I love Supernatural and Hawaii Five-O. I love Jack Maynard, Dean Winchester, Chris Hemsworth but most of all the one and only Jensen Ackles and Chris Evans. I’m 27. Masterlist:
summary; reader wakes up and finds herself in the resident evil universe, specifically the beginning of resident evil 4.
notes; isekai trope, simp reader, hot leon kennedy, very slow updates im so sorry, i was eating tteokbokki while finishing this, get ready to not hear from me for another six months, just usual Resident Evil stuff, contents of chapter 2 from re4r , no beta read we die like luis (hopefully not) my laptop is going to EXPLODE
part 1
“Sacrificial Lamb. You will receive our most sacred body. It begins now.”
You awake with a gasp, your vision spotty and slowly adjusting to take in your surroundings. There’s an ache in your wrists, something tight wrapped around them. You look up, seeing metal handcuffs wrapped around them, attaching you to chains. When you pull your arms down, two firm surfaces behind you shift, a grunt leaving one of them.
“Oh, what the fuck?” Leon’s deep voice rasps out. He yanks his arms down next, causing you and Luis’s chain to get pulled, sending both your arms up.
Luis hisses lowly. “Hey, stop it!”
A heavy sigh leaves Leon’s throat, turning around to face the both of you, stepping back and tugging at the chain’s experimentallly. He looks around the dull room, scanning the surroundings.
“Oye, Yanqui, got a name?”
“Leon.” He responds flatly, eyes flickering to yours. He takes in your appearance, gaze falling from your head to toes, the sight of you chained up engraining into his head. He looks away quickly before stepping towards you, eyes narrowed.
“You okay?”
Breathlessly, you nod. You don’t know how to respond when Leon Kennedy is tied up before you, pissed off and caring about your well-being. Parts of you tingle.
Leon huffs and moves away, tugging more at the chains and walking around as far as the chain will allow him, processing the situation in his tactical head.
“Quiet type, eh?” Luis slurs. He looks at you, raising a brow. “What about you? You talk?”
You hesitate before nodding, muttering your name. You try to extend a hand but awkwardly get caught in the chains restraining you, which Luis smiles in amusement at. He bows his head, stepping closer to you.
“Beautiful senorita, huh? Single? Looking to mingle?”
Leon cuts him off, grabbing your shirt and pulling you back. You squeak at the sudden yank, in awe at his ability to manhandle you with ease, even when chained up. While doing this, the chains gets pulled, causing Luis’s arms to get tugged towards the ceiling a nth time.
“Hey, stop it! You move, I move.. And I’m beat up enough as it is!”
Leon ignores him, focusing up on what the chain is attached to. A hook at the top of the room, flimsily attached to the ceiling. He gathers the chain in his hands, starting to pull at the chains aggressively in an attempt to pull it off the ceiling.
“I can see your thinking,” Luis grins, starting to do the same. Leon ignores him, turning around to yank the chain over his shoulder, his gaze hardened. Damn, does this guy ever smile? “Bet you’ve been in spots like this before.”
“My guess… you’re here looking for someone?” Luis trails on, his lips twitching into a knowing smile. When he sees Leon. barely reacting, he continues. “One more guess. Maybe, some missing señorita?”
A shriek leaves you as Leon suddenly pulls the chain hard, causing both you and Luis to get pulled towards the middle, arms stretched upward. You squirm helplessly, glaring at Leon. “Hey! Hey! Ow— did you guys forget I’m here?!”
“Talk. Now.” Leon demands.
“All right— see, heard some chatter about moving a senorita.” Luis sighs.
“Moving her. Where?”
Leon finally steps back, relaxing his grip. You stay by his side, standing stupidly as they talk business. You didn’t want to butt in and ‘spoil’ the plot.
“Who knows. But later, saw some man dragging someone… to the old church.”
Just as he says this, Leon finally yanks the chain hard enough to separate it from the hook. The metal clanks against the ground, causing a loud sound to echo. You cringe as you remember the following sequence in the game. You quickly tap at Leon’s bicep—you’d normally tap one’s shoulder for their attention, but considering the size of his arms, you couldn’t pass up this opportunity— and catch his attention.
“The noise, Leon. It’ll attract those creeps.”
Just as you say this, you see a sluggish Ganados drag themselves behind Luis, appearing from the doorway. The both of you tense as the man lifts his axe, aiming for Luis’s neck. Leon reacts quickly, pulling Luis in by the chain, sending the man flying towards you.
You squeak loudly as his large body collides with yours, sending you the ground.
“Ah, ah! Now’s not the time, hermosa!” He huffs, helping you up quickly. His hand is warm, providing you temporary warmth as he tucks you behind him. What a gentleman, you can’t help but think. A bit more polite then the government agent.
Leon and Luis swiftly take down the Ganados, punching its face with the chain and sending it flying onto the floor. Smoothly, Leon wraps the chain around the Ganados’ neck, pulling hard and providing pressure with his knee until a loud snap fills the room. You cringe, shuddering as Leon slowly stands up, his eyes glued to yours.
Shuffling towards you, he balances the subtle concern and professionalism in his expression, towering over you with tight lips. “Chains didn’t pull too hard, did they?”
You offer a meek shake of your head. Behind Leon, you spot Luis grabbing a key from the Ganados’ pocket, unlocking himself from the cuffs and quickly standing up, making an run for the door. Leon catches your gaze, whipping his head around and shouting at him, “Hey, we’re not done here!”
“Later, amigos!” He grins, turning to you and throwing the keys into your hands. He winks at you before disappearing into the exit, his footsteps slowly quieting down.
After stumbling around with the key, you eventually manage to unlock both you and Leon from the restraints. The sound of breathing and rustling of chains fill the silent room. Your eyes run over his figure, noticing the lack of his jacket.
His arms were the size of your head. You wanted to sink your teeth into the flesh and gnaw for hours endlessly.
Your eyes glance back up at him, flinching at the sight of him staring at you, a small glint of amusement in his blue eyes. He had noticed you ogling, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he steps closer and tugs your wrists towards him, inspecting your skin cautiously.
His constant physical contact with you was driving you crazy. You swore you didn’t remember him being this touchy with Ashley in the game.
“This hurt?” He asks, his voice low as the whispered words fill the silent atmosphere. His finger presses down on your red wrist, tracing the shape of the chain. The roughness of his skin against your soft flesh makes you shiver.
You let out a weak whimper, brows furrowing at the subtle discomfort his pressure provided. “A little.”
He humphs, pulling away. “Take it easy, alright? Don’t wanna make it worse.” With that, his eyes dart towards the exit of the room. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to know to follow him out of the dusty room and into the dark hall. The place gives you the heebie jeebies with how run down and dirty it is, but you know what to expect so you’re not too perplexed.
He decides to make small conversation as you linger behind him, sparing you a small glance.
“You seemed calm back there, what, not your first time tied up?”
The silence that falls after quickly lets him know that his joke didn’t land. He hesitates, opens his mouth, shuts it before turning back forward and silently continuing his walk towards a hopeful exit of the building. There was really no way of prepping you for the true extent of his one-liners.
Thankfully the awkward silence is interrupted by the sound of Leon’s comm dinging to life. You wonder how the villagers patted him down and took all his gear but missed a simple comm. You push it to the back of your brain and decide to eavesdrop instead, wanting to collect all the information you could so you could maybe help him.
You manage to overhear a few words, Baby Eagle, Church, Wind Mill, and him complaining about Luis. He really doesn’t like Luis.
“Right. I’m probably due for a confession anyway. Condor one out.” He shoots you a small grin at his joke, as if waiting to see your reaction it. You offer a weak laugh, scratching at your scalp. He may be hotter in real life, but definitely not funnier. His corny jokes could kill a crowd of immature middle schoolers.
“So, I’m guessing we’re heading to a church for.. Ashley?” You say once he lowers his hand from his ear, peeking your head over his shoulder. He nods shortly, keeping an eye out for the both of you.
Shortly after, a dead body comes into view, slouched against a wall with a knife impaled into its neck. Leon kneels down and pulls it out with efficiency, wiping it clean on his pants, before flipping it in his hands like he’s showing off, muttering; “This’ll be useful.”
A slow blink leaves you as you stare at the dead body before you. This isn’t like the village. Its quiet, still, and just the three of you in these confined walls. The smell is nauseating and you suddenly crave to be back in your small apartment, even when the euphoria of being in the same room as Leon Kennedy is blissful.
He notices your lack of response and turns to you, face softening. A heavy hand comes up to gently pat your shoulder, friendly. “Hey, I know this is all hard to digest, but you gotta stay sharp, yeah?”
“Yeah. Just.. hard to focus when I’m… here.”
Here, as in deep Spain with him, a place that was just a fictional setting to you a day prior. The dirt underneath your shoes is real, the blood staining the walls, the Ganados’ that claw at you with murderous intent. You never saw Resident Evil 4 as the scarier game of the franchise, the second and seventh taking that spot easily, but you were quickly rethinking it.
“Its okay. I’ll protect you.”
A small thud is heard to your left. You both turn, eyes landing on a pair of dark stairs that disappear upstairs. You shudder at the thought of awaits him—both of you upstairs. You were apart of this now, this wasn’t just a video game, but real life. If you die, you doubted you’d respawn back at a save point, and you didn’t wanna find out firsthand.
He motions for you to stay silent but follow. You stay behind him as he slowly creeps up the stairs, peeking his head slightly to look through the cracked window in the door. A single Ganados stood with its back to you two, swaying mechanically. It blocked the only way out.
“Stay here.” He whispers, quickly slipping into the room. You watch as he smoothly creeps up behind the man and slits his throat, catching the body as it collapses into him. He sets it on the floor with a small grunt, gaze lifting to yours through the window. He nods.
You slip into the room next, fingers trembling lightly as you manuever around the body. You can smell the blood and the decaying skin. You don’t say anything and stay behind him.
The two of you stealthily make it through the building, finding a small room you spot his belongings on the table in. Unfortunately, a destroyed wall separates you from the table with bars built into the concrete, but you quickly nudge his shoulder and motion to a door to the left of the table. “There,” You whisper, "it's one of those doors with a lever, I think.”
He nods slowly, scanning the surroundings around you two before turning back. “We’ll have to circle around to get in.”
It takes a few minutes, but after a bit of trial and error, you find yourself in the small room alongside him. You watch as he tucks all his gear into his belt and pant pockets, wondering how he would be able to truly hold all of that.
“I can hold some for you, if you want.” You smile warmly, wanting to be of assistance.
He barely looks at you when he shakes his head, “You think I’m stupid, giving a civilian military-issued weapons? Yeah, no way in hell.”
“…Just trying to be useful.” You grumble almost bitterly.
The lack of response makes you roll your eyes. Sulking, you follow behind him as he exits the room. The two big doors at the end of the room has sunlight filtering through, signaling an exit from this building. You actually flinch when you see a large cloaked man through the doors window, who quickly ducks to the side.
“Who the fuck was that?” He huffs, fixing his handgun grip.
Its like second instinct when you reply with, “The Merchant—” Before quickly stopping, pressing your lips together into an awkward line. You had let your tongue slip by mistake.
“Excuse me?” He turns to you slightly, frowning as you both near the doors. Leaning his shoulder against the door, he slowly uses his weight to open it with his gun raised in the direction of the man.
“A-Ah, just a little nickname I came up with.”
“Sure.”
The Merchant stands at his table, a tall torch standing next to him, ignited with a deep purple flame. The familiar sight of him warms something in your heart, knowing it symbolized safety, even for just a few minutes.
Turning back to the Merchant, his loud voice makes you flinch, “Ah, about time you both stopped by!”
You both end up leaving the small shop with several new things. He restocked on ammo, herbs, and even upgraded his mighty little handgun, and even after a small amount of pleading and guilt-tripping, you managed to convince him to buy you a small knife. Insisting that it was for self-defense and that he wouldn't consistently be at your side wore him down enough to let him agree.
A large gated entrance stood before you with a missing emblem in its place, reminding you of the numerous stupid side quests the story would throw you on. That’s how you found yourself sitting on a boulder before a giant wooden fortress that sat on a hill. You could see Leon in the distance slicing away, working towards the middle of the fortress where the emblem laid. You couldn’t lie, you helped a little and sped it up by feeding him little bits of information on where it was.
Silence washes over the fortress and suddenly the air feels still. A pair of eyes weigh on your back and you turn around quickly, looking up at the higher hill. A flash of scarlet makes your breath hitch, and your body quickly tenses in recognition. Your body knows who you just saw, but your brain doesn’t want to accept the possibility. She’s not supposed to appear in the story this early, especially this way.
Your gut intuition was strong and telling you that Ada Wong was just spying on you. Having Leon suspicious of you was one thing, but her, the Mercenary who works behind the scenes, bathed in blood? You weren’t confident you could make it out alive if so.
“Alright, let's head back.” His sudden voice brings you out of your spiralling, a yelp leaving you as you look up and suddenly he's in front of you carrying a rather heavy emblem. He raises a brow at you, immediately frowning. “Hey, I told you to pay attention to your surroundings. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
More like a mercenary.
“Sorry, I zoned out a bit." A small smile is all you can offer as you get up and begin following him back.
“Those sons of bitches pack a punch, y’know that? Keep in mind those orange and yellow barrels are not barrels. And some barrels have ammo and herbs in them, weirdly enough. Even found a grenade.” He whistles, throwing the grenade into the air, catching it seamlessly. His casualness creeped you out but was also weirdly attractive. Everything about him was attractive, but it's been harder to notice when the weight of your predicament has been taking its toll.
A few more minutes pass and you find yourself back at the large gate, fitting the emblem into its place. A few twists and rotations has it clicking into place, unlocking the gate finally. It slowly creaks open, allowing you both access deeper into the path where the Wind Mill laid. Obstacles lay in your wake, of course, slowing down your journey by a few minutes. Leon takes them all down swiftly, stealthily creeping through a small area full of Ganados with you safely before taking out a few mandatory creeps before a large house.
“Not too shabby. Someone is showing up their neighbors.” He mutters.
You both had to slip in through the backdoor. The inside is homey, dark and red. Familiar. The weight of what awaits upstairs looms on your consciousness. But what is there to do, other than to stand aside? You know he’ll make it out okay with the help of Ada. Meanwhile, you wander downstairs, picking and knocking over small things.
“I need to pee.” You randomly say, frowning at him. He gives you a weird look.
What's stopping you? You’re in a house, in case you didn’t notice. I assure you there’ll be a bathroom somewhere.”
