room goes very still while your pulse stutters painfully against your ribs. Jack clears his throat first, looking away. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
He gives you a tired, unimpressed look immediately, “Don’t start with me.” You sigh, shoulders slumping. “I feel…” You swallow hard. “Honestly? Like I got hit by a truck.”
Jack nods once like he expected that answer. “My chest hurts when I cough,” you admit quietly. “And I’m exhausted all the time. Walking to the bathroom feels like running a 10k.”
Jack’s expression softens instantly to concern. “Okay,” he says gently. “That sounds about right for breakthrough COVID.”
You laugh weakly, “Reassuring.”
“You’re vaccinated. Your sats are holding. Fever sucks, but you’re stable.” His voice shifts into that calm doctor cadence you’ve heard him use with terrified patients a hundred times before.
“You’re gonna feel miserable for a little while,” he says softly. “But you’re not dying.”
The ridiculous thing is—you believe him immediately. Maybe because it’s Jack, he always sounds certain even when the world is falling apart. Or maybe because after spending almost a week alone in your apartment feeling terrified and sick and invisible—having somebody show up for you feels dangerously close to relief.
Somewhere beneath the fever and exhaustion and the red string hidden under your sleeve, you realize this is the first time since his wife died that Jack has willingly stepped into somebody else’s home again.
The thought nearly breaks your heart.
Grief has a way of shrinking people's worlds—you'd watched it happen to Jack in real time. After his wife died, he stopped inviting people over. Stopped talking about home or lingering after conversations that might eventually end with someone asking how he was doing outside of work. The walls had gone up slowly. Brick by brick. Most people probably never noticed, but you did. Yet here he is, standing in your cluttered apartment with a stethoscope in one hand and a grocery bag full of electrolyte drinks in the other.
"Drink."
You stare at the bottle he shoves toward you, "You're very bossy outside the hospital."
"Drink." He insists.
"Is this because I ignored your texts?"Jack gives you a look, the one he usually reserves for patients actively making terrible decisions. "Partly."
You sigh dramatically and take the bottle, "Happy?"
"No."
That catches your attention. You look up, and Jack is standing near the kitchen counter, arms folded across his chest. The concern on his face isn't hidden anymore. Hasn't been since he walked through the door. "You should've told somebody you were this sick." Your laugh comes out hoarse, "I did."
"No." Jack shakes his head, "You told people you were fine."
"...I was trying not to worry anyone."
"You had a one-oh-one fever and couldn't walk to your bathroom without getting winded."
You look away because when he says it like that, it sounds bad. "It sounds worse when you say it."
"That's because it is worse."
You can't help smiling, but that only seems to annoy him more.
"Why are you smiling?"
"You care."
Jack stares and then immediately looks away. Your fever-addled brain doesn't miss the faint flush creeping up his neck. "Of course I care."
The answer comes too naturally, and for some reason, that makes something warm settle beneath your body. The television murmurs faintly in the background, forgotten as Jack eventually disappears into your kitchen. You hear cabinets opening and then closing. A frustrated sigh leaves him, "How do you have absolutely no food?"
"I have food."
"You have soy sauce and olive oil."
"That's food-adjacent."
Jack pinches the bridge of his nose. "You work in healthcare."
"So do you."
"I know."
"Have you seen what doctors eat?"
He points at you from across the room, "Deflection."
You grin while Jack shakes his head again, but he opens the takeout containers anyway and pours you soup. Then make sure you actually eat it and wait until you're halfway through before finally sitting down. The quiet and unexpected realization sneaks up on him that somehow—he likes taking care of you. Because it shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this natural to be here. To fuss over your fever, refill your water glass, and check your pulse ox every twenty minutes because he doesn't trust you not to lie about your symptoms.
Yet every time he glances up and sees you curled beneath a blanket on the couch, alive and stubborn and complaining—something in his heart eases. The same feeling he gets when a trauma patient finally stabilizes. When someone he was worried about turns out okay. Only different. This time, it’s more personal and complicated.
You cough suddenly, and Jack is moving before he even realizes it, quickly handing you water. Waiting until the coughing fit passes. Your eyes lift toward him over the rim of the glass. It’s soft and sleepy. "Thank you." Your words are quiet and sincere.
And God help him—that does something to him. Something he doesn't examine too closely.
Because if he does—he might have to ask himself questions he's not ready to answer. Questions like why spending an afternoon taking care of you feels better than spending it anywhere else, or why your apartment already feels strangely familiar. Why did the idea of you being here alone all week bother him so much?
Instead, he focuses on something safer—annoyance. "You know," he says, sitting back in his chair, "your soulmate's doing a terrible job."
You blink at that, frowning, "What?" Jack shrugs, "If they're out there somewhere, they're slacking." A surprised laugh escapes you. "What does that even mean?"
"It means," he says, gesturing vaguely toward your blanket burrito state, "you're sick. Alone. Living on cough drops and spite."
"I had soup."
"You had olive oil."
"That was one time."
Jack rolls his eyes, "My point stands." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "They should've shown up by now." The joke is spoken carelessly, and he doesn't know it nearly stops your heart.
You look away first, toward the rain-streaked window, literally anywhere but him. Because if you look at Jack right now—if you look at the man sitting in your apartment, taking care of you, worrying over you, complaining about a soulmate who never appeared—you might break.
The red string hidden beneath your sleeve suddenly feels impossibly burdensome. But Jack doesn't notice, he's too busy opening another bottle of water and making sure your fever isn't climbing again. Somewhere in the quiet warmth of your apartment, he doesn’t realize the irony. Jack is sitting exactly where he should be. Doing exactly what he was supposed to do, and somehow, he can’t see it yet.
2023
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Five years ago, you were the new nurse from the Philippines. Now you're simply part of the Pitt. Nobody really introduces you anymore. You're just there, part of the machinery. You know where everything is and everyone's habits. Or when Ellis is pretending to chart and is actually looking for the next best place to nap for her double. You know when Shen is about to spiral before he even realizes it himself. By now, you have memorized Lena's "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" face is significantly more terrifying than actual anger.
Somewhere along the way—you became one of the safest places in Jack's life. Neither of you meant for that to happen.
It just did.
There are hundreds of tiny moments, none of which seem important on their own. But together, they're devastating. A patient's husband is screaming in the hallway after a failed resuscitation. Security is trying to de-escalate, family members are crying, and the entire department feels tense. Then, appearing devastated, Jack leaves the room but not in a noticeable way. Most people wouldn't recognize it, but you do.
You don't say anything; instead, you simply hand him a cup of coffee. Exactly how he takes it. He looks down at it, then at you. "Mind reader?" You shrug, "You looked like you needed caffeine." The corner of his mouth twitches, "Thanks."
Somehow, that small smile stays with him the rest of the shift.
Another night, it’s three in the morning. Everyone's fucking exhausted. You're sitting on the floor of the supply room because it's the only place nobody can find you for five minutes. Jack opens the door and stops. He finds you sitting there cross-legged, eating stale vending machine pretzels. "You hiding?"
"No."
"You are literally hiding."
You hold up a pretzel, defensive, "This is self-care." Jack stares at you, then, to your horror, he sits beside you on the floor. Like it's completely normal. "You know we're adults, right?" he asks.
"Says the man eating peanut butter crackers for dinner." Jack looks offended; he scoffs, "I had a protein bar." You roll your eyes at that, "Oh. Well, that's different."
His laugh echoes through the tiny room. It’s warm and unrestrained. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside your chest. Then the days keep passing by, and then the days turn into months, then it’s another shift, another trauma.
Another impossible night.
A frightened little girl refuses to let go of your hand while waiting for stitches. You're sitting beside her bed, explaining every step of the procedure. Making balloon animals out of gloves while telling ridiculous stories.
By the time you're finished, she's laughing. You don't notice Jack standing in the doorway watching or the expression on his face either. The one that lingers long after he walks away. Because somewhere over the years, admiration has quietly become affection.
Affection has started becoming something else—something he doesn't have a name for yet. Jack's issue is that he doesn't immediately feel things. Without thinking, he simply begins searching for you first.
A difficult trauma comes in? His eyes automatically find yours. A bad shift? He looks for you at Central. A joke occurs to him? He wants to tell you. A patient reminds him of something sad? Somehow, you're the person he ends up talking to.
It happens gradually enough that neither of you notices.
Until everyone else does.
"You know Abbot's gonna have a breakdown if Lifeline ever leaves, right?" Ellis says it casually while charting. You nearly choke on your coffee, "What?" Across the desk, Shen immediately nods. "Oh, absolutely."
"Parker."
"I'm serious."
You point threateningly, "Stop." Parker raises both hands. "Hey, I don't make the rules."
You refuse to acknowledge the strange warmth crawling up your neck. Because if you acknowledge it—you'll have to acknowledge the way your heart still skips whenever Jack smiles at you. After all these years, that feels pathetic.
2024
PTMC, MAIN ENTRANCE — DAY
The rain starts sometime around six in the morning. Not a drizzle—a proper Pittsburgh downpour. The kind that turns streets silver and pounds against windows hard enough to drown out conversation.
After twelve hours of chaos, the entire department begins filtering out toward the parking garage and bus stops. You finally clock out around seven—exhausted and half-awake, absolutely ready for sleep.
When you step outside, you immediately spot Jack standing beneath the small emergency department awning.
Watching the rain… alone with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. Looking at him, you pause, "You're still here?"
Jack glances over, "My car's in the shop."
That explains it.
"How'd you get here?"
"Rideshare."
You look out toward the street, and the rain is somehow worse now. Jack follows your gaze, "Trying to decide how miserable walking home is gonna be." You glance over, "What happened to your ride?"
Jack lets out a tired breath, "Canceled."
"What?"
"Driver got stuck downtown." You wince at that, and he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns the screen toward you. The rideshare app is a disaster—surge pricing, long wait times. One estimate says thirty-eight minutes, while another says unavailable. Apparently, every exhausted healthcare worker in Pittsburgh had the same idea after shift. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Yeah." Jack stuffs his phone away again. "I've been refreshing it for ten minutes."
You look back toward the rain, then down at the umbrella dangling from your wrist, and then back at him. You ask, "No umbrella?"
"Nope."
You stare at him, then at the rain… and then at the very obvious lack of any workable plan. So, without thinking twice, you hold the umbrella out. Jack blinks, looks at the umbrella, and then at you. Then back at the umbrella. It's baby pink and covered in tiny Miffy rabbits. The ears are even printed around the trim—the thing looks aggressively cheerful.
"You serious?"
"Very."
A laugh escapes him, a real one. Low and surprised and completely unguarded. It's probably the first genuine laugh you've heard from him all shift, maybe longer. You feel absurdly proud of yourself as you snort, "Sorry about the color."
Jack studies the umbrella again, "I think I'll survive."
"You sure? Might destroy your reputation."
"My reputation was already questionable."
"Fair."
You press the handle into his hand without hesitation, because that's just who you are. Someone needs help, so you help; it's that simple. Jack looks genuinely baffled. "Wait."
You pause.
"What about you?" He asks, concerned. You shrug. The rain is cold, and the morning is gray. You've worked twelve hours, and your back hurts, along with your feet. But somehow none of that feels important. "I live closer than you do."
"Lifeline."
"Jack."
"You'll get soaked."
You smile, bright and softly. The same smile you've given frightened patients, overwhelmed residents, and grieving family members. You shrug, "It's rain."
His brow furrows, "You say that like hypothermia isn't a thing." You laugh at that, "I'm from the Philippines. Rain and I have a long-standing relationship."
"That's not remotely reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
Jack shakes his head, but he's smiling now, which gives you a bit of peace. His eyes linger on you a second too long. Or maybe you're imagining it. You probably are—you usually are. Then you add quietly, "Besides, sometimes life is easier when you stop trying to avoid every uncomfortable thing."
Jack's expression softens, and you glance toward the rain. "Sometimes you just accept you're gonna get soaked and go home anyway." Neither of you says anything for a little bit. Because you both know that your words aren't really about the rain, neither of you acknowledges it. A laugh escapes him again, and he shakes his head, "You always have an answer for everything."
"No." You step backward toward the edge of the awning, and the cold rain immediately spatters against your scrub pants while you grin. "You just have to trust you'll be okay once you get there."
That gets another laugh out of him, the kind that reaches his eyes. You would do almost anything to keep hearing that sound. The umbrella remains clutched in his hand. Pink, ridiculous, and entirely yours. But for some reason, he can't stop staring at it. Or at you, standing in the rain, completely unapologetically yourself. No performance or hidden agenda. Only your kindness offered freely, as if giving away the only thing keeping you dry is the most natural decision in the world.
The thing is—Jack has spent years watching people take. Watching grief take, life and death take. And you...You are always giving… your time, your patience, and your terrible vending machine snacks. Your heart, if someone needed it badly enough. Now, it’s your umbrella.
Something warm twists unexpectedly inside of him, and he feels tingling all over his skin, as well as his mouth begins to dry. You lift a hand in farewell, "See you tomorrow, Dr. Abbot."
Then you turn and jog into the rain, water immediately drenches your hair, and you laugh when your shoe splashes into a puddle. You keep running anyway. While Jack just stands there—watching, until you disappear around the corner. Long after you're gone, he remains beneath the awning with your pink umbrella still hanging from his hand.
The rideshare app was forgotten entirely, and the rain pounded against the pavement as the morning traffic crawled by. For the first time in a very long time—the thought of going home doesn't feel quite as lonely. He looks down at the ridiculous little umbrella again. Then, despite himself, he smiles. Because somehow the damn thing feels exactly like you.
2025
NIGHTCLUB, PITTSBURGH — NIGHT
The music is loud enough to vibrate through your ribs. Honestly, you're having fun, a rare occurrence these days. Between night shifts and overtime and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life outside of the Pitt, opportunities to be a normal twenty-something are increasingly rare.
So when a few friends invited you out, you said yes. You danced, drank, and laughed. You let yourself forget about work for a few hours, and somewhere between your second drink and the realization that your feet hurt, you discovered a very important problem.
Your apartment keys were gone—completely vanished, you checked your purse three times. Your jacket pockets twice, then the bathroom counter, next the bar, and still nothing. Which is how you found yourself sitting in a booth near the back of the club with your phone pressed to your ear.
Waiting for Jack to answer.
He picks up on the second ring, "Everything okay?" You immediately relax, which is probably a problem. "Maybe."
Jack sighs, the sound of a man who has known you far too long, "What happened?" You look mournfully into your drink, "I lost my keys." A pause on the other end, and then, "You what?"
"They're gone."
"Lifeline."
"They disappeared."
"Keys don't disappear."
"They absolutely do."
The music swells around you, and someone screams happily near the dance floor. Through the phone, Jack suddenly goes quiet. He asks, "Where are you?"
You blink, "Huh?"
"Where are you?"
You frown, then glance up at the neon sign hanging over the bar, "Oh." You tell him the club's name. The silence on the other end lasts approximately two seconds before you hear him ask, "How are you getting home?"
You wave a hand vaguely despite the fact he can't see you, "M'gonna Uber." The words come out more slurred than intended. Silence... a long silence, then you hear him sigh, "Jesus Christ."
"It’s not that bad—"
"No."
You open your mouth to argue, but Jack beats you to it. "I'm picking you up." You immediately sober, exclaiming, "What?"
"Do not leave with anybody."
"Jack—"
"Do not get into a stranger's car."
"That's literally what Uber is." You throw back in response.
"Lifeline." The warning in his voice makes you sit up straighter. "I'm serious. Stay where you are."
"Jack—"
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
Your stomach flips unexpectedly as you point out, "You're working tomorrow."
"So are you."
"Jack."
His voice drops lower, gentler as he begs, "Please." And that ends the argument before it starts. You stare at your drink and reluctantly reply, "...Okay."
"Good." A beat and then you hear, "Don't hang up."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jack walks into the club and promptly forgets how to breathe, because he has never seen you like this before. At work, you're always in scrubs, with your hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and practical shoes.
Tonight—tonight you look nothing like the nurse who steals his coffee and argues with surgeons. Your hair is down, and your makeup catches the flashing lights every time you move. The outfit you're wearing should probably be illegal—at least that's what his traitorous brain immediately decides. Far too much skin and too beautiful—too distracting.
Jack stares for half a second too long, but then immediately hates himself for it. Because he's Jack and you're you. You're his friend, and he's forty-something years old and should absolutely know better. But the sudden realization that other people are staring at you, too, fills him with an entirely unreasonable amount of irritation. There are multiple reasons he hates that realization—none of them are good. You spot him immediately, and relief floods your face, "Jack!"
Somehow that's worse—because you're happy to see him, you always are. Jack pushes through the crowd toward your booth. He asks, "You okay?"
You grin, a little tipsy and a little tired, "Hi."
"That's not an answer."
"I lost my keys."
"You mentioned."
You immediately point at him, "I looked."
"I believe you."
"I looked everywhere."
Jack softens despite himself, "I know."
Just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The amount of trust you've placed in him over the years—it sneaks up on him sometimes, along with the amount he's placed in you. Neither of you ever talks about it—it's just simply there.
"Where are your friends?"
You blink.
"Oh."
You glance toward the dance floor, where your group has completely disappeared into the crowd. One of them is standing on a platform dancing with a stranger. Another appears to be attempting karaoke despite there being no karaoke machine. Honestly, nobody looks remotely concerned about your whereabouts. You point vaguely, "Over there." Jack follows your finger, and immediately regrets it. "Jesus."
You laugh, "They're having fun."
"They look like a liability."
"They are." A pause, then you smile warmly at him. The kind of smile that's become increasingly difficult for him to ignore lately.
"You ready to head home?" The question comes out gentler than he intended. Your expression softens immediately. "Mhm."
There’s no argument because the answer was always going to be yes. After all, it's him asking. Something in Jack's chest tightens unexpectedly. You climb out of the booth and wobble slightly when your heel catches on the edge of the floor. His hand is on your elbow before either of you thinks about it. It’s steady and instinctive—the contact lasts barely a second, but you both notice. Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face. Neither of you says anything, and Jack clears his throat first before he lets go, "You good?"
You nod immediately, "Mhm. Yep." Then point at him. "I need to go tell them I'm not being kidnapped by you."
The laugh that escapes him is helpless, "You go do that."
You grin, "Okay.” Before turning toward the dance floor, you lightly tap his arm. It’s a small gesture, mindless and affectionate. The kind of touch friends make without thinking. Yet Jack feels it long after you've disappeared into the crowd. He watches you weave through the dancers. Watch you throw your arms around one of your friends.
You laugh at something that makes your whole face light up, and standing there in the middle of a crowded nightclub, surrounded by strangers and flashing lights and music loud enough to shake the floor—Jack suddenly realizes he's smiling. He's smiling because you're happy and somewhere deep down, in a place he has been carefully avoiding for a very long time—he knows that's becoming a problem.
You weave your way through the crowd, dodging dancers and spilled drinks, until you finally find your friends near the center of the dance floor. One of them immediately grabs your arm, "There you are!" You laugh, "Apparently, I'm leaving."
"What?" another groans theatrically. "Already?"
You point toward the edge of the club—toward Jack. Standing near the entrance with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, waiting. The second your friends spot him, several heads swivel at once. Then all of them turn suspiciously slowly back toward you.
"Ohhh."
You immediately know that tone, you shake your head, "No."
"That's the doctor."
"No."
"The hot doctor."
You cover your face, "Oh my God." One of them leans closer, asking, "Is he your boyfriend?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
"Because he definitely looks like he's here to pick up his girlfriend." Heat floods your face instantly, "No, he does not."
Across the room, Jack glances over, as if sensing he's being talked about. But when he spots you, his expression visibly relaxes. And unfortunately, your friends see that too. "Oh my God."
You groan, "Stop."
"He likes you."
"He does not."
"He drove here to rescue you from yourself."
"That's called friendship."
"That's called middle-aged pining." You nearly choke, "Please never say those words again."
Laughter follows you all the way back toward the entrance, and Jack looks mildly concerned the closer you get. "You okay?"
"Apparently not."
He narrows his eyes at your response, "What happened?"
"My friends are terrible people."
"Fair."
You point at him, "Don't encourage them."
"I'm not encouraging anybody."
"Liar."
The corner of his mouth twitches, and just like that, some of the tension leaves your shoulders. The simple fact that he's here has solved half the problem already. Then you take two steps toward the exit, but Jack is moving before he even thinks about it. One hand catches your elbow, and the other settles briefly at your waist, steadying you. The contact is innocent, but your breath catches anyway. It’s practical and necessary, at least that's what both of you tell yourselves.
"Whoa there." Jack says, and you blink up at him, then immediately start laughing, "I think the floor moved."
"The floor did not move."
"It absolutely moved."
"Lifeline."
"I'm just saying." Jack shakes his head, and his hand doesn't immediately leave your waist. Neither of you seems to notice. Or maybe both of you notice too much. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you outside, and the cool night air hits immediately. Rain lingers on the pavement, turning the streets into rivers of reflected neon. You inhale deeply, then sway again. Jack catches you before it becomes a problem. His hand settles more firmly against your side this time, and your body immediately relaxes into the contact like it's familiar.
Jack notices that too. "You good?" He asked, and you nod, "Mhm." A beat, and then you add, "The ground's still suspicious."
That earns a real laugh out of him, and you love that sound.
The parking lot isn't far, but Jack keeps his hand on your waist the entire walk there. Just in case… well, at least that's what he tells himself. Not because he likes the feeling of you beside him or how perfectly you fit there.
Just in case. That's all…. at least for tonight.
Jack sighs. The long-suffering sigh of a man who spends his life dealing with stubborn people. "Come on."
You allow him to guide you… well. at least until you nearly walk directly into a group of people entering the club. Jack catches your shoulder and redirects you gently, "Okay."
"What?"
His hand settles more firmly against your back, "Maybe we're graduating from independent walking." You gasp dramatically, "I am fully capable." But your words come out slightly slurred.
Jack raises an eyebrow, "You just tried to walk through three people."
"They were in my way."
A laugh escapes him. God. You're something truly special.
Now he has a new problem. Namely, getting you safely into his truck before you attempt something stupid.
The passenger-side door swings open, and you stare at it, then back at the seat. Jack immediately knows what's happening. "Need help?"
"No." A pause as you squint at the truck suspiciously. "Maybe."
"It's higher than it looked five seconds ago, isn't it?"
"It definitely wasn't this tall before."
Jack bites the inside of his cheek, hard, trying not to laugh.
"Okay."
Before you can protest, his firm hands settle at your waist, and suddenly you're being lifted just enough to get into the passenger seat. The whole thing takes maybe two seconds, except neither of you feels normal afterward. You freeze, and Jack also freezes. His hands are still on your waist, and you're looking directly at each other—far too close.
For a brief, dangerous moment, neither of you moves. Then Jack clears his throat, immediately stepping back. "Seatbelt."
Your brain takes several seconds to reboot, "What?"
"Seatbelt."
"Oh."
Of course, duh. You fumble with it and miss the buckle twice before Jack reaches over and clicks it into place. His face is suddenly very near again. Near enough to see the tiny scar near his jaw, and that your heart starts doing things it absolutely should not be doing. "There." His voice comes out lower than usual. You swallow, "Thanks."
Neither of you acknowledges how strange the moment felt and the warmth lingering where his hands had been. Or the way Jack has to grip the steering wheel a little tighter once he's behind it. Because some things are easier left alone. At least for now.
JACK ABBOT’S APARTMENT — NIGHT
The drive back to your apartment is quieter than the nightclub. The city has settled into that strange hour between night and morning, when the roads are mostly empty, and the traffic lights seem to change for no one. Rain taps softly against the windshield as Jack drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. You are attempting to stay awake. Attempting being the important word here. Every few minutes, your head tips toward the window before jerking upright again.
Jack notices every single time, "You can sleep."
"I'm not sleeping."
"You were asleep thirty seconds ago."
"I was thinking."
"You were drooling."
You gasp in offense, and Jack doesn't even look at you as he commands, "Go to sleep."
"You're mean." A laugh escapes him at your comment. He realizes that he’s been doing it a lot when he’s around you.
By the time you arrive at your apartment, you’re humming a song, trying to stay awake. Then Jack pats his pocket, and freezes when he realizes, "...Shit."
You blink, "What?" He closes his eyes, "I forgot your spare key." You stare, then immediately start laughing.
Jack groans, "Oh my God."
"You drove all the way there."
“Don’t.”
"You forgot the whole reason you picked me up."
"Don't."
Your laughter gets worse, and for the first time in years, Jack lets out a full belly laugh too. He begins to drive to his apartment, and since it’s late, he offers for you to crash at his place.
By the time he pulls into his apartment complex, you're visibly losing the fight against exhaustion and alcohol—mostly alcohol. The second you step through the front door, you kick your heels off exaggeratedly. One lands near the couch, and the other somehow ends up halfway down the hallway. Jack silently watches this happen. Then watches you attempt to unbuckle whatever complicated contraption is keeping your outfit together. "Okay," he says immediately.
"What?"
"Maybe let's not do that."
You frown at him, "Why?"
Because you're drunk—very drunk, and apparently completely unaware that you're standing in the middle of his apartment trying to peel yourself out of an outfit that has occupied far too much of his attention already. Jack suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating, the wall too. Actually, maybe the floor. Anywhere except you.
"Because," he says carefully, "you need pajamas."
"Oh." You consider this, then nod solemnly. "Pajamas are smart."
"Thank you."
"I am smart."
"You are." He nods, and you point at him, "I knew you'd agree."
Jack presses his lips together. God help him. Somehow, over the years, you've become one of his favorite people. A few minutes later, after much negotiation and several failed attempts to convince you that sleeping in sequins is a terrible idea, Jack disappears into his bedroom closet. He returns holding an old Army shirt—worn soft with age, the fabric faded from years of washing, along with a pair of boxers. You stare, then grin. "These yours?" Jack immediately regrets everything, "Yes."
"Cool."
Then, before he can stop you—you start changing.
"Jesus Christ."
You blink, "What?"
Jack is staring firmly at the opposite wall. "You could've warned me."
"Why?"
Because you're still drunk enough that embarrassment hasn't caught up with you yet. Meanwhile, Jack is discovering entirely new levels of self-control.
"Bathroom," he says.
"Right." You pause, then gesture wildly. "The bathroom."
"Correct."
Five minutes later, you emerge wearing the oversized shirt. The hem brushes your thighs while sleeves hang past your hands. The sight nearly kills him, because you look comfortable—like you belong here. Which is a thought he immediately shoves into a locked box and throws into the ocean. Nope. Not touching that. Absolutely not. That’s reserved for a future therapy session. Boy, is his therapist going to love that.
"Sit."
You immediately sit on the edge of his bed.
"Drink."
You obediently accept the water bottle, and Jack blinks, "That's new."
"What?"
"You listened."
You point at him, "You're bossy."
"Drink the water."
You drink the water, then he hands you a spare toothbrush and makes sure you actually use it. Then spends several minutes making certain you don't accidentally fall asleep face-first into the sink. By the time he's satisfied you're hydrated and functional enough not to accidentally die overnight, you're sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, wrapped in one of his old shirts and looking increasingly sleepy.
You dig through your purse. "There are makeup wipes in here."
Jack pauses, asks, "You carry those around?"
"My eyeliner smudges." You shrug. "My mascara too."
Jack shakes his head, "Prepared for everything."
"It's literally why we carry purses."
"Pretty sure that's not why."
"It absolutely is."
He finds the packet eventually and pulls one free, then gestures to you, "Come here." You blink, dazed, "What?"
"Your mascara's halfway down your face."
Well, that’s fucking mortifying—immediately you cover your face, "Oh my God." Jack laughs softly; the sound is low and warm. "You're fine."
"No, I'm not."
"You really are."
Gently, he pulls your hand away and carefully brushes the wipe across your cheek. His touch is light, patient, and unhurried. The same hands that place chest tubes and suture wounds and perform procedures under pressure somehow become impossibly gentle. They always do around people he cares about. You go strangely still, and the room suddenly feels too quiet and small. Jack is close enough that the details become impossible to ignore. The silver was woven through his hair. The exhaustion that never quite leaves his eyes. The traces of loss he carries with him even now. And still, despite all of it—or maybe because of it—he remains devastatingly, painfully beautiful.
"You've done this before." The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
Jack's hand stills briefly, then resumes. "Mmm." His voice is soft, a little distant. "She hated taking her makeup off."
The ache arrives instantly—it’s deep and familiar.
"She'd fall asleep on the couch." A small smile touches his mouth. "Every time." His gaze drops to the wipe in his hand, "Eventually, it was easier to do it myself."
A tender silence settles over the room, and suddenly your eyes sting. Because even now—all these years later—he still misses her. Of course he does, he always will.
"Jack." He looks up, and you swallow hard. "I'm sorry."
His hand pauses, and he asks, "For what?"
Your throat tightens painfully, "I know you miss her." The words come out small, but completely honest, and are barely above a whisper. Jack looks at you, and what he sees nearly unravels him. Because you're crying for him—not for yourself, or because you're drunk. You're crying because his pain hurts you. Because somehow you've always carried pieces of everyone else's heartbreak as if it belongs to you too.
A tear slips down your cheek, and before you can wipe it away, Jack reaches up, his thumb tenderly brushes gently across your skin.
The touch lingers slightly.
"Hey." His voice is impossibly soft, "Don't cry, honey."
The endearment slips out before he can stop it. The second it does, the room changes. Your breath catches, and Jack freezes. Neither of you moves. For one suspended second, the entire world narrows to that single point of contact. His hand against your cheek, your eyes locked on his. The silence between you is suddenly filled with things neither of you knows how to say. Then Jack does the only thing he can think of—he opens his arms, and you go willingly. The hug is immediate, warm, and safe. Your forehead presses against his shoulder, and his strong arms wrap around you while you melt into him without hesitation. Trusting him completely, the way you always have. Fuck—that might be the most dangerous thing of all. For a moment, neither of you lets go, because none of you wants to. Jack can feel your heartbeat through the thin cotton of his shirt and feel your breathing gradually slowing. He can feel himself becoming far too aware of how perfectly you fit against him.
He closes his eyes for a second.
A mistake.
Because the truth waits for him there—the truth that somewhere along the way, you stopped being just his friend and just his favorite nurse. Stopped being just the person he trusted most and became something he doesn't know what to do with.
Eventually, your breathing evens out. Then slows….then slows again. Jack glances down and realizes you've fallen asleep curled against him. Carefully, he shifts and lowers you onto the bed, pulls the blanket over you, and tucks it beneath your shoulder. The motion is automatic, and for a moment, guilt rises sharp and sudden. Not because you remind him of his late wife. You don't, and you never have. You never will. But somehow that realization doesn't hurt. It simply feels true. You are different—entirely your own person. Entirely your own place in his life. Jack stands there for a long moment, watching you sleep peacefully. Then quietly, he reaches for his crutches resting beside the nightstand.
The apartment is dark now, silent, as he pauses at the doorway, looks back one last time, at you sleeping in his bed. Wrapped in his shirt, breathing softly against his pillow, and despite every effort not to—Jack smiles. Then he switches off the light and heads toward the couch. Completely unaware that he's already fallen far deeper than he ever intended to.
JACK ABBOT'S APARTMENT — MORNING
The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you're comfortable. Suspiciously comfortable. Wrapped in sheets that smell faintly of clean laundry and something familiar you can't quite place. For a few blissful seconds, you remain exactly where you are, half-buried beneath the blankets, eyes still closed. Then your brain starts working slowly… like an old computer booting up. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are.
You crack one eye open, and a ceiling you don't recognize stares back. Your stomach immediately drops. "Oh no."
Then the memories start returning. The nightclub, losing your keys, calling Jack… Jack picking you up. The drive to his apartment, the makeup wipes, and the hug. Oh God. The hug.
Your eyes fly open, fully awake now. Mortification floods your entire body with terrifying speed. "No, no, no, no..."
You immediately bury your face in your hands. Maybe if you stay here long enough, you'll evaporate, and the earth will open up and swallow you whole. Maybe cardiac arrest—you'd accept cardiac arrest. Slowly, you peek out from between your fingers, and a glass of water sits on the nightstand. Beside it is a bottle of ibuprofen and a neatly folded note in Jack's handwriting.
Drink water before standing up.
Your heart does something deeply unhelpful as you groan, "Oh, my God."
Because that's such a Jack thing to do, he’s practical, thoughtful, and annoyingly sweet. You whimper and flop backward onto the pillow.
Unfortunately, reality remains—and reality is that you are currently in Jack Abbot's bed. His bed—his actual bed, the place where he sleeps. The place where—You immediately shove that thought into a dumpster and set it on fire. Nope. Absolutely not. Not going there.
You drag yourself upright before your imagination can make things worse. The oversized Army shirt hanging off your shoulders shifts as you move. Your eyes immediately drop. Jack's shirt. You are wearing Jack's shirt. You consider throwing yourself out of the nearest window.
The bathroom is somehow worse. Because now you're sober, fully sober. Which means you remember everything… mostly. You splash cold water onto your face repeatedly. Trying to wash away the embarrassment and the memory of crying. The image of him calling you honey and you falling asleep against him.
"Oh, I'm never recovering from this." You groan into the sink before you force yourself to look in the mirror. You survive trauma shifts and twelve-hour nights. You went through fucking COVID. So… you can survive breakfast. Probably.
After one final pep talk that accomplishes absolutely nothing, you step out of the bathroom and immediately stop. A framed photograph sits atop the dresser, Jack and his wife, both smiling. The picture looks old, well-loved, the edges slightly worn. Guilt arrives like a punch to the ribs. Because no matter how much time has passed, she's still here. In photographs, memories, and the quiet spaces, he doesn't talk about. You stare at the picture for a moment longer, then look away. The guilt lingers anyway.
The smell hits you before you reach the living room. Coffee, eggs, and toast, along with something frying in a pan. Your stomach growls traitorously, then you turn the corner, and nearly walk directly into a wall. Because Jack is standing at the stove, shirtless. You stop functioning completely. Gone. No thoughts. Head empty. Just panic. Because somehow, in all the years you've known him, you've never actually seen him like this.
At work, he's always covered by scrubs, layers, a jacket, and PPE. Now—now he's standing barefoot in his kitchen wearing nothing but athletic shorts and his prosthetic. Morning sunlight spills through the apartment windows. Across broad shoulders, freckled skin, and muscle earned through years of physical therapy, stubbornness, and sheer determination. The prosthetic is already attached as part of him, as familiar and unremarkable as breathing. You know the story and what happened, and understand now the work it takes to live with it.
Still—seeing him outside the hospital feels strangely intimate, and very human. Your jaw nearly hits the floor as Jack turns. He immediately catches your expression, and to his eternal satisfaction, you look horrified. Not by him, but by being caught staring. His mouth twitches, "Morning."
You blink once, then twice, and you begin rapidly looking anywhere else.
"Morning." Your voice cracks. Well, that’s spectacular. Jack's eyebrow rises, "Rough landing?" You clear your throat. "Oh, absolutely."
His smile grows slightly. "There are worse hangovers."
"Don't."
"You called me at midnight because you lost your keys."
"Jack."
"You accused the floor of moving."
"Jack."
"You tried to negotiate with a coat rack."
Your eyes widen as you sputter, "I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"Oh my fucking God."
Jack laughs—there it is again, a little lighter than it used to be. "Come eat." You hesitate, still standing awkwardly in his shirt, and painfully aware you're in his apartment—his space. Then Jack glances over his shoulder, "You need food before your headache gets worse."
There it is. His doctor voice—the one that brooks absolutely no argument. You sigh dramatically and obey. Because apparently that's become a habit. Jack places a plate in front of you. Eggs, toast, fruit, and a giant glass of water.
You stare, and then at him, then back at the plate, "You made breakfast."
"You sound surprised."
"You made breakfast."
"You were hungover." You blink because he says it so simply, as if taking care of you is the most natural thing in the world, and maybe that's what gets you. It's how easy it seems for him—the quiet way he shows up. Again, and again. So instead of saying any of that, you pick up a piece of toast. "Thanks." Jack glances up from his coffee, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. "Anytime, Lifeline."
You lower your gaze quickly and focus on your breakfast instead. Unfortunately, that only makes things worse because now you're sitting at Jack's dining table, in Jack's apartment—wearing Jack's shirt.
Eating breakfast, he made for you. The domesticity of it settles wrong inside your conscience. Not because you or him have done anything wrong. But because it feels like you're standing in a place that once belonged to someone else. Your eyes drift toward the bookshelf across the room. A framed photograph sits among the books, showing Jack and his late wife. They’re smiling and happy.
The familiar guilt immediately curls around your throat. You look away, and your appetite suddenly harder to find. Jack notices and asks, "You okay?"
You force a smile, "Mhm." Jack raises an eyebrow. The same look he gives patients who claim their pain is a three out of ten while actively dying. "Lifeline."
You sigh at being caught, again. "It's stupid."
"If you're saying that, it probably isn't."
The concern in his voice makes the guilt worse. You stare down at your plate, picking apart a piece of toast. "You've done so much for me."
Jack frowns immediately, "Okay."
"And I kind of crashed into your life last night."
His confusion visibly increases as he points out the obvious, "You lost your keys."
"I know."
"You called me."
"I know."
Jack waits as you groan softly because this sounds ridiculous out loud. "It just feels like I'm imposing."
Jack's expression softens as he says, "Lifeline." You hate it when he says your nickname like that—as if he's trying to talk you down from something.
"You are not imposing."
You look away, stubbornly mutter, "Still."
"No." His answer comes immediately.
You glance up, and Jack is looking directly at you now. Completely serious. "You called because you needed help. That's what people do."
"But—"
"It's not a burden."
You open your mouth; however, Jack cuts you off again. "You would've done the same thing for me."
And unfortunately—he's right. You would've, without hesitation. At three in the morning, or in the middle of a thunderstorm. Without a second thought.
Jack sees the realization cross your face. A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth.
"Exactly."
You look back down at your plate, suddenly embarrassed. Because he's making it sound so simple. Meanwhile, your brain is spiraling. You risk a glance upward and immediately regret it. Because Jack is leaning against the counter. Coffee mug in hand. Morning sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows behind him. Now that you're sober, you're trying very hard not to notice things. Like the freckles scattered across his shoulders. Or the way years of physical therapy and hospital shifts have built quiet strength into him. Maybe the fact that he looks unfairly good for someone standing barefoot in his kitchen at eight in the morning. Your eyes immediately dart back to your eggs because you’re a coward.
"So." Jack takes another sip of coffee. The amusement in his voice is impossible to miss. "You gonna keep staring at your breakfast like it’s inedible?"
You nearly choke, "What?"
"The eggs."
"Oh." Your face feels suspiciously warm. "They're intimidating."
Jack stares at you, then laughs.
Somehow and somewhere along the way, Jack stopped being your soulmate, the impossible person at the end of a red string, and became Jack. The man who remembers your coffee order, and the one who checked on you when you had COVID, who keeps spare electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself. The man who made you breakfast because you were hungover, and the man who still loves his wife. The guilt returns instantly. You glance toward the photograph again. Jack follows your gaze this time. His expression changes subtly. The smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. Neither of you says anything for a moment. The apartment settles into a small, comfortable, sad silence. The kind that comes from old grief that never fully disappears. Finally, you clear your throat. "I'm sorry."
Jack immediately looks confused. "For what?" You gesture vaguely around the apartment. "Sleeping in your room." His expression somehow becomes even more confused. "Lifeline."
"I'm serious."
"Why?"
You stare at him, "Because it's your room."
"Correct."
"And your bed."
"Also correct."
You narrow your eyes because Jack is enjoying this. The asshole. "Jack."
"What?"
"I feel bad."
His expression softens immediately into a quiet gentleness. "It's fine." He replied. You shake your head, "But—"
"No." His voice is calm. "I wasn't going to wake you up so you could sleep on the couch." You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. You try to rebut, "But—" Jack points toward your coffee, "You would've fallen asleep sitting upright."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
"It happened one time."
"It happened three times."
"Allegedly."
Jack laughs into his coffee, and for a moment, just a moment, the guilt eases. Because he's looking at you like you're welcome here. As if your presence isn't an intrusion or that helping you wasn't an obligation. It was just something he wanted to do. That realization follows you for the rest of breakfast. Maybe that's why loving him has always felt so dangerous. It's the spare apartment key he keeps on his keyring. The electrolyte packets in his kitchen because he knows you're terrible at remembering to drink water. The bottle of ibuprofen is waiting on the nightstand before you even wake up. The way he remembers—he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
Eventually, breakfast ends, and you help carry plates to the sink despite Jack's protests. "I'm perfectly capable of washing a plate."
"I know."
"You sounded doubtful."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
Jack rolls his eyes, and you grin.
For a moment, it feels normal. As if this is something the two of you do all the time. Then Jack glances toward the hallway. "I should shower."
Your eyes immediately dart away.
Why are you suddenly embarrassed? You've seen this man covered in blood during trauma activations, and somehow, showering is what's awkward.
"Okay." Jack nods, then pauses, a small frown appearing. "You don't have clothes."
You blink, "Oh." You hadn't actually thought that far ahead. Your club outfit is currently somewhere in the apartment and likely smells like spilled alcohol, perfume, and poor decisions.
Jack disappears down the hallway before you can offer a solution. A moment later he returns carrying a pair of gray sweatpants and another shirt. You immediately recognize the Army logo faded across the front. "Here."
You stare at him, then back at the clothes. "I can't take your clothes."
"You're already wearing my clothes." Unfortunately, he has a point. You glance down at the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders. Jack's mouth twitches, "The sweats have a drawstring."
"Oh, good."
"They should fit."
"Should?"
"Mostly." You narrow your eyes, but Jack looks entirely unapologetic. "You can keep the shirt." Your heart immediately forgets how to function, breathless, "What?" Jack casually shrugs, "It's old." You can’t fucking breathe, so you settle for, "Oh."
The thought of keeping it, taking it home, and sleeping in it. Smelling his laundry detergent every time you wear it is incredibly intimate. "Thanks."
Across his expression is as soft as his response, "You're welcome." Then he gestures toward the hallway. "I'm gonna shower."
You nod, "Okay."
"The shower chair's in my bathroom, so I'll be in there awhile." The statement is matter-of-fact and unremarkable. The same way he always talks about it. Not because it doesn't matter. But because Jack long ago learned there was no point treating every accommodation like a tragedy. It's simply part of his life—part of him. You nod again, "Take your time."
Jack studies you for a second; he's checking for lingering hangover symptoms. Then apparently decides you'll survive. "I'll drive you home after."
"Sounds good." You agree. There’s a pause before Jack says, "Try not to break anything while I'm gone." Your gasp is immediate, "Rude."
"I know you."
"You wound me."
Jack laughs, then walks down the hallway. A few moments later, you hear the bathroom door close. The apartment becomes quiet—the one that only exists in the homes of people who live alone. You wander slowly—absolutely not snooping. You were observing, there's a difference. The apartment itself feels like Jack. Comfortable, practical, and unpretentious. Bookshelves line one wall of the living room. Medical textbooks, military history, and novels with dog-eared pages. A few framed photographs scattered throughout the apartment—friends, coworkers, and people who matter.
You pause near one shelf. A photograph sits there. Jack and his late wife, when they were younger, were laughing. The picture caught in the middle of a moment rather than a pose. She has her head tipped toward him, and Jack is looking at her like she hung the moon.
Your stomach lurches. Because even now—years later—she still belongs here. Of course she does. This was their home, their life. You gently set the frame back exactly where you found it. Suddenly feeling like an intruder again, your gaze drifts around the apartment. There are signs of her everywhere if you know where to look. It isn’t overwhelming or frozen in time. There’s a photograph, a ceramic mug, and a framed postcard tucked between books. Evidence that she existed, and you hate yourself a little. Because standing here, wrapped in Jack's clothes, waiting for him to finish showering, part of you wishes things were different. Part of you wishes you weren't standing in the aftermath of someone else's great love story. The guilt settles heavily, along with the red string hidden beneath your sleeve. You glance toward the hallway, and the sound of running water. Toward the man you've loved for years. Because no matter how badly you want him—you've never wanted to replace her. Not for a second. Never. You just...wanted him to be happy, even if it was never with you.
The drive back to your apartment is quiet, but not uncomfortable. You sit curled into the passenger seat, your folded dress resting on your lap alongside your heels. The sleeves of Jack's old Army shirt hang past your wrists, and the sweatpants are too big with the drawstring pulled tight enough to keep them from falling. You feel ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up. Outside the window, Pittsburgh drifts by in shades of gray. You keep your eyes fixed on it. Because every time you glance at Jack, your heart hurts. Especially after last night… the makeup wipes, the hug, his hand on your face, honey. You don't trust yourself anymore, not even a little. Beside you, Jack steals another glance. You're unusually quiet, and that alone is enough to make him nervous. Normally, even hungover, you'd be talking, making terrible jokes, or complaining about your headache.
Instead, you're staring out the window like you're already somewhere else. His fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel as he asks, "You okay?" You nod immediately, humming, "Mhm."
A lie that Jack recognizes instantly, but he lets it go for now. When he finally pulls up in front of your apartment building, neither of you moves immediately. The truck idles softly as silence stretches, then you suddenly unbuckle. Before Jack can process what's happening, you lean across the center console and wrap your arms around him. The hug catches him completely off guard, and for a moment, he freezes. Then instinct takes over. His arms come around you automatically. Your face presses briefly against his shoulder. Jack's heart does something strange and painful. Because it feels like goodbye, and he has absolutely no idea why.
"Hey." His voice comes out softer than intended. You squeeze him once before you let go, because if you hold on any longer, you won't be able to leave.
"Thanks," you whisper. Your eyes sting immediately, but you force a smile anyway. "For everything." The words shouldn't sound final, but they do. "Anytime, honey." The endearment slips out effortlessly and naturally now. Neither of you acknowledges it. Jack studies your face, trying to figure out what's wrong, to understand why you suddenly look like you're trying not to cry. So he asks carefully, "I'll see you later at work, yeah?"
Your throat tightens while you nod. "Mhm." It's not technically a lie. The second you step out of the truck, you don't look back. You can't. Because if you do, you'll stay. So you practically run inside your apartment building.
Leaving Jack staring after you, confused, worried, and somehow strangely unsettled.
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY
Dana and Lena listen quietly. The three of you sit in an empty conference room before shift change. You make it approximately halfway through your explanation before you start crying. Not graceful tears, pretty tears, but the ugly kind. The tears you've spent years swallowing, "I'm sorry."
Dana immediately reaches for you, "Hey." You shake your head, "I'm sorry."
"Hon." Dana rubs circles against your back, her voice gentle, maternal. "Why are you apologizing?" You laugh through your tears because the answer feels obvious and impossible. "Because I'm in love with him."
The room falls silent as Lena and Dana exchange a glance. A look. One that says they already knew. Everyone always knows except the people involved. "It's just for a little while," you whisper while you wipe furiously at your face. "I just need some space." Dana's expression softens. She asks, "And what about your heart?"
That's the problem, isn't it? Your heart—your stupid, stubborn heart. You stare down at your hands, "Until it relearns how to stop beating for him." Then quietly you hear Lena ask, "So you're not gonna tell him?" You shake your head immediately, "I can't."
Because how do you tell someone that you've been tethered to them for seven years? That you've loved them through a marriage, grief, and loss. Through healing. How do you tell someone that? Especially when he never chose you. So you don't.
THREE DAYS LATER…
PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT
Three days later, Jack notices immediately, the second he walks into the ED, you're gone. No coffee sitting beside your workstation and sarcastic comments from Central—there’s no you. He finds Lena first and asks, "Where is she?" Lena doesn't even look up from her charting, "Where's who?” Jack stares, "Lifeline."
"Oh." She clicks something on her computer. "Day shift." His stomach drops, "What?"
"She switched."
"When?" Lena shrugs at him, "A few days ago."
Jack blinks slowly. "Why?"
"Ask Dana." Suddenly, Lena becomes very interested in her chart.
A week passes, then two, and Jack begins losing his mind. Because you are avoiding him, deliberately and aggressively. You leave before he arrives, or arrive before he leaves. You disappear down hallways and take lunch at different times. Find literally any excuse not to be alone with him. The few times he manages to catch sight of you—you smile and wave.
Then vanish again, like smoke, as if you're afraid of him, and that hurts. Because Jack keeps replaying that night. The club, his apartment, the hug, and the morning after. What did he miss? What did he do? Did he cross a line? Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he somehow ruin the one friendship he can't bear to lose? Every answer leads nowhere, and every day you drift a little farther away. Three weeks later, during shift change, Jack finally spots you. Walking quickly through the corridor, badge swinging from the clip of your scrub pocket, and iced coffee in hand.
He immediately changes direction. "Lifeline." You freeze for a second, then keep walking. Fuck. Jack follows and calls after you, "Lifeline." Your pace somehow gets faster, and now he's genuinely irritated and hurt. "Hey."
Finally, you stop, turning around, with a careful smile already in place, too careful. But not him, never him, not until now. "Hi, Jack." The distance between you feels enormous as he asks, "What is going on?" Nothing. Everything. You force a shrug, "Nothing."
That’s bullshit, and Jack knows it's bullshit. You know he knows, but neither of you says it. Then somebody calls your name from down the hallway, and relief floods your face at escaping him. The realization dawns on him like a punch.
"I gotta go."
"Lifeline—"
"See you around." Then you're gone, again. Practically running.
That's when it happens—Jack stares after you, heart pounding, confused, angry, and hurt. Suddenly—pain flares around his wrist. It’s sharp and hot. He physically flinches, "What the—"
A red thread appears beneath his skin, bright and impossible, but all too real. Jack freezes as the world tilts. No. No. No. The string winds itself slowly around his wrist. As it has always belonged there, it was simply waiting.
His breath catches because he knows what it is; everybody knows what it is. His pulse begins hammering. The thread stretches down the hallway, past nurses, residents, and stretchers, straight toward—You. Jack stumbles, his hand slamming against the wall to keep himself upright as the hallway blurs and his vision tunnels.
No. No, that's impossible. His heart pounds so hard it hurts. The red string glows softly between his wrist and yours, unbroken. Years… all these years. Every conversation, every shift, every cup of coffee, and every moment. Every time you'd looked at him and then looked away, or when you'd disappeared when things became too close. All the times you'd chosen distance. The truth crashes into him all at once. You knew. Oh God. You knew, and somewhere down the hallway—completely unfazed—you kept walking.
While Jack stands frozen in place, one hand braced against the wall, staring at the impossible thread connecting him to the woman he's been desperately trying not to admit he's fallen in love with.
2025
6:00 PM
PTMC, CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY
The emergency department shifts from busy to catastrophic in less than thirty seconds. One moment, people are charting the next—every television screen in the department lights up with breaking news.
There’s an active shooter at PittFest—mass casualty incident. Every healthcare worker in the room recognizes it instantly. The moment before impact… before disaster arrives.
"Hey, what's going on?" McKay asks.
Robby strides into Central, already moving and planning. Carrying the weight of what is coming. "Mass casualty at PittFest."
Samira looks up sharply, "How many victims?"
"We don't know." Robby's face is grim. "Expect the worst.” A terrible silence settles, while someone else immediately reaches for a phone. "Did the police find David?" McKay asks. Robby shakes his head, then raises his voice, "Okay, everybody, listen up."
Every head turns to pay attention to Robby.
"There is an active shooter at PittFest. As the nearest trauma center, we are going to be getting the majority of the victims." The room goes completely still. "We don't know yet how many we're getting, but we are instituting hospital-wide emergency protocols. We need to move every patient out of here. Either home, upstairs, or Family Medicine. Call your loved ones now if you need to."
Robby glances toward the windows, toward the city. Towards the disaster unfolding somewhere beyond it. "I can guarantee cell service will soon be overwhelmed. Eat something. Stay hydrated. Use the bathroom while there's time and meet back here for a full briefing in five minutes."
Then his gaze lands on someone entering through the ambulance bay doors, relief flashes across his face.
"Brother." Robby exhales. "I'm so fucking glad to see you." Jack, carrying his backpack and wearing his black scrubs, briefly hugs Robby, "Heard it on the scanner."
Jack drops his bag onto a workstation. "How many are we expecting?"
"I don't know." Robby's expression darkens. "But it doesn't sound good."
After placing his things down, Jack looks up directly at you. The breath leaves your lungs. Already focused entirely on you.
Your stomach drops. Oh no. No. No. No. He knows. The realization slams into you so hard it feels physical. You don't know how or when. But something in his expression tells you immediately.
He knows about the string—your secret. The thing you've spent seven years burying. Your pulse begins hammering, and blood rushes up to your ears. Across Central, Jack doesn't look away; his jaw flexes, hard, angry. You know that look—you've seen it directed at negligent parents, reckless drivers, people who made choices that hurt others.
Five minutes. That's all you have before the briefing. Before the entire hospital erupts into chaos. Apparently five minutes is all Jack needs. The second he catches you alone, a hand closes firmly around your elbow. "Lifeline." You freeze, your heart immediately dropping into your stomach. "Jack—"
"We need to talk." The words come out low and controlled. He steers you toward an empty supply room. A narrow space lined with IV fluids and sterile procedure kits. The door swings shut behind you, and the silence is deafening.
You turn toward him, trying to keep your face neutral, and completely fall apart. "What's going on?" The question sounds pathetic even to your own ears. Jack stares, and for a moment, he says nothing. Which makes everything worse, because his eyes are furious.
Furious at being hurt and at being lied to. At realizing something important happened without him knowing. His jaw clenches, "You knew." Your vision immediately blurs, "Jack—"
"You knew." The repetition is softer, devastated. You feel your tears threatening already.
"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't look at me like that." Something flashes across his face—pain, but then anger returns to cover it. "So what was the plan?" His words come out sharp.
"Jack—"
"What?" His voice rises, years of confusion finally boiling over. "What were you doing?"
You flinch, and Jack immediately hates himself for it, but he can't stop, not now. "Were you just waiting?" The accusation hangs between you, ugly, unfair, and born entirely from hurt. "Were you waiting for your chance?"
Your eyes widen as the tears come instantly, and suddenly you're angry too. Years of restraint snap all at once.
"No." The word echoes off the walls. "No." You step toward him, furious, heartbroken, and shaking.
"I buried it." Your voice breaks. "I buried every part of it." Jack freezes as you keep going, "You don't get to stand there and act like I wanted this." The tears are falling freely now. It’s hot and humiliating. "I buried every chance of loving you so deep I could barely breathe around it."
The room goes silent as Jack stares while you choke on the next words, because they're true, every single one. "I buried my wanting for you." Your voice cracks again. "And don't you dare accuse me of waiting." The anger disappears, leaving only raw, ancient grief. "You don't get to accuse me of that when I respected it."
Jack's face changes back to confusion and regret. But you're not finished, "I respected her." The words nearly destroy you while you wipe at your face, failing miserably. "I respected both of you."
A photograph flashes through your mind. Then she laughed in the department, bringing Jack lunch, loving him. Being loved by him, the woman you'd genuinely cared about. The woman who had never done anything except be kind to you.
"She was brilliant." You laugh bitterly as another tear slips free. "Beautiful. And I knew I'd never measure up."
Jack physically recoils, as if you'd struck him. "What?" The word comes out strangled. You look away because you can't bear seeing his face. "I know that."
"No." Pain flashes across his expression. "No, you don't." You laugh again, broken, "I do." Then quietly, you add, "The first time I saw the end of the string." Jack goes completely still at your admission.
"The first time I saw it unfinished." Your voice drops, barely above a whisper. "I knew I was going to lose you either way."
Silence—absolute silence. Jack feels like the floor has vanished beneath him, because suddenly, he understands. All those years, smiles, retreats, your careful boundaries. How you'd chosen distance instead of possibility. You weren't waiting. You were grieving the entire time.
The supply room door suddenly swings open, and Robby appears, already halfway through speaking. "Abbot, I need—"
Then he stops, immediately, because you're crying, and Jack looks wrecked. The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
"...Whoa." Robby looks between both of you a few times, then decides he absolutely does not want whatever this is. "What the hell is—"
You move first, past Robby and Jack. Past all of it. Your shoulder brushes the doorframe as you leave. You don't stop, and can’t look back. Because if you do, you'll fall apart. While Jack just stands there, watching you go, understanding too late. For the first time in seven years, understanding exactly how much it must have hurt. Then, somewhere outside the room—an overhead page sounds. The first ambulances are arriving, signaling that the mass casualty has begun. However, the conversation isn't over. Not even close.
7:00 PM
CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT
All at once, the emergency department is already overflowing. Trauma bays filled, hallways lined with stretchers, and blood smeared across floors that Environmental Services doesn't have time to clean. The overhead speakers haven't stopped paging for nearly twenty minutes. Victims keep coming. Gunshot wounds, shrapnel injuries, and crush injuries from the stampede that followed.
The air feels thick with adrenaline and fear. Every single person in the department is running on instinct, training, and experience.
You haven't looked at Jack since the supply room, not really. You can feel him occasionally, like a gravitational force somewhere at the edge of your awareness. A pull you refuse to acknowledge. Every time your eyes accidentally find his across Central, you immediately look away. You don't have the luxury of falling apart right now, because people are dying, you know that, and so does Jack.
So, whatever happened between you has been shoved aside by necessity.
"Let's go!" Langdon's voice cuts through the noise. Another victim on a gurney in Central. Male, approximately late twenties, multiple injuries, semi-conscious, and blood soaking through his shirt. Samira immediately moves to the stretcher, "Who do you have?"
"Semi-conscious. Responds only to pain. Decent carotid."
"Strip him." Mateo reaches for trauma shears, and so does Tim, "Let's go." The team descends immediately, beginning to cut clothing, assessing injuries, checking his airway, and breathing. Everything is moving with practiced efficiency. Then—something feels wrong. You don't know why, it’s just a feeling. A prickling sensation along the back of your neck.
The patient suddenly jerks, and the nurses yelp. A hand disappears beneath the shredded remains of his shirt. Langdon freezes, then shouts. "Whoa!" Everything happens at once.
"Gun!" The word detonates through Central. "Gun! He's going for his gun!"
Every person in the room reacts instantly; some hit the floor, and others dive behind workstations. The patient somehow manages to yank a handgun free. His eyes are wild, disoriented, and terrified. The muzzle swings wildly across the room and lands directly toward Robby and Jack.
Time slows for you as you watch. Later, you'll never be able to explain why you moved, whether it was instinct, training, love… or something much darker. A part of you wonders if maybe you were simply tired—tired of carrying this, of loving him, maybe of being afraid. You never figure it out, because your body moves before your brain does.
One second, you're standing near Central, the next you're running.
The gun fires, and the sound is deafening. A violent crack that echoes through the department. For one suspended moment—nobody moves or breathes. Then pain explodes through you, white-hot, blinding.
You stagger as your knees immediately buckle while the floor rushes upward. Somewhere nearby, people are screaming while others are shouting for security. The world becomes noise, blurred shapes, blood—too much blood. Then, you hear Jack scream your name, and it tears straight out of him. Raw, animal, nothing like you've ever heard before. The resident beside him barely has time to react before Jack is already moving. He’s running—ignoring everyone and everything. None of it matters, not anymore. Because you're on the floor, and you're bleeding. Suddenly, the worst thing Jack has ever imagined is happening right in front of him.Again.
He drops to his knees beside you, not caring that his stump is aching, hands immediately searching, assessing, locating the wound, trying to stop the bleeding while SWAT restrains the man who shot you. His trauma training takes over automatically, even while the rest of him is breaking apart.
"Pressure!" Somebody throws him gauze, Jack slams it hard against the wound. Too much blood—so much fucking blood, and the sight makes his stomach turn. "No."
Your vision swims, and you can barely focus. But somehow—somehow—Jack is all you see. Always him, maybe it was always going to be him. His face is pale, terrified—more terrified than you've ever seen him, and somehow that hurts worse than the bullet.
You manage a weak laugh, and blood touches your lips. Jack immediately hates the sound, "Don't." Your eyes find his, and for the first time in years, you stop hiding. "It was painful."
Jack freezes, "Lifeline—"
"When you looked at me." Your voice trembles, blood continues soaking through the gauze. "When you smiled at me."
"No." His hands shake, just slightly, but you feel it. "When you believed in me." Tears blur your vision. "It hurt."
Jack's face completely crumples because now he understands all of it.
"It tore me apart." The words barely make it out, and an unfiltered sob escapes him. Because you're dying, and he just found you. He spent seven years standing beside you without seeing it. "No." His voice breaks. "No, no, no."
Someone is calling for Trauma One and bringing a stretcher. The department is moving around him. But Jack doesn't care, because the world has narrowed to you—only you.
"I just got you." The words rip from his throat, his eyes shine, desperate, furious, and every bit terrified. "I just got you." Your breath catches. You love him, you always will. So maybe—maybe honesty won't kill you now. "I love you."
Jack closes his eyes, as if the words physically hurt. You smile weakly, doubling down, "I love you, Jack Abbot."
Silence for a moment, then, firmly, "No." The answer comes instantly, violently, as if he's rejecting reality itself. "No." His forehead presses briefly against yours. "You're not doing this."
Tears slide down his face, but he doesn't even notice. "You hear me?" His voice cracks. "You're not doing this to me."
The stretcher arrives, and Robby appears, blood on his gloves. Panic hidden beneath professionalism. "Jack." Nothing… Jack doesn't move. "Jack." Still nothing.
"Abbot!" Finally, Jack looks up, and Robby immediately understands. Oh. Oh no. "We need Trauma One." Robby's voice softens. "Now."
Jack nods once, then helps lift you onto the stretcher himself. Refuses to let go or step away. He refuses to leave your side as they race down the hallway. Trauma One is already being prepared. Blood products, thoracotomy tray, massive transfusion protocol—Everything and anything. Whatever it takes.
Dana meets them at the door, and one look at Jack's face tells her everything, every awful piece of it. "Oh, honey." Jack doesn't even hear her; his eyes never leave you, not once. Dana steps close, careful. "Jack." No response from him, so she tries again, "You need to let them work."
His jaw tightens, "No."
"Jack."
"No." His voice breaks again. Because he knows—he knows exactly how bad this is. Knows every possible complication, terrible outcome, and statistic. Every nightmare, and he cannot survive another one. Not you, God, please, especially not after all this—after finally finding you.
The trauma team begins crowding around the bed. Voices overlap, orders fly, blood pressure dropping, airway concerns, surgical consult from Garcia, massive transfusion. Yet, Jack refuses to move, standing beside your stretcher, his hand wrapped around yours. As if letting go might somehow allow death to take you, or sheer stubbornness can keep you here.
As if love might finally be enough this time around.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The surgery lasts hours—too many hours, long enough for the adrenaline to burn away, and for exhaustion to settle into everyone's bones. Long enough for Jack to memorize every crack in the ICU waiting room floor.
The bullet had done catastrophic damage. A through-and-through gunshot wound with massive internal bleeding. Multiple units of blood transfused. Emergency surgery. Complications halfway through that had nearly sent the entire operating room into a panic. At one point, Robby had physically forced Jack to sit down because he looked seconds away from collapsing. Jack couldn't remember most of it afterward, only fragments. Your blood on his hands. Your voice. I love you, Jack Abbot.
The terror of watching your blood pressure disappear from the monitor. The awful realization that he might lose you before he'd ever gotten the chance to tell you—I love you too. But somehow, you survive. The surgeons manage to stop the bleeding and repair the damage. They brought you back. It feels less like medicine and more like a miracle.
Three days later, you're still asleep, intubated, and hooked to enough machines to make the room hum softly around you. But you're alive, and right now, that's enough.
Jack hasn't left at all. Dana, Robby, Lena, and even Whitaker—all of them fail. Because every time someone tells him to go home, he looks at you lying in that hospital bed and refuses. The man is impossible when he decides on something, and he decided he was staying.
So he stays, wearing scrubs more often than not. Surviving almost entirely on hospital coffee and vending machine food, and sleeping in the uncomfortable chair beside your bed. If you could see him, you'd probably yell at him. Tell him he's being ridiculous, and that he should shower. To stop looking like a man who personally lost a fight against a tornado. Unfortunately, you're unconscious, which means nobody can stop him.
The red string remains, that impossible thread winding around his wrist before disappearing into yours, completely visible now. Neither of you is hiding anymore. Sometimes Jack simply stares at it, as if he's afraid it'll disappear—a chance he'll wake up and discover this was some cruel fever dream. Because for years he believed he'd had his soulmate, then he lost her. And now—now the universe has somehow handed him another sacred thing. A second chance he never expected. One he's terrified of losing before it even begins.
The ICU room is quiet that afternoon as sunlight spills through the window. Your face is pale against the white pillow. Your hair is messy, and there's bruising along your neck from procedures, tape securing lines, and dressings. Evidence of how close death came for you. Jack reaches forward, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. The movement reverent, as if touching something precious. Something fragile and almost lost.
His thumb traces softly across your cheek. "You scared the hell out of me." His voice is rough, sleep-deprived, and broken around the edges. You don't answer, but that never stops him.
The door opens quietly as Robby steps inside, coffee in one hand and concern written all over his face. He pauses immediately, taking in the scene. Jack slumped beside your bed, wearing his scrubs, faintly stained with blood—your blood. His hand wrapped around yours, and the red string was visible between them. For a moment, Robby says nothing, simply watches. Understanding settling over him piece by piece. Then finally, he asks, "How's she doing?"