Discomfort washes over you at the reminder of what laid in one of those specific bathrooms.
“Can you.. check them for me? Like, to make sure there are no Ganados?”
“Uhm— sure, yeah— Ganados?”
Your heart stutters as you follow him down the hall towards the bathroom underneath the stairs. “Heh, you know me and my nicknames.”
“Sure.” The words leave him slowly as he nudges the door open with his foot, almost lazy. A shriek leaves him as a Ganados, just like you predicted, sprung out from the toilet and leaped at him. Two quick gunshots echo throughout the house as it falls to the floor, Leon's eyes wide open in surprise.
“Woah, looks like we knocked at the wrong time.” He turns to you, a little smirk pulling at his lips. He drags the body out of the bathroom before motioning towards the now empty room. “There you go. Nice and empty.”
“T-Thanks.” You croak, a little shaken up. Not in fear but processing. Shock at the whole situation and how the dominoes were falling.
You exit the bathroom after a few minutes, finding Leon fidgeting with the wardrobe just to the left of you. It has a lock wrapped around the handles, one of those annoying ones where you have to align three pictures in a specific pattern. You look over Leon's large arm as he aggressively messes with it, trying out every possible combination. All but one, which you happened to know was written upstairs in a book.
“Have you checked upstairs?” You blink up at him. He offers a short shake of his head, turning back and making his way upstairs. There's only a simple hall with one door and a small storage desk at the end. The door is locked with a missing part in its center, which should be downstairs in the wardrobe if you remember correctly. The desk has a lamp, candle, and an old book sitting on its surface.
You stand beside Leon idly as he flips through the pages impatiently. You huff and smack at his hand lightly, earning a surprised blink from him as he watches you take the book from him without much of a fight.
You hurry back downstairs, keeping the book in your hand as you flip to the specific page the text laid on. Crop, Swineheard, Pig, Babe. The lock falls to the floor quickly as you set the book aside, picking up the cold marble that laid inside.
“This will probably open the door upstairs.”
Leon nods slowly, taking it from you with caution. He stares at you for a moment before starting his way back to the door upstairs. “You’re a natural at this. What, you play puzzle games in your free time?”
Technically, considering Resident Evil being a puzzle game, he was correct.
“You could say that.” You smile to yourself.
You stop yourself in front of the door as he inserts the marble into its place, a click being heard. Knowing what lies ahead has you hesitating. “Hey, I’m gonna stay downstairs, looking for anything important, yeah?”
With his hand on the handle, he gives you a shrug. “Alright. Shout if you need me.”
You bite back a laugh. He’s about to be shouting for a very different reason in there. But a part of you is still worried for him, knowing he’s gonna get hurt, even if its mildly. But again, you remember how he escapes unscathed.
“Alrightie.”
You turn back and skip downstairs, just in time to hear a thud above you and some shouts. You cringe as you wait, anxiety washing over you. What if something happens, and it doesn’t turn out like the game? What if Ada doesn’t show up because of you? What if your presence tilts the game off its intended storyline and you end up messing everything up?
Loud footsteps shake the floor and your heart drops. Ducking quickly under a table, you peek your head out as you watch the comically large man in the trenchcoat walk right past you and exit the house. His figure gives you deja vu— he’s like.. the spanish version of Mr X. You stifle your giggle before straightening and hurrying upstairs, meeting Leon halfway on the stairs.
“You okay?!” He blurts out instantly, hands grabbing at your biceps to pull you close and pat down for any injuries. The touch has your heart fluttering for just a short moment before you snap back into reality. You can see a small bruise on his forehead as well as some scratches on his arm, and guilt drowns you. You could have stopped him and told him Mendez was waiting for him in the room, but you were scared. Scared on what he would think of you if you blurt out you were from another universe.
“I-Im fine,” You stammer, looking up at his blue irises. Blue, very blue. “I hid under the table when I heard him. Sounded a bit too heavy to be you, heh.” You joke weakly.
The bad joke cracks a chuckle out of him. He shakes his head lightly and dangles a key in his grasp, the Insignia Key. “Found this bad boy before that guy thought to surprise me with a housewarming party. Now let's get out of here, yeah?”
Pairing: RE9!Leon Kennedy x isekai'd!fem!Reader (ft. Grace Ashcroft and Victor Gideon)
Summary: Whenever you play Leon's part in Resident Evil Requiem, Leon hears everything you say—from your curses, to your praises, to your reaction to seeing him break open a warped door with his hatchet—he hears it all. Even when you get thrown into his universe, you're just as shameless as you were before you arrived.
Note: It ain't a Genshinluvr fic if I don't write at least one fic with an isekai plot. There are snippets of the actual game in this fic, and as the fic progresses, once you/the reader gets isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. I had the time of my life typing this out, not gonna lie. It was fun as hell. Anyway! I don't post anywhere else but on Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and on AO3 (Aaliah_exo).
Warning: Violence (the usual), Victor Gideon caressing Leon (is that a warning itself?), The Girl, you'll probably get secondhand embarrassment from this fic.
Word Count: 9.8k
You're buzzing with excitement, knowing you're going to see the 49-year-old Leon S. Kennedy in his glory after playing Grace's part at the Wrenwood Hotel. You have been anticipating the release of Resident Evil Requiem ever since you saw the trailer for the game. Now that it's in your Steam library, you have been itching to play the game after work.
You're sitting at your desk, knees pressing against your chest as the cut scene plays before you. Your heart is still pounding against your chest after you manage to escape from the infected police officer, Cole. You watch Grace collapse in the strange man's iron grip, her body slumping to the side, and the screen goes black.
"Is it finally happening?" You whisper, leaning forward towards the monitor, and watch the series of police cars slowly appear on the screen, before cutting to a scene where it shows a dead body with strange blotches on the palm of the deceased's hand. Your eyes light up. "It is! It is it is it is!"
The man—obviously, it's thee Leon S. Kennedy—gets up from where he was kneeling and leaves the area that is blocked off with crime scene tape.
"Talk to me. Is this one like the others?" A woman's voice breaks through the sound of pouring rain as the man walks towards the CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS and POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape.
"Same black blotches." He ducks under the tape and continues to walk past the police cars at the crime scene.
"And it's not postmortem lividity?" The mission coordinator asks.
"No." He turns toward the area where his car is parked. "No, this is different. That's six now. Six survivors of Raccoon City, all dead from the same thing." The scene switches to the inside of the car.
"Yeah, that's… not good."
"No… No, it's not." The car door opens, and the investigator gets into the car before closing it.
You lean in your seat, biting your bottom lip. God, his voice is so husky. You continue watching the cut scene, completely immersed and enamored by the sight of the man you will be playing as very soon, once the cut scene is over. The mission coordinator proceeds to give additional information to the mysterious man.
You already know who this mysterious man is behind the wheel. But when the bottom half of his face is shown in the rear-view mirror, you audibly gasp and continue to watch the cut scene, watching the man grab his gun and pop out the cylinder, spinning it around before popping it back in, while the mission coordinator continues to speak in his intercom.
The minute the game finally reveals Leon's face, you gasp. "Oh my—Leon, you're so handsome."
For about thirty seconds, Leon doesn't respond to the woman on the other end of his intercom. His eyebrows slightly furrow, his eyes scanning his surroundings. Did he just hear someone else's voice? It's certainly not the mission coordinator. What the hell?
"You there, Leon?" The mission coordinator asks, bringing him out of his thoughts.
Leon nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
"You okay?" Leon can hear the woman raise her eyebrows as she waits for his response.
Leon doesn't respond to her question. Leon glances in his rear-view mirror, checking to see if a random woman may have sneaked into his car, but he sees no one. Leon pushes the start button of his Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT, and the black luxury car purrs to life.
"Send me the address," Leon says, putting his car in reverse and turning halfway. "I'll check it out." Leon puts his gearshift into drive before he drives off into the night.
You stare at the dark screen after watching Leon's car disappear into the night—your mouth agape. You're so glad that you spent $69.99 for this game. You could spend additional money on the deluxe version, but you wanted to finish the game first before deciding whether a deluxe version is worth buying.
You end up playing the game for a little over an hour. You're now on Grace's part of the game, where you need to find a screwdriver for the fuse box in Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. You didn't know what got into you when you chose to play the standard classic mode rather than casual or standard modern mode.
"God, I'm so stupid. Why am I doing this to myself?" You mutter after Grace grabs the ink ribbon in the room that you unlocked with the Cherub Key. "Limited autosaves, and I need to save my gameplay wisely. Why did I choose this mode again?"
You're roaming around the area as Grace—you're playing in first-person point of view—trying to gather the courage to go to the nursing station. It's so dark that you have to squint to see in the darkness. As much as you want to change the setting to make it a little brighter for you to see in the dark, where's the fun in that?
"It's okay! I can do this! Everything will be okay, and nothing will happen!" You try to give yourself a pep talk, having Grace walk to the nursing station with a tiny lighter in her hand, illuminating her path. Just as Grace approaches the door, a cut scene is triggered, and an infected corpse falls through the door, scaring both you and Grace.
Grace leans down and touches the corpse's neck. "He's dead." Grace states the obvious.
"I would hope so." You mutter, mentally preparing for what's to come.
After Grace moves the man's head, a large hand emerges from the darkness and grabs the infected corpse. Grace lets out a choked gasp, watching in horror as the grotesque monster brings the dead body up to her mouth and bites off the head.
Its eyes lock on Grace, mouth and teeth stained with blood, and it leans towards Grace. You flinch back from your monitor, questioning your choices on playing the game in the dead of night. After the cut scene ends, you immediately turn around and leave the nursing station with the monster at your (Grace's?) tail.
"Come on, come on, come on! Can you please run any faster, Grace?" You panic, shaking your legs as you run to the nearest room that has lights. When you successfully run to Room 203, you turn around to see the grotesque monster at the entrance of the room.
The monster steps into the room, causing Grace to fearfully yell out, "Don't come any closer!"
The monster's gray skin starts sizzling and burning from the lights in the room. It shrieks and steps outside the room. You and Grace watch the monster climb up a hole in the ceiling, leaving Grace alone at last. Just when you thought you were safe, the lights in the room went out, sending chills and shivers down your spine.
You run out of the room, heart pounding against your chest. After you make it back to the nursing station, you grab the med injector and start searching for the screwdriver for the fuse box. You can hear blood pounding in your ears, listening to Grace's shaky breath.
You search around the room and eventually have to move the cart. But before you do that, you move it slightly and open the locker to see a green herb.
"This could be useful," Grace mutters, grabbing it.
You climb onto the cart, grabbing the antique coin from the top of the locker before getting off. You grab the cart and start pushing towards the shelf where you spotted a red toolbox perched on top. Just as you're halfway to the shelf, a metal tray slides off the cart and clatters loudly to the ground, causing you and Grace to freeze momentarily.
You hear chains and shackles dragging on the floor, followed by heavy footsteps that are heading towards the nursing station where Grace is. Out of sheer panic, you grab the cart and move it closer to the shelf, ignoring the other items falling off and crashing to the ground.
You catch a glimpse of the creature through the window, slamming her hand against the glass while walking towards the nursing station. At this point, your heart is in your throat, and you're close to pausing the game and ending it there for the night, but the issue is that you still need to save the game, and if you don't, you have to redo where it last auto-saved.
Once the cart is close enough to the shelf, you climb onto it and grab the red toolbox, unlatching it and taking out the screwdriver. You sigh in relief, hopping off the cart and running to the nearest hiding spot. You extinguish the flames of Grace's lighter, staring at the door while listening to the monster getting closer to where you're having Grace hide.
The monster's hand suddenly appears, grabbing onto the doorframe before walking into the room. It sniffs the air, walking further into the room and looking around. It gets close to where the cart is and lets out a frenzied growl, swiping at the cart, causing it to fly to the desk. Grace whimpers.
You take it as a sign to start running. Before the mutated creature can turn and look in your and Grace's direction, you have Grace leave the hiding spot and start sprinting in the darkness. Since the creature turned the lights off in Room 203, you start running to the room where the typewriter sits. Before you pass the nursing station, the door bursts open, and the monster appears.
You briefly pause the game, staring at the menu in horror. Your heart is thudding painfully against your chest as you try to calm down. You lean back in your seat, heavily debating if you should just stop there.
"But I made so much progress. I have the screwdriver. I just need to find a way to get Grace to go around the monster, run to Room 201, get the fuse from the fuse box in that very room, and run to the other fuse box where I got the Cherub Key."
You take a deep breath and close your eyes. God, this is horrifying. Playing the game in first person point of view makes it even scarier than you anticipated. You give yourself a pep talk before unpausing the game. Grace cries out in fear, freezing in fear when the monster fully reveals itself in front of Grace.
You start mashing the buttons, begging for Grace to start moving or else she's dead. "Come on, come on, come on! We gotta go, or else we're next, Grace!"
As if she heard you, Grace turns around and starts running to the other entrance of the nursing station where the two of you came from. Grace hides near the desk in the nursing station, panting as the two of you wait and listen to the monster walk past the nursing station over and over.
"This is horrifying." You mutter, hands trembling on your mouse and keyboard. "Is the empty bottle even going to work in this situation?" You creep towards the door where the monster burst from, trying to see where it is.
You take the empty bottle out of Grace's inventory and aim for the furthest part of the hallway—close to where the plant was knocked over—and toss the bottle. The bottle shatters, grabbing the creature's attention. It shrieks and charges towards where the bottle landed, giving you and Grace a small window to escape your hiding spot.
You have Grace sprint to Room 201 as fast as she could, but it feels like Grace wasn't running at all from first person perspective. It feels more like a power walk rather than Grace running for her life. Halfway down the hallway, you and Grace hear the monster shrieking and charging towards where you're heading.
"Hurry, hurry!"
Grace pushes the door aside and makes it to the room where the typewriter sits. You sigh in relief, blood pounding in your ears. Grace takes a few steps towards where the fuse box is, only for the entire building to shake and the lights to flicker and turn off.
"We need to get that fuse and get the hell out of here as soon as possible," You say, making Grace go to the fuse box inside the closet. You unscrew the fuse box with the screwdriver, and Grace takes out the fuse, triggering a cut scene.
Grace stares at the fuse, "Alright," she mutters. Grace turns around, and just when she can leave the closet, you and Grace hear a faint thud coming above her. Grace gasps and looks up at the gaping hole in the ceiling of the closet in horror.
Grace takes a step back, eyes still locked on the hole. "Oh my god," Grace whispers.
The monster starts climbing into the room where Grace is, causing Grace to gasp and start panicking. The cut scene suddenly ends, and now you find yourself forcing Grace to turn around and make a run for it to the fuse box where the Cherub Key was located.
The lights shatter, and the building rumbles as Grace runs through the dark hallways of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. When you press 'F' at the fuse box, a cut scene is triggered, showing Grace shoving the fuse into the fuse box, pressing the button, and quickly looking back as the security gate slowly pulls up.
You watch Grace drop to the ground and quickly crawl underneath the moving gate. "Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on!" Grace pleads as she crawls through the gate, and the monster appears where Grace came from. You collapse in your seat, sighing in relief, happy that you have gotten through the first (among many) difficult parts of the game.
The monitor goes black before switching to another cut scene—but it starts with showing Leon's Porsche driving through the gate of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center and to the front. Leon exits the car, and you gasp in awe, completely enamored by the mere sight of Leon S. Kennedy.
"God, he looks so good." You whisper breathlessly as you watch him walk to the door of the facility after closing the car door. "Why can't you be real?" You lament, resting your chin on your knees as you continue watching the cut scene unfold.
Leon stands in the central hall, his eyes scanning his surroundings. It's quiet, too quiet. But despite how quiet it is in the facility, Leon still hears the same voice he heard earlier near the crime scene he left before arriving at the sanatorium. Maybe he's going crazy, and the side effects of the T-virus are starting to get to him.
You watch the nurse appear behind Leon, calling out to him and informing him that Dr. Gideon was expecting him.
"Funny. I don't remember getting an invitation," Leon's sarcastic response makes you snort, shaking your head. Leon hears the faint snort, the corners of his lips barely curving up into a smile.
The nurse continues speaking to Leon, telling him that Dr. Gideon is waiting for him. Leon soon follows after the nurse as she guides him to who knows where. The cut scene continues a little longer, only for the nurse to lead Leon to the rehabilitation ward. The door closes behind Leon, making him turn around. Then the cut scene ends there, and now you're in control of Leon.
You don't move Leon, watching him on the screen and admiring his design. God, the developers at Capcom really went all out for Leon. You spin the camera around, continuing to admire him. Leon looks around the facility, wondering why he couldn't move despite trying to. It's like he's locked in place until someone commands him to move. The nurse is waiting at the end of the hallway, waiting for him to follow.
"Okay, I need to get moving and stop getting easily distracted by Leon," You say to yourself, finally controlling Leon's movements and proceeding to follow the nurse as Leon.
The nurse explains about the facility and what they do at the sanatorium as both Leon and the nurse continue walking down the hall. Leon has no idea where the nurse is leading him, and neither do you, but judging by the map, it's probably to your (mainly Leon's) doom.
"The facility keeps a low profile due to the sensitive nature of the research," The nurse says, walking to the rehabilitation center of the facility.
"Oh, I bet it does," Leon replies, as he follows the nurse throughout the facility.
You hum, eyebrows furrowing at the conversation between Leon and the nurse of the strange facility. "That's something someone suspicious would say," You mutter, face scrunching up. You're so glad that you haven't dealt with any horrors as Leon just yet. "You have a mutated monster stomping around your facility right now, too."
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment, still questioning if he's going crazy. Leon glances around, then at the nurse, but she doesn't seem to notice anything strange—or hear a woman's voice for that matter—and continues making her way to the room at the end of the rehabilitation ward. Once Leon gets closer to the room and the nurse, a new cut scene starts for you.
You yawn, stretching in your seat, watching the nurse leave Leon alone in the room and closing the door behind her as she leaves. The camera zooms in on Leon, making your face scrunch up.
"God, this Dr. Gideon guy is way more obsessed with Leon than I am," You comment, watching Leon peek at every little thing in the room.
Leon raises his eyebrows at your comment. "Almost as you are? What do you mean by that?" Leon wants to ask. Instead, Leon chooses to stay silent, as saying things out loud would earn weird looks from whoever passes by the room he's in, or could land him in this exact facility.
Little did you know, Leon's searching around for where the voice is coming from. The woman's voice is loud and clear to him, and yet he sees no one. He's alone in this room, but he's been hearing voices in his head every now and then. The voice comes and goes, gushing over him and his skills; other times, the same voice would chime in after someone—who's conversing with Leon—says something.
Leon rests against the desk, reaching for the photograph of Victor Gideon and his medical team that runs the facility. Leon subconsciously furrows his eyebrows as he scrutinizes the image in his hand before setting it back down where he found it. Leon checks the time on his watch, his expensive watch appearing on your monitor.
"That looks expensive, but I shouldn't be surprised. You drive a Porsche Cayenne Turbo GT—that's probably the most expensive thing I've seen you own." You comment, watching the time tick away on Leon's watch.
Much to your disappointment, the cut scene soon comes to an end after the nurse is killed by the chainsaw-wielding doctor. You're soon in control of Leon again and have to kill every infected person in the surrounding area with a chainsaw, which you're not a fan of.
"This thing is a bit hard to wield around. It kind of slows me down, and after Leon plunges the chainsaw into a zombie, I would need to retrieve it again from said zombie…" You sigh, shaking your head. "Oh, shit." The chainsaw drops to the ground and starts spinning out of control.
You force Leon out of the way, trying to avoid getting hit by the out-of-control chainsaw. A zombie nurse charges at Leon with her arms outstretched, trying to grab him. You try shooting the nurse with the requiem gun, but miss.
"Fuck. My aim is atrocious. I am so sorry, Leon. You're supposed to be cool, but I'm making you look like an amateur loser." You frown.
Leon frowns. "Amateur loser? Who are you calling an amateur loser?" Leon mouths to himself, continuing to aim his gun at the infected nurse.
You try shooting the nurse as she gets closer to Leon, but before you can shoot, the nurse lunges at Leon. You let out a choked gasp, assuming Leon is done for, but he ducks underneath the nurse's grasp and shoots her at the back of the head, blood spewing all over the place when her head explodes.
"Whoa!" You gasp, eyes wide in awe. "How did you do that?!" You exclaim, pausing briefly to look at what buttons you've pressed, but you're too busy mashing different buttons to know the actual controls of the dodge he just did.
You unpause the game. "Leon, can you do that again?" You ask yourself, shooting every zombie that's charging at Leon at full speed. How the hell did you do that again? You really need to know what the controls are, or else you won't be able to pull that cool move ever again.
As more zombies emerge from the other rooms in the rehabilitation ward, you shoot every zombie in the head successfully despite having bad aim. An infected doctor lunges at Leon, causing you to panic momentarily, miss your shot, and giving the zombie an opportunity to grab onto Leon and bite down on his shoulders.
"Ah, fuck! I'm so sorry, Leon!"
Leon cries out in pain as he thrashes around, trying to get the zombie to release. You press on your mouse frantically, watching Leon's health bar rapidly deplete at a dangerous pace, the longer the zombie bites down on Leon's shoulders. Leon reaches for his hatchet and attacks the zombie, causing it to back away.
"I really need to learn how to properly parry and aim." You grumble, aiming Leon's requiem gun at the zombie and shoot, only to miss again. "Man, I'm making Leon look uncool, what the fuck."
The zombie lunges at Leon again, and before you can panic, Leon dodges under the zombie's arm and shoots it at the back of its head. The adrenaline dies down, and Leon is left alone in the rehabilitation ward, surrounded by headless zombies.
The only sounds you hear are the sounds of the chainsaw and Leon's heavy breathing, his health bar yellow rather than green. Before escaping the ward, you have Leon search around the room for a healing item. You could use the green herb in your inventory, but it's not enough to fully heal Leon.
"It's okay, Leon! You're going to be okay! You're not going to die under my watch, no matter how bad I am with aiming and parrying." You reassure the DSO agent, picking up the mixed herbs from the glass cabinet that Leon broke. After picking up the mixed herbs, you immediately use them, watching Leon's health bar slightly go up.
You continue playing the game until almost four in the morning, only having to end your gameplay after Leon's cut scene with Victor Gideon after your Mom peeks into your room, scaring the shit out of you.
"Why are you still awake?!" Your Mom asks, staring at you in horror.
You point at your monitor, a cut scene of Leon tied up to a chair playing on your screen. Your Mom peeks at your computer and sighs, shaking her head before leaving your room, muttering under her breath about how you need to stop staying up so late.
You turn back to your monitor, taking multiple screenshots of Leon tied to the chair while Victor Gideon is almost sweet-talking to the DSO agent. You stare at Leon in awe, mouth agape. The side view of Leon on? Whew! His biceps are looking extra delicious.
You bite your bottom lip. "God, I would love to sink my teeth into those biceps of his." You lean back in your seat, groaning. "The ladies at Capcom did a fantastic job at designing Leon."
You watch Victor Gideon touch Leon, almost oh-so intimately. The way his gray fingers brush the strands of Leon's brown and silver hair. Ugh. You're so envious of Victor's privilege to even be in the presence of Leon Kennedy. You make sure to take multiple screenshots of Leon—frame by frame.
Leon can hear the camera shutters, raising an eyebrow. It's strange how Victor Gideon is touching him, and yet this voice in his head is swooning over him being tied up and touched by the former T-Virus researcher. Of course, he doesn't hear you mention a single thing about Victor, only about wanting to sink your teeth into his (your words, not his) beefy biceps.
"I don't like how he's touching you, Leon. He's practically fondling you." You grumble. "I should be the one to do that, not him. Just like how I should be the one to lunge at you and sink my teeth into your biceps, not those greedy zombies."
The camera cuts to Leon looking down while Victor Gideon softly says, "Are the answers to your disease here?" after pulling down Leon's shirt collar. Victor leans down, his face not far from Leon's. "Yes…." Victor whispers.
Leon flinches, his face pinching up with disgust. "You know, I do have a question," Leon says, looking at Victor, deadpanned. "When was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
Leon hears immediate laughter coming from you after asking. Leon's tempted to laugh as well, but because of the predicament he's in, he doesn't smile. The smile on Victor's face slips off, and he backs away from Leon and takes a few steps in front of Leon.
Mechanical whirring can be heard from Leon's end as Victor stares at him, zooming in on his face and his eyes. You take a quick screenshot, thanking Victor for being oddly meticulous when it comes to Leon. If it weren't for Victor, you wouldn't have a lot of screenshots of Leon added to your new collection.
The cut scene soon ends with you taking over fifty screenshots (you're pressing down on the screenshot button, taking screenshots of every frame), and you find yourself back in control of Leon. You frown, letting out a wistful sigh. "I'm going to need to find a stopping point and go to bed. Let's trigger an auto save somewhere, and I'll continue when I wake up." You say to yourself.
You make it to where Leon needs to go and stop in front of a metal cabinet storage that's blocking a doorway. You poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue, approaching said cabinet storage with a cheeky smile. Oh, you are going to enjoy this!
You press 'F,' and Leon starts lifting the cabinet to move it out of the way, his biceps and back muscles flexing as he lets out a grunt. Before Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way, you suddenly release the 'F' key.
"Oh, fuck, my hands slipped." You say to no one.
It's a good thing Leon's back is facing your monitor because if it were facing his direction, you would've seen an eye roll from him along with a shy smile. Leon knows what you're doing; he's not stupid. You press the 'F' key again, watching Leon lift the cabinet, his biceps flexing underneath that tight shirt of his. Again, before Leon can fully move the obstacle out of the way, you release the keys.
You huff. "Man, my keyboard is messed up. I really need to get a new one because for some reason, it's not lasting long," You say with a shit-eating grin on your face. "I have a bad feeling that this keyboard is going to give me… issues the longer I play this game with a broken keyboard."
"Oh, yeah?" Leon mutters, shaking his head with a small smirk, his shoulders shaking from his quiet laughter. He can get used to hearing your commentary while he's handling the shit show that's happening at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.
Finally, after some time, you finally have Leon move the metal cabinet, relishing in the sight of his muscles flexing underneath his shirt, and the sound of his grunts as he does so. Leon S. Kennedy, the man that you are! The autosave button appears in the top left corner of the screen, signaling you to go to bed.
With a heavy heart, you bid Leon goodnight—as if he could hear you—before pausing and exiting the game. You plop onto your bed after the game closes and roll on your bed, eyelids feeling heavy after staring at your monitor for who knows how long. You close your eyes and drift into a dreamless sleep.
A few hours into your sleep, you wake up to the feeling of your bedroom shaking, forcing yourself to crack your eyes open briefly and stare up at the ceiling, still groggy from your slumber. You rub your eyes, mumbling to yourself, and turn over on your right side before going back to sleep. Earthquakes are common, so waking up to one isn't out of the ordinary. Nothing seems out of the norm, but little did you know, this isn't any other earthquake you've dealt with in the past.
That is, until you wake up to someone shaking you nonstop. "Hey, can you hear me? Wake up!" The voice says as the shaking continues.
You groan, trying to turn over and ignore whoever is shaking you. "Not now." You mumble, eyebrows furrowing.
Whoever is shaking you is very persistent, as they continue to do something to try to rouse you from your sleep. The person starts lightly patting your cheek, muttering about how you need to wake up and stop ignoring them. You finally crack your eyes open after a while, vision blurry from your sleep. A blurry face is hovering above yours, but as your vision gradually clears up, your heart nearly falls into your ass.
"Leon?" You whisper in disbelief, mind still foggy from your sleep.
Leon chuckles, sighing in relief. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Good to see those eyes of yours," Leon says, his eyes scanning the littlest details on your face. "I was worried you weren't going to wake up, but it seems like you're not a morning person, huh."
You don't respond to Leon as you slowly reach up and cup his face with both your hands, still trying to comprehend what's happening. Surely this is a dream, right? You did play Resident Evil Requiem for hours before going to bed, and Leon's the last thing you were thinking about before drifting to sleep.
"This is the most vivid dream I have ever had," You mutter, still holding Leon's face in your hands. "Man, it's going to be so disappointing when I wake up."
Leon stares down at you, confused. "What are you talking about?"
You shake your head, head falling to the side before sighing sadly. "This is the best dream I've ever had, and yet I'm going to get a rude awakening very soon once this ends." You lament.
"Aw, man. I think you hit your head pretty hard when you fell," Leon mutters, feeling around your head for a possible concussion.
You blink at Leon. "Of course, I fell for you. Who wouldn't fall for you?"
Leon shakes his head, the corner of his lips curling up. Despite everything, you still manage to be a sweet talker, much to Leon's amusement. Then again, you do think that this is all a dream. Leon's fingers brush a certain area on your head, earning a hiss from you. "I can feel a goose egg forming."