Jack glances up. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted. "Stable." The word comes out cautious. Because saying it too loudly might somehow jinx everything.
Robby nods, steps closer, looking down at you, at the monitors, then at Jack. A realization flickers across his face. "Is she also..." His voice softens. "...your soulmate?"
The question hangs quietly between them, and Jack's gaze immediately drops to your hand. To the red thread wrapped around both wrists. He can't speak for a little while, then he nods once.
"I think so." The words sound ridiculous even now. "I didn't think..." His voice catches as he looks down at you. At the woman he'd spent seven years loving without understanding why it felt different. Not understanding why losing your friendship hurt more than it should, or why seeing you happy mattered so much. Why he'd kept showing up, again and again. "I didn't think it was possible."
The rRobby remains silent, letting him continue as Jack swallows. "I didn't think it would happen to me." The confession comes out almost embarrassed—he's admitting something shameful. Robby exhales slowly, nods. "There've been a few reports."
Jack glances up.
"A few studies." Robby shrugs. "The theory is that some soulmate bonds don't form immediately." His eyes drift toward the red string, toward your intertwined hands. "Sometimes they form after loss."
The room falls quiet, neither of them says the obvious thing. That his late had been Jack's soulmate too, and loving her had been real, complete, and true. That none of this erased her.
Jack looks back at your sleeping face, the rise and fall of your chest, and the steady rhythm on the monitor. Alive and still here. His fingers slide gently through your hair again, careful not to disturb anything, as his hand cups your cheek. The gesture impossibly tender. Robby immediately looks away, because some moments aren't meant for witnesses.
Jack leans forward, pressing a kiss against your forehead, lingering there for a second, eyes closed and relieved. Terrified and very in love. When he finally pulls back, his thumb brushes across your skin. And for the first time since the shooting, a small smile appears. Fragile, hopeful, like he's allowing himself to believe it. Just a little.
"Come back to me, Lifeline." His voice is barely above a whisper. The red string glows softly between your wrists, and Jack squeezes your hand gently, as if you're already listening. As if somewhere beneath the machines and medications and healing wounds, you can hear him. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, he isn't asking fate for anything. He's only asking for you.
PTMC, ICU — DAY
The first thing you become aware of is discomfort, not pain, well, not yet anyway, just wrongness. A strange pressure lodged in your throat—something foreign. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy, as if someone glued them shut. The effort required to open them feels monumental. Slowly, painstakingly—you manage it, and the world arrives in fragments. White ceiling, muted sunlight, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the steady hiss of oxygen.
A hospital room—your hospital room, and immediately your nursing brain starts putting pieces together. ICU, you're in the ICU, which means—Oh. Oh no, the shooting. Memory crashes back all at once: the gun, Jack, blood, Trauma One. I love you, Jack Abbot.
Your eyes widen immediately as panic flares. Because there is definitely a tube down your throat, a ventilator tube, and suddenly every survival instinct in your body starts screaming. You try to move—a mistake, as pain explodes through your abdomen. Pain that says somebody has spent several hours trying very hard to keep you alive. A strangled sound leaves you; your heart monitor immediately speeds up.
Then you feel it, a hand, wrapped around yours. You turn your head, slowly, and there he is… Jack. Curled awkwardly in the chair beside your bed, wearing his black scrubs, asleep. His head was resting against folded arms near your mattress, one hand tangled with yours, the red string winding quietly between your wrists. For a moment, you just stare because he looks awful. His curls are a mess, dark circles shadow his eyes, his jaw is covered in stubble, his scrubs are wrinkled because he hasn't slept properly in days, and he hasn't left. This whole time, he stayed. Your fingers twitch, weakly, barely enough movement to count. Then you squeeze his hand.
Jack jerks awake instantly, years of emergency medicine, and years of sleeping lightly. His head snaps upward, disoriented and confused. Then his eyes land on yours, and the entire world stops. For a moment, he doesn't move or breathe. Doesn't seem capable of either. He just stares, afraid you're another dream, or another hallucination born from exhaustion.
"Hey." The word comes out rough, barely audible, and your eyes immediately fill with tears. Because he's crying, relief floods his face so quickly it looks painful. His hand tightens around yours.
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
You try to answer, then immediately regret it, because the tube is still there. Panic spikes again.
Jack notices instantly, "Hey." His hand cups the side of your face, gentle and grounding. "Hey, hey." His thumb brushes your cheek, "You're okay." Your breathing becomes faster, the ventilator alarms immediately begin protesting. "You're okay." Jack is already reaching for the call button, never taking his eyes off you. "You're okay."
Within seconds, the room fills with people. Garcia arrives first. Followed by respiratory therapy, a nurse, and half the ICU, apparently. "Well, look at that." Garcia's grin is immediate. "About time."
You want to roll your eyes, but unfortunately, you still have a breathing tube. The respiratory therapist immediately begins assessing and following commands. Checking your neurological status. Making sure you're strong enough for extubation. You squeeze hands, follow fingers with your eyes, nod appropriately. All while Jack hovers nearby. Trying desperately not to interfere, and failing miserably.
"She's ready." The therapist glances toward Garcia, and then Garcia nods. "Let's do it."
Jack immediately moves closer, instinctively. Like he physically cannot help himself. The ventilator disconnects, the securing device is removed, and the respiratory therapist gives instructions. You barely hear any of them; your entire focus is on the tube. Then—it's out. Immediately, you cough violently because your throat burns. Every breath feels strange and uncomfortable, but you're breathing on your own.
Jack is already helping support you upright, one arm behind your shoulders, the other holding a cup with ice chips. "Easy." His voice is impossibly soft. "Slow down."
You cough again, eyes watering. Jack looks ready to fight somebody on your behalf. Possibly the tube or the entire ICU. Eventually, the coughing settles enough for you to breathe comfortably, and the monitors stabilize, everyone visibly relaxing.
Garcia steps forward, professional mode fully activated. "Okay. The surgery went well." She begins carefully. "You sustained a gunshot wound to the abdomen." Jack's jaw tightens visibly as she continues, "There was significant internal bleeding." Garcia continues. "We had to perform an emergency exploratory laparotomy."
Your nurse brain immediately fills in blanks, searching for damage, complications, and probabilities. Garcia notices this and says, "We repaired injuries to your small bowel and controlled several bleeding vessels."
Stable—the most beautiful word in medicine. You glance toward Jack; he's staring at the floor, hearing the details physically hurts. Garcia notices that, too, a tiny smile appears. One that says she understands far more than she's commenting on.
"Recovery's going to suck." You manage a weak laugh; the sound comes out raspy. Garcia points immediately. "There she is. Don't make me regret taking that tube out."
For the first time since waking, you actually smile. Garcia gathers her chart and steps toward the door, then pauses, looking between you. Then Jack, the red string, then back again.
"Oh." A knowing expression crosses her face. "Right."
Jack immediately looks uncomfortable, which is almost impressive considering everything that's happened.
Garcia grins. "Try not to stress her out." Then she points at you. "And try not to get shot again."
The door closes behind her, and the room suddenly feels much quieter. Much smaller and more intimate. Silence settles; neither of you quite knows what to say. Because there are too many things, seven years' worth.
Jack remains seated beside the bed, his hand never leaving yours, not once. He's afraid the second he lets go, you'll disappear again.
Your throat hurts—everything hurts, but somehow none of it matters right now. Because Jack is looking at you, really looking at you, and there are tears still caught in his eyelashes. Evidence of how terrified he'd been, your fingers tighten weakly around his. "Hi." The word comes out hoarse, barely audible. A wet laugh escapes him, disbelieving, and relieved. "Hi."
His thumb brushes across your knuckles, again and again. As if he needs the contact—he needs proof. Then Jack lowers his head, pressing his forehead gently against your joined hands, his eyes closing. Breathing shakily, and in that moment, you realize he was just as afraid of losing you as you'd always been of losing him.
Finally, Jack swallows hard, then asks quietly, "How long?" You know exactly what he means, not the shooting or the string. All of it. You stare down at your intertwined hands. At the red thread winding around both wrists, then back at him, and answer honestly. "Since my first day.”
Jack blinks, once and twice. He genuinely thought he'd misheard you, "Your first day?" You nod, a sad laugh escaping. "Yeah."
His mouth opens, then closes, and opens again. The physician in him is clearly attempting to process impossible information. Unfortunately for him, he's currently operating as a man in love, not a doctor, which means none of this is going well.
"Seven years?" The words come out strangled, and you give a tiny nod. Jack leans back in his chair, looking dizzy. "Jesus Christ."
A weak laugh escapes you. "That was more or less my reaction too." His hand tightens around yours to reassure himself.
"Why didn't you tell me?" The question is quiet, not accusing anymore, only hurt. He’s trying to understand. You look away first, toward the window. Because this part is harder. "You were married." The words are simple, obvious, and true, Jack's expression immediately softens.
"You loved her." You smile sadly. "Of course you did." Because he had, you'd seen it, every day, in every smile or phone call, at the mere mention of her.
"I wasn't going to be the woman who showed up and destroyed that." Your voice trembles. "I couldn't. It's why I never said anything." A tear slips free, and you don't bother wiping it away.
"I respected her too much." Your laugh cracks. "And honestly?" You finally look at him, unwaveringly, you admit, "I loved you too much.” Jack closes his eyes, processing the truth of it all. "I knew you were happy." You smile weakly. "I thought… I thought if I couldn't be the person you loved, then I'd settle for being someone you trusted."
Jack stares at you, completely speechless. Suddenly, every memory makes sense, every retreat or careful boundary. You chose distance over possibility. You weren't waiting. You weren't hoping for his wife to die. Goddamit. The thought makes him sick now. You were protecting him—protecting both of them, at the expense of yourself, for seven years.
"That's insane." The words slip out before he can stop them. You blink, offended. "Excuse me?" Jack actually laughs, a wet, exhausted sound. "You loved me for seven years."
"You make it sound like a disease." You frowned.
"It kind of is."
You point weakly, "I got shot."
"Exactly." For the first time since waking up—you both laugh. The sound fades slowly, leaving only the truth behind. Jack shifts closer, his chair scrapes softly against the floor, until he's sitting right beside the bed, close to you, so that there's nowhere left to hide.
"I need you to understand something." His voice lowers, gentler now, and more vulnerable than you've ever heard it. Jack looks down briefly, then back up. "She was my soulmate." The words settle softly between you, simply true and not at all cruel. You nod, because you know—you've always known.
"I loved her." His eyes shine, "I'll always love her."
You squeeze his hand, "I know." Jack exhales shakily, then continues, "But somewhere along the way..." His voice falters, and you can’t recall if you've ever seen him this scared. His thumb brushes your cheek, the same way it did the night you almost died. "You became my favorite part of the day. The first person I wanted to talk to." Another stroke of his thumb. "The person I looked for first." His eyes never leave yours. "And when you started avoiding me..."
He laughs once, humorless and every bit painful. "It felt like somebody was ripping pieces off me." The confession steals the air from your lungs, and Jack leans forward slightly, and your heart starts racing.
"I thought I was losing my mind." A tiny smile appears at the corners of his mouth. "Turns out I was just in love with you."
Everything disappears—leaving just him and tears blur your vision instantly.
"Oh." It's all you can manage. Jack smiles, soft, beautiful, it’s entirely his. "Yeah."
Suddenly, you're crying. Because after seven years—after all that grief and silence and fear—he chose you. Not because of the string or fate. Or because destiny told him to. But because he loved you.
"You idiot." Your words wobble and Jack laughs, "I know."
"You absolute idiot."
"I've been told."
You laugh through your tears, and somehow, he wipes them away before they can fall. The gentlest touch imaginable, as if you're something precious. Then his forehead rests against yours, and neither of you speaks. You don't need to. The red string glows softly between your wrists, a silent witness, and for the first time—it doesn't feel like a chain. It feels like a beginning.
Jack's gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then immediately back to your eyes. Giving you every opportunity to stop him. Every opportunity to say no. You don't. Not even a little.
So, he kisses you, softly, as if you're something holy. Something he spent seven years searching for without realizing it. His hand cups your cheek, while yours finds his wrist. Right where the string wraps around him, the kiss is gentle and tender. A promise rather than a fire.
When he finally pulls back, neither of you moves very far, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Jack smiles, the kind of smile you've spent years secretly collecting. "Hi."
A laugh escapes you, "Hi." Then his eyes soften, filled with something warm enough to last a lifetime. "There you are."
After seven years of loving him in silence—you finally get to stay.
End Notes:
Where do I even begin? This idea has been cooking in my head for MONTHS. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how I wanted this story to go. But then you know how things just suddenly click and fall into place? That’s exactly what happened.
It was absolutely euphoric—once I got the plot beats down, I just couldn’t stop writing lol.
I wanted you, the reader, to know how much you respected Jack’s wife and that you weren’t trying to replace her.
Also.. do you get it? Lifeline = Line = String…. Ha ha ha. You are his Line…
Everyone blame Noah Kahan for making me cry to Orbiter.
LOWKEY, wasn’t expecting a lot of people to read this…
"My Lifeline." His voice cracks completely, and suddenly, tears are sliding down his cheeks, unashamed. Jack laughs once, a choked sound halfway between a sob and a prayer. "Oh, my God."
Heartbreak isn’t loud — it’s quiet, creeping, and cruel. You thought letting Dick Grayson go would break you. You never imagined it might kill you.
▸ PAIRING: Dick Grayson x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: so many reader insecurities (it's that kind of angst), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, probably non-canon compliant things bc im new to this world, reader gets extremely hurt, hospital scenes
▸ WORD COUNT: 7.2K
▸ A/N: this is actually the first dick fic i ever wrote but didn't post until now! i seem to have a thing for exploring insecurities in relationships when im writing a new character (see clark and bucky). i love him so much, he is sooo loverboy. tom taylor's is also such fine shit jfc. i hope you enjoy <3 if you do, all likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated :)
The movies always describe heartbreak as devastation. A tragedy. A travesty. They talk about the feeling of their hearts being ripped out of their chest, beating bloody until they cease completely. They speak of the way their hearts stop suddenly, abruptly; a flare of panic only momentary before everything stills.
What they don’t tell you is that that’s not at all how heartbreak works. Heartbreak is oftentimes dramatized for the sake of entertainment. An exaggeration of the moment a heart splinters into a million pieces, parts that are impossible to glue back together into a whole.
Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to.
Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you.
You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them.
You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself.
Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time.
You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is.
Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations.
The first vibration, he ignores.
The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.
Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”
But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass.
The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you.
It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you.
So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”
Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth.
And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson.
Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first.
In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place.
Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson.
At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world.
It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be.
Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket.
When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time.
For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him.
How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?
Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?
Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.
Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet.
That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them.
But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness?
It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier.
So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be.
The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions.
Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay.
He does. Every time.
There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does.
Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body.
You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city.
You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice.
The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company.
You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?
But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table.
That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen.
Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”
You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress.
“Okay,” is all you manage to say.
True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”
Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”
He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?”
Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you.
It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor.
It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.
It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats.
The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete.
So you do what you thought was best.
“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”
Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”
“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how.
He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you.
“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this.
No. But, of course, you don’t say that.
“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”
A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him.
But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away.
Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it.
And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.
It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance.
He is the romance.
The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.
The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one.
There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such.
I miss you. What are you doing tonight?
Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?
I made a mistake. Will you have me again?
You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable.
And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it.
However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone.
The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.
He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support.
It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.
But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again.
You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you.
Not when you feel the breath down your neck.
“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”
The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table.
“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”
“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold.
By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment?
Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now.
Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.
Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this.
Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.
When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising.
You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember.
And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time.
But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting.
“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”
“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor.
“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”
The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face.
“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”
“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”
Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.”
The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under.
Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter.
Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter.
You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.
Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry.
Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s.
You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black.
You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head.
Then it all goes black.
“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”
“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”
“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”
“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”
“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”
“Sir, this is family only—”
“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before.
Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”
“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”
“No, I’m not leaving.”
“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”
“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”
“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce.
Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”
“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”
A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”
“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.”
A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”
“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.”
“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”
There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”
“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”
“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”
“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”
“Should’ve been me in this bed.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”
“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”
When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.
“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.”
Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings.
White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive.
You’re alive.
Christ, you’re alive.
But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days.
He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already.
“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”
Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”
“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”
Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead.
Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”
“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”
“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”
You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”
“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”
“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”
“I wasn’t fast enough.”
“You were as fast as you could be.”
“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”
“You’ll get him next time.”
“I let you get hurt.”
“You didn’t do anything except save me.”
Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you.
“I love you.”
Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours.
“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”
Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face.
“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”
“Dick…”
“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”
“Stay.”
“I have to—”
You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”
Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you.
“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.”
For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”
“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”
“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”
There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”
Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”
You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”
His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”
“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip.
He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue.
How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?
“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”
The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”
A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue.
“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.”
“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”
Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”
You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”
The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours.
And it feels like homecoming.
“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”
“Our?”
He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”
“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”
“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”
“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”
He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution.
“It’s not a no, baby.”
The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you.
“And Dick—”
“Yeah?”
“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”
“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned.
Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”
“Anytime, pretty girl.”
dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt
ꉂ`𖦹. summary - you are a princess promised to a duke you've never met, but your heart belongs to choso, the sad-eyed court jester who sees you as more than a crown and yet, fails to make anyone laugh. when your father discovers your forbidden love and sentences choso to death, you're forced into a betrothal ball with the enigmatic duke satoru gojo—who, surprisingly, offers to help you. with time running out and your wedding looming, you and choso must choose between duty and desire, between the lives you were born into and the love that could set you free.
ꉂ`𖦹. tags - forbidden love :: eventual smut :: slow burn :: fluff :: emotional angst :: royalty au :: class divide :: arranged marriage :: secret relationships :: vanilla sex :: p in v sex :: porn w plot :: fingering :: literally the softest sex ever they r in love :: arguments :: very angsty :: happy ending :: hurt/comfort :: sneaking around :: getting caught :: aftercare :: and choso is rly stupid he cant make anyone laugh
ꉂ`𖦹. wc : 18.7k
the throne room was a cavern of gold and whispers, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows to paint the marble floor in fractured rainbows. you sat upon the high-backed chair on the dais, the weight of the crown on your head a familiar, heavy ache, your spine straight as a spear. below, the court murmured—a low, constant hum of silk rustling and boots clicking—until the heavy oak doors groaned open.
the herald’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. "presenting the new court jester, your highness. choso."
you didn't look up from the scroll in your lap immediately, feigning disinterest. jesters were a dime a dozen; your father cycled through them every season, desperate to inject some levity into the rigid structure of court life. you expected a flash of garish color, a flip, or a high-pitched cackle.
what you got was silence.
you lifted your eyes.
standing in the doorway was a man who looked like he’d been shoved into his costume against his will. the motley was a clash of garish red and sickly yellow, the fabric hanging loosely on his broad frame. a tall, floppy hat with dried, tarnished bells perched atop his head, the bells dangling low, nearly brushing his shoulders.
his face was pale, hair a messy black mop, and his eyes—dark and intense—darted around the room like a cornered animal before settling on you. he didn't smile. he didn't bow with a flourish. he just stood there, stiff as a board.
the silence stretched, uncomfortable and thick.
"well?" you said, your voice echoing slightly in the vast space. "are you going to perform, or just stand there blocking the light?"
he flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of his shoulders. his hands, which were large and scarred, fumbled at his sides. he took a step forward, and the bells on his hat and his pointed shoes jingled—a dull, heavy clank rather than a cheerful chime.
"a-apologies," he mumbled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your chest. "my princess."
he attempted a bow. it was a disaster. he bent at the waist too quickly, the long tail of his motley catching under his boot, causing him to stumble. the bells on his hat swung violently, clattering together with a discordant noise that made you wince. he caught himself, straightening up, his pale cheeks flushing a deep, mortified red.
"nervous?" you asked, tilting your head, a cruel amusement bubbling up in your chest. it was rare to see a grown man—especially one built like a blacksmith, broad-shouldered and thick-limbed—look so utterly out of place in a costume meant for laughter.
"no," he lied, his gaze dropping to the floor. "yes. a little."
"you’re supposed to be funny," you stated, letting the silence hang again. "that’s the job. make us laugh. entertain the court."
he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. "i... i can tell a joke, your highness."
"please do."
he took a breath, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. the bells jingled softly with the movement. "why did the knight bring a ladder to the bar?"
you waited.
he stared at you, waiting for you to ask why. when you didn't, he shifted his weight, the bells ringing again. "because he heard the drinks were on the house."
silence.
absolute, crushing silence.
you stared at him, blinking once, twice. the punchline hung in the air, limp and lifeless. a few courtiers near the front snorted, but it was clearly out of pity, not genuine humor.
choso’s ears—hidden somewhat by his messy hair—turned a shade of crimson that rivaled his motley. he looked at you, his dark eyes wide with a desperate, pleading hope that you might find it funny. when you didn't crack a smile, he looked down again, his shoulders slumping.
"i see," you said, your tone dry as dust. "well. that was... informative."
"i-i have another," he rushed out, panic edging his voice. "what do you call a fake noodle?"
"an impasta?" you guessed, reciting the most basic joke in the kingdom.
he nodded vigorously, the bells on his hat jingling with the motion. "yes. that is... that is the joke."
"you bore me," you said, cutting him off before he could offer another stale pun. "and your jokes are older than the stones in this castle."
he winced, looking genuinely wounded. "i... i’m trying, your highness."
"try harder," you snapped, though there was no real heat behind it. you were just bored, and he was an easy target. "you’re annoying. the bells are annoying. your face is... serious. you look like you’re attending a funeral, not entertaining a princess."
his jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. he just bowed again, deeper this time, careful not to trip. "i will endeavor to improve, your highness."
"see that you do," you waved a hand dismissively. "you’re dismissed for now. go practice. somewhere far away from here."
he bowed a third time, retreating backward toward the doors, clumsy and stiff. the bells rang with every step, a dull, rhythmic tolling that followed him out of the room. the heavy doors shut, silencing the sound, and the court resumed its murmuring, the new jester already forgotten by most.
but you remembered the flush on his cheeks, the way his large hands had trembled slightly.
—
later that afternoon, you were in the gardens, walking the hedgerows with your ladies-in-waiting. the air was crisp, the scent of roses heavy and sweet. you were discussing the upcoming harvest festival, the tedious details of decorations and feasts, when a flash of ugly red caught your eye near the fountain.
it was him. choso.
he was standing by the stone basin, staring at the water as if it held the secrets of the universe. he wasn't juggling, wasn't tumbling, wasn't doing anything remotely jester-like. he was just... standing there, looking like a misplaced gargoyle.
"oh, look," elara, your closest lady, giggled behind her hand. "it’s the gloomy jester."
"perhaps he’s waiting for the fish to tell him a joke," another maid added, earning a ripple of laughter.
you felt a strange urge to defend him, which was ridiculous. he was annoying. but as you drew closer, you saw him reach out a hand, his fingers hovering over the surface of the water. a dragonfly landed on his knuckle, and for a second, his expression softened. he didn't crush it. he didn't flick it away. he just watched it, his dark eyes curious.
then he saw you.
the softness vanished, replaced by that familiar, panicked stiffness. he jerked his hand back, the dragonfly flying off, and immediately tried to execute a bow. he managed to dip low without falling, but the bells on his shoes rang out sharply against the cobblestones.
"your highness!" he said, his voice tight.
"still here?" you asked, stopping before him. you looked him up and down. the motley was even more daunting in the sunlight, the red fabric clashing violently with the green of the hedges. "i thought i told you to go practice."
"i was... practicing," he said, gesturing vaguely at the fountain. "observation. humor is rooted in observation, they say."
"and what have you observed?"
he paused, thinking hard. his brows furrowed in concentration. "that the water is wet. and the stone is hard."
elara snorted, quickly covering her mouth. you fought the urge to roll your eyes.
"riveting," you said. "truly, the court is lucky to have such a keen wit."
he looked down, his ears turning pink again. "i’m not... i’m not naturally funny, your highness. i was hired for my... other skills."
"other skills?" you raised an eyebrow. "can you juggle? tumble? swallow fire?"
he shook his head. "no. but i can... stand very still. and i have good reflexes."
"that is not what a jester does."
"i know," he said quietly.
you sighed, stepping closer. the scent of him was unexpected—not the cloying smell of cheap perfume or sweat, but something earthy, like old paper and rain. his hands were clasped behind his back, knuckles white.
"look," you said, softening your tone slightly. "my father hired you to make me laugh. or at least, to distract me. you’re failing miserably."
"i’m sorry," he said, and he sounded it. genuinely, deeply sorry. "i will try harder. i can... i can learn a new routine. i can tumble. i can try to be... louder."
"louder isn't better," you told him. "you’re stiff. you move like a soldier, not a performer. relax."
he blinked, looking at you as if you’d spoken a foreign language. "relax?"
"yes. loosen up. stop looking like you’re about to be executed."
he let out a breath, a short, sharp exhale. "i’m not used to... this. the bells. the colors. the expectation of joy."
"what are you used to?"
his eyes met yours, and for a second, the mask slipped. there was a hardness there, a history of violence and loss that didn't belong in a garden. then it was gone, shuttered away. "nothing important, your highness. just... the quiet."
you studied him for a long moment. he was an enigma, this jester who couldn't joke, who stood like a statue, who looked at dragonflies with tenderness.
"fine," you said finally. "you may follow me for the rest of the walk. but no bells."
he looked confused. "no bells?"
"take them off. they’re grating on my nerves."
he hesitated, then reached up to his hat. he unhooked the small, tarnished bells one by one, placing them carefully into a pouch at his belt. the silence that followed was profound. without the constant jingling, he seemed... larger. more imposing. the silence around him was heavy, but it was a comfortable silence, not the awkward one from the throne room.
"better," you murmured. "now, walk. and try not to look like you’re marching to war."
he nodded, falling into step beside you, keeping a respectful distance. he walked quietly, his boots making soft thuds on the path. for the next hour, he followed you through the gardens, silent and observant. he didn't try to tell a joke. he didn't try to tumble. he just walked.
and strangely, you didn't mind his presence.
—
it became a routine, then. not a comfortable one—not yet—but a routine nonetheless. every afternoon, like clockwork, choso would appear in your solar. he'd knock twice, wait for your curt "enter," and then take his place in the furthest chair by the window. sometimes he brought nothing. sometimes he brought a book he clearly wasn't reading, just holding it in his lap like a prop, his dark eyes flicking up every few seconds to check if you'd noticed him failing at the one thing he was supposed to be doing.
you noticed. you always noticed.
"you're staring at that page like it insulted your bloodline," you said one afternoon, not looking up from your embroidery. the fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows across the room. outside, rain streaked the windows in silver lines.
he startled, the book nearly slipping from his grasp. "i'm reading."
"you've been on the same page for twenty minutes."
he looked down at the book, then back at you, his expression caught between guilt and defiance. "it's a... complex passage."
"it's a cookbook."
the silence that followed was excruciating. you could see the exact moment the realization hit him—the way his shoulders sagged, the way his nose turned pink beneath the messy fall of his hair. he closed the book slowly, setting it on the small table beside him with exaggerated care.
"i was hungry," he said, which was such a blatant lie that you almost laughed. almost.
"you're supposed to be humouring me," you reminded him, threading your needle with a sharp, precise motion. "not reading cookbooks in the corner."
"i know."
"so entertain me."
he opened his mouth. closed it. opened it again. "would you like to hear about the history of bread-making?"
"no."
"the proper way to knead dough?"
"absolutely not."
he slumped back in his chair, looking utterly defeated. the motley he wore today was a deep purple and gold, the colors rich but somehow making him look even more out of place, like a crow dressed in peacock feathers. the bells on his hat—he'd started wearing them again, a small rebellion or perhaps just forgetfulness—jingled softly with the movement.
"i don't know what you want from me," he said quietly, and there was a raw honesty in his voice that made you pause.
you set your embroidery down, turning to face him fully. he looked miserable. genuinely, deeply miserable. his large hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white, and he wouldn't meet your eyes.
"i want you to be what you were hired to be," you said, not unkindly. "a jester. someone who makes people laugh. someone who brings lightness to this... heavy place."
"i'm not light," he said, still staring at his hands. "i've never been light."
"i can see that."
he looked up then, surprised. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for mockery, for cruelty. he found neither.
"you're not light," you agreed. "but you're here. and you're trying. and that's... something, i suppose."
he held your gaze for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. not quite hope, but perhaps the ghost of it. "something," he repeated softly.
"don't let it go to your head."
he almost smiled.
—
the rain continued for three days straight, turning the castle grounds into a muddy, dripping prison. you were confined to the indoors, pacing the halls like a caged animal, your ladies-in-waiting trailing behind you with their endless chatter about needlework and court gossip. you loved them, truly, but sometimes their voices were like nails on a chalkboard.
you found yourself in the library on the third day, seeking solitude among the towering shelves of leather-bound books. the room was vast and quiet, lit by the pale gray light filtering through the high windows. you ran your fingers along the spines, searching for nothing in particular, just needing to move, to think.
"your highness."
you turned to find choso standing at the end of the aisle, looking as out of place among the books as he did everywhere else. he was holding a small, battered book in one hand, his other hand fidgeting with the hem of his motley.
"what are you doing here?" you asked, more curious than annoyed.
"looking for... material," he said, holding up the book. "jokes. humor. something."
you raised an eyebrow. "you're researching jokes?"
"yes."
"in the library."
"…yes."
you couldn't help it. a small laugh escaped you, sharp and surprised. he blinked, looking startled by the sound.
"what?" he asked, defensive.
"you," you said, shaking your head. "you're researching jokes. like they're a subject to be studied!"
"they are," he insisted, his cheeks flushing. "humor is a skill. it can be learned."
"not like that!"
"how, then?"
you thought about it, tilting your head. "i don't know. it just... happens. you see something funny, or you say something without thinking, and people laugh. it's not something you can read about in a book."
he looked down at the book in his hands, then back at you, his expression crestfallen. "so i'm hopeless."
"i didn't say that."
"you didn't have to."
you sighed, stepping closer. up close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the tension in his jaw. he looked tired. not just physically, but tired in his soul.
"choso," you said, and it was the first time you'd used his name without the title attached. he looked up, startled. "you're trying too hard. that's the problem."
"i'm not trying hard enough. you just said—"
"i know what i said. but you're so focused on being funny that you're forgetting to just... be. be yourself. be present. the humor will come."
he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. "what if myself isn't funny?"
"then you'll be the world's most serious jester," you said dryly. "and at least you'll be original."
he huffed, a sound that was almost a laugh. almost. "original. great. that's what every jester dreams of."
"you're not every jester."
"no," he agreed quietly. "i'm not."
you stood there for a moment, the silence stretching between you. it wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it was heavy with something you couldn't quite name. then you turned away, back to the bookshelves, dismissing the feeling.
"fine," you said over your shoulder. "you can stay. but no more research. just sit. and be quiet. let the silence do the work."
"the silence?"
"yes. sometimes silence is funnier than any joke," you lied.
he looked skeptical, but he didn't argue. he moved to a chair in the corner, settling into it with a grace that belied his size. he didn't open the book. he just sat, watching you browse the shelves.
the minutes ticked by. the rain drummed against the windows. the fire in the library's hearth crackled softly. you pulled out a book at random, flipping through the pages without really reading, hyperaware of his presence in the corner of your vision.
"your highness," he said finally, breaking the silence.
"what now?"
"why do you stay in here? in the library. you could be in your solar. it's warmer. more comfortable."
you shrugged, not turning around. "i like the quiet."
"you like the quiet," he repeated, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "the princess who complains about my silence likes the quiet."
"it's different," you said, defensive. "your silence is... heavy. oppressive. the library's silence is peaceful."
"oppressive," he echoed, and now he was definitely smiling. "that's a big word."
you turned to glare at him, but the expression died on your face when you saw him. he was leaning back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, the book forgotten on the armrest. his posture was relaxed, his face softer than you'd ever seen it. and he was smiling—not the small, hesitant almost-smiles he'd given you before, but a real smile, reaching his eyes.
"what?" you demanded, feeling heat creep up your neck.
"nothing," he said, still smiling. "just... you're funny."
"i'm not trying to be funny."
"i know," he said, and his smile widened. "that's what makes it funny."
you stared at him, your mouth opening and closing like a fish. he thought you were funny. him. the man who couldn't tell a joke to save his life thought you were funny.
"that's—" you sputtered. "i'm not—you can't just—"
and then, despite yourself, you laughed.
it burst out of you, unexpected and bright, echoing off the high ceilings of the library. you laughed until your sides hurt, until tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, until you had to lean against the bookshelf for support.
choso watched you, his smile softening into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in a way you didn't want to examine.
"there it is," he said quietly.
"there what is?"
"the sound i've been trying to earn."
—
after that, something shifted. not dramatically, not all at once, but slowly, like the turning of a season. you still complained about him. he still failed spectacularly at being a jester. but the edges of your annoyance softened, worn down by the quiet afternoons and the unexpected moments of levity.
he started appearing in more places. not just your solar, but the gardens, the hallways, the kitchens. he was always there, a silent shadow in motley, watching you with those dark, intense eyes. you'd be walking to a meeting with your father, and you'd turn a corner to find him standing there, waiting.
"following me now?" you'd ask, exasperated.
"the king requested i attend to you," he'd say, which was a transparent lie and you both knew it.
"the king doesn't care where i am."
"perhaps i care," he'd say, so quietly you almost missed it.
you didn't know what to do with that. so you did nothing. you just kept walking, and he kept following, and the silence between you grew more comfortable with each passing day.
one afternoon, you were in the throne room, sitting in on a council meeting. it was tedious beyond measure—trade agreements and tax disputes and border negotiations that made your eyes glaze over. you sat in your chair on the dais, trying to look engaged, while your mind wandered.
you glanced to the side and saw choso standing against the wall, trying to blend in with the tapestries. he was failing miserably. the motley was too bright, his presence too solid. but he was trying, standing so still that he almost looked like a statue.
you caught his eye. he looked panicked, like a child caught stealing sweets. you fought the urge to smile.
the council droned on. lord something-or-other was explaining the intricacies of grain tariffs, his voice a monotonous buzz. you felt your attention slipping, your eyelids growing heavy.
then you felt it. a small, light touch on your ankle.
you looked down. choso had somehow moved closer without you noticing, and he was holding a small, folded piece of paper. he pressed it into your hand, his fingers cold against your skin, and then retreated back to his spot against the wall.
you unfolded the note under the table, hiding it in your lap.
if i have to listen to one more minute of this, i'm going to fall asleep and roll off this wall. please save me. :c
you bit your lip to keep from laughing. you glanced at him. he was staring straight ahead, his face a perfect mask of innocence.
you scribbled a response on the bottom of the note and waited for him to pass by again. when he did, pretending to adjust his hat, you pressed the paper into his hand.
he unfolded it later, and you watched from the corner of your eye as he read it.
you're the jester! make a joke. save us both. :D
he looked at you, horrified. and you raised an eyebrow, challenging him.
he swallowed hard, then stepped forward into the center of the room. the council members stopped talking, turning to look with confusion.
"forgive me, my lords," choso said, his voice steady despite the flush creeping up his neck. "but i couldn't help but notice... we've been discussing grain for over an hour."
lord something-or-other frowned. "yes, and your point is?"
"my point," choso said, "is that i now know more about grain than i ever wanted to. and i'm a jester. my job is to know about things like... i don't know, juggling. and funny hats." he gestured to his own hat, the bells jingling. "but apparently, i'm also an expert in agriculture now."
silence.
then, unexpectedly, your father laughed. a deep, booming laugh that filled the throne room. "the boy's right!" the king said, wiping his eyes. "we've been at this too long. let's take a break."
the council members murmured their agreement, standing and stretching. you sat there, stunned, as choso bowed and retreated back to his spot against the wall.
when the room had cleared, you approached him. he looked nervous, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his motley.
"that was—" you started.
"terrible," he finished. "i know. i'm xi. i just—"
"that was perfect," you interrupted.
he looked up, surprised. "what?"
"you made my father laugh. you made the whole council stop. you were..." you searched for the word. "you were yourself. and it worked."
he stared at you, his dark eyes wide and hopeful. "really?"
"really."
he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming familiar. "thank you, your highness."
"stop thanking me," you said, but there was no bite to it. "just keep doing that! being honest. being real. it's better than any joke you could study."
"i'll try," he said. "for you."
the words hung in the air, heavy with implication. you turned away before he could see the flush on your cheeks, before he could see the way your heart had stumbled in your chest.
"come on," you said over your shoulder. "i need air. and you're going to walk with me."
"yes, your highness," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
you walked through the castle halls, side by side, the silence between you no longer heavy or oppressive. it was just plain old silence. comfortable and easy.
and if your hand brushed against his as you walked, neither of you mentioned it.
—
the days turned into weeks. the routine solidified. choso was everywhere— he was your shadow, your silent companion, your failed jester who was slowly, inexplicably, becoming something more.
you still teased him. he still complained. you still told him he was annoying and unfunny and too serious for his own good. but the words had lost their edge, softened by the warmth that had begun to grow between you.
one evening, you were in the gardens, watching the sun set over the castle walls. the sky was painted in shades of orange and pink, the air cool and sweet with the scent of roses. you sat on a stone bench, your embroidery forgotten in your lap, lost in thought.
"a penny for your thoughts?"
you looked up to find choso standing before you, his hands clasped behind his back. the setting sun caught the gold threads in his motley, making him glow.
"they're worth more than a mere penny," you said, but there was no heat in it.
"then i'll owe you," he said, sitting beside you without invitation. he was close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, despite the chill in the air.
"you'll owe me a lot," you said, turning back to the sunset.
"i don't mind."
you sat in silence for a while, watching the sky darken. the first stars began to appear, faint and distant.
"choso?" you said finally.
"yes?"
"why do you stay? you could have left by now. found another position. somewhere you didn't have to pretend to be something you're not."
he was quiet for a long time. when he spoke, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "because you see me."
you turned to look at him. "what do you mean?"
"everyone else sees the jester. the motley. the bells. the failure. but you..." he met your eyes, his dark gaze intense. "you see me. the real me. and you don't taunt me. well, not as bad as the servants do."
your breath caught in your throat. you didn't know what to say. so you said nothing. you just sat there, side by side, watching the stars come out.
and when his hand found yours in the darkness, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, you didn't pull away.
the stars were multiplying now, scattered across the darkening sky like spilled salt. the air had grown colder, but you barely noticed. all you could focus on was the weight of his hand in yours, the way his thumb traced slow, absent circles against your knuckles.
"choso?" you breathed, and his name felt different in your mouth now. softer. more intimate.
"yes?" he turned to face you fully, and the distance between you shrank to nothing. his dark eyes searched your face, looking for permission, for confirmation, for something he seemed too afraid to name.
your heart hammered against your ribs. this was wrong. he was a jester. you were a princess. your father would—
you didn't care.
you leaned in, just slightly, your eyes flicking down to his lips. they were slightly chapped, parted, waiting. his breath hitched, warm against your cheek. his free hand came up, trembling, to cup your face. his palm was cold against your flushed skin, and you shivered, but not from the cold.
"princess," he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer.
you closed your eyes.
"choso!"
the voice boomed across the gardens like a crack of thunder. you jerked apart so fast you nearly fell off the bench. choso's hand dropped from your face like it had been burned, and he was on his feet in an instant, bowing low.
your father stood at the garden entrance, his massive frame silhouetted against the torchlight from the castle behind him. his face was flushed—from wine or anger, you couldn't tell—and his eyes were fixed on choso with an intensity that made your stomach drop.
"y-your majesty," choso said, his voice steady despite the panic you could see in the rigid set of his shoulders.
"the guests are waiting," your father said, his tone clipped. "the duke of the northern provinces has traveled three days to be here, and you're skulking in the gardens like a common servant. get inside. now."
choso didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands still trembled—
"at once, your majesty," choso said, and bowed again before turning on his heel and striding toward the castle. the bells on his hat jingled with each step, a mocking, cheerful sound that made you want to scream.
you sat there on the bench, your hand still warm from his touch, your lips still tingling with the ghost of what almost happened. your father watched choso go, his expression unreadable.
"daughter," he said finally, turning to you.
"father."
"inside. now. you have your duties to attend to."
you stood, gathering your embroidery with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "of course, father."
you followed him into the castle, your mind racing. the warmth of the garden was replaced by the oppressive heat of the great hall, where torches blazed and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and spilled wine. the long tables were filled with nobles and dignitaries, their laughter and chatter a cacophony that made your head pound.
choso was already there, standing at the center of the hall, surrounded by expectant faces. he looked small somehow, despite his size. the motley seemed garish under the torchlight, the bells absurd. he caught your eye for just a second—a fleeting, desperate glance—before turning to the crowd.
"ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying across the hall. "i hope you're enjoying the feast."
a few polite chuckles. most of the guests barely looked up from their plates.
"i thought i'd start with a little something to... lighten the mood." he reached into his sleeve and produced three wooden balls, beginning to juggle them with surprising dexterity. the balls arced through the air, catching the torchlight, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.
he was good. really good. the balls moved in perfect rhythm, his hands a blur, his expression focused and intense. the guests began to pay attention, their conversations dying down as they watched.
then he added a fourth ball. then a fifth. the crowd gasped, impressed. choso's face remained serious, but you could see the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
"impressive," the duke of the northern provinces said, leaning forward in his seat. "but can you do it blindfolded?"
choso caught the balls one by one, tucking them back into his sleeve. "i can try, your grace!"
someone produced a silk scarf, and choso tied it around his eyes with practiced ease. he took a breath, then began to juggle again. the balls moved in perfect arcs, his hands finding them by instinct alone. the crowd erupted in applause.
you watched from your seat at the high table, your heart swelling with something you couldn't name. pride, maybe. or something deeper. something dangerous.
your father leaned over, his voice low. "he's adequate, i suppose. better than the last one."
"he's more than adequate," you said, not looking at your father. "he's talented."
"he's a jester!" your father said, dismissive. "talent is irrelevant. he serves a purpose. nothing more."
you bit your tongue, saying nothing. but inside, something hardened. a resolve you hadn't known you possessed.
choso finished his act to thunderous applause, bowing low. as he straightened, his eyes found yours across the crowded hall. the blindfold was gone, and the look he gave you was raw, unguarded, full of everything he couldn't say.
you held his gaze, letting him see the truth in your own eyes. i know. i feel it too. this isn't over.
he looked away first, bowing to the crowd and retreating to the edge of the hall. but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
the feast dragged on. course after course, speech after speech, toast after toast. you sat at the high table, smiling and nodding and saying all the right things, but your mind was elsewhere. on a garden bench. on cold hands and warm breath. on a moment that had been stolen from you.
when the feast finally ended, when the last guest had stumbled to their chambers and the hall had emptied, you found yourself alone. the servants were clearing the tables, their movements efficient and silent. you stood, your legs stiff from sitting, and made your way toward the door.
"your highness."
you turned. choso was standing in the shadows by the wall, half-hidden behind a pillar. he looked exhausted, the motley rumpled, his hair disheveled.
"choso," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
he stepped closer, checking to make sure no one was watching. "i'm sorry. about before. in the gardens. i shouldn't have—"
"don't," you said, cutting him off. "don't apologize for that."
"but your father—"
"my father doesn't own me," you said, and the words felt like a declaration of war. "he doesn't control what i feel. who i—"
you stopped yourself before you could say too much. but the words hung in the air anyway, heavy with implication.
choso stared at you, his dark eyes wide. "princess—"
"don't call me that," you said, stepping closer. "not now. not when we're alone."
"i have to," he said, his voice strained. "if anyone hears—"
"let them hear."
"you don't know what you're saying," he said, but there was no conviction in his voice. only fear. and longing.
"i know exactly what i'm saying," you said, and you reached out, your hand finding his. his fingers were cold, as always, but they curled around yours without hesitation. "i know what i want."
"and what do you want?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
you looked up at him, at this man who had stumbled into your life like a storm, who had turned your world upside down with his silence and his seriousness and his unexpected, devastating warmth.
"you," you said simply. "i want you."
his breath hitched. his hand tightened around yours. for a moment, you thought he might pull you close, might kiss you right there in the empty hall, consequences be damned.
then footsteps echoed from the corridor, and the moment shattered. choso dropped your hand like it had burned him, stepping back into the shadows.
"tomorrow," he whispered. "meet me inthe gardens. at midnight."
"choso—"
"please," he said, and the desperation in his voice made your chest ache. "i can't... i can't do this here. not where anyone can see. but tomorrow. i promise."
you nodded, your heart pounding. "tomorrow."
he melted back into the shadows, disappearing as silently as he'd appeared. you stood there for a long moment, your hand still tingling from his touch, your lips still burning with the memory of what almost happened.
then you turned and walked to your chambers, your mind racing, your heart full.
tomorrow at midnight in the gardens.
you couldn't wait.
—
you woke with the sun, which was unusual for you. normally you'd sleep until your ladies-in-waiting came to rouse you, groaning and pulling the covers over your head. but today your eyes flew open before dawn had even fully broken, your heart already racing, your body thrumming with an energy you couldn't name.
you threw the covers aside and rang for your maids before you could talk yourself out of it. elara arrived first, her hair still mussed from sleep, blinking at you in confusion.
"your highness? is everything alright?"
"everything is perfect!" you said, and the word came out breathless, giddy. "everything is perfect. i need my sewing basket. and the blue silk. no—the green. the green with the silver thread."
elara stared at you like you'd grown a second head. "you want to sew? now? it's barely dawn."
"yes, now. please."
the maids exchanged glances but didn't argue. they knew better than to question you when you had that look in your eyes—the one that said you'd already made up your mind and the world could either get on board or get out of the way.
they brought your sewing basket, the green silk, the silver thread. you settled by the window where the light was best, your fingers already moving, stitching with a focus and precision that surprised even you. you were making a handkerchief. a simple thing, really. but you embroidered the edges with tiny roses, each petal perfect, each leaf delicate. your best work. the kind of work that took hours, that demanded your full attention.
but you didn't want your full attention. you wanted to think about cold hands and dark eyes and the way choso's voice cracked when he said your name.
"you're humming," elara observed from across the room, where she was mending one of your gowns.
you stopped. you hadn't even realized. "am i?"
"yes. you rarely hum."
you started again, unable to help it. the melody was aimless, wandering, the kind of tune that came from a heart too full to contain itself. you stitched and hummed and watched the sun climb higher in the sky, marking the hours until midnight.
the day crawled. you sewed through breakfast, through lunch, through the afternoon. your fingers moved automatically, the needle flashing in and out of the fabric, while your mind wandered to gardens and starlight and the almost-kiss that had been stolen from you.
"your highness, you've been at this for hours," elara said, concern creeping into her voice. "your fingers must be sore."
you looked down. she was right. your fingertips were red, the skin tender from the needle. but you couldn't stop. if you stopped, you'd have to think. and if you thought, you'd have to confront the enormity of what you were feeling, the danger of what you were planning.
"just a little longer," you said. "i want to finish this tonight."
tonight. the word sent a shiver down your spine.
the afternoon bled into evening. you ate dinner mechanically, tasting nothing, your mind already in the gardens, already by the stone bench, already waiting. your father sat at the head of the table, discussing trade agreements with some lord or other, and you nodded and smiled and said nothing.
"you're quiet tonight, daughter," your father observed, his eyes narrowing.
"just tired, father," you said. "it's been a long day."
"hm." he didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "early night, then. you look pale."
"yes, father."
you excused yourself as soon as politeness allowed, retreating to your chambers with a flurry of excuses about headaches and early mornings. your maids helped you out of your gown, into your nightdress, brushing out your hair with practiced efficiency.
"will you need anything else tonight, your highness?" elara asked, pausing at the door.
"nope! sleep well, elara."
"you too, your highness."
the door closed. the lock clicked. and then you were alone.
you sat by the window, the finished handkerchief in your lap. it was beautiful, if you said so yourself. the roses were perfect, the silver thread catching the candlelight. you'd made it for him. a stupid, sentimental gift that you'd probably never have the courage to give.
you watched the moon climb the sky. nine o'clock. ten o'clock. your heart hammered with each passing minute.
then, soft as a breath, a knock at your door.
you froze. no one knocked on your door at this hour. no one dared.
another knock. three taps, a pause, then two more.
you were at the door in an instant, your hand on the lock, your breath caught in your throat. you shouldn't open it. you knew you shouldn't. but your hand was already turning the mechanism, already pulling the door inward.
choso stood in the corridor, still wearing his motley, his dark hair damp from the night air. his eyes were wide, wild, desperate. he looked like a man who'd been drowning and had finally broken the surface.
"choso?!" you breathed. "what are you—it's only ten. i thought—midnight—"
"i couldn't wait," he said, and his voice was raw, stripped bare. "i tried. i waited in the gardens for an hour, but i couldn't—i needed to see you. i needed to know if last night was real. if you meant what you said."
you stared at him, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might burst from your chest. "you came to my chambers. choso, if anyone sees you—"
"i don't care," he said, and the words were fierce, almost angry. "i don't care about the rules, or the risk, or what your father will do if he finds out. i just... i needed to see you."
you should have sent him away. you should have closed the door, locked it, pretended this never happened. but you were already reaching for him, your hand curling into the fabric of his motley, pulling him inside.
the door closed behind him. the lock clicked. and then you were alone together, in your chambers, with nothing but candlelight and moonlight and the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.
"hi," he said softly, and the word was so simple, so human, that it made your chest ache.
"hi," you whispered back.
he looked around your chambers like he was seeing them for the first time. the canopy bed, the sewing basket by the window, the embroidery hoop with the green silk. his eyes lingered on the handkerchief in your lap, the one with the roses.
"you made that," he said, his voice wondering.
"yes."
"for me?"
you nodded, unable to speak.
he crossed the room in two strides, kneeling before you like a knight before his queen. his hands found yours, cold fingers intertwining with warm ones, and he looked up at you with those dark, intense eyes.
"i'm sorry," he said. "for coming here. for being reckless. for putting you in danger. but i couldn't—i couldn't stay away. not after you said—"
"i meant it," you said, cutting him off. "every word."
his breath hitched. his hands tightened around yours. "but i'm nothing. a jester. a failure. a man who can't even make people laugh. you're a princess. you deserve—"
"i deserve someone who loves me," you said, echoing his words from the garden. "someone who doesn't look away."
he stared at you, his eyes shining in the candlelight. "i see you," he whispered. "i see all of you. the sharp tongue and the soft heart. the crown and the girl underneath. i see you, and i—"
he stopped, the words catching in his throat.
"you what?" you prompted, your voice barely a breath.
"i love you," he said, and the words tumbled out like a confession, like a prayer, like a man jumping off a cliff and trusting the wind to catch him. "i love you, and i know i shouldn't, and i know it's wrong, and i know your father would have me executed if he knew, but i can't—i can't not say it. not after last night. not after you looked at me like i was something more than a fool in motley."
your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying, you realized. tears streaming down your face, hot and fast, and you couldn't stop them.
"choso," you said, and his name was a sob, a laugh, a benediction.
he reached up, his cold thumb brushing the tears from your cheeks. "don't cry," he said, his voice breaking. "please don't cry. i didn't mean to make you cry."
"they're happy tears," you said, laughing through the sobs. "you idiot. i'm so happy!"
he smiled, that small, genuine smile that was becoming your favorite thing in the world. "happy tears," he repeated, like he was testing the words. "i've never made anyone cry happy tears before."
"there's a first time for everything," you said, and then you were leaning down, your hands cupping his face, your lips finding his.
the kiss was soft at first. tentative. a question and an answer all at once. his lips were chapped, slightly rough, and he tasted like rain and something sweet, like honey or wine. his hands came up to frame your face, trembling, holding you like you were something precious, something that might shatter if he held too tight.
then the kiss deepened. his tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it without hesitation. he groaned against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around your waist.
you tumbled off the chair, landing in a heap on the floor, laughing and kissing and tangled together. he was above you, his weight pressing you into the carpet, his hands everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your sides.
"wait," he gasped, pulling back. his eyes were wild, his lips swollen, his hair a mess. "wait. we should—we should talk about this. about what this means. about the consequences."
"later," you said, pulling him back down. "we'll talk later. fuck— i need you, cho."
something in him broke. or maybe something in him finally came together. he kissed you again, harder this time, his hands sliding under your nightdress, cold fingers against the warm skin of your waist. you gasped into his mouth, arching up into him, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.
"god—" he breathed against your lips, his voice wrecked. "you're so soft. so perfect."
his mouth trailed down your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage—nuzzling the sensitive spot below your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
"cho!—" you whimpered, your hips rolling up against him instinctively. he groaned, grinding down, and you could feel how hard he was through the layers of fabric between you.
"i know—i'm sorry—" he panted, but he didn't stop. his hands slid higher, brushing the underside of your breasts, and you moaned, the sound louder than you intended.
"shh," he whispered, pressing a finger to his own lips. "we have to be quiet. if anyone hears—"
you nodded, biting your lip to keep from making more sounds. but then his thumb brushed over your nipple, and a small, helpless noise escaped anyway. he swallowed it with another kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, and you felt him smile against your mouth.
"i can't help it," you mumbled against his lips.
"i want to hear you," he said, his voice low and rough. "i want to hear every sound. but not tonight. not here."
his hands continued their exploration, mapping your body like he was memorizing it. every curve, every dip, every place that made you gasp or shiver or squirm. he was attentive, careful, his touch reverent—like you were something holy.
then the door burst open.
"your highness, i forgot to—"
elara stood in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob, her eyes wide as saucers. she took in the scene in a single, horrifying glance—you on the floor, choso above you, his hands under your nightdress, your hair a mess, your lips swollen, the two of you tangled together in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
for one frozen moment, nobody moved.
then elara screamed.
it was a high, piercing sound that shattered the silence like glass. she stumbled backward into the corridor, her hands flying to her mouth, her eyes still wide with shock.
"the king!" she shrieked. "someone get the king! the jester—he's—the princess—"
"elara, wait!" you scrambled to your feet, your nightdress falling back into place, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might explode. "elara, please— don't!"
but she was already running, her footsteps echoing down the corridor, her screams growing fainter but no less terrifying.
choso was on his feet too, his face pale, his eyes wide with panic. "i have to go," he said, his voice tight. "i have to—if your father finds me here—"
"choso—"
"i'm sorry," he said, and the words were desperate, anguished. "i'm so sorry. i never should have come. i put you in danger. i—"
"stop," you said, grabbing his hand. "we'll figure this out. we'll—"
"there's nothing to figure out," he said, and his voice was hollow. "your father will have me executed. or exiled. or worse. and you—god, what will he do to you?"
"i don't care," you said, and you meant it. "i don't care what he does to me. i just—"
"i care!" he said, and his voice broke. "i care what happens to you. and i won't let my selfishness destroy your life."
he pulled his hand from yours, stepping back. the distance between you felt like a chasm, widening with every breath.
"choso, please—"
"i love you," he said, and the words were a goodbye, raw and ragged and final. "i love you, and that's why i— i have to go."
he moved to the window, throwing it open. the night air rushed in, cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and roses. he looked back at you one last time, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say, everything he'd never get the chance to.
"i'm sorry," he whispered.
and then he was gone, disappearing into the darkness like a shadow swallowed by the night.
you stood there, frozen, your heart shattering into a thousand pieces. the sound of elara's screams still echoed in your ears, growing fainter as she ran down the corridor, but no less terrifying for the distance.
you had maybe seconds. maybe less.
you looked down at yourself—your nightdress rumpled, your hair a mess, your lips still swollen from his kisses. evidence everywhere. you grabbed a shawl from the back of your chair, wrapping it around your shoulders, trying to look presentable, trying to look innocent. your hands were shaking so badly you could barely tie it.
you smoothed your hair. you straightened your nightdress. you tried to slow your breathing, to calm the frantic beating of your heart.
but it wasn't enough. you knew it wasn't enough.
the footsteps came first. heavy, booted, multiple sets. the guards. you could hear them before you saw them—the clatter of armor, the jingle of weapons, the low murmur of voices.
then the door to your chambers slammed open.
four guards filled the doorway, their faces hard and impassive. behind them, elara hovered, her eyes red from crying, her hands wringing together.
she wouldn't look at you.
"princess," the captain of the guard said, his voice flat. "the king requests your presence. immediately."
"i'm not dressed," you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
"now, your highness."
it wasn't a request.
you followed them through the corridors, your bare feet cold against the stone floor. the castle was awake now, torches blazing in their sconces, servants peering from doorways with wide eyes and whispered gossip. you kept your chin up, your expression neutral, even as your insides churned with fear.
they didn't take you to the throne room. no, they took you to your father's private study.
the room was small, intimate, lined with books and maps. a fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. your father stood by the window, his back to you, his hands clasped behind his back. he was still wearing his dinner clothes, but his crown was gone, his hair disheveled.
and there, on his desk, was choso.
no—not on his desk. in front of it. on his knees.
two guards flanked him, their hands on his shoulders, forcing him down. his hands were bound behind his back with rough rope, his motley torn at the shoulder, a bruise already forming on his cheek. his head was bowed, his hair falling forward to hide his face.
but you could see his ears. they were red, just like they were on the first night you spoke.
your heart clenched.
"father," you said, your voice carefully controlled.
your father turned. his face was a mask of cold fury, his eyes like chips of ice. "close the door," he said to the guards.
the door closed and the lock clicked. you were alone with your father and the man you loved, kneeling on the floor like a dirty criminal.
"do you know why you're here?" your father asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"i can explain—" you started.
"can you?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "can you explain why my daughter's lady-in-waiting found a man in her chambers? a man with his hands under her dress? a man who is supposed to be a jester, not a—"
he stopped himself, his jaw clenching. the silence that followed was suffocating.
"he didn't force me," you said, your voice quiet but firm. "i wanted him there."
your father's eyes narrowed. "you wanted him there."
"yes."
"you invited a common jester into your bedchambers. willingly."
"yes."
he stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then he turned to choso, who hadn't moved, hadn't lifted his head.
"and you," your father said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "you took advantage of my daughter's kindness. you betrayed my trust. you—"
"i love her," choso said, and his voice was steady despite the fear you could see trembling in his shoulders. "i love her, and she loves me. i didn't take advantage of anything. i would never—"
"silence!" your father's voice cracked like a whip. "you don't speak unless spoken to. you're a jester. a servant. you're nothing."
the words hit you like a physical blow. you stepped forward, placing yourself between your father and choso.
"he's not nothing," you said, your voice shaking with emotion. "he's kind, and he's good, and he sees me. not the princess, me!"
"he sees a way to advance himself," your father said coldly. "a way to climb above his station. and you, foolish girl, have given him the perfect opportunity."
"that's not true!" you said, but your voice wavered. doubt crept in, cold and insidious. was it true? had choso been using you?
you looked at him. he was looking at you now, his dark eyes meeting yours. there was no guile in them. no calculation. only pain, and love, and a desperate, aching sincerity.
"i would die before i hurt her," choso said quietly. "i would give up everything. my life. my freedom. my heart. anything for her."
your father laughed. it was a cold, bitter sound. "how poetic. how romantic. and how utterly irrelevant."
he turned to the guards. "take him to the dungeon. he'll be executed at dawn for the crime of defiling the princess."
"no!" you lunged forward, but the captain of the guard caught your arm, holding you back. "father, please! you can't—"
"i can, and i will," your father said, his voice hard as stone. "he's a traitor. a seducer. a man who thought he could touch what belongs to the crown. he'll die, and you will forget him."
"i'll never forget him," you said, tears streaming down your face. "i'll never—"
"you will!" your father yelled. "because tomorrow, you'll begin your betrothal to the duke of the northern provinces. the arrangements have already been made."
the world tilted. your knees buckled. if the guard hadn't been holding you, you would have fallen.
"what?" you whispered.
"the duke has agreed to the match," your father said, his voice matter-of-fact. "the wedding will take place in one month. you will be a good wife, and you will produce heirs, and you will forget this... indiscretion ever happened."
"i won't marry him," you said, your voice breaking. "i won't—"
"you will," your father said. "or i'll have the jester tortured before he dies. is that what you want?"
you looked at choso. he was shaking his head, his eyes pleading. don't. don't sacrifice yourself for me. please.
"your majesty," choso said, his voice raw. "please. punish me. kill me. do whatever you want with me. but don't force her into a marriage she doesn't want. don't make her suffer for my mistakes."
"your mistakes?" your father repeated, his lip curling. "you think this is about your mistakes? this is about order. about hierarchy. about the natural order of things. you are nothing. nothing, i say! and you forgot your place!"
he turned to the guards. "take him away."
the guards hauled choso to his feet. he didn't resist. he just looked at you, his dark eyes full of everything he couldn't say.
"i love you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "i'll always love you."
"choso!—" you sobbed, reaching for him, but the guard held you back.
they dragged him from the room. the door closed. his footsteps faded down the corridor, heavy and final.
you collapsed to your knees, your sobs echoing in the empty room. your father stood over you, his expression unreadable.
"you'll thank me one day," he said quietly. "when you're a duchess, with children of your own. you'll understand that i did what was necessary."
you said nothing. you just knelt there, broken, as the fire crackled and the shadows danced and the world you'd known crumbled to ash around you.
—
the morning of the execution came and went.
you didn't see the sun rise, nor did you hear the bells toll. you just sat in your window seat, wrapped in a blanket, staring at nothing, waiting for the moment when the world would end.
it didn't.
the hours passed. the sun climbed. the castle stirred to life around you. and still, you sat, numb and hollow, waiting for a grief that wouldn't come because you couldn't let yourself feel it. if you felt it, you'd shatter. and if you shattered, you'd never put yourself back together.
elara came at midday, her face pale. "your highness," she said softly. "the execution... it didn't happen."
you turned to look at her, your eyes blank. "what?"
"the king... he commuted the sentence. the jester is... he's alive."
the relief that flooded through you was so intense it was painful. your vision blurred. your hands shook. you pressed them against your mouth to stifle a sob.
"but," elara continued, her voice dropping, "the king has ordered him to perform tonight at the ball. for the duke."
the relief curdled into something else. something cold and sharp.
"perform," you repeated.
"yes. as... as punishment. to remind him of his place. to remind everyone." elara's eyes filled with tears. "your highness, i'm so sorry. i never meant—"
"leave," you said, your voice flat.
she obeyed, because what choice did she have?
you sat there for a long time, your mind racing. choso was alive! he was alive, and tonight, you'd see him. but not as yourself. not as the girl who'd kissed him on the floor of her chambers. as the princess. the betrothed. the prize being handed to another man.
the thought made you want to scream.
—
they came for you in the evening, a parade of maids and dressers and stylists, all chattering and fussing and pulling you in different directions. they bathed you in water scented with rose oil, scrubbed your skin until it glowed, brushed your hair until it shone like dark silk.
they dressed you in a gown of pale blue silk, the color of a winter sky. it was fitted through the bodice, cinched at the waist, the skirt flowing in soft layers to the floor. silver thread embroidered the hem, tiny stars and moons that caught the light when you moved. they placed a delicate silver circlet on your head, set with small sapphires that matched your eyes.
you looked beautiful, and yet, you felt like a corpse.
"your highness looks stunning," one of the maids gushed, adjusting the drape of your sleeve.
you said nothing. you just stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the stranger looking back at you. pale. hollow-eyed. dressed for a wedding that wasn't a wedding, a celebration that felt like a funeral.
"the duke will be enchanted!" another maid squealed, beaming.
you wanted to tell them that the duke could go to hell. that you'd rather throw yourself from the highest tower than dance with a man you'd never met, a man who was stealing you from the only person you'd ever loved.
but you said nothing. you just stood there, silent and still, as they finished their work and led you to the grand ballroom.
—
the ballroom was a blaze of light and color. hundreds of candles burned in crystal chandeliers overhead, casting a warm, golden glow over the assembled guests. the air was thick with the scent of perfume and wine and roasted meats, the sound of laughter and music and conversation a constant, buzzing hum.
you stood at the top of the stairs, your hand on the banister, your heart pounding. below, the crowd milled and mingled, a sea of silk and jewels and smiling faces. at the far end of the room, on a raised dais, sat your father on his throne, resplendent in his crown and robes.
and beside him, standing with an easy, confident posture that spoke of wealth and power, was a man you'd never seen before.
he was tall. impossibly tall. his hair was white—not gray, nor silver, but pure, startling white—and it stuck up in all directions, defying gravity and good sense. he wore a suit of deep blue velvet, tailored to perfection, with a high collar that framed his sharp jaw and high cheekbones. his eyes—
you couldn't see his eyes from this distance. but you could feel them. a weight. a presence. something magnetic and dangerous and utterly, infuriatingly self-assured.
the duke of the northern provinces. satoru gojo.
your betrothed.
your stomach turned.
"your highness," the herald announced, his voice booming across the room. "may i present the princess, first daughter of his royal majesty, betrothed to his grace, the duke of the northern provinces."
every head in the room turned. every eye fixed on you. the crowd parted, creating a path from the stairs to the dais, and you had no choice but to walk it.
you descended the stairs slowly, your chin lifted, your expression neutral. the gown whispered around your feet, the silver embroidery catching the light. you could feel the weight of hundreds of gazes on you, assessing, judging, admiring.
you reached the dais. your father stood, taking your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.
"daughter," he said, his voice warm for the benefit of the crowd. "you look radiant."
"father," you replied, your voice equally performative.
then your father turned to the duke, and you finally got a clear look at his face.
he was beautiful. there was no other word for it. sharp features, full lips curved in a lazy smile, skin pale and flawless. and his eyes—
his eyes were blue. not the soft blue of a winter sky, like your gown. but a vivid, electric, almost unnatural blue, like the heart of a flame. they were striking against his pale skin and white hair, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"your highness," he said, and his voice was smooth, rich, amused. "you're even more beautiful than they said."
"your grace," you replied, curtsying. "the rumors didn't do you justice either."
his smile widened. "oh, i like her," he said to your father, as if you weren't standing right there. "she's got spirit."
"she does," your father agreed, his tone warning. "which is why she needs a firm hand."
you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something you'd regret.
satoru offered you his arm. "shall we?"
you had no choice. you placed your hand on his sleeve, and he led you down from the dais to the center of the ballroom. the crowd parted before them, whispers following in their wake.
the orchestra struck up a waltz. satoru turned to you, one hand finding your waist, the other taking your hand. his grip was firm but not painful, his movements fluid and confident.
"relax," he murmured, his blue eyes searching your face. "i don't bite. unless you ask nicely."
you stiffened. "that's not funny."
"oh, come now! it was a little funny," he said, spinning you effortlessly. "try to smile, princess. we're supposed to be in love. or at least, pretending to be. you look like you're being led to the gallows."
"perhaps because i am," you said through gritted teeth.
he laughed. it was a bright, genuine sound that drew glances from nearby guests. "god, you're dramatic. it's refreshing. most women in this court are so boring."
"i'm not most women."
"no," he agreed, his gaze dropping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. "you're not."
the dance continued. he was a skilled partner, guiding you through the steps with an ease that spoke of years of practice. but there was no warmth in it. no connection. just two people playing their parts.
"sooo," he said, his tone conversational. "tell me about yourself, princess. what do you enjoy? embroidery? poetry? plotting the downfall of your enemies?"
"sewing," you said flatly. "reading. avoiding tedious conversations with arrogant men."
"arrogant?" he repeated, feigning offense. "i prefer 'confidently self-aware.'"
"of course you do."
he spun you again, and as you turned, your eyes swept the room. the guests, the decorations, the musicians. and then—
your heart stopped.
there, at the edge of the dance floor, standing in the shadows behind a pillar, was choso.
he was wearing his motley. the same garish red and yellow, the same floppy hat with its tarnished bells. but he looked different. thinner. paler. the bruise on his cheek had darkened to a deep purple, and there were shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights.
he was staring at you.
even from this distance, even across the crowded ballroom, you could feel the weight of his gaze. it was heavy, aching, full of everything he couldn't say.
your breath caught. your step faltered. satoru tightened his grip on your waist, steadying you.
"careful," he said, his voice low. "you almost tripped."
"i'm fine," you said, but your voice was barely a whisper.
"who are you looking at?" satoru asked, his eyes following yours to the edge of the room
you forced yourself to look away. "no one."
"hmm, alright." he didn't sound convinced, but he busied himself with wrapping an arm around you waist.
the dance ended. the crowd applauded. satoru bowed, you curtsied, and then the herald's voice rang out again.
"and now, to entertain the happy couple on this joyous occasion, please welcome our court jester, choso!"
the applause was polite, scattered. choso stepped out from behind the pillar, into the light. the bells on his hat jingled softly as he walked, a sound that made your chest ache.
he reached the center of the ballroom, directly in front of the dais where your father sat. he didn't look at you. he couldn't. if he did, if your father saw the way his eyes lingered, the way his hands trembled—
"ladies and gentlemen!" choso began, his voice carrying across the room. it was steady, but just barely. "i have a few jokes for the happy couple!"
the crowd murmured, interested. your father leaned forward, his expression cold and expectant.
"what do you call a princess who's been promised to a duke?" choso asked, his tone light, almost cheerful. "sold!"
a few nervous laughs. your father's eyes narrowed
"why did the princess bring a ladder to the ball?" choso continued. "because she heard the marriage was a step up!!"
more laughs, louder this time. but they died quickly, swallowed by the tension in the room.
"what's the difference between a jester and a duke?" choso asked, and his voice cracked. just slightly. just enough for you to hear. "the duke always gets the girl, and the jester gets the whips!"
the courtroom fell into an awkward, void of silence.
choso stood there, his hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid. he was looking at the floor, his hair hiding his face. but you could see the way his jaw was clenched, the way his breath came too fast.
your father stood. "enough," he said, his voice cold. "you've had your punishment. now sit down and be quiet."
choso didn't move. for a moment, you thought he might argue. might fight. might say something that would get him killed.
then he bowed. low and deep. a jester's bow, mocking and deferential all at once.
"of course, your majesty," he said, his voice hollow. "anything for the happy couple."
he turned and walked away, his bells jingling with each step. the crowd parted for him, their faces a mix of pity and amusement and discomfort.
you watched him go, your heart breaking all over again.
"well," satoru said beside you, his tone light. "that was depressing. your father's got a real flair for torture, doesn't he?"
you turned to look at him. he was watching you, his blue eyes sharp and knowing.
"you love him," he said. it wasn't a question.
you opened your mouth to deny it. to lie. to protect yourself. but the words simply wouldn't come.
satoru sighed, running a hand through his white hair. "this is going to be a long night."
you watched choso disappear into the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, the last jingle of his bells fading into the murmur of the crowd. your chest felt like it was being crushed under a stone. every instinct screamed at you to run after him, to find him, to hold him and never let go.
but you couldn't. not here. not with hundreds of eyes on you, not with your father watching from his throne like a hawk circling its prey.
"princess."
satoru's voice cut through your spiraling thoughts. you turned to find him studying you with those unnervingly blue eyes, his head tilted slightly, like a cat observing something curious.
"you're crying," he said, matter-of-fact.
you touched your cheek. he was right. tears had slipped free without you noticing, hot tracks down your flushed skin. you wiped them away quickly, glancing toward the dais. your father was deep in conversation with some lord, his attention momentarily diverted.
"i'm fine," you said, your voice brittle.
"you're not fine," satoru said. "you're standing at your engagement ball, crying over another man. that's the opposite of fine. that's a catastrophe."
you flinched. "please don't—"
"oh, relax," he said, his tone shifting. the lazy amusement was gone, replaced by something sharper. more serious. "i'm not going to tell anyone. despite what you clearly think of me, i'm not a complete bastard."
you stared at him, searching his face for the lie. for the trap. you found none.
"why?" you asked. "why would you help me?"
he shrugged, a fluid motion of his broad shoulders. "because i don't want to marry someone who's in love with someone else. call it self-interest. or call it basic human decency. i'm flexible with labels."
your heart hammered. "i didn't say—"
"you didn't have to," he interrupted. "the way you looked at him. the way you're still looking at the door he walked through. it's written all over your face, princess. you're not exactly subtle."
you opened your mouth to argue, to defend yourself, but the words died on your lips. what was the point? he was right. you were terrible at hiding your feelings. elara had seen it. your father had seen it. and now this stranger, this man you'd met barely an hour ago, had seen it too.
"what do you want from me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.
"nothing," he said. "i told you. i don't want a loveless marriage any more than you do. my father is pushing this alliance for political reasons. trade routes, border security, the usual boring nonsense. but i have no intention of forcing a woman to be with me against her will.
"then why agree to the betrothal at all?"
"because saying no to my father is... complicated," he said, and for the first time, something flickered in his eyes. something that might have been frustration, or resignation, or pain. "but that's my problem, not yours. right now, your problem is that jester, and the fact that your father looks like he's about to come over here and ask why you're having a private conversation with your betrothed instead of dancing."
you glanced at the dais. your father was indeed looking in your direction, his brow furrowed.
"so here's what's going to happen," satoru said, his voice dropping even lower. "i'm going to go distract your father. i'll challenge him to a game of chess, or bore him with stories about northern grain tariffs, or whatever it takes to keep his attention for the next ten minutes. and you—" he fixed you with a pointed look. "you're going to go find your jester."
your breath caught. "i can't. the guards—"
"are at the doors, not roaming the halls," he said. "the servants' corridor behind the tapestry on the left leads to the east wing. there's a staircase at the end that goes down to the lower levels. he'll be in the servants' quarters. third door on the right."
you stared at him, stunned. "how do you know that?"
"i make it my business to know the layout of every castle i enter," he said simply. "old habit. ten minutes, princess. that's what i can give you. use them wisely."
he turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"and princess?"
"what?"
"when you see him—" his expression softened, just slightly. "tell him the duke said 'good luck'. it'll give you something to laugh about. you could use a laugh."
before you could respond, he was already walking toward the dais, his stride confident and unhurried. you watched as he approached your father, bowing with exaggerated flourish, his white hair catching the candlelight.
"your majesty!" satoru's voice carried across the room, bright and charming. "i was just telling your daughter about the chess set in my carriage. it's carved from ivory, imported from the eastern kingdoms. i'd love the chance to play you, if you're willing. i hear you're quite the strategist."
your father's face lit up. he loved chess. he loved it more than almost anything, except perhaps power. "is that so? well, your grace, i'd be happy to teach you a lesson or two."
"i look forward to it," satoru said, and as he followed your father toward the side room where the chess sets were kept, he glanced back at you. just once. a quick, almost imperceptible nod.
go.
you didn't hesitate.
you turned and walked quickly toward the edge of the ballroom, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the crowd parted for you—the princess, the betrothed, the center of attention—and you smiled and nodded and said all the right things while your mind raced.
the tapestry was exactly where satoru had said it would be. a massive woven depiction of a hunting scene, hanging on the left wall near the musicians' gallery. you glanced around, making sure no one was watching, then you slipped behind it.
the servants' corridor was narrow and dim, lit by a single torch at the far end. the air was cooler here, smelling of dust and old stone. you lifted the hem of your gown and hurried down the passage, your wretched heels whispering against the floor.
the staircase was steep and winding, spiraling down into the bowels of the castle. you descended quickly, your hand trailing along the cold stone wall for balance. the sounds of the ballroom faded above you, replaced by the distant clatter of pots and the low murmur of servants' voices.
the lower level was a maze of corridors and rooms—storerooms, kitchens, servants' quarters. you followed satoro's directions, turning left, then right, then left again, until you reached a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors.
third door on the right.
you stopped in front of it, your hand raised to knock. your heart was hammering. your palms were sweating. what would you say? what could you say? i'm sorry? i love you? please don't hate me?
you knocked.
silence.
you knocked again, harder this time. "choso?"
nothing.
your heart sank. he wasn't here. satoru had been wrong, or choso had been moved, or—
the door creaked open.
choso stood in the doorway, and the sight of him made your breath catch. he'd changed out of the motley. he was wearing a plain white shirt, untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. his hair was damp, like he'd just washed his face. the bruise on his cheek looked worse in the dim light, a dark smear against his pale skin.
he stared at you, his dark eyes wide with shock.
"princess?" he whispered, like he couldn't believe you were real. "what are you—you can't be here. if anyone sees—"
"satoru is distracting my father," you said quickly. "we don't have much time. ten minutes. maybe less."
"satoru?" he repeated, confused.
"the duke. my—" you couldn't say the word. betrothed. it felt like a betrayal just thinking it. "he knows. about us. and he's helping."
choso stared at you, his expression cycling through disbelief, confusion, and something that might have been hope. "why would he help?"
"because he's not the monster my father is," you said. "and because he doesn't want to marry someone who loves someone else."
choso flinched at the word. loves. you'd said it without thinking, and now it hung in the air between you, heavy and undeniable.
"you shouldn't be here," he said, but his voice was weak, unconvincing. "if your father finds out—"
"i don't care," you said, and you stepped forward, into the room. it was small, sparse—a narrow bed, a wooden chair, a single candle burning on a rough-hewn table. a prison cell dressed up as a bedroom. "i don't care what my father does. i don't care about the marriage, or the alliance, or any of it. i just—"
your voice broke. the tears you'd been holding back all night came flooding forward, hot and relentless.
"i just needed to see you," you whispered. "i needed to know you were okay. i needed to tell you that i'm sorry. that this is my fault. that i never should have let you come to my chambers. that i—"
"stop," he said, and his voice was rough, strained. "stop blaming yourself. this isn't your fault. it's mine. i'm the one who came to you. i'm the one who couldn't stay away. i'm the one who—"
he stopped, his jaw clenching. he looked away, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
"i'm the one who ruined everything," he said quietly.
"you didn't ruin anything," you said, stepping closer. "my father ruined everything. this castle, this life, this—" you gestured helplessly at the space between you. "this prison. you're the only good thing in it.
the words broke something open inside you. the tears came harder, faster, your shoulders shaking with sobs you couldn't control. all the fear, all the grief, all the helplessness of the past three days came pouring out at once.
"hey—hey, no—" choso's voice cracked, and then his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. "please don't. please, baby— i can't—"
but you couldn't stop. you buried your face in his shirt, your fingers clutching the rough fabric, and you wept. for him, for yourself, for the future that was being stolen from you both.
"shh," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your carefully brushed hair. "shh, i've got you. i'm here."
"i c-can't marry him!" you sobbed against his chest. "i can't. i don't love him. i don't even know him. i love you. i love you and it's not fair—"
"i know," he whispered, and his voice was thick, strained. "i know, i know."
he held you tighter, his chin resting on top of your head, his heartbeat steady and strong against your cheek. you could feel the tension in his body, the way his arms trembled around you, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.
"look at me," he said softly.
you shook your head, pressing closer.
"please." his hand found your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that made your chest ache. "please, look at me."
you opened your eyes. his face was blurry through your tears, but you could see the anguish in his dark eyes, the way his jaw was clenched like he was fighting his own breakdown.
"my heart aches when you weep," he said, and his voice was barely a whisper. "it physically hurts. right here." he pressed his free hand against his chest, over his heart. "like something is breaking. and i can't—i can't fix it. i can't make it better. and that's worse than anything your father could ever do to me."
"choso—"
"let me finish." he swallowed hard, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. his touch was so gentle, so careful, like you were made of glass. "i need you to know something. whatever happens tomorrow, or next week, or next month—whatever your father does, whatever that duke does—i need you to know that these past months with you have been the best of my life. the only good part. you made me feel like i was worth something. like i wasn't just a fool in a motley. like i was—"
his voice broke. he looked away, blinking hard.
"like you were what?" you whispered, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. his skin was warm, slightly rough with stubble. "tell me."
"like i was yours," he said, and the words were raw, stripped of all pretense. "like i belonged to someone."
you leaned up and kissed him.
it was soft at first. a press of lips, gentle and trembling. a question. a promise. his breath hitched against your mouth, and for a moment he was frozen, like he couldn't believe this was real.
then he kissed you back.
his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulled you closer. the kiss deepened, desperate and aching, tasting of salt and sorrow and something sweet underneath. you pressed yourself against him, your hands fisting in his shirt, trying to erase the space between you, trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there.
"i love you," you breathed against his lips. "i love you, i love you, i love you—"
"i know," he murmured, and he was smiling, you could feel it, even through the tears. "i know. i love you too. so much. too much."
"there's no such thing as too much," you said, and kissed him again.
he made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a whimper, and his arms wrapped around you completely, lifting you slightly off the ground. your feet left the floor and you gasped into his mouth, your arms looping around his neck.
"you're so warm," he whispered against your jaw, his lips trailing down to your neck. "so gorgeous. i dreamt about this. about you. every night."
"choso—" you tilted your head back, giving him access, and he took full advantage. his mouth found the sensitive spot below your ear, then the curve of your throat, then the hollow at the base of your neck where your pulse hammered.
"tell me to stop," he murmured against your skin. "tell me this is too much. tell me—"
"don't stop," you said, and your voice was stronger now, steadier. "don't you dare stop."
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching your face. "are you sure? if anyone finds out—"
"i don't care," you said, and you meant it with every fiber of your being. "let them find out. let my father know. let the whole kingdom know. i don't care. i'd rather have this—have you—for one night than a lifetime with someone else."
something in his expression shifted. the fear didn't disappear, but it was joined by something else. something fierce and tender and achingly vulnerable.
"you mean that," he said. it wasn't a question.
"i mean it."
he kissed you again, slower this time. deeper. his hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine through the silk of your gown, and you shivered.
"you're so beautiful," he murmured against your lips. "so beautiful it hurts me to look at you."
"you're not so bad yourself," you said, and he huffed a laugh, the sound warm and surprised.
"not so bad," he repeated, shaking his head. "that's the best you can do?"
"i'm a little distracted," you said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "you're wearing too many clothes."
"so are you," he said, and his hands found the laces at the back of your gown. he hesitated, his fingers trembling. "are you sure? once we—i don't want you to regret—"
you silenced him with another kiss, your own hands pulling his shirt free from his trousers. "i have never been more sure of anything in my life."
he groaned, low and desperate, and then the laces were coming undone, the silk loosening around your body. the gown slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet in a whisper of fabric, and you stood before him in nothing but your thin shift, the candlelight painting your skin in gold and shadow.
choso stared at you like you were the sun. like you were the moon. like you were every star in the sky, and he was a man who'd been living in darkness his entire life.
"you're staring," you said, suddenly self-conscious.
"i know," he said, and his voice was reverent. "i can't help it."
he reached out, his cold fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, the swell of your breast through the thin fabric of your shift. you shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were something sacred.
"you're shaking," he said softly.
"i'm nervous," you admitted. "i've never—i don't know what to do—"
"neither do i," he said, and the honesty of it made your heart swell. "we'll figure it out together."
he pulled his shirt over his head, and you saw him fully for the first time. he was lean but strong, his torso marked with faint scars—old ones, faded to thin white lines. a life lived in hardship, written on his skin. you reached out, tracing one that ran along his ribs.
"what's this from?" you asked.
"bar fight," he said. "i was fifteen. thought i was tougher than i was."
"and this?" another scar, on his shoulder.
"knife. different bar fight. i was sixteen and even stupider."
you laughed, the sound watery but real. "you were a troublemaker."
"i was a disaster," he corrected. "you're the first good thing that's ever happened to me."
you kissed the scar on his shoulder, then the one on his ribs, then the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammered against your lips. he shuddered, his hands coming up to frame your face.
"you're going to be the death of me," he whispered.
"good," you said. "then we'll die together."
"that's not funny."
"i mean, it's a little funny."
he laughed, and the sound was bright and broken and beautiful, and then he was kissing you again, walking you backward toward the narrow bed. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you sat, looking up at him.
he knelt before you, his hands on your knees, his dark eyes full of so much love it made your chest ache.
"i want to remember this," he said softly. "every detail. the way you look at me. the way you smell like roses. the way your breath catches when i touch you. i want to carry this with me, no matter what happens."
"nothing is going to happen to you," you said fiercely. "i won't let it."
"princess—"
"don't call me that," you said, pulling him closer. "call me by my name. my real name."
he hesitated, then whispered it like a prayer. the name your mother gave you, the name only your closest family used. the name that meant you, not the crown.
"yes," you said, and pulled him down to you.
his mouth found yours again, hungry and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that made your toes curl. you arched up into him, your hands sliding over the hard planes of his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered against his ribs. he was trembling, you realized. this man who'd faced your father's wrath without flinching, who'd stood in a ballroom full of nobles and made them laugh—he was trembling beneath your touch.
"you're shaking," you whispered against his lips.
"i know," he breathed. "i've wanted this for so long. wanted you. and now you're here and i'm terrified i'll do something wrong, that i'll hurt you, that—"
you silenced him by pulling his head down and kissing him hard, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan. the sound vibrated through you, low and wrecked, and you felt it everywhere.
"you won't hurt me," you said. "i trust you."
something in him cracked open at that. his eyes went dark, almost black, and his hips rolled against yours. you gasped at the contact, at the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through the fabric of his trousers.
"fuck," he hissed, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. "you can't say things like that. i'm barely holding on as it is."
"then don't hold on," you said, and hitched your hip up against him.
he made a sound like a man dying—a choked, desperate moan that went straight through you. his hand slid up your thigh, pushing the thin fabric of your shift higher, his rough palm dragging against your bare skin. you whimpered, your legs falling open instinctively, and he groaned again, his fingers tracing the edge of your underwear.
"is this okay?" he asked, his voice wrecked.
"yes. god, yes. don't stop!"
his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and you both gasped. he touched you carefully at first, almost reverently, his fingertips exploring the slick heat between your legs. you were wet—embarrassingly, overwhelmingly wet—and when his finger slid through your folds, you cried out, your hand flying to cover your mouth.
"quiet, princess." he murmured, but he was smiling. that small, devastating smile. "remember? we have to be quiet."
"then stop touching me like that and i won't have to be quiet," you hissed.
"never," he said, and slid a finger inside you.
the sound you made was barely human. your back arched off the bed, your walls clenching around the intrusion, and choso watched your face like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
"you're so tight," he breathed. "so— fuck, you feel—i can't even—"
he added a second finger, stretching you slowly, and you bit your lip hard enough to taste blood. the stretch burned, but it was a good burn, a burn that made your hips roll against his hand, chasing the sensation.
"more," you gasped. "p-please, choso— ah! more!"
"i don't want to hurt you," he said, but his fingers were already curling inside you, finding that spot that made your vision white out.
"you're not—oh god—you're not hurting me— you fool!"
he worked you open with his fingers, two then three, stretching you carefully, his thumb circling your clit in slow, maddening strokes. you were making sounds you didn't recognize—whimpers and moans and broken little cries that you muffled against his shoulder.
"that's it," he murmured against your ear. "that's my girl, let me hear you. i want to hear what i do to you."
"we have to be quiet—" you panted.
"then bite me," he said, and you did. you sank your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder and he groaned, his fingers pumping faster, harder, hitting that spot inside you that made your legs shake.
"choso—i'm—i think i'm going to—"
"i know," he said, and his thumb pressed harder against your clit. "i can feel it. you're squeezing my fingers so tight. let go, baby. let go for me."
the pet name undid you. you came with a sob muffled against his shoulder, your walls pulsing around his fingers, your whole body shaking with the force of it. he held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out the pleasure until you were gasping and oversensitive.
"too much!" you whimpered, pushing at his hand.
he withdrew his fingers slowly, and you watched, dazed, as he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean. his eyes never left yours, and the sight of it—this serious, quiet man tasting you on his fingers with an expression of pure reverence—made your core clench with want.
"you taste like honey," he said, his voice rough. "i knew you would."
"choso," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and musky, and it made you dizzy. "i want you. all of you. please."
he nodded, his hands going to the laces of his trousers. his fingers were shaking so badly he could barely work them, and you reached down to help, your own hands trembling. together, you pushed the fabric down his hips, and his cock sprang free.
you stared. he was hard—achingly, painfully hard—the tip flushed dark and leaking. he was bigger than you'd expected, thicker, and a flicker of nervousness ran through you.
"i'll go slow," he said, reading your expression. "i promise. if it's too much, you tell me and i'll stop. alright?"
"okay," you whispered.
he positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. you could feel the heat of him, the way he throbbed against your slick folds. he pushed forward, just the tip, and you gasped at the stretch.
"breathe," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. "breathe for me."
you breathed. he pushed in another inch, and the burn was intense, almost too much. your hands flew to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.
"shit—" he choked. "you're so tight. so fucking tight. you feel—god, you feel like heaven."
"m-more!" you said, even though it hurt. "i want a-all of you."
he sank into you slowly, inch by excruciating inch, giving you time to adjust. the stretch was enormous, bordering on painful, but underneath the pain was something else—a fullness, a completeness, like a piece of you that had been missing had finally clicked into place.
when he was fully seated inside you, you both went still. he was breathing hard, his arms trembling where they braced on either side of your head, his cock pulsing inside you.
"okay?" he asked, his voice strained.
"yeah," you whispered. "just—give me a second."
he kissed you softly, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that made your eyes sting. then you rolled your hips experimentally, and you both groaned.
"move," you said. "please move."
he pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in. the slide was easier this time, your body accommodating him, and the sensation was—
"oh," you breathed. "oh, that's—"
"y-yeah," he agreed, and did it again. and again. and again.
he found a rhythm, slow and deep, his hips rolling against yours in a way that made your toes curl. each thrust hit that spot inside you, the one his fingers had found, and pleasure built in your belly like a wave gathering strength.
"h-harder," you gasped. "choso, please, harder!"
he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. the bed creaked beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. you bit your lip to keep from crying out, but small, desperate sounds still escaped—whimpers and moans and broken little pleas.
"you feel so good," he groaned against your neck. "so fucking good. i-i never want to leave this. i never want to be anywhere but inside you."
"don't stop," you panted. "cho!"
he shifted his angle, hooking one of your legs over his arm, opening you wider, and the next thrust hit so deep you saw stars. you cried out, unable to help it, and he clapped a hand over your mouth.
"quiet, remember?" he said, but he was smiling. that devastating, beautiful smile. "or do you want the whole castle to know what we're doing?"
you bit his palm and he hissed, his hips stuttering.
"brat," he growled, and fucked into you harder.
the pleasure was building again, coiling tight in your belly, and you could feel your walls starting to clench around him. choso groaned, his rhythm faltering.
"you're squeezing me," he panted. "fuck, you're going to make me—i'm not going to last—"
"it's okay," you gasped. "let go. i've got you."
"not without you," he said, and his hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again. he rubbed tight, fast circles, his cock hitting that spot inside you with every thrust, and the combination was devastating.
you came with a scream muffled against his hand, your walls clamping down on him so hard he choked. the orgasm ripped through you like a storm, wave after wave of pleasure that left you shaking and gasping and seeing white.
"fuck—fuck—" choso groaned, his hips stuttering, losing their rhythm. "i'm—i'm coming—"
"yes," you breathed. "yes, come inside me. i want to feel it."
he buried himself to the hilt and came with a broken cry, his cock pulsing deep inside you. you felt the heat of it, the way he filled you, and the sensation pushed you into another smaller orgasm that made you clench around him.
he collapsed on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, both of you breathing hard. his face was buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
"that was—" he started.
"incredible," you agreed.
you lay there for a long moment, tangled together, his cock still inside you, both of you trembling in the aftermath. the candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. somewhere above you, the ball was still going on. music drifted down through the floor, faint and distant.
"we should—" you started.
"i know," he said, but he didn't move.
"choso."
"i know," he said again, and pulled out slowly. you winced at the loss, at the ache between your legs. he rolled onto his back beside you, pulling you against his chest. you went willingly, curling into his side, your head resting over his heart.
"ten minutes is probably up," you said quietly.
"probably."
"we should get dressed."
"probably."
neither of you moved.
"i don't want to go back," you whispered. "i don't want to face them. my father, the duke, all of it."
"i know," he said, his hand stroking your hair. "but we have to. if we don't, they'll come looking for you. and then—"
"and then it'll be worse," you finished.
he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "well, it might be better."
you pulled back to look at him, your heart hammering. "what?"
choso was staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight, his dark eyes burning with something fierce and desperate. "what if we run away? right now. tonight. we sneak out through the servants' entrance, past the stables. i know a man in the village who'll sell us horses for cheap. we could be gone before anyone even realizes you're missing."
"no way!—"
"i'm serious." he sat up, turning to face you. his hand found yours, cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones. "we could go north. past the mountains, into the free territories where your father's reach doesn't extend. we could find a small town, somewhere quiet. i could find work—real work, not juggling or jesting. and you could—"
"sew," you finished, your voice barely a whisper. "i could sew."
"yes." his eyes were bright, almost feverish. "we could have a life. a real life. not this—" he gestured around the sparse room, the narrow bed, the flickering candle. "not cages and crowns and men who think they own us."
your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. the idea was insane. reckless. impossible. and yet—
"my father would hunt us," you said. "he'd send guards. he'd—"
"let him send them," choso said, and there was a fire in his voice you'd never heard before. "i'm not afraid of your father. i'm not afraid of his guards or his dukes or his armies. the only thing i'm afraid of is losing you. of standing in that ballroom and watching you marry another man. of living the rest of my life knowing i could have fought for you and didn't."
you stared at him, this man who'd been a jester, a fool, a man who couldn't make anyone laugh. but he wasn't a fool. he never had been. he was brave and fierce and so full of love it made your chest ache.
"you'd really do that?" you whispered. "give up everything? your home, your—"
"you are my home," he said simply. "you're the only home i've ever had."
your eyes burned. your vision blurred. you were crying again, but this time it wasn't from grief. it was from something else. something bright and terrifying and beautiful.
"yes," you said.
"yes?"
"yes. let's run. let's go. right now!"
his face transformed. the fear, the tension, the anguish—it all melted away, replaced by something radiant. something that looked like hope.
"you mean it?" he asked, his voice cracking.
"i mean it." you squeezed his hand. "i've never meant anything more."
he kissed you then, hard and desperate, his hands framing your face like you were the most precious thing in the world. you kissed him back with everything you had, pouring every ounce of love and fear and reckless, stupid hope into it.
then you pulled apart, both of you breathing hard.
"okay," you said, your mind racing. "okay. we need a plan. we can't just run out the door. we need—"
"clothes," he said. "money. supplies. i have a few coins hidden in my room. not much, but enough for horses and food for a few days."
"i have jewelry," you said, already thinking. "my mother's necklace. the sapphire earrings. they're worth a fortune. we could sell them in the village."
"your mother's necklace?" he repeated, his expression softening. "you'd give that up?"
"she'd want me to be happy," you said, and the words were true. your mother had died when you were seven, but you remembered her warmth, her laughter, the way she'd held you and told you that love was the only thing that mattered. "she'd want me to choose love."
choso's eyes glistened. he blinked hard, looking away. "okay. okay. so we get the jewelry, get the coins, get to the stables—"
"the guards," you interrupted. "there are two at my door. and more at every exit."
"the servants' entrance," he said. "it's unguarded after midnight. the servants use it to come and go. if we wait until the ball ends, until everyone is drunk and distracted—"
"we slip out with the servants," you finished. "yes. that could work."
"it has to work," he said. "because i'm not losing you. not now. not after—" his voice broke. "not after tonight."
you kissed him again, softer this time.
"we should get dressed," you said reluctantly. "before someone comes looking."
you both rose from the bed, and the absence of his warmth made you shiver. you found your shift on the floor, pulling it over your head, then stepped back into your gown. the silk felt different now. heavier. like a costume you were ready to shed.
choso helped you with the laces, his fingers steady now, no longer trembling. when he was done, he pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, and you felt it all the way down to your toes.
"there," he said. "perfect."
you turned to face him. he was pulling on his shirt, his trousers, covering up the body you'd just memorized. you wanted to tear the clothes off him again, to drag him back to that narrow bed and lose yourself in him.
but there wasn't time. there would be time later. a lifetime of time, if you were brave enough to take it.
"i need to go back to my chambers," you said. "get the jewelry. change into something less—" you gestured at the elaborate gown. "less conspicuous."
"meet me at the servants' entrance at two in the morning," he said. "that's when the last of the servants will be heading to bed. we'll slip out with them."
"two in the morning," you repeated. "i'll be there."
he cupped your face in his hands, his dark eyes searching yours. "if you change your mind—if this is too much, too dangerous—i'll understand. i'll go alone. i'll disappear. you can tell your father i kidnapped you, that you had no choice. he'll believe you. you can marry your duke and live a comfortable life and forget—"
"stop," you said firmly. "i'm not changing my mind. i'm not forgetting you. and i'm not marrying anyone but you."
his breath hitched. "you mean that?"
"every word."
he kissed you one last time, slowly and deeply, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. then he pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides.
"go," he said. "before i change my mind and keep you here forever."
you smiled, even as your heart ached. "at two in the morning."
"at two in the morning."
you opened the door, checking the corridor. empty. you slipped out, your gown gathered in your hands, your heart pounding. you made it three steps before his voice stopped you.
"princess."
you turned. he was standing in the doorway, backlit by the candle, his dark eyes full of everything.
"i love you," he said. "i love you so much."
you giggled. "you're such a sap!"
his face broke into that devastating smile. "if being a sap gets me that laugh, then so be it."
you turned and walked away, your heart so full it hurt. the corridor stretched before you, dark and winding, but for the first time in your life, you weren't afraid of where it led.
you were going to run. you were going to be free. you were going to choose love.
and nothing—not your father, not his guards, not the duke with his electric blue eyes and his easy smile—was going to stop you.
—
you made it back to your chambers without incident. the guards at your door barely glanced at you as you slipped inside, your cheeks flushed, your hair slightly moussed, your gown rumpled in ways that would have given elara a heart attack.
but elara wasn't there. the room was empty, the fire burning low, the bed turned down.
you moved quickly, pulling open the drawer of your vanity where you kept your mother's jewelry. the necklace was there, nestled in its velvet box—a delicate gold chain with a single sapphire pendant, the same blue as your eyes. you clasped it around your neck, feeling the weight of it against your skin.
the earrings came next. small, elegant, catching the firelight. you tucked them into a small pouch, along with a few other pieces you thought you could sell. a ruby brooch. a pearl bracelet. your grandmother's ring.
then you changed. you stripped off the elaborate gown and pulled on a simple dress—dark blue, practical, with a hooded cloak draped over the back of a chair. you laced it yourself, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through your veins.
you packed a small bag. a change of clothes. a hairbrush. the handkerchief you'd sewn for him, the one with the embroidered roses. you tucked it into the bag, your fingers lingering on the stitches.
then you sat by the window and waited.
the hours crawled by. you watched the moon climb the sky, watched the candles in the ballroom below burn low, watched the guests begin to drift away. the music faded. the lights dimmed. the castle settled into an uneasy sleep.
one o'clock. one-thirty. one forty-five.
you stood, slinging the bag over your shoulder. your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. this was it. the point of no return.
you opened your door. the guards were still there, but they were drowsy, leaning against the wall, their eyes half-closed.
"i'm going to the chapel," you said, your voice steady. "to pray. for my marriage."
the guards exchanged a glance. "your highness, it's nearly two in the morning—"
"i'm aware of the time," you said coolly. "are you going to stop me from praying?"
they stepped aside.
you walked past them, your chin high, your pace measured. you didn't run. you didn't look back. you just walked, calm and composed, until you were out of sight.
then you ran.
through the corridors, down the stairs, past the tapestry and into the servants' passage. your bag bounced against your hip, your breath came in short gasps, and your heart hammered against your ribs.
the servants' entrance was at the end of a long, narrow corridor. you could see it—a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, cool night air seeping through the gap.
and there, leaning against the wall, waiting for you, was choso.
he'd changed too. he was wearing dark clothes—a simple tunic, trousers, sturdy boots. his motley was gone, and without it, he looked different. older. harder. like a man who'd made a decision and was ready to face the consequences.
he saw you and straightened, his dark eyes widening.
"you came," he breathed.
"i told you i would," you said.
he crossed the distance between you in two strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you close. you went willingly, your arms looping around his neck, your forehead pressing against his.
"are you sure?" he asked one last time. "once we go through that door, there's no going back."
you pulled back to look at him. "i've never been more sure of anything."
he smiled. that small, devastating, beautiful smile. "then let's go."
he took your hand, his cold fingers intertwining with your warm ones, and together, you pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.
the air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of rain and earth and freedom. the moon hung low in the sky, casting silver light over the castle grounds. the stables were to the left, dark and quiet. the village beyond, a cluster of lights in the distance.
synopsis . In which it takes a total of sixty nine days of living with Choso for the two of you to realize you’re both terribly down bad for one another. He’d been crushing on you hard (pun intended) from the day you moved in with him, and while living with you is easy, being around you almost all day every day like this is turning him into someone he can't recognize. So much so that you should be concerned. Except, you're not?
content . afab!reader, perv x perv, filth, dirty talk, virgin!choso, dub-con (considering all the perversion), switch dynamics, porn w no plot, choso’s down bad but so is reader, pet names, lots of dry humping/humping in general, he watches a lot of porn, loser!cho, awkwardness, embarrassment, premature ejec (he cums a lot), creampies, implied breeding kink, panty sniffing/stealing, getting caught, reader makes him suck a copy of his own dick, possessiveness, manhandling, scent kink(?), oral sex (f!receiving), he's literally disgusting, missionary, he calls reader mommy on “accident” a few times, eventual rough sex, etc.
word count . 11k || author's note: mostly based on this drabble & the many requests i got for this!! banner art from “Lady K and the Sick Man”
Day Two: The Phone Incident.
Choso should’ve known how severely fucked he was from the moment he got hard after handing you your phone.
And yes, that is as crazy as it sounds.
You didn’t even notice it—as you were much too busy trying to get to some phone call—but this was the first time in a whopping forty-eight hours of living with you that Choso had experienced this kinda thing.
Something about holding a device of which your fingers spent the majority of the day wrapped around drove him crazy. Perhaps it was the indirect touch, or the fact that his hand faintly smelled like yours afterwards, but either way—he felt a sudden twitch in his pants that he just couldn’t ignore.
He’d accepted the fact that he was attracted to you when you moved in, but this?
This was absurd. Surely his body wouldn’t continue to react like this around you… right?
After handing you your device, Choso turned away all awkwardly and calmly excused himself into his room for the night. This left you to watch him walk away with slightly confused eyes as you carried on with your call, shrugging off his sudden stiffness and figuring it was nothing too serious.
Which, in a way, it wasn't. The man nearly needed a moment away from you.
A moment long enough to take care of the leaking problem in his pants, that is.
As soon as he enters his room, he lightly shuts the door and lets his head push against it with a soft thump. One hand remains on the doorknob whilst the other is just barely keeping his body standing upright. It was like a switch had gone off in his head or something.
It hasn't even been a week with you yet and there's already one thing running rampant in his mind—sex.
Choso's known you for quite some time now, which is exactly why you moving in with him when he already had a spare bedroom only made sense. But to already be losing his head over something so small makes him feel shamed with the weight of guilt.
He shouldn't touch himself. He should ignore how hard he is right now. And should definitely not think about you if he does decide to act against those two things.
...Yeah, that goes straight out the window the moment he hears you laughing from the living room.
You're still on the phone and you'd have no reason to come into his room and check on him or anything so it should be okay, no? Getting off to you once won't hurt anyone.
Clasping his bottom lip neatly in between his teeth, Choso finally moves a hand down over the fully formed bulge poking out against his sweatpants. Maybe he won't even jerk off. Maybe he'll just rub at his cock until he cums.
That should be fine.
Right?
His hand carefully cups 'n grabs at the outline of his hard shaft, his bottom lip falling loose with a moderately noisy pant breaking free from his throat. "Fuck," Choso sears just under his breath as he squeezes his eyes shut.
He shouldn't be doing this. This is wrong. You just moved in!
His hand slides over slowly, letting the friction of fabric and his palm soothe his aching arousal just a bit.
What would you think if you saw him right now? You're only a few steps away from his door, sitting all pretty in his living room. Would you be disgusted by him if you knew how he rubbed his hand against his dick to the mere thought of you? Taking his other hand—the same one that held your phone and now carries the faintest bit of your scent—and slowly bringing it up to his nose to smell.
His palm reeks in your lotion. You must've used it recently, huh? Probably right before touching your phone for the last time, he thinks.
Choso's other hand squeezes around the head of his dick, feeling something nasty beginning to wet up his boxers. Fuck, he feels gross for doing this. He's all hunched up against his bedroom door, body flinching whenever he hears your voice a little clearer from beyond it, and cock jumping with each whiff he takes of his palm.
His mouth flails open a little and he nearly whines as his hand grips at his length a little tighter, slithering towards his shaft, and then letting his hips roll forward. The hand pressed up to his nose slips down to clasp over his mouth to conceal that pathetic sound, only worsening his situation as he realizes this means the smell of your lotion is practically smushed up to his lips now.
Choso feels his knees going weak all of a sudden and can't even help himself as he ditches the teasing rubbing and finally stuffs his hand down into his pants. His cock meets his hand raw with a throbbing heat he hadn't been expecting.
Quickly, before he starts letting out sounds too loud to conceal, he does his best to work himself up to an orgasm. Because of his hasty movements, it's not long before his hand is cramping up and he's jerkily thrusting his dick into his coiled fingers.
"A-Ah," Choso gasps, his lashes fluttering over something wet that'd unknowingly built up against his waterline.
Then there's a sudden knock at his door.
The poor guy nearly falls over, barely managing to grit his teeth and swallow the next array of sounds that threatened to leave him. His eyes stare down at the silhouette of your shadow under the door and he struggles to suppress a groan.
"Hey, I dunno if you're asleep already but," God, you sounded so sweet—how could he be doing this in thought of you? "I just wanted to let you know we're out of trash bags. Tried to text you but it wasn't going through."
Choso's standing here jerking off like some freak after touching something of yours and now you're standing on the other side of his door telling him you guys are out of trash bags?
How comedic.
Not that any of this stops his hand from moving. If anything, his cock feels wetter as he continues on to the sound of each word leaving your lips. Then he presses his face against his door and murmurs, "M-Mhm, thanks for... letting me know. I'll get more t-tomorrow," He grunts out.
Little did he know, his movements had only become smoother because he already came from the moment you knocked on the door. Now his briefs were filled with cum, his hand felt disgustingly sticky, and...
And you have absolutely no idea. You haven't the slightest clue that he just did something wildly perverted in your name.
Or so he thought.
——
Day Fifteen: Missing Hoodies.
A little over two weeks in and Choso's issue has only gotten worse. On the bright side of things, at least he's not the only one slowly losing his sanity in all this.
Because surely if you weren't losing your mind just as much as he was then you'd have moved out by now. Even though he's sure you're not aware of any of the things he's done so far like steal your panties just before laundry day, stuff his nose into your bath towel mere minutes after you've showered, and even use that same lotion of yours to jerk himself off.
But again, Choso is pretty sure that if you knew about any of those things he's done then you would've been out of here faster than you came in. Better yet, faster than he cums whenever you're in mind.
Which is pretty damn fast.
It's on this fifteenth day that Choso loses his first hoodie. It's a plain grey hoodie, but he noticed it's disappearance rather quickly because the last time he wore it was on the day he last spoke to Yuji—and everyone knows how attentive this man gets when it comes to his siblings.
So imagine his surprise when he's tearing his room up trying to find that hoodie to no avail. A small frown takes over his face and he lets out a long sigh before trudging out his room and towards yours.
Knocking thrice, "Are you busy?" Choso asks carefully, ears slightly quirking up at the distant sound of your bedsheets being shuffled about.
Part of him wonders what you were up to.
"If so, don't worry about it," He adds on shortly after. You hadn't even said anything yet and he was already nervous. "I didn't mean to interrupt—"
The door swings open and you're greeting him with your breath seeming as though it's lost it's way into your lungs properly. "You're not interrupting anything, Choso. What's up?" You hum rather sweetly.
"I was just wondering if you'd seen my uh-," He cuts himself short as his eyes helplessly fall downwards. Perhaps he was dreaming or something because surely you're not wearing the very thing he came looking for? Choso's hand draws up as he unintentionally points at your chest, "Is that my hoodie?"
You look down at yourself and then back up at him and shrug, "I dunno, is it?"
Maybe it was the dim hallway lighting but you swear Choso's face is getting redder by the second, a cute hue of pink flushing out over his cheek and noticeable around the dark ink stretching across the bridge of his nose.
Then his hand flies up to the back of his head, scratching beneath his dark, loose locks of hair, "Well, unless we have the same hoodie... m'pretty sure that's mine." He mumbles on.
"Oh." Is the only warning he receives before he watches your hands meet the bottom of that same hoodie, and then lift.
Oh fuck. Choso's eyes widen and all the hairs at the back of his neck seem to stand up as he watches the way you thoughtlessly pull his hoodie off of your body, revealing the very sheer tank-top you have on underneath and the lack of pants below that.
While living with you was easy, truly, there were times like this where Choso wondered if you even saw him as a man. Or if maybe you were just really comfortable around him. Because in what other world would you take off his hoodie right in front of him whilst clad in nothing more than a tank-top and a dark purple pair of panties that he's all too familiar with?
Not that you knew about the last part of that but, still. He's allowed what feels like a minute of staring and drooling before his face is met with that same hoodie of his!
"Was that all?" You ask smoothly, as if you hadn't nearly flashed him and then thrown his own clothes back at him like it was nothing.
His head nods rapidly from beneath his sweatshirt, refusing to move his body just yet in fear of where his hands may find themselves, and waiting until he hears your bedroom door shut again.
As he's left in the hallway to his own devices, Choso's slow to remove the jacket from his head. He holds it out to inspect for a moment and notices a wet patch near the ends of it. His mind immediately goes somewhere dirty.
Did you... use his hoodie how he wants to think you did?
Choso looks back up at your door and gulps. Then his mouth twitches and before he knows it, he’s smiling rather smug-like. If his thoughts are correct then that would mean you got off to how he smells and—he brings his hoodie up to his nose and inhales—luckily for him, the cologne this fabric in particular is doused in, just so happens to be his favorite.
Which is exactly why Choso goes on to make said cologne his only scent.
Following this little act of his is an abundance of his shirts and hoodies going missing. You only got caught wearing them just that one time but, he doesn’t need to see you in his clothes to know you’re the one stealing them.
It’s quite obvious, in his humble opinion. No matter how many times you come to tell him he must’ve lost it or misplaced it somewhere. As if. The man barely leaves the apartment!
And while that’s nothing to brag about, it is undoubtedly the truth.
——
Day Thirty-Four: Indirect Cumshots.
This is where things really start to go from bad, to worse.
The two of you now have a mutual habit of stealing one another’s clothes. You know for sure Choso gets off with your stuff since he mostly takes your panties, skirts, bras, shirts, shorts, and shoelaces?!—all in that order.
What other use for these items could he possibly have if not for sexual satisfaction?
The same questions travels throughout Choso’s mind whenever he wonders why his shirts, hoodies, and jackets go missing. Except, his only issue with it—outside of it being an inconvenience whenever he needs to dress himself—is that he’s still not fully sure whether or not he’s right about your use for them.
Especially since you’ve worn a few of his clothes around the apartment without a care in the world, blaming it on the mixed laundry whenever asked about it. Naturally he believes you, but he can’t deny the fact that he desperately hopes you’re lying to him.
Just the thought of you having your nose buried into his clothes while your fingers play with the neglected cunt in between your legs, your thighs clenching whenever you get close, and mouth breathing out moans of his name makes Choso’s mind go blank.
He’s never had sex before so he hopes that doesn’t turn you off—wanting nothing more than for it to be you that changes this some day.
Above all that, and back to this whole clothing fiasco, Choso has found another way to satisfy his doubts.
In the event that you really weren’t taking his clothes to fuck yourself in, he had a backup plan. By this point Choso had accepted the fact that he’d become nothing more than a dirty pervert since you moved in. So much so that he figured if he could jerk off to indirect kisses from you…
…He could indirectly cum on you too.
Now, now, he knows that sounds bad at first. But he swears it’s really not!
It technically started when he accidentally came on one of your blankets.
He’d been in the living room—doing what any perv would do—rubbing his bare cock against the last place in which you’d sat on the couch. You weren’t home so he wasn’t worried at all about getting caught, thrusting his dick all slanted against the cushions, and letting his precum smear sloppily all over where you were sitting.
“Nngh-,” Choso cared little about holding back his sounds whenever you weren’t home, this moment being the most prime example of this.
His hand loosely kept his cock from sliding all over the place, thumb lightly hovering over his base so that he could have some sort of rhythm in his movements.
He was bare naked, whole body flushed from how hot ‘n bothered he found himself. You looked especially pretty that day. He doesn’t even remember where you said you were going but he does remember the glimpse of your panties he got when you got up from the couch and walked over towards the door in that unfairly short skirt of yours.
It was the same black pair he fucked his cockhead against just three days ago and now you were wearing them and you didn’t have the slightest clue. That fabric would be hugging your pussy for hours and you were oblivious to the fact that his cum had been pooling against it not too long ago.
Fuck, the thought drives him straight over the edge, causing him to stumble against the couch as he fists at his dick. Choso tosses his head back and begins to fuck his hand imagining it was you—gushy spurts of cum spilling out from his plump head in varying directions before he even realizes it.
Heavy pants departed from his mouth as he stroked himself through his high and let whimpers exit his throat. By the time he calmed down, he looked below himself to see that he not only came all over your seat—the splatter of his cum mirroring the way it probably would if he ever came on your ass—but he also accidentally shot some of it onto your blanket.
The same blanket you bury your face under whenever you two watch a movie that’s a little too gruesome, the same blanket you cuddle yourself under, and the same blanket that sometimes get smothered in between your thighs whenever you have it hugging your body a certain way.
Choso tilts his head a little and that’s when it hits him. Just like the time you two had shared a water bottle and indirectly kissed… him cumming on your favorite blanket is no different than him cumming on you, right?
His brows meet. Is that bad to think? If he cums on more of your stuff, does that mean he’s always cumming on you?
Has he technically finished inside you since he’s done so inside your panties more times than he can count?
Shit.
It’s from then on that Choso begins to purposefully release a load on things you use all the time. And just as doing this to your blanket has been one of the most perverted things he'd done so far, so was doing the same to your favorite mug.
He just woke up with the fattest tent in his pants that morning, he had to do something about it! And you can’t blame him when he ignored the erection and joined you for breakfast anyway, watching your lips mold themself around the rim of the dish, gulping deeply until the liquid inside was all gone...
Choso barely felt like himself after you left. He rushed into the kitchen and searched the sink for the cup you used, pulling his cock out and letting it slap against the porcelain. He’s sure this is your favorite mug because of how expensive it is so he knew he had to be careful.
Even so, that didn’t stop him from dragging his dick around its edges—right where your lips and tongue had been. After which he spent the next few minutes emptying his balls into the mug until it was a quarter full with his seed.
This was by far the most depraved thing he’d done so far.
Only for that feeling to get worse in his chest when he watched you use the same cup the following morning, humming at a slightly different pitch as if a new flavor had been added to your beverage.
He couldn’t bear to meet your eyes afterwards. You basically just drank his cum and you didn’t know.
That’s horrible. You’d totally hate him if—
“Did you buy a new dish soap or something?” Your voice breaks him away from his thoughts of impending guilt.
Choso’s head flies up and his eyes, wide and dopey brown, set on you with that intensive warmth you always enjoy. “Huh?” He gapes.
You grin, “I asked if you bought a new dish soap.” Then you shrug all cheekily, “My mug smells really nice for some reason.”
Yeah, probably because he spent an hour cleaning it after he did something so sinful to it…
Your roommate shakes his head, “No, no, I didn’t buy anything new.” He tells you.
The conversation ends around there as you nod and then return to your breakfast, thinking nothing more of it.
Meanwhile Choso feels guilt in between his legs stirring up again and some weird sense of pride in his chest swelling.
Which is exactly why he doesn’t stop there. Although he always cleans up thoroughly after these indirect cumshots of his—it never fails to fill him with pride when he watches you use the same things he’s soiled.
Forks, spoons, straws—which were hell to clean—your phone while you were sleeping one time, pictures of you, etc. In more ways than one, Choso’s basically marked and claimed you as his own via spilling his seed all over you.
——
Day Forty-Eight: Shame? Never heard of her.
The cumshots were one thing, of course. Starting to see your face in every pornographic video he watches is another. So is lightly stroking himself while sitting right next to you and talking to you about his day.
But fucking your pillow when you’re not home, pretending that it’s you, while playing some random audio of yours in the background? Now that was the final straw.
Choso can't even begin to explain nor understand what exactly has gotten into him.
At least when he'd done all those other nasty things with you in mind, he felt bad directly after the fact—apologizing to you via being extra sweet and kind in ways that'd earn him lovely praises from you in return.
It seems like that's a lost art to him now, though.
The man had walked into your room in search of his headphones, the ones he let you borrow last night and now needs to properly enjoy his porn. He hadn't planned to do anything dirty in your room. No, never.
But when he got in there he was thrown off by you leaving a pair of panties on your bed. Not just any pair though, the red pair.
Now, these panties in particular had a bit of a story to them. Choso knows you only wear them when you go out to hook-up with somebody and if they’re sitting on your bed now, that means you saw someone recently or were planning to.
Either way, he doesn’t really want that to happen.
He hasn’t quite revealed any of his intentions nor feelings to you (or at least he doesn’t think he has), but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling possessive over you. You were his roommate, after all.
Maybe this is why he ends up on your bed, grabbing the pillow you sleep on and hauling it up towards his face for a good sniff. The fumes flow through his nostrils and send a rush of blood straight down to his cock.
Partially because he can smell remnants of his cologne lingering in the cottony fabric, which could only mean one thing—you'd slept in his clothes before. Or something like that, anyway.
Halfway through his pillow sniffing, and with a half-hard cock forming in his pants, he hears his phone chime from within his pocket. The chime in question is one he specifically set for you so he wastes not even a second digging for his phone and pulling it out.
Your contact sits center on his screen as it unlocks, revealing to him a voice message you'd just sent.
Choso gulps.
You've sent him a few voice messages in the past, having felt too lazy to type stuff out, but it never fails to make him nervous before pressing play. And right now was absolutely no different.
"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." Oh? Do his ears decieve him or was that a breathy pant from you? Rewinding the recording a few seconds, "Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit. Sor-," He cuts the voice message off and then follows suit with his phone, turning it over and looking up to the ceiling for the moment.
Did you... have any idea of the things you did to this man?
Tossing the question, he tries again.
"Hey Cho, when you get a chance—hahh, shit." There's a short pause as he hears you taking a deep breath, "Sorry, when you get a chance, can you order takeout from the same place as last week before I get home?"
Takeout, of course. Of course. What else would you have sent him a voice message for?
...Certainly not for what he was about to do with it.
You were out at the gym so that little pant of yours should've been expected but he must've forgotten by the time he played the message. His thumb keeps finding itself repeating the same part of your recording, within the first few seconds when that pant, followed by a sweet curse of exhaustion dares to leave your lips.
It's stupid, really. You made one little noise and said one word he's heard from you a thousand times and yet he's already plopping down on your bed, your pillow still in hand, and his legs slowly spreading out so his poor, hardening cock has room to breathe.
Then Choso saves the message to his phone, not thinking twice as he goes on to edit it within his camera roll so that the few seconds of panting and cursing can replay over and over until he's had his fill of it.
After a good five times of replaying those gorgeous few seconds you'd given him, an idea Choso simply cannot ignore is born.
He doesn't recognize himself at all as he tosses your pillow over, snatches up those panties you had lying around and turns around to hover over the two items.
This is so fucked, and he knows it but it's hard to care. One moment he's starring at the assortment of material he has here and the next, he's got your pillow snug under the fabric of your panties. His thumb traces the edge of it just as it would if you were wearing them, swiping up heavily against the center where your pretty slit would be.
Fuck, he should stop.
His thumb glides back down and he shifts against the mattress, knees digging into the plush of it, and hot breaths tumbling out of his lungs. Then his fingers pinch at each side of your panties before he tugs, cleanly ripping the cloth just enough to create a small hole.
He winces upon doing so, knowing damn well he's getting worse by the second.
Choso pauses for a moment and grabs his phone to open his photos. His thumb swiftly swipes through his camera roll until he finds a picture of you, and along with it, he's managed to have your little panting curse combo playing on repeat.
And that's all he needed because now he's got a hole ripped into your pillow and although it was very cottony wrapping around the head of his dick, he couldn't be bothered to care. His imagination was running rampant and all he could picture was you splayed out beneath him, letting him use your body to strip him of his virginity.
He's so sure of how absolutely warm your pussy would be, despite never being inside one or even setting his eyes on one (in person) before. You'd squeeze him nice 'n tight, wouldn't you? Suck him in deeper even when he knows he can't handle that and tries to pull himself back?
God, he's getting dizzy in his own arousal and his precum is serving as lube inside this stupidly dry pillow of yours. It doesn't even feel good but every time he opens his eyes and sees your panties ripped open, his cock bulging in between where he'd torn them, he cares less and less.
Not to mention how you'll be sleeping on this same pillow soon, so the faster he cums inside of it, the faster he can say he's indirectly spilled his cum on your face.
Which is precisely why his hips are picking up their pace, even as he falls over and ends up having to hold his hunched body up with one very unsteady hand.
"Fuck," The curse falls from his lips in sync with the one that fell from yours in that recording—which is still playing in the background of his misdeeds, by the way. Then his visions suddenly become clearer while his movements grow more janky, eyes journeying to the back of his skull in pure bliss.
He swears he can see you under him right now, feel the pretty walls of your pussy clenching around his cock because it's too big for you to take with the way he's rutting forward right now. You'd tell him to slow down a little, no?
Choso steadies the pace of his pelvis just a faction as he catches his breath, "Gonna cum soon." He whispers to the imaginative version of you he's got underneath him.
How would your hands feel pushing or even pulling at his waist, trying to get him to reach deeper inside you despite his dick being much too big for you? Is it cocky of him to think that?
His bottom lip fwips out a little as he pouts, eyes growing teary from how stimulating this is for him. He's never wanted to fuck someone so badly. All these weeks of teasing and sneaking around to commit the most debauched of acts in your name... when would things come to a breaking point? When would you catch onto the hints he's not even throwing??
Ugh, all these questions leave Choso frustrated. So frustrated that now he's applied all his weight to your pillow, fulling humping his fat cock into the makeshift hole. You'd feel so much better than this stupid pillow but the realization of that does little to stop his fingertips from digging into your sheets as he grits his teeth and then spills his first load into it.
"Fuckfuckfuck-," Choso mutters under his breath as he tugs all his inches back a little before diving them right back in. His seed floods throughout the cottony insides of your cushion, making everything creamy.
He ends up having to bite down on your sheets just to hold back the sounds he begins to let out as he drives himself straight into overstimulation with a lack of halting his movements. You'd let him do this to you, right? Fuck multiple loads into you? Breed you?
Hell, what does Choso—who spends majority of his time thinking and fantasizing about you without ever feeling the sexual touch of a woman—know about breeding?
All these damn questions have had the man so distracted that he never realized how much his hand had bumped into his idle phone screen, having somehow managed to capture all of his past few events—which consisted of him moaning your name out and muttering filthy things he doesn't much understand—on camera.
But, that's not the worst part about all this.
The worst part about all this is that by the time Choso finishes up with properly breeding your pillow, he went to finally swipe his phone up, and in doing so he hit send on everything he just recorded.
Now, bear in mind that you never received any sort of response to your innocent takeout request. So really imagine your shock to hear nearly twenty minutes worth of audio porn from your roommate. Actually, scratch that, imagine how quickly you got wet from opening your text thread with Choso to see a video from him.
Because it wasn't just audio he'd accidentally captured, but an entire production of him fucking your pillow.
Shit.
——
Day Sixty-Nine: The Copy-Cock Incident.
Ever since that day, things have been weird between you and Choso.
You came home and didn't say a word to him, didn't even look at him or acknowledge him, and proceeded to hide away in your room for... the next few days or so.
By the time Choso saw you again, you pretended to be completely normal and made him feel like you'd forgotten all about the video he sent you. In fact, you even talk to him as if he'd never done anything wrong.
Weird.
The man was naturally uneasy around you for every day that followed, feeling his skin crawl with guilt every single time he was in front of you. There was nothing he could do about it either, anytime he tried to bring it up or apologize, you'd shut the conversation down or change the subject. It was almost like you didn't want him to apologize for it.
Does that mean you were silently thanking him for it? Did you perhaps like the video?
Choso's unsure. Like, severely unsure.
If you thought he was nervous and awkward around you before than he's gotten a million times worse after the whole video thing.
But today—the sixty ninth day in which you've been living with him—he's finally given the clearest answer to all his questions. All his awkwardness and shyness flies straight out the window the moment Choso comes home to see you sitting rather weirdly in his designated spot on the couch.
He made small talk with you while grabbing a bottle of water for himself from the kitchen, hearing this notable waver in your voice that he simply couldn't ignore.
What Choso didn't know quite yet was that he'd came home far earlier than you expected him to. So now you were left to maintain casual conversation with him as if there wasn't inches of thick silicone stuffed inside your cunt right now.
"—and they're dropping a sequel too, can you believe it?" Choso's voice reverberates throughout the fine walls of your apartment and your hips squirm slightly.
You don't think he ever noticed it but you always found his voice to be especially sexy. And after you got that video of him fucking your pillow—which you've replayed a concerning amount of times since—you think your attraction to his voice has only worsened.
You never knew someone with a tone that deep could whimper and whine so sweetly. The mere reminiscent thought of it has you lifting your body up an inch or two, before you sink back down onto the dildo you have beneath you.
Then your eyes threaten to close and you nibble on your bottom lip to stop yourself from making any sudden noises.
Clearing your throat instead, "Really? That sounds—"
"Are you okay?" Choso cuts off, having fully entered the living room with you now.
His eyes narrow at you as you make contact with them, watching how he's got a single brow cocked up and one hand at his hip—the other busy drawing his perspiring bottle of water up to his lips. Instead of answering him immediately, you sit there and watch the movement of his mouth for an unhealthy number of seconds.
Choso's lips press against the opening of his water oh-so-effortlessly, his tongue swiping out to capture any liquid that imperils to escape his mouth, and his throat shifting along with each unwavering gulp he takes.
When his mouth detaches from the bottle, your eyes are glued to the small breath he lets out before he tilts his head. Then his hand waves out your way, "Hello?"
You shake out of your little daze and cringe at yourself internally, "Huh? Oh-, yeah, mhm. I-I'm fine."
Choso nods his head slowly as if he definitely does not believe you. Then you see the way his eyes drop down to the blanket concealing your lower half, and his feet move against the floor to carry him over to the empty spot on the couch beside you. "Are you sure? You look a little..." His eyelid lower a fraction and he clears his throat, "Stiff?"
You wanted to move around and reposition yourself to show him that you're totally fine but it was a little difficult to do so when you had a sex toy poking up inside you. "I'm fine, Cho. Don't worry about it," You tell him.
He's entirely unconvinced. After living with you for a little over two months, he can confidently say he knows you and your body language like the back of his hand.
So, he leans back against the couch—eyes still trained on your ever little move—and then rests one of his arms against the backside of it, leaning closer to you. "It's kinda hard not to worry about it when you're looking at me like that."
You blink. "Like what?"
"Like you've been caught doing something wrong," He says with a breathless scoff following, "Did something happen?"
"N-No," You breathe out as quickly as you can.
Choso's gaze gets impossibly firmer on you, "You're lying."
Looking away for a split second, your arms move to fold beneath your chest, "Since when did you become so intuitive?"
"I've always been this intuitive," He tells you.
An uncomfortable beat of silence passes, and unfortunately for you, his talking is not helping your situation right now. Every word that vacates his mouth has you soaking both the item you're sitting on and the couch below it.
"So," His fingers idly drum against the back of the couch, "Are you gonna tell me what's wrong or...?"
You scoff, "Nothing's wrong, Choso."
He waits exactly ten loooong seconds before cracking a smirk, "So move."
"What?" You gasp.
He's still starring at you with the same unconvinced look on his face, "If there's nothing wrong, move."
You wave your arm out in a dismissive gesture before rolling your eyes and turning your head elsewhere, "You're being annoying over nothing."
Choso sizes you up, drinking in every inch of your noticeably rigid frame. "And something's wrong with you but you won't tell me what. Are you in pain? Did you hurt yourself in an embarrassing way? C'mon, if that's the case, I promise I won't make fun of you for it."
God, you hated when he acted like this. Sometimes Choso cared too much for his own good. He almost walked in on you touching yourself one night and wouldn't leave you alone until he set his eyes on your face to make sure you were okay.
You turn your head back towards him and sigh. You knew he knew what was going on here. Otherwise, why would he be pressing you to tell him what you were up to like this?
"You walked in at a bad time, that's all," You admit to him.
Choso's brows scrunch up all cutely, innocence etched into his sight as it softens on you. "What do you mean?"
How the fuck are you supposed to explain that you were in the middle of bouncing up and down a dildo—that's actually a direct copy of his cock—just moments before he walked in, and now the damn thing is nestled inside you??
"Well," You pause, heart racing a mile a minute as he stares you down like you're the only person who's every word has had him on the edge of his very seat. Then you start to fidget with your fingers in your lap and let your eyes drift away, "I was in the middle of something, and—"
You notice his legs spreading apart and his hips rolling up slowly from your peripherals. Before you can even finish, "In the middle of what?" Choso asks.
He knows.
You look at his face, and the way he's staring at you now is enough to make the heat pooling below get impossibly hotter. You can't help but squeeze your legs together, which causes the cock inside you to slip deeper.
Then your face twists up in reaction before you can help it and Choso watches the entire thing—not missing the movement in your thighs, the breathy moan you let out, and the way your fingers curl into the blanket you have neatly clutched over your body.
Oh.
Choso drags his slightly salivating tongue over his lips to wet them and then releases a short, unnerved chuckle. "I interrupted you, huh?" He asks rhetorically, voice husking a pitch deeper.
You nod your head, aching to move your body to satisfy yourself again.
"Are you embarrassed?" He goes on, trying his hardest not to move his legs out of fear you'll finally notice the boner he's been sporting this entire time.