Now that your mind clears up and you're more awake than you were, you come to the realization that Leon is cradling you in his arms—his beefy arms. Wait, that means that his bicep is your pillow. You rub your eyes again, sitting up and looking around to see that you're not in your room. This dream is a bit too realistic for your liking, because why are you in the attic of Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center?
Panic hits you like a train. Your head snaps towards Leon's direction. "This is a dream, right? I'm still asleep in my bed, right?" You start pinching yourself, but nothing is happening. "Oh, my god. This can't be real. This has to be a dream."
Leon doesn't say anything. Instead, he continues to stare at you, taking in every detail of your face, your hair, and your clothes. The longer Leon listens to you ramble, the more he realizes something.
His eyes light up. "You're the voice I've been hearing," Leon says, his arm still holding you up.
His comment makes you go silent. "Pardon?" You press your lips into a thin line. "What do you mean?"
Leon's lips curl up into a smile, shaking his head. "I don't think now is a good time to tell you when you're having an inner turmoil."
Maybe a hug will help you calm down a little, but given the things he heard you say a few hours before your arrival, it probably won't help. But it won't hurt to try, right? Leon pulls you into his arms, hugging you. Your cheek is cushioned against his chest, his beefy arms around your torso, and his chin is resting atop your head.
You wrap your arms around Leon's neck, feeling yourself melting in his arms. God, it feels so nice to hug him. You can't describe what it's like to hug Leon, but you can live in his arms if it's possible. You and Leon sit like that for a while. It doesn't feel weird or uncomfortable to be hugging someone you don't know—a fictional one, to be specific.
It's comforting and gives you a small window to collect your thoughts. You went to bed, but woke up to an earthquake before falling back asleep. Then you're roused from your sleep by Leon, who claimed that you hit your head when you fell. This is all so strange.
"How the hell did I get isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem? I didn't get hit by a truck." You mutter to yourself, but it's loud enough for Leon to hear.
Leon raises his eyebrows, leaning down to look at your face from the side. "What does 'isekai' mean? And what do you mean by getting hit by a truck?" God, the creases between his eyebrows are so cute. You'd love to smooth the wrinkles over with your fingers.
"I will explain that to you after you tell me what you meant by 'you're the voice I've been hearing,'" You reply, looking up at him.
Leon stares at you for a moment, chuckling to himself. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what I meant when I said that," Leon caves in.
Leon's not sure if he should look forward to your reaction after he explains everything to you. But hey, you did say that you want him to explain what he meant by what he said, so who is he to deny you? As Leon explains everything, he watches your reaction and body language closely.
The way your face fell was both comical and endearing because now you're covering your face out of sheer embarrassment, but you didn't cover your ears, letting him know that you're still listening despite your reaction. By the time Leon is done explaining, he has a wide smile on his face, the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes becoming noticeable.
You take a deep breath, trying not to have a mental breakdown after hearing Leon's explanation. "You heard everything." You say. Suddenly, you feel faint, but you can't faint in front of Leon. You can't embarrass yourself in front of Leon for the umpteenth time in a row.
Leon nods, still smiling. "That is correct."
"My cursing whenever you get bitten by a zombie."
"You curse like a sailor, but also like a child who was granted permission to curse by her parents." He replies.
You immediately protest. "What! No, I don't!" Do you? Man, this just keeps getting worse and worse for you. "… You also heard my thirst over your…"
"Beefy biceps, me using my hatchet to crack open a warped door, and you claiming that your keyboard is broken when I need to move the fallen metal cabinet in front of a doorway. I can go on, but I'm afraid that you'll have a heart attack if I continue." Leon says.
You hug your knees to your chest. At this point, you're more likely to die from embarrassment than from a zombie bite. You didn't know that Leon can hear everything you say! Does that mean Grace and Victor hear the things you say, too?
You peek at Leon, "Please tell me that no one else hears the things I say." You whisper.
Leon gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You don't need to worry about that. As far as I know, I was the only person who heard your voice. It doesn't seem like Victor heard your voice, and as for that FBI agent—Grace Ashcroft, I'm not entirely sure."
After Leon's explanation, you choose to stay quiet. There's no need for you to embarrass yourself again in front of Leon, right? Leon checks his watch, and when he looks up, you're staring at him with stars in your eyes. Leon is even more beautiful in person. His hair looks so soft and healthy for someone who bleaches his hair often. God, the stubble… You love the scratchiness of it when you cupped his face in your hands.
Leon doesn't say anything; instead, he lets you do what makes you happy and stay sane. His eyes are blue, but they're not nearly as blue as it was when he was in his early twenties. Maybe they're still the same blue, but you would need to get a closer look at it—if he catches your drift.
"I love how you kept your signature hairstyle after all these years…" You murmur, leaning side to side as your eyes continue taking in every detail of him.
"Now it's your turn to explain to me what 'isekai' means," Leon comments, crossing his arms over his chest.
You quickly glance at Leon's bulging biceps before looking back at him innocently. His biceps looked at you first, so it's only fair for you to look at them in return. "Where do I start…" You trail off, tapping on your chin.
So you start explaining to Leon what isekai means, giving him a rundown on it, its origins, and how there's a handful of animated shows (specifically anime) that have this concept. Leon is intrigued, but also confused. The look of confusion on Leon's handsome face is cute. His eyebrows are furrowing, his head tilting to the side while not taking his eyes off of you for one bit.
You subconsciously reach forward and gently press on the space between his eyebrows, smoothing the creases between his brows. Man, even Leon has soft skin for someone who goes through hell. You meet Leon's eyes, causing you to quickly retract your hand before apologizing sheepishly.
"After explaining to me what 'isekai' meant, it makes sense. Is there a way for you to return to your world?" Leon asks.
You frown dramatically. "Aw, you want to return me to sender already? I'm hurt." You joke, clutching your chest playfully. "I thought you would enjoy my company after going through the horrors of having to deal with Victor Gideon caressing you lovingly."
You turn around and face the wall, pretending to be offended by what he asked. Leon shudders at the memory of Victor's fingers brushing through his hair, fingers ghosting over the dark blotches on his neck after lowering the collar of his shirt. That is not a pleasant memory, and he certainly wishes he could erase it.
"Your presence is a breath of fresh air. I'm merely asking because I don't think you would want to stay and deal with what's waiting for us," Leon replies, reaching forward and grabbing your forearm and turning you around to face him.
You can just melt in his arms right now. You've imagined this very moment, but in a different scenario. Leon Kennedy grabs your arm to stop you from leaving, gazing at you with those dazzling blue eyes of his, his eyebrows knitting together as he pleads for you not to leave. And the way he says it? It'll be soft, making you weak at the knees.
"By the way, you never introduced yourself. You know my name, but I don't know yours." Leon adds, pulling you out of your thoughts.
Your eyes widen. "Oh, crap! You're right! How could I forget?" You smack your forehead before introducing yourself to Leon. After telling Leon your first and last name, Leon stares at you while muttering your full name to himself. Heat rushes to your face the longer he does it.
After what feels like forever, Leon smiles and nods. "Your name suits you. I like it. Your parents must've put a lot of thought and love into naming you."
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. Why did he have to say that? Leon raises an eyebrow at you, smiling in amusement. Without saying anything, you cover your face with both hands as heat continues rushing to your face. This man can effortlessly make you blush like a schoolgirl.
You groan behind your hands. "What are you doing to me?! It's not fair. You know you have this effect on me! Damn you, Leon Scott Kennedy!" You whine.
If only you could evaporate right now. Maybe Leon was up to something when he asked if there was a way for you to return to your world, because how much longer can you handle being in the presence of Leon S. Kennedy? The only thing you hear is laughter coming from Leon—his laugh is soft, very gentle. You peek between your fingers to see him shaking his head, a wide smile on his face as he gazes at the wooden floor.
Realization hits you. You're so fucked. There's not a single man in your life—real and fictional—who has made you feel this way before. Until Leon S. Kennedy happened. You love every version of Leon, but there's something about forty-nine-year-old Leon Kennedy. Aside from his looks, there's something that makes you feel so warm and gooey inside when he shows up on your screen.
You look at an imaginary camera, hands falling on your lap before sighing. "I'm so fucked." You whisper, shaking your head in disbelief. "Okay, let's kill some zombies and get the hell out of here."
You push yourself off the ground, feeling around for the so-called goose egg Leon felt on your head, while Leon gets off the ground and brushes the dust off his ass. Leon grabs your wrist, preventing you from finding this goose egg. You look at Leon, frowning.
He wags his pointer finger at you, shaking his head. "Don't search for it."
"Fine." You mumble, lowering your arm, but Leon doesn't let go of your wrist.
You blink at him, looking back and forth from your hands to Leon's face. Leon doesn't say anything and starts looking for an exit with you in tow, his hand still wrapped around your wrist. You will take that as a win because Leon is holding your hand, kind of! You peek at Leon and wiggle your wrist to hold his hand.
You and Leon soon come across the familiar metal cabinet that's blocking the entrance. Your heart nearly sinks into the pit of your stomach when you realize what you're about to face soon. This is strange; you could've sworn that you moved the cabinet before ending the game right there.
"Step back. I don't want you to get hurt." Leon says, gently nudging you to the side, and starts lifting the cabinet.
You press your lips into a thin line and cover your mouth, watching his back muscles and biceps flex under the fabric of his shirt. Leon grunts and starts lifting the metal cabinet. You bite your lower lip, enticed by what you're seeing and hearing.
After a few minutes, Leon successfully moves the cabinet out of the way. He fixes his shirt before pulling out his gun from the holster. Leon turns to you to see you staring at him in a daze, earning an eyebrow raise and smirk from him. You quickly snap out of it, acting like you weren't ogling him just now.
"So, do I follow you into that room or do I wait out here until you finish your, uh, duty?" You ask, rubbing the back of your neck.
You don't know how much has changed since your sudden arrival in this universe, but you're hoping it's not much change, but who knows?
Leon holds his hand out and gestures for you to follow him. "I'm not leaving you behind, are you crazy?"
"For you? Yes." Is your automatic response. You slap your hand over your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut. "I mean, let's go and get this over with!" You say, grabbing his hand and walking through the entrance with Leon in tow.
You're always amazed by your ability to humiliate yourself. This has got to be a new record for you. Once you and Leon step through that door, everything shifts. The atmosphere, the mood, the air, and the sound. You hear squelching coming from the other side of the room.
Think of someone chewing with their mouth open, but multiply that by a thousand. That's how loud it is in person. The squelching is accompanied by deep rumbles. You and Leon trade looks with each other before slowly making your way through the room, making sure Leon picks up ammo for his guns.
Leon stops in his tracks, holding his arm out in front of you before looking over his shoulder at you. "You're going to have to trust me on this, alright?" Leon murmurs.
You look at him, confused. "What are you planning? Should I be worried?" You whisper.
Leon doesn't respond and continues walking towards where the disturbing sound is coming from. You swallow the lump in your throat when you eye the grotesque creature towering over a dead body, feasting on its rotting flesh. The smell is rancid, making your stomach churn.
You grip the back of Leon's shirt, lightly tugging it. "How can you handle a smell like that when you're dealing with these things?" You mutter to him, tempted to bury your face into his back to block out the smell of decomposition and blood.
"When you're constantly out on the field dealing with these things, you'd get used to it."
You raise an eyebrow at his response. "But you recoiled when you caught a whiff of Victor's breath." You point out.
Leon snorts. "Smelling rotting flesh and bad breath are two different things. Besides, who knows how long it's been since he has brushed his teeth?"
"Can't argue with that."
You continue following Leon around the room while he collects ammo for his guns, occasionally peeking from behind him to get a look at the mutated being. For something that large, you're shocked that it hasn't heard you and Leon walking around the vicinity.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks suddenly, turning towards you.
You falter. "Uh, yes, I do trust you—even though we met not long ago. I'm surprised you trust me despite the things I put you through." You refer to your failed aiming and parrying before you were isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem.
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course, I trust you. You're the only one who kept me sane at the start of this shit show." Leon replies.
Leon turns around and aims his gun at the ravenous, mutated creature and shoots it in the head with his shotgun. You flinch at the sound, gripping his shirt hard as you watch the creature stop munching on the corpse and turn towards your and Leon's direction.
Fueled by rage and anger, the chunky zombie roars. "Food! Food! Food!" He growls, getting ready to charge towards you and Leon.
"Hope I'm not next," Leon mutters.
Before you can say anything, Leon quickly turns around, grabs you by the waist, and tosses you over his shoulders before making a run for it. Upside down, you wrap your arms around his waist, whimpering as the monster gets closer to you and Leon. You certainly didn't sign up for this when you got isekai'd, but hey, you didn't sign up to be isekai'd in general!
"Leon! He's getting closer!" You whimper, patting his lower back.
Leon loads his shotgun, making sharp turns to avoid getting grabbed by the ravenous creature. Leon picks up a med injector from a wall that was broken by the monster, along with the shotgun shells and handgun ammo. Leon quickly grabs onto the ladder and climbs up. You nearly flip over if it weren't for Leon's quick reflexes and your iron grip around his waist.
"Are you sure I'm not getting in the way?" You ask, lifting your head to look at Leon. "I feel like I'm adding more weight on you. Metaphorically and literally."
Leon pats the back of your thighs. "You're fine, you're not getting in the way or adding weight on me," Leon reassures you.
Leon quickly puts you down on the platform, fixes his gear, and gestures for you to get on his shoulders by squatting in front of you. You climb over Leon, stomach resting on his shoulders, while your arms are wrapped around his waist. Leon wraps one arm over the back of your thighs, checking to see where the mutated monster is.
On cue, the chunky mutated monster, which you found out is named Timothy from the note Leon read to you, appears at the bottom of the platform. Timothy growls and tries reaching for you and Leon, but Leon shoots him in the face with his shotgun, but Timothy's not phased by it.
Timothy starts climbing up the platform, causing you to involuntarily flinch. "Leon…" You plead, patting Leon's thighs. "We need to move, or else we will be on Timothy's menu!"
Leon tightens his grip on your legs. "Brace yourself."
Before you can process what Leon's doing, you suddenly feel airborne. Your heart is in your throat as you cling to Leon for dear life. Leon lands on the ground with a grunt and shoots Timothy a few more times before making a run for it, loading his shotgun.
The chase lasted five more minutes because Timothy was very motivated to get both you and Leon. Finally, Timothy stops, and blood starts spewing out of the holes and gashes on his body that he received from the shotgun shells and Leon's hatchet.