"O-Obviously," You stammer, "But, I don't wanna talk about it. Just—"
"Don't talk then," He huffs, feeling something starved resting all thickly against the tip of his tongue. "And don't let me stop you."
Your breath tangles, "What?"
His eyes glide up and down your body thrice—seamlessly undressing you through those desperately blown-out pupils of his. "...You were playing with yourself, right?" He questions lowly.
"Something like that, yeah,” You reply.
A singular moment passes between you two before he finally says fuck it and looks at your face, "Can I watch?"
Your cunt involuntarily clenches around the dildo and you squirm, "Choso, I..."
He gives you a surprisingly calm, reassuring smile, “You know you can say no, ri—"
"I know that!" You huff, turning away as your face burns from the heat of embarrassment.
Then, without giving him a vocal answer, you finally shift around in your seat. He watches as you lean back against the corner-part of the couch and move your hand to the blankets edge before lifting it.
The first thing he notices as the cover is removed is that you're in his hoodie—the one he just wore yesterday!
You slouch your body a bit and move the blanket to the side as you slip from sitting to laying back, peeling your legs apart nice ‘n wide to give him the most sinful display of that dildo sliding a few inches out of you. Then your hand reaches down to make contact with the base of it and you bite your lip before languidly pulling it out of you.
Your pussy lips hug the silicone neatly whilst it schlicks its way out of your hole and you release a breath you weren’t aware you’d been holding in. There’s a droopy string of your slick dangling from in between the dildo’s glossy tip and your pulsing entrance—all of which Choso’s is left to peer at.
You redirect the toy’s weighty tip towards your clit and roll it around slowly before tossing your head back a little and sighing in relief.
"Ohgod-," Your roommate chokes into the palm he’d slapped over his mouth all of a sudden.
His body jolts and his other fingertips dip and grind into the couch as he tries to steady himself, holding on so tight that the veins trailing his arms begin to protrude out against his muscular arms. Something in between a throaty grunt and a whine had been ripped out of his throat.
You look over at him from beneath your lashes before batting them, "Are you okay? You're the one who wanted to watch..."
He nods shortly, mumbling, "M-Mhm, m'fine."
As if you’d believe that.
You raise a brow and move the silicone away from your cunt before snorting, "Why're you making that face then?"
"Well, I kinda..." He turns his blushing face away from you completely. Voice small, "Watching that made me cum..."
"What?” You lean up a bit, propping your body up more comfortably against your elbows, “I couldn't hear you, speak up."
Choso thinks his cock is gonna hurt after all this. He turns to face you again and looks you dead in the eyes as he speaks softly, "Watching you do that made me cum."
You blink dumbfoundedly as you find yourself unable to stop the amused smile that breaks into your features, "Just like that?"
He nods.
"You didn't even touch yourself..." You snort, looking down at yourself and shrugging as you tap the dildo against your pussy. Speaking casually, "I know you're a perv 'n all but, shit, I thought you'd last a little longer than that."
Choso’s entire world freezes, "Wait, what?"
"Mmnh," You’re busy moaning as you let the tip play with your entrance—teasing yourself shamelessly right in front of him.
The fact that you just admitted you’d known he was a filthy pervert all this time, and then went back to playing with yourself like it was nothing really threw him off.
Not that he has much time to let that sink in, though. Choso is far too easily distracted by the sight of your glistening pussy below, the living room light doing well to illuminate just how pretty your wet, sopping folds look against the head of the dildo.
“O-Ohhhh fuck.” He gasps, already on the verge of pleasureful tears. “You’re…” His hand shoots down to hold his dick as if to control it—squeezing his shaft roughly before pushing at it. "You’re soakedd. Can I taste it?” Choso asks, voice cracking a little on the last word.
You flick your eyes up at him, “What?”
“Wanna lick it,” He's whispering while moving to lean down, and flashing you this voracious look from his half-lidded eyes. “Can I? Please? Can I taste you, mommy?”
The second, “What.” that falls from your lips is flat as you find yourself struggling to process just how quickly he'd positioned himself in between your plush thighs and how smoothly that name just poured off of his tongue.
“S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to uh-, call you that…” Choso grumbles awkwardly, looking away to let the moment pass before peeking back up at you, “But, can I please—“
“Why should I let you?” You interrupt rudely.
He blinks. “Huh?”
The sudden shift in tension was rather palpable since you realized it's you who's in control here, and not him. “After alllll the dirty things you’ve done in thought of me," Your head angles off to the right, "Why should I let you taste me, Choso?”
“B-Because I’ll make you feel good,” He tries to promise, his dark eyes locked up onto the unfairly gorgeous display of you—wearing his hoodie and spread out a few inches away from his waiting mouth.
His small promise does little to help his case considering how you tut, “Aw, you think so?”
“Uhuh,” Choso nods submissively.
There's a feral, burning urge inside of him to bury his face in between your legs without permission, but that same urge battles strongly against the equally as resilient urge to be pliant and await your every command.
“That’s cute," You say before holding the dildo towards him, "How about this; if you can make me cum with this, I’ll let you get your taste, yeah?”
For the first time, Choso lets his eyes capture the toy you've been using all this time. The item is... weirdly familiar. Your roommate is many things, but he's not stupid—he knows what his own dick looks like.
Not that he has the mind to question you about it right now, though. there are much more pressing matters to tend to.
Which is exactly why he's not asking you anything as he takes the toy from your hands and then looks down at your cunt. Your hole pulses as if asking to be filled and he thinks his heart skips a beat.
He can see, touch, and smell everything.
Sluggishly, Choso directs the head of the fake cock towards your entrance and applies the faintest bit of pressure before stopping the moment he feels resistance. “Uh, is it.. supposed to do that?” Choso murmurs as he looks up, “Like.. are you supposed to be this tight? Do I need to use lu—“
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex before," You cut off.
You've had a feeling for months that Choso was a virgin but you'd never been too sure until now.
He pouts sheepishly, “Well..."
“Just-,” You cut yourself off with a sharp exhale. “Y’know what, you're the one that wanted to taste me so bad. I’m not teaching you, figure it out.”
His chest feels like it's caving in for a moment, “What?” He'd never heard you be so.. mean. Though he'd be lying is he said he wasn't into it, “But you made a copy of my dick, I don’t think that’s fai—“
“I don’t think it’s fair that you’re in between my legs with a toy in your hands and no idea how to use it," You say with a prominent roll of your eyes. “If you wanna taste my pussy, figure it the fuck out, Choso. Make me cum."
Oh, his cock swells impossibly harder.
Then he whines, “Y-Yes ma’am..."
Choso takes a deep breath and returns his attention to your cunt. Leaning down experimentally, his lips press clumsy, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh before he starts working his way inward. His nose bumps against your folds a few times, but you keep watching him try his best to piece everything together.
His brows furrow a little before he glides the dildo up and nudges it under your clitoral hood, plucking it away directly after once he notices your body flinching, and then tapping the silicone back down against it in the same way he'd seen you do earlier.
“This is your clit, right?” His question is made with genuine curiosity, but something in his eyes tells you that he already knows the answer to it—he simply wants to hear you say it.
Your head bobs a little and you're already feeling a little dazed from watching him, “Uhuh…”
You could feel his searing breaths flap down against all your wet skin and it was making you more sensitive than normal. The sound of your breathy confirmation made his face light up triumphantly.
Choso waves the tip of the dildo—technically his cock—left 'n right against your clit just to tease you before he lifts it away and lets it push against your hole again. He presses it forward with more pressure than the first time and finally pokes an inch inside you, lifting his eyes to see you bite back a moan.
You were so fucking needy.
He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit there and act like you didn't have this toy inside you all that time. Now you're more worked up than you probably would be in any normal situation.
He strips your insides of that taunting inch after a few seconds and then repeats this action over and over until he can hear it in your breathing that you're getting frustrated with him. But before you can send him any complaints, he lifts his head and hovers his lips over your clit.
“It’s so pretty, can I kiss it?” Choso asks softly.
“I…” His eyes are all glossy ‘n pleading—too irresistible for you to say no. “Yeah…" You concede, "But no licking.”
“Thank you,” Then he dives in and smothers his lips against your clit, sucking on it lightly without ever letting his tongue make contact with it.
The tip of that stupid silicone continues to pop in and out of your squelchy pussy mindlessly as Choso gets addicted to the feel of your clit against his lips.
Muttering, “S’pretty,” into the twitchy lil’ bud over ‘n over again in between the groans he's letting vibrate out. “It keeps—mwah, runnin’ from me.” He whispers against you, “Sensitive girl—she’s so fuckin’ cute.”
As soon as that praise leaves him, the entire length of the fake cock is thrusted into you and your back is forced into a nasty arch as your hands grab at the couch. A wanton, “Choso!” flying out of your mouth before you can even help it.
He plucks his lips away and glances up at you desperately, “Can I lick her now? Please. I’ll pass out if I don’t—“
“Fine,” You huff shakily, “J-Just... lick her ‘real good for me or I’ll make you stop.”
He doesn't have to be told twice whatsoever.
The next thing you feel is his tongue finally melting against your clit as the dildo is thrusted into you, stretching your saccharine walls out perfectly. Choso only fucks the toy in halfway this time though, pulling it out directly afterwards and then repeating this action many times over as if that's all you could take.
It's at complete random that he decides to fuck the entire length of it inside you, and your body flinches as the sudden gesture is paired with his tongue practically wrapping around your poor clit.
“You like that, princess?” Choso utters with a rasp, sticking his tongue out to show you how he moves it around into spelling out his name, “Like the way I flick my tongue against this pussy? Hm? Am I doin' a good job now?”
“F-Fuck. Hnngh-, yeahhh..” You purr out all softly, hips carefully rocking up to meet both his tongue and the dildo.
You hadn’t expected him to be a talker, especially since he’s never done this before. You assume he’s just saying whatever sounds right in hopes that it works, and luckily for him it always seems to.
In a matter of minutes, Choso's fucking you relentlessly with both his tongue and the copy of his cock. You could drive that toy into you at the same speed of which he's doing now, which is exactly why it's not long before you're whining for him to slow down a little since you didn't wanna cum so quickly.
It felt like he'd only just started!
And if he was doing all this with his tongue glued solely to your clit and that toy thrashing against your g-spot, you could only imagine what the entirety of his mouth would provide for you if you let him.
Even with your pleas of him slowing his pace, Choso wasn't much listening until after you came all over the dildo. He let the toy slip right out of you and held it to the side as he tried to move in and lick at your gaping hole in an attempt of finally getting a raw taste of you.
Sure, he got to savor a bit of you just from licking at your clit but that was far from enough.
You shot a hand down to grab ahold of his hair and yank his head up before that could happen. Panting, “What’re you doing?” as you furrow your brows at him.
Choso whimpers, “Y-You said I could taste you after I made you feel good.”
“Yeah," You smirk, "But not like that.”
You make a gesture towards the same toy he's steadily growing very envious of and his eyes are slow to follow along. Then he frowns because he knows exactly where this is going.
His chocolatey eyes travel along the fake veins trailing the cock and he wonders distantly how you managed to capture every essence of his sex like that. “You… You want me to suck my own…” Choso trails off instead of completing his sentence as the realization settles in.
All whilst you're laying there with the same haughty smile on your face, “You want your taste don’t you?”
A light, defeated groan evades his lips as he watches you go on to grab the dildo and hold it up towards his mouth. The slick, shining toy is absolutely coated in you—your arousal clung to the silicone in glossy streaks, and the evidence of your orgasm fragrant and sloppy against the material.
Choso's nose twitches as he catches the sweet scent of your release oozing off of it before his voice stains out. "Fuck." He breathes, watching a slow bead of your cum slide down the length of the silicone—some of it pooled at the tip where a perfect copy of his own slit had been molded.
The man can't help the way he licks his lips reflexively as he leans towards it.
"Atta' boy," You hum, tapping the head of the toy against his bottom lip and watching your wetness smear across his skin. "Open up and get your taste, c'mon."
There's a war between his pride and his raging need to satisfy your every whim, of which the latter easily wins.
Choso parts his lips and you guide the head inside, his eyes fluttering shut upon feeling your taste meet his tongue. He moans around the toy and you push more of it into his mouth, watching how pretty his lips sealing around the shaft as he begins to hesitantly suck.
"Look at youuu, sucking yourself clean," Your words come out in a breathy purr the more you watch him work his mouth around the copy of his dick. "Good boy."
His eyes open and he bobs his head forward a little more, hips rutting against the couch hard enough for the furniture to inch forward. You watch drool trickle out of his mouth and trail down his chin, feeling yourself throb each time he moans.
You knew Choso was desperate for you but this...
“Mmgh..” He groans around the faux flesh, sucking a little faster once he notices the glow of entertainment in your eyes as you watch him.
“How’s it taste, pretty boy?” You ask in that unfairly sinful tone.
Choso pops his mouth off and gives you a fucked-out little simper, “S’good, mommy.”
Your hand falters against the base of the toy for a moment as you chuff out, “Stop calling me that.”
“Sorry,” He says, not sounding the slightest bit apologetic as he returns to licking his cock clean.
After a long, drawn-out time of him practically sucking and licking the dildo brand new, he pulls away from it with a slippery, wet pop!
Then he gasps, sucking in air, and moves his arm over to wipe off the slick and saliva mix from his chin. There's a disheveled look plastered all over his face and his eyes are hazy when met with yours.
"Was that good?" You ask despite already knowing the answer.
To your surprise, Choso doesn't respond.
He just stares at you like he's debating more things than can currently be expressed through words. Then he wraps his hands around the base of the dildo, snatches it from your grasp, and tosses it across the living room like it's useless.
Halfway-glaring at you with a new look in his eyes, he leans up leisurely. His hands move to the edge of his sweatpants and you see his dick imprint practically staring at you from beyond the fabric—a concerning wet patch darkening the area.
There's something grave in his eyes as he cocks his head over and exhales heavily, “Can I give you the real thing now?”
Your thighs twitch but you hope he doesn't notice it. Trying to distract him from it by shrugging, “You think you’ve earned it?”
“I think,” His fingers dip beneath the fabric and he begins to tug his pants down, “You’re being a brat—acting like you’re not just as bad as me.”
Oh. The switch in his head had most certainly been flipped and you were not expecting it.
“What?” You puff.
“Look at you now,” He reaches out and presses the thick pad of his thumb against your clit, “Swollen, needy, aching… all for me.”
Your thighs try to shut, “T-That’s just because—“
“Shhh, shhh,” He hushes, rapidly swatting his hands over to your legs and forcing them open before you can close them, “Let me show you I’ve earned it.”
He grips at your skin until it feels like you won't move once he extracts his hold on you, swallowing up how pretty you look submitting to him now.
Choso goes to pull his dick out and your breath hitches, entire body flinching as you watch it bob out. His length spanks down against your pussy, meanly spreading your wobbly lips apart and nudging against every sensitive nerve you have there.
Your roommate doesn’t move for a moment and just sits there so you can feel his veins thumping, and watch the crown of his cock drooool silky, wet ropes of mushy cum against your abdomen. He's a mess of his own seed but he doesn't seem to care or be embarassed by it whatsoever.
After all, you're the one who got him like this.
All while he’s panting, sweat running down his skin, and face flushed beyond belief. Hovering over you, Choso tilts his head and continues on with his needy glare, “Can I fuck you now?”
“Yeah,” You don't even hesitate to whisper.
His hand moves to hold your jaw graciously but the way he tugs your face up is quite rough, “Speak up.” He demands.
“Yeah,” You say clearly, “You can fuck me, Choso.”
And that’s all he needs.
Next thing you know and Choso's tucking his thiiiiick, creamy cock into your quivering pussy, throwing his head back from the sensation of feeling you welcoming him in for the first time. He's got one hand clasped onto the couch and the other having moved to grip the top of your head so you can watch him have his way with you.
He couldn't let you miss a second of this by looking away or turning your head because you didn't want him to see how much your face twists up in pleasure. No, no, if you're gonna let him fuck you then you're gonna watch how he does it too.
Every fuckin' second of it.
That initial inch of him sinking into you had your vision blurring. The dildo you had made couldn't even begin to compare nor replicate the real thing. It doesn't twitch the way he does, doesn't end with his hips pressing forward with intentional, punishing slowness as if to get back at you for making the damn thing in the first place, and doesn't make you feel every ridge or rubbing vein against the soppiest crevices of your pussy.
"Look at that," Choso drawls, his eyes locked onto where your bodies meet, "You take me s'fucking well—always knew you would." He admits.
But then he stops halfway with no warning, no nothing. You're left impaled and clenching around him, wanting and needing more desperately whilst he just waits. He watches how your walls flutter around him as if to bed for the rest but he still doesn't move.
Your voice feels broken, "C-Choso.."
"Hm? Something wrong, princess?" He coos innocently, "You want me to keep going?"
You nod desperately and the movement makes his hand grip at your skull tighter by just a fraction. Then he sinks in a little deeper and you deliver a trembling moan in response.
He doesn't even sound like the sweet, respectful Choso you know has he tuts, "I can't hear you."
Through gritted teeth, "Yes—fucking move, Cho. Please, fuck me." you beg.
The edges of his lips curl, "Thaaat's more like it."
And then he's bucking the rest of his plump cock into you, bottoming out just the way both of you have always desired. The fluid motion has air fleeing from your lungs and your back angling up ‘n away from the couch, a shamefully loud cry—that you’re sure your neighbors will send complaints about later—leaping out of your trachea.
Choso sets a nasty rhythm inside you, thrusting without a concern in the world about the way the couch is squeaking and creaking beneath your bodies.
Shit. At this rate the dame thing could just break and he still wouldn’t give a fuck.
His hand tightens within your hair and he pulls at your head, “Goddd, you’ve no idea how long I-, hahh… waited for this. Need you to watch, baby. Watch how I fuck this pretty pussy.”
You feel his stout cockhead flog up against your cervix repeatedly, almost like he means to brand himself into the area and have his cum signing his name across it permanently.
“Can’t believe you got some-, fuck—s-stupid toy to replace me. L-Like m’not right here for you,” He pants, a crisp whine slipping out somewhere in between his words. “You knew you wanted the real thing, knew you needed it. Right? Doesn’t this feel s’much better, princess?”
Your jaw is flailing open at this point and you’re a slobbering, moaning mess underneath him, “Yes, Choso. F-Feels s’good, nngh!”
A particularly puncturing thrust makes your eyes fly to the back of your head and your hand reach over to hold onto his arm, nails scratching across his skin. He smiles once he realizes he’s found the perfect spot to fuck you dumb.
Then he’s doing exactly that, pounding your body straight into the mattress and letting groans pour out of his mouth. He’s so fucked-out that he doesn’t even realize he’s drooling on you as he plows forward.
Your pussy is weeping all over his cock, lugging his every jerky inch in deeper ‘n deeper until he earns a specific twitch from you.
“O-Oh,” Choso moans again, “I found it, huh? You gonna cum on me again?” Once your head goes nodding and your pleasureful cries pitch out into airy whines, he gasps. “Give it to me then. Please? Please cum on me, lemme feel it. I wanna feel it baby—wanna feel you cum.”
His words immediately fade off into whimpers when he feels you doing exactly as he’s begged you to—your orgasm practically crashing through you and causing your body to convulse around him. Choso fucks you through it like his life depends on it, eager not to disappoint.
Then he’s right there with you—even though he technically came again quite some time ago, but both of you were too fucked-out to realize—and you feel globs of his cum gushing all throughout your pussy, the mess of releases getting mixed with one another with the way his hips insistently continued on.
Muttering, “Take it, take it, take it-,” over and over mindlessly whilst your cunt shuddered around him.
It’s not until his hips come to a sharp stop that both of you manage to catch your breath in an synchronized gasp of air. Choso’s body topples down over you and you feel his cock twitching as it goes flaccid inside you.
Your bodies remain still for a minute or two before he lifts his head to look at your face, leaning in to plaster kisses on your cheek and whisper intimate things that your ears don’t quite catch.
When your ears come in tune with what he’s saying, "—and about that video... I wanted to apologize for that. A-And for everything else." you hear him finishing off with.
To which you let out a little dream-like sigh, "Choso… I literally have a camera in my room. I've known about what you've been doing for quite a while now. You don't have to apologize."
"Oh, you-," He pauses and lifts his body. "Wait, what?"
nanami kento experiencing a meet-cute for the first time in his life and not knowing how to act. ⋮ tags. fluff. reader is a bit chaotic. love at first sight. accidental meeting. ⋮ word count. 0.6k
For the briefest moment, Nanami freezes, until he comes to realise—the bag opening, books falling out, papers flying everywhere, a bunch of pencils cracking with the clash, following the tumble they make while plummeting down—this is totally his fault.
A lip gloss, a lipliner, a pack of gum. He can't catch it all, but he certainly does try, especially when he sees a glasses case almost escaping the depths of that purse. Seriously, it might as well be a junk drawer.
“I— uh,” he clears his throat, not hesitating to kneel before you, gathering most of the stuff that has fallen while you do the same. Fingers touching, pulling away when the touch burns, soft chuckles, awkward stifled sighs. “I’m awfully sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going, I suppose.”
“It’s all good,” you promise him in a peaceful tone, taking one earphone out of your ear, pushing it back into your shirt. Only then does he notice your music is audible from where he's kneeling. Everlasting Love, oh, for fuck’s sake—
When everything is pushed back into your purse (messily, might one add), you both stand up.
You’re peering up at him with wide eyes, teeth going straight for your bottom lip. You take him in from top to bottom, not shamefully either. In bright daylight, biting your lip almost obscenely, with not a shame in the world, you're practically eye-fucking him.
How free you must feel.
He pauses for a beat, tilting his head to take you in as well. You’re exceptionally beautiful. Messy, definitely, but beautiful nonetheless. A stain on your white shirt, which stands out, a bunch of colours mixing and colliding, making your entire personality burst with loudness. Despite everything, you make it work.
A barely put-together bun is keeping your hair together, a pencil rammed right through the stands, and the ones that have escaped are framing your face perfectly. Belt shoved onto your pants, which are swallowing you whole, a white tight shirt, however, and the baggy sort of jacket to top it off.
You seem like the kind of woman who: tells people they're not being spontaneous enough, tells others to quit their job if their boss is too much of a complainer, tells the melancholics to make what they're looking for if it hasn't been done yet.
The expression on your face only makes his argument stronger— the perfect blend of chaotic and spirited.
“It was my fault, for sure,” you tell him with a faint chuckle. It’s obnoxiously contagious. Not the kind silently begging for attention, but the kind that shines so brightly that it solely attracts engagement wherever the wind takes it. “My music is especially loud today. They’re working down there,” you point toward the opposite end of the street where you came from. “So I turned my volume up.”
Nanami dumbly nods, taking in every feature of your face, even when you continue rambling about the works up ahead.
Your eyebrows crease together when you're deep in thought, he notes, and you have two dimples in your cheeks. The one on the left isn't as apparent as the right one, and it seems to deepen when you smile, even if it’s subtle. Your eyes crease, and one side of your mouth tilts up more than the other, all your teeth flashing.
It might just be the most beautiful thing he's ever witnessed.
The clouds are currently covering the evening rays, and he's convinced it’s because the sun is already standing in front of him in its complete life form.
If he goes home later that day with your number safely tucked away into his phone, and if the way his shoulders relax for the first time in a long while is because of you, then that’ll be his secret to keep.
cw: coworker!toji, workplace sěx, fingëring, dry hūmping, p w plot, pälming, ôrǎl. art by o6frog on twt ! 𓏲 .˚˖ ᵎᵎ
“TOJI FUSHIGURO IS DEFINITELY A B MINUS,”
lunch break at goldman sachs means jam sticky on your fingers & shoko’s bleary eyes. beside you she’s plum cheeks & lashes fluttering, lips smudged with brownie-choc & something else she swears isn’t laced with weed.
“that’s not very generous. i thought you liked the guy.”
and you do. toji fushiguro is a man divorced with broad chest & tired eyes. but even thick arms & bulging pectorals aren’t enough to earn a print grade of D++.
“not to the point that i’d lie to myself,” you click your tongue. “see how the peak of his crotch rests right below the middle? that’s a B minus.”
two cubicles & a half-opened laptop away, toji fushiguro is there.
sleeves folded over thick forearms, glasses heavy on sunken nose. and his eyes? low & lazy & gazing nowhere near your direction. and you’d worn this skirt just for him !
you shake the thought away. beside you, shoko smushes a palm against her cheek.
“i think you’re wrong.”
“hm?”
“have you seen how he walks?” shoko leans in, eyes glimmering. “slow. heavy. like he’s weighed down by the sheer mass of it,” she licks her canines,
“that man is packing.”
“but the print chart—“
“fuck the print chart,” shoko interrupts. “i say we investigate.”
INVESTIGATION #1 : COMPANY GYM
the company gym is mirrored walls / sweat-soaked skin / air heavy with the haze of midsummer heat. somewhere between the barbell racks & bench press machines, your palms bruise red from the weight of a dumbbell.
toji fushiguro has the body of a god.
you won’t admit it, though. won’t even look at it. even now you’re low lashes trained on shoko sprawled against her mat. said girl is shameless & gawky & wide-eyed.
“shoko,” you hiss. “stop staring.”
“i can’t! his waist is too slutty!”
your tongue licks your canines. girls like you don’t feel the need to sneak a peek. toji fushiguro is a man who knows he will never be refused. to seduce you, he’d need more than broad back or slow gaze or thick thigh—
oh my!
you only see it for a second, really. he shifts & the material clings far too tight—stretching & dipping just enough to outline his cock; thick & fat & far too heavy against his right leg.
“bitch. did you fucking see that?”
“see what?”
girls like you tell lies like they’re gospel. even now, shoko’s shoving your side, spitting something about ‘playing hard to get’ & just ‘sneaking one more glance.’
you do. lashes low. lips half-bitten. eyes on the mirror because girls like you can’t look men like toji in the face.
your cheeks burn hot when your eyes lift.
toji fushiguro is already looking at you.
PRINT ASSESSMENT : B(+) FOR BIASED.
DIHVESTIGATION #2: BOARDROOM 4-B
one half-drunk coffee browning at the rim. two men with glasses who don’t know how to murmur. in boardroom 4-B, there are three reasons why you can’t fucking focus.
reason number one: toji fushiguro is staring at you like he knows how you taste when you lie.
it shouldn’t bother you, really. 3PM at goldman sachs means company whiteboards & stock market projections. this afternoon you’re buttoned blazer & tight skirt & tighter bun. there’s a clipboard in your hands & two knots in your gut.
you’re presenting something about liquid assets. toji’s gaze has liquid pooling between your thighs.
the nerve of him. toji fushiguro has a pen in his teeth & a tie half-loose. his glasses slip low on his nose, chair leaning, thick arms crossed over thicker chest. & his eyes—glazed over & half-lidded—blink slow. heavy & bored & flitting to your hips before glancing away like you don’t even exist.
the projector goes out.
& it’s a good thing it does. it’s hard to talk about assets when toji’s got you wishing his shove through your pussy. you bite your lip, thighs aching like a fucking virgin. down the table, shoko notices.
IT girl shoko ieri doesn’t stand up.
she should. you’re already irritated & it’s her fucking job for christ’s sake, but shoko seems to have other plans. instead she turns to toji,
“mr. fushiguro—do you mind getting that? you’re closest to the port.”
toji doesn’t mind. at least, that’s what it looks like. he gets up, body all spine & lazy muscle, and stops just in front of you.
“s’cuse me, miss,”
he lowers himself to pick at the wires by the screen. you’re quick to clamp your thighs shut & pray he doesn’t catch your soaked panties or the way they cling between your folds.
you also pray he doesn’t catch the way your eyes flick to his crotch.
& god, he’s huge; thin slacks not bothering to hide his shape in his pants. he’s thick. so thick you can’t guess if he’s hard & bulging or some sort of monster even when soft or if his cock would twitch if he shoved it right into your aching cunt—
your thighs squeeze. there’s three crevices in your palm where your nails dig into your skin & your knees feel weak & god why the fuck is he so hot? his hair’s all messy & shirt half-unbuttoned so when you sneak a peek, his chest peeks back.
you bite your lip & sneak a peek at his face as well.
toji fushiguro does not peek back.
he’s consumed by the wires it seems—shuffling cables; one arm lifting to rest on the chair beside you & unavoidably bracketing your knees. you’re leaned back against the wall now, chest heaving, thighs shut, lashes fluttering because toji’s nose sniffles & it’s so fucking cute.
& so fucking annoying. because you’ve used your pretty heel to nudge him twice now & he’s still plugging wires like he can’t feel your thigh brush hot against his arm. like he can’t hear how heavy you’re breathing, or the soft squelch under your skirt when he leans so close you have to shift away. like he can’t—
“legs,” he mutters.
you shift your heel back, cheeks ripe-red & sweltering hot.
toji drops a cable. arms on his knees now, still crouched low, bleary eyes flicking up to yours. there’s only silence for a beat, and then he stands up slow. heavy. you don’t miss the soft knock of his cock against his crotch.
you gulp.
toji stretches. gaze low, eyes somewhere too close to your skirt.
“fix that.”
toji doesn’t clarify as he turns to leave.
PRINT ASSESSMENT: D(-) FOR DICKHEAD.
DIHVESTIGATION CUT THE EYE TAG N’ FUCK THIS CUNT !
5PM at goldman sachs & there’s an elbow wedged between your ribs.
the elevator’s full—too full—& you’re too foolish; and the bone in your rib clearly isn’t yours. to your left there’s a man in khaki suit & beach blond hair & heavy goggles. the man on your right has pearl white hair & talks to him a mile a minute.
behind you is something hard.
but your body knows the scent of maroon’s dogwood et tabac. behind you toji fushiguro is leaning, hands heavy on the rail behind him, crotch conveniently caught behind your ass.
the elevator air is sticky as a chewed prayer. the first time you grind against toji, it’s purely by accident.
too many bodies press together, sweat-slicked & aching in the midsummer heat. the elevator stutters & you can only shift back, backside dragging over his semi-hard cock.
the second time you grind against him, your hips are the culprit.
not you, your hips; because girls like you have bodies with minds of their own so you can only bear witness as they rub against his crotch. heavy. slow. assisted by the weight of two grown men pressing beside you every time the elevator simmers.
behind you, toji hasn’t tensed.
in fact, he yawns. like he hasn’t noticed you frotting on his cock. like his dick isn’t semi-hard & kissing your ass beneath your skirt.
he’s so fucking frustrating.
so you stop for now. even your hips know better than to lie to you twice. you try to move forward, keyword: try, but the elevator slams to brake & you’re shoved against toji’s chest.
big hands catch your hips automatically. you muffle a squeak. how cute.
but you’ll never know if toji thinks the same because he only grunts behind you, sound rumbling through his chest. the elevator fills out quickly, too many footsteps eager to find home.
it’s time for you to find home, too. heaven knows this workday has filled you with embarrassment.
you’re about to step off when toji pushes the emergency stop button.
you only realize it when you bump against his back. you blink once, twice, & toji turns to you with lips ticked up in a smile too cruel to be kind.
“you gonna pretend you don’t know why i did that?”
you tell lies like they’re gospel so you play the fool. “i have no idea what you’re talking about.”
you say it with clicked tongue but blisters swell where your thighs touch. there’s a heat on your cheeks that you can’t itch away.
toji laughs, shakes his head. the sound is close to guttural.
“heard you and shoko at lunch earlier,” he muses, voice low & steps heavy. “B-minus, was it?”
“what are you—“
a palm pats your cheek. heavy, hot. “rubbing up on me like a bitch in heat. that desperate to find out, miss?”
you shiver against his touch, neck hot, thighs burning. toji’s thumb drags at your lip. the other hand slips towards his pants.
he’s palming himself now, gripping at his crotch, moulding & pressing as you suck air in with glossy eyes.
“don’t be shy,” he murmurs. you’re still rag dolled in front of him, shaky knees & lust-glazed eyes. his palm leaves his crotch to take yours gently, so gently, & you almost moan when he presses it to his hard, swollen cock.
fuck.
“easy,” he rasps, low. you’re half-bitten lips now, pupils blown & palms playing with his zipped-up cockhead. his pants twitch with each clothed rub, & your body has a mind of its own so you whimper.
“wanna take it out for me, miss?”
“yes—i mean, yes.”
you don’t miss the tug of his lips. the expression he wears is close to mocking but you’re half-devil half-girl so you zip him free anyways. he springs free & god he’s huge. veiny & thick & tip an angry pink.
toji pumps himself, horny & pulsing with each stroke. his thighs twitch like it fucking hurts.
“knees, dollface,” he’s breathless now. “tell me i’m a B with my cock stuffed in your throat.”
toji fushiguro doesn’t need to tell you twice.
you sink obediently, palms resting at his thighs. you reach to cup his dick but it only slaps against your face.
“tits out, doll. wanna watch ‘em bounce while you suck me.”
& you’re half-devil half-girl so you obey immediately; knuckles shaky & fingers clumsy against your buttons. toji sighs & snaps them open with a grunt.
“can’t do anything right…”
he murmurs but you’re peering up at him with doe eyes. toji thinks you’re so fucking cute, hot cheeks & clenching thighs & a nose that scrunches in self-denial. ten minutes ago you were rubbing against his cock. five minutes & you were telling him otherwise.
nevermind that, though. he’s always wanted your glossy lips wrapped around his dick.
& the precum on his tip makes them glossier. toji’s got his head tipped back now, thighs twitching, hips thrusting himself into your hot mouth. the sight of your pebbled nipples glistening with sweat makes him groan, & you pump his cock & suck so good he thinks he might be seeing stars.
“mm—fuck, that’s it,” he rasps, “that’s good, s’good, miss.”
you lick a stripe up his slit. toji shivers.
& you’re a devil of a girl so you take it a step further. your thighs squeeze, & the soft squelch of your panties stick to his ears. you take your other hand & fondle with your perky nipples.
“fuck—“
but toji doesn’t let you continue. he yanks you by the hair just as his cock twitches, pulsing & sputtering with sticky precum.
“up,” he rasps, pulling at your waist, “get up.”
you’re only in his arms for a moment before he gets to work, neck flushed & rock hard against you. he’s much too rough in folding up your skirt, dragging it up so your ass spills out & the cool air licks your panties.
“been so fuckin’ noisy,” his fingers rub circles on your juicy clit, “soaked & begging for me since the meeting. thought i wouldn’t fucking notice.”
he’s muttering more to himself than you, pressing his thumb to your panties before he somehow gets annoyed & slides them away. you’re slobbering on his fingers now, sticky & drenched & squelching with each pump.
“mhm—right there, ah—“
“quiet,” he hisses with two fingers in your folds. he’s pumping them in & out now, brows furrowed, hair sweaty, dick impossibly hard. you go limp against him, tits smushed against his chest as he works to stretch you out; cockhead still poking against your swollen clit.
“so fucking tight,” he rasps. “god, baby. why’s your pussy so fuckin’ tight.”
toji fushiguro is big man with little patience. so when he circles your swollen clit one more time, your thighs trembling against him, you’re not too surprised when his palm shifts back to his cock.
he’s still got a palm on your hip, heavy & aching. he pumps himself two more times before kissing the crook of your neck against his chest.
“gonna stuff you with my cock,” he’s pumping harder now, lips brushing just under your jaw. “that okay, sweetheart? want my B-minus cock in you? or is that not big enough?”
“it’s big! so big—please toji—“
“so cute,” it’s almost a laugh now, guttural & vibrating through your chest. he hooks your thigh up with an arm. “starin’ at my cock and rating it with your friend. shoulda stuffed it in you ages ago.”
& he does. he strokes your clit once before pushing himself in, pussy sputtering & spitting around him. your walls streetch, velvety & aching, hips twitching as you clench around his cock.
“m’sorry! so sorry, can’t take anymore, please—”
he only shoves himself deeper as you cry over his cock. he’s panting now, groaning, palm shaky as he grips your thigh. “look at me—this feel like a B to you? can’t even take B-grade dick, hm?”
he thrusts into your squelching pussy as you go limp against him, lashes fluttering, lips bitten hard as your nipples drag against his chest.
“it’s a D! fuck, toji—!”
he slides his dick out as your pussy sputters; walls cumming, body aching & tingly on his chest. toji’s got his dick in his palm & pumping slow; thick white cum dripping out with each stroke. “mhm…fuck.”
you’re still breathing heavy on his chest, nipples budded & glistening with sweat. against you toji shoves his dick back in his pants, breath heavy, tugging on his zipper as his thumb slips low to circle at your swollen clit.
your lashes flutter open to peek at his jaw. toji fushiguro is already looking at you.
synopsis . Getting sandwiched in between your boyfriends but, one is really mean to you and the other just showers you with praises. content . afab!reader, threesome, overstim, praise, established relationship, spit, degrading, eiffel tower position, etc.
“What a stupid girl,” Geto groaned out in between the sloppy thrusts of his cock into your drooling mouth, border-line bruising the back of your throat with how rough ‘n rude he was being, “Lettin’ us fuck you like this—hah, you couldn’t even wait until we got home. Needy slut.”
You’re a pathetic mess of gags, choking around his heavy shaft that's busy dragging itself up and down the expanse of your tongue—kissing the very back of your throat in a way that had your cunt spasming around the other cock currently stuffed inside you. “Mmgh!” You’re left whining as your teary eyes navigate up to your dark-haired boyfriend.
Your lighter-haired partner—who’s weighty balls are busy slap! slap! slapping! against your swollen clit as he plows into you from behind—is contrastingly a lot softer with his words, “Aw, c’mon, Suguru, don’t be s’hard on her,” Gojo soothes out with his lengthy digits busy rubbing over the fat of your ass before he spreads you a little wider for himself just to catch sight of the way your cute cunt is swallowing him in deep.
“Why not? She likes it,” Geto purrs before his hand moves under your jaw to lift your head a little bit whilst his hips angle. Those darkened purple-hued eyes of his are ever so demeaning on you, staring down at your tear-stained face as if you were exactly where you belonged (you were). “Bet you want me to keep using this slutty throat of yours ‘til I cum all over that tongue, huh?”
“Mhmm,” You naturally start nodding your head and let the salivating pink muscle in your mouth lap eagerly against Geto’s most sensitive vein—y’know, the one that trails the underside of his dick gorgeously.
The man cocks his head to the side and even though his thumb is actively rubbing your jaw as if to comfort you just a little, there’s still a scarily smug smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Swatting his tongue out over them, “Yeah? Earn it, then.” He orders before spitting down at you, the splatter landing somewhere on your cheek.
You try to better the way you’re sucking him into your mouth—you really do—but with the way Gojo conveniently presses his palm into the arch of your spine, causing his wet cockhead to place syrupy kisses against your spongey sweet spot, you all but choke around the thickness in between your lips.
“Suguru, look at her, she’s tryin’ her best—mmgh-, fuck,” Your much sweeter boyfriend tries to sympathize, despite the fact that his tip is busy branding a mean smear of cum against your cervix. Huffing, “You gotta reward her some. Like this,” Gojo explains breathlessly before swooping a hand underneath your poor, overstimulated frame and letting his fingertips locate your clit with ease, gently swatting at it just to feel 'n watch the way your entire body twitches in reaction.
“Hnngh,” You're gagging out your moans again as your eyes start to travel alll the way into the back of your skull.
Gojo only smiles as if he's being any kinder than Geto, “See? She’s squeezin’ me even tighter now,” He points out. Then he's leaning down so his words can hit your ear properly, voice a soothingly deep tone that has you dripping from everywhere. “Y’like that, sweetheart?”
Like always, you're nodding before you manage to hum a muffled, “M-Mmhm!"
“Liar,” Geto sears with a harsher thrust of his hips. It's almost like he wanted you to literally eat your own words, his wide cock filling every crevice of your throat just as he'd trained it to, time and time before. Head tilting and knowing smirk flashing, “You like someone that’s mean to you more, be honest.”
Gojo's head flies up and his brows are all furrowed. An immediate pout takes over his lips and you think his hips stutter for a second, “Are you trying to say she likes you more than me?”
“Hah," Geto laughs dryly while weaving a hand through your hair, ignoring your gags and only ever acknowledging how good the vibrations feel around his shaft. "You’re a smart boy, Satoru. You can figure it out.”
The man behind you is left to scoff and the smack! he leaves on your ass doesn't exactly seem like it was directed towards you, “See how easily you praise me?" He asks, rolling his eyes before looking down again. It was clear by the sudden throb in his cock that the simple phrase from Geto was getting to him. So, naturally, he had to turn the attention back to you, "Why can’t you do the same for her?”
“She’s not y—oohh f-fuck, hey-, wait…” Geto's the one stammering now as he's entirely caught off-guard by your sloppy fingers dragging against his balls, his dick having somehow fallen out of your mouth and left you below him with a jaw slicked with saliva 'n spit, and your lips kissing his most sensitive places. “Shiit, you missed my attention on you already? Hm?” He teases.
“Mmnh," You hum while nodding. He watches you stick your tongue out like some whore before you let him see the center of it slather over a particularly delicate vein of his that trails the left side of his shaft. Then your head tips to the side and you start leaving kisses all over his length.
“Fuck, I hate it when you’re cute.” Was his way of telling you he's dialing it back a bit, his touches an awfully lot softer and smoother now against your face.
You let off a moan right against his skin when Gojo pulls out of you for a second just to watch his cock wetly thwack! up against your folds, “He’s lyin’, sweets. He loves it.”
To which Geto shakes his head and only sends him a glare, “Shut up, Satoru.”
banner art by Rororogi Mogera || perm gojo & geto tags (list still open here):
▶︎︎ SCREAM VI (starring . ghostface! geto, gojo, & choso)
synopsis . In which your ‘killers’ soon realize you’re not stuck with them but they’re stuck with you…
content . afab!reader, three/foursome, squirting, non-curse au, oral sex, established relationship, reader gets kinda passed around, men teasing one another, dirty talk, unprotected sex, established relationship, fear play, lowk feral reader, cuck!Geto, rough sex, praise, overstim, degrading, tw: spitting, pet names, filth (cùm eating), pussy slapping, teasing, chojo sneak bc i cant help it, a hint of knife play, etc.
word count . 9.6k || author’s note: in honor of the new scream movie coming out tmr i thought i’d go ahead and repost this from kamitv—if it looks familiar, that’s why. banner art by the lovely @/aransmind!!
“You want me to wear that and chase you around the estate?”
“Yeah, and when you find me…”
“I fuck you instead of killing you.”
“Mhm!” You hum cheerfully to your rather concerned boyfriend whose lap you’re currently sitting on.
Those dark raven strands of hair framing his gorgeous face sway with the light tip of his head to the side as his naturally slim eyes narrow at your overly excited expression, “And I’m doing this, why?” Geto questions.
You let out a giggle, which only confuses him even more. “Because Scream is my favorite franchise and Ghostface is hot… Duh.”
It’s as if the man only falls for you more and more every day. Geto’s been with you for roughly two years now and yet you’ve never revealed this sudden… mask kink you clearly have. He likes the Scream franchise just as much as you do and the idea of chasing you around and eventually fucking you in costume definitely excites him.
So there you are; sitting in his lap and pouting, steadily snaking your arms around his neck and pulling yourself in close before you plant a chaste little kiss on his lips.
“C’mon Sugu, I know you’ve thought about it before,” You point out to him in a low purr as your lips depart from his.
The hands that’d been calmly resting on your hips suddenly grow intrigued as they slide up to your waist and give you a soft squeeze, “I really haven’t.” He admits honestly. You can see it all in his eyes that he silently agreed to this the moment you brought out that stupid mask.
At his soft admission, a gleaming smile spreads across your face, “Okayy, well you are now… So is that a yes or what?”
He pretends to think for only a moment longer, glancing off to the side in faux thought before landing those pretty lilac irises back onto you, “Yeah, sure. Tomorrow's Halloween so, we can do it then.” Geto tells you.
And that was all it took.
Halloween night was here before you even had time to fully prepare for it. The entire day you weren’t able to stop thinking about the moment Geto would walk through the front door, dressed in all black with that overly attractive ghostface mask cloaking his equally beautiful face.
Your heart was racing in anticipation as the sun began to set outside and the clock ticked closer and closer toward the time of which he would return home from work. You knew he’d be there no more than thirty minutes after and all you could do was wonder how this all would go down.
Clad in only one of his oversized white t-shirts, you distracted yourself by mindlessly scrolling on your phone as you awaited the moment he’d get home. Any second now and you’d hear that lovely security chime go off—
You jump a little in your bed when your thought is cut off by an incoming unknown number. If you weren’t buzzing with excitement before, you damn sure are now because it’s clear your boyfriend is going out of his way to play into this with you. There are practically small hearts in your eyes as you tap that enticing green button on your screen to answer the phone.
Biting back a smile, you’re quick to bring the phone up to your ear, “Hello?”
An almost low-quality distortion to the person’s voice is instantly recognized by you—it wasn’t Suguru’s voice at all, it was that infamous voice changer that spoke to you. “Why don’t you wanna talk to me?” A man asks, and you know this line all too well.
Hell, you know the entire dialogue. This is exactly why you sit up in your bed and hold back that smile of yours like your life depended on it. Tilting your head into the phone, you glance around your bedroom, “Who is this?”
“You tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine,” The ‘mystery’ man continues.
You had to slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from giggling right then and there. Your dark little fantasy was becoming true right before your very eyes and it had a sliver of excitement slipping down your spine. Sliding out from your bed, you take small steps toward the nearby window and glance outside.
Scoffing softly, “I don’t think so.” You quote, straight from the first Scream. You’ve seen the movie enough times to recite the whole thing word for word, even his lines.
It’s a bit off-script how things go from here on out but, that’s the goal.
“Aw, you’re no fun.” He purrs. Even with that damn voice changer, you’d recognize that purr any day. You know this is your boyfriend and that only has your body heating up with each passing second.
Now you’re left to improv a bit. “Think so?” You reply as you pull your bedroom curtains closed and turn away from the window.
“Oh I know so, sweetheart. It’s Halloween night and you’re doing nothing to celebrate.” The man on your phone points out.
You’re walking out of your room now and taking a careful peek into the dimmed hallway. “And that makes me not fun? What am I supposed to do to celebrate Halloween aside from dressing up and maybe handing out some candy?”
He chuckles. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can figure something else out.”
“Let me guess,” Your brows raise a little, “I should be watching scary movies?”
“That depends. You like scary movies?” There you are, right back onto the script.
“Uhuh,” You hum in response with a slight nod as if he could see you.
“What’s your favorite scary movie?” And there it is, infamous line one of many. You nearly let out a dreamy sigh knowing that it’s nothing but your boyfriend on the other end.
Allowing yourself to smile this time, you trek down your hallway and towards the staircase. “Uhhh, I dunno,” Of course you know, but where’s the fun in saying it so soon?
“You have to have a favorite. What comes to mind?” Every scratchy distorted-pitched word that pours from the man’s mouth has anticipation bubbling within you.
You sigh. “Uhmm, Halloween!” As you recall that answer straight from the movie, you turn to your staircase and allow your eyes to scan the first floor of your home.
Most of the lights are on so it’s not too dark or anything but you really are curious whether or not Geto has made his way inside already.
“Y’know, the one with the guy with the white mask who walks around and stalks babysitters?” You quote flawlessly yet again. You’re such a fanatic for the Scream franchise that you’re loving every single second of this.
“Yeahh,” He purrs again, making your heart involuntarily flutter.
You begin to slowly descend down the flight of stairs, “What’s yours?”
“Guess.” He orders on the other end.
Pausing halfway down, you glance over to your kitchen. The light is still on and everything is exactly the way you left it. “Uhm, Nightmare on Elm Street?” You soon reply.
“Is that the one where the guy had knives for fingers?” The way your boyfriend knows every word to this just as well as you do makes your stomach churn in affection just a bit.
Your voice turns enthusiastic and you continue your steps down, “Yeah! Freddy Kruger.”
“Freddy, that’s right.” He continues, “I like that movie—it was scary.”
“Well the first one was but the rest sucked.” You’re downstairs now, looking around at the way all the blinds in your home are open. Did you leave them like that for this exact reason? You don’t remember.
“Mhm,” ‘Mystery’ man hums and you swear you can picture the smirk on his face as he utters the next infamous line. “Soo, you got a boyfriend?”
You pull your lower lip into your mouth for a second before smiling, “Why? You wanna ask me out on a date?” Now you’re making a right to enter your living room, heading toward your couch placed in the center.
“Maybe. Do you have a boyfriend?” He asks again.
You pause for a second. This literally is your boyfriend so, surely he wants you to play into this question, right?
“No.” You chirp simply.
You can hear the smile on his face even through that stupidly attractive voice changer, “You never told me your name.”
You know what comes after this and you can’t help but begin to look around as you plop down on your couch, “Why do you wanna know my name?”
It’s silent over the phone for a long couple of seconds
“Cause’ we wanna know who we’re looking at.”
Your heart surprisingly sinks as those words hit your ears. We? That’s not… how that scene goes. He was supposed to say that he wants to know who he’s looking at. There’s no we? Where the hell did he even get that from??
For the first time since you picked up this damn phone and started this whole thing, you’re actually a bit nervous. Chuckling loosely, you try to play it off as your eyes glance around your living room, “What do you mean, ‘we’?”
There’s a shuffling over the phone for just a moment. Then, you hear that distorted voice again, but the pitch is slightly different. “C’mon, princess. You’ve seen the movies, you should know by now that there’s hardly ever only one killer.” The man says.
Eyes all over every corner of the house, heart thumping slightly in your chest, you can feel your anxiety rising within. “I… I don’t understand.” You murmur softly.
And then… all the lights go out with a loud noise coming from somewhere outside. If you weren’t shaking in fear before, you damn sure are now. Your eyes go even wider and you move to put your phone on speaker, clicking your flashlight on right after.
“S-Suguru, this isn’t funny! I like the movies ‘nd all but I’m not the biggest fan of being scared, you know that.” The person(s) on the phone can hear the clear trembling in your voice as you stand up and point your flashlight to whatever area your eyes land on, searching for any signs of anyone.
There’s a snicker over the line. “Oh but this iss funny, sweets.” The tone changed again—it’s still distorted in that famous Ghostface pitch, but it’s not Suguru nor the person who’d said something before. “You look sooo scared right now.”
Aw hell, that lets you know he (or they) can see you right now. Which is just great considering you can’t see shit aside from darkness and the few areas of your house that your light lands on. You’re scared to leave the living room but… you’re also terrified of staying right where you are. You don’t know how many Ghostface’s are in your house right now and you don’t know what the hell Suguru has planned for you tonight.
“Stop playing around! Turn the lights back on and quit this scary shit, Suguru.” You huff out into the call, taking one step to your right and hearing the floor creak below your foot.
The house is eerily quiet—which is ridiculously concerning considering how he-, they can see you but you can’t see them at the moment. How the hell are they talking to you without you hearing them? They are in your house now, right??
“You said you wanted to get fucked by Ghostface, baby.” The voice returns, as does that natural purr, letting you know it’s Geto talking once more. “You never said how many…”
You slowly walk around your couch and shift your flashlight toward the blinds, trying to get a look outside your windows. “Are you serious? That sounds insane. How many of you are there?!” Your gaze flicks toward the nearby staircase and you only scare yourself as your eyes get lost in the darkness of your home.
Geto’s still talking, “Including me, there’s three of us. How does that sound, hm? I’m obviously not gonna make you do anything you don’t want to but, you do know who we all are.”
You swallow thickly. “Do I?” This time your words leave in a whisper and you swear you hear a shuffling coming from upstairs.
Lord knows you’re scared out of your mind right now. But, it is comforting to know that whatever this is, your boyfriend is in control of it all. You trust him more than anything, so there’s no real reason to be scared… right?
“Mhm. So how ‘bout we play a game?” Your boyfriend requests, and the sound of him smiling again is heard through his tone.
You stop walking entirely and your eyes are fixated upstairs as you flash your light up there. “Okay Jigsaw.” You snort, “What… What kind of game, huh?”
He sighs, almost sounding as though he were sitting back against something. “The one you and I were going to play. Y’know, you run around ‘n hide but if I find you, I fuck you. Let’s continue that but… with two others.”
“Suguru, you’re gonna let two other guys fuck me?” You’re beyond baffled by this whole thing. Never in a million years would you have expected this from your boyfriend. This is the same man who got mad a while ago for the way some guy who was all flirty with you at a restaurant…
Geto hums deeply, “S’long as you’re okay with it and they find you before I do, yeahh.”
“I didn’t know you were into that…” You reply, moving a hand to tug his shirt further down your body. Knowing that there was more than just him in the area right now made you a bit self-conscious.
“Didn’t know you were into masks but the Ghostface thing really does it for ya’, huh?” Suguru snaps back with that sass you know and love.
“I mean…” You shrug, “Yeah.”
“Right. So then, the game is simple. You try to hide and whoever finds you first; fucks you.”
“That’s it?”
“Oh, nooo. There’s more to this baby…” You swear you hear a creak upstairs—coming from somewhere down the left end of the hallway. It gives you the chills as Geto continues. “See, I know how loud you are when you cum so… tonight, I want you to be nice and quiet.”
You gulp, “What happens if I’m not?”
“Another one of us will find you.”
“Oh—“
“…And join in.” He steadily adds on with an amused smile on his face that you obviously can’t see right now.
Your heart races at the thought alone. “Oh.”
Just for extra consent, Geto tilts his head against the phone, “That alright with you?”
“Yes… but, wait do I still have to be quiet even if there ends up being two of you guys fucking me…?” You lean to the side a bit and aim your light toward the direction you heard the creak, spotting no one and no signs of life whatsoever.
“Yep.” Geto replies with a teasing pop of the ‘p’.
“But—“
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll do fine. After all,” The voice changer clicks off and Suguru’s tone is nice and clear with you, “Y’know whose cock you’re supposed t’get loud on.”
You feel yourself throb at the sound of his voice without that stupid filter, puffing out a little sigh in reaction to his lewd words.
“Oh, and by the way…”
“Huh?”
The voice changer clicks on one last time and he chuckles. “They’re already in the house.”
——
Okay, you knew Halloween was one of Suguru’s favorite holidays but shit you didn’t expect him to go all out like this.
Not one, not two, but three Ghostfaces in your home searching for you right now? You’re lucky the house is big and there are plenty of places to hide but fuck is your anxiety through the goddamn roof as you sit in the empty tub of your first-floor bathroom. The door is shut but not locked and you’ve got the tub curtain pulled closed, just in case one of them does happen to stroll in.
Obviously, this wasn’t the best hiding spot in the world but you wanted them to eventually find you. You were scared in the beginning because of how unexpected this was but now you’re just as excited as you were when you first received that infamous phone call and recited all the lines with your boyfriend.
As soon as the call had ended, you clicked your flashlight off and snuck around in search of a hiding place—which is roughly how you ended up where you are now…
Now you’re left wondering who would find you first. Well, that and who the hell is under two of those masks. You suspect one of them is Gojo Satoru since that’s your boyfriend’s best friend but the other guy… you’re not too sure. Geto said you knew him but that still doesn’t help much.
Your boyfriend has a lot of friends that you know. Which one does he trust enough to let them have their way with you??
After maybe fifteen minutes of sitting in the tub, you start hearing someone outside the bathroom door. Footsteps shuffle by and you can tell the person went off into your kitchen. Then you hear the sounds of doors and cabinets opening, all of which make your breath hitch.
It’s so nerve-wracking and exciting waiting for someone to swing open the bathroom door. The footsteps soon pass it again and you let out the faintest sigh.
…Only to hear those steps halt not too far off from the door. Then, they turn and your body stiffens up entirely as each thump against the hardwood floor draws closer and closer to the door. You can’t see it because of the shower curtains but, there’s a shadow at the bathroom door.
Then you hear a small clinking sound, followed by a very soft… thump? Almost as if someone were leaning against the bathroom door to listen.
It was so scarily exciting that you had to move a hand over your mouth to keep yourself as silent as possible. After which, it’s all so very motionless.
There’s no sound, safe for someone walking around upstairs, and you just know someone’s outside the bathroom door right now. Your heart sinks into your ass the moment you hear that doorknob turning torturously slow until it’s lightly pushed open.
Then, there are but two soft steps taken inside and you don’t hear it but the door is closed behind whoever just entered.
They could be coming in to just use the bathroom… riiiight?
That’s extremely naive of you to think but a girl can only hope. Another step is taken deeper into the bathroom and that soft clinking sound you heard before is getting louder. It’s faint, almost like… jewelry or… necklaces slapping against one another gently. Jewelry… Necklaces… Which one of Geto’s friends do you know wears a lot of jewelry...? C’mon, think.
Necklaces… rings maybe… piercings—
The very second it clicks in your brain who this might be, you practically flinch right out of your skin as you spot a knife slowly moving to slide the bathtub curtain open. As the curtain is pulled open, you’re met with the tilted head of someone in a Ghostface costume.
Your eyes are all wide on them and you genuinely have no idea where on your body this guy is looking but the mask is actually quite scary when it’s all dark and neither of you is making any sudden movements.
His head slowly angles to the opposing direction, just like Ghostface often does in the movies, and you gulp loudly. The curtain is pinned to the wall by the knife in his hand and you think you’re sweating.
“Scared?” His voice is deep. Familiarly deep. It quickly confirms your suspicions of who’s face may be lying beneath that iconic mask.
With your eyes all frantic along what’s covering his face, noticing the bits of blood and cracks decorating it, you swallow thickly yet again. “Choso?” Your voice is hardly above a whisper and the air feels so heavy with tension.
His hand moves away from the wall and the knife, which you hope is fake, is placed on the edge of the tub with a soft tapping noise emitting into the still air. Then he takes that same hand and lifts it to pull his mask up to the right side of his face, revealing his expression to you as he crouches down to your eye level. You quickly feel your fear die off and it’s replaced with… something else as you study his face. There’s fake blood splattered on his skin, makeup extending the tattoo along the bridge of his nose, and piercings that stand out against his facial features.
“The tub, really?” He whispers to you, chuckling softly and flashing this kind smile at you that makes you feel overly warm inside. “S’this the best you could do? Y’know if I was a real killer you’d be dead right now, right?” Choso teases, all of his words kept in a low voice.
You roll your eyes and shift against the cold tub flooring, “I wouldn’t have hid in here if you guys were real killers, I’m not dumb.”
His lips curve into this sexy yet lazy smirk and you can feel your heart fluttering in your chest. You had a thing for Choso way back before you started dating Geto and it seems as though your body hasn’t forgotten why. “Yeahh?” Choso chastises with another tilt of his head, “Think you would be the final girl?”
Leaning forward a bit, you nod. “No, I know I would.”
Choso lets out a hum before biting his lower lip for a moment. Then, he lets it fall from in between his teeth and you think you’re in a trance. “Oh she’s cocky, huh?” He teases.
You smile at him and then push up to stand on your knees. Leaning all the way forward, you slowly reach for the knife and take it into your hands. Then you move to hold the tip of it right underneath his jaw and the sound of his breath hitching hits your ears just right.
You openly stare at his lips and watch the way his smirk slowly transcends into a full cocky smile. “Y’know that’s not fake, right?” Choso hushes out to you.
The knife is carefully caressing his skin as you trace it up slightly to his chin, “It’s not?” You ask innocently, placing your free hand on the edge of the tub and watching how he slowly moves to sit on his knees so that he’s looking up at you.
His face is all pretty from this angle, big brown doe-eyes batting up at you so softly, such a pretty face of dark innocence presented before you. Who’s really the ‘victim’ here—you or him?
“Nah,” Choso whispers, “That’s a real knife.”
“Why would you carry around a real knife?” You ask in an equally soft tone as your brows twist up in confusion.
He shrugs. “Honestly, I was gonna ask if you were into a bit of knife play…”
His words make your mind stray away from the situation at hand. Your imagination is quick to push out ideas and all sorts of scenarios that could have occurred with this knife of his had you not looked so scared when he first saw you…
“Are you?” The question in return makes Choso’s gaze flicker into something way more lustful than it was moments before.
He scoffs, “Am I? Why would I ask you about it if I wasn’t.”
“So… What, you wanna cut my clothes off of somethin’?” You ask carefully, steadily slipping the tip of the knife along his jawline.
Choso just barely nods his head in response.
“Y’know it’s funny you say that and yet you’re the one on your knees with a knife held up to your chin right now.” You point out with an all-knowing grin plastered all over your face.
Choso bites back a laugh. It’s cute that you think you have the upper hand here. “You and I both know that could easily change in a matter of seconds.” He claims.
And y’know, maybe it’s because you found yourself turned on by this whole game or maybe it’s simply because you wanted to fuck Choso but either way—you do not shy away from testing that theory. All you said was a simple ‘prove it’ and you found yourself in quite the position moments later.
It was one thing that Choso managed to easily gain a hold of the knife once more but it was another thing entirely that he was able to swiftly and quietly get you out of the tub and into his arms. All without even so much as grazing you with that sharp weapon too.
It was almost impressive, in all honesty.
Somewhere in the mix of all that, he ends up placing the knife down and soon has you sitting on the bathroom counter. Well, had you sitting on the bathroom counter—it quickly becomes a lot more than simply that.
Choso used that lil’ knife of his to cut down the center of your (Geto’s) shirt and was quick to have you all exposed to his overly greedy eyes. You were wearing nothing more than this lacy black set beneath that oversized shirt so it wasn’t much to get you unclothed.
One second he was cutting your shirt open and the next his lips were on yours. Then his pierced tongue was in your mouth and your arms were around his neck, tugging him closer to you and feeling his hard cock poking you through the thick layers of black clothes between you and him.
Which is exactly what led to the way you are currently.
Choso now has your legs spread wide open for him and his clothes are hardly even off, safe for the black cloak-like jacket that slipped off of his shoulders and the way his pants have been tugged down. He’s got on this black compression shirt and you spot the layered chains/necklaces hanging from around his throat that you heard earlier. Now leaning back slightly against the mirror behind you with your eyes set down between the two of you, you’re left watching the mean slap of Choso’s leaky cockhead against your clit.
“Cho,” You whispered out pleadingly. He’d been doing this for the longest—tapping his thick cock against your clit and then rubbing it from side to side against you, feeling the way you leak onto the counter below and hearing those faint whines escaping your throat.
Then he has the nerve to have the sluttiest expression on his half-revealed face, eyes all low-lidded and glued to your exposed pussy, bottom lip locked in between his teeth as he holds back his own breathy sounds of pleasure, and brows all tense as if he’s not the one torturing the two of you like this. “Shiiiit,” Choso rasps out, sliding his cock down slowly and pressing his fat tip against your weeping hole. “Suguru was right, this pussy is s’fuckin’ loud ‘n messy…” He breathes.
Your lips are all parted and all you can do is pant softly as he lifts his tip away and then slaps it against your cunt again, listening to the shlick tapping sound that comes from your sex.
Almost in a daze, he glides his cock up and down your wet folds, “Look at herrr,” Choso purrs, “All wet f’me. Can’t believe he’s lettin’ us fuck you.” His hips push forward a bit and you feel the way his heavy shaft glides against your cunt instead of inside like you so desperately want him to.
You have to suppress the needy whine that threatens to escape your throat, holding one hand slightly over your mouth. “Choso, please.” You whisper beneath your palm.
He pulls his hips back and angles his tip back down to your entrance, pushing forward ever so slightly and teasing that tight ring of muscle, not trying to really push himself into you at all. “What is it, princess?” Choso taunts, smirking as he lifts his eyes up to your face, “Want me to fuck you?”
You throb at his words, nodding as if a second longer would have you pronounced dead. “Please,” You whine, trying your best to wiggle your hips forward.
Choso leans forward and moves his lips right up your ear, his breath all warm and tickly against your skin. “Yeah? Y’want my cock inside you that badly?” He says with another faint push of his hips. Every word that leaves his lips has you dripping all over him.
It’s not until you move your hand away from your mouth and place it on the counter space behind you, and whisper, “Yes Choso, just put it all the way in already, I’m losing my fuckin’ m-mind…” Your last word leaves a little shaky due to the way he suddenly moves a hand over your lips.
Pressing his palm against your mouth, you grow confused until you look over to the bottom of the bathroom door and see a shadow moving by. Yet another Ghostface was nearby.
Choso, not yet wanting to ruin his alone time with you, presses his lips further against your ear, and his other hand grips your thigh tightly. “M’not ready t’share you yet so, be really fuckin’ quiet f’me, alright?” His warning confused you for half a second before you felt him roll his hips forward with a sharp snap at the end, stuffing you full with every hard inch of his cock in one go.
Your eyes tear up and your mouth hangs open under his hand, a strangled moan escaping your throat. Choso’s dick is so stupidly big, reminding you of your boyfriend in more ways than one. Unlike Geto though, Choso’s got this ruthless right curve and just drags against your sweet spot with every small movement he makes, the rest of his cock felt throbbing and twitching wildly against your sodden walls.
He lets out a choked grunt against your ear and you can feel him humping his cock deeper inside you with these small maddening little thrusts. “Does he even fuck you? S-Shiiit…” Choso lets his thoughts be vocalized against the crown of your ear and you only squeeze around his girthy shaft. “S’fuckin’ tight.. God-, fu-uck…” His voice has this pretty lil’ crack at the end that makes you soak his cock even more, sloppy juices leaking all out from where the two of you are connected.
Choso has to tug his hips back a bit and he completely forgets that he recently heard someone walking by the bathroom as he mindlessly thrusts right back into you. Your eyes meet the back of your skull and you groan into his palm. The wet gurgles and squelches from your pussy are what draws attention to the bathroom, if any.
Which is something you can’t even control, especially not with the way Choso goes from short grunts in your ear to moaning delightedly against your skin and fucking his thick cock into your sinfully warm cunt. Deep and almost passionate strokes are made into you and he can’t help but rid his hand from your mouth at some point. Moving it back to your thighs, he sprawls your legs out even wider so his cock can dig deeper into you.
With your jaw still hanging open, the sounds of him fucking you against the counter slowly grow louder and louder. You’re trying not to moan but it’s so hard with him—Choso knows how to use his cock all too well and his eyes are studying your face so he knows where exactly he should be thrusting. Just the slightest shift of his hips causes drool to leak from the corner of your lips and that makes him flash this fucked-out little smile.
Choso leans up closer and his body sandwiches against yours for a moment. You swear you can feel his angry cockhead prodding at your guts because fuck is he in there deep. Not to mention how orgasmic it is to feel him drag his pierced tongue against your chin, lapping up the mess of drool from your face before shoving the muscle into your mouth and forcing you to suck on it.
That leaves your moaning drowned out for a bit and Choso takes the opportunity to pound himself into you like a damn madman. Your legs quickly begin to feel like jello in his hands and you couldn’t even focus on sucking on his tongue anymore. Then, he pulls his mouth away, just barely, and the two of you are staring deep into each other’s eyes as his pace gets faster. His hips are so sharp against you and you can feel his weighty balls slapping against your ass with every mean and pronounced thrust.
Your breath mingles with one another and you’re both so fucked out that you don’t even realize you’re a lot louder now until you spot the bathroom door cracking open in your peripherals. It barely makes a sound as it’s pushed open slightly and all you see is yet another person wearing a Ghostface mask—the sight alone and the clear eye contact you make with them leading straight to your orgasm.
The second Ghostface stands motionless, doing nothing more than watching the blissful way your eyes lull to the back of your head and you release this sweet moan of Choso’s name. Choso, oblivious to being watched right now, is so close to emptying himself inside you.
“F-Fuck,” He huffs, tipping his head back and looking up to the ceiling for a moment. “So tight… I’m gonna c-cum if you keep squeezin’ me like that.” His voice fluctuates here and there but by the time your eyes roll back into place, the bathroom door is shut and that second Ghostface is now standing right behind Choso.
You flinch and Choso chokes out a grunt at how tightly you just clenched around his cock. The second Ghostface is slow to lift his mask up a bit, only revealing his mouth with this recognizable snake bite piercing that has your cunt gripping onto Choso even tighter. Then, the man leans to Choso’s ear and practically scares him into cumming inside you.
“What do we have here, hm?” Gojo whispers, making Choso’s hips stutter against you. He then reaches a gloved hand around Choso and your neglected clit is met with his thumb swatting over it, “Can’t believe you found her first. S’not fair…” Gojo hums softly with a slight pout.
You have this dumbfounded look all over your face and you may be fucked out of your mind but you swear Choso’s cock is almost harder inside you. The two of you curse in unison as Gojo rotates his thumb against your clit in a sensual circle motion, making you clench again and Choso rolls his gaze back—only the whites of his eyes visible to you.
“K-Keep rubbin’ her like that,” Choso pants with a soft moan. “She’s so fucking tight… I’m gonna die in here, s-shit.” He curses dramatically.
Gojo flicks his thumb upwards against your clit with a nasty trickle of your slick oozing out onto Choso’s cock. “You’re not gonna die, Cho,” He says in a chastising tone with a smile on his face, taking his free hand to pull his mask further up so that you can see his eyes.
You watch the way Gojo looks over Choso’s shoulder and stares at Choso’s lengthy cock disappearing in and out of your slobbering pussy. Gojo feels his own dick throb against his pants, pressing himself a bit closer to Choso and moving to talk into his ear. “I mean look at her,” Gojo directs, leading to Choso focusing his hazy gaze onto your face. “You’re already fucking her to tears, you’re not gonna die, heh. You’re fuckin’ her good.”
That last praise is what causes Choso to slump forward against you and roll his hips harshly against you—followed by which is a thick spurt of cum as he finishes inside you with a broken groan pouring from his lips. All as Gojo keeps his thumb on your clit, despite his hand getting squished in between you and Choso’s body.
Then Gojo smirks and leans in toward Choso again, “There ya’ go, good boy. Let it all out inside her. Jus’ like that…”
You don’t think you’ve ever been this… ruined before in your life. Watching Gojo tease and praise Choso like that while you were still being fucked and your clit was being stimulated led to you abruptly squirting. Choso’s cock slips right out of you and Gojo removes his hand just so that both of them could watch you let out that filthy lil’ stream.
Choso’s completely out of it as he watches your pussy spasm wildly. “Holy…” He whispers, hardly able to finish the rest of his statement.
Gojo clicks his tongue, “Suguru didn’t tell us you were a squirter. Or, has he never made you do that before?” He asks, slowly lifting his eyes up to your face.
You look like you’re about to pass out, your body all sweaty as you lean back against the mirror again and pant heavily. “He… hah, f-fuck, h-he has.” You squeak out softly.
Gojo hums before looking back down, allowing Choso to step (stumble) back slightly past him so he can catch his breath. Then, once Choso is completely out of the way and the space between your legs is left vacant—Gojo lets out an alarming chuckle.
He watches the way Choso’s cum dribbles out of your overstimulated cunt, glob after glob leaking out so prettily that Gojo can’t help but crouch down to get a closer look. Your eyes lazily follow his snowy head of hair and watch as his face is repositioned in between your spread legs. He moves his gloved thumb to your pussy lips and sloshes that mix of you and Choso’s cum around against you.
Then, Gojo flicks his gaze up to you and you gulp. He looks you dead in the eyes before spreading your lips further apart with his thumb and leaning forward. Your jaw drops in shock as Gojo cups his mouth against your pussy and suckles the mess from Choso into his mouth.
You whine, “S-Satoru—oh, w-wait,” You’re left gasping as you shoot a hand down to his hair and grip him tightly.
Gojo groans deeply and you feel his tongue lap against your saturated cunt leisurely. Moving up and down in a sloppy filthy manner, your legs are trembling while Gojo cleans you up casually.
Choso’s sitting on the nearby toilet seat now, batting his lashes at Gojos actions in shock. “Satoru you… you know I just—“
“Mhmm,” Gojo mumbles into your pussy, pulling his lips back just barely to allow a cool slap of air to hit you. Then, he swallows. “You both taste really,” Gojo leans back in to kiss your cunt, “Mmph… fuckin’ sweet.” He murmurs against you before slithering his tongue inside you.
Your back arches and your legs move to close around his head as your fingers tug desperately on his locks of hair. “S’toru,” You mumble, “Fuck. Please… mgh, n-needa’ break. I-I can’t—“
Gojo tilts his head and smiles into your honeyed slick, “Sweetheart,” He rasps against you, suckling on your taste for a moment longer before pulling off with a wet pop! “I jus’ got here ‘n you want a break from me already?” He says, pushing out his bottom lip to pout. “That’s so mean.”
Before you even get the chance to argue with that, he’s diving right back in and eating you out like a man staved. Sucking, licking, kissing, spitting—Gojo’s between your legs in some kind of trance as he drools all over his current meal. He’s such a messy eater too, his actions quickly leading to the lower half of his face being coated with remnants of you.
After a bit, Choso seems to have collected himself and he’s soon standing up. His pants have been hastily pulled up and you’re too lost in the overstimulation Gojo’s giving you to realize Choso is approaching you too. When your eyes lift, you see Choso with his Ghostface mask back over his face and his phone held in his right hand.
Cocking his head to the side, he looms closer to Gojo and sneaks a, now gloved, hand into his bright white tufts of hair, prying his mouth away from your cunt with a harsh tug. You watch with teary eyes as Choso holds his phone up to Gojo’s face, and hums out a low, “Smile.” With the voice changer turned on.
Gojo sparks a toothy grin and his expression is all high in pleasure. He looks faded out of his mind, simply off of eating you out alone. The flash from Choso’s phone lights up the bathroom and within the picture he just took, only your legs are visible dangling over Gojo’s shoulders. They’d just recreated that infamous photo you see around this time of year all over your socials. Usually, the victim would be laid out stomach first on the floor and Ghostface would tug their head up by their hair but, this definitely works too.
“Atta’ boy,” Choso praises after he’s taken the desired amount of pictures.
Gojo looks up to you and he’s pretty sure he can see little hearts in your eyes as you glance back and forth between him and Choso. “You don’t mind, do ya’? We wanna have somethin’ to remember this by,” He tells you.
You simply shake your head no and both of the men in front of you smile. Choso then nods his head a little before using his grasp on Gojo’s hair to shove him back down in between your legs—earning a surprised hum from your throat and a muffled groan from Gojo’s.
Despite the little Surprise, Gojo gets back to work with his mouth and you end up leaning forward a bit in surprise. Choso moves over to the side a bit and he feels you drop a hand to Gojo’s head to give him a light push away so he can ease up on you. In contrast to this, Choso steals your attention by wrapping a free hand of his around your throat. Your eyes shoot up to him and you’re met with the eyes of Ghostface since he’s got the mask back on.
Purposefully, he does that head tilt again. So slowly does it tip to the side as Gojo’s teeth graze your clit, causing you to let out a pleasureful yelp. “Fuck!” You gasp, to which Choso removes his hand from Gojo’s hair.
Creeping up along your body, Choso grabs a greedy handful of your breast before leaning in. “That was loud, princess. You’re gonna get us all caught,” He snickers to you.
Your bottom lip quivers and you think the sight of it makes Choso feel bad. He takes his hand off of your tits for just a second to pull his mask up and then returns his gasp. Both of you have the same idea in mind but it’s you that reaches for him this time, tugging him in so that his lips can meet yours again.
And then it’s just sloppy from there on out. Anyone with ears could walk past that bathroom, or anywhere down stairs for that matter, and hear the sliding of lips over one another followed by gurgled gasps and barely muffed goans. Choso’s making out with you while he plays with your tits in his hands and Gojo’s still lost in between your legs.
Your whole body feels like it’s on fire and your head is beginning to spin from how good you feel everywhere. It only gets worse when the two start muttering praises out to you.
Dragging his lips down to your chest, Choso hushes out these elated whispers, “C’mon pretty girl, don’t tap out on us jus’ yet.”
Then there’s Gojo who moves to suck on your inner thigh. “Yeahh, don’t tap out. Let us make you feel good, baby.” He hums into your skin.
The counter beneath your ass is a slippery wet mess just like the bottom of Gojo's face and all the way down his neck with the way he let your juices trickle along his skin as he ate. All three of you get a little lost in the moment for quite some time. So much that you all seem to forget there’s supposed to be a third Ghostface.
Who, unknowingly, ends up silently opening the bathroom door and catching the way his two friends have his girlfriend all spread out ‘n ruined like some slut. Geto swore he almost came in his pants at the sight alone. You don’t seem to notice he’s standing there and you’re the only one facing him. His eyes are all over your wet expression, watching and listening to you moan two other guy’s names.
He didn’t even want to say anything. Geto just wanted to remain where he was and watch because lord knows if he joins in he won’t last longer than a few seconds. So, he does exactly that—going completely unnoticed there for a while.
Up until Gojo pulls his mouth off of you for a second. He looks up to see Choso decorating your chest in hot kisses and wet hickies, the two of you constantly making eye contact with one another before he moves his lips to yours again. Fuck just watching you two was hot. So hot that it makes Gojo wonder where the hell his best friend is at and why he’s missing out on all this.
Which is what leads to him turning around to glance back at the bathroom entrance, quickly spotting Geto standing there leaning against the door frame. Well, shit. It’s in that moment that Gojo realizes he sees the appeal in the whole Ghostface thing because fuck is his best friend just as hot as everything and everyone else in this damn room.
After Gojo, you’re the next person to realize your boyfriend is now present, and then Choso seconds later. Each of you have this face as if you’d been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to but that little detail is irrelevant given how Geto could care less about how he was the last to find you. And sure, he may have watched you run into the bathroom earlier and could’ve gone in there to scare you a while ago but, watching Choso and Gojo eventually find you and then listening to them interact with you from outside the bathroom was far more entertaining.
—
So, one thing led to another and…
You find yourself laid out in your bed all over again, this time accompanied with three men. Geto was the first to get himself situated—seating himself not too far away from the bed and telling you to “put on a show for him”.
By this point, who were you to even question him? If Gojo and Choso were leading things before, they damn sure aren’t now because it’s you who’s ordering them around and letting them know where you want them. Starting with you on all fours, showing off that arch that Geto has had you perfect over the years. Then your legs part slowly and Gojo’s behind you in a trance as he watches you move a hand to spread your cunt open for him.
“You spoil us, sweetheart,” Gojo rasps in a low pitch, voice slightly hoarse from how long he’d gone without talking earlier.
You wanted to focus on him some more but a pair of fingers are placed on your chin and your face is quickly redirected to the second man of need. The moment your head turns, you’re met with Choso’s fat cockhead right in front of your face. Batting your lashes, you’re slow to look all the way up to him and see the way he’s smirking down at you.
“‘Could get off on that look alone, y’know.” Choso comments deeply in reference to your wide glossed over eyes and how close his tip is to your lips.
Gojo’s behind you frowning at the way Choso stole your attention yet again. In an attempt to, at least, have your mind on him once more, Gojo simply pushes his hips forward and eyes the sloppy part of your pussy spread against his pink tip. He hears it, Choso hears it, they all hear the way you gasp softly. It’s like they’re all hyper aware of every sound or slight movement you make.
Immediately after, your hips are wiggling back and Gojo’s quick to palm the fats of your ass. “Finally givin’ me some attention now, huh?” He quips.
You pull away from Choso’s touch just to look back at Gojo. “Suguru should’ve told you guys, I hate bein’ teased.” The way you force yourself back on him not even a second after that last word is leaving your lips has Gojo’s jaw falling and his fingers curling into your skin.
“W-Woah sweets, you could’ve warned me f-first…” He stammers, eyes dropping down to your greedy cunt swallowing up his lengthy inches of cock like it’s nothing. Gojo had to bite back a whine as he listened to the syrupy squelches that came with each backward push of your hips. “Fuuck, don’t stop. Give it t’me, baby.”
Gojo doesn’t even have to move yet and you’re already letting off a shaky moan, driving your hips back carefully and feeling him fill up every inch of your cunt. He’s all dazed while he watches his aching cock delve deep inside you, inch by inch—you take him like you were fuckin’ made for him.
The man is just dazed. He understands why Choso said he was gonna die earlier becuase fuckin’ hell he’s not even all the way in yet and you’re already clamping around his veiny shaft with no intention of ever letting go. And the goddamn arch you have, they way your ass looks all pretty backing up against him—
Gojo’s thrusting forward before he even realizes he is and his hands slide up to your hips to hold you nice ‘n steady. Your legs shake and your jaw mirrors his with the way it just hangs open. Then there’s your eyes and the way they roll back, a delicious moan exiting from deep within your throat.
He definately fucks you harder than Choso was earlier because you can feel his cock everywhere—he has you so stupidly full and dumb on his dick within seconds, landing a mean hand down onto your ass amid his thrusts.
“Ohh fuck, Suguru y’had this pussy all to yourself all this time?” Gojo grunts. “…S-Selfish bastard.”
Gojo’s hands are arguably slimmer than your boyfriends but his grip on you is just the same. Hence why you can’t do anything as he tugs you back to meet his rough pounding. Hell, all you’re left with is a brain full of nothing as your head turns to face forwards and you unconsciously look up at a stunned Choso.
His hand is wrapped around his cock and despite being right in front of your face, he’s definitely jerking off to they way Gojo’s fucking you (or maybe just to Gojo himself, who knows). When Choso does look down, you see his brows twist up and his lips part.
Your mouth is already hanging open so clearly you’re silently offering to help him, right? Which is why he angles himself toward your gape mouth and grunts, “Open up f’me pretty girl, nice ‘n wide…”
And you do, widening your mouth for him to slide his cock in steadily. Choso hisses at the sensation, the underside of his cock gliding down the center of your slobbering wet tongue so lewdly that it makes his teeth grind together. God, if you weren’t every bit of perfect like this. He watches the way his dick fills your mouth and feels how ridiculously tight your throat is as he eases his hips forward.
Almost in unison, Gojo and Choso and up tossing their heads back—one letting out a guttural groan and the other releasing a sweet moan. You’re soaked just about everywhere. Your pussy is sobbing and dripping around Gojo’s cock and your mouth is hardly any better with the way drool is dribbling down from your chin and onto the bed.
All as your boyfriend is losing his ever loving mind.
Geto came twice in his hand already and yet he’s still bucking his hips up into his fist. He’s never been this hard in his life. Something about watching you get absolutely ravaged by his two friends just make his dick throb in ways he cannot explain. You look perfect too, so damn angelic despite the rather sinful situation you’re in. There’s a creamy mess of cum slicked up and down Geto’s length from the thick tip to his base.
You’re busy getting fucked to tears (again) by Gojo and Choso, one of which has a heavy hand on your head encouraging your throat further around his curved cock and the other keep’s snapping his hips against your ass with his weighty balls grazing your clit every now and then.
You’re all so screwed. This is like something straight out of a damn porno and yet you didn’t care. Hell, you could hardly fathom enough thoughts at the moment to care.
And of course all three of them are just babbling all sorts of things to you, teasing you, taunting you, making you dizzy with pleasure.
Gojo’s back there spreading your ass apart and watching how wet you’ve gotten his dick, smiling sinfully at the sight. “Look at this pretty girl,” He grunts, “Takin’ my cock so. fucking. well. ungh.”
Then there’s Choso, nodding along as if he agrees with Gojo’s groaned words. His fingers are buried into your hair and by this point he’s fucking your face at the same rate Gojo’s fucking your cunt. “Her throat’s even better—shit. Y’should see how her lips look wrapped around me right now. Especially when I get,” Choso pauses just to give his hips one tortuously slow push, making you deepthroat his angry cockhead. “Right here, f-fuck.”
Again, Geto’s on the side just losing himself at the moment. You make the mistake of glancing over at him and his eyes lock with yours. Geto’s bottom lip is quivering and you watch his hand jerk himself off faster, his legs shifting open and closed as he overstimulates himself. Some nerve you had to look at him as if you don’t have two cocks inside you right now.
“M’gonna cum,” Geto’s muttering to himself over and over in some fucked-out little mantra.
Watching his head toss back and the way his Adam's apple bobs up and down is probably one of the sexiest sights. The Ghostface mask is all pulled up and his hair is splayed out in a mess of strands.
You end up gagging around Choso when Gojo hits your sweet spot for the sixth time in a row, your fingernails clawing against the sheets below. That’s all it takes for Choso to pull out and come undone all over your face without warning. In his defense, he wasn’t expecting your throat to tighten around him like that so suddenly…
Geto’s not too far behind, cumming in thick ropes with a sexy groan of your name leaving his lips—a sight you barely get to see because then Gojo’s leaning over you and your torso is suddenly pressed down against the bed for a moment. Then, you’re tugged up by a harsh grasp of your hair and Gojo’s fucking you even rougher than he was before, pressing his lips right against your ear.
“Fuckin’ slut,” He degrades so suddenly, wraping a free hand around your waist just to swat a finger over your clit again. “Look at this mess,” Oh, he’s just mean all of a sudden. Gojo lets go of your hair and turns your face toward him, leaning in and… licking the remnants of Choso’s release off of your face, again.
Your breath hitches and you wish you could have said something snarky but then you’re shoved right back down onto the bed. Gojo shifts his gaze to Choso, who flinches at the sudden eye contact, and then motions for him to come closer.
Once he does, Gojo grabs him by the jaw and pulls him in. “Open your mouth,” He breathes out hotly.
Choso bats his lashes at the man but doesn’t hesitate, parting his lips and taking the extra step as to sticking his tongue out. Gojo spits right onto the center of it and then smirks, “Good boy, now swallow it ‘n taste yourself f’me.”
It’s right about then that you release for the nth time of the night, followed by you squirting again due to the exchange you just heard between those two men. Then, as you wait for the stars in your vision to clear out, you hear Choso gulp loudly.
Half-way smiling to himself, Choso scoffs. “Guess you were right… I do taste pretty sweet.”
Being in love with Scott Miller isn’t for the faint of heart — especially when you have to watch him fall for someone else.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Implied sex (no graphic descriptions), fwb to lovers, idiots in love, un-unrequited love basically, hurt/comfort
▸ A/N: first actual scott fic i wrote (and with plot!), pls go easy on me. thank you dear shay @lunexiax for giving me this opportunity to finally test him out <3 if you see similarities in the miscomm between this and right to love, no you didnt (jk i outlined for that one and thought the vibes would kinda fit scott too). more scott to come!!!
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Scott Miller is not the kind of guy you marry — hell, he’s not even the kind of guy you date. The closest he’ll ever get to wedlock is his marriage with his job. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been the numbers guy. Calculating the probability of success and conducting risk analyses to see if something is worth the effort.
With you, he has determined from day one that, while your friendship is worth investing in, a real relationship with you is not.
Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.
Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.
In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him.
Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings.
He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs.
So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you.
Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue.
It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.
But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate.
Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.
Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.
If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.
You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.
He doesn’t stop you.
One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.
Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.
As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.
You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.
“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.
“Just a job.”
“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.
“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”
He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.
“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.
It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.
Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.
Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.
On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.
Then you finally get the call.
“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.
You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.
The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.
Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”
No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”
He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”
“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.
“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”
You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.
“Then don’t go. Stay here.”
His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.
But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?
Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re in love.”
The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”
Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”
Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”
A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”
“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”
“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”
You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”
“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”
Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.
He’s right. This changes everything.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”
“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.
You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”
“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”
For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.
“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”
You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”
“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”
You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.
“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”
Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”
Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.”
You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”
“Forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”
“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”
Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”
“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”
“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”
A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”
“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”
You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”
Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”
“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”
The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.
“I mean—”
“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.
Sweet, slow, steady.
“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.
“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”
That, you can’t deny.
+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz
plug!choso who only buys you colourful papers because he knows you like pretty joints.
plug!choso who constantly reminds you that you’re his favourite customer.
plug!choso who loves to eat you out whenever you meet, no matter the place, only taking breaks to smoke.
plug!choso loves to have sex high, babbling on about how “it feels better” and that he can last longer.. he never does
plug!choso who initially let you suck his dick in exchange for a free blunt, not knowing that you wanted it just as much as he did.
plug!choso who likes to take his time while fucking you, staring down at your pussy with red, lidded eyes - gawking at the way your pussy swallows his cock.
plug!choso who becomes extremely pussydrunk whenever you fuck, tearing up and saying he loves you..?
plug!choso who doesn’t want any labels but still gets jealous whenever you bring up your ex!toji
and does anything he can to try take your mind off him with things like, sex.. sex and more sex.
stoner!reader who practically melts under the attention, shamelessly soaking in the perks and privileges that come with fucking plug!choso.
Synopsis: abandoned at the foot of a mountain in hopes of winning the favour of the Curse King, you have to navigate life as his bride, constantly fearing death, torture, and being eaten out— up. being eaten up. definitely up.
right?
Warnings: porn with plot, dark romance, forced marriage, true form!sukuna - 2 peepees!, cunnilingus (he's a certified munch), use of curse mouth, blood play, masochist!sukuna, pussyjob, thigh job, death/violence/body parts, primal play, dubcon, double penetration, upside down 69, hair pulling, brief spanking, pussy slapping, biting, outdoor sex, bondage, shadow tentacles?, period sex, multiple orgasms, honestly not as dark as it sounds — this is quite romantic I promise, angst, fluff (soft!kuna), not quite curse au in the canon sense, f!reader, not proofread
Word Count: 16.9k
A forced marriage with Sukuna, the king of curses, sounds like hell.
And it is.
The village chief wanted to receive the newly arrived Curse King’s mercy and be spared from his tyranny. That apparently meant offering you, his only daughter, up for marriage. You were dropped off at the foot of the mountain, bound and gagged, unable to scream for help, not that any would arrive.
Not even your best friend, Suguru, had met your eyes.
Everyone had abandoned you.
A servant, dignified and aloof, came. They, with their white hair stained with crimson, took one look at you before making a silent decision.
Carried by goblin-looking creatures inside the mountain, which parted as though unhinging its jaw, you could do nothing but accept that you were going to be eaten up by the very monsters that children were warned about.
Navigating the carved out hallways of the mountain, they threw you in the throne room. Jagged stone walls surrounded you. Glowing red rocks were embedded in the rocks and lit torches illuminated the grand space. You were laying on the rolled out red carpet, staring up at a giant of a being.
There he was.
Sukuna Ryomen.
He was resting his head on one of his four arms, legs crossed, with all four eyes gazing down at you. He looked bored.
“What is this?” he drawled.
The same servant you first met stepped up, head bowed humbly. They said, “Entertainment, my Lord.”
“Entertainment?” the king repeated, tasting the word. “Not a snack? Interesting. How, pray tell, will this woman entertain me, if not with the taste of her flesh, Uraume?”
It was an absurd situation — they were discussing you as if you weren’t there, as if you didn’t have ears, as if you were a pet the servant had picked up as a gift. Although, it was at least a small blessing that you hadn’t been killed on the spot, you supposed. The thought, however, didn’t permit much relief when unimaginable torture could have awaited you.
‘Uraume’ answered, “The humans intended for her to be your wife, my Lord. Perhaps you could humour them with brief belief that they have been spared from their inevitable fate.”
At that, Sukuna hummed.
His eyes met your own then. They inspected you through your very soul. You felt their branding touch rifling through your essence. Something passed in them, something to which you could not put words.
Finally, he waved a lazy hand, and said, “Very well.”
The servants rushed to take you away, afraid to waste a single second.
You’ve been living in a room somewhere in the heart of the mountain since.
It’s been about a week.
Meals on a tray are served to you three times a day. Porridge, fruits, bread, the sorts. You do your best not to eat much; they might have poisoned it.
Every day, every hour, is spent anticipating the wooden doors being kicked down, waiting for the Curse King to forgo delaying your fate and slicing your head off your shoulders with one, clean cut. So far, nothing yet.
In fact, you have not seen another soul since.
The first night, you couldn’t sleep, afraid that he would take the villagers up on the offer to make you his real bride, by plunging his cock into you and stealing your maidenhead. It didn’t, and hasn’t, happened. But ‘yet’ looms over you perpetually.
Your one consolation is that sleep comes to you easily now.
It’s all you can do — the room is barren of books, of people, of art. Only a bed, a table, and a chamber pot with a bucket of water decorate it. There are no windows with which you can view the outside world, can tell what time of day it is, can escape through, or jump off. Only your body’s natural instincts inform you when morning and time to slumber has arrived.
Though…
With the days blurring, and perpetual and dim light of the glowing rocks remaining unchanged, it’s beginning to grow more and more difficult to tell left from right.
The doors are unlocked.
That was the first thing you tested when you were placed here.
Of course you’ve considered walking out of the room, if only to have a change of scenery. You’ve also considered escaping. But your thoughts would always end up at ‘escaping to where?’
You’ve been abandoned by your village, by your family. They would not accept you. They would see your return as a sign that the Curse King had rejected their sacrifice and would be coming to collect the debt. In other words, you’d be seen as a bad omen.
It was your destiny to die, whether by the hands of your family or by the hands of the beast they were afraid of.
So if death is a certainty, why would you fear it?
That’s the final thought that pushes you out of bed and to the door. Your hand hesitated for a second. Then it was sure. You opened it, body tense.
No one’s outside. No guard, no goblins, no king.
You pad out, feet bare and wearing only a nightgown. How deep inside the mountain are you, you wonder. There’s a draught blowing past, but no sound of the forest to fill the space. No voices. No footsteps. No life.
“Where is everyone?” you mutter, padding forward.
Who can say how long you wander through the tunnels?
It feels like it’s been hours, though with the way time seems to pass differently, it could also have only been mere minutes.
Eventually, you spot light coming from a hollow in the walls. Carefully and with bated breath, you peer inside.
Steam wafts over your face.
It’s warm — startlingly so against the chill that seems to cling to every corridor of the mountain. You hesitate again, also only a moment before stepping inside.
The ceiling arches high above, rough stone glistening with condensation, droplets forming and falling in slow, steady rhythms that echo softly in the space. The air is thick, humid, curling around your skin. It tickles.
At the centre of the chamber lies a pool.
It’s set into a wide, uneven basin in the ground. The water glows faintly from beneath, lit by the same red-veined stones embedded along the walls, but here their light is softened, diffused through the steam until it casts everything in a hazy, molten glow.
The surface of the water ripples lazily, disturbed by unseen currents, by the quiet bubbling from somewhere deep below. Heat rises from it in waves, beckoning, almost inviting.
Who knew something like this existed inside a mountain?
Carefully, you approach the edge of the pool, crouching slightly as you extend a hand. Your fingers hover for a second before dipping into the water.
Hot.
But not scalding.
“A bath,” you mumble, smiling.
Here, of all places.
The servants had given you a bed to sleep on, a table to eat at, and a pot to do your business in that seemed to be cleaned out magically without you ever seeing anyone. What they hadn’t granted, however, is the luxury of a bath. Only a bucket to and a rag to clean yourself with.
You glance back toward the tunnel, as if half-expecting someone, something, to be watching. But there’s nothing and no one. Only the distant drip of water and the low hum of the mountain breathing around you.
Your reflection stares back at you from the shifting surface, blurred by steam and movement. The quiet stretches.
If you’ll be killed for stepping outside your room, at least you’ll die clean and fresh.
Shrugging off your nightgown, you dip your toe in the water, then your leg and the other, and soon you’re fully emerged.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” you moan, letting the water soothe the aches in your bones. You sink deeper. The heat swallows you whole, up to your shoulders, then your chin. Your eyes flutter shut as you tilt your head back, strands of your hair clinging damply to your skin.
For a moment, just a moment, you forget. Forget the mountain, the monsters, the fate waiting patiently for you somewhere in its depths. The tension bleeds out of your limbs, your breathing slowing, evening out as the warmth seeps into you.
You drift, arms floating lazily at your sides.
A soft sigh escapes you. This is just like swimming in the lake near the village, except it’s warm and lovely and soothing.
It’s…peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Your eyes open.
Something feels…off suddenly. The water, once gently lapping, stills in a way that isn’t natural. The faint bubbling from below seems to deepen, shift. Like something moving far beneath the surface.
Your body goes rigid.
Slowly, you glance down. The water is dark there. Deeper than it should be. The glow from the stones doesn’t quite reach the bottom — it falls away into shadow, into something that looks less like a pool and more like a pit.
A pit that could swallow you whole.
Your breath catches.
“…Hello?” you call softly, though you don’t know why.
The surface trembles.
Something moves.
Your heart lurches into your throat. Instinct kicks in before thought does. You turn sharply, water sloshing as you begin to move, arms cutting through the surface, making for the edge.
Too slow.
Something clasps your ankle.
A gasp tears right through you, kicking hard, panic surging white-hot through your veins. “No!”
It coils.
Grabs.
Your leg is yanked downward with terrifying force.
The world flips. Water crashes over your head as you’re dragged under, your scream swallowed instantly. You thrash, clawing at nothing, lungs burning whilst bubbles tear from your mouth. Your hands grasp blindly, trying to find purchase, to find anything.
A shape.
A body.
You strike it. Push against it. Kick, struggle, fight with everything in you, nails scraping against something solid, unyielding.
Then it lets go.
You don’t wait.
You surge upward, breaking through the surface with a ragged gasp, coughing, choking on water as you scramble for the edge. Your hands slap against the stone, slipping once before catching, dragging yourself up just enough to cling to it. Your whole body trembles violently.
Air. You need air.
You suck it in greedily, chest heaving, water dripping from your lashes as your eyes dart wildly across the pool. “W-what…” you choke out, voice shaking.
A sound answers you. A low, amused exhale.
Your blood runs cold. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn your head.
He’s here.
The King of Curses.
Sukuna lounges against the inner ledge of the pool as though he’s always been there. One arm is slung lazily over the stone behind him, another resting loosely at his side, droplets sliding down the planes of his skin. And the remaining two are folded under the water.
He’s watching you.
No, observing you.
That smirk curls at his lips, sharp and satisfied, eyes glinting with something dark and entertained. “Well,” he drawls, voice echoing low against the stone walls, “your floundering was amusing.”
“W-why,” you begin, gulping air and frantically shoving the wet hair clinging away from your face, “why did you do that?”
A hum floats through the air, carried by the steam. It sweeps your skin. Sukuna says, “Because I could.” Then he barks a laugh. “When I came here to wash the stink of my latest massacre, I did not expect to find a human bathing in my onsen. How brazen of you.”
When he snaps his fingers together, you flinch.
Uraume appears.
Their head is downcast. They don’t look at your body, which you suddenly remember is bare and visible through the clear water. You throw your arms over your private parts.
“Who is this woman and why have you not killed her upon her first step of trespass?” he asks his servant. Sukuna doesn’t sound mad. Only curious.
“Because she is your bride, my Lord.”
You flinch at the term.
Sukuna barks a laugh again. “My bride? My bride! How comical that I would forget I have one.” He turns to you, eyes narrowing in with interest. “Why have you only now appeared before me?”
Gulping, you tentatively answer, “I did not think you would want to see me. And I’m sorry I intruded—”
“Wise,” he says, one of his massive arms running through his wet hair. “I am not usually fond of seeing humans; you are all so hideous and constantly quivering in my presence.”
There’s no possible way to reply to that, not without getting your blood spilled for insolence.
He stands upon the ledge and exits the pool.
He’s completely naked, as you are. His broad back, the impressive muscles that make it up, the perfectly symmetrical tattoos. He turns. His cocks swings with the movement. You quickly avert your eyes, cheeks warm.
If Sukuna notices that you noticed, he doesn’t say. Only, “Try not to drown — my pet swims beneath but he has already had his fill. Do not fatten him with your flesh.”
When you hurriedly climb out, squealing, his laughter echoes, filling the space even once his body, and his servant’s, have left.
You kneel on the smooth ground, panting, soaked and dripping, and thinking one thing:
The Curse King has a sense of humour.
And two giant cocks.
.
.
.
The next day, you find yourself back at the pool.
You tell yourself it’s simply because you want to bathe, but perhaps if you were more honest with yourself, you’d accept that maybe you were curious to see if he’d be there.
And he is.
Sukuna leans against the very same ledge he had been yesterday. He watches your every move, from when you first step in, to when you shyly shrug off your nightgown, and when you submerge yourself in the warm water.
Something has brought you here.
A pull you could not deny.
Thinking too much about it gives you a headache, so you let your body move on its own, unhindered by logic, by your mind’s concerns. You want to bathe, to be clean. He hadn’t killed you yesterday, and that counts for something.
Of course, you know the smart thing to do would be to not push it, to understand that two run-ins with him that didn’t lead to immediate death doesn’t mean a third would end the same, to count your blessings.
But…
Bath.
He says nothing, only runs a finger across the seam of his lips as his eyes drink up every shift of your body.
Boldly, albeit shakily, you ask, “Why haven’t you killed me yet?”
Sukuna’s eyes glint.
“I wonder the same thing myself.”
That’s not an answer, you note. But you don’t poke, scared if you do, if you push your limits more than you already have, he’ll snap your head as easily as he had snapped his fingers.
The way his eyes pin you down on the ledge opposite him has you squirming in your seat. It’s too intense. Too strong. Too dizzying. So you try to pretend it’s not cascading down the skin visible to him; you push forward, wading in the water. You stare at the ceiling, at the distance, at the darkness of the depths, at anything but him.
“My village offered me as sacrifice,” you remind him. “Will you spare them?”
Somewhere, he lazily replies, “I have yet to decide.”
Humming, as though you thought as much, you wonder aloud, “What will you do with me? I cannot imagine that the King of Curses would find much use in a human wife.”
“No, neither can I,” Sukuna drawls.
On and on, you swim. Arms cut through the water in slow, steady strokes, legs kicking behind you in a rhythm that’s begun to feel automatic. There’s no sense of direction, no shore to aim for, just the endless stretch of water surrounding you, thick and quiet, swallowing any sound you might make. Time slips, dissolves, until all that remains is movement for the sake of movement.
Then, as you turn, your hand meets something solid.
The impact is soft but jarring, your palm flattening instinctively against it. A wall. Smooth, unmoving, impossibly present where there had only ever been open water.
You gasp.
Sukuna stands behind you.
The bottom of the pool had risen. You still cannot reach it, but you’re aware that if you tried to, the water’s surface would be just above your head. The pool is under his command, bending to his will. How incredible.
Bare, wet skin meets bare, wet skin.
The heat of his body is hotter than that of the water.
He doesn’t step away despite how the water seems to be pushing you to him.
How did he get to you so fast? Last you saw, he was still sitting on the ledge. No, perhaps the better question is, why had he moved closer to you at all?
Hands grab your ribs. You gasp. They’re firm, callused. Burning.
“Wife?” he repeats, wide smirk revealing rows of flesh-tearing teeth. “You are not my wife. You are my bride. I am sure even a puny, little thing like you understand that there is a process to be followed, yes?”
A nail flicks your nipple under the water.
You let out a shuddery breath.
The other two hands grip the back of your thighs, lifting them till they’re wrapping around his hips. The top half of your body has emerged from the water, water dripping down. You throw your arms around his neck, a reflex to grab onto something before you fall.
Breasts presses to his chest. He must feel how hard your nipples are. You’re flushed with embarrassment, and an acute awareness of how much bigger his own body is to yours — if he wanted to, he could crush you with his bare hands.
Sukuna’s sharp fangs glint at the very peaks as he runs his tongue over them. “For you to be my wife, we would have to observe tradition. Do you understand what I refer to, little human?”
Breathless, you answer with your own question: “Do you refer to the wedding night, my Lord?”
One of his cocks pokes your entrance. You tense up.
You’ve seen their size; they are inhumanly big. They could not fit inside you, not without the preparation that the women in your village had giggled about, perhaps not even with.
But he doesn’t shove it inside you all in one go.
He doesn’t shove it inside at all.
The king merely slides you down his body, just a little, until that cock is sandwiched between your bodies.
It bumps a good spot on your cunt. You gasp.
“I do,” Sukuna says, huffing in amusement at your reaction. “I admit I have not been married before myself, but it is one aspect I am curious about.”
His strong hands are moving you up and down, testing every little sound that leaves your lips. And you’re letting him.
Is there something in the water? Some elixir that’s making you susceptible to his whims? An aphrodisiac stimulating wetness out of your pussy?
He must feel it, must feel how it drips down his length. Just like how you can feel the prominent veins of a cock that’s grown fully erect without you noticing. How long has he been like this? Since you walked in? Before?
Your nipples are scraping his chest. The sensation has you arching closer to him, grip around his body tightening. “M-my Lord!”
Sukuna tuts, moving you up and down like you’re a mere toy for his pleasure. He scolds, “That is not my name.”
“Sukuna?” you experimentally mutter the words. His cock throbs. You both groan. “S-something’s happening.”
Hips moving on their own, you feel as though you’ve been possessed. Your body is no longer your own — some invisible thing is urging you to grind down on his cock, on that burning heat between you, rubbing your clit on his flushed cockhead, on the veins that run up and down his length.
Humming, he says, quite distracted, “Yes. Something is. Allow it to happen. Do not fight it.”
This is pleasure you’ve never felt before. Pleasure you didn’t know truly existed. The women in your village always spoke of sexual pleasure as something only for men, joy a girl would be lucky to experience even once, if their partner was generous and not selfish, which was apparently rare.
Yet, here is, grinding your clit on the veins of his cock.
He licks his lips. “Go on, little human. Give it to me.”
With a loud moan, you throw your head back. Spasms wrack your body. A heady explosion warms your belly. Spurts of something even warmer paint your chest and stomach.
Sukuna grunts, fingers digging into the plush of your ass.
“Fuck.”
Your head falls back on his chest, slumping with sudden languishness. You pant. His chest rises with his own heavier breaths.
Coming back into your own senses, you tense. Then push away. He lets you.
“I’m so sorry,” you say, in near tears from shame. “Please forgive me, my Lord.”
You wade back, further and further away from him. Blood has pooled in your cheeks. What have you done? If he wasn’t going to kill you before, he certainly will now that you’ve defiled his body.
He pays you no mind. The water around his still body ripples. Sukuna grunts. Sucks in a harsh breath. Water laps at his contracting abdomen. Furious. Violent. You cannot tear your eyes away from the sight.
Oh god…he’s tugging furiously at his other cock whilst the other floats. His own spend is drying on his chest.
Mouth watering, you almost step forward to offer a hand.
But you don’t.
Instead, you turn around and make a run back to your room.
.
.
.
You haven’t returned to the pool. Not once in the week that passed.
He might not have killed you but one thing’s certain: you do not want to run into him again.
Especially now that you’ve caught his attention. Reminded him of your existence. Which is as one would expect: worse than being forgotten. So, so, so much worse.
For, every day since the meeting at the pool, he’s taken to dropping off severed limbs at your door. Still warm. Still bleeding. Often twitching. First it was a big toe. Then a whole foot. A finger. A hand. An arm.
And today, a head.
A scream shook the walls once your eyes landed on the thing.
Your scream.
Perhaps it’s adrenaline that urges every stomp your feet make. Perhaps anger or indignation. Whatever it is, it has you near-running through the halls, searching in every hollow for him.
An almost full circle has been carved at the very end of one tunnel you stumble down. Vines creep out of it. You step inside, heaving, and with fists balled at your side.
A garden.
It stretches farther than your eyes can follow, lush and sprawling, like the earth itself had been coaxed open and persuaded to bloom in defiance of everything you thought you knew about this place. The ceiling arches high above, fractured in places where thin shafts of pale light filter through, catching on drifting pollen and casting the entire space in a soft, dreamlike haze.
The air is warm here. Heavy with scent.
Sweet. Overripe. Almost intoxicating.
It’s not a human garden, you can tell immediately; the grass is black, as is the soil, and the roots which emerge from the ground are red. Things that couldn’t exist in the same place do, cohabiting quite well.
Flowers you’ve never seen before crowd the ground in wild abundance — petals like silk and flame, some translucent, others so dark they seem to drink in the light. Vines coil and twist up natural pillars of stone, heavy with blossoms. Leaves skim against your legs as you step forward, wide and waxy, or delicate as lace, each one foreign.
“How…?” you whisper, though there is no answer. It shouldn’t have been possible to have a whole forest inside a mountain. But then again, a great many things shouldn’t have been possible, yet they are.
The path, if it can even be called that, winds forward through the growth, barely visible beneath the encroaching green. It feels endless. Like you could spend your entire life sprinting down the path and never make it to the end.
There, some distance ahead, partially obscured by the curtain of hanging vines, a figure moves.
You freeze.
Bare feet press against the dark soil, soundless. A loose robe hangs from his shoulders, open just enough to reveal the breadth of his chest and the markings etched into his skin stark against the softness of the garden around him. One hand drags idly along the leaves as he walks.
“Hello, little bride.”
It still surprises you that he can utter the word so casually. You don’t flinch this time however. You only glower and maintain the distance. “Why have you been giving me body parts?” you interrogate, grateful that your voice is as firm as when you had rehearsed.
Sukuna lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Why have you not stepped foot outside your room since?”
He resumes walking.
Toward you.
Each step is unhurried, deliberate, crushing petals beneath his feet without a second thought. The garden seems to part for him, bending subtly to his presence, vines shifting, leaves snaking aside in quiet submission.
You don’t move.
You tell yourself you won’t.
Your pulse stutters anyway.
“You fear me,” Sukuna observes, like he’s stating something obvious. His eyes drag over you, taking in every inch, every subtle shift in your breathing, the way your fingers curl tighter at your sides. “And yet you came looking.”
“Because I want to know why you’ve been giving me body parts,” you snap.
“Mm.”
He’s closer now.
Close enough that you can feel the heat of him, even in the thick, perfumed air of the garden. Close enough that you can see the faint sheen of moisture still clinging to his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath the loose fall of his robe.
Another step.
Instinct finally kicks in; you shift back, just one pace.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was curious.”
Your brows knit. “About what?”
“How long it would take,” he says lightly, “for you to stop hiding.” A finger traces the curve of your cheek. You hold your breath, staring up at him, waiting for his next move. Sukuna mutters, “How odd that your scent would be so much sweeter than the flowers that grow here. It makes me wonder.”
Why is heat travelling down your body? Why aren’t you running away, revolted by his touch or the gravel in his voice? Were you still thinking about the feel of his body against yours, both naked, in the pool? Of the cocks whose soft lengths had been engrained in your mind?
His nostrils flare.
A flash in his eyes.
“There it is,” he rasps. “A scent I could not escape, so much more potent now.”
In a blink of an eye, you’re flipped over, dangling in the air. He has you by the ankle, lifted high up.
You grab onto his robe, which has parted. Right in front of you is his cock. Both of them. Neither soft now. Definitely not soft. One smacks you right against the face. It leaves a wet mark.
The musk of a refined monster hits you. It’s…it’s addictive. Your mouth waters again, stronger this time than the time at the pool now that they’re so much closer to you. Irresistible.
Sukuna presses a nose to the apex of your thighs. Skin on skin. You jolt.
Your dress had fallen down your body, ballooning around your face. You hold the material away — he can see everything. That fact has you aware that you can see him too. The thickness of his cocks, the lengths rivalling your forearm, the weight of the balls beneath. Everything about him is massive. Intended to subjugate. Designed to dominate.
“You are already wet. Soaked,” he muses, thoroughly humoured. He rubs his nose on your clit, nuzzling the little bud. You dig your nails into his thighs. “Filthy, little human.”
That’s all he says before he licks a stripe through your slit.
“Sukuna!”
“Mm. Dessert. Just in time.”
The beast licks and laps and sucks. It isn’t anything like the women at the village described — men are supposed to be reluctant, they’re supposed to be frightened. Sukuna isn’t. He’s consuming your juices as though starved, needing nourishment.
In front of you, something emerges from his skin.
A wolfish grin.
There’s a mouth on his stomach, lips curled up and teeth gleaming. You scream, fighting to get out of his tight hold.
SMACK!
Sukuna slapped your ass. A dull heat blossoms on the flesh. He commands, “Stay still. I cannot dine when you worm like so.”
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
Cruelly, he lays short slaps right on your clit, sending juices splashing onto your skin. The way his palm sticks, the sloppy noises, it's all so degrading. He’s doing it on purpose. He’s revelling in your clear desire for him.
You’re almost too distracted by the sight of a second, bigger mouth. Almost. But nothing can truly, wholly tear your attention away from the sucking of your clit and the way a fire is being lit in your very core. Soon, a thick tongue finds your entrance and buries itself inside. Your eyes roll back.
A hot, wet thing slides up the valley of your breasts. Slithering. Testing. Tasting.
The mouth, you realise. It’s sticking its fat tongue out, licking your breasts the way Sukuna’s face mouth is licking the inside of your cunt, stretching your walls, teasing the pleats there.
“Delicious,” one of them says. You can’t tell which. So much is happening at once. Too many to process.
At your lips, one of his cockheads smears its seed. You lick your lips. It’s salty. Eyes fixed on the frighteningly red thing, you open your mouth to suckle at it. That familiar possession has returned. You’re being controlled by an invisible force — your jaw has to widen to take the bulbous head. Your tongue runs over the tip, where there’s a slit.
Sukuna groans, pleased. Then he growls, “Do not neglect the other.”
Slightly afraid, you do as he says. The other cock is just as hard, just as big and long as the one you’re sucking on. It throbs approvingly when you tug on it.
“Good,” he groans out. “Very good, little bride.”
Obscene squelches are coming from above. It’s a reminder of how wet you are for him. Of how delirious the pleasure is. Of how you aren’t disgusted by the magical tongue flicking your tits, playing with the mounds, running the tip of it over your nipples. You’re not disgusted by the salty taste of him, of how he seems to be constantly leaking.
He’s lapping up at your pussy so furiously that he makes frustrated, wrathful sounds; he’s mad that you’re not producing enough wetness to match the pace in which he’s drinking it up.
“More,” he commands. “Give me more. Now.”
Sukuna pushes his face closer, uncaring of the fact that you’re making a mess all over his cheeks. He only has one thing on his mind.
“I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, mouth full and words garbled. The unfamiliar word leaves your lips so naturally you think you’d been warning him all your life of your impending orgasm.
Unfortunately, the warning is wasted. You don’t think he even hears the words with your thighs muffling his ears.
“Sukuna!”
The very same feeling, the same sensations, as the time in the pool rushes through you. Bolts of lightning thrum beneath the surface of your skin. You shudder, moaning lewdly.
He doesn’t stop. If anything, he’s only emboldened by the juices overflowing out of you. Slurrrrrping! so animatedly. So viciously. So animalistically.
A feral beast sucking your sensitive clit into another orgasm only minutes later.
It’s too much. It almost hurts. You slap at his meaty thigh. That seems to snap him out of his mania.
In a flash, you’re flipped back upright. Blood descends down your body. Lightheaded, your knees weaken. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms all while he’s collecting as much of your juices off his skin he can reach with his tongue.
Thud…thud…thud…
Sukuna strolls through the garden and back out into the rocky halls, robe discarded. Your dress is soaked with a mix of your juices, sweat, and his saliva. You’re filthy. He doesn’t complain.
Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallways to witness the remnants, of the proof, of your mutual debauchery.
“I have never considered myself as having a sweet tooth,” Sukuna begins, musing to himself, “but now I believe I would very much like to have dessert after every meal. What do you say, little human?”
“Hmm,” you sleepily hum.
“Then we are in agreement,” Sukuna concludes, pleased.
Your eyes flutter shut, too tired to keep them open. Before you fall into slumber, you feel a bed much softer than you remember cushion your body.
A hardness flanks you.
You dream of many hands brushing your hair, patting your hip, rubbing your belly, and tracing your cheek.
.
.
.
Since you’ve come to accept your odd relationship with the King of Curses, you’ve been spending an awful amount of time with him lately.
It started off with him keeping you in his room.
It’s a much nicer room than yours. Infinitely so. Almost triple the size and more lavishly decorated — a huge bed with silk sheets and a canopy with deep velvet curtains, a plush rug, dark red orchids in intricate and complex positions upon a table, paintings of different moments in time of human suffering that concerningly do not bother you.
You always find yourself back in here.
Whenever you wander through the halls, the walls seem to shift. They lead you back to his room. At first you were hesitant to enter, and you’d try to go a different way, but the caves insisted.
He isn’t here ever.
So you’ve started to think of it as your own.
During meal times, that’s when you’d see Sukuna.
Uraume would often escort you out of the room and into the dining hall. Another enormous space. You’d dine with him, and only him. There’d be curses posted inside, but they always step out, to give you privacy you assume. Naturally, these mealtimes were awkward for you in the beginning.
Sukuna didn’t speak. Not at first. He would just watch you eat, which only made you feel more awkward.
You were the one who broke the silence. “Are you… are you not going to eat, my Lord?” you asked tentatively.
A devious grin came upon his face. Happy he won a competition you didn’t know you signed up for. He replied, “I will. I am simply fattening up my pig before I devour her.”
Heat flushed through you. Cutlery clinking against the fine china, you gulped. There was a dangerous awareness of the darkness of his eyes feasting upon your flesh — you felt its weight sliding down the plumpness of your cheeks, the length of your neck, your collarbones, and your breasts which threatened to spill out from the confines of your dress.
Perhaps fear should have overtaken you at that moment.
Only relief and desire did.
What set you on edge most was not knowing what he wanted from you, why he had Uraume collect you, why he was wasting his time here when he could be doing kingly duties.
Now that he had made clear what he was seeking, you could allow yourself to rest easy and actually taste the food you were shovelling into your mouth.
“I am the pig in question?”
“Yes,” he replied immediately. A hand shoved a plate of pancakes towards you, encouraging. “You certainly squeal like one.”
Frowning, and pushing the plate away because you have too much to eat already, you argued, “I do not.”
“Do too,” he said, pushing the plate back towards you.
“Do not!”
An arm wrapped around your waist faster than you could see. Another swiped the food off the table. Everything fell with cacophonous clangs and bangs and splats!
Sukuna placed you on the table, which was now bereft of food. Your back met the hard wood. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders. Dress hiked up your waist. You were bared to him. Two of his callused hands yanked you closer to his face. Those four eyes, all scarlet and glinting up at you, didn’t look away.
He wanted you to watch him take a long whiff of your cunt.
His grip tightened on you once your scent hit him with full force. His eyes rolled back. Sukuna snarled, “Let’s see which of us is right.”
There were no soft kisses upon your sensitive skin, no caresses. Only unrestrained feasting. He immediately latched onto your clit, sucking on the thing with a fury. You cried out.
The king was frightening in his aggression.
He was gulping down every drop your pussy produced to please him, and it wasn’t nearly enough. Terrifying growls shook the table.
Sukuna seemed addicted to making your cunt let out vulgar squelchessss!
They came in quick succession. One after the other. Loud and clear. Displaying how well he was playing with your clit.
“Look at how your cunt flutters, searching for my cocks,” he mused, thumbing the entrance but not pushing in. “And look how your petals have grown swollen with blood. Oh, I bet your blood tastes as good as your pussy. We’ll test that too, another day.”
Stammering, you pleaded, “Don’t look!”
He stared too intently. Saw too much. It was more intimate than being tasted.
“Nonsense,” Sukuna said, waving you off. “I will look as I please, and I very much do.”
In response to his renewed lapping of your juices, you could only writhe and run your nails down the wood for anything to ground you.
“Do not waste your claws on the table,” he spat, spare hands snatching your ups and offering his wrists for you to dig into. You hesitated, chest heaving and vision swimming. Then he asked, “You do not find my flesh good enough to mark? You wish to offend your groom when he is at the altar of your legs?”
You didn’t want to know what he was like when he was offended so you clung to his thick wrists. You made a mental note not to actually scratch him — that seemed a more criminal act than offending him – but the pleasure born from his ravishing of your pussy bordered on pain and you could not help yourself.
The very moment your nails caught on his skin and broke through, one of the hands that was keeping your shaking legs apart darted out. It landed on your chest. With brutish finesse, it ripped your bodice. Cool air grazed over your breasts. That hand latched onto a tit.
“W-what– Oh God!” you screamed.
Something…
Something on his palm was suckling your nipple, like a babe.
Sukuna’s amused huff vibrated through your pussy, sending shivers up your spine. “No, not God, little bride. It is me. My mouth is making you feel good. But,” he adds after a little thought, “I do not mind being worshipped as a deity, heh.”
How could he be so nonchalant when two sets of mouths were eating you up, when your eyes were at risk of being permanently lodged at the back of your head? How could he make conversation so easily when his tongue, which felt so impossibly long, was wriggling through your walls and teasing the entrance to your womb? When the mouth at his palm was suctioning your nipple into that impossible space?
“Delicious,” he snarled, positively starved of your taste. “So fucking sweet. How can a human be so…so…divine? It defies nature.”
He wasn’t talking to you anymore. He was manically muttering to himself, reasoning with his own understanding of the balance of life. It baffled him. Bewildered him. Excited him. Sukuna could not get enough of you.
Whining, you called out his name, “S-Sukuna! It’s too -hngh!- much. I can’t.”
“Cum,” he said.
Your head shook, thrashed. “No, I -hah- can’t!”
“Cum,” he repeated. No, commanded. Ordered. Demanded.
And you could not deny a king.
You fell apart on the dining table with a scream. Wetness rushed out of you as though a dam had broken. He drank it all up. Slurrrrrpeddd! every single drop until you were writhing again. And when he growled, “More,” and, “Again,” you could not deny him then either.
It might have been hours later before he decided he’d had his fill.
Aside from meal times, you don’t see him during the day. He’s always gone. No one will tell you why, and you don’t feel brave enough to ask. You merely assume he’s doing kingly duties — keeping the curses of the Underworld and of the forests in line, maintaining balance between humans and monsters, and protecting his people.
In the meantime, you read in his room, which is now your room. There are plenty of books here. More than you could ever read in a lifetime, and certainly more than there ever were in your village. It’s hard to imagine he read any of the books in the collection but there are signs of use: folded pages, cracked spines, yellowing.
He read each one you had opened.
Poems.
Novellas.
Journals of travels beyond.
You don’t mind the hours spent on your own; the goblins walking along still scare you so you avoid running into them. Of course, there’s always the option to ask during your mealtimes, in between him eating you out and actually consuming food, if you could visit the village (for you know returning was too much). Not that you especially wanted to go home.
The villagers had sold you.
Abandoned you.
They would not welcome you home.
So you must consider the heart of the mountain your new home.
It’s simply about asking, about knowing the answer, about having the option.
But each time you considered bringing up your village to him, you backed out at the last second. He was not your husband. Not really. Not yet. He’s not even really your groom. That just seems like an excuse to do the salacious things you’ve been doing. At most, he’s your friend, and you cannot burden your friend more than you already have.
Truthfully, it hardly matters what exactly he is to you. He’s nice. Attentive. Generous. He hasn’t killed you, he hasn’t hurt you, hasn’t massacred your village and your family, and hasn’t thrown back in your face any of those facts.
That’s why every morning, when you know Uraume will escort you, you make sure never to be late.
You obediently, possibly excitedly, wait in front of the door for the knock.
You slide a hand down your new dress; it appeared in the closet, and is your size. It certainly isn’t Sukuna’s. Red lace, soft silk, dainty bows, easy to move in and breathe — it’s a beautiful dress. Far more expensive and luxurious than anything you’d ever owned. The chest area’s a little tight; it pushes your breasts up more than you’re used to, and somehow you’re sure that was on purpose.
When the door opens, Uraume’s patient self leads you out. They’re quiet. Respectful. They have been since the very first night.
“Thank you.”
Cold eyes flit to you. “What ever for, my lady?”
“For saving me,” you say, fiddling with the lace on your dress. “If you hadn’t suggested that he humour me, Sukuna would have—”
“The king,” Uraume cuts in, spine straight and gaze fixed ahead now, “does only as he pleases. It is his right. He grows bored of his new toys very quickly, and it is my duty to keep him entertained. I saw an opportunity to fulfil my responsibility. That is all.”
You have no response to that. You only blink, surprised and berating yourself for being so. Sukuna may be your friend, in your eyes at least, but Uraume is not. Sukuna may not mind the fact that you are human, but others may not share the same sentiment. Maybe Uraume thinks you are a plague. A rat. That’s often the story humans spread about curses and their philosophies.
Soon, you reach the double doors leading to the garden. Before the doors are opened, they add, “It is also my duty to throw old toys away.”
When you turn to look at them, they’re already gone.
“Finally,” Sukuna says, exasperated. “I resent being kept waiting. Walk here with haste, little bride.”
Uraume’s words linger in your mind; Sukuna’s sharp rows of teeth flash washes them away.
He’s in his loose robes, bottom set of arms tucked into the wide sleeves. A hand beckons you over, and the moment you are within reach, he snatches you up. You’re carried up in his arms, high enough to come face to face with him and see all four of his eyes watching you.
Sukuna nuzzles the crook of your neck. He starts walking down the path. Branches tickle the top of your head. “Did you sleep well?” he wonders. His voice vibrates against your skin. It tickles.
Gripping his hair for purchase, you murmur, “Yes.” Then, shuddering once his lips explores the length of your neck, you ask, “Did you?”
“I do not sleep,” he casually replies.
Within minutes, he’s managed to walk so deep into the garden that the surroundings have changed from exotic flowers full of vibrant colours and shapes to a forest of cherry blossoms. Petals whirl around you, swirling with the gentle wind.
Above you, the cave walls have shifted into the blue and vast open sky.
You gasp. “Are we…are we outside?”
The brightness almost sting your eyes; you have to narrow them with a wince to avoid being blinded. The smell of fresh air too nearly burns your nostrils. The chatter of live animals and insects are near deafening at first. Everything’s so different, so new, yet so familiar, so ordinary that it becomes magical to your senses.
He parts from your neck to eye your reaction. The smile on your face makes his grip on you tighten. Sukuna says, “Yes. Your complexion looked rather dull without sunlight, and my bride must be at her very best at all times. So here we are.”
That doesn’t sound quite true upon his lips but you don’t question him on it.
Instead, you beam at him and gush, “Thank you! Oh, it’s wonderful out.”
It’s easy to forget what the world above is like when you’ve spent countless nights under the mountain with rocks for company.
Sukuna sets you down. You waste no time running around, laughing at the green grass that tickles your bare feet.
The grass inside the mountain’s garden is black, with roots being red, for reasons you could not fathom. It’s coarser too. The softness of this green, human grass, in comparison, sets your heart racing.
There’s no wind inside the mountain, only a draught. This calm air is fresher, warmer, soothing on the body and doesn’t settle.
And the warmth of the sun…
Beams of distant fire soaks into your skin. You sigh, a small smile on your lips.
When you turn back, he’s sitting under a tree, all arms crossed and watching you. Always watching. Always aware of your every move, every position, every shift.
Somewhat shy with the realisation that he’d seen the entire display, you stroll back to his side.
“It is a lovely day out, yes?” he says.
You nod, grinning. “It’s perfect. Just perfect.”
About to sit beside him, you let out a squeal when he snatches you up again and sits you down on his lap. All of his arms cage you. Sukuna rests his chin on the top of your head.
“Now it is,” he mumbles, chest rumbling against your back.
You smile again, more coy this time, and grateful he can’t see it.
The grass is untouched. No footprints mar it. No broken twigs, no distant rustling of hidden creatures. It is a forest, yes, but stripped of all the unease that forests usually carry.
It is only you and him.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve as another petal lands on your lap. You pick it up, studying it like it might vanish if you blink too long. Glancing back at him, you tilt your head slightly. “Did you…make this place like this?”
His chin presses a little more firmly into your hair, a quiet, possessive weight. “It exists on its own,” he says. “I allow it to remain.”
Another petal skims your lips. Without thinking, you laugh — light, bright, unguarded — as you try to catch it, only for it to slip away again, carried by a breeze that barely stirs the trees.
“You’re noisy,” he mutters.
Yet he does not tell you to stop.
You lean back into him instead, comfortable now, warm from the sun and from him both. One of his hands idly flicks a petal from your shoulder, the motion almost absent-minded, as though he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or perhaps he does. And simply doesn’t care.
Your gaze drifts across the clearing again, softer this time. Slower. Relaxed, you ask, “You said you don’t sleep. What do you do at night?”
Sukuna hums, fingers drumming on your stomach. “I take care of my business.”
That’s vague, you think, but you don’t push. Instead, you ask another question: “Why do you not return to the chambers?”
He chuckles, teasing. “How forward of you, little bride. We have not yet been wed and you’re already asking to share the marital bed. Is this how you humans do it in this day and age?”
Heat flushes your cheeks. You smack one of his wandering hands, which has crept up to cradle a breast, and huff, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just mean, everyone needs sleep. Surely even you, the King of Curses. I wonder how you rest is all.”
A moment of contemplation passes.
Did you say something wrong? Did you go too far?
Did he hate that you smacked him?
“You are right,” he eventually says, head coming down to nudge you. His lips gently touches your cheek. “I do need rest. So allow me.”
His strong hands easily lift you off his lap, placing you down on the grass. Sukuna unfolds his large body and comes to lie perpendicular to you. His head weighs your thighs down.
With a wave of his hand, a book appears in your left hand at the same time he takes your right and cradles it to his chest. “Read,” he instructs. “Read to me. And after my nap, I will eat your little cunt and slap your clit thrice to punish you for smacking my hand even just once.”
A flutter at your core has his eyes peering up at you, glinting. He must have sensed it. Somehow. Whether by feeling or by smell. How mortifying.
“Or,” he starts, “I can eat you out now. I am fine with whatever order you prefer.”
“No, I’ll read,” you hurriedly say. You flick to the first page, reading the words out loud and only sighing in relief when his eyes flutter shut at the sound of your voice.
Sukuna’s lips curl up in the corner.
And so a new tradition is born.
.
.
.
“My Lord,” Uraume repeats outside the door, “they wait for you.”
Sukuna growls out, “Let them. I am preoccupied.”
You’re pressed to the door, the cold wood warming up to the flush of your cheek. Bottom lip bitten in a desperate attempt to keep quiet, you can do nothing else but let him rut his scalding length between your thighs.
This evening, he’d woken you up with his tongue buried inside your cunt. It seems after another whole day out in the garden, reading and strolling with him and tasting each other beneath trees before or after his naps, you fell asleep and were carried back into your chambers.
Has it been days or weeks since you’ve built up this routine of spending the days together and spending evenings apart?
Time seems to pass so quickly and yet so slowly. It’s begun to lose all meaning to you. It’s not a fact you lament.
You jolted with a shriek at the hulking figure under your covers. “About time,” he said, throwing the heavy thing off and baring how his skin glistened with your spend to you. “I thought I might have to fuck you with both my cocks at once to wake you.”