While Timothy is gushing all over the place, Leon walks to the other end of the room to collect extra items that are lying around before putting you back on the ground once Timothy explodes. You brush off your clothes and turn to Leon, propping your hands on your hips and watching him reload his shotgun before switching to his other handgun.
"You know, when I said that I wanted to be manhandled by you, this isn't what I imagined." You comment.
Leon shakes his head, chuckling. "Don't worry, there will be plenty of time for that. Come on, let's get out of here." Leon gestures for you to follow him as he walks towards the door where the rotting corpse—Timothy's final meal—is lying.
You stare at Leon, mouth agape. What does he mean by that?! Wait, Leon is probably implying other boss fights that are waiting for both you and Leon. You really need to get your head out of the gutter. You follow behind Leon, shuddering when you step in the pool of blood that was once Timothy.
Leon grabs the hand grenade from the puddle of blood and continues walking to the exit. Finally, you and Leon will get to leave this place and face more horrors waiting for both of you. Leon unlatches the door and pushes it open, occasionally looking over his shoulder to make sure you're still following him.
You and Leon come across a wooden closet with a warped door. Leon walks to it, grabs his hatchet, lodges it between the doors, and starts prying them open. You bite your bottom lip, watching his biceps flex as he tries to open it. Once the door bursts open and Leon grabs whatever is inside, you look away, trying to act like you weren't drooling over him.
"Ready to go?" Leon asks, turning to you as he puts the mod on his handgun.
You nod, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Yeah! Are you ready to go?" You ask, looking at him from the corner of your eyes.
"Of course, I am. I'm always ready." Leon says softly, walking past you while gently nudging you to follow him by patting your lower back.
You bite the inside of your cheek, screaming internally. You really need to get yourself together because you're acting like a cat in heat. Leon pushes the red button, and the attic opens; the metal ladder slides down, and Leon starts climbing down.
Once Leon gets off the ladder, you start climbing down, shuddering when you see the amount of blood in the office. The whole time while you're climbing down the ladder, Leon's keeping an eye out while holding out his hands to catch you just in case you slip. You step into the puddle of infected blood, groaning with disgust.
"You'd get used to it," Leon says. "Come on, we need to find Victor Gideon's office."
You follow Leon out of the Chairman's office, on edge about whether zombies are roaming around or not. You don't think there's any zombies roaming around cause you killed most of them when you were playing as Grace. You come across another warped closet outside of the Chairman's office, and you sit back and watch Leon do his thing.
"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Leon asks, turning to you after taking the handgun ammo and shotgun shells.
You look at Leon, flabbergasted. "Wha—is a lady not allowed to admire a total eye candy in front of her?" You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. "I have had enough of your teasing! Let's find Victor's office." You stick your nose in the air and walk towards the bar and lounge room.
Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, chuckling. "You truly do make this more entertaining than it should be."
The minute you walk into the bar and lounge room, a zombie in a white button-up starts contorting violently while screaming in agony. You walk backwards frantically, bumping into Leon as the zombie gets off the ground and his head morphs into something more horrifying.
"This place is infested," Leon mutters, shaking his head, and aims his gun at the blister head that's running towards both of you. Leon shoots, and the bullet penetrates the zombie's head, causing it to burst, and blood spews everywhere like a water fountain.
You sigh, turning to Leon. "Can you teach me how to shoot one day? You know, in case I have to fight for both of us."
Leon chuckles, shaking his head. "Of course. I can show you when we come across another zombie."
You and Leon continue searching for Victor's office. Instead of having you walk behind or in front of him, Leon makes sure you're by his side at all times because you'd never know when a zombie will sneak up from behind or jump out of nowhere.
As you're both walking up the stairs to the third floor of the sanatorium, you and Leon hear a faint beeping and gurgling from a zombie. Leon hands you his handgun and gestures for you to follow him quietly. Once the zombie is in your and Leon's line of sight, Leon quickly adjusts the gun in your hand, angling your arms a certain way.
"Make sure to have a firm grasp on the gun so it doesn't recoil and hit you in the face," Leon murmurs, his chest pressing up against your back. "Okay, now, you can either shoot the zombie or the red propane tank. I would go for the explosive canister because it's quicker, and who knows how many shots it'll take to kill the zombie."
Taking Leon's advice, you point the handgun towards the red gas tank and shoot. The red canister in the zombie's hand explodes, taking the zombie out with it. You tilt your head up and see Leon's smile as you lower the gun.
Leon pats your shoulders, "Not bad."
"But not good either." You pout dramatically. "Okay, let's go kick Victor Gideon's ass, Leon!" You grab his wrist and drag him up the stairs to another warped door—much to your delight.
Leon shakes his head as he pulls out his hatchet and starts prying the doors open. Once Leon successfully opens the door, you and Leon enter the room and look around to see many bodies with no heads. You immediately latch yourself against Leon, trembling as Leon picks up the paper on the ground.
"Burst their heads if you want to survive."
On cue, you and Leon hear the familiar screams of agony close to the entrance where you and Leon came. This is not what you expected when you got isekai'd into Resident Evil Requiem. Leon shields you from the blister head and starts shooting the head over and over until the zombie finally dies. He leads to the corner of the room where the other zombie lies and takes the shotgun shells and handgun ammo from the vase.
"Do you trust me?" Leon asks, loading his shotgun and handgun.
You nod. "Of course, I do." You answer.
"Good, cause you're going to need to trust me on this." Leon leans down and tosses you over his shoulders just when another blister head bursts through the door to the meeting room.
You squeeze your eyes shut and cling to Leon's torso as he shoots the blister heads and storms the meeting room, where another blister head is getting ready to charge at Leon. This is going to be a long night, and the worst thing is that you're not even sure if you'll return to your world after all this.
Note: I love how in almost every Leon fics I've typed out, I would be kicking my feet and twirling my hair cause I'm having the time of my life typing Leon fics. I completed insanity mode for RE9, and I feel like I've been through hell and back; I finished that game one minute faster than the standard classic mode, somehow. Every time I write a new Leon fic, I replay RE9 because I miss Leon and want to see him tied up. Anyway, to all my new and returning readers, keep in mind that I ONLY post on my Tumblr (Genshinluvr) and my AO3 (Aaliah_exo)! Nowhere else except Tumblr and AO3!
Read more of my works on my Grand Masterlist, which contains every masterlist I have created! | Maybe support me by tipping me on Ko-Fi or by reblogging my fanfics! ^^ I will also be posting exclusive fanfics on Ko-Fi as well very soon! I might post all of my stories there, too, but who knows? You can also tip me on Tumblr if you'd like, as a way to show support! ^^
Join the Discord to get future fic updates and connect with other readers, maybe?:) Raccoon City Sanctuary
synopsis: You die completely at random and wake up in the manhwa you were reading… as the villainous wife of the Duke of the North, no less. The same woman who spent the last six months giving her husband the cold shoulder, ruining their marriage, and basically speedrunning her own execution.
Now you have exactly one job: fix this disaster of a relationship before your husband decides to finish what the original plot started.
a\n: longest fic i’ve written so far. nearly lost my mind, almost scrapped it entirely, questioned every life choice that led me here, but somehow, against all odds… it’s done. so glad its over LOL
You died while reading a manhwa.
One moment you were curled up in bed at 3 a.m., a blanket pulled up to your chin, the only light in your dark room coming from your phone screen. Your eyes were glued to the latest chapter of The Duke’s Black Heart, thumb hovering over the final panel as frustration and reluctant longing twisted in your chest. The illustration was breathtakingly brutal: Duke Ryomen Sukuna standing tall amid swirling snow, pink hair tousled by the wind, crimson eyes empty of mercy, black tattoos stark against his skin as he looked down at the broken body of his wife.
The page loaded one last time. The panel filled your screen. Then your vision blurred, the room spun violently, and everything went black. No pain. No final breath. Just sudden, heavy nothing.
And then you woke up somewhere else.
Cold air rushes into your lungs, sharp and biting. Your eyes flutter open slowly, lashes feeling unusually heavy. You’re lying in a massive four-poster bed, the canopy above you made of thick crimson velvet that drapes down like heavy curtains. The silk sheets beneath you are cool and slippery against your skin in a way that feels far too expensive, far too unfamiliar. Thick blankets weighted with fur press down on your body, carrying a faint scent of woodsmoke and aged iron. Your limbs feel wrong — too slender, too delicate. When you lift your hands, they are smaller, with smooth palms and perfectly manicured nails that catch the dim morning light filtering through tall, frost-laced windows.
You push yourself up into a sitting position. The silk nightgown slips off one shoulder. A large, ornately framed mirror stands across the room, reflecting the lavish bedchamber: dark wood furniture, heavy tapestries on the walls, a fireplace crackling faintly in the corner. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone that sends a shiver racing up your spine.
You turn toward the mirror.
The face staring back at you is not your own. It is strikingly beautiful in a refined, aristocratic way that feels both alien and intimidating.
You have transmigrated.
You are now the villainess.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna’s wife of exactly six months.
The realization slams into you like ice water. Memories that don’t belong to you flood your mind in vivid, unrelenting flashes. The forced marriage ceremony under the Emperor’s decree. The wedding night where her body had lain stiff and unresponsive beneath his, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as she called him a beast under her breath and swore she would never allow him to touch her again. Six agonizing months of total, deliberate silence: never speaking a single word directly to him, never sharing his table, never sharing his bed. Only curt notes passed through servants, hidden schemes whispered to outsiders, and a cold, hateful distance that grew sharper every day. Sukuna’s contempt had hardened into something lethal.
In the original story, he kills her. Publicly. Brutally. Before the year is out — dragging her into the courtyard and ending her life with the same large, scarred hands you’ve fantasized about for months.
And now I’m her.
Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Panic explodes in your chest, tight and suffocating. Your hands fly up to press against your sternum, feeling the frantic thud of a heart that isn’t supposed to be yours. Cold sweat prickles along your hairline and down your back. The room feels smaller, the air thicker. If I don’t change this right now, he will kill me. I have to win him over — the man I’ve been completely obsessed with — before he decides I’m still that same woman who deserves to die.
The heavy wooden door creaks open. Two maids slip inside, heads bowed low, shoulders hunched like they’re expecting the worst. They carry a tray between them with a pitcher of steaming water, neatly folded linens, and a small bowl of scented oil. Their footsteps are quick but nearly silent on the cold stone floor, as if they’re trying to disturb you as little as possible.
“My Lady,” the older maid says quietly, almost whispering as she carefully sets the tray down on the side table. “We’re here to help you dress. Your usual silks today?”
You swallow and keep your voice soft. “No, not the silks. Something simpler and warmer, please. I’m going down to have breakfast with the Duke in the dining hall.”
The younger maid’s eyes go wide. She almost drops the pitcher, water sloshing dangerously over the rim and dripping onto the floor. “Breakfast… with His Grace?” she blurts, voice cracking with surprise. “In the dining hall?”
The older maid quickly elbows her and forces a nervous smile, though her hands are visibly shaking. “Are you sure, My Lady? He always eats alone. He might not… like it if you show up.”
You nod, sliding your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor is icy against your bare feet, sending a shiver up your legs. “I’m sure. Please help me get ready.” You pause, then add gently, “And thank you. Both of you.”
The maids go completely still. The younger one stares at you with her mouth slightly open, pitcher forgotten in her hands. The older one blinks rapidly, her hands freezing mid-air above the tray. They exchange a wide-eyed, startled glance, the kind that speaks volumes without a single word. The silence stretches for a long, awkward moment, thick with confusion and unease.
Finally, the older maid clears her throat. “Of course, My Lady. Right away.”
They hesitate for another heartbeat, still stealing uncertain glances at you, before hurrying into motion. Their hands are a little clumsier than usual as they help you out of the nightgown and into a heavy charcoal gown with long sleeves. The soft wool feels warm and comforting against the chill in the air. While they brush out your hair and pin it up in a simple style, they keep darting quick, nervous looks at your reflection in the mirror. The younger maid’s fingers tremble slightly as she works, and the older one’s breathing is a touch too shallow.
They finish dressing you in tense, heavy silence. Once they step back, you thank them again. They both bow deeply, still visibly unsettled, and you step out into the torch-lit corridor. Servants you pass press themselves flat against the walls, whispering frantically the moment your back is turned. Your heart hammers louder with every step toward the grand dining hall.
The massive double doors swing open with a low creak.
There he is.
Duke Ryomen Sukuna sits alone at the head of the long oak table. Pale morning light filters through the tall windows, casting sharp shadows across his face. Loose strands of pink hair have escaped their tie and fall across his forehead. His dark tunic stretches tight over broad, powerfully muscled shoulders, the collar open just enough to reveal the edges of intricate black tattoos that swirl across his collarbones and down his arms. Crimson eyes are narrowed in concentration as he cuts into a thick slab of meat with slow, deliberate strokes of his knife. Old scars mark the visible skin of his neck and the backs of his large, calloused hands. He radiates raw, quiet danger — the kind that makes the air feel heavier. This is the man you’ve spent months fantasizing about, the one whose every appearance in the manhwa made your pulse race.
You walk straight to the chair on his right — the seat that has stayed empty for the entire six months of your marriage — and sit down.
His knife stops mid-cut.
The silence is immediate and suffocating, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth fire.
Sukuna’s crimson gaze lifts slowly. It locks onto you with raw disbelief and burning disgust. His jaw clenches, the scar along his cheek tightening. For a long moment he simply stares, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re real or some new form of insult.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low and rough, laced with irritation.
You swallow hard, hands trembling under the table. You force a small, nervous smile and say softly, “Good morning, husband. I thought it might be nice to have breakfast together for once.”
The words hang in the air.
Sukuna’s expression darkens. He sets the knife down with a sharp clink that echoes through the hall. Slowly he rises to his full height, towering over you — tall, broad-chested, every inch the warlord who has killed without hesitation. The look he gives you is ice-cold.
“You thought it would be nice?” His voice is low, cold, and dripping with contempt. “Six fucking months you couldn’t even be bothered to speak to me… and now you suddenly decide to play house?”
He pushes the chair back with a harsh scrape and rises to his full height, towering over you. His large hand clenches so tightly around the back of the chair that the wood groans in protest.
“Just looking at you ruins my appetite.”
Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel. His cloak snaps behind him like a whip as he stalks out of the hall. The heavy doors slam shut with a deafening boom that echoes through the room and makes the silverware rattle on the table.