He was joking, you were sure. Or hoped…
“Wake me?” you repeated, back arching. “W-why?”
Sukuna replied, a fang rubbing your clit and being especially careful not to cut you, “Because I must leave again, but I did not want to without hearing my name upon your lips.”
A whine tore through you. “Why couldn’t you just wake me up the normal way?”
Red eyes flashed mischievously from below. He licked a strike up your inner thigh all while not breaking eye contact. “Because normal does not taste as good.”
Uraume’s voice called out soon after, reminding him of the evening meeting. You stiffened. Could they hear you? Do they know what he was doing with you on the bed?
Feeling embarrassed, you kicked Sukuna off and tried to push him to the door. You hissed, “You need to go. They need you.”
A hand slid inside your dress and groped your breast, cursed mouth appearing to nurse on your nipple. Another lifted your skirt up so that a third can coat its fingers in your cunt’s essence with the intention of easing the entry inside.
“So does your cunt,” he said. “And I know which I would rather attend to first.”
Oh, he was filthy. So, so filthy.
And so persuasive.
With you continuing, and struggling, to shake him off — legs quivering from the number his mouths had done to you today — you eventually made it to the door and was about to open it when something hot and heavy rested upon the curve of your ass and a second parted your puffy pussy lips.
It was almost like he planned this.
“Do not make a noise,” Sukuna rakishly rasped to your ear. Two rough hands gripped your bare hips, dressed hiked up over your ass. “Lest you’d like for Uraume to know what we’re doing.”
You definitely did not — they don’t like you very much. This wouldn’t help your case.
But…
His cocks are rubbing you up and down and back and forth. His fat cockhead keeps catching on your pulsing clit, bumping the thing over and over again until your cunt’s drooling on his veiny length.
“Press your thighs together. Tighter,” he commands, and groaning once you do. “Every part of you feels so good. It’s maddening.”
The pleasure building up in your core from a few thrusts is maddening. Truly. Irrevocably. You can’t tell him that, however. You can’t speak; if you do, a loud moan might slip out.
Sukuna’s grunting in your ear. The sounds are driving you wild. As is the fact that your tits are out and are being squeezed relentlessly by two hands. Mouths take over his palms. They don’t hesitate to latch onto your nipples. You gasp, head thrown back into his chest. “Sukuna!”
“Mm, I know,” he huskily says. “Me too. Be good, pretty human. Just allow me to use your thighs for now.”
He’s so tall your hips have to be lifted up to reach his cocks. Your toes dangle over the ground. You hang precariously but you never worry for a second that he might drop you.
Shlick! Shlickkk!
The sounds are obscene and they’re all you can hear. Uraume must hear them too. Yet, they’re still out there, saying, “My Lord, please. The council grows restless.”
Sukuna’s livid growl shakes the door. “They. Will. Wait. Do not interrupt me again.”
His rutting speeds up. The sucking of his cursed mouths intensifies. The tip of the cock behind you is smearing pre-cum on your back, and the sensation has you clenching around nothing.
“I’m cumming,” you whisper, eyes shut tight. “Nghhh!”
“Good,” he breathes out. “Good girl.”
You bring a hand down to your cunt, cupping the cockhead appearing and disappearing with every shallow thrust through your lips. It nudges your palm, squelching! and leaving wet sploodges of his cum and yours. Sukuna snarls.
And just like that, he cums too. His hot cum explodes into your hand, spilling through the cracks of your fingers and splatting onto the floor. More cum bursts on your back, dirtying your dress.
It’s so hot. Scalding.
He keeps ploughing between your soft thighs, wringing out every last drop until he shudders with a growl and you slump completely in his grasp.
When he pivots you around to check on you, specifically the cheek that had been pressed up against the door, you see his loose robe had fallen open. Some of his cum has ended up dripping down his skin. He’s tattooed and chiselled and hard everywhere. A true killing machine. You run your fingers down his chest, smearing his cum around, all the way to his stomach where a massive mouth manifests in time to clamp onto your wrist with a grin.
His teeth don’t break skin. They don’t even hurt. They merely keep your hand inside, huge tongue slithering to lick every finger and every inch. Curiously, you grip the appendage. It really does feel like a real tongue. You stroke it.
Sukuna grips the back of your neck. He glares down at you. “You are trying to bring me to my knees, aren’t you?”
You blink. “No! Forgive me.” You try to pull your hand out on your own but his sudden grasp on your wrist stops you.
“I did not say I did not like it.” He steps closer, licking his lips.
“My Lord…” Uraume grits out through the door.
Sukuna groans. “Yes! Alright!”
The door opens with a wave of his hand.
“I should massacre the whole council, then I will have all the time in the world to bury my tongue inside your cunt. One day…” he mutters under his breath, seemingly actually considering the idea. You swat his back, cheeks flushed from embarrassment.
Your dress falls back into place just in time for you to shield yourself from anyone else’s eyes but Sukuna’s. Not that it’s enough.
Uraume’s chilling eyes see all — the sweat on your skin, the mess of your hair, the quivering of your legs, and the droplets of cum on the floor. They do not look disgusted by it. They look disgusted by you.
“Be good for me, little bride,” Sukuna says, already stomping away. “I will look for you as soon as I am done with these fools.”
You take a step forward to Uraume, an apology on your tongue.
They step back, straightening up. “These meetings are important,” they begin. “They ensure the other lords feel seen and heard. It maintains peace in our domain, and in yours. You mustn’t keep him from doing his duties. Not only is it impolite, it is also dangerous.”
“I’m sorr—”
“Do not apologise to me. Apologise to the king for wounding him,” they snap. You frown, confused. “The marks you left on his wrists that he refuses to heal himself? He leaves them open and bleeding. He openly plays with the cuts in front of the council, in front of his audience, smiling. Whispers are making echoes of a weakness in our king. If you do not care about your safety, then you must care about his.”
Thoroughly scolded, you stay rooted in place, watching Uraume follow after Sukuna.
.
.
.
You take a walk through the garden this evening to clear your head.
What Uraume said forced you to contemplate your relationship with the king. With Sukuna. They reminded you why you were spared in the first place — you’re a toy. A thing for entertainment.
He is entertained by you now, by the pleasures your body provides. That, however, is not something unique to you; any woman can spread their legs, which is a crass thing to say, you know. But it’s true. To save their village, their people, to earn another day of life, or to even have the honour of serving a king, many women would offer their body up.
And you are no special woman. You are quite average, all things considered. Never the most beautiful woman in the room, the most intelligent, or most pure of heart.
The fact of the matter is, Sukuna will soon grow bored of you.
What is left to be considered now is, will he spare you once he finds a new toy or will you be ‘gotten rid’ of by Uraume?
Will you be sad?
The pang in your chest at the thought seems to suggest so.
Without realising it, you end up back in the cherry blossom grove.
It looks different at night. Just as beautiful as during the day, of course, but different. Fireflies light up the air, mingling with the stars above you. If not for them, you wouldn’t know where you are, wouldn’t know that the tree whose bark you’re grazing with your fingertips now is the very same tree you sit under with Sukuna.
You were always under the impression that being a king meant you could do whatever you wanted. Uraume’s warning proved otherwise — Sukuna had people to please. And you’re who pleases him.
For how long will you be enough?
With a sigh, you wonder if Sukuna really will come to find you after his meeting. He’s always busy in the evenings, and though you spent the hours of the night sleeping anyway, it’d still be nice to talk to him. His thoughts on books you’ve read are quite funny.
He hates silly heroines who make bad decisions and always fall for the gloomy, morally grey men, yet hates the morally grey men more for their cheesy lines. “‘I control shadows and I have wings,’” he’d mimic, lowering his voice to a deeper rumble than his own. Then he’d say in his own voice, “Yes, so do about a thousand other fictional men. You are not special.”
Sukuna’s brows would furrow and he’d scoff whenever you’d get flustered by the erotic passages you’d be forced to read aloud to him as you sit in his lap, but he never suggests changing books. You theorise he really just likes complaining.
“Pretty girl?”
You jolt.
That voice…
“Suguru?”
Behind a tree, a silhouette hobbles over to you. “You’re alive! Oh, thank the heavens!”
The man falls into your arms. He’s really here. Your bestest friend. But he isn’t how you remember him — long raven hair have turned matted and dull, clothes torn and dirtied, and skin scratched up. You can hardly recognise him.
He grips your face, dirt rubbing into your skin. Scanning for any harm that might have befallen you, he smiles with relief upon seeing you’re perfectly well. “I’ve spent so many weeks wondering what had happened to you. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”
His words are going in one ear and out the other; you can only question, with terror and trepidation, why his hands tremble, why he’s jumping at every little sound, and pulling you away inch by inch.
“What happened?”
Suguru’s eyes harden. His grip falls on your shoulder. Tight. Insistent. You wince. He says, “Listen to me carefully. We need to leave. We need to leave now. We’re too deep in the Curse King’s territory. There are beasts about. We must run now. Come!”
Bewildered, you’re yanked forward, stumbling over your feet.
“Wait, no, I have to stay!”
He’s not listening.
Deeper into the forest, you’re pulled. The cherry blossoms morph into scraggly trees, leafless and with jagged branches like teeth reaching for you. The fireflies are gone now. You have to force your eyes to adjust as you trip over rocks and logs, and as your bare feet are caked in mud and moss.
Looking back towards the light, you start to heave. “Sukuna…Sukuna’ll be mad. I have to go back.” You try to tear his hand off your wrist, digging your nails, but he can hardly feel it. “Suguru!” you yell, in near tears.
The man whirls on you, eyes wide and red. The bags under his eyes are darker than even the dark. They startle you. “What’re you doing? Why’re you fighting me? I’m trying to save you, like I should have done when your family decided to sacrifice you to the mountain.”
You shake your head. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m not mad at you, so if you’re doing this out of guilt, then you don’t need to. Just go, alright? Go before someone notices you’re here. I don’t know what the goblins, Uraume, o-or Sukuna will do if they find you here.”
Suguru recoils. “Sukuna? You call the monster of the mountain by his first name?”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Something seems to dawn on him. His eyes properly take you in from head to toe — your clean skin, fresh hair, the plump in your cheeks, the expensive dress you wear, the lace, the silk, the jewels.
He releases you, like you’d burnt him.
“The king spared you…” he whispers in horror. “He spared you. And you’ve been living a life of luxury, as our village burned to the ground. You call him by his first name when his name was the last thing my family had screamed in their final moments. You wish to go back, to that thing, when I’m here and I’m taking you away…”
“What do you mean?” you ask, brows knitting together. “What happened to our village?”
It’s an impossible thing to imagine. Yet it shouldn’t have been. Many villages have suffered the same fate, or worse, over the many years since the rise of the curses. But your village was spared because of you, because of their offering, right?
A scathing laugh slaps you on the cheek. “You don’t know? You’ve been cozying up to that monster and you don’t know he wiped our village out from the map? That he massacred our people in one night? Are you just stupid or did he poison your mind?”
You fall back, shaking your head. “No, no, he wouldn’t.”
“He’s a killer!” Suguru roars. “He’s killed so many. Every single night. The very few of us that had survived have fled from village to village, trying to fight against him and his army of curses, but they always win. I’ve watched my friends, my allies, fall again and again. And yet, I thought of you every day. I fought for you, so I can return and save you from his torture.”
He scoffs.
“But he hasn’t been torturing you, has he?” Suguru grips your face suddenly, bruising your cheeks as he spits out, “No, he hasn’t had to use force to get you to spread your legs!”
Tears stream down your face. “Stop it,” you cry out. “Stop it!”
Suguru presses his forehead to yours, lips trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats. “Let’s just go, alright? We need to go. You’re not safe even if you’ve earned his favour for now. He’s proven he isn’t a man of his word, and it’s only a matter of time before he tears you limb from limb like he had done to your mother and to your father, and to mine.”
Images of your home ablaze, of the night sky filling with the screams of the dying, of blood turning the ground crimson flash in your eyes.
You’re a fool. You’d actually convinced yourself that he isn’t the King of Curses, that creatures from the Underworld don’t bow to him, that he hasn’t been keeping you to laugh behind your back.
You’d allow yourself to believe you’re Sukuna’s bride.
That you’re something special to him, even momentarily, even just for now.
He’s looking at you impatiently, bouncing on his feet and listening out for any signs of hostile life in the forest.
Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself. “Yes, yes. Let’s go. He’s in a meeting right now, he’ll be busy.”
And off you two go, running in the dark, hand in hand.
Branches whip at your arms as you run.
The forest is different at night.
Where it had been soft, warm, almost dreamlike beneath drifting blossoms, it’s now a maze of shadows and silver light, the moon caught in the petals overhead. Your breath comes sharp and uneven, lungs burning, feet barely finding the ground as you stumble over roots and fallen bark.
Beside you, Suguru’s grip is firm. Unyielding.
“Don’t stop,” he says, low, urgent, pulling you forward when your pace falters. “We’re almost past the boundary—”
A roar splits the night.
It shakes the air. Rips through the trees. Sends petals scattering like frightened birds. The ground trembles beneath your feet, a deep, violent pulse that travels straight up your spine. It rattles your bones, grips your very soul and squeezes. It’s in equal parts wrathful and tortured.
You freeze.
Suguru doesn’t.
“Move,” he snaps, tightening his hold on your hand, dragging you forward again. “He knows.”
Of course he knows.
This is his domain.
Every inch of it.
You run faster.
Faster than you ever have before, lungs screaming, vision blurring, your hand clutched in Suguru’s like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. The trees thin for a moment, moonlight spilling across a clearing—
THUD!
The earth cracks beneath the impact. You both skid to a halt.
He stands there, between you and whatever hope you thought you had.
Sukuna.
Tall. Unmoving. Waiting.
That deranged smile curls slowly across his lips, too wide, too pleased, too knowing. His eyes gleam in the dark, sharp and bright and utterly unhinged, drinking in the sight of you: your dishevelled state, your trembling form, your hand still clasped in another’s.
For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “You are leaving me?” His voice is almost light. Almost amused. “For some pathetic human?”
The words hit harder than the roar. Your chest tightens, a hot and jagged thing rising up your throat, drowning out the fear, the instinct to shrink, to hide, to obey. “No,” you snap, breath shaking. “I’m leaving because you slaughtered my village. You killed my family. You lied to me.”
He laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Growing. Sukuna tilts his head, as though genuinely intrigued by your accusation, by the audacity of it. “You mean the village,” he begins, voice slow, deliberate, “that threw you, bound and gagged, at the foot of my domain to be sacrificed?”
Each word lands like a blade, cutting deeper and deeper, and twisting to remind you of your lowest moment, of the humiliation, of the powerlessness you felt.
“The family that readily offered you up? That never looked back even once?”
Your grip on Suguru tightens.
Sukuna’s smile widens.
“Yes,” he hums, almost fondly. Inspecting his hands, as though he can see the blood that still stains his unmarred skin. “Yes, I did. And very gladly.”
Something in your chest cracks.
“But I never lied to you,” he continues, eyes narrowing just slightly, the air around him growing heavier, sharper. “You just assumed that I would negotiate with lesser creatures. A fault that I have overlooked.”
Suguru steps forward, just enough to place himself between you and him. “You’re done,” he says, voice steady, though there’s tension coiled tight beneath it. “Whatever hold you think you have over her—”
Sukuna’s gaze flicks to him.
The shift is instant.
The amusement drains, not completely, but enough to reveal something colder beneath. Something ancient. Something violent.
“Careful,” Sukuna murmurs. “I do not take kindly to interruptions in my conversations with my bride.”
The air distorts.
Pressure builds, thick and suffocating, pressing against your skin, your lungs, your bones. Suguru doesn’t move, but you feel the way his hand tightens around yours, grounding you even as the world threatens to tilt.
Why hasn’t Sukuna killed you both? Why hasn’t he tore you two apart? Why is he standing under the moonlight, humoured and talking so leisurely?
Even till now, he’s not staring down at you with deadly intent. He’s conversing with you as if he’s asking how your breakfast is or what book you’d picked up to read to him today. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking, and that’s more dangerous than if you knew he was going to rip you into pieces.
“She’s not your bride,” he spits, tugging you behind him.
Sukuna laughs again. Four eyes settle back on you. “Not mine?” he repeats, almost thoughtfully. “After everything I have given you?”
A step forward.
“After I took you in,” he continues, voice dropping, curling around the words, “fed you, dressed you, kept you alive when the rest of your kind would have happily watched you die?”
Another step.
Trying to steel your resolve, you retort, “You must feel betrayed, right? Imagine how I feel, Sukuna!”
“You think I feel betrayed?” he asks, head tilting again, that awful smile returning, sharper now. “No, little bride.” His gaze flicks briefly to your joined hands. Then back to your face. “This is not betrayal,” he says. “This is ingratitude. It seems I have spoiled you. Given you too much, too fast. I did not train insolence out of you. You have insulted me. And you will be punished.”
Suguru pulls you back a fraction.
“Run,” Suguru whispers.
His last words, before Sukuna flicks his wrist and his body is cut into thin ribbons of flesh, blood, muscle and bone. They fall into a neat pile by your feet, soaking the ground you stand on until your soles are caked in the remains of your only friend.
It happens so quickly, so suddenly, you couldn’t blink fast enough to protect your mind from the grotesque display. You saw it all. A man, a whole life, memories, a future, diminished to mush.
Sukuna smiles wider.
“Yes,” he says, almost eagerly. “Run, little bride.”
You do.
Feet slam against the forest floor. Bare soles strike damp earth. Sharp pebbles and stray twigs that snap beneath your weight. It hurts.
God, it hurts.
But you don’t stop. You can’t. The pain barely registers past the ringing in your ears, past the image burned into your mind, replaying over and over again.
Suguru’s gone. Your village. Your family. Everything familiar.
Your stomach twists violently, bile clawing up your throat, but there’s no time to be sick, no time to grieve, no time for anything except run.
Branches lash at you as you tear through the undergrowth, snagging against your dress, catching in the fabric and ripping it in jagged lines. The hem tears first, then higher, threads snapping with every desperate step until the once-soft material hangs in shredded strips around your legs. Chilling air kisses the exposed skin, quickly replaced by the sting of scratches, of thin lines of blood blooming where thorns and bark have caught you.
“So panicked. So scared.”
His voice.
Right there.
Warm.
Amused.
Mocking.
You choke on a gasp, nearly tripping over your own feet as you lurch forward, heart slamming so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs open. He’s not behind you, or in front of you, and yet it sounded as though he was.
“I have not even begun,” Sukuna murmurs somewhere, almost thoughtful. “And already you look like this. Adorable.”
The forest stretches endlessly before you, trees blurring together, shadows twisting into shapes that don’t exist. The petals that once felt soft now cling to your damp skin, sticking to the sweat, to the blood, to the places where your dress has torn open. Your lungs burn, each inhale sharp and shallow, your chest tightening with every second that passes.
You trip.
A root catches your foot, sending you pitching forward. Your hands barely catch you before your face meets the ground, palms scraping harshly against rough earth. Dirt grinds into your skin, mixing with the blood already there.
“Oh dear,” he muses. “Such a clumsy thing, you are. That’s why I keep you locked up with all the pretty things in my domain. Do you see now, why you must stay with me?”
Getting back to your feet, you stumble forward. “I’m never going back with you!”
You ignore the way your hands tremble, the way your legs and your unused muscles scream in protest as you force them to move again.
Run.
Run.
Run.
“You know,” Sukuna continues, his voice drifting lazily through the air, “I expected more from you.”
There’s a rustle above.
A shadow moving faster than you can track.
Where is he? Why isn’t he snatching you up? Why is he drawing this out?
He’s like a cat toying with a mouse, playing with his food, heightening your fear so you’ll taste even better.
“I gave you everything,” he says, less conversational now, more accusing. “And this is how you repay me? Running off into the woods like a frightened little animal, with some other man, a man I should have slaughtered along with the other rats?”
Your breath hitches.
“Have I not been good to you? Have I not been enough? Enough to stay for. For even a goodbye.”
A tear slips down your cheek, cutting through the grime. Devastatingly, a part of you notices the subtle crack of vulnerability. He masks it with amusement, with the undercurrent of anger, but you hear it all the same.
Still running, you yell, “You’re going to kill me, like you killed everyone. I’m just a toy to you!”
“And a very bad one at that,” he retorts without missing a beat. “Fear not — I will fix you once I catch you.”
“You’re not going to catch me,” you choke out, though it sounds weak, even to your own ears.
Sukuna tuts and it sounds like it’s right by your ear. “Ah, but I already have.”
Wind flips your hair around, making it hard to see, so when you whip your head side to side, looking for hope, you don’t see the barrier ahead until it’s too late.
Your body meets a hard wall. Two arms cage you in, unyielding.
A scream pierces through the forest. It’s so far removed from you, you think for a second that someone else is facing the same fate you are, and your heart breaks for her. When reality sets in, you cease to stop feeling sorry at all. You just weren’t fast enough. No one could be against the Curse King.
“Got you, little bride.”
In a blink of an eye, he has you carried up by your hips.
“Mark my words,” he says, “you will never leave me again.”
His lips slam onto yours.
Sukuna wastes no time shoving his tongue inside your mouth. A shocked moan escapes you. This is your first kiss, and with him. It’s not romantic like the stories described kisses to be. It’s not soft, tentative, gentle. It’s a kiss full of anger, of a need for vengeance, to dominate.
Sukuna’s channeling every ounce of his feeling of betrayal, try as he might to deny it, down your throat. With the nipping of his teeth hard enough to draw blood, the suckling of his lips to taste the iron on his tongue, and said tongue exploring the crevices.
“Just as delicious as your cunt,” he snarls, pleased.
You should fight him off, you know. But you can’t. He’s too strong, too all-consuming, too engrained in your body. It recognises his heat, his scent, his voice, and it wants more. So you don’t part from him; you clamp your teeth down on his bottom lip too, tasting his blood.
It’s sweet.
Sickly sweet in a way that rushes straight to your head.
He barks a laugh, a hand yanking your head back by your hair. “A biter…adorable.” He runs his tongue up the length of your neck before biting the curve. You moan. It doesn’t break skin, but the threat is there, and it has you clenching around nothing.
Sukuna takes a deep inhale of the air.
His eyes flash red.
“I killed your friend, decimated your village, and your cunt is still craving pleasure from me?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound very much like a question at all. “Your soul calls for me, do you realise it, little wife?”
“I’m not your wife,” you spit out.
“Not yet, but in just a moment, you will be,” he promises. At whatever expression you wear on your face, another laugh cuts through you. “You do not realise the trap you have run into, do you?”
Blinking, you finally look around, processing your surroundings.
They glisten with something under the moonlight — too thick, too dark to be dew.
Blood?
Behind you, a litter of scarlet petals trails right up to where you stand, as though marking every step that led you here, every foolish attempt at escape laid out like a procession. Rows of benches stretch out on either side, carved from twisted wood and bone, thorns curling along their edges, skulls embedded into the structure.
The forest has gone still.
No insects. No birds. No wind.
Only him.
Only you.
And this…
This altar.
“A fitting setting, no?” Sukuna murmurs against your skin, his voice lower now, richer, laced with something disturbingly joyful. His grip on your hips tightens, grounding you in place even as your mind threatens to spiral. “For a union long overdue.”
Dress hiked up around your waist, a long, slithering thing worms up your thighs. You writhe, trying to run away from it, but he won’t let you. Teeth hook into your underwear. It riiiiiiiiiips it off.
His curse tongue licks your cunt with a vengeance, as though punishing you for withholding your pussy and its juices from it. Shlick! Shlick! So vulgar. So indecent. So unrestrained.
Your pulse spikes. “This isn’t—”
“It is,” he cuts in smoothly.
The word lands like a final verdict.
Back arching, you’re powerless against the tongue prodding your entrance. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you. You don’t mention how it’s far too big to enter you and yet it does, stretching your walls out with ancient powers you will never understand.
Inside, it licks every inch, every pleat. Maybe your hips work down, trying to suck it deeper inside. Maybe it doesn’t.
You’re far too focused on the fact that you’re finally at your wedding. A wedding you never wanted in the first place. A wedding he didn’t want either. He was just amused by the gall of the humans.
The domain itself is bearing witness.
There’s no need for friends, for family, for a priest.
He only needs himself and you.
Sukuna turns you with absolute certainty, positioning you to face the altar. It’s carved from dark marble, veined with something that glows faintly beneath the surface, like embers trapped beneath ash. Symbols you don’t understand are etched into it, curling and jagged.
“I chased you,” he muses, almost idly, though his hands never leave you, never loosen. They feel your body. Squeezing. Groping. Grip pulsing. Drawing out gasps and moans. “I let you run. Let you tear yourself apart on branches and roots like a frightened little thing.”
His fingers drag over one of the scratches on your arm, smearing the thin line of blood.
“And still,” he continues, voice dropping, “you came exactly where I wanted you.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t—”
“You did,” he says, almost gently now, and that softness is far more terrifying than anything else. “Every path you chose. Every step you took. It all led here.”
The petals shift under your feet as he guides you forward.
One step.
And another.
“To me.”
Your thighs are soaked with his saliva. The entrance to your womb is being tickled. Clit rubbed by a wide, flat tongue. You’re face to face with him, panting, eyes unable to tear away with the undeniable allure of his. He’s tasting you, consuming you, devouring. He just can’t help himself. Even when he should be rough, when he should punish you, should teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, he cannot.
“Ngh! S-Sukuna,” you cry out as an orgasm tears through you. “Too much!”
For a moment, his gaze softens. “I know, I know. But you need to be stretched to take both of my cocks. Be patient.”
Blood drains from your face.
That’s when you start thrashing in his hold, fear taking over you. “No, no! I can’t take both of them.” They’re too big. You’ve seen them up close; no one could take them. No human. One would already be asking too much.
Both?
It’d be a death sentence.
Sukuna slowly lays you down on top of the altar.
Immediately, dark powers curl around your body. Wisps of shadow and smoke threading around your limbs, twirling your hair, brushing your cheek, unravelling your dress and slipping it off your body. They keep you in place.
You feel his energy touching you everywhere — stroking your lips, entering through your nose, sliding down your throat and filling your belly, flicking your nipples before wrapping around the hard bud and tugging, creeping down your stomach to stroke your throbbing clit.
They distract you, shushing the cries of protest.
“Beautiful,” he whispers as his eyes consume you whole. “So beautiful. And all mine.”
He touches your cunt, coating his fingers with your essence. Sukuna brings it up in the light between you. It’s red.
Automatically, your legs move to close. The shadows stop you. They yank your legs further apart so he can slot himself between them. His robes have fallen off. A cockhead pokes your clit, smearing its pre-cum onto the pulsing thing. You gasp.
When he licks your monthly blood off his fingers, you groan. “Stop! It’s filthy.”
“No, little bride. Nothing about you is filthy. Not in a way I don’t cherish, at least.”
Sukuna brings his wrist up to your lips.
“Bite me. Hard. Hard enough to bleed. Take your anger out on me. All your hate. Your melancholy. Your grief. Let it all out,” he demands, growling. “I want it. All of it. Every part of you. Give it to me!”
The shadows pry your jaw open. That’s it. It’s them that makes your teeth take hold of his thick wrist and bite down with every force you have in you. It’s them that make your teeth sink in through all layers.
Iron soaks into your tongue, trickling down your throat and warming your chest, like alcohol.
He throws his head back, chest heaving.
The forest rustles, cheering, trembling with pleasure. Meanwhile, the shadows are vibrating. Thrumming as it plays with your clit incessantly. As it pushes in the little holes of your nipples, pleasuring the fats from inside. You whine.
“Fuck!” he bellows
Sukuna snatches his wrist from you. His hands grip the marble, veins popping and threatening to burst. He’s gulping down air and rolling tension off his shoulders.
“You almost came, didn’t you?” you ask, smiling in victory.
Those red eyes dart up to you. He licks his lips. “Yes. Yes, I did.” Sukuna tilts his head, hand wandering up your torso before groping your breast. Like you already know to expect, his curse mouth disappears from his stomach and appears on his palm. It suckles on your nipple, obsessed with trying to find milk where there is none.
You moan, back arching.
Two hands hold your hips. They tug you down, closer to his hips.
“You expected me to be ashamed of your effect on me?” he wonders aloud, huffing in amusement. “I want you. I crave you. I own you. In the same way you want me, crave me, own me. The only difference is, I embrace it.”
He’s stroking his top cock leisurely, wringing out droplets you can’t tear your eyes from. Lips parting, your mouth begins to long to be filled. Your hips chase after the fat thing. His shadows keep you still.
Sukuna continues, rubbing the wrist you’d bitten on your stomach, “I am offering everything I have, everything I am, was and will be. You need only take it. Take me. Use me.” He draws a symbol, a sigil, you don’t recognise. With his other hand, he collects the blood between your legs. The bloodied fingers hovers above the mark. “Claim me.”
There’s sincerity in his eyes, which seem to plead with you.
Inside, a pull reaches for him. Desperate. Intent. Hysterical. It calls for him, pained. He calls back, even more so.
You can tell, whatever you feel for him, he feels it tenfold. No, infinitely more intense. It must drive him mad. The fraction of what you feel has you wanting to keel over, to rip your skin off and wear his. How he can function, can keep his head on straight, baffles you.
He’s commendable. A true leader. An unholy king.
That’s why, when he utters a final syllable, you cannot resist the pull any longer:
“Please.”
“Yes!” you wail. “I do! I do! I claim you. All of you.”
Arms flailing, you scramble towards him. Like a leech, you attach yourself to him, to his lips. You sloppily kiss him, smearing the blood and dirt on your body all over his. Fire burns beneath your skin. You’re set ablaze. Your soul. Your heart. Your skin. Every part is touched by him. Caressed. Treasured.
Sukuna releases a relieved breath, as though he’d been put out of his misery.
He holds you to him. He won’t drop you. You know it. You know it so deeply, it is like knowing your name.
The forest roars. Branches thrash. Leaves fall in spirals around you, a wall shielding you from the rest of the world. There’s no going back anymore. You’ve given in. You’ve surrendered.
Two hot things begin pushing inside.
For a moment, you tense, anticipating pain. None come. Only delirious bliss. Drool drips down your chin. Your eyes roll back.
The shadows haven’t stopped stimulating you outside and inside. You’ve been cumming over and over again. Little orgasms that make your limbs shaky. But the orgasm that hits you the moment both of his cock stretch your gummy walls?
World ending.
Tantalizing.
Immense.
Boundless.
The most glorious gift.
You scream.
“Yes, that’s it,” he coaxes. “Perfect. So perfect. My wife. Mine now and forevermore.”
Soon, he bottoms out. Hips flushed. Torsos pressed together tightly. Not a single thing could get in between you. You feel every inch of him. Every ridge. Every vein. Every nudge of his fat cockheads competing to draw out your pleasure most.
You thought it’d feel overwhelming. Too much too soon. Now, you can’t get enough. You think, if only one cock had entered you, you would have mewled and whined for the other to join.
“See?” Sukuna whispers into your ear, teeth scraping the shell. “You took me so well. Such a well-behaved girl. You were -hah- made for me.”
In spite of his teasing words, his whole body is trembling with the fight not to cum too soon. Your constant clenching, fluttering around both of his cocks, the way you choke him right to the base, has him at the very edge of sanity, which you doubt he had to begin with.
He’s ploughing his cocks inside you.
Thrusting with vigour that you feel at your fingertips. Your toes curl, back arching and head thrown back. Sukuna sucks at your neck, obsessed with the intensity of your scent there.
He’s like an animal let loose. He’s rutting into you so fiercely you fear he’d break your bones. But your king would never hurt you. Not in a way you wouldn’t like.
A crazed laugh echoes in the night.
You rake your fingers through his hair. Then you yank his head back, as he had done to you. “More, Sukuna. Fuck me more. I want to cum on your cocks over and over again. I command it, husband.”
Both lengths throb inside you.
Sukuna’s eyes cross. They’re glazed over. “Yes,” he mumbles without even realising it, thoroughly enthralled in your very being, “whatever you want, my beautiful, precious wife.”
Hours must pass.
Hours of fucking you in the air, on the altar, on the ground, against a tree.
His hands explore your body till he’s memorised the curves and the planes. You do the same.
The squelching of your cunt, the slapping of skin, the mingling of blood with cum, the reverberating of groans and moans envelopes you in a hellish cocoon. The bullying of his cocks through your sore, sensitive walls, the sucking of his curse mouth on your tits, the devouring of his mouth to yours, the fwop fwop fwop! of his balls on your poor clit — all of it sends you over the edge again and again and again and again, even once you think you will never feel better than the last.
You cannot get enough of him.
And he cannot get enough of you.
Sukuna whimpers your name out before and after every peak he reaches. He fills your belly up with his cum. It perpetually drips out of you. You can taste the salt on your tongue. It coats you from head to toe.
“My wife,” he exhales, like announcing to the world. “My life…my love.”
Where he ends and you begin blur.
Time ceases to exist. The rest of the world vanishes.
In this moment, in his arms, bouncing on his cock as he gazes upon every flicker of pain and pleasure on your face, only you two matter.
.
.
.
The sun has started to rise.
You watch it climbing over the hill, head laid out on Sukuna’s chest. He plays with your hair, twirling it absentmindedly. You’re both naked. Limbs thrown over each other. Tangled.
Juices and blood have dried over your skin. Some of it your own. Some of it his.
A deep satisfaction courses through your veins.
Sukuna’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek.
There is something almost surreal about it — this stillness, this calm. The same body that had hunted you through the dark now lies beneath you like an anchor, solid and unyielding in a different way. The heat of him seeps into your skin, bleeding into your bones.
His fingers continue their idle path through your hair.
A strand slips loose, caught and wound around his clawed fingertips before being released again.
Your body bears the marks of the night: faint bruises bloom beneath your skin, teeth marks darkening where they had once stung, thin scratches tracing your limbs from your flight through the forest. Sukuna’s hands soothe any marks he left on you, not regretful at all. His actions can be likened to basking proudly in the art he made.
All the while, you’re tracing the marks you left on him too — the scratches, the bite marks, the bruises he allowed you to give him. You run your fingers down his tattoos, avoiding the mouth on his tongue, which keeps licking you or trying to capture your hand. A very naughty thing indeed.
“Sukuna,” you murmur. He grunts. “I’m hungry. Let’s go back home.”
“How you have any room left in your small belly after drinking so much of my cum, I cannot fathom,” he voices out, curious and concerned. You smack his chest. “Yes, dear. I hear you. Let us take a bath in the pool and I will have a servant bring us food. Perhaps a goblin.”
As he stands up, you frown. “A goblin? Why not Uraume?”
Uraume’s his favourite. His right hand. His shadow. The goblins, on the other hand, he barely tolerates. You’ve seen him kick the poor things out of the way too often. Once or twice, you’ve reflexively tried to help them up, but they growl at you. You think they quite like being kicked about. It seems to be an honour to them.
Under his breath, as Sukuna stretches his body with a lazy yawn, he says, “Uraume is on time out.”
Using his outstretched hand to bring you to your feet, you ask, “Why? What happened?”
Petulantly, he grumbles, “The insolent brat took it upon themself to lead that waste of space human I tore to shreds to you. It seems they thought you were a bad influence on me.”
To punctuate his last sentence and emphasise the absurdity of the idea, he grins wolfishly down at you, more specifically at his cum dripping down your thighs. Cheeks heated, you press them together.
It’s hard to believe this evening had been orchestrated by Uraume, but also it’s not a huge leap in logic. They’ve made their point of view abundantly clear — you just didn’t think they would have tried to have you face imminent death crossing through the forest where creatures of the Underworld lurked.
“Are you…are you going to hurt them?”
Sukuna cocks a brow. “Would you like me too?”
“No,” you say immediately and sincerely. “Blood’s already been spilled tonight. I don’t want to be the reason someone gets hurt again.”
“Very well. Let me know if you change your mind. They sure do get upset if I let someone else cook my meals.”
You giggle.
Then, all the humour dies out of you.
Exhaustion has set in your limbs.
Whatever energy had overtaken you earlier is gone now.
His breath grazes your cheeks, warm against the cold air. One of his thumbs collects a tear right from your lashes. You didn’t even know you’re tearing up. He brings the droplet to his lips and licks it away. You hold your breath as he mutters, “Watching you run from me, hand in hand with some other man, hurts less than seeing you cry for him. It makes me wish I had made him suffer more before his end.”
“I’m not crying for him.”
Sukuna’s crimson eyes flit to you.
“Oh?”
Sudden sobs escape your lips. Your knees give out beneath you. He catches you, lifting you up in his arms. He always does. You bury your face in his neck. Sukuna rubs soothing circles on your back, cooing. “My ferocious, little wife…what is wrong? Did I hurt you too much? Do you…do you regret marrying me?”
The insecurity in his voice, the hesitation to ask, to hear a truth he would be distraught to hear, make you cry harder.
“Please don’t ever throw me away. I know I shouldn’t have left last night, but I really thought you were going to kill me. And maybe you will later. But please don’t,” you plead through your tears. “I want to be with you forever and ever.”
Silence passes.
A pregnant pause.
He laughs.
He actually laughs.
It’s full bodied. His stomach mouth joins in. “Hilarious! You never fail to entertain me with your constant overthinking. Always so afraid. So on guard. Too precious! You are just too adorable. You will rot my teeth.”
Weakly, you lay a barrage of punches on his chest. “Don’t laugh at me, you brute. I’m your wife. Respect me.”
Sukuna nods patronisingly, but he does shift his laughter into light chuckles, “Alright, alright. Forgive me, little wife. You are simply so delightful, so naive, and pitiful, I cannot help myself.”
“Put me down.”
“Never.” Sukuna presses a kiss to your cheek. He nudges your face away from his neck so you will meet his gaze. Seriously now, voice with his sacred vow, “I have no intention of throwing you away. Not since I laid eyes on you and felt a thing I did not know existed beat in my chest.”
Holding your breath, you listen to his confession.
“There is no world,” he continues, quieter now, though the weight of it presses heavier, “in which I allow you to slip from my grasp. Not heaven, not earth, not whatever fragile afterlife your kind clings to. If you are taken from me, I will unmake it. If you are hidden, I will find you. If you are reborn, I will recognise you.”
Shyly, you ask, “Even if I have a different face?”
Sukuna nods. “In whatever form, whatever shape, whatever state, you are. Wherever, whenever, you find yourself in. I will recognise you by your soul. For yours make up my own.”
He leaves a kiss to your forehead, to each of your eyes, to the tip of your nose. You giggle.
Then, huffing in amusement, he adds, “It certainly helps that we are bound by curse marriage. Not by your flimsy, human paper. But by blood. We curses take blood bonds very seriously. If we are to part, for whatever reason, we would both die, so it is in your best interest not to throw me away.”
That should startle you. Should scare you beyond belief. Instead, you think it’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard.
“I’m holding you to that,” you mutter against his lips.
Sukuna nuzzles your nose with his, a smile mirroring yours.
SYNOPSIS ── The blue spring of their youths—and everything after it ends. Your story told from the perspective of your closest friend since childhood, Shoko Ieiri.
PAIRING. ── gojo satoru x reader
TAGS. canon jjk timeline, (or at least as accurate as possible) coming of age, sorcerer!reader, angst, fluff, slice of life, mutual pining, friends to lovers, nostalgia, hidden inventory timeline, the tokyo five plus you, emotional vulnerability, dreams and nightmares, missing scenes, domestic fluff, megumi and tsumiki / dad!gojo dynamic, we love and adore shoko ieiri on this blog
WARNINGS. ! manga spoilers ! depictions of grief & loss, canon typical violence (described but not in detail), use of cigarettes and smoking, character deaths
WORD COUNT. 13.2k
mae's note. my debut work !! thank u for all the support on 'of love & lesson plans', the first chapter will be out by tomorrow hehee but i wanted to share a project i've been working on for over a year now <3 i also PINKY PROMISE my other fics won't be this sad jsjdjskd but i love u all and i'm so sorry in advanced ... but likes and reposts are much loved mwah mwah mwah
inspired by ♪ from the subway train, vansire 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ ── ao3 version. playlist. header art twt/@5booosa. dividers by @cafekitsune
The air in December tastes like endings, bitter like smoke and cold enough to hurt.
Shoko stands alone beneath the harsh fluorescent glow of a streetlamp, cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers, the embers burning quietly, steadily, a small star of comfort in between her fingertips. Snow falls in careless spirals, catching in her hair, dusting her eyelashes, melting against her skin.
She watches her breath leave her body, a faint cloud in the chill, and thinks about how strange it is—how terribly quiet the world becomes when there’s nothing left but memory.
She swears it wasn’t always this cold.
i. november, 1989
You were both born in early November, five days apart.
Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.
Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.
They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.
Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.
You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.
It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.
Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.
So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.
Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.
She was afraid. You weren’t.
You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.
And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines.
Two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.
ii. april, 2005
Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.
She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… soft. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. It smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.
She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.
They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.
Then came Gojo.
She had heard of him before, of course. The honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.
Shoko didn’t really like him.
You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.
“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”
Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”
“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.
“That's not true. I like my hair.”
“I like it too.”
“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”
But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands and a muttered thanks.
He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.
It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.
Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.
But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.
And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.
Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.
Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.
They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat, with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds. You’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.
❀
The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.
Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.
“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.
“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.
Shoko watched from the step, dry under an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.
You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.
The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.
❀
They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.
A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.
On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, your knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. You two didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.
Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.
She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.
Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.
Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.
It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.
“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”
There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.
“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.
“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”
“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.
“Or we break together.” Shoko said, so softly no one answered.
That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.
And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.
In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.
In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.
In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.
In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.
iii. june, 2006
Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty.
They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.
Still, they were kids.
Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.
The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.
“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.
“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.
Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.
The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.
❀
Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.
But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.
By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.
She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006.
Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?
Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.
“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “Not for leadership. For war.”
Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.
“They're grooming all of us.”
You didn’t deny it anymore.
❀
There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.
Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.
It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.
But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.
Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.
Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.
“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.
You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”
“You're both insufferable.”
“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”
“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”
“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”
“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”
“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”
Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.
There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.
She just watched. Just remembered.
Suguru was the only one who never commented.
He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.
He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.
But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.
Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.
Maybe she should have.
❀
It's late November and the mission went fine.
They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. But it was what happened after that stuck.
They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.
But Shoko couldn’t sleep.
You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.
And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.
Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.
It wasn't long before Gojo left too.
You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.
Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.
But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.
You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.
You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.
Now, you were just looking.
And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.
Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
Then you reached forward.
Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.
He flinched.
Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.
Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.
Gojo looked at you. “I should.”
“You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“I don’t know how to mean this.”
A pause. Your breath hitched.
“Just don’t look away.”
He didn’t.
And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to gently hold your waist.
Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.
Neither of you said a word.
Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.
❀
The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.
They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.
Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when their junior tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.
They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.
Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.
“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.
“Out of what?” you asked.
“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”
Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”
“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that.
The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.
It felt like a beginning.
But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.
iv. march, 2007
It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.
Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. After last August, in the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.
And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.
“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”
Shoko nodded.
She didn’t ask what he meant.
❀
The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year.
A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.
But the mission itself was ugly.
Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.
Suguru lost control halfway through.
Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.
He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.
Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.
“What the hell was that?”
“They were killing kids.”
“They were running away.”
“And they would’ve kept going.”
Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”
“Do we?”
Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”
Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”
Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.
The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.
❀
Haibara died not long after.
He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.
The mission was supposed to be simple.
Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”
They weren’t.
What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.
Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.
Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.
You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.
Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.
Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.
And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.
Suguru got even quieter.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that meant calm or ease.
This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.
Shoko felt it most at night.
Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.
She said something once. Tried to, at least.
“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.
Suguru looked at her.
His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”
By then she knew he was gone.
❀
A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.
He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.
Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.
The rest was silence.
Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.
Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.
Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.
She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands.
Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.
She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.
So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.
And she never spoke to him again.
❀
That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.
You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.
“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”
Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)
But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.
In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.
You had stopped talking about the future.
Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.
They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.
v. 2008
The years felt blurry after.
Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.
Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.
By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.
And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.
The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.
“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.
“I know.” you would say.
Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.
Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.
❀
Gojo never talked about Suguru.
Not once.
Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.
He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.
The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.
Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.
He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.
But never where anyone could see.
You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”
He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.
Shoko watched it all from the edge.
The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.
The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.
Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.
vi. april, 2009
Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.
Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. Too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.
Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”
“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.
Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”
He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”
“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”
That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.
You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.
Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.
❀
Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.
Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.
But something softer than she had become used to.
The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.
Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.
You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.
You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.
Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”
He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.
Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.
“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”
You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.
Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.
It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.
For the first time in months, she felt… full.
Not happy. Not yet healed.
But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.
Just for now.
❀
She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.
New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.
She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.
She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.
But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.
Please, not them.
❀
They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.
But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.
“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”
And Shoko would nod.
“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”
“He believed in this more than we did.”
“Yeah.”
Then silence.
Then the night.
Then the world turning, regardless.
❀
Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.
Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”
You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”
“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.
“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”
“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”
You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”
“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.
It makes her chest ache.
She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”
You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”
“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”
There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.
You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”
“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.
“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.
“Like what?”
You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”
That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.
Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”
You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”
“Morbid.”
“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”
Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”
“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”
Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”
“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”
Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”
You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”
Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.
Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”
You blink at her, startled. “And now?”
Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”
Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”
You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”
Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”
You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”
“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.
There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”
You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”
You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”
❀
In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.
In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. To Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.
Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.
Sometimes, she let herself want more.
That was enough.
vii. 1997
When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.
They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”
“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Its chest isn’t moving.”
“How do you know?”
Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.
They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.
They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.
“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.
Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.
❀
january, 2014
The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.
“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”
The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.
Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.
She's already standing.
Her coat’s already on.
Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.
Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.
The air starts to feel static.
The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?
You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.
Grade one curse. Warehouse District.
Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”
❀
Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high.
But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.
Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.
Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.
The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.
No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.
Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.
But it’s all useless.
The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.
Then she moves.
Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.
She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.
She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.
When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.
Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.
Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.
Too late, too late, too late.
She writes the report with mechanical precision.
Her handwriting doesn’t shake.
She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.
Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.
And she finally lets herself cry.
Just once.
Quietly.
Like a confession.
❀
Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.
She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.
People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.
She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.
Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.
Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:
Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.
A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.
There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.
Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.
The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.
She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.
Snow is falling.
It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.
When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.
The light’s on under the door.
She raises her hand.
And knocks.
❀
The door opens almost immediately.
And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.
Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.
He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.
And then he sees Shoko.
And everything stops.
His face doesn’t fall.
It freezes.
She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.
His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.
Just stares.
He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.
Shoko clears her throat.
The words don’t want to come.
"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”
That's all it takes.
Gojo doesn’t flinch.
But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.
Like maybe he can rewind it.
Undo it.
See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news so bluntly.
But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.
He steps back, and turns.
Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.
Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.
The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.
Shoko wants to scream.
Instead, she places the folder on the table.
Neither of them look at it.
She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.
“Are you going to read it?”
His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
With no hesitation, “No.”
Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.
“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”
He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.
“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”
She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.
“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”
He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.
“The story I want is that you’re lying.”
Silence.
He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.
And then he just… freezes.
Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.
“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.
“Why?”
he swallows, eyes still on the folder.
“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”
Shoko's throat tightens.
For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
He’s not moving.
Not breathing, maybe.
His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.
Once.
Then still again.
His face is unreadable.
But his eyes — god, his eyes.
Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.
Not even after Suguru.
Not even after Toji.
This isn’t rage.
This isn’t despair.
This is something else.
Something jagged. Something bottomless.
He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.
“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.
Shoko nods.
That's when it happens.
He laughs.
Short, ugly, and bitter.
An instinct, like flinching.
He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.
The quiet settles like dust.
Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.
The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”
Her throat tightens.
She doesn’t speak.
“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.
“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”
He closes his eyes.
“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”
And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.
But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.
And he doesn’t really cry.
But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.
She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.
❀
august, 2014
Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.
Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.
And that, she thinks, is love.
Not flowers.
Not vows.
Not even the waiting.
But the remembering.
The carrying.
The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.
viii. 2015
Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.
Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.
The irony keeps her company.
The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.
And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.
Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.
He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”
She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.
He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.
“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”
Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”
She envied him for thinking it was still possible.
Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.
Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.
She held it in her palm for a long time that night.
But she didn’t smoke.
Not yet.
❀
She sees Gojo more often these days.
Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.
They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.
Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.
She drinks it anyway.
It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.
And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.
When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”
The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.
But Shoko knows better.
❀
december, 2017
Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.
From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.
But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.
Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.
Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.
“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.
Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.
❀
She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.
Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.
Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream.
He broke long before he died.
Shoko knows this.
She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.
If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.
That watching them die wasn’t his fault.
❀
Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.
Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.
She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.
He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.
They don’t talk much during those nights.
But sometimes, he falls asleep.
And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.
There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.
In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.
“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.
“Trying to give you a break,” he says.
“By mutilating my carrots?”
“They fought back.”
She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.
It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.
He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.
She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.
They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.
Of surviving the wreckage together.
He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.
They exist near each other.
Orbiting.
Keeping each other tethered.
❀
Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.
Not really.
Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.
Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.
Because it’s not the places that hold them.
It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.
Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.
Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.
Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.
She doesn’t remember who took it.
Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.
But she leaves it there.
Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.
It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.
ix. december 24, 2018
The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.
Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.
Shoko watches it from the roof.
She doesn’t move.
Not yet.
It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.
This year, the snow comes early.
And with it—him.
She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.
She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.
Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.
She finds him in the square.
Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.
He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.
She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.
He knows she’s there.
He doesn’t turn.
But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.
And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.
That this is the end.
Not just of him. Not just of this fight.
But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.
Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.
All of it.
Ending here.
Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.
He burns too bright, even now. Bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. And still—Sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.
Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.
She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.
He doesn’t scream.
He just folds.
Quietly.
Finally.
And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.
But something in her does.
Everything slows.
The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.
❀
The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.
Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.
Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.
Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.
But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.
Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. Flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. Until she feels him.
Not Yuta, not exactly.
But not Satoru either.
Something between.
A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.
And then—eyes.
Too blue. Too familiar.
Her knees nearly buckle.
Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.
But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.
And it’s not him.
It’s not him.
She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.
The snow keeps falling outside.
❀
Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.
She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.
“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”
Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.
He was tired.
He died.
And there’s nothing beautiful about that.
❀
She cremates him herself. In the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.
x. 青春
Tokyo feels different after. Like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.
That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.
For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.
“You win.” she whispers.
The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.
And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.
Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.
Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.
But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.
Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.
A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.
They’re too busy being alive.
(終わり) END.
When August comes, I don’t count the days
Transitory views from the subway train
How strange, when life unfolds this way
In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray
Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate
That most pleasant memories do
mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading
aang, in all his avatar glory, is not above tongue-fucking his cum right back into your quivering, convulsing pussy. his wide, stupefied eyes glow white as he licks and scoops and sucks with relentless devotion, lithe tongue sweeping across your folds with striking precision only a master of the four elements could possess. powerful arms pin your thighs against the mattress while roughened hands palm over your lower stomach, cradling the skin above your uterus with something almost reverent in their touch.
“it has to take. . .” he’s mumbling to himself, practically incoherent, but you can still hear the raw desperation threaded through his guttural chanting. “has to, has to, has to—!”
“a-aang, mmph! what’s wrong? did something happen on your trip—?” you whimper through the haze of overstimulation, hands scrambling against his shoulders as you search for something to ground yourself with. he’s been at it for hours, ever since he returned from his home air temple. had stormed into your shared bedroom with the doors rattling against the walls behind him, barely a greeting leaving his mouth before he was climbing over you, frantic hands shoving the hefty layers of his robes and beads from his body like they’ve suddenly become unbearable.
in mere seconds he had you flat on your back.
then on all fours.
and then on your side and everything else in between.
the room is in absolute shambles— feathers spilling from torn pillows and swirling through the air in frantic, whirling currents. the bed barely remains intact beneath you, headboard split apart and canopy hanging in splintered ruin, all of it unable to withstand the force of him as the elements hum beneath his tortured skin.
“aang, honey, are you— hah!— okay? talk to me, baby. please.”
what new revelation could he have possibly had for him to suddenly fold you into a million different positions?
and you tried to run, to tap out after the nth round, but did you really think you could escape the hold of an avatar in his avatar state? a handsome, beefy, six-foot-five, one-hundred-something kilogram man so utterly desperate to revive an entire bloodline, yet far too in love to want to do it with anyone else but you?
aang’s voice comes out rough, wrecked with pathetic want. “need to get you pregnant,” he finally admits, lips never leaving your twitching clit. “need it right fucking now.”
his sharp, unfamiliar words send a shiver down your spine.
he begrudgingly sits up, one hand keeping you spread for him while the other drags down his chiseled abs, ghosting over the twin downward arrows that curl just above his v–line. he fists his burly cock in slow, measured strokes as he readies another thick load, bright eyes trailing from your flushed face to your heaving breasts, tongue-in-cheek.
your heart jumps. you know that look. “aang, i know how much reviving air bending means to you, the duty you have to your people—” you start in an attempt to soothe.
because when he gets like this you tend to wobble for the next few weeks.
he cuts you off with a dry, humorless chuckle. “you think that’s what this is about?” he tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
you could only gulp in response.
then, he’s rising above you, broad, muscular shoulders boxing you in as he settles between your thighs. the heavy heat of his dick presses against your sensitive, aching entrance, his incandescent gaze dragging over your face like he’s trying to memorize every expression, every shaky inhale.
mapping out your features in his mind with perfect, painful precision.
the realization that had struck him back at the temple as he looked at every mural, every worn painting and towering statue of the air nomads. they all looked like his people. familiar faces, familiar smiles, familiar eyes, familiar powers.
but none of them resembled you.
none carried the curve of your lashes or the little furrow in your brow when you worried. none had your laugh, the unique slope of your nose, your warmth, your favor for sour over sweet, your gentleness for children and particular bugs. and suddenly, the grief that sat in his chest for years changed shape entirely. because what would be the point of preserving the world he lost if, in doing so, he lost every trace of the person he loved most within it?
“this—this isn’t about me reviving airbenders or a duty to save my dying culture. this isn’t about avatar sonam or tagah or monk gyatso or anything that has to do with bending. this is about you and me and me wanting to start a family with you,” he states with that heavy, solid avatar voice of his. firm and sure, thumb brushing along your jaw, “this is about me making sure that a part of you will always exist in a world where the avatar exists. that your lips, your eyes, your soul. . . live on for eternity. so that every time i look into this world through the eyes of the new avatar, i can still see you. see you in our grandchildren, in our great-great grandchildren, in the people that will come to exist because we loved each other. . . to know that you’ll always be in my life someway, somehow.”
“aang. . .”
“i realize now that there will come a day when airbending returns, whether in our lifetime or long after we’re gone.” he presses his forehead against yours, tone softer despite the ache in his words. “i know that i’ll get to see that vision through the eyes of the avatars who will come after me. and if i keep chasing impossible answers, impossible resolves— if i keep throwing myself at a future i can’t force into existence— i’ll lose you in the process. i’ll waste the little time we’re given together. with our friends. with our children. the thought of losing you to time. . .”
it killed him.
you feel it. the shift in him. the sincerity behind every broken word, every trembling breath. the sheer despair that claws through him at the thought of you leaving nothing behind of yourself, of the love the two of you share. the regret he’d forever live with if he only prioritized the revival of air-bending or the kids that would inherit it. and the fact that he still hasn’t left the avatar state only makes it worse, every emotion stripped raw and vulnerable beneath glowing eyes and tattoos and shaking hands.
“so i vow now that i will never neglect your life or your culture for the sake of mine. whether we have airbending children or not. . . that is up to the universe.”
his hands cup your cheeks gently as he leans in, connecting the both of you in a slow, sloppy kiss. you could only gasp as he slips his tongue in, as if to seal your fate with his.
he slowly pulls away, thick fingers easing you open as he makes room for himself. “i can live without other airbenders. i can make due with the acolyte family we’ve founded. what i cannot live without is you. what i cannot imagine not ingrained in this world beyond my lifetime is you.”
aang smiles for the first time tonight, like the image in his mind was far more beautiful than anything he could’ve ever imagined. he sinks inside, massive and overwhelming, drawing a raspy breath from your lungs at the sheer stretch of him. still, you pull him closer, wanting nothing more than to feel the slow, heavy drag of him inside you.
“so for now,” he whispers, breath warm against your lips as he begins moving slowly, in and out, “all i want is a child with you. one that embodies everything that you are. one that will carry on your memory, your curiosity, your strength, your traits.” gone was the glow of the avatar state, the white fading slowly from his eyes until they were simply his again, fixed on yours with a tenderness so deep it was almost unbearable. “so i’m begging you. . . give me a baby that looks just like you.”
you cry out helplessly as he buries his face into your throat, holding you impossibly close. every stroke is long and deliberate, driven far less by hunger and more by an emotion too large for words. the slick of your arousal coats his balls as you helplessly grind against him, cunt fluttering around the girthiness of his base. you could feel all the veins that line him, tracing your walls as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe.
you blink back the tears threatening to spill. “b-but i do want our baby to be like you. i do want to help you—”
he shakes his head fervently, fingers tightening around you like he’s afraid you still don’t understand. “no. no,” he rasps, “i don’t want this to be some duty you carry for me. i want this because it’s us. because it’s the life we chose together. no obligations. no sacrifices.”
you feel the dampness at the corner of his eyes as he clings to you, hands roaming your body in a worship-like trance, as though he was reassuring himself that you were real and here and present and his. to have and to hold and to sink himself into when the world is in chaos.
“please,” he croaks hoarsely into your neck, voice cracking around the word, and the raw vulnerability in it makes your chest ache more than anything else ever could. “say you’ll give me a baby, sweetheart. say you’ll give me this one thing. even if they come without air-bending.”
a broken sound leaves your throat as you cling to his shoulders, nodding desperately against him, back arching into his warmth. “yes,” you breathe out shakily, fingers curling around his nape. “yes, yes, yes. of course, i will.”
the words—your defining proclamation—undo him entirely. he groans into the curve of your neck, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, every breath hot, cold, then hot again against your skin. he cums in thick, long spurts, coating your insides pearly white as you cream on his cock, legs caging him in. his tattoos begin to faintly glow once more as he shivers, hips still pumping his seed into you, forehead pressed beneath your jaw, as though he can’t bear even an inch of distance between you.
when he finally pulls back, his eyes have returned to their natural state, shining with something far softer than desire.
devotion, perhaps. a need to always keep you safe. to give you—and your children—a world that offers everything and takes nothing in return.
“i love you,” he murmurs softly, brushing the damp strands of your hair from your face. he rests his forehead against yours again, eyes slipping closed as his heart, for once, is at ease. “thank you.”
your lips tremble into a tired smile, fingers curling weakly around his head. “you never have to thank me for loving you.”
though your words alone could never truly capture the depth of everything you’ve given him.
summary — jack used to press his thumb inside of your wrist, just to feel your pulse. he’s been thinking that lately. he’s been thinking about that a lot.
content / trigger warnings — 12.6k words. angst, heavy, heavyyy angst, emotional neglect, reader leaves jack, no explicit breakup scene, hurt/no comfort, medical setting, pulmonary embolism, pulmonary embolism most likely presented inaccurately based on what i could find on wikipedia, reader is unconscious, references to ptsd/ptsd implied, jack’s past military service mentioned, insomnia, crying, lots of themes of loneliness, dissociation compared to being a fugue state, grief, pining, jack not being the very best at this relationship so maybe ooc?
author’s note — yes i have no range all i can write is a yearning man after he massively messes up; i wanna try being more versatile though so send in requests so i can make an attempt at being a Little more creative. i wanted to get this out because i started writing it while season 2 was coming out
The coffee maker had been broken for three days because the carafe wouldn’t click into place anymore, so if you didn’t press down on it while it brewed, the coffee pooled around the base and ran out onto the counter. You’d been meaning to tell Jack. You kept forgetting. Or maybe you kept remembering at the wrong times—when he was asleep, when he was in the shower, when he was already halfway out the door—and so for three days you’d been holding the carafe down while scrolling on your phone with the other. The kitchen did permanently smell of burnt coffee because some of it still got under there and cooked against the warmer. Nobody had complained, though.
You were holding the carafe down now.
It was 6:47 in the morning. The light through the kitchen window was the same shade as weak tea. You’d forgotten your socks again, so your feet were going cold against the tile. You’d pulled the cuffs of your sleep shorts down as far as they’d go. You hadn’t slept. You’d gone to bed at eleven and lain in the dark for a while, just to get up at two and read on the couch. You’d ate a piece of toast at four.
He was meant to be home at six-thirty. It was 6:48 now. You checked the clock on the microwave, the clock on the stove, and the clock on your phone, all of which disagreed by between thirty seconds and two minutes, and none of which mattered because the only clock that mattered was the sound of his key in the lock, and you hadn't heard it yet.
You kept thinking about the fucking carafe.
You kept thinking if you told him, if when he came in that you had to hold the thing down, he’d put his hand over yours and it would become a thing. A small, but real thing. You'd been living on smaller ones lately. The other night he'd touched the back of your neck when he passed you in the hallway and you'd thought about it for two days.
The coffee finished. You let go of the carafe. You poured two mugs—his first, the one with the chip on the rim that he insisted he liked because it made the coffee taste better, which wasn't true but was the kind of thing he said sometimes, the kind of thing that used to make you laugh—and then yours, the one your sister had given you for your twenty-eighth birthday, the one with the hairline crack that had been there so long you'd stopped worrying it would split. You put two sugars in his. You put nothing in yours. You stood at the counter holding both mugs by their handles and you waited.
You’d been putting two sugars in Jack’s coffee for almost three years that you’d started doing it without thinking. You thought, briefly, about not putting sugar in his, about making his coffee wrong. You thought about whether he’d notice. You wanted him to notice. No, you didn’t want him to notice. You put the two sugars in, and stirred them with the small spoon you always used. The wrong coffee would have been a test, you realized, and you weren’t ready to give a test you already knew the answer to.
6:53.
You set the mugs down. You picked them up. You set them down again. You went to the window and looked out at the parking lot like you were sixteen and waiting for a boy to pull up, except you were thirty-one and you lived with him and there was no reason to be standing at the window except that you couldn't sit down. Sitting down would mean admitting you were waiting. Standing was a thing you happened to be doing in the kitchen near the window. It wasn't the same.
You heard the key jangle at 7:04.
Your body reacted the same way it had been reacting for three years now. There was an involuntary lift in your chest, this small gladness, and the fleeting, euphoric thought of oh good, Jack’s here. It happened milliseconds before you could decide whether you were allowed to feel it anymore; it happened in the half-second between the key turning and the door opening. You hated that it still happened. You hated that you were unsure whether you hated it.
He came in. He looked at you. He eyed the mugs on the counter. He looked back at you.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” you said.
He left his jacket on and held onto his bag. He stood in the doorway like a man who’d come into the wrong apartment and was figuring out how to exit without being mean about it. His hair was flat on one side from where he’d been pushing his locks through it. There was something on the cuff of his scrubs, a dried, dark spot. He—like always—smelled like the hospital, and underneath that he smelled like himself, and underneath that, faintly, he smelled like coffee that wasn’t yours.
He’d stopped somewhere on his way home.
You filed that thought away into this ever-growing compartment of Jack your subconscious mind had started months ago, and your conscious mind was just catching on. You were getting good at filing things away. You had a whole drawer of them now, in your head, organized chronologically: the night he hadn't come to bed; the morning he'd left without saying goodbye; the Tuesday he'd told you he was too tired to talk and then you'd heard him on the phone in the bathroom, laughing, low, at something somebody else had said. You didn't open the drawer. You just kept putting things in it. You'd open it later. You'd open it when you were ready.
“I made coffee,” you said, because that was how it was supposed to go. That was how it always went.
“I had some,” he said.
“Okay.”
He was looking past you, at the cabinet behind your head, at nothing, you realized. He’d hadn’t met your eyes since he came in, and you were realizing you had stopped considering it avoiding, because to avoid would mean he was putting in the effort to. When had this become the nature of it all? You couldn’t remember the last time he looked at you. You were going to remember the not remembering later. When had you become a thing his eyes had learned to skip over?
“Long night?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
You waited with bated breath. There used to be a ‘yeah,’ then a story. There used to be a ‘yeah, this guy came in, you won’t believe what he did to his hand.’ He’d sit at the counter and tell you, gesturing with his coffee, and you’d put your chin on your palm and listen with both ears. Sometimes you’d laugh and sometimes you wouldn’t and once you’d cried. He’d reached across the counter and put his thumb under your eye and say, “Hey. Hey. Come here.” And then you’d go around the corner and he’d hold you for a long time without saying anything.
You waited.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said.
“Okay.”
He moved past you without touching you. There was a moment—a half-second, less, the time it took for him to pass behind you in the narrow space between the counter and the table—when you felt the air shift. The possible moment he could have put a hand on your hip, on the small of your back, on the top of your head; when he could have done any of the small unthinking touches he used to do without thinking. But he moved through the space like you were a piece of furniture he was navigating around. You heard the bathroom door close. You heard the shower turn on.
You stood at the counter for a while.
You picked up his mug, the one with the chipped rim, and you held it with both hands. It was still warm. The two sugars hadn't dissolved all the way; you could feel the grit at the bottom when you tilted it. You thought about pouring it out. You thought about drinking it yourself. You thought about a lot of things.
You set it down.
You sat at the table. You hadn't sat down all morning. Your hands were colder than they should've been. You put them between your thighs to warm them up. You looked at the chip on the rim of his mug, the small white triangle of it where the ceramic had broken away two years ago—you'd done it, actually, you'd been washing dishes and you'd knocked it against the faucet and you'd stood there holding it and almost cried because it was his favorite, and he'd come up behind you and looked at it and laughed and said ‘Baby, it's a mug, it's fine, I like it better now,’ and he'd kissed the top of your head and taken it out of your hands and put it back in the cabinet—and a thought came unbidden to you, one of those with clarity that came in the morning after a night of no sleep.
He doesn’t love me anymore.
You hadn’t decided the thought. It arrived, came through the kitchen window like a weak-tea light and the scent of burnt coffee. The thought sat across the table from you with folded arms as it waited for you to say something back.
You sat there for a long time, listening to the shower run, and somewhere far away you could hear a car door slamming and a dog barking and the building above you starting to wake up, all of it the wrong sounds for this hour, all of it the sounds of a day beginning, and you sat at your kitchen table in your sleep shorts with your cold feet on the tile and you thought, okay.
The shower kept running. You got up to hold the carafe down for the second pot.
It was for you because the act of making coffee was the only thing your hands knew how to do at the moment, and your hands needed something to do or you were going to start crying at the kitchen table, and you weren't going to start crying at the kitchen table because if he came out of the shower and found you crying you would have to explain it, and you didn't have an explanation that would fit in the space he was willing to give you.
‘You don’t love me anymore,’ it’s not a sentence you could say out loud to Jack. It was a sentence you could barely say to yourself. You'd thought it once and now it was in the room and you needed to do something with your hands.
You filled the carafe at the sink. The water ran cold over your wrist and you watched the little bones move under your skin and you thought about how he used to take your hand sometimes and turn it over and press his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and hold it, like he was checking and making sure. You used to ask him what he was doing and he’d always say, ‘Nothing.’ Then, he’d add, ‘I just like knowing.’
You hadn't felt his thumb on your wrist in—you didn't know. You couldn't remember the last time. That was the thing about the things he used to do. They stopped happening and you didn't notice on the day they stopped, you noticed three weeks later when you reached for the memory of the last time and it wasn't where you'd left it.
You poured the water into the machine. You pressed the button. You held the carafe down.
The shower was still running. The shower had been running for twenty-two minutes.
The coffee maker beeped.
You let go of the carafe. You poured. You added milk—too much, your hand slipped, you didn't bother to fix it—and you took the mug to the table and sat down and you didn't drink it, you just put your hands around it and held on.
You thought about your sister.
You thought about your sister, the phone call you’d had with her four months ago in October. You’d been on a walk and she’d asked how Jack was and you’d said he was good.
She’d been quiet on the other line for a second too long, which meant she'd already heard the answer in your voice and was just giving you the chance to say it out loud. You’d told her you were fine, you were fine. You’d meant it. You were fine in October. You'd been worried about him but you'd been fine. And she'd let it go, because she was good like that, because she didn't push, and you'd gotten off the phone and kept walking and not thought about it again.
You were thinking about it now because you realized she knew before you did.
You were thinking about how lonely had been a slow leak. How you couldn't point to a day. How if someone asked you, later, about when it started, you wouldn’t have an answer that would satisfy them, you'd just have a list of small things and the dawning understanding that the small things had been a shape that had been apparent to everyone but you.
The shower stopped.
You looked up.
The silence after the shower was always loud, for the apartment adjusted, the pipes ticked, the bathroom fan still spun. You heard him moving around in there. The squeak of his palm on the foggy mirror. The click of the cabinet. The small domestic sounds of a man getting ready to come out and face his life. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug and you thought, very clearly, very calmly to not ask him.
Don't ask him what's wrong. Don't ask him if he's okay. Don't ask him if he still wants this. Don't ask him anything. If you ask him he will tell you and you cannot un-hear what he tells you and you are not ready, you are not ready, you are not ready.
He came out in sweatpants and a t-shirt, toweling his hair, as he balanced on his crutches. The steam came out with him in a soft cloud, and for one half-second—the half-second before he saw you sitting there—his face was open. Tired. Wrecked. Human. You saw him. You saw the man you'd loved for almost three years, the man who'd stood at this counter in October and pressed his mouth to the top of your head and asked, rhetorically, what he would do without you. The man who you were pretty sure you would have married if he'd asked, the man you'd been so quietly, stupidly, completely sure of that you'd never even let yourself worry he might not be sure of you.
He saw you and his face closed.
It was the smallest thing. It was a thing you'd seen happen maybe a hundred times in the last few months and never quite let yourself name. It was like a door shut behind his eyes. The towel kept moving in his hand but something in his shoulders went still, the way an animal goes still when it sees you coming.
He stood there with the towel around his neck. He was looking at the floor between you. He had a tan line on the back of his neck from his work badge lanyard, you'd noticed it last week, a small pale stripe. You'd thought about pointing it out to him and you hadn't, because you weren't sure anymore which kinds of small noticings were welcome.
You opened your mouth.
You were sitting at the table with your hands around your mug and you'd made yourself a promise eleven seconds ago and you opened your mouth anyway because some part of you was already past being careful, some part of you was already at the bottom of the hill and rolling, some part of you had decided it would rather know than keep not-knowing, and you opened your mouth and you spoke, “Jack.”
His gaze was still fixed to the floor. “What?”
“Are we okay?”
The towel stopped moving. The kitchen got very quiet. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears in the slow heavy way it did when you were about to be told something that was going to rearrange you, and you sat very still at the table with your hands around your mug and you watched him decide.
He took a long time to decide, enough that you understood what the answer was going to be. He was giving you mercy, you supposed, to prepare your body. You felt your shoulders settle. You felt your jaw loosen. You felt the very small private animal of yourself curl up tight somewhere behind your ribs and go quiet, the way it did before bad news, the way it had done in the doctor's office when you were nineteen, the way it had done at your grandfather's bedside, the way it had done—once, years ago, in a different life—when a different man had told you a different version of the same thing. You knew this feeling. Your body knew this feeling. Your body was already mourning.
He pulled the towel off of his neck and held it beside the crutches.
“I don’t know.”
You waited, eyes fixated on him.
“I don’t—” He started, then stopped. “I’m tired. I’m really tired. Can we not do this right now?”
“Okay,” you said.
“I just got off a fourteen-hour—”
“Okay.”
“Don’t—Please don’t ‘okay’ me that way.”
“What way?”
“Like that. Like you’re—” He lifted his free hand up from the hold on his crutch and gestured vaguely in your direction. “Like you’ve decided what I’m gonna say.”
“Have you?”
“What?”
“Decided.”
He looked at you for the first time since he’d come home. His eyes were on your face as opposed to something past it, and you almost flinched, because you'd forgotten what it felt like to be seen by him and the remembering hurt worse than the forgetting had. His eyes were red. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, even though he'd slept yesterday, you'd watched him sleep yesterday, you'd brought the blackout curtain closed all the way like you always did and you'd put a glass of water on his nightstand like you always did and he'd slept for six hours and woken up and gone to work and now he was standing in your kitchen looking like he hadn't slept in a year.
“Don’t,” he said, voice quiet. “Don’t push this on me right now. Not right this second.”
“When, then? Tomorrow? Next week? March?” Your voice was very even, you were almost impressed by it. “Just tell me when, Jack. I’ll write it down. I’ll wait.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head as he turned away. He was going to walk out. He was going to walk into the bedroom and close the door and you were going to sit at this table for another hour and then go to work and come home and find him gone again and the whole thing would go on, the whole thing would keep going, the slow leak, the quiet drawer, the small white triangle on the rim of the mug.
“I just—” he started, stopping at the threshold of the bedroom. He had his back to you. “I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”
You did not move an inch. You did not move and you did not move and you did not move. You sat at the table with your hands around your mug, watching the back of his head, for he had said it without facing you. He’d hadn’t been brave enough to say it to your face, even though that was the truest sentence he’d said in a month, he’d said it to a doorframe.
You set your mug down on the table.
The sound it made was very small. A soft tock. You'd set it down a thousand times before. You'd set it down this morning. The mug didn't know anything had changed. The mug was a mug. You looked at it. You looked at the small ring of moisture it had left on the wood. You looked at your hands on either side of it, palms-up, empty.
“Okay,” you said.
You went to work that day. You weren’t sure what happened, what you wore, who you talked to, whether you ate lunch, and you won’t be able to. The day will be a white space in your head. A fugue state boiled down to its lowest, least harmful level. Your body had gone to work and answered emails and sat in a meeting and microwaved something for lunch and your mind had been at the kitchen table in your apartment, hands around a mug, listening to Jack’s words like a bruise that keeps being a bruise even after you stop pressing it.
You'd sat in the parking lot of your building for eleven minutes before you'd made yourself get out of the car. You'd looked up at your window—third floor, second from the left, the one with the plant on the sill that you'd bought him for his birthday last year, a stupid little succulent he'd named Gerald for reasons he'd never adequately explained—and you'd seen that the blackout curtain was still closed, which meant he was still asleep. You had maybe forty minutes before he got up for his shift, and you'd thought about driving away. You'd actually thought about it. You'd thought about driving to your sister's, two hours north, and walking into her kitchen and sitting down at her table and letting her ask you what was wrong. You'd thought about it long enough that your hands had moved to the gear shift. And then you hadn't done it, because some part of you was still hoping, standing at the kitchen counter at six-forty-seven in the morning holding two mugs of coffee. Some part of you was going to keep standing there until he told you, in plain words, to stop.
His mug from the morning was still on the counter. The coffee in it had a film on top now, a dull skin you could break with the tip of your finger.
You sat on the couch in the living room and he got up at six-fifteen. You heard the alarm first—the soft one he'd set when you started staying over because the regular one had made you flinch—and then the rustle of the sheets and the soft thud of his feet on the floor and the particular small sound he made every morning when he stood up, a half-grunt, the huh of a man whose body had been disagreeing with him for years and who'd made peace with it. You'd loved that sound. You'd loved being the only person who knew it.
He came out.
He was dressed for work — black t-shirt, scrubs slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from the shower he must have just taken, the second one in twelve hours — and he stopped when he saw you on the couch.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You’re home.”
“Yeah.”
He stood there for a second like he was going to say something. You watched him consider it, as though there were random english words bouncing in his mind he was trying to piece together to get what he wanted. You didn’t know what. Or you did know what. You weren’t sure.
“You want me to turn on the light?” he asked.
“It’s okay.”
“Okay.”
He went into the kitchen. You heard him open the fridge. You heard him close it without taking anything out. You heard him fill a glass of water at the sink and drink it and set the glass down on the counter—on the counter, where you'd find it later and wash it and put it away—and then he came back into the living room and he stood in the doorway and he looked at you.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said.
You looked at him, trying to force your lips to not turn downwards from the corner. “Are you?”
Your question came out sharper than you wanted it to. The edge had been put on it by the part of you that had been awake for more than a day and had realized, in its wake, that Jack had unlearned how to meet your eyes.
A muscle moved in his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m sorry—yeah.”
“What are you sorry for, Jack?” Your voice still had that even thing in it, that surprising calm thing, like someone else was operating you from inside. “What part are you sorry for?”
“I don’t—” he said, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
You shrugged stiffly. “What you’re sorry for.”
“I’m sorry I was short with you. I was tired. I shouldn’t have—”
“You told me you didn’t know how to do this anymore.”
He closed his eyes, and you could see the way his face twisted at the action. “That’s not what I meant. I can’t think straight when I haven’t slept and you’re—”
You cleared your throat. “Did you mean it?”
He didn't answer for long enough that you understood he was going to lie about it, and he understood that you understood, and you both sat in that mutual understanding for a second, in the gray light, in the quiet apartment, and you watched him choose.
“I meant I was tired.”
It was the worst possible answer. It was the answer of a man who knew that yes would end the conversation and no would be a lie he couldn't make himself tell, and so he'd found a third door and walked through it, and you stood on the other side of the door and you looked at it and you thought, oh.
Oh. He’s a coward.
This was not a thought you had ever had about him. You had thought he was a lot of things. You had thought he was guarded and tired and weighed down and difficult; you had thought he was kind, in a private way, in a way most people didn't get to see; you had thought he was the smartest person in most rooms and you had thought he knew it and didn't care; you had thought, sometimes, when he was sleeping with his hand on your stomach, that he was the love of your life. You had never thought he was a coward. You had never thought he was the kind of man who would refuse to answer a yes-or-no question from a woman who had loved him because answering would cost him something he wasn't willing to pay.
You were thinking it and you were watching your face not show it and you were watching him relax, fractionally, because he thought he'd gotten away with it, because you hadn't pushed and he thought the conversation was ending in the same manner the conversations had been ending for months now, with both of you agreeing not to look directly at the thing in the middle of the room. And some terrible new part of you—a part that had been born this morning at the kitchen table, a part you didn't recognize and weren't sure you liked—wanted to let him think it. You wanted to let him walk out the door thinking he'd managed it. You wanted to give him this one last small dishonest peace before you took everything else away.
“Okay.”
He looked mildly surprised, but he hardly showed it. “Are you okay? Are we good?”
“Yeah, Jack.”
He looked at you for a long second and you held his gaze, and his face flickered—a part of him that knew that your yes was one with a stone in it—and he chose, once again, to not ask. He chose, again, to be tired.
“Okay,” he said. “I gotta go. I’m gonna be late.” Then, he added, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
You nodded.
He started coming towards the couch. You hadn’t expected that. You'd been bracing for him to just leave, to grab his bag and go, and instead he came over to the couch and he stood in front of you and he leaned down and he kissed the top of your head—like he was your father, like he was your friend, like he was anyone but the man who used to kiss you on the mouth at any opportunity he received—nd his hand brushed the back of your neck, briefly, and he smelled like soap and like him and like the faint trace of the antiseptic that never really came off him.
He said into your hair, quietly, “Get some rest, baby.”
He hadn’t called you that in seven weeks. You had not meant to keep count. You had become aware, somewhere around the fifth week, that you were keeping count in the back of your head, the small ruthless math of being unloved by someone who used to love you. You were certain he was saying goodbye.
He didn't know he was saying it. He thought he was being kind. He thought he was patching it. He thought he was leaving for his shift and he'd come home in the morning and the two of you would keep doing what you'd been doing, the slow leak and the quiet drawer.
He had no idea, but your body knew. Your body had known since the kitchen this morning. Your body had been ahead of you all day. Your body was, even now, in the small private dark of itself, already at the door, already in the car, already three exits down the freeway with one suitcase and the mug from your sister already gone, already gone, already gone.
“You too, Jack.”
He pulled back and looked at you. You saw the whole man, you saw the version of him that loved you and the version of him that didn't know how to and the version of him that was about to lose you and didn't know it yet, all of him stacked up in one face for one stupid second in the gray February light of your living room, and you almost said it.
Don’t go. I’m going to leave you. I’m going to leave you tonight, while you’re at work. I’m going to be gone when you come home. This is our last chance. Look at me. Tell me to stay.
You let him go.
He picked up his bag from the chair by the door. He picked up his keys from the bowl. He paused, very briefly, with his hand on the doorknob—you knew you would lie awake and replay that pause and try to decide if it had meant anything, if he had almost turned around, if he had felt the thing you were feeling and chosen against it the way he chose against everything now— and then he opened the door and he went out and he closed it behind him.
It came up through your stomach. It came up through your chest. It came out of your eyes without your permission and without any of the sounds you'd been expecting, like a quiet steady leaking, the way a faucet leaked, the way a roof leaked, a small humiliating involuntary grief of a body that had been holding still for fourteen hours and couldn't hold still anymore. You sat on the couch and you cried and you didn't wipe your face, because there was no one to see, because the apartment was empty
Because the man who used to put his thumb under your eye and say ‘Hey. Hey. Come here’ was on the freeway going to the hospital and he was never going to do that again.
When you stood up. Your legs were stiff. You went to the bathroom and you washed your face with cold water and you looked at yourself in the mirror —your eyes were red, your mouth was doing a thing—and you decided to go to the closet.
You grabbed the suitcase and set it on the bed. It still had the tag from the August trip on the handle. Some hotel in Vermont. You'd gone for a long weekend. He'd held your hand on the walk to dinner the first night and you'd thought this was it, the thing you wanted for the rest of your life.
The tag had your handwriting on it, with his name and the hotel address as the contact—you'd filled it out for him at the airport because he'd been on the phone with the hospital—and you stood looking at the tag with your own handwriting saying JACK ABBOTT in your slightly-too-loopy capitals.
You took the tag off the handle. You set it on the dresser. You did not throw it away. You weren't ready to throw things away yet. You were ready to take things out of the closet and put them in a suitcase. You'd worry about throwing things away later.
The kid wouldn’t stop crying. Jack didn’t blame the kid. The kid was four and he had a piece of LEGO lodged so far up his left nostril that it was going to need a procedure room, and the mother was crying when she came in, and he knew she’d have to explain to everyone later it was only ninety seconds on the phone. Jack put his hand on her shoulder to stop her from crying, and she didn’t. So, for about thirty minutes, the kid and his mother were like a background noise that nobody had asked for.
He was washing his hands now. He'd gotten the LEGO out—it had been a small red one, a 1x2, and he’d held it up in the forceps so the kid could see, and joked that he’d grown a LEGO, and the kid had laughed once through the snot and then started crying again, and Jack had handed the LEGO to the mother in a specimen cup and told her she could keep it as a souvenir, which had been a joke, which she had taken seriously, and she had thanked him three times on the way out. He was thinking about whether he could get away with eating the second half of his sandwich before the next chart hit.
It was 10:47. The board was light for a Tuesday, which meant the q-word wasn't allowed out loud, which meant he was thinking it in his head, which counted, which meant somewhere in the city right now someone was about to do something dumb with a ladder. He'd been doing this long enough to know better. He kept thinking about it anyway. The board was light. He was going to eat his sandwich.
“You owe me twenty bucks.”
Dana, who’d decided this was her twice-in-a-blue-moon night shift, behind him.
“For what?”
“LEGO. I had a LEGO.”
“You bet on a LEGO? In a four-year-old’s nose?”
“Mateo had a marble. Shen took penny. Ellis took battery.”
He dried his hands. He turned around.
“Eat the sandwich,” Dana said.
“Mhm.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m gonna eat it, Dana.”
He went to the break room. The sandwich was where he'd left it on top of his locker—turkey on rye, the rye going a little stale at the edges, made by him—and he took it back out to the desk and ate it standing up.
He got two bites in before Ellis called from the desk, “Abbott.”
“Hm?”
“Pittsburgh General called. They’ve got a transfer they want to send us.”
“Why?”
“They’re full.”
“Liars.”
“They say they’re full.”
“Tell ‘em to go cry about it.”
“I told them you said that.”
“Really,” Jack drawled.
“I told them we had capacity. Female, early-thirties, came in two hours ago with shortness of breath, chest pain, hemoptysis. Clots in her lungs. Both sides. PE. She passed out in triage. They had to put a tube in to help her breathe and they started her on blood thinners but she's getting worse, not better. They want her transferred.”
Jack chewed. “How bad?”
“They’re scared her heart can’t keep up. They don't know if they need to push the clot-busters or just keep her supported and pray. They want a second set of eyes before they pull the trigger, and we’ve got the beds.”
He swallowed. “Fine. ETA?”
“Twenty minutes. They’re loading her now.”
“Bay?”
“Two.”
“Tell Mateo to set up. I want the ultrasound at the bedside before she rolls in, not after.”
“Already did.”
“You’re showing off.”
“I’m always showing off, Doctor.”
He took another bite of his sandwich. He set the sandwich down. He knew the sandwich would go unfinished. He knew it moment Ellis had opened her mouth, which was a thing he should have learned by now and somehow kept not learning. He looked at it for a second. He picked it up. He took one more bite for the road. He chewed it on the way to bay 2.
Bay 2 was ready. Mateo had the ultrasound at the head of the bed and a tray of intubation supplies on the side table and a runner had hung two bags of saline on the IV pole and the monitor was on, blank and waiting, and the overhead was at the low setting, which Jack liked, which he had asked for once two years ago and which had become a thing that just happened now when he was running the bay, the kind of small institutional accommodation a department made for an attending it had decided to keep.
“You good?” he said to Mateo.
“Always.”
Jack pulled a gown off the rack and shrugged it on over his scrubs. He pulled gloves out of the box on the wall and he stood at the head of the bed and he waited.
He liked the waiting.
This was something he had figured out about himself a long time ago, in a different uniform, in a different country. He liked the minute before. The minute when you knew something was coming and didn't yet know what it was going to ask of you. Other people hated that minute. Other people filled it with chatter or with checking their phones or with the small fidgeting of a body that didn't know what to do with itself. He liked it. He stood very still and he let his hands hang at his sides and he ran the algorithm in his head—bilateral PEs, borderline pressures, tachy to the one-thirties, possible RV strain—and he felt the small clean focus of his brain narrowing down to the work, and underneath the focus, almost imperceptible, the thing he wasn't going to look at directly, the small persistent low-grade hum that lived in his chest now and that he had stopped trying to name.
“Two minutes out,” Ellis called from the desk.
“Copy.”
He pulled his mask up over his nose. He flexed his fingers in the gloves. He looked at the empty gurney space at the foot of the bed and he waited.
The doors banged open at 11:04.
EMS came through first, two of them. The gurney they were pushing had a person on it and the person had a tube coming out of her mouth and her chest was rising in the small mechanical way of a chest being ventilated by someone else, and Jack stepped forward to the head of the bed and he said, ‘gimme the report,’ and the medic at the head said, “Thirty-three-year-old female, history per General is unremarkable, presented to them at twenty-one hundred with two hours of progressive shortness of breath, syncopal episode in triage—”
Jack was examining her chart. He usually took the chart in one hand and he scanned the top line for the name, DOB, the allergies, and that was his muscle memory. His hands started it before his eyes did. His eyes did it before his brain did. His eyes landed on the name on the top of the chart and his brain—
His brain stopped.
His brain stopped like a needle lifted off mid-song. The whole bay went very quiet, which it wasn’t, for it was full of sound—monitors pinging, the medics still talking, Mateo on the other side of the bed saying something—but inside Jack’s head, it was very, very quiet. It was a sort of quiet he hadn’t heard in a long time; it came before bad things, as a result of the absence of his own thoughts.
He looked at the name on the chart. He looked at it for what he would later think was a long time and was actually about a second and a half.
He looked up, and he looked at the face. The ace had a tube taped to the corner of your mouth. Your hair was—someone had pulled it back at General and tied it off with those rubber things they kept in the jar at every ER—
Your face. Your face was your face.
Your face was the face he had—your face was the face that had—your face.
Your face was older.
That was the first thing his brain managed to think after it had finished stopping. Your face was older by two and a half years. There were small things that were different. There was a barely-there line between your eyebrows that had not been there. There was a small softness around your mouth he was trying to name, but failing. Your hair was a slightly different color by a few shades. Maybe you’d stopped getting the highlights you used to. Maybe you’d started getting something different. Jack was clueless what you’d started to do differently, but he knew that you had.
Two and a half years had happened to your face without him, and his brain started taking a clinical inventory of the years he had not been allowed to see. His brain—for the first time in much too long—understood that time had been real. He’d understood time had happened, and you’d been alive for it. That you’d aged, and he’d not been there.
His eyes went down to your throat. He’d made an involuntary decision to look. There was a thin gold chain resting there he didn’t recognize. It was small and the kind of chain you’d buy for yourself or have given it to you from someone else. This chain, Jack realized, had been on your neck for an unknown amount of time, in some unknown place, during unknown evenings he couldn’t be a part of.
His eyes went down further. To your hand on the sheet. To your right thumb. The cuticle was bitten. The cuticle was bitten down to the bed of the nail, the way you used to bite it when you were anxious about something, the way you bit it the night before a big work meeting or the morning of a doctor's appointment or the time you were waiting to hear back from the bone scan on your aunt. The cuticle had been bitten recently. You had been anxious recently. He did not know what about. He did not get to know what about.
“Dr. Abbott?” Mateo called from across the bed, and it sounded like his voice came through a long tunnel. “Dr. Abbot, everything good?”
His hands were on the chart. His hands were still on the chart, and his eyes were on your face, and his mouth was not doing anything. His mouth was a part of his body he had forgotten about. He could feel his pulse in his neck. He could feel his pulse in his hands. He could feel the small mean drop of his stomach that he hadn't felt in two and a half years and that he recognized immediately, the way you recognized a smell from a place you used to live.
“Get me Dana,” he said to Mateo. His voice was the voice he used in the ER. His voice was a small miracle. He didn't know how his voice was doing that.
“Doctor—”
“Now. Please.”
Mateo scrambled off. Jack looked back down at you.
You were—the color was bad. He could see that without looking at the monitor. Your face was the wrong color, it was the exact one of someone whose heart was not pushing blood the way it was supposed to, and your chest was rising in the wrong way, because it was one that was being made to breathe. There was a small patch of dried blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on its way in, and your eyelashes—Jesus fucking Christ.
Your eyelashes. He had not—there had not been a single day in the last two and a half years when he had not thought about your eyelashes, not specifically, not the small fact of their existence, the fact that they sat on your cheeks when your eyelids were closed, the small fringe of them, the small fringe of them that he had—that he used to—
He stepped back from the gurney, his prosthetic causing him to stumble back slightly. He didn’t mean to, his body had done it. His body had taken one step away from you and his body was, right now, his body was making a series of very small decisions about him without consulting him, his body was the only thing in the room with any sense, his body was controlling him because his brain was haywire.
“Jack,” Dana said firmly at his elbow.
He couldn’t look at her.
“Jack. Look at me.”
He looked at Dana.
Dana had her hand on his elbow. Dana was looking at his face. And Dana. Dana was a woman who had known him for a long time and who was looking at his face and Dana's own face did a thing, did a small terrible quick thing, and then it didn't do the thing anymore, and her hand was on his elbow and her voice was very low and very even and she was saying, “Step out.”
“No.”
“Jack.”
“No, Dana.”
“You can’t—”
“I know. I know what I can’t. Get Ellis. Ellis runs it. I want eyes on. I am not leaving.”
“Jack.”
“I am not leaving, Dana.”
She looked at him for a second that felt like a year, the small assessing look of a woman who had run more codes than most cardiologists and who was, right now, doing math, fast math, the kind of math that took into account him and her and the patient on the gurney and the resident across the bed and the medical board of Pennsylvania and whatever the fuck else lived in Dana’s marvelous head, and then she nodded.
“Stand at the head. Do not touch her. Tell Ellis everything you know.”
“I don’t—don’t anymore—”
“You know her, Jack. That’s what you know. Tell Ellis what you know about her medically. Allergies. Meds. History. Anything you have. Then you stand at the head and you keep your hands behind your back.”
He nodded, because words were foreign to him right now. So, he nodded.
Dana squeezed his elbow once and let go and turned for Ellis, and Ellis came at a jog from the desk. Jack moved up to the head of the bed and he stood there and he put his hands behind his back like Dana had said and he looked down at her face and he thought about the kitchen.
He thought about the kitchen for one second, the kitchen at six-fifty-three in the morning, the cold coffee on the counter and the key beside it and the small tag on the suitcase handle in the closet that he hadn't found until two days later when he was looking for something else, the small tag with her handwriting on it and his name on it.
He thought don’t. Not now. Don’t.
He looked at your face.
He cleared his throat quickly and said, “No allergies. NKDA. She—sulfa makes her stomach hurt but it’s not a real allergy; she’ll say it is because it’s easier. But write down sulfa. She—she was on a dose of OCP a couple years ago, but I don’t know if she still is. I don’t know what she’s on now. I don’t—”
His voice cracked, a little glitch it had not done in a long time. He cleared his throat again.
“She gets migraines, maybe twice a year, with aura. She used to take excedrin for them. I don’t know what she takes now. I don’t know what she takes. No surgeries. Tonsils when she was eleven. That’s it. Non-smoker, was. Is. Drinks socially.”
Ellis nodded. “Got it.”
“She’s—there’s family history. Her mom had a—fuck, she had a—a clotting thing. After her second pregnancy. She was on heparin for a while. Her sister got tested; she got tested. They were both negative. But it’s in the chart somewhere. It should be in the chart.”
“Okay.”
“It is in the chart, Parker. I’m telling you.”
“I believe you, Jack. We’ll look.”
“There’s—she’s got a thing. She said she doesn’t like the idea of being intubated in front of strangers. She’s scared of it. She told me she didn’t want it. If she can hear us, if there’s any way, I know she can’t, but if she can, somebody should tell her she’s safe.”
Ellis looked at him for a moment. “I’ll tell her.”
He nodded and made himself stop. He could feel the next thing he was going to say lining up behind his teeth and he made himself not say it.
‘She sleeps on her left side. She can’t sleep on her back, it gives her bad dreams. If you have to put her flat for any reason, she’s going to wake up panicking. Just—be ready for it.’ He could feel the small careful instruction-manual of you that he had been keeping in his head for two and a half years, the small useful nothings. ‘She likes the room cold when she sleeps and she gets cold hands when she’s scared. She wants water but never says yes to it, so just put it next to her. She always wants water.’
He understood, standing at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back, that none of this was medical. None of that was his to give. None of it belonged in Ellis’s notes about you. Ellis was looking at him for something useful, and the only thing he could think of was that you like the room cold. He could not say it, though what he would not give to be able to spill his guts about you, talk about you to anyone who listened until the sun came up and his throat was raw.
“She’s healthy,” he said. “She—from last time I—she’s healthy.”
“Thanks, Jack,” Ellis nodded again gently and looked at him.
She looked at him with a face he was going to think about later, as she understood in real time, and Ellis, to her enormous credit, the credit of a doctor he was going to think about with gratitude for the rest of his life, did not say anything about it. Ellis took the report from the medic and started moving.
“Okay, let’s get a repeat set of vitals,” she said, turning back to your bed. “Bedside echo, second large-bore IV if she doesn't have one, and someone get me the chart from General, the actual chart, not the summary. Mateo, walk me through the heparin dose.”
Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he looked down at your face and he did not touch you and he watched your chest rise on the ventilator and he watched the small dried patch of blood at the corner of her mouth and he watched your eyelashes on her cheek and he thought, please.
He stood at the head of your bed with his hands behind his back like a man at a funeral and he thought please, baby and he watched the ventilator breathe for you, and somewhere out at the desk a phone was ringing, and somewhere down the hall a kid with no LEGO in his nose was being discharged with a sticker, and the clock on the wall said 11:07, and Jack Abbott did not move and did not move and did not move.
He thought about how Ellis was good. He’d always known it. He had a file in his head about her, and it was filled it words like competent, fast, doesn’t panic, asks the right questions, and that file was being updated in real time tonight now. Because Ellis, right now, in this bay, with this patient, being the doctor Jack would have wanted in this room for someone he loved if he had been able to choose, which he had not been and could not be, and the choice was Ellis. And Ellis was good, and Jack stood at the head of the bed with his hands behind his back and he watched Collins work and he tried not to be grateful in a way that would make his face do anything.
Mateo gave the probe to Ellis. She took it. She gelled it. She tucked the sheet down off your chest in the small careful way she would for any patient and Jack looked at the ceiling for a half-second because he could not look at your chest under fluorescent light with a stranger's hand moving across it, even Ellis’s hand, even the hand of a doctor he trusted. He looked at the ceiling. The ceiling tile above bay 2 had a small water stain in the shape of nothing, really. The shape of a stain. He had stood under this water stain before. He had stood under it last month and the month before and probably a hundred times. He had never seen it before in his life.
He had the algorithm in his head. He could feel it running. He could feel the part of him that was a doctor doing the thing it did, the small clean calculation of everything to do medically. And underneath, he could feel the other part of him. He could feel the man who had once watched you sleep next to him for six-hundred-and-forty-three nights, and that part was making a sound he could not hear out loud, a small high frantic sound, the sound of a thing being held under water.
“What do you want to do?” Ellis asked.
He realized she knew what to do. Ellis knew exactly what to do. She was asking him because he was the senior attending and because asking him kept him in the room, kept his hands attached to a function, kept him from being a man standing at the head of a gurney watching the love of his life turn the wrong color under fluorescent light. She was throwing him a rope. She was throwing it casually, the way you would throw a rope to someone who didn't yet know they were drowning, and Jack looked at Collins and Collins looked back at him and Collins did not blink and Jack thought, Parker Ellis. Parker Ellis, you good and decent woman. I am going to remember this.
“Half-dose.”
“You sure?”
“She’s young. Full dose risks the bleed. We watch.”
“Agree.”
“Get the Radiology in case.”
“Already paged.”
“You’re showing off again, Ellis.”
“You’re slow tonight, Doctor Abott.”
They looked at each other, and the exchange was the closest thing to mercy he was going to get for a while, and they both understood it, and they both let it pass without naming it, and Ellis turned back to your bed and started working and Jack stayed where he was, at the head, with his hands behind his back, and he watched.
This was a thing he had observed about himself in difficult moments before, mostly in a different uniform in a different country; his perception narrowed in stages. First, the room got smaller; the room got quieter; the room developed a kind of underwater quality, where sound came to him on a small delay, where people's mouths moved a half-second before the words got to him. His own pulse was the loudest thing he could hear. He was at the underwater stage now. He had not been at the underwater stage in a long time. He had forgotten how it was almost peaceful, almost, the small mean peace of a brain that had decided it could not handle the regular speed of things and had slowed everything down.
Your hand was on the gurney with the palm turned up. Someone — the medic, probably, at General, hours ago — had put a pulse ox on your index finger and the small red light of it was glowing through the pad of your finger, and your hand was slack and pale on the white sheet and your fingers were curled in the soft way of a hand whose owner was not currently making decisions about it, and Jack looked at your hand and he thought to make himself stop thinking.
He could feel his thoughts coming behind him like waves, and he tried to brace and he tried to think don't hard enough that the memory would go around him instead of through him, and it didn't work, it never worked, he had been trying not to think about specific memories of you for two and a half years and he had not once succeeded in not thinking about a memory once it had decided to arrive, and the memory arrived like a crash.
It was a Sunday morning a long time ago, in his apartment, in the bed that had been his apartment's bed before it had been your apartment's bed before it had been his apartment's bed again, and you had been asleep on your side facing him and he had been lying on his side facing you, awake, watching you, in the way he sometimes did and never told you about, and your hand had been on the pillow between your faces with the palm turned up, the way it was turned up now, the small slack curl of your fingers, and he had reached out very slowly so he didn't wake you and he had pressed his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and he had felt it, the small steady beat of you, and he had thought ‘thank you.’
He had thought it as a sentence with no addressee. He had thought it the way men in foxholes thought it. He had thought thank you, and you had not woken up, and he had taken his thumb off your wrist after a while and you had slept on, and he had lain there for another hour watching you sleep, and that had been a Sunday in — he didn't know. He didn't know what Sunday it had been. He had a lot of Sundays like that one filed away and he had stopped, at some point, trying to keep them in order.
He was at the head of your bed and he wasn’t allowed to touch you.
Your hand was on the sheet with the palm turned up and the small red light of the pulse ox was glowing through the pad of your index finger and your pulse was being read by a machine instead of by him and Jack stood at the head of the bed and he did not move and he did not move and he did not move.
When the tPA went in, Jack knew it went in and it went around and it found the clot and it started to break it up, and you started to get better the way ice melted, slowly, in increments you couldn't see while you were watching, only in the aggregate, only when you looked away and looked back.
So the next twenty minutes were a vigil. The next twenty minutes were Jack and Ellis and Mateo and other people standing around your bed and watching the monitor and watching your chest and watching your color, and the monitor pinged in its small mechanical way and your blood pressure stayed at eighty-six and your heart rate stayed at one-forty and Jack stood at the head of the bed and breathed through his nose and counted, in his head, very quietly, because he had nothing else to do with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.
He counted to a hundred.
He counted to a hundred again.
He was on four hundred when his blood pressure went up by four points.
Jack looked at the monitor; he watched your blood pressure. He watched your blood pressure sit at ninety for a few seconds and then go to ninety-two. He watched your heart rate come down from one-thirty-five to one-thirty-two. He watched the numbers and he did not let himself feel anything about the numbers and he stood at the head of the bed and the small slow tide of the room came back up around his ankles and, even though he didn’t, felt like he had one, healthy breath he could take instead of the shallow ones he’d been taking.
He thought, okay. He thought it the way you’d said it that morning. He thought it in your voice, he heard it in your voice, and he stood at the head of the bed and kept repeating the word and he watched the numbers and they kept on being good.
Ellis exhaled. Jack hadn’t even realized Ellis had been holding her breath, and the only reason he noticed it was because she let it out. Ellis shook her head once, very small, and said, “Okay. We’re getting somewhere.” Then, she looked at Jack and said, “Abbott, sit down.”
“I’m fine,” Jack said, not missing a beat.
“You’re gray, Abbott.”
Jack stayed silent because, frankly, he had no idea what color his face was. He had no information about his face—he didn’t care about his face—because it was somewhere far above him being operated by remote. But Ellis was looking at him with a look he’d never seen on her, at least directed on him, and Jack thought he really must’ve looked bad.
“Five minutes,” Ellis said. “Go sit down. Drink some water. I won’t leave her. I’ll call you if anything moves.”
“Please—”
“Five minutes.”
Jack looked at Ellis, then he looked at you. He was not going to win this one and that the smartest thing he could do was to take the five minutes she was offering and come back functional.
He walked through the bay doors and past the desk and past Dana, who did not look up from the phone, who knew not to look up, who was a woman of great and terrible mercies, and he walked down the hall to the supply closet on the left, and he opened the supply closet and he went in and he closed the door behind him and he stood in the dark for a second and then he turned the light on and he leaned against the metal shelving with the gauze and the saline and the small disposable speculums on it and he put his hands over his face.
Jack hadn’t cried in a long, long time. He wasn’t sure if he still could. The mechanism was there, somewhere, but he had not, since the morning he had come back home and seen your key on the counter and the cold, day-old coffee mug beside it, made it work. He’d come close. He had come close a number of times. He’d stood at his own kitchen counter for too long, his weight foot had gotten sore because of how much pressure he was putting on it, and the tears had not come. The only thing that accompanied him was this tug at his chest that started dull, then grew into this feeling of thousands of tiny knives stabbing into his ribcage.
He stood with his hands over his face and his back against the shelving and he breathed for a count of four in and a count of six out, which was a thing he had been taught a long time ago by a therapist with a kind face whose name he could not currently remember. He breathed and breathed, but all his brain could conjure up was the trip the two of you never made it on.
The cabin, the one you were supposed to be going to in June, only months after you left. You’d booked it in October, and you’d been excited about it. Jack had been so, so excited about it. You had a running list of things you wanted to do—a hike, a swim in a strange place, a restaurant with things neither of you had heard of—and you’d emailed him the list with the subject line, “june???” and he’d emailed back, “yes ma’am,” and that was that.
He’d gone to the cabin alone four months after you’d left. He’d taken the time off he’d already booked, gotten in his car, and drove four hours to the cabin. He’d checked in under his own name and the receptionist asked if there had been a change to the reservation, because there were two names on it. He knew it was downright silly to have expected you there; he hadn’t run into you in Pittsburgh, so there was no possibility you would have shown up here. He said no, the other person couldn’t make it. The woman at the front desk had nodded politely and given him the keys.
He’d done none of the things on your list. He had sat on the dock and looked at the lake and thought about you. He’d thought about whether you knew the dates of the trip you’d planned. Were you also thinking about the dates? He had thought about whether you were thinking about him thinking about you. He had eaten badly. He had slept badly.
On the third day, he had walked into the woods behind the cabin and he had sat down on a fallen log and he had stayed on it for an hour as his chest felt like it was caving in. The light had changed while he was on the log. The light had gone from the late afternoon kind to the early evening kind, and at some point he had registered that the light had changed, and he had gotten up off the log and walked back to the cabin, and he had checked out the next day a day early. He had driven home. He had not told anyone he had gone.
He took his hands off his face.
He looked at the ceiling of the supply closet. He turned the light off. He opened the door. He walked back down the hall. He walked past the desk. Dana, again, did not look up. He went back into bay 2.
Ellis looked at him and nodded, which he returned.
Your blood pressure was ninety-six over sixty. Your heart rate was one-twenty-eight. Your color, under the fluorescents, was — your color was a fraction less wrong than it had been five minutes ago. The ventilator was breathing for you in the same small mechanical way. Ellis started charting at the foot of the bed. The new nurse was checking the IV.
Jack went back to the head of the bed and put his hands behind his back.
He didn't know how long he stood there because he had stopped looking at the clock — there was a clock above the door of bay 2 and he had stopped letting his eyes go to it, because every time he looked at it less time had passed than he thought, every time he looked at it the small mean math of the clock told him that the universe was running slow tonight on purpose, and he had decided at some point that he was not going to look at the clock anymore.
“Jack?” Dana’s voice called.
“Mm?”
“Her sister’s here.”
He stood at the head of the bed and he looked at you and he held very still and he thought about something. He thought about the suitcase tag. He thought about your hand on the pillow on a Sunday morning a long time ago.
He thought about the small dried patch of blood at the corner of your mouth where the tube must have nicked you on the way in and which someone, at some point, was going to have to wipe off, and he thought, very clearly, with the small clean clarity of a man in a supply closet, that he wanted to be the one who wiped it off.
He wasn’t allowed.
“You don’t have to, Jack,” Dana said when he didn’t respond.
“I’m going, it’s okay.”
Dana looked at him for a long second with the look she had, the look he had earned over years, the look that said that while she is, in fact, his nurse, she could be his friend or his mother or his nurse, if he needed her to be any of those for the next ten minutes. He looked back at her and he didn't say anything. She nodded, once, and she stepped aside.
He walked out of bay 2.
He could see your sister, standing at the desk, in a coat that was too thin for the weather, with her purse on her shoulder and her phone in her hand and her hair pulled back from her face, which he had only ever seen her do twice, the first time when your father had been in the hospital four years ago and the second time when she had come to yours and Jack’s apartment for Thanksgiving and burned the rolls and cried about it in the kitchen and let him hand her a glass of wine.
She had a wedding band on, which she had not the last time he’d seen her. The ring was a thin gold band. She had a small gold charm on a chain around her neck.
He knew her face. He knew the way she held her phone.
He knew, even from down the hall, that she had been crying in the car on the way over and had stopped before she came in, because that was the kind of thing your sister did, that was a specific habit she had, and he had liked her very much, once, and she had liked him very much, once. It was a kind of likeness that came from knowing the other person loved their mutual person right.
The last thing she had ever said to him out loud had been “She's okay. I just wanted you to know she's okay,” on a phone call four months after you’d left, and she had hung up before he could say anything back. She was the closest he could get to you without getting to you, because the one time he’d tried calling you, it rang five times before he, in the most honest words he could put it, chickened out.
When she turned and saw him, there was the flash of recognition. Then, he could practically hear her think ‘of course it’s you, of course it had to be you.’ Then her face did the thing he had been bracing for, the polite hard face of a woman who had not forgiven him and was not going to and was, right now, going to have to talk to him anyway because her sister was on a ventilator. She stood at the desk with her phone in her hand and she watched him walk toward her.
He put them in the pockets of his scrubs. He took them out. He put them behind his back. He took them out again. He let them hang at his sides.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked at him and seemed like she wanted to frown. “Hi, Jack.”
Jack had been bracing for cruelty. It was then he realized she was choosing to be kind to him. Why, he wasn’t sure. But the only conclusion he could come to was that she wouldn’t punish him for what he’d done, and instead let the world do it. The world was doing a fine job.
“She’s stable.” He cleared his throat because it sounded too heavy again. “She’s gonna—she’s gonna be okay. We're moving her to ICU in a little while. She's gonna be okay.”
She looked at him and Jack watched her eyes fill up. Your sister was, like you, a person who did not cry in front of people if she could help it. He stood there and watched her not cry, and he understood, with the clarity of a man who loved you and could not stop doing so, that she didn’t cry in front of people because you didn’t cry in front of people. Because the two of you had learned it from the same kitchen, the same mother, the same childhood with the same set of rules about what was and was not allowed to be done in a room with witnesses.
She let her eyes fill up and she looked at the ceiling for a second and she breathed through her nose and she looked back at him and she said, very quietly, “Okay. Okay. Thank you.”
“I didn’t—Doctor Ellis ran most—”
“Thank you, Jack.”
He gave her one jerky nod. Then, he looked at the floor and nodded again and he stood there.
“Can I—” he started, then stopped himself because he wasn’t sure what he was asking.
Your sister hummed, slightly urging him to continue.
“Can I see her? Once she’s in the ICU. Can I—I don’t have to go in. I just, I would really like to. Once, if that’s okay.”
This woman had stood in your kitchen one Sunday afternoon a long time ago and watched him put his hand on the back of your neck while you laughed at something the neighbor’s dog had done and who had thought, in that moment, that, yes, Jack is the one for her sister. This woman had also, four months later, sat with you on the phone while you cried in a parking lot in a different city. The look she gave him contained both of those things. It was a look that contained more than Jack could parse, and he stood in the hallway of his ER and he looked at your sister and he waited.
“I don’t know, Jack,” she said.
He nodded, and it was more unstable than before.
“I don’t know if she’d want that.”
“I know,” Jack said, and this time, there was no denying the shakiness accompanying his voice. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” Jack was nodding along to whatever she said now, because this, this, he’d have to make peace with. “I’ll see how she feels, and maybe I can bring it up—?”
He nodded and he could not say anything and he stepped back from the desk. Before he could turn around, another question slipped from his mouth, “Was—is she okay? In the last while, was she taking care of herself? Happy? Sleeping?”
He was making a mess of it. He could feel his face doing the thing it did when he was making a mess of it.
“She’s been okay, Jack.”
He nodded and nodded and nodded.
Your sister picked up her purse from where it had slid down her arm and she adjusted her coat and she looked at him one more time and she said, “It’s nice to see you, Jack.”
She said it like a small kindness she was giving him because she had decided, in these past few minutes, that she was going to give him this one thing. Like giving a stranger directions to a place you knew they probably weren't going to find. She said it and she meant it and she also did not mean it, and Jack stood as he watched your sister walk past him toward bay 2, where Dana was waiting to take her in, and he stood there until she was gone, and then he stood there a little longer.
It was a Sunday morning a long time ago, in his apartment, in the bed that had been his apartment's bed before it had been your apartment's bed before it had been his apartment's bed again, and you had been asleep on your side facing him and he had been lying on his side facing you, awake, watching you, in the way he sometimes did and never told you about, and your hand had been on the pillow between your faces with the palm turned up, the way it was turned up now, the small slack curl of your fingers, and he had reached out very slowly so he didn't wake you and he had pressed his thumb to the inside of your wrist, just there, where the pulse was, and he had felt it, the small steady beat of you, and he had thought ‘thank you.’
this paragraph. the run on sentences. god i love your writing. you managed to capture the simplicity of their love and how jack took it for granted because of how simple it was so perfectly and im just so 😭😭😭😭
Synopsis. On campus? Choso Kamo’s the sweet, shy nerd you share film class with - the one who can barely meet your eyes without blushing. Online? Choso Kamo is really @cursed(your)wombz—the #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends with 820k followers to see his…nine inches. And he might just be looking for a partner.
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, streamer!Choso, (sort of) B́J Alex AU, cámboy!Choso, college AU, he’s a nerd, film nerd!Choso, secret identities, masks, píercings (ears, tóngue, D), tattoos, chat, streaming, you’re a fan, identity reveal, exhíbitíonism, oraI (fem rec.), again PlERCINGS, tongue f, spítting, p sIapping, p talking, letting the viewers choose, fíngering with rings, overstím, dúmbifícation, Jacob’s Ladder, rough s, fiIthy s, he’s sIightly mean, tummy buIges, making it fit, pressing down, talking you through it, cIit pinching, pússydrúnk Choso, matíng presses, chokíng, manhandIing, mocking, sIight níppIe stim, creampíes, chat Iove you, cúmpIay, getting together, Phantom of the Opera references, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 14.9k
A/N. Hehehehehe-
Sunday was the night you’d found him; sprawled out on your bed and thumbing through the Internet. Some glitzy pop song you couldn’t name blasted from your speakers, and the room was saturated in the tingly excitement of having speedy Wi-Fi, no assignments, and the night to yourself. LED lights pink.
You’re checking some of your messages - doling out a few hearts, a few reposts - when that bell-shaped button bursts in blue. A new notification.
@cursed(your)wombz liked your repost.
It was on a photograph of the Sun—big and yellow, seemingly melting over a grey horizon.
Which was perfectly ordinary- this was the Internet, after all. And though your list of followers was modest, of course you’d interact with a stranger here and there.
The problem was in the way the notification disappeared as soon as it came.
An…accident maybe? This person had liked and unliked your repost. And without a second thought, you’re typing their username into the search bar.
And clicking on their profile.
@cursed(your)wombz huh?
He had a pitch-black profile picture and a layout with nothing of note, a banner as equally colorless and unnotable, and a simple bio stating:
I know what you want…
- C.
And beneath that was a link.
It stood out stark against the black background. You don’t click on it, of course- for fear of being something malicious, you’re avoiding it like you’d avoid a minefield.
You’ve already heard one too many horror stories on here about such things. One click and you’d find your address posted somewhere. Instead, your eyes drop to the number of followers he had…and your eyebrows are immediately shooting up.
0 Following.
581k Followers.
Now that makes you blink.
Okay- alright, maybe it wasn’t the most astounding number you’ve ever seen throughout your expansive time on the Internet - but it was still niche celebrity-status. Especially on this app. Especially to be stalking an account like yours…where all you did was repost the stray picture of a pretty landscape or yell into the aether about your missing assignments for your friends to comment on.
Now that was a little strange.
And so you’re scrolling down.
And you never quite know what you’re in for whenever you enter the realm of a person’s account—fanfiction with tags you never knew existed, one part of an argument on social media that really shouldn’t exist, mpreg.
Which was all fine and dandy to be quite honest- you just never expect to be met with the most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.
The first picture you’re seeing- pinned.
Posted just an hour ago. It’s a mirror selfie taken at a low angle; of a man with his body angled towards the lens and his phone covering his face. In nothing but a towel. With nothing but his chiselled body. His beefy arms flexed as he takes the picture, biceps rippled with a few veins—though still lean and almost smooth to the touch. Pierced nipples. Defined abs. Your eyes linger on the sparse dusting of dark hair leading below, below, below his fluffy white towel…
The picture cuts off just a few inches past his navel. You know because you’re enlarging it.
The photo is almost vampiric in nature.
Somehow.
Dimly-lit. Beautiful—he clearly knew his angles and lighting. It’s slightly blurry and you can’t make out much of the man’s features - nothing more than the slender length of his fingers, silver rings, and the outline of his dark (perhaps brown?) hair. Touching his shoulders. From just above the hem of his towel, the amorphous blur of a tattoo snakes down his left v-line - and no matter how much you’re zooming in, you can’t quite figure out what it is.
Something twists at the pit of your stomach as you’re latching your eyes onto the very obvious bulge he was sporting through the towel - very.
The flash created a shadow of his lengthy cock—oh. Hanging between thick thighs, heavy and needy. And it also illuminated the slight dampness clinging onto his body; perhaps he’d just gotten out of the shower, or was about to take on after a workout.
Whichever scenario it was, both made your thighs clench- fuck.
Fingers slightly shaky, you’re exiting out of the picture and scrolling down for more.
The next post is a video seemingly taken from the very same instance: it was from the point of view of the beautiful man. Facing downwards, as he zoomed the camera in on his bulge and ran one vein-covered, ringed hand down his abs- down his pelvis- down to that throbbing erection and squeezed himself through his towel.
And then through your speakers echoes out the most pornographic moan.
Thank goodness your dorm had thick walls.
And that’s when you decide that you’ve seen enough.
Not enough as in enough enough to block this strange man and move on with your life- of course, not. As quickly as your fingers would possibly let you, you’re exiting out of the video and scrolling up to a bio that seemed to have more to hide than the first time you read through it.
The link stands mockingly stark - almost winking at you - against the dark background. You think you know what it is.
And you click on it.
Suddenly, your laptop screen’s flooding with a gaudy pink color. A loading circle swivels in the middle of it for a few seconds, before you’re met with a logo in swooping, slanted black script: C4mBoyfriends. Better than that boy in your dms.
Rapidly, you’re opening up a new tab and typing in the name.
“C4mBoyfriends is an adult streaming platform that hosts webcam performers that choose to label themselves as male. Here they can stream live video, post photographs, and interact on forums with a wide array of paying viewers—for a range of content catering to specific niches or sexual roleplays. C4mBoyfriends, since its recent launch, has shot up in the industry as one of the most-visited adult sites and the safest for its performers. All cuts go to the performers themselves and the site runs on separate donations from its audience.”
Ah- you’d guessed right.
Excitement burbles at the pit of your stomach for a few seconds. You’re clicking back onto the tab with the pink logo, and finding that it’d stopped loading.
It was in the layout of a streaming device, with static images of ongoing streams on one side of the platform, and different pages listed out on top. But what took up the majority of your screen was the vision of the very same man from before- from the mirror selfie, from the video.
This time, it was a stream.
@cursed(your)wombz is streaming—#1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends [101 week streak]. [Only solo]. Your internet boyfriend <3
0 Subscribed.
820k Subscribers.
455k Currently watching.
This time, he had his towel lifted up and his hands fisted around his fat cock.
Perfectly angled.
Your jaw drops. He was about eight- maybe more inches, though you weren’t in the state to count. Way too entranced by the way his veiny, ring-decorated hands were wrapped around his cock. Large. He was just so loooong and standing tall between wide-spread legs, shiverin’ every time he’s gliding his hand up and down. Up and down.
Again and again.
Getting faster by the second before he arches-
The edge of his thumb’s reaching for his ruby-red crown—then smearing the glistening liquid that just kept on foaming from the top. He lathers it upon his palm and drags it down his hot erection, making every inch gleam underneath the off-camera lighting.
You’re clicking on a button to increase your volume.
And just in time, too, because then he snakes his left hand down and squeezes his heavy balls- letting out a botched groan that leaves your shorts oh-so-wet.
Deep and guttural; there’s a slight quiver in them as he whispers. “F-fuck.” Just so full and sensitive—the man’s head tips backwards and his hips buck off the cushioned chair. Sluttily. As though he was fucking something invisible. It’s creaking ever-so-slightly as he settles back down, composing himself just a little bit before he starts cumming.
Pearly white droplets of cum.
Beading from the very top of his shaft - where he was the most pink n’ angry - shaking as he empties out. Globs of it start to glide down his length, and a few more collect where his silver Prince Albert’s piercing was positioned right beneath his mushroomy tip.
You’re just letting your eyes linger upon that little heap of satiny sap, when the man thumbs upwards and smears that, too. Such a mess.
And you think that might be all- but then he’s reaching his non-dominant hand upwards and pressing down on his frothing cockhead. Stopping himself from cumming - and as he leans to the side, you swear you’re glimpsing the twinkle of even more piercings on the upper side of his shaft. Was that…a Jacob’s ladder?
You’re rendered so damn speechless that you almost don’t register him speaking- “Awwww, did my pretty sluts wanna watch me cum?”
A shiver runs down your spine at the hitched tone of his voice- drunk on lust. He’s slightly slurring. So alluring, you almost catch yourself nodding.
“Well, too bad.” The man meanly snickers, before he’s suddenly reaching out with his non-dominant hand and angling it higher. The screen shifts to display that very same mouth-watering body from the picture—though, this time with the addition of a black-and-white mask that covered his features from forehead to his sharp jawline.
The only opening in it was a concave cutout for his mouth - almost reminiscent of a Phantom of the Opera mask. In the background was a clearly expensive bedroom of a clearly expensive home - far different from your single dorm - an artwork that you couldn’t name on the wall behind him. Something like a photograph or a portrait. Something about it was so precise- so cinematic. Like watching a movie scene. He continues, “Because you know why? You don’t deserve it.”
There’s a flurry of comments on one side of the screen, so fast that you wonder how he reads it.
“Didn’t I tell you to spam me with your nastiest stories in the chat?” He asks, and from beneath his mask you catch the outline of dark eyes shifting down those hurried words. Those needy comments. “None of you are nasty enough, so none of you get to see me cum…”
You’re tearing your eyes off of him to peruse what they were saying.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: nuuuuuu please, curse! i’ll get on my knees!!
@vampzo333: me too ME TOO
@likezmenpregnant: My story about the body pillow wasn’t nasty enough? TT
@CCpervnextdoor: AWWWW I’m begging~
@Curse’swifey: I’LL PAY YOU EXTRA PLEASEEEEEEE
@Curse’swifey donated 500 cherries.
“Tch- what a desperate bunch. Just fucking look at yourselves…” And though his words weren’t in the least bit nice, you couldn’t deny just how badly he made your cunt twinge.
Curse…that’s what his name was, huh?
You’re squeezing your thighs together- your sleep shorts were definitely soaked.
Curse rolls out the kinks in his neck just a little, and stares down at the camera with a crooked grin. “But that’s not gonna be enough. I said to be nasty- so be nasty.” The active chat becomes nothing but a blur once more: pleas, donations, stories half-typed in their urgency. “And in return I’ll moan whatever name you want me to moan when I cum.”
Before you know it, you’re opening up the sign-up page in a new tab.
Keeping Curse’s livestream playing in the background as you zip through your details. You’re picking out a username for yourself: Ietsmakeamovie and hastily going back to the ongoing stream with your newfound handle. Was it too obvious to make it the same username as your other account? The one that he had stalked?
Fuck- you’re too wound up to think of something else at this point. You decide that you’ll change it later…
Luckily, Curse’s stream didn’t have a paying threshold before you could comment. And you’re jittery with excitement as you pull the laptop closer to yourself and start typing out something—hitting send before you could overthink it.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Seeing you is the first time I’ve gotten this wet.
Curse’s eyes drift down the chat, and he seems to latch onto something. Eyes widening just a fraction.
“The first time?”
Fuck.
You’re feeling a jolt at the way he addresses you - never expecting him to pick out that comment amongst tens of thousands of others that were uttering even filthier things. Curse leans in and speaks with his deep tone, “Those other boys didn’t know how to treat a perfect pussy like yours, huh? This is why they call me the Internet boyfriend, baby.”
@Ietsmakeamovie: Yeah.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Fuck, you’re so hot.
@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t even wanna look away to touch myself.
You feel embarrassed typing it all out - but you console yourself with the notion that no one here knows who you are. And you don’t know anyone here, either.
Curse leans back and starts pumping his cock even harder—taking his left hand off the drivelling top. His milky-white precum is frenzied n’ sticks to his hand like glue, and the chat grows more and more excited as Curse’s actions do the same.
“That’s alright, baby, you don’t have to finger yourself.” He chuckles, eyes locked on the comments. “I’d be doing that for you if I was there.”
@Ietsmakeamovie: Wish you were. You’d reach so much deeper.
@Ietsmakeamovie donated 1000 cherries.
“Fuh-fuck—” He hisses, head throwing back in his chair. You take the time to admire the lines of his prominent Adam’s apple - the way it bobs every time he’s taking a shaky swallow. “No need to donate or anything, baby, just keep- ngh, talking t’me like this and that’s enough…”
@0003h0lesforCurse: holy shit. i’ve never seen him like this.
@CCpervnextdoor: Needy Curse I like it~
@bewbsRlife: KEEP GOING OP KEEP GOING!!
You giggle to yourself.
@Ietsmakeamovie: Enough to make you cum, Curse?
“Greedy, greedy girl…” Through the slightest gaps in his mask you’re catching the way his nose crinkles in amusement. A wolfish smile. “S’that what you all want?”
The chat explodes in agreement.
He cocks his head, “Movie?”
Was that your new nickname now? Hastily, you reply-
@Ietsmakeamovie: Mhm.
“Well then…” He grins, toned body arching off the chair. “Get ready for a show—” Darkened gaze narrowing at the comments, “And you better not take your eyes off of me for a single second- hump your damn pillows if you have to. I don’t care.”
Quickly grabbing your own puffy pillow, you’re stuffing it between your legs.
Right as Curse lets his head loll backwards- and his cum drizzles out of his cock. He’s been edging the poor viewers and overstimulatin’ himself for so fucking long now—all it takes is a few pumps to let the cascade of white coat his hands and his rings. Just the slightest bit of silver peaking through.
Hard and fast.
The man’s cockhead flushes even redder as he drags his high out deliciously. Every burst of dopamine. Every heaving pant. Every pretty moan escaping him.
It seems to be ramming into him in waves- gooey ribbons of seed coat his digits. Getting smeared like a gloss across eeeeevery single inch, ridge, and vein—and since Curse’s pace was something furious, a few globs of cum splatter across the towel and onto his thighs. A mess that he’s seeming to love.
Because in the next few seconds, he’s wrung out just the final bits of pleasure in him- and is raising his cum-coated fingers up to his mouth and sucking. Staring straight into the camera lens as he does so.
You’re watching slack-jawed as those long, lacquered digits disappear between his lips. Finishin’ them off squeaky clean and letting his head tip to the side.
He mouths, “Movie—”
Part of your username.
Though you hadn’t asked for him to moan your name, as he’d promised to do to one of the viewers had they been nasty enough. And this special treatment…
Maybe he did it to every new viewer. Maybe he just liked how much you complimented him- though everyone else did, too. Either way, it’s perhaps what sets off the bursts of electricity between your legs—and soon enough you’re hurtling into a high you hadn’t even realized had been building up and up and up.
Your lashes flutter shut as the orgasm overtakes you.
Hips ruttin’ away into the plushness of your pillow- you wonder just how much better riding him would be…
And that’s setting off a whole new layer of dopamine at your core, your cunt quiverin’ as white-hot pleasure makes your heartbeat throb in your ears. Chest pounding. Breaths heavy.
By the time you’ve finished pushing through your high, you’re coming to find that Curse had somewhat cleaned himself up with the towel and was bantering back n’ forth with the chat. He rests his head on one hand and sweeps his eyes down the usernames, “What happened to dear Movie, huh?” Curse pretends to pout. “The first stream wasn’t too much for her, right?”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: kekekeke you’re too freaky, curse!!
@CCpervnextdoor: So dirty~
@daddytoeknee: Must thank Movie for the show though…
Urgently, you’re gathering yourself and tapping a few buttons on-screen.
@Ietsmakeamovie subscribed to @cursed(your)wombz.
@Ietsmakeamovie donated 2500 cherries.
@Ietsmakeamovie: It’d never be too much.
“Ahhh, there you are.” Such a beautiful smile smears across his face, and Curse’s leaning in to take a closer look at the comments. “And thank you for subscribing, same time tomorrow?”
You’re unsure whether that was directed at you or everyone viewing- but you’re chiming in agreement alongside the rest of the comments. And Curse reads through them, lingering for just a little while longer before he grins.
“Heh- bye, sluts.”
And he covers the camera, the stream cuts off.
Yet your heart still thunders.
Ignoring the time at the bottom of your laptop screen, you’re then clicking on his profile and scrolling through what other videos he had…
.
.
.
It was your fault that you kept dozing off.
Honestly.
You should have known better- and you know that you should’ve known better…but you couldn’t help yourself. After Curse’s initial stream, you spent some time browsing through the numerous photographs and short clips that he’d posted; there were even some saved streams that were each dirtier than the last—each with his attractive mask and his even more attractive voice, his sensual cock getting pumped over and over for the audiences.
And so you’d left a few comments, a few hearts.
Throughout all of them, you made the peculiar discovery that they were all more high-quality than the last. The standard of being the #1 on the site, you guess. But the lighting and angles were all just so perfect…
You’d watched them for just a little while- at least, what you’d thought was a little while. Because by the time you’re realizing that your laptop battery was dying, and your eyes were tired, you’re turning your head in the direction of the dorm windows and- fuck.
Why was the Sun coming up?
And so you’d rushed to get at least half an hour of sleep before you had to get up for your 8AM lecture.
Professor Yaga taught Film 101 as though he was trying to scare everyone off it. Rigorous coursework and never-altered deadlines. Though you yourself wouldn’t consider him an unreasonable man, it was impertinent to be punctual and alert in his classes - and right now, you were feeling neither of those.
By the grace of the universe, you’re somehow managing to stumble into class just two minutes after it starts. It’s not enough to rouse Yaga’s anger - and either way, you had made a name for yourself as one of his most avid students - though it does get you a sternly raised brow as you apologize and take the nearest open seat.
Just-so-happening to be in the very last row.
At the very forgotten corner.
Right beside who you knew to be Yaga’s actually most avid student—Choso Kamo.
Had it been a race between the two of you - perhaps between the entire department - Choso would have finished five times before anyone’s even stepping past the finish line. You would’ve gotten second. And that wasn’t to diminish your abilities in any way - you’d long since proven yourself to be one of the best students this course had even seen - it’s just…Choso was a film nerd through and through.
If there was anyone that could live up to such a title, then it was him.
Choso lived, slept, and breathed film and television. He could name any television show around the world with just a single frame, and most he could recite line-for-line. Oh, that? He learned Korean just to immerse himself in that scene in Parasite. That scene? It was from the 1957 Sri Lankan film Amba Yahaluwo, by the way did you know that Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was filmed there, too?