You’re left completely alone at the long table, staring at his abandoned plate as the food rapidly cools. Your heart pounds violently in your chest.
This is going to be so much harder than I thought.
But you don’t run. You pick up your fork with still-shaking fingers, take a small bite of the now-lukewarm food, and force yourself to swallow. A heavy, determined weight settles in your stomach alongside the food.
The rest of the morning dragged by in a haze of nervous energy. You moved carefully through the castle, speaking softly to the servants, thanking them for small things, and trying not to overwhelm anyone with your sudden change in behavior. Every time someone flinched or stared too long, your stomach twisted. You knew they were waiting for the old you to snap back into place.
By mid-afternoon the light outside had shifted to a softer gold, and the castle felt a little less oppressive. You decided it was time to try something more direct.
You found one of the kitchen maids and asked her to prepare a simple tray — strong black tea, warm bread, and a few slices of roasted meat. These were the things you remembered him enjoying in the manhwa, the small details you’d clung to while reading late at night. Nothing too elaborate. When the tray was ready, you took it yourself, ignoring the wide-eyed, startled looks from the staff as you carried it down the long corridor toward Sukuna’s private study. Your heart beat faster with every step.
Your heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to climb out of your throat. Two guards outside the heavy double doors stared at you in open confusion but didn’t stop you. You paused for a second, took a steadying breath, and knocked once.
A gruff “Come in” came from inside.
You pushed the door open and stepped into the study.
The room was exactly the kind of place you’d pictured him in — tall shelves lined with old books and rolled scrolls, a massive oak desk covered in maps and scattered letters, weapons mounted neatly on one wall. A fire burned low in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of smoke and polished leather. Sukuna sat behind the desk, quill in hand, pink hair tied back messily with a few loose strands falling forward. He didn’t look up right away, focused on whatever he was writing.
Then his crimson eyes flicked up.
The moment they landed on you holding the tray, the temperature in the room seemed to drop. His expression shifted from irritation to pure suspicion in a heartbeat.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice low and flat, like he was already tired of whatever game he thought you were playing.
You stepped further inside and carefully set the tray down on the edge of his desk, trying not to let your hands shake too obviously. “I noticed you didn’t eat anything at breakfast,” you said quietly. “So I brought some tea and a few things. It’s nothing fancy. I just thought… maybe you’d be hungry by now.”
Sukuna leaned back in his chair, studying you like you were a problem he couldn’t quite solve. The silence stretched out, thick and uncomfortable. He glanced at the tray, then back at your face.
“You brought me food,” he said slowly, almost like he was testing the words. “You suddenly show up with tea and bread like we’re… what? Friends now?”
He pushed his chair back and stood, circling around the desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing right in front of you. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to look at him. Up close he was even more overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, the faint scent of leather and steel and something darker, the way his broad shoulders seemed to fill the space between you.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “I know I’ve been terrible to you,” you said, voice soft but steady. “I don’t expect you to believe me right away. I just… I want to try and do better. That’s all.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened. He reached out and picked up one of the slices of bread, turning it over in his large hand as if checking it for poison. Then he dropped it back onto the tray with a quiet scoff.
“You want to try,” he repeated, the words laced with disbelief and a sharp edge of mockery. “How convenient. Tell me, wife — what exactly changed overnight? Did someone put you up to this?”
His hand suddenly came up, fingers gripping your chin firmly but not harshly, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. His touch was warm, rough from years of fighting, and the closeness made your pulse spike.
“Or are you just scared I’ll finally do what everyone’s been expecting me to do for months?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Your breath caught. Being this close to him — feeling the intensity rolling off him in waves — made fear and something far more complicated twist together in your stomach.
“I’m not here to scheme,” you whispered. “I just don’t want things to keep being like this.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy moment. His thumb brushed once over your jaw, almost absentmindedly, before he let go and stepped back.
“Get out,” he said, the words cold but quieter than you expected. “And take your pity tray with you.”
He didn’t move away any further. He stayed standing there, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with dark, unreadable eyes — like he was waiting to see whether you would actually leave… or do something else.
You didn’t argue.
You simply picked up the tray with both hands, gave him a small nod, and left the study without another word. The heavy doors clicked shut behind you. The hallway felt longer than usual as you walked back toward your chambers, the tray growing heavier with every step.
Once inside your room, you set the tray down on a side table and closed the door. Then you sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.
That went badly.
You let out a slow breath, rubbing your hands over your thighs. The memory of Sukuna’s cold stare and dismissive words kept replaying in your head. He hadn’t even touched the food. He’d barely listened.
Of course he didn’t. Months of silence doesn’t just disappear because I brought him tea.
You leaned back on your hands, looking up at the canopy above the bed. The situation felt heavier now. Fixing this relationship was going to be a lot harder than you’d hoped. He clearly still saw you as the same person who had ignored and schemed against him for half a year. And why wouldn’t he?
If you couldn’t turn this around, things were only going to get worse. You didn’t want to think about how the original story ended, but the possibility lingered in the back of your mind anyway.
You sat there for a while, the afternoon light slowly shifting across the room. Eventually you stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out at the grounds. Your mind kept turning over what to try next. Another small gesture? Giving him more space? Something else entirely?
It was going to take time. A lot of it. And patience you weren’t sure you had.
You sighed quietly and moved away from the window, already thinking about what you could do tomorrow.
The next morning arrived quietly.
You woke earlier than usual, the soft grey light filtering through the tall windows pulling you from a restless sleep. For a few minutes you lay there, staring at the velvet canopy above the bed, thinking about yesterday. The rejections still stung, but you refused to give up after just one bad day.
You got up, washed, and chose a simple but elegant deep-grey gown. After eating a light breakfast alone in your room, you decided on a different approach today. No trays, no forcing your way into his meals. Just quiet presence.
You made your way to the castle’s main library — a spacious, peaceful room lined with tall shelves of books and scrolls. You picked a thick volume on regional history from the shelves and settled into a comfortable chair near the window where the light was good. Not too close to his usual spot, but not hiding either.
About an hour later, the door opened.
Sukuna walked in, still wearing his cloak from whatever business he’d been handling outside. He stopped short when he saw you already there, book open in your lap.
For a brief second his expression flickered with surprise before settling back into that familiar guarded look.
“You’re here too now,” he said, voice flat as he moved toward the large table in the center of the room. He pulled out a chair and sat down, spreading some documents in front of him. “Is there anywhere in this castle that’s still mine?”
You closed your book slowly and looked up at him.
“I can leave if you want,” you offered calmly. “I just thought it might be nice to read in here. It’s quiet.”
Sukuna didn’t tell you to go. He leaned back in his chair and studied you for a moment, crimson eyes sharp and assessing.
“You’ve been talking quite a bit these past two days,” he said, tone dry. “More than I’m used to.”
You gave a small, honest shrug. “I know. I’m trying to change that.”
He tapped his fingers once against the table, watching you openly now. “Trying,” he echoed, like he was testing the word. “That’s what you keep saying. But I still don’t know why.”
You hesitated, then answered simply, “Because I don’t like how things have been between us. And I think we could be… better. If we tried.”
Sukuna let out a short, humorless breath and leaned back further, still studying you.
“Better,” he repeated. “That’s a bold claim.” He paused, then added quietly, “Don’t get your hopes up. I’m not interested in pretending.”
But he didn’t ask you to leave.
You stayed in the library for another hour, reading in silence while he worked across from you. He didn’t speak again, but every so often you caught him glancing in your direction — wary, confused, and just a little unsettled.
It wasn’t much.
But it also wasn’t outright rejection.
You stayed in the library for another hour, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of paper and the soft crackle of the fire. You kept your eyes mostly on your book, though you were barely absorbing the words. Every now and then you felt Sukuna’s gaze on you — heavy, searching, and still full of suspicion.
Eventually, he set his quill down with a quiet tap. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his broad chest as he looked at you directly.
“If you’re serious about wanting to fix things,” he said, voice low and even, “then maybe you should start by actually appearing publicly with me.”
You looked up from your book, surprised. He continued before you could respond.
“There’s a ball tomorrow night at the capital. I’m expected to attend.” He paused, studying your reaction. “Rumors have already reached half the empire that my wife hates me. It would be good to change the public perception a little. At least act like a fucking couple for once.”
The invitation — if it could even be called that — hung in the air. It wasn’t warm or romantic. It was a test, plain and simple.
You closed your book slowly and met his eyes. “I’ll go with you,” you said without hesitation. “If that’s what you want.”
Sukuna watched you for a long moment, as if waiting for you to take it back. When you didn’t, something unreadable flickered across his face.
“Good,” he said simply. Then he stood up, gathering some of his documents. “Be ready by evening tomorrow. Don’t make me wait.”
He headed toward the door, cloak shifting over his shoulders. Just before he left, he paused and glanced back at you one last time.
“And try not to embarrass me,” he added, though his tone was less biting than before. Almost… cautious.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet library once again.
You let out a long breath and leaned back in your chair, heart still racing. A public ball. Tomorrow. With Sukuna.
This was a big step — and a dangerous one. You’d have to be careful. Very careful.
But it was also an opportunity. A chance to stand beside him in front of everyone and start showing that you were different.
You stood up, clutching the book to your chest, a mix of nerves and quiet determination settling in your stomach.
Tomorrow it is.
The next day passed in a quiet blur of nerves and preparation.
You spent most of the afternoon trying not to overthink everything, but as evening approached, the anxiety crept in anyway. When the maids finally arrived to help you get ready, they moved around your room with careful, slightly confused energy — still adjusting to this gentler version of their mistress.
You chose a deep crimson gown made of rich, heavy silk that flowed elegantly to the floor. It had long, fitted sleeves and a modestly elegant neckline that showed just enough collarbone to feel refined rather than daring. The maids helped you into it, lacing the back with steady fingers while you stood in front of the large mirror. The fabric felt cool and luxurious against your skin, the color bringing out a quiet intensity you hadn’t expected.
They brushed your hair until it gleamed, working through every tangle with patient strokes. Most of it was pinned up into an elegant style with delicate silver pins, but they left a few soft strands loose to frame your face. One of the maids added a simple but beautiful necklace with a single dark gem that rested just below your collarbone, along with matching earrings. A touch of rose-tinted balm was applied to your lips, and a light dusting of powder to even your complexion.
You stared at your reflection the entire time, heart beating faster. This version of you looked every bit the refined duchess — poised, beautiful, and completely unlike the cold, silent woman the public had come to expect at Sukuna’s side.
“You look beautiful, My Lady,” the older maid said softly as she stepped back, a hint of genuine surprise in her voice.
“Thank you,” you replied quietly, smoothing your hands down the front of the gown. Inside, your stomach was in knots. This would be your first real public appearance with Sukuna. Everyone would be watching. Waiting for the usual tension or outright disdain they’d grown used to seeing between the Duke and his wife.
A firm knock sounded at the door.
“He’s ready for you, My Lady,” a servant called from the hallway.
You took one last steadying breath, thanked the maids again, and stepped out.
Sukuna was waiting in the main hall, dressed in formal black with subtle gold embroidery along the collar and cuffs. His pink hair was neatly tied back, and the sight of him in full formal attire made your chest tighten. He looked every bit the powerful duke — tall, imposing, and dangerously handsome.
His crimson eyes swept over you slowly, from head to toe. For a moment his expression was unreadable.
“You’re actually coming,” he said, voice low. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I said I would,” you replied simply.
He gave a short nod, then offered his arm. The gesture felt stiff, like he was still testing whether you’d take it or pull away at the last second.
You slipped your hand through his arm without hesitation. His muscles were tense beneath your fingers, but he didn’t pull away.
As you walked together toward the waiting carriage, he spoke again, keeping his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“People talk. A lot. If we’re going to do this, at least try to look like you don’t hate being next to me.”
You glanced up at him. “I don’t hate it.”
Sukuna didn’t respond, but his grip on your arm tightened just slightly — not painful, just… firmer. Like he was anchoring himself.
The carriage ride to the capital was quiet, the only sounds being the wheels on the road and the occasional shift of fabric. Sukuna sat across from you, watching the passing scenery with a distant expression. Every so often his gaze would drift back to you, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were really there.
When the carriage finally slowed to a stop outside the grand hall, music and warm light spilled out into the night. You could already hear the murmur of voices and feel the weight of the eyes that would soon be on both of you.
Sukuna stepped out first, then offered his hand to help you down. His palm was warm and steady against yours.
“Ready?” he asked, voice gruff.
You nodded, slipping your hand back into the crook of his arm.
“Then let’s go act like a fucking couple.”
The grand hall glowed under hundreds of crystal chandeliers, casting warm golden light across marble floors and velvet-draped walls. Music from a full orchestra swelled through the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, and the rustle of silk and satin gowns. The scent of expensive perfumes, fresh flowers, and roasted meats from the banquet tables hung heavy in the room.
The moment you and Sukuna stepped through the tall arched entrance together, the entire atmosphere shifted.
Conversations faltered. Heads turned. A ripple of surprised murmurs spread through the crowd like a wave.
You felt every eye on you. Some were curious, some shocked, many openly calculating. The Duke and Duchess of the North rarely appeared together in public — and when they had in the past, it had always been marked by cold distance and icy silence.
Tonight was different.
Sukuna’s arm was solid beneath your fingers as he guided you forward. His posture was straight and commanding, every inch the powerful Duke Sukuna the empire feared and respected. You stayed close, your hand resting lightly but deliberately on his arm, chin lifted with quiet confidence.
A portly lord with a heavy gold chain and an embroidered waistcoat approached first, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace, Duke Sukuna,” he said smoothly, then turned to you with a slightly wider smile. “And Duchess… what an unexpected pleasure to see you both together this evening.”
Sukuna gave a curt nod. “My wife wished to attend. I saw no reason to refuse her.”
The lord’s eyebrows rose, but he recovered quickly. “How wonderful. The two of you make quite the striking pair tonight. The Duke and Duchess of the North, united at last.”
You offered a polite, gentle smile. “Thank you, my lord. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Sukuna’s arm tensed slightly under your hand, but he didn’t pull away. As the lord moved on, more nobles drifted closer, drawn by the unusual sight. You heard the whispers clearly now.
“...the Duke and Duchess actually look civil…”
“I thought she hated him…”
“Look at them. She’s practically standing with him…”
Sukuna kept you close the entire time, one large hand occasionally resting at the small of your back as you moved through the hall. The touch was possessive, almost protective, even if his face remained cool and composed.
Later, when the orchestra struck up a slower, more intimate melody, Sukuna leaned down, his voice low against your ear.