Knitted vest. Hair in two messy space buns.
Clunky glasses rested atop his nosebridge, and dark bangs covering most of his vision, you’d often see him tottering around campus with a column of books that was damn-near taller than him. And despite his towering demeanour - from your mental counting, Choso was around 6’2 or more - around most of the student body, he was the type that couldn’t meet your eyes no matter how many classes you shared with him.
Even now, as you seated right next to him and smiled- Choso softly yelps and turns away from.
You don’t take it personally, of course, as he was simply the shy type. And by the flush that rises to his high cheekbones, you know he - at the very least - doesn’t dislike you.
Situating yourself, you’re opening your bag and pulling out your laptop. Opening it- fuck.
The briefest flash of one of Curses’s previous streams—where he had his cock in his hands and his face contorted mid-ecstasy flashes across your screen. And you can’t slam your laptop shut fast enough- cracking it just the slightest bit to exit out of the numerous tabs, fingers nothing but a blur. Thank fuck your volume hadn’t been set on high.
Head ducked, you’re looking out from the corner of your eye to check whether Choso had seen anything.
But if he did, he shows no indication.
Only keeping his back ramrod straight- his gaze ahead- his flush fiery as he listens to whatever Yaga was saying.
And so you think you’re in the clear…for now…
Opening your laptop up once more, you’re logging onto your lecture platforms and attempting to forget about last night. Which was difficult when that smile upon Curse’s face, just beneath his mask - was the only thing running through your mind.
And before you know it, you’d been staring blankly at your screen for a few seconds—before Choso inches in just a centimeter closer. Unwilling to let himself take up even more space. He keeps his eyes trained ahead and his voice - fuck, you’d never heard his voice before but it was just so deep and measured, something you wouldn’t have expected out of him - low.
Whispering to you, “H-he’s on Chapter 18 of Stone Butch Blues, we’re about to write a screenplay for the zoo scene.”
“Ah…” You don’t know whether you’re more surprised at the timbre of his voice or the way he managed a proper sentence out to you. All your previous attempts at conversation throughout the semester had been futile—and you’d long resigned yourself to the idea that he was too nervous to ever talk to you. “Th-thank you.”
He doesn’t answer but nods in shy acknowledgement.
And as you’re opening up your file, you bask in the realization that Choso Kamo was actually hot underneath those glasses. If only you could see his features further…
Maybe you’re being a little delirious. Your eyes feel heavy.
Heavy.
Heavier.
Tap-tap-tap.
A shake.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
A warm hand on your shoulder, by the time you’re opening your eyes- you’re looking up into even warmer, molten chocolate-colored ones. They were framed by fawny eyelashes and thick glasses that made his shy gaze seem ever-so-slightly amplified.
You think you’re stunned for a few seconds before Choso speaks, “U-um…class is over.”
“Oh.” That makes you dart your head up and look around, noticing that most of the students had filtered in or were in the process of already doing so. “Oh, shit-”
You’d seriously slept through all that?
And Yaga had left you alive?!
No, you weren’t going to question this act of mercy—thank goodness for the last row, because he likely hadn’t been able to see you. Shooting upright, you’re grabbing all your things and hoping you hadn’t snored next to the sweet boy - “Thank you so much for waking me.” You’re turning towards him and saying, earnestness seeping into your tone. “Knowing me, I would’ve slept right through till next class. Might actually have been more convenient.”
He startles into a laugh then raises a hand up to his mouth and quietens himself down, “It’s alright.” You’re staring closely at the little bells of laughter, and he turns his eyes downwards. Bashfully admitting, “Happens to me too, whenever I stay up um- studying. Long night?”
You sigh, “You could say that…” Not a long night studying, but…
And as the conversation quietens down and Choso worries down on his bottom lip, you’re hiking your backpack up on your shoulders and saying. “Well, I guess I should be going then. Catch up on the recordings of the lecture and everything-” Turning, “See you ‘round—and thanks again.”
You make all of five steps before Choso finally gathers up the courage to call out-
“Wait—!”
Confused, you’re facing him once more. “Yes?”
And his hand was out, his fingers were slightly trembling. He was mouthing out the words as though still debating whether to speak them into existence - whether he was capable of. “I…we-” Eventually mustering up the courage once you give a reassuring nod, “When will we meet up?”
That makes you pause.
Was he…
“F-for the assignment.” Choso clarifies, a flush rising to his cheeks as he likely realizes he should’ve led with that. “Professor Yaga’s mid-semester project he always does…”
Ah—you’re clapping a palm on your forehead. How could you have forgotten? Yaga had announced at the start of the semester that about halfway through, the class would be paired up or put into groups to work on a collaborative project that contributed to about 50% of your grade. This semester, it was to write a full-length movie screenplay for a book or musical of your choice. And you’d been excited for it, in fact, but after the…activities of last night it’d completely slipped your mind that he’d be delving more into it this lecture.
And the poor boy stumbles through his explanation, “H-he let everyone choose their partners, and I wanted to wake you up but…you just looked so peaceful.” He fidgets with his fingers and flushes, “I th-thought one of your friends would come up here and choose you but-”
Probing him gently, “But?”
“B-but I’m afraid you ended up paired with me.” Choso just looks so genuinely apologetic- “I’m sorry- no one picked me either. I should’ve woken you up, but we can go talk with Professor Yaga about changing partners if you’d like-”
“Hey—wait.” You’re cutting off his spiel, something in your chest aching at the utterly devastated furrow between his brows. You take a step closer to him, “I would love to do the project with you, Choso. No need to talk to Yaga about anything.”
He looks up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. “B-but your friends…”
“I don’t really have close friends in this class, anyway.” You smile, “I’d much rather do it with you.”
“Really—?” Breathed. As if he couldn’t believe it.
And it’s after some time - and a deep inhale - that he speaks again. Finally sinking in that someone would choose him of all people—that you would, that he speaks again. “And um- would you like to work on the script at my place?” Before you can answer, his breath hitches and his head shoots up. “N-not that I’m pressuring you into…it’s nothing weird, I promise! We can meet anywhere else you like- the library, your place- wait, no that’s weird, too…”
“Choso- Choso.” You giggle. And if this was anyone else then you would’ve assumed that they were putting the moves on you. “I’m okay with your place.”
.
.
.
The apartment was a fair distance away from the campus dorms.
Which made sense, you suppose, given the fact that less than half the people there would be able to afford the rent on such a place—especially after tuition. The highrise dove into the clouds, its vermicular body scaled in glistening windows and gold-accented furnishings within. You got the distinct feeling of being swallowed whole as you entered through the widely-gaped entrance, with several doormen and security that eyed you up and down, bowed at Choso.
You thanked them and made your way - slightly speechless - through the hallways.
This was everything you could ever dream of, and you’re sure you spot the odd actor or two down in the lobby. As you’re getting into an elevator the size of your entire dorm room, Choso punches in one of the highest floor numbers and turns to you-
Throughout the bus ride here, you’d been the one chattering away. And so it surprises you once he finally speaks, “I-I’m sorry…my place is a bit of a mess.”
“Can’t be as bad as mine. I won’t judge.” Who cares about a mess when he lives in a place like this? You couldn’t wait to go inside…
He pushes his chunky glasses upwards and gives you a shy smile, “Thank you.” Looking down at his polished shoes, “You’re so sweet.”
“Thank you.”
And you rise upwards in silence.
Soon enough, you’re finding yourself being led up to his massive apartment. He’s punching in the numbers of the code and setting his backpack down—telling you to make yourself comfortable. And you shuffle inside awkwardly; past the lavish furnishings and the alien-shaped lamps that all rich places seemed to boast.
He leads you in the direction of the master bedroom - where Choso said that his film collection was vast and likely to reveal techniques that the two of you would be able to incorporate into your own script.
“I even have a copy of Momijigari- it’s one of my most prized possessions.” He shoots you such a charming smile, eyes twinkling behind his glasses, over his shoulder. Heading inside.
And you can’t help but follow.
A single step inside his not-so-humble abode and you’re feeling a sudden sense of déjà vu wash over you, rendering you unsteady on your feet. Not quite sure why, you’re sweeping your eyes around the space: the high-quality camera equipment in one corner (not unusual to see for a film student), the chic furnishings, and then over to the empty wall space above the king-sized bed, something in you remained dissatisfied as they find nothing there but white plaster.
Choso notices that you’ve stalled behind and looks over at you curiously—he was taking a seat on the carpet, laptop opened up on top of the coffee table. “Something wrong? I’m sorry, I know it’s really messy but-”
“No, you’re good.” You shake your head, “It’s actually not messy enough.”
He smiles.
That night, you went home and wondered why Choso’s smile looked so familiar.
.
.
.
The musical that you’d chosen for your ‘adaptation’ was The Phantom of the Opera, suggested by you, of course.
And if there had been any connection to the masked man you’d been watching the night prior, then you were just glad that Choso had no idea.
It was far easier, given the fact that it’d already been adapted from the initial novel—though that only meant that Yaga would be critiquing yours even harder.
So you had to strive to be more cinematic, than the others in your class, stronger in ways than the ones before you - and though you doubt you’d ever match up to Schumacher’s visuals, there was little doubt as to whether you’d be the best amongst the students. This was a screenplay made to impress, and in the week since you’d pored over it—and Choso Kamo’s mahogany coffee table typing away at it, you only grew more determined in the fact. And throughout the week, you’ve been flitting in and out of that very apartment of his.
Choso had been a lovely partner for the project - the best you could’ve ever asked for - and you’re coming to find that he was actually far more funny than anyone ever gave him credit for. Far more open. Far more active when it came to something he was passionate about.
And of course, you knew that he’d be sweet.
Despite his initial insistence that he could do the project himself, you’d taken up half the work. And you’d joined him in browsing through his massive catalogue of movies, in searching up screenplays to read, and in annotating them for techniques when starting to write yours.
You’ve come to make friends with one of the doormen by now.
Just today you’d watched the 2004 Phantom of the Opera adaptation. And after a few hours of occupying his space and getting to know the nerdy boy a little better, you’d go straight back home to…Curse.
Whenever Choso made you feel tingly with his sweetness, Curse would amplify that heat to right between your legs.
It’s been a week of getting to know Choso Kamo, and a week of having Curse splashed across your laptop screen—cock furiously hard n’ his moans echoing. He’d smile and utter your username whilst wearing his iconic mask and it’d be a high strong enough to follow into the day after. And often Choso would ask you what you’re so happy about.
Today, in particular, Curse had just finished one of his streams - cumming aaaaaall over the desk this time - when he’d settled himself back down and started chatting with the comments. Responding to one or two of yours.
You’re just about to joke about why he was sticking so long after his orgasm when he speaks once more-
Voice somewhat serious, “Alright, now…settle down, settle down.” Curse waves his hand airily at the camera, throwing a middle finger up when the chat only gets more frenzied. “Tch- what brats you all are, would you wanna roleplay that someday?”
@vampzo333: YES PLEASE.
@likezmenpregnant: How about you be the brat…?
@Ietsmakeamovie: I would like that.
@sixeyesorsixh0les: ^^
@0003h0lesforCurse: ^
“Fine fine…” Underneath the mask, he rolls his eyes fondly. “But I really do have something to announce-”
@likezmenpregnant: You’re pregnant.
@Ietsmakeamovie: I’m the father-
@Curse’swifey: NO MEEEEEEEEEEE!!
“I’m thinking of getting a partner for these streams.” He finally admits, rubbing his chin as though still in thought. And your heart stops-
@bipplruletheworld: so down.
@Cursenoticeme44: Omg yeeeeeeeeees!!
@daddytoeknee: YESYESYES.
The chat practically explodes, and you’re unsure what to feel about it—after all, you don’t know Curse and it’d be strange to feel a little possessive over his solo streams, however, you did have your preferences. But then again, you can’t help but imagine just how much hotter it would be to have two people- perhaps to see him make expressions he never has before…
Ultimately, you’re quiet as Curse leans in and scans the chat. His brows furrow just a little as he sweeps through the blurring usernames, “I dunno…I’m still thinking about it- I haven’t even asked this person, to be honest. I just wanted to know what you guys thought.” Nodding his head along or huffing out laughter at some of the comments, “Movie?”
You jolt—at being called out.
He wanted your opinion specifically? You suppose you did contribute to about half his comment section most streams.
But you stall as your fingers reach for the keyboard.
Biting down on your lip and contemplating for a little while. Though he waits as patiently as ever-
@Ietsmakeamovie: I don’t mind!!
Something seems to wash over him as he reads your comment, nodding. “I see.”
He moves onto something else and his expression was indiscernible.
You’re flickering your eyes to the artwork behind him, the small corner of it peaking into the frame, and it suddenly hits you that it’s the theatrical poster of The Phantom of the Opera (2004).
.
.
.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
There’s something your brain was telling you that you’re absolutely refusing to believe—after all, how many people in the world loved The Phantom of the Opera? Hell, how many people in the world have watched The Phantom of the Opera?
That didn’t mean that everyone you came across had a secret identity as one of the hottest streamers on C4mBoyfriends.
You were being paranoid, you told yourself. You were being utterly silly- and the next time you’re going over to Choso’s apartment was the very next day. Which wasn’t entirely ideal, given how much you’d tossed and turned after Curse’s last stream conjuring up all the possibilities…but Yaga wouldn’t accept a request for an extension even if you were set on fire in front of him. And so you went.
The pit of your stomach twists as Choso swings the lavish wooden door open and gives you a beaming smile. So innocent. So sweet.
He shakily pushes his glasses up as he welcomes you in. “Come in—s-sorry if I took a while to get to the door, I’ve been doing some decorating recently.”
His nervous smile is what makes you find your voice. And you’re dubiously looking around the luxurious apartment, “You need to do some decorating?”
“Believe it or not, yes.” Choso huffs. “Would you like something to drink? Or maybe to eat? I checked out that bakery you recommended last time and you’re right- they have the best Danish pastries.”
“Actually, Choso…” You’re shaking your head, shooting him a grateful smile. “I’m good. I’d think I’d prefer to start right away, if that’s alright? I really wanna get to Act 2 today.”
“O-oh, of course—!”
And he’s sweetly guiding you inside, whilst you attempt not to look like you’re taking two steps at a time. Back to that familiar room. Back to that familiar desk. Back to that (somewhat) familiar bed which most certainly did not have an artwork from The Phantom of the Opera on it—
You open the door and the first thing you’re seeing is the familiar plane of that white mask. The Phantom.
Choso follows behind you and catches you staring at the poster. Gravelly tone echoing from behind, “I told you I did some decorating.”
And you jump-
Swivelling around to find him bearing you a sheepish smile, “Sorry if I startled you.” He pushes those chunky glasses up, “Tea?”
“S-sure…” You breathe, if anything for a thing to occupy your mouth with. Wait- not like that—!
And as Choso disappears down the hall, you’re taking a seat on the bed you’ve sat on countless, countless times before without a single care in the world. Now you’re sinking into the very - the very - edge as though it’d swallow you whole.
Body just resting on the plush comforter before-
“Hey, so I also have coffee if you would prefer?” Comes Choso’s sudden voice.
And you’re startling once more- “Just tea is fine, thanks.” Barely managing to get that through your lips, you’re watching as he disappears…as the sound of his footsteps echo…
Before darting off the bed and now heading towards the camera equipment you’d noticed in the corner the first time you’d been here. What you’d assumed to be part of another one of his classes or personal projects. Now, you’re leaning in and wondering with just which camera he showed his pretty cock off to millions, at just what height of his tripod he made your cunt so heated.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck this was real.
Now, you’re noticing things in the room that you’d never noticed before. Like the ring light kept underneath his bed, and the dresser in the corner with numerous rings- those weren’t costume props or anything. They were pure silver.
Heavy.
Heavy, like the pit in your stomach—excited and swirling. Just trembling at the tips of your fingers - ever-so-slightly - you’re reaching out as though to touch it, as though to feel the alternate version of Choso that you knew longer than you knew Choso-
“Ah, so you’ve realized.”
And then his voice permeates the room.
The room that suddenly seems smaller, the room that suddenly seems to rise ten degrees in temperature - though goosebumps skitter across your skin. And almost as though in a horror movie, you’re turning in slow motion to face the bespectacled man who was now holding up a tray of steaming hot tea.
He walks over soundlessly and sets it on the coffee table with a slight click! And besides that, Choso walks over to the dressing table and puts his silver rings on.
One by one.
His eyes hold court with yours through the mirror, “How long?” Voice a deep timbre.
You’re taking a step closer without even realizing, “Um…just last night. Just now- actually.”
He chuckles and you realize he’s asking how long you’ve known about Curse.
“I-I found you by chance. About a week ago, actually…” And then you say what’s been on your mind ever since you had, “Ever since you liked and unliked my repost.”
“Ah, a rookie mistake.” Choso comments. “I should have known better than to stalk using my public account.” And with all rings now put on and glinting in the lighting of his bedroom, Choso shuffles through his jewellery tray to pluck his earrings in and one eyebrow piercing. And then…one lip piercing—a lip ring that twinkles mischievously as he smiles.
He rises and you think you’ve never quite appreciated his built frame.
His deep eyes as they’re locking in on you. Echoing out, “Though…you really can’t say much- can you, Movie?”
And though you knew that he knew- you can’t stop the zaps of electricity running through your body.
Sputtering out, “Yeah-” Your fists clench and you’re looking up at the object of both your fantasies and your secret interest these past few days - melded into one. “Yeah, I really can’t. Choso you’re so…”
“Different?” He fixes his glasses, “Though I really am shy, I can’t deny that- especially around you. But it helps to be a little more antisocial when I’m around idiots.”
He leans in closer- so close that his scorchin’ hot breath wafts across your features. You have no idea how you’d diminished such a distance so soon…
“And if my memory serves me right-” Choso taps on the edge of his chin, in mocking thought. “-I seem to remember that Movie agreed to have a partner on my stream.” You shiver. And he looks at you adoringly, “So how about it? Wanna make a movie, baby?”
You step a little closer.
“Only if I get to match wardrobes.”
He chuckles and picks you up to spin you around-
And then it’s getting to work. And then it’s shuffling through his closet to find a mask that matches his own.
He stretches on the rubber a bit and brings it to you—“I bought this one when I first started, but it ended up being too tight- I think it’d be just the one for you.”
It was. It fit perfectly.
And then he paces around the room and starts to set up- before Choso’s gaze catches you hovering around the bed, and then he’s clicking his tongue and forgoing the tripods altogether. With just the professional lights and the high-quality camera, Choso places the camera on top of the coffee table. Facing the foot of the bed - everything and anything could be seen.
Just with a few clicks he’s started the stream.
And with just a little nudge he’s urging you to sit next to him.
“Hello, my little sluts—” Choso- or should you say Curse croons towards the camera. On one of his monitors you can see him being projected there - waving, in his knitted vest that clashed with his mask. You stand off awkwardly out of sight from the camera. He smiles. “As you can see, things are a little different today…”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: uuuuuu change of angle!! change of angle!!
@bewbsRlife: ARE WE GETTING A SURPRISEEEEEEE??
@likezmenpregnant: Pls be pregnant, Curse <3
“No- no, I’m not pregnant.” He laughs, “But I have been thinking about what we talked about last night.”
@bipplruletheworld: omg this can’t be…
“And guess what? I did what you guys told me about- and I talked to her.”
@bipplruletheworld: yessssssss
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE^^
@bewbsRlife: WOOOOOO-
@daddytoeknee: Omg where’s Movie, Ik she’d love this- heh. Imagine this WAS Movie though…
“So, my little sluts…” Choso announces, “I’d like to introduce you all to my new partner—” And he’s reaching out and clasping your wrist, looking up to check for reassurance before continuing. Miming whispering to the camera, “And this is her first time on stream, so be nice…”
You’re sheepishly walking into their view.
Slightly bowing your intrusion into the stream, “Th-thanks for having me?”
“Isn’t she cuuuuute?” He asks the commenters, and there’s a flurry of agreements. You’re even spotting a few questions about your name n’ interests, even kinks, amongst those - all of which Choso waves off with a laugh. “Now now—we can have the Q&A later. For now, let’s get to the fun part…”
@Curse’swifey: FUCK THAT’S MY FAV PART-
@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Movie you’re missing out on a historic moment uwu
And the fun part consisted of clamoring onto the bed as fast as lightning. Letting the mattress dip n’ creak its protests out as Choso sits on it with his back turned to the camera, then lovingly pats his manspread thighs as a signal for you to climb on. Meaty muscles. Thick enough for you to want to sink your teeth into- how could you never have noticed?
Perhaps because this was the polar opposite of how he acted when he was on campus - always keeping to himself, never taking up too much space. Now he was practically vacuuming it all up so you had nowhere else to sit.
And you were more than happy to climb onto Choso Kamo’s lap.
Sitting your ass down on his readily-awaiting seat. From under your skirt you feel something hot—and throbbing between his legs. Cylindrically shaped and curved to the left.
Just the slightest movement makes his rock-hard erection twitch underneath- and you’re whimpering at the lewd sensation. At the way he drips out a hefty dollop of precum that seeps through his trousers and sticks to the front of your panties, making you gasp—“Ch-Cho-”
“Shhhh.” Choso wraps a hand ‘round your throat and cuts you off.
And before you know it, he’s bouncing his knees to get you to slide your drippin’ pussy up and down his bulge. Up and down. Turning towards the camera, “Ya hear that?” Up and down. “My girl’s so needy- she’s already begging for it. But I dunno if she deserves it, huh?”
@bewbsRlife: I MEANNNN
@theh0rniestsoldier: i’m feeling mean today…
@daddytoeknee: Give her your mouth!!
“Mouth? I love that idea.” Choso titters.
And then he’s giving a teasing slap on the side of your ass cheeks—smack!
“Please-”
“Sit on my face now, baby.” He purrs, eyes flickerin’ with pure need underneath his mask. Then leaning in to whisper in a loooow tone for only you to hear. “You know Choso, but let’s see if you can handle Curse.”
Then he leans back on the bed - his head pointing in the direction of the camera.
And you’re shuffling up Choso’s toned, brick-hard body—straddling your knees upon either side of his head, veerin’ your hips right atop that pretty face. You’re sitting - right in front of the camera. Though nothing was revealed…yet.
And Choso’s digging his tongue up to you instantly- he isn’t even making it past the fabric of your panties. But that doesn’t stop him from lettin’ his tastebuds take a looooong, luxurious lick of your swollen pussy.
Right down your sopping wet slit.
Suddenly, the room echoes with one of his pornographic moans- the very same ones you’d listened to night after night through your laptop speakers. Now they’re even louder, and somehow even sexier, sending electricity shooting straight up, up, up from your core.
And even more treacherous was the way you’re feeling something cold…and metallic at the very middle of Choso’s tongue. Rock-hard. It takes whatever’s left of your rationality to realize that it’s a silvery tongue piercing smack-dab where his tastebuds kissed your pussy. Scraping alongside where you were most sensitive.
Instantly; your head tips back and saliva starts bubbling at the sides of your lips. “Fuh-fuck…” And before you know it—you’re starting to drag your throbbing pussy up n’ down his features.
Short, barely-there jerks of your shy, shy hips.
And Choso chuckles huskily to himself at the cute way you were yearnin’ for his mouth. But what you didn’t expect was for him to reach one ringed hand up and squeeze the left side of your hips.
Your only warning.
Before he’s suddenly tightening his hold on you and reaching one more hand up- snaking it beneath your skirt like some pervert. Choso edges towards your throbbing cunt and places one good slap—
It’s the resounding smack! of skin-on-skin that makes you halt more than anything.
Jaw-dropped. Thighs quivering. The white-hot pleasure runs through your spine and leaves you barely hearing his roughened words, a tone lower than you knew his voice to be- as though drunk on the delicious taste of your pussy already. “Greedy, greedy girl…” Choso tuts, “Don’t tell me you’re trying to enjoy yourself without letting our dear audience in on the fun?”
Oh, shit.
You’re letting your head snap to where the camera was positioned and blinking its one gluttonous eye. Comments flooding the screen of the monitor so fast that you couldn’t read them-
You’d completely forgotten about the stream for a second.
“I—oh, I um.”
Yet another harsh smack! “Forgot, huh?” Amusement seeps into Choso’s words, as though he’d already guessed the situation.
You admit, “M-maybe…”
“I’m afraid I can’t blame you, baby.” Smack! “Curse’s mouth is too good, huh?” He yammers on and on, his tongue nudging deeper, his rippling tastebuds skidding into every ridge- as if trying to fuck you through your damn panties. “This pussy’s too good–she’s purring f’me already. Hear her?”
And you’re not sure why- but you’re nodding to whatever he says. “Y-yes—fuck.”
“Mhm. So why don’t we let our lovely audience hear, too, huh?” You’re barely given the time to register his suggestion, before Choso husks out a command. “Lift your skirt up, baby.”
Your thighs squeeze around his head at the notion-
And your fingertips touch the short hemline of your skirt.
@Cursenoticeme44: Holy shit.
@theh0rniestsoldier: i’ve been waiting for thisssssssssss-
@daddytoeknee: WOW.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: bby’s so needy!!
@R€4leater: munch Curse #canon
The chat explodes as you let them bear witness to Choso’s face stuffed between your pretty legs- he’s redly-flushed and ravenous. They could see the slightest glimpse of his nose n’ the way he’s driving it between your sodden pussylips, diving and diving, they could see the glossy layers coating your cunt—and the way Choso’s pink lips come up to suck on it.
Those handsome cheeks of his hollow out, as he’s makin’ out with your pussy through your panties.
Like a man starved.
Long canines slightly nippin’ at your folds- almost wolfish in mannerisms.
“Oh p-please…” You’re quivering atop him. You don’t even know what you’re begging for—just that it feels so good to have him veering his tongue hungrily against your cunt like this. And you wanted more.
More, more, and more.
Choso’s holding onto your restless hips with a clammy hand- he’s stuck to you almost like adhesive. And he guides your hips - he fucking slows them down - whilst you continue moanin’ and shaking atop his raw mouth. Glistening wet tongue extending even more than its usual length to slide-slide-sliiiiide your panties to the side-
And you’re gasping at the sudden whiff of cold bedroom air against your naked pussy. “Ch-” A spank. “I mean- fuck, Curse?”
“Mhm, m’here, baby.” He drawls out. Slightly slurring with all the extra globs of your pussy juices - pooling straight into your mouth, n’ Choso reaches up and smooches your soft swollen folds to smear it all around. Like some gloss. “M’here aaaaaand- so are 820k sluts that wanna watch you break.”
“B-break?” You’re gaping, “I thought you were just gonna- ngh, eat me out…?”
“Baby, Curse never ‘just’ does anything.” And you’re shocked to find him sliding his tongue out, tipping his head back to refer to the camera on the coffee table. “Isn’t that right, fuckin’ pervs?”
@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah.
@0003h0lesforCurse: duhhhhhhhhh
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU’RE THE BEST CURSE
@Fishygurodad: Fuck, her pussy’s divine.
“Heh…” Choso smiles into your cunt, “And so whaddaya say? How many slaps before I stick my tongue in her?”
@vampzo333: 3
@bbynohuuuuzz: 14
@Ilikepr1menumbers: 29
“Since m’feeling nice- read your favorite one out, baby.” He murmurs.
To which you’re unable to do anything but- you tilt your upper half just the slightest bit closer to the monitor and pick out the first one you can read through the blur of words and numbers:
@Fishygurodad: Until she cries.
Oh.
Your blood runs cold.
Your cunt grows heated.
And before you can either rectify your recitation or beg for mercy—Choso doesn’t hesitate before fixing the rings on his fingers to be slightly higher than before. Making sure they’re in line of him planting one- two- three good, loud spanks on your sobbin’ cunt. “O-oh my god- fuck, mmm, oh my god.”
Until the skin of his fingertips seems to redden, and your pussylips feel raw - “How about that?” He asks- not from you, but from the viewers.
@daddytoeknee: I don’t see her crying yet…also idkkkkk I’m getting Movie vibes.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: movie would’ve loved this-
And then it’s one after the other. Again and again, Choso’s emblazoning the rude outlines of his rings against yours - until you’ve fucking memorized the ridges n’ patterns of the one ring on his middle finger with the carving of an octopus.
Tentacles flared out.
“Shit, not that damn ring again.”
And as he’s doing so he can’t help himself- fuck, he can’t heeeeelp himself. His canines dig into the sticky fabric of your underwear like a damn dog - and throughout the duration of what his hands were doing, you’re hearing the sharp riiiiip of fabric tearing—!
Soon enough, your panties are tattered and ruined in Choso’s maw- just from his mouth. He spits it out and continues swerving his thickened tips inwards to give a loving pinch on your clit—and you can’t help but burst into peals of shrill, needy cries. Both pain and pleasure mixing as he doles out a final swat-
Before Choso swipes your pussylips apart and spits- the glutinous glob of his saliva landing directly on your hole. He doesn’t give it the time to seep back out—instead, he’s surging up and shoving his face between your legs.
This time, without the barrier of your panties in the way.
@CCpervnextdoor: HE FUCKING RIPPED IT OFF WITH HIS MOUTH??
@bewbsRlife: HOLY SHIT CURSE-
@Fishygurodad: Shiiiiit, I’d do the same ngl.
And then Choso’s shoving his tongue inside and slurpin’ all around your wet hole like a damn animal…
In and out.
In and out.
Probin’ into slippery sweet spots.
Chin hitting the back of your slit. Plastic mask rubbing against your clit.
Choso’s pierced tongue was going absolutely fucking wild inside of you. He wastes no time before gripping either side of your cute hips and slammin’ your pussy down onto his mouth- hard and fast. The perverted nerd is slashing his tongue inwards, smearin’ apart your glue-covered folds. As deep as he could go. He doesn’t care if it hurts, he just needs to make sure that loooong slick muscle of his tastebuds were scrapin’ every inch of your walls.
With the curved tip of it, he flexes it against a sweet bundle of nerves. Making you buck with a pitchy moan of his name—“Ch-Cuuuurse—!” And the sensation was made even more delicious with the way his orb tongue piercing presses in contrast against your hot cunt. “It feels so good, Curse.”
“I already know.” Choso pipes up- cocky in all the ways you never knew he could be. “I already know- but what about those fuckers watching, huh?”
“W-well…” Spit drivels down your chin, and you’re struggling to keep your eyes focused to read the urgent chat.
@bipplruletheworld: they’re so HOT!!
@NERDSAREMYBABYGIRLZ: OHHHH WHAT A MUNCH
@daddytoeknee: Me next <3
And it was clear that they were seeing the effect he had on you- how could they not?
Your eyes were dazed and teary, your thighs were shaking like leaves in the wind, Choso was making your body twitch—just from the way he’s reeling his entire tongue out. And breathing out steadily and slowly against your twitchin’ pussylips, freezing cold air that leaves you even wetter on top of him.
He’s unfastening his mouth - leaving it wiiiiide open for all the satiny ribbons of your slick to enter his gullet. And once you’re done- that isn’t enough riling you up.
Choso leaves a good slap on your folds and asks, “So…what about it?” Muffled through his mouthfuls.
“They agree- they agree—” You’re keening out. Star-struck, seeing pleasure burst behind your shuttered eyelids at the sudden stinging. “Fuck- you’re the hck! best I’ve ever had, Curse.”
“I agree.” He hums. And as if this entire ordeal wasn’t sinful enough, Choso’s swashing around the silky-smooth sap he’d collected from your leaking pussy. Letting the flavor seep into his tastebuds, before he’s then spitting again on your pussy. A semi-opaque layer of lewdness that coats your inner thighs in a sheen that catches the lighting.
Perfect on camera.
You’re squeezing your wettened thighs together and creating an audible squelch!
“Awwww, look- this pussy agrees, too.”
The gooey addition startles you- and you rut.
Only straight down onto his awaiting fingers.
@girrrrrrrrrrth: oh, shit is he…
@legsopenforcurses: With the rings on, too!!
@likezmenpregnant: My show is onnnnn
It’s such a fucking mess for him to navigate- even with his own fingers. Soon enough, you’re arching your back as you feel him intrude a single ringed digit between those utterly swollen pussylips of yours—almost difficult to find your snug hole between them. You’re damn lucky that Choso’s fingers were slender as well as incredibly lengthy.
Because he’s circlin’ your tight orifice a few times - only a few times - before inserting the sections of his finger. Quirking just right and hitting the exact bundle of your nerves.
That infamous g-spot that made you yelp once he starts and keeps on hitting.
And his rings- oh, fuck, his rings.
Just so chunky and textured. They were the perfect designs to press up against your walls and massage them stupid- every drag meant that you’re feeling them dig into ridges n’ crevices you hadn’t even known existed.
Hitting and hitting. Curling his dexterous finger and scraping- “Fuuuuck, oh my god.” The doughy tip of his finger soon becomes damn-near molded to the area where it was, and your eyes flicker to the back of your head as you continue anglin’ your hips so he could hit it perfectly. “Right there, Curse- r-right there.”
“I know.” Choso rolls his eyes - at least what seems like it underneath his mask. “That’s why I’m hitting it. Honestly…is my girl dickmatized?” He utters as he sucks on your clit—ultimately erupting a sobbing slurp! that makes him nod. “Mhm, I think my girl’s dickmatized.”
Tipping his head back before you can refute his claims. He then addresses the audience-
“Whaddaya think, my little pervs? Dickmatized already…maybe I should go easy on her, huh?”
@olderandR4w: nooooooooooo
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: NEVER.
@Fishygurodad: Go even harder.
“Tough crowd.” And with that said, Choso’s stuffin’ in just a few more fingers. Each with their own numerous rings and sopping wet sounds accompanying them—slurp!
One.
Two.
You’re counting about three of his prolonged digits pushin’ your tight walls to their limits, rubbing your sweet spots raw with his constant bashing rhythm, before lustful fogginess coils around your brain. And it’s around here that Choso catches onto the glazed look in your eyes and chuckles—
“Ohhhh, you really are dickmatized.” He hums to himself, though you’re sure the professional mic picks it up either way. “And so soon, too. Probably hasn’t had a good finger-”
A fourth being added so that he can scissor apart your velvety channel whilst still multi-tasking with his other fingers to ram into your g-spot.
“-or even a good mouth on ‘er…” To emphasize his point, he presses a dramatically loud kiss upon your clit. One that’s making you bounce n’ bounce your hips atop his clammy face, and grind your throbbing nub down on his pointed nose. The addition of his mask just makes that cool touch even more lecherous. “My poor girl.” Choso still mutters out despite the way he’s gluing your cunt to his mouth. He pulls away from your clit with a loud pop! “What do you think, my slutty audience?”
At the slurring question you’re letting your head down to watch him. “Ch…Curse, what’ve you got on your mind-”
“M’just asking what else you deserve, baby.” He coos. And questions them once more, “How about a little quiz? Which parts of Curse are going to make my poor, poor girl feel the best? A). My fingers. B). My mouth. Or…”
And he pretends to listen to your noisy wet pussy once more.
“Or C…” You could practically feel the grin plastering against your needy pussy. The way his eyes narrow in sinful amusement beneath his mask- you didn’t have to see his full face to know that Choso was enjoying this perhaps way more than he should. “—all of the above.”
And it was futile to think that they would answer anything else.
C floods your vision.
You’re letting your mouth droop, and your gaze meet Choso’s own between your legs- but you’re finding that you don’t have to say a thing for him to already know the answer.
And as expected, he gives a final roll of his tongue atop your clit - before munchin’ on your aching cunt once more. This time, he’s tunneling his fingers deep into your cavern whilst still licking inside with his prolonged tongue—when stretched out, Choso’s tongue could reach almost as deep as his fingers could.
Your cunt was being stretched-out to lengths you never thought about before.
Not only were Choso’s fingers thicker than yours, but his tongue was something ravenous- no matter how much you’re flinching in sensitivity, he isn’t slowing down. “Mmm-” He groans, barely breathing through even his flared nostrils. You’re hit with the distinct feeling that he thinks he doesn’t even have to breathe as long as he had you on him like this - “Mmm, hold still.”
Taking advantage of the fact to lavish your sensitive inches with kiss upon kiss. To grind his nose down purposefully on your clit. To glide his metallic piercing across those hidden spots. To bash your poor g-spot in again and agaaaain with his fingers before his tongue’s coming to the rescue to soothe the slightly raw sting-
So it’s not long before you’re throwing your head back and cumming.
Perhaps the strongest you’ve ever felt when you’re in the throes of your high.
You barter your hips forwards and keep up a steady pace - one that’s making Choso hit the exact spots you wanted him to during the peaks of your high. The utmost peaks. “Shit—shit, just like that.” Breathless. “K-keep going, baby, it feels so good.”
And he doesn’t even answer - too caught up in fucking you through your orgasm.
In the way you shudder above him. In the way you’re only getting even sweeter by the second-
Bodyheat raising a few degrees in temperature; your heart sings and the bed creaks with how much you’re jostling from above. This was even better than touching yourself to videos of him, there were so many thrills of bliss that he’s wringing out of you- like he’d wring out of himself during his solo videos.
With both his fingers and his tongue, slurpin’ and sliding. Those doe-like eyes of his are edging straight to the back of his skull as he feels your drenched walls cleeeeench around his pierced tongue, as though it’s the best thing he’s ever fucking felt. And you’re acting on impulse - you really are - because the coffee table was positioned right beside the foot of the bed.
And all you had to do was reach your arm out to grab the simple camera there. Turning it into your point of view as Choso’s sweaty brown bangs stick to his forehead, as sweat trickles down his temple, as he lets out soft yet unyielding moans whenever you’re squeezing your thighs around his head.
@cockycockowner: no homo but that’s the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen.
@theh0rniestsoldier: woah he’s PUSSYDRUNK
@Fishygurodad: Show me his POV.
@daddytoeknee: Don’t you know that she’s his girl now smh?^^
@daddytoeknee: Movie-core- wya ml??
Choso cocks his head and keeps making out with your pussy in all the ways that make your toes curl—pleasure elongating from your orgasm and spreading into every part of you. Your vessels, your cells, your atoms.
They’re all buzzing with pleasure and still aching for more once Choso finally pulls away with a loud pop! of his lips releasing.
When they do, you’re sneaking a look down at him and noticing just how red n’ swollen they were. Even the skin around his jaw was flushed with the constant ramming contact. And the viewers are just gobbling it up - subscribing bells keep dinging here and there, and everywhere.
Just a single look at his stats on-screen reveal that Choso’s climbed up to 870k just since you’d started this stream.
And it’s after a little while - after he’s had his fill - that the dark-haired man finally taps at the side of your thigh to gesture for you to get up. Though, even then, he’s tightening his grip on your body—going against his own fucking instruction to press a final few open-mouthed kisses before he’s done.
He chases after your pussy with his maw for a little- before he’s finally sitting up.
And it’s only then that he seems to notice the camera in your hand, blinking his glazed eyes a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming things up. Once it finally registers, the most attractive grin spreads across his face. “You changed POVs?”
“Had to.” You admit, “I wanted them to see how pretty you are…”
“Guess you finally learned about sharing, hm? Greedy girl.” He chuckles darkly to himself. And then he starts looming closer, “But you realize that the show’s not done yet, right?”
You gulp.
@Fishygurodad: Fuck her already, damn!! I’m only here for her.
@2coolforcond0ms(i’mavirgin): Hate to admit it, but he’s lowk right. I think I’ve discovered I’m bi…
@vampzo333: ^^
@girrrrrrrrrrth: ^^
“So impatient.” He looks at the monitor, reading the chat and tuts. “Honestly- so ungrateful. I should end the stream right here and fuck her on my own terms.”
There’s a frenzied flurry of comments- all of which you were sure were begging for Choso not to stop and bashing that one commenter for attempting to start a revolution. To which you’re only giggling and handing over the camera to him.
Choso - as the expert - then positions it somewhere by the edge of the fluffy pillows: where they’d be able to see the expanse of both your bodies and where you’d soon be connected…
And then you’re shedding your clothes in a hurry- making it to your smart blouse before he’s reaching a hand up and tearing through it. The buttons hit the floor, and at your noise of displeasure Choso merely lets out a half-delirious giggle.
He leans in and whispers, “I-I have a Phantom of the Opera t-shirt I’d love for you to wear.”
The change in demeanour gives you utter whiplash, and you can’t help but stare at him open-mouthed.
“What?” Choso asks, next moving on to shrugging off his own fabrics. They’re landing on a heap beside the bed, and your lips slightly part at the display of his red-hot erection—it’s just as large and sensual as all those streams had proven him to be. Polished strawberry top. Slender veins along the middle.
A happy trail of dark brown - nearly black - glistened with the splattered remnant of his precum. Just like the gleaming mess across his chin, mouth, and cheekbones that Choso wore like a medal.
He was slightly longer than even on camera- and even prettier up-close. Way up close- he shuffles his body up yours n’ fucks your tits a few times to dollop out glistening translucent precum across yours tits.
“Lighting’s not the best here.” Choso explains- or at least attempts to pin an explanation onto that. Onto something he’s clearly been wanting to do for so long. “Had to highlight ‘em, baby.”
You scoff, “It’s just…” Throwing a cautious glance at the camera, you lower your voice. “You’re so different from how you are in real life.”
“Oh? And how did you expect me to be, huh?” He positions himself between your legs - wrapping both of them around his waist. Before then thinking better of it and throwing them even more lewdly around his neck instead—his plush priggish tip kisses your entrance. “Did you expect me to be like…”
He trails off.
He doesn’t need to complete the rest of his sentence- and you don’t think you’d have heard him even if he tried.
Because in that very moment, Choso’s jerking his pale hips back a mere few inches—then plopping his globular tip between your pussylips and push-push-puuuuuushing. Fucking past the initial restraint of your first ring of muscle, he’s funneling in some thick inches that make your heels bang against the muscles of his back.
And he doesn’t even seem to notice.
He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he’s letting his cock swerve inside. Get suctioned inside. Get his Prince Albert’s piercing crept down your sensitive innards. Get gobbled up between your greedy legs-
You clench ‘round him and Choso throws his head back with a low, broken moan.
“Oh p-please—” He’s babbling out through unsteady pink lips, a lazy line of dribble starting up from one corner of his mouth. Those long lashes of his flutter as he’s reaching one bulky hand up to grip the headboard, and placing his right one on your hips- keeping you steady.
Fingers trembling. Muscles rippling.
@likezmenpregnant: Woah…make him do that again…
@sixeyesorsixh0les: SUBBY CURSE HELLO??
@whimperwhiteboywhimper: oh I am SO here for this
@Fishygurodad: Whatever…
Your eyes bulge once his throat cracks with what sounds like a whimper—“Please it feels so good.” And though you couldn’t quite make it out, even the chat seemed stunned as Choso punctures out a broken stutter of his hips. Delving a few inches into your goopy insides- though not enough to bottom out completely, as you’re still too wound-up for him to fit completely. And you’re able to pinpoint exactly where he’s using the orbed metal of his first piering. With more to come…“Ngh- oh.” Broken noises emanating into your eardrums and the mic. “It f-feels shooooo good, baby.”
Choso’s head drops into the crook of your neck, and there - and there - you’re feeling his cheeky grin.
And suddenly you’re understanding.
Oh—he was toying with you.
And he was doing it in a way that’d completely fooled you- and perhaps all of his viewers, too.
But before you’re able to open your mouth to bite back something at him, Choso staggers his hips back and gives you a vicious jackhammer with his cock, “O-ohhhhh, my god—” Your toes curl atop his shoulders, slippery with sweat. He hadn’t even rammed all the way inside yet, and yet the slightly left-leaning angle of his shaft was driving you wild.
Big and thick.
Running the slick globe of his tip down your walls, Choso probes a direct hit to that spot you loved so much. And he knew you loved it so much—he’d mapped out your entire pussy earlier, of course.
And yet, he’s still gasping as though the pearls gates of heaven had descended right here and there. He’s letting his sweet caramel eyes widen convincingly as he peers down at you, “I-is that…the spot, baby?”
@Curse’swifey: HE sounds SO NGH.
@daddytoeknee: Daddy likey…
@daddytoeknee: Also Movie would’ve really LOVED this, huh?
You hiss, “Curse, you should already know-”
“But how could I know—?” He exclaims. “This is my first time, after all…” Then Choso’s plastering his clammy tattooed hips - with a snake on the side - to yours, as though the two were connected by the force of the world’s strongest magnets: pulling and pushing, pulling and pushing. Every single battering ram of his mazing cocktip ends up lodged against your sweetly bruised g-spot, marking his circumference out with the sheer pace at which he was hitting it.
“Shit—” Your nails clench on the sheets, and feeling jealous- Choso guides them to fist his hair instead. “Shit, right there. It f-feels so good-”
“There?” The once-nerdy man breathes out in awe. Disbelief every single time - or at least the mocking imitation of one. Swipin’ a line of precum down your nervy spot once more, “Th-there, baby—?”
Something breathy- octaves higher in his tone. “Yes- yes there-”
“There-” Choked up and ruined. Husky grunts hatching in the back of his throat. There was something there in his words that you couldn’t quite pinpoint—a sort of undertone of primal need, primal amusement as he ruined your pussy with his speedily pap-papping hips, but acted as though he had no idea what he was doing. Every single syllable uttered was met with a thorough whack of his curved cockhead against your particular spot- “There there there there- there-”
“Fuh-fuuuck-”
“So this g-spot’s really m-mine now, baby?” Choso asks.
You whine, back arching off the mattress. “Yes-”
“Does she really have my mark on it now?”
“Yes…?” Eyes shooting open as you’re half-registering his question in your hazed brain. He bores his dark eyes down at you intensely. And as though to emphasize his point, you’re feeling his perfectly round tip squeezing into your throat by the next few thrusts. Deeper and deeper.
His Jacob’s Ladder starting to ease its frigid way past your entrance and glide across the roof of your cunt. It was a sensation like nothing you’ve ever felt before.
Choso probes even more, “I-is she really shaped to the shape of my cock now?”
“Cho—ngh.” Quickly shutting your cockdrunken self up. Quickly reaching a ringed hand up to squeeze your throat- before he’s languidly snaking his way up to squeezing your pretty cheeks together.
Smushing your face in a way that was almost disrespectful- though, not that you were in any state of mind to call him out on it. And there’s a mean inkling in Choso’s tone as he coos, “Awww, b-baby, why aren’t you answering me?” Another rude slap! of his hips make your own sear in flames- that damn strength of his. Those damn piercings of his. “Is your poor, poor Curse not good enough?”
Before you can answer, he’s looking at the blinking camera.
“My babies, my girl doesn’t love my cock anymore…”
“I do—I do-”
Squeezing his doughy-soft restraints - those contrastingly mean fingers of his - around your cheeks. He’s managing to smush your mouth shut and make you echo out the most pathetically pleading whines—as he fucks you. Determined and targeted.
The glossy rotund edge of his tip presses against your g-spot a few more times before you’re managing to make yourself take a peek at the comments on the monitor.
Almost too far away- almost too blurry with the tears in your eyes.
@Curse’snewestharem: Awwwww poor bby </33
@CCpervnextdoor: I would LOVE your cock, Curse!!
@girrrrrrrrrrth: is it just me or is he teasing us?
@Fishygurodad: ^^Yeah, he’s totally a fraud.
@Curseswombmommy: ^^girl shut up
“Th-they really think you’re oh-so-innocent…” You’re whispering up at him. Overstimulated tears in your eyes.
Breath hitching every time he’s surging his tattooed hips forwards and hitting that one spot particularly hard. Though there was never such a thing as too hard…
And Choso’s shooting you a secret smile - one just between the two of you - before morphing his expression into that of picture-perfect innocence. Roleplaying the demeanor of his nerdy self on campus, mixed with the utterly sultry—sexual way he was draaaaagging his lengthy cock in and out of your cunt.
Eventually, Choso’s emptying his inches out n’ bruising the bottom of your pussy. All of his nine - you seriously felt nine throbbing inches - inches shaping out the in-betweens of your legs. All of the beaded barbells of his Jacob’s Ladder massaging inside- the slitherin’ feeling of them making themselves at home. Zig-zagging and slithering.
He feels the sponginess of your cervix and presses a hand down on your abdomen just to make sure, before changing that excitement into one of almost-genuine bafflement- “I-I really bottomed out?” Choso’s pinkish bottom lip juts out and quivers dramatically.
“Of course, you did.” You’re ready to scoff-
But whatever sarcastic sound was in the back of your throat gets quickly dissolved at the sight of Choso with genuine tears in his eyes. Glistening. “But I never- ngh, never thought I’d be able to.” He puts some more merciless pressure on your stomach that makes you buck—
And the only thing you can do is let your head tip back into the pillows.
The only thing you can do is let out a few mottled moans as he rubs over the small tummy bulge he was fucking into you. Pushing his palm down so that he could feel it.
Whispering out, “I-I never thought this pussy would claim my cock as- ngh, hers, hm?” And for the moment there, you’re completely sure that he isn’t talking to you. Rather, your pussy that was sobbing out squelches after every one of his jackhemmerin’ thrusts. “And it’s not too big, right?”
“N-never—”
“Because m’just a nerd with a- hngh, biiiiiig fuckin’ cock.” How pitiful, right? He’s letting his long, dark lashes flutter as Choso avoids meeting your eyes—as though in shyness. He drills his hips even deeper - one unforgettable strike after the other following every word he spoke. “Just a big- fat- fucking- cock-”
“Please—!” Eventually, your arms reach upwards and you’re grabbing ahold of whatever part of him it is you could reach first. Which just-so-happened to be his bulky deltoids.
Choso’s brows genuinely seem to furrow at the lewdness of you digging your nails into his muscles, leaving your marks for everyone and anyone to see even after this stream has ended. And so he continues in his faux-innocent tone, “Oh? Did that feel good, baby?”
Purposefully slidin’ his cock across your g-spot so that you’d have to cry out. “Y-yeeees—”
“I didn’t even know, baby.” His mouth hangs open, and the most lustrous squelches! echo between your two connected bodies. Your cunt n’ his precum were making such messes…“I had no idea…”
His Jacob’s Ladder leaves your channel feeling raw n’ overstimulated- you feel raw and overstimulated.
And you’re laid-out on the bed dazed and feeling so fucking good as Choso’s picking his pace up even more, you notice for a split-second that his hands have moved. No longer was he holding onto your cheeks n’ watching you squirm—now, the nerdy man hooks both hands around your sweaty thighs and pins them close to his body.
Holding them in place as he leans down, down, dooooooown until the caps of your knees hit your tits.
You’re keening at the stretch, and a searing burn spreads from between your pussy and along your hamstrings. How did he even hide such strength underneath those soft knitted vest? Such a body?
Before you know it, you’re being pressed into your first-ever mating press.
And Choso gapes as though he was just as bewildered as you, “O-oh…did I do that?” He’s fucking asking you—however, when your stunned expression bears no answer, he turns and asks the same question from the camera. The bursts of replies obviously agree n’ tease him. And he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly, “Did I really bend you in- heh-” A slight chuckle escapes him. “—half, baby?”
And what else can you do but nod and nod and nod—?
“I think this is called a…breeding press?” He cocks his head ever-so-slightly, before shaking his head. “No wait- a mating press.”
“A m-mating press.” You’re repeating lamely.
“I c-can’t believe I’ve folded you into a mating press, baby.” Choso nearly snarls at himself, his hips accelerating until that rouge-tipped cock of his was almost nothing but a blur. “Can’t believe—s’like my body is moving before my mind, ngh. My fat cock’s not hittin’ you too deep, right, my girl?”
“Not in the l-least…”
And he really was long enough to make each and every probe feel as though it was slam-slam-slamming into your throat- the capped crown of his shaft was entering crevices n’ crannies you hadn’t even known you possessed. All marked out precisely by the silvery orb of his Prince Albert’s.
Just then, after your answer, Choso reaches his left hand up to wrap ‘round your throat - and then hauls you back down to meet his slapping hips.
A thrust even harder than the ones before it.
Your breath gets snatched out of your lungs, dissipating into the heady air filled with the contact-riddled sounds of sex. Hard and fast. Only getting harder the longer you have your ankles looped ‘round his neck—“Not too hard, is it, baby?” Chosos asks you once more.
And you don’t have anything to spit out besides, “Oh f-fuck off.”
He gasps dramatically-
Well, not exactly dramatically. But in a way you knew was fake, and in a way that sends the chat exploding into comments.
The nerd pouts cutely, “Well, that’s not very nice…”
You’re rolling your eyes—right before Choso’s genuinely sending them rolling with his two fingers clamped around your clit. Using the silvery edges of his rings, he runs a few massages that end up with you sobbing and blabbering out your pleasure.
@Curse’swifey: FUCKKKKKKKKKK they’re both so hot. THEY’RE BOTH SO RUINED.
@peepeesarebetterfictional: they both look like they’re gonna cum soon hehe
@bewbsRlife: CUM CUM CUM CUM CUM
Biting back. “I would argue th-that that’s not very nice, either.”
“But m’just trying to make my gorgeous girl cum…” And from where he’d been looming his pretty face above yours, Choso then lets his head droop down between your tits. During his ravenous pace, he’s roverin’ his mouth all over to kiss and suck at your tits, your nipples.
His cold lip ring drags across your left areola- and he catches onto the way you’re shivering. Before Choso then grabs your nipple between his lips n’ hollows his cheeks out sucking—“Promise m’just trying to make you feel- hah, good.” He mutters, slightly muffled. “Promise I just wanna fuck my cock raw if it means making my lifelong crush feel good…”
“Cho- Curse, are you…?” Your eyes widen.
And his own flap droopily a few times, “Hmmm?”
And that proved it.
That proved it.
Because Choso Kamo could be pretending to be a stuttering, panting, blushing mess on your heavenly cunt all he wanted- he could pretend to be pussydrunk out of his mind. But at the end of the day, it was impossible to hide when pretend turned into something…more.
When the cocksure streamer that’d been driving you wild all this time morphs into the contentedly pussy-whipped nerd you expected him to be deep down inside.
His eyes genuinely glazed and blinking longingly.
His hair drenched in sweat.
His skin flushed with need- and only flushing even more fiercely the longer he kept his eyes on you.
Without much ado, you’re throwing your hands around his neck and tuggin’ him as far as he could crane his neck when his entire body feels like collapsing onto you and into your maddening pussy.
Choso pistons his hips slightly upwards to hear the slurp of his Jacob’s Ladder sliding across your walls, and he grooooans—
“Curse, baby…” You hum.
“Mhmmmm?” He replies with half-lidded eyes. Barely focused.
This was the big, bad #1 streamer on C4mBoyfriends? As though sensing your thoughts, Choso’s fingers grow a little more frenzied on your clit. “I need you to cum inside, okay?”
He jolts at the idea- that sinful, sinful idea. Before chuckling, “Never had any other plan, baby.” And then he turns to the camera, “What do you think, fuckers? Think my girl deserves to cum?”
@Fishygurodad: Yes.
@Curse’swifey: YES.
@likezmenpregnant: Yesssss~
@girrrrrrrrrrth: yesyesyes.
@daddytoeknee: Hell yeah-
He’s holding out a little longer to make sure there wasn’t a single ‘no’ in there - and had there been one, you’re sure that Choso would have stopped and edged your incoming orgasm until it was a wave of complete agreement.
Luckily for you, they liked you.
And all he does now is press down harder on your g-spot from inside, lingering, and massage a pretty heart on your clit once more, lingering—before a final, thorough stroke is all it takes for you to hurtle into your second high of the night.
For you to arch your body into his chest, and shutter your eyes. “Ch-Cho…”
Barely a whisper. He’s crashing his mouth into yours to make sure that secret between you two isn’t revealed. And you’re moaning deeply into Choso’s mouth as you cum—“Feels so- oh. It feels so…”
“Mhmmmm.”
Unable to even find the words.
The only thing you can do is riiiiiide out the massive wave of your high. It’s torrential; pure bliss floods your system from head-to-toe, and no matter how much you’re squirming your overstimulated hips, Choso only succeeds in batterin’ away his pierced cock into eeeevery single hidden sweet spot inside of you. The ones that prolonged your bliss and left spikes of euphoria leading up to your brain.
Your cunt clenched so tightly around his cock- almost as though you didn’t want him to even pull out. And Choso’s sweaty head drops once more into the crook of your neck as he cums with a shudder.
The knot between his brows deepening, the bedsheet around his knees bunching up as he surges his body upwards. Almost animalistically.
Choso bottoms out his furious, twitching cock and keeps it there- “Oh, fuck…” It didn’t sound like he was acting once his bawling red divot starts splatterin’ out more milky white wads. Deeep in the back of your pussy, right where your womb was, Choso puddles out his ecstasy in long ribbons. “Oh fuck fuck fuck—fuck. Always knew it’d feel this good.”
Wave upon wave.
Toes curling. Eyes scrunching shut.
If you thought his moans were sensual before, then you weren’t prepared for the ones your pussy was able to drag out of him - ragged and hollow utterances of your name. Over and over like a broken record, like a mantra.
He’s fucking into you to milk them out of his hefty balls- then fucking you again just to pump those webbed wads right back in. From the top of his rotund tip and dooooooown to the tufts of hairs at his base. All nine inches of him being used to stuff you till the brim—
You’re sure your insides look like an utter fuckin’ mess by the time he’s slowing his tattooed hips down ever-so-slightly—still shaking from the aftermath of his orgasm. This was far stronger than anything he’s ever experienced before.
Drunkenly, you’re blinking your eyes up at him. “Always?”
He smiles, “Ever since our first lesson of Film 101.” Admitting, he lovingly wipes off a bit of his cum you were foaming between your pussylips. “You referenced Pride and Prejudice when talking about the best lines of dialogue of all time, and I-I’d been a goner since then.”
“Corny…” You snort. Though you can’t help the flutter of your heart.
“So um- coffee after this?”
“It better be dinner.”
He laughs in agreement. “Also I bought a vibrating piercing the other day and have been dying to try it…”
Your eyes widen.
And once you’re helping him pull out- Choso reaches for the camera and gets a good shot of the cum leaking between your legs. Before you’re both waving at it, “Thank you for joining us, today—this was the most fun I’ve had on stream yet- heh.”
You’re shooting the camera a pretty smile, too.
And Choso kisses the corner of your cheeks, “Until next time. This has been Curse and Movie.”
@girrrrrrrrrrth: holy fuck??
@Curse’swifey: WAIT WHAAAAAAAAAAAAT NO WAY-
@bewbsRlife: HOLD ON-
@CCpervnextdoor: SAY SIKE RN?
@bipplruletheworld: oh my god that’s amazing.
@likezmenpregnant: Oh, a love story for the ages~
@yoyoyoureinmypuss: YOU TWO LOOKING FOR A THIRD??
@Fishygurodad: Damn.
@Fishygurodad: Hmu when he messes up.
@daddytoeknee: Stfu he won’t.
@daddytoeknee: Also I totally called it <3
A/N. I did NOT plan to have me inserted and beefing with Toji Fushiguro but here we are-
SYNOPSIS — Helping the quiet TA, who shrinks himself down to avoid taking too much space, come out of his shell. You’re slowly understanding why he thrives in an environment where he’s told what to do — and he shows you why he’s hesitant to be in charge.
TAGS — MDNI (18 + only) nsfw. work contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. Gentle Giant!Choso, Dork!choso, overly freaked out!reader. Nerd!choso, SIZE KINK, sub to top(M), Switchy. rough. making out. couch sex. lifting. mutual masturbation. Changing positions. Missiònary. excessive use of sexual innuendos, dacryphilla, inconsistent writing (?). Choso will do anything you ask. PWP. Teasing, Degradation (both). pet names. crack.fluff. reader is nice to him obv. but freaked out.
WC: 14k — art by k4eny on twt
a/n: Hello blog, IM VERY HAPPY W THIS ONE and i promise to not leave u high and dry! this is highly inspired by an augustinthewinter audio (im a #freak) — Also what if I release my drabbles HEH
75%
The score read on your last mock test for your Historiography class. Your worst subject for the semester by far. Next week was going to be your midterm. Now, since your professor, Mr. Gojo, knows his students a little too well, he facilitated a surprise mock text to see how much you all understood the lessons.
A chorus of curses and groans start filling up the classroom with each student receiving their results as they’re handed out.
“…Now I can assure you, if you guys are worried about scoring higher than each other, it won’t matter because theoretically almost all of you failed.”
Another set of groans and a little bit of laughter comes from the class. You’re back to looking down on your paper, flipping through the pages to check every question and each correction out of habit, noting down what you have to improve on. Then you stumble upon the last page with the words;
Feel free to ask for help :) You smile, knowing exactly who wrote this without them being in the room. You look up to double check and you’re right, it was just your prof still going on about Khaldun or something — you tune him out to make way for the giddy feeling rushing through your stomach.
Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.
It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you.
You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say.
The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”
He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”
You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?”
You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name.
Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head.
He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”
“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness.
“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk.
“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.
“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?”
You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”
He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”
You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“
“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks.
He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.
Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”
You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building.
You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.
Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face.
“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.
“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.
He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“
“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back.
His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.
“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful, “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”
“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”
“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words. You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was.
He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both.
Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude.
“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish.
“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds.
He’s so polite, you could just die.
You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.
You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.
But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.
He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.
You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.
You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both.
Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers.
You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure.
You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?
You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?
“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.
He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time.
A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations.
You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“
He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again.
“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.
“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now.
He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”
Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.
You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”
He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?”
You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.
“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.
You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place.
“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“
“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.”
Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.”
You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing how?”
For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.
“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one.
You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.
Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships. And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year.
But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.
His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again.
Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.
You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing.
So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.
Sort of.
Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage.
“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up, towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.”
He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”
You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”
“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.
You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself — but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe.
Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him.
“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer.
The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself.
You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—
“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.”
The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.
He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.
Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.
Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”
You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.
You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“
He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“
Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.
Choso all but freezes, “What?”
Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No.
“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.
You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.
“Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.
You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.
“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves.
A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”
***
It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”
You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top.
There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”
“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”
At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”
Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”
She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.
Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”
She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”
“I don’t have a crush on him!”
She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”
“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”
“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”
You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”
“Y’know I love you.” She starts.
“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.
“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“
“What would Muta think…?”
She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”
You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”
She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?”
You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“
“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”
She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”
You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax.
You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think.
“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.
You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her.
Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along.
“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat.
“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering.
“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.
You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.”
It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”
Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion.
She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”
You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”
She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face.
***
“—I think they never made any real contact.”
“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”
Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out.
If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic. At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.
“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”
“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say, completing her sentence.
“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.
She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table.
“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.
“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”
“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.
You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.
There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest.
There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?”
You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways.
You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”
It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him.
A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group.
“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him.
“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”
You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”
He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him.
“My brother by the way. Same year though.”
Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.
“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that.
“I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”
You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”
You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously.
“We don’t look related do we?”
Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“
“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”
“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”
“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features.
“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.
The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement.
***
It’s around 6:40pm when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you.
He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”
For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.
“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”
He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”
The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”
You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now.
“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.
Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.
“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.”
There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of. I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.”
You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”
After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.
“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”
You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.
“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”
At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”
He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”
“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip.
He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?”
Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it. No going back. Remember?
“I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.”
Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.
You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.”
“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed.
You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”
“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure.
“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”
“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”
Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”
“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.
You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.”
Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“
“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”
Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it. “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“
“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”
The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”
***
The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings.
Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away.
He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“
You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.
He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment.
It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor.
“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.
“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.
“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“
“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him.
It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.
He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.”
Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought.
On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.
He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face.
An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.”
You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.
He follows your gaze, “What?”
“You’re also thinking of something.”
His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”
You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”
Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.
Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.
“Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out.
He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out.
“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”
He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes,
“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating.
“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him.
“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“ You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough.
“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment.
He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.
“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.
You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”
He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.
Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”
He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips.
He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling.
His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.”
If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry.
His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.
Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“ He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.
“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.
You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.
You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him, mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.
He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.
You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors. Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear.
He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.
You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod.
You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”
His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.
He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.
“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”
He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.
He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him.
You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue, entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.
“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.
You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.
“Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.
You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”
It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,
“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?”
His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“
“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about.
Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“
You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um, anything.”
You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.
He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again.
“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck.
You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor.
You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.
“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.
His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.
You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster.
You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection.
You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.”
You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”
You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”
And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“
He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit.
He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements. He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.
Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“
“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up.
You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely.
You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”
Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off.
He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself. “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”
Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,”
Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.
He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.
You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast. You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”
Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“
“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“
He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.
And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”
His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?”
You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”
He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between.
He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”
You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.
Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material.
“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy.
You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.” He says, discouraged.
“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words.
He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.
He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant.
“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"
His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed.
The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully.
Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.
He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.
He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”
He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth.
He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”
You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more.
You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good.
But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,”
He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk”
It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.
Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.
You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea.
“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”
He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly. “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“
He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”
It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”
“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.
“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.”
The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“
He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“
He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.
“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina.
Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“
“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim. He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.
His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you.
Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”
His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.
He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.
The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.
He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”
You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.
Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.
He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you.
You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.
He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately.
A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum. Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face.
Your chests are pumping against each other, both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions.
You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.
“What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”
Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.
He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“
He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”
You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient.
You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”
He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”
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