“Dance with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
You nodded. He led you onto the polished floor, one broad hand settling firmly on your waist while the other held yours. He moved with surprising grace for someone of his size and power — confident, controlled, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. You followed his lead, hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his palm burning through the silk of your gown, the solid wall of his chest so close to yours, the faint scent of leather and smoke that clung to him.
For a few moments the rest of the room seemed to fade.
“You’re doing better than I expected,” he muttered, voice barely audible over the music. His crimson eyes flicked down to meet yours. “People are staring less like they’re waiting for us to start arguing in the middle of the floor.”
You looked up at him, a small genuine smile tugging at your lips. “I told you I wanted to try.”
His grip on your waist tightened just slightly. His thumb brushed once over the fabric of your gown, almost absentmindedly.
“Don’t get comfortable,” he said, though there was less bite in his tone than usual. “This doesn’t mean I trust you yet.”
“I know,” you replied softly. “But thank you for giving me the chance anyway.”
Sukuna didn’t answer. But he also didn’t let go of you when the song ended. Instead, he kept his hand on your lower back as he guided you off the floor, staying closer than strictly necessary.
A short while later, a group of older lords approached Sukuna. One of them — a tall man with silver hair and sharp features — gave a respectful bow.
“Your Grace, if we could steal a moment of your time? There are some matters regarding the northern border that require your input.”
Sukuna’s jaw tightened for a brief second. He glanced down at you, then back at the lords.
“Fine,” he said curtly. “I won’t be long.”
Before he stepped away, he leaned in close to your ear, voice low. “Stay here. Don’t wander off.”
You nodded. His hand lingered on your waist for one extra second before he pulled away and followed the group toward a quieter side balcony for their discussion.
Suddenly, you were alone.
You stood near the edge of the dance floor, champagne glass in hand, trying to look more relaxed than you felt. The weight of curious stares hadn’t faded. A few noblewomen still whispered behind their fans, and every so often someone would glance your way with open speculation.
A deep, smooth voice spoke from your left.
“Duchess, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of a proper introduction tonight.”
You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and sharp green eyes watching you with a lazy, confident smile. He was dressed in deep emerald and black, a marquess’s insignia pinned neatly to his lapel.
“Marquess Toji Fushiguro,” he introduced himself with a respectful bow of his head. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you over the years. Though I must say, seeing you here with the Duke tonight is… refreshing.”
His tone was warm and easy, without any obvious scheming edge. You felt yourself relax just a little.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marquess,” you replied with a small smile. “I’ve heard your name mentioned before. You handle the eastern trade routes, don’t you?”
Toji’s smile widened, looking genuinely pleased that you knew. “I do. Though I’m surprised you’re familiar with such dull matters. Most duchesses prefer to stay far away from trade talk.”
The conversation flowed surprisingly well. He was charming in a straightforward, slightly roguish way — asking light questions about the northern estates, commenting on the music, and even making a dry joke about how stiff most balls tended to be. You found yourself smiling more naturally, the tension in your shoulders easing as you chatted. For the first time that evening, talking to someone felt… comfortable.
Toji tilted his head slightly, green eyes glinting with curiosity. “If I may be bold, Duchess — you seem different tonight than what the rumors suggested. Happier, perhaps?”
You were about to respond when a large, familiar hand suddenly slid around your waist from behind, fingers gripping your hip with clear possessiveness. A warm, solid body pressed against your back, and you didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Sukuna.
His grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest in one smooth motion. The heat of his body seeped through the silk of your gown, and his thumb brushed slowly over your hip bone — a blatant, territorial claim.
Toji’s easy smile faltered for half a second before he recovered, inclining his head respectfully.
“Duke Sukuna,” he greeted calmly. “I was just keeping your wife company while you were occupied.”
Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous, rumbling against your back. “I can see that.” His hand stayed firmly on your hip, fingers pressing in just enough to make a point. “Though I don’t recall asking anyone to entertain my duchess.”
You felt the tension rolling off him in waves. His other arm came around your other side, almost caging you against him in front of the entire hall.
Toji raised an eyebrow, still perfectly civil. “No offense meant, Your Grace. It was an honor speaking with the Duchess.”
Sukuna didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke loud enough for Toji to hear.
“We’re leaving this conversation,” he said flatly. Then, louder, “Come, wife.”
Sukuna didn’t stop walking until he had guided you into a quieter corner of the grand hall, partially shielded by a tall marble pillar and heavy crimson velvet drapes. The music and chatter of the ball felt distant now, muffled. His hand never left your hip. If anything, his grip tightened, fingers digging possessively into the silk of your gown as though he needed the contact to ground himself.
He turned you to face him with surprising care, then backed you gently but firmly against the cool marble pillar. One large hand stayed locked on your waist while the other came up to brace beside your head, effectively caging you in. His body heat enveloped you instantly — warm, solid, and overwhelming. The faint scent of smoke, leather, and something darker clung to him, making your pulse stutter.
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, almost a growl. His crimson eyes burned down into yours with unmistakable intensity. “Laughing with him like the two of you were old friends. Did you forget you’re here with me tonight?”
The jealousy in his tone was unmistakable — sharp, dark, and barely leashed.
You kept your voice calm, though your heart was racing. “We were only talking. He was civil. Nothing more.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched visibly. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles over the curve of your hip through the thin silk, a possessive caress that sent heat rushing across your skin.
“Civil,” he repeated, the word laced with pure disdain. “I saw the way he looked at you. The way he smiled at you.”
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, voice dropping into something dangerously intimate. “And here I thought you were trying to mend our relationship. Yet the second I turn my back, you’re chatting and smiling with another man like it means nothing.”
His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his chest. You could feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the barely restrained frustration rolling off him in waves. One of his fingers slipped just beneath the edge of your gown, brushing bare skin at your hip — a deliberate, claiming touch.
“I don’t like sharing what’s mine,” he growled softly, lips brushing your ear. “Especially not with bastards like Toji Fushiguro.”
You swallowed hard, breath shallow. “I wasn’t trying to make you jealous. I was just being polite while you were busy.”
Sukuna let out a low, dangerous sound in the back of his throat — half a scoff, half a laugh. His free hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to meet his burning crimson gaze.
“Polite,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly along your jawline. “You’re lucky I didn’t drag you out of here the moment I saw his hand move toward you.”
His eyes dropped to your lips for a long, heavy second. The air between you felt charged, electric, like the tension might snap at any moment. For a heartbeat you thought he might kiss you right there — hard, claiming, in full view of everyone still watching from across the hall.
Instead, he leaned in until his lips ghosted against your ear again.
“Next time someone approaches you while I’m gone,” he said, voice dark and velvet-rough, “you tell them you belong to me. Clearly. Because if I have to remind them myself… I won’t be nearly as polite.”
His fingers flexed on your hip in one final, possessive squeeze — a silent promise — before he slowly stepped back. His hand remained at the small of your back, heavy and unrelenting.
The music swelled again around you.
Sukuna’s expression smoothed into something cooler and more composed for the public eye, but the heat in his eyes stayed locked on you.
“Come,” he said, voice still low. “We’re dancing again. And this time, you’re not leaving my side for the rest of the night.”
Sukuna led you back onto the dance floor without another word, his hand firm on your waist, pulling you closer than strictly proper for a public setting. The orchestra had shifted into a slower, more intimate melody — strings and soft piano weaving through the air. Couples swirled around you, but you barely noticed them. All you could focus on was the heat of Sukuna’s body pressed against yours, the way his fingers splayed possessively across your lower back, and the unmistakable tension radiating from him.
He moved with controlled grace, guiding you effortlessly through the steps. Your bodies were flush together, chest to chest, his thigh occasionally brushing yours as you turned. Every point of contact felt electric.
“You’re quiet now,” he murmured, voice low enough that only you could hear. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense. “What happened to all that polite conversation you were having with the marquess?”
You tilted your head slightly to meet his gaze. “You told me not to leave your side. I’m listening.”
A low sound rumbled in his chest — not quite a laugh. His hand slid lower on your back, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath hitch.
“Good girl,” he said softly, almost mockingly, though the heat in his eyes was anything but. “Keep listening. I don’t want to see you smiling at anyone else like that tonight.”
The jealousy was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. You could feel it in the way he held you — tighter than necessary, almost like he was daring anyone to try approaching you again.
As you turned under his arm and came back into his embrace, he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“He thought he had a chance,” he continued, voice rough. “Like he didn’t know exactly who you belong to.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “Maybe I need to make it clearer.”
Your heart hammered against your ribs. Being this close to him — surrounded by the swirl of music and watching eyes — made everything feel heightened. The scent of him, the solid strength of his body, the barely restrained possessiveness in every touch.
“Sukuna…” you started softly.
He cut you off by pulling you even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His breath was warm against your temple.
“You wanted to mend things,” he reminded you, tone dark. “Then stop giving other men reasons to think they can talk to my wife like that. Smile at me. Stay close to me.”
The song began to slow, but Sukuna didn’t release you. He kept you locked in his arms even as other couples started drifting apart. His hand slid up your back, fingers tracing your spine through the silk, a silent claim in front of the entire hall.
When the music finally faded, he didn’t let go right away. He stared down at you, crimson eyes heavy with something dangerous and hungry.
“We’re leaving,” he said abruptly, voice low. “I’ve had enough of these people watching us.”
He didn’t wait for your agreement. His hand stayed firmly at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd toward the exit. Nobles parted for him instinctively, eyes wide at the sight of the Duke and Duchess leaving together so early — and so obviously entangled.
The cool night air hit you the moment you stepped outside. Sukuna kept you close as you waited for the carriage, his arm wrapped around your waist like he still wasn’t ready to stop touching you.
Once inside the carriage, he sat beside you instead of across from you. The door had barely closed before his hand was back on your thigh, gripping possessively through the fabric of your gown.
The carriage started moving, carrying you both back toward the estate through the dark roads. Sukuna’s hand remained on your thigh the entire ride, heavy and warm — a silent reminder of exactly who you belonged to.
By the time it finally rolled to a stop in front of the castle, the moon hung high in the sky. The journey had been quiet, thick with lingering tension. Sukuna hadn’t spoken a word, but his grip on your thigh never loosened.
When the footman opened the door, Sukuna stepped out first and offered you his hand. You took it, letting him help you down onto the stone steps. The cool night air felt refreshing after the stuffy ballroom, but it did little to calm the nerves fluttering in your stomach.
He walked you inside, his hand resting possessively at the small of your back the whole way through the dimly lit halls. Servants bowed and quickly disappeared when they saw you both. The castle felt unusually still.
When you reached the point where the corridors split — one leading to his private wing, the other to yours — Sukuna stopped. He turned to face you, his expression unreadable in the low torchlight.
“You did well tonight,” he admitted grudgingly, staring at you for a long moment before glancing away. “But if I see him — or anyone else — near you again like that…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Sukuna gave a short nod, almost like he was dismissing you. “Goodnight.”
He turned to leave, heading toward his own chambers.
You stood there for a second, heart pounding, before the words slipped out — soft, shy, and a little nervous.
“Wait…”
Sukuna paused, looking back at you over his shoulder.
You swallowed, cheeks warming as you forced yourself to speak. “You know… we can’t really fix things as a couple if we keep sleeping separately"
The words hung in the air between you. They sounded bolder than you felt.
Sukuna went completely still. For several long seconds he simply stared at you, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. The silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but something darker, more dangerous.
“Is that so?” he said, voice low and rough. He took one step back toward you, then another, until he was standing close again. “You’re asking to sleep in my bed now?”
He tilted his head, studying your face like he was trying to find the trick in your words. His hand came up, fingers lightly brushing your jaw as he looked down at you.
“Careful, wife,” he murmured, thumb tracing your lower lip. “You keep pushing like this… I might start thinking you actually mean it.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second before returning to your eyes. The tension between you crackled again, even stronger than it had been at the ball.
Sukuna didn’t move away. He waited, watching you closely, as if daring you to take it back… or push further.
The silence stretched, heavy and charged. His thumb was still resting against your lower lip, warm and rough, while his crimson eyes searched your face for any sign of deception. You could practically feel the suspicion rolling off him in waves.
Finally, he let out a slow breath, almost a scoff.
“…Fine,” he said, voice low and guarded. “If that’s what you want.”
He stepped back slightly, but his hand stayed on your waist, fingers still gripping you with quiet possessiveness. His expression remained cold, cautious, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Don’t expect this to mean anything,” he added, tone flat. “I’m still not convinced you’ve changed. But if you’re so determined to play the part of a real wife… then come.”
He turned and started walking down the corridor toward his private wing, keeping his hand on the small of your back to guide you along with him. The touch was firm — not gentle, but not forceful either. It felt like both an invitation and a test.
The halls were quiet at this hour, lit only by flickering torches. Every step echoed softly. Sukuna didn’t speak again until you reached the heavy wooden doors to his chambers. He pushed them open without hesitation and stepped inside, holding the door for you.
His rooms were large and unmistakably his — dark wood furniture, a massive bed with black silk sheets, a low fire burning in the hearth, weapons and scrolls neatly arranged on shelves. It smelled faintly of smoke and leather.
Sukuna closed the door behind you with a heavy click. He leaned against it for a moment, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with that same calculating stare.
“You wanted this,” he said quietly, almost like he was reminding both of you. “So here we are.”
He pushed off the door and walked further into the room, loosening the ties on his formal tunic as he went. The movement was casual, but you could feel the tension still radiating from him.
“Get comfortable,” he told you, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His voice was low, almost seductive, but the suspicion never fully left his eyes.
He didn’t say anything else. He simply waited, watching to see what you would do now that you were truly alone with him in his space.
You stood there for a moment, suddenly very aware of how large his chambers felt and how small you felt inside them. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting warm light across the dark wood and black silk sheets. The air smelled like him — smoke, leather, and something faintly metallic.
You swallowed and moved toward the side of the room where a large wardrobe stood. One of the maids had already brought a few of your things here earlier, as if the servants had anticipated this. You picked out a simple black silk nightgown and hesitated.
Sukuna had turned away slightly, pulling off his formal tunic and tossing it over the back of a chair. The movement revealed the strong lines of his back and the black tattoos swirling across his skin. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he was still aware of every move you made.
You changed quickly behind the privacy screen in the corner, the silk cool against your skin. When you stepped out, Sukuna was already sitting on the edge of the massive bed, wearing only loose black pants. His pink hair was untied now, falling messily around his face. He looked up when you approached.
For a long second he just stared.
Then he let out a slow breath and patted the space beside him.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
You walked over and climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under your weight. Sukuna watched you the entire time, suspicion still clear in his crimson eyes even as he pulled the covers back for you.
You slipped under the sheets, lying on your back. The silk felt cool and smooth. Sukuna stayed sitting for another moment, then finally lay down beside you. The bed was large, but he took up so much space that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He turned onto his side, facing you. One arm rested above his head while the other lay between you, close enough that his fingers almost brushed your arm.
The silence was heavy.
“You’re really here,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze traced your face, still guarded. “In my bed.”
He reached out slowly and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes remained cold and watchful.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he said quietly. “If this is another game… I won’t be kind about it.”
Then he shifted closer. Not enough to touch fully, but close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin. He didn’t pull you into his arms. He simply laid there, watching you like he was waiting for you to prove something — or reveal your true intentions.
The fire crackled softly in the background. The weight of his presence beside you made it hard to relax, but you stayed there, heart beating steadily.
Sukuna’s voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.
“Sleep, wife. We’ll see how long this little performance of yours lasts.”
He didn’t close his eyes right away. He kept watching you in the dim firelight, guarded, suspicious… and just a little intrigued.
Morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains, pale and hazy, casting long golden stripes across the dark wooden floor. You woke slowly, cocooned in warmth that felt both foreign and strangely comforting. Sukuna’s arm was draped heavily over your waist, his broad chest pressed against your back, one leg loosely tangled with yours beneath the black silk sheets. His breathing was deep and steady, the faint rise and fall of his chest brushing against you with every inhale.
For a long moment you didn’t move. This was the first time you’d ever woken up beside him — sharing the same bed, the same space, the same air. Your heart beat a little too fast as the reality settled in. The Duke of the North was holding you in his sleep, even if it was only out of habit or unconscious possession.
Sukuna stirred a few minutes later. His arm tightened around your waist for a brief second, pulling you closer on instinct, before his body went still. You felt the exact moment consciousness returned to him — the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his muscles tensed ever so slightly against your back.
He didn’t pull away immediately.
“You’re still here,” he said quietly, voice low and rough with sleep. There was a hint of genuine surprise beneath the words. “Figured you’d sneak back to your own room before I woke up.”
You turned your head slightly on the pillow to look at him. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, messy pink hair falling across his forehead. Up close like this, without the usual cold mask, he looked almost human — though the sharp suspicion in his gaze reminded you he was anything but.
“I told you I wanted this,” you replied softly.
Sukuna let out a slow breath, almost a huff. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you properly. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles over the silk of your nightgown. The touch was light, but you could feel the weight of his attention — guarded, calculating, searching for any crack in your resolve.
He watched you for a long, heavy moment, suspicion still clear in his expression. The silence between you felt intimate and fragile at the same time. His fingers flexed once against your waist before relaxing again.
“Don’t get too used to this,” he said eventually, tone flat but not cruel. “One night doesn’t fix anything. One night doesn’t make me trust you.”
Then, almost like he couldn’t help himself, he added more quietly, “But… you can stay for breakfast if you want.”
Sukuna rolled away and got out of bed, stretching his powerful arms above his head. The morning light traced every line of muscle and the intricate black tattoos that covered his shoulders, chest, and back. He moved with the casual confidence of someone completely at ease in his own space, yet you could still feel the tension humming beneath his skin.
God, he’s even hotter in person… no wonder I was obsessed.
He grabbed a fresh tunic but didn’t put it on. Instead, he leaned against the wardrobe, watching you in his sheets with that dark, cautious gaze. The fire had burned low, leaving the room quiet and heavy with unspoken tension.
Sukuna tilted his head slightly. “Well?” he asked, voice still rough from sleep. “Are you going to lie there all morning?”
You didn’t make him wait long.
You slipped out of bed, the black silk nightgown clinging lightly to your skin as you moved. The morning air in the chamber felt cooler than the warmth of the sheets you’d just left. Sukuna watched you the entire time from where he leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable but intense.
“Breakfast will be brought here,” he said simply, voice still rough from sleep. “No need to go to the main hall today.”
A short while later, servants arrived with silver trays. They moved quickly and quietly, setting the table near the tall windows with practiced care — a pot of strong black tea, warm crusty bread, thick slices of roasted meat, fresh berries, and a small dish of honey. The scent of the food filled the room, warm and savory. They kept their eyes lowered, clearly unsettled by the sight of you in the Duke’s private chambers wearing only a nightgown and robe, but they left without a single word.
Sukuna sat down first. You took the seat across from him.
The morning light streamed in through the tall windows, casting a soft golden glow across the table and highlighting the sharp angles of his face. It traced the black tattoos visible at the open collar of his tunic and the faint scars on his hands as he picked up his knife. For several long minutes, the only sounds were the quiet clink of silverware and the distant crackle from the hearth.
Finally, Sukuna set his knife down with a quiet click and leaned back in his chair, crimson eyes locking onto you with that familiar guarded intensity.
“So,” he said, voice low and guarded, “what made you change?”
You looked up from your plate, heart skipping a beat. Just died and woke up in the body of the woman you’re supposed to kill. No big deal.
There was no point in holding back anymore.
“I like you,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”
Sukuna stared at you for a long, heavy beat. Then he let out a short, bitter laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Bullshit.”
The word landed blunt and cold. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching you with sharp suspicion.
“You expect me to believe that? After months of silence, after treating me like I was beneath you, after making sure everyone knew how much you despised this marriage… you suddenly like me?” His voice dripped with disbelief. “Try again.”
You didn’t look away. Your voice stayed quiet but steady.
“No, really,” you said. “I do. I like you. That’s why I’m trying so hard.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. He studied your face like he was searching for the lie, the manipulation, the trick. The silence stretched between you, thick and tense. His fingers tapped once against the edge of the table before he leaned back again, the corner of his mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk.
“Okay, little liar,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Then prove it to me.”
You blinked, heat rising to your cheeks.
“Prove it to you…?” you repeated softly, the words coming out a little breathless.
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, but his eyes stayed sharp and watchful. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table, closing some of the distance between you.
“Yes,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost velvet-smooth. “Prove it. You say you like me. You say you want to fix this marriage. So show me.”
His gaze drifted slowly down to your mouth, then back up to your eyes. The air between you felt heavier now, warmer. He reached across the table and brushed his fingers lightly against the back of your hand, the touch deceptively gentle.
“You’re in my chambers. In my bed,” he continued, thumb tracing a slow line over your knuckles. “If you’re actually serious… then stop hiding behind pretty words and prove it.”
His touch lingered, possessive but controlled, sending a slow shiver up your arm. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he watched your reaction closely, crimson eyes dark with suspicion and something much hotter underneath.
“Prove it, wife,” he said again, voice low and seductive. “I’m right here. Show me how much you like me.”
The breakfast table suddenly felt far too small. The tension had shifted — still laced with his suspicion, but now crackling with slow, deliberate heat as he waited for you to make the next move.
Your pulse thundered under his thumb. You could feel the weight of his stare, the way his crimson eyes darkened as they traced your face, your lips, the line of your throat. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, but it still felt like he had you pinned.
You swallowed, heat blooming across your cheeks and down your neck.
“…How?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended. “How do you want me to prove it?”
Sukuna’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous. He leaned in a little closer across the table, his thumb still stroking lazy circles over your knuckles.
“That’s the fun part,” he murmured. “You figure it out. You’re the one claiming you like me. So show me what that looks like.”
His free hand moved, reaching across to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was almost gentle, but his fingers lingered at the side of your neck, tracing lightly down the column of your throat before pulling away.
“You can start by coming here,” he said, voice low and commanding. He pushed his chair back slightly and patted his thigh once. “Don’t make me ask twice.”
Your breath caught. Heart racing, you stood up slowly and rounded the table. The moment you were close enough, Sukuna’s hand caught your wrist and pulled you down onto his lap. He settled you sideways across his thighs, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while the other rested on your leg, fingers splayed possessively over your thigh.
Up close like this, you could feel the heat of his body, the solid strength of his chest against your side, the way his breath brushed your temple.
“Better,” he said, voice rough. His hand slid slowly up your thigh, stopping just below the hem of your nightgown. “Now… show me.”
He tilted his head, lips hovering near your jaw.
“Kiss me,” he ordered softly. “Like you mean it. Like you actually want your husband.”
His crimson eyes were locked on yours, still guarded, still waiting for the lie to slip through. But beneath the suspicion, there was clear hunger — dark and patient, daring you to close the distance.
Sukuna’s fingers flexed on your thigh, a silent reminder of his patience running thin.
“Well, wife?” he murmured, voice velvet-rough against your skin. “I’m waiting.”
You didn’t hesitate any longer.
Leaning in, you pressed your lips to his. The kiss started soft — tentative on your end, testing. Sukuna stayed still for half a second, as if surprised you’d actually done it.
Then he took control.
His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you harder against his mouth. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry and demanding. His tongue swept past your lips, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrated against you. He tasted like black tea and heat, and the way he kissed you was nothing short of possessive — like he was trying to erase every other man who had ever looked at you.
You gasped into his mouth. Sukuna used the opening to tilt your head and kiss you deeper, tongue stroking yours with slow, filthy intent. His other hand gripped your thigh tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you more firmly onto his lap until you were straddling him.
“Better,” he rasped against your lips when he finally pulled back just enough to breathe. His crimson eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “But not enough.”
He kissed you again, harder this time. One hand slipped under the hem of your nightgown, palm sliding up your bare thigh, pushing the silk higher and higher until his fingers brushed the edge of your underwear. He didn’t go further yet — just teased, stroking the sensitive skin there while his mouth moved to your jaw, then down to your neck.
“You say you like me,” he growled against your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Then prove how much.”
He sucked on your skin, hard enough to leave a mark, and you couldn’t stop the soft moan that escaped you. Sukuna’s grip on your thigh tightened in response, and you felt him growing hard beneath you, the thick length pressing against your core through his pants.
Your hands moved on instinct, sliding up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic. He made a low, approving sound and rocked his hips up once, grinding against you deliberately.
“Touch me,” he ordered, voice rough. “If you’re serious, then fucking touch me.”
You obeyed, sliding your hands under his tunic, palms running over the hard planes of his stomach and the tattoos that covered his skin. His muscles tensed under your touch. Sukuna rewarded you by biting down on your neck again, then soothing the spot with his tongue.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing heavy, eyes burning.
“Keep going,” he said, voice dark and commanding. His hands gripping your ass firmly as he pulled you down harder against his growing erection. “Show me exactly how much you want your husband.”
His hips rolled up deliberately, grinding the thick ridge of his cock against your clit in slow, filthy circles. The friction was maddening, heat building fast between you.
You moaned into his mouth. The sound seemed to snap something in him.
He growled low in his throat and rocked you harder against him. “Fuck,” he rasped against your lips, breath hot. “You’re already so wet for me.”
One large hand slipped further under your nightgown, calloused palm dragging up your bare thigh until his fingers found the soaked fabric of your panties. He groaned at the feeling, pressing two thick fingers against your clothed slit and rubbing firmly, spreading your wetness.
“So fucking wet,” he muttered, voice dark and rough. “All this from just sitting on my lap?”
He pushed your panties aside with impatient fingers and dragged two thick digits slowly through your slick folds. The first direct touch made your hips jerk sharply. Pleasure shot through you like lightning — hot, electric, and overwhelming. You were already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and Sukuna could feel it.
He chuckled darkly against your throat, the low vibration sending shivers racing down your spine as he kissed and bit along your neck, marking you with teeth and tongue.
“You’re dripping down my fingers, wife,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “This greedy little cunt is making such a mess already.”
He pushed one thick finger inside you slowly, stretching your tight walls. Your inner muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, hot and silky. The feeling of being filled by him — even just one finger — made your breath hitch. He added a second finger almost immediately, scissoring them lazily while his thumb found your swollen clit and rubbed tight, relentless circles.
The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the quiet morning room — lewd squelching noises that would have made you blush if you weren’t already trembling with pleasure. Your arousal coated his hand, dripping down his wrist and onto his lap as he worked you open with practiced, unhurried strokes.
You whimpered, hands fisting tightly in the front of his tunic. Sukuna’s free hand yanked the neckline of your nightgown down roughly, exposing your breasts to the cool air. He leaned in and sucked one sensitive nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking roughly over the peak before his teeth grazed it. The sharp sting mixed with pleasure made your back arch, pushing your chest closer to his hungry mouth.
“So fucking sensitive,” he murmured against your skin, voice muffled as he switched to the other nipple, sucking harder. “Look at you. Falling apart just from my fingers like a desperate little whore.”
He curled his fingers inside you, stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy while his thumb pressed firmer circles on your clit. Your hips rocked desperately against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke. The wet sounds grew louder, filthier, echoing obscenely in the quiet chamber.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to watch your face, his crimson eyes dark with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and rough. “Let me feel how much this supposed ‘liking me’ makes this tight little pussy squeeze around my fingers.”
His fingers curled harder, stroking that sensitive spot relentlessly while his thumb worked your clit faster. The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every thrust, every filthy word.
It snapped.
You came hard with a broken moan, walls clenching violently around his thick fingers. Your thighs shook uncontrollably as slick gushed over his hand, soaking his palm and dripping down his wrist. Pleasure crashed through you in waves, leaving you gasping and trembling.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, still pumping his fingers slowly through your spasms, drawing out every last pulse until you were shaking and oversensitive, whimpering softly.
He finally pulled his fingers free, glistening with your release. Without breaking eye contact, he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, tongue dragging slowly and deliberately over his skin, savoring your taste.
“Sweet,” he murmured, voice husky and dark. His eyes never left yours.
He lifted you effortlessly and stood, carrying you toward the massive bed. He laid you down on the black silk sheets, hovering over you with that same dark, hungry look.
“Take the nightgown off,” he commanded, already pulling his own tunic over his head, revealing the full expanse of his tattooed, muscled torso. “I want to see all of you.”
His hands moved to his pants, loosening them as he watched you, eyes burning with lust and that ever-present edge of suspicion.
“Prove how much you actually want me, wife.”
You sat up on the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. Under his burning gaze, you reached for the hem of your nightgown and pulled it up and over your head, letting the silk fall to the floor. The cool air of the chamber brushed over your bare skin, making your nipples tighten instantly.
Sukuna’s eyes raked slowly over your naked body — from your flushed face, down the curve of your breasts, your stomach, and the glistening wetness already coating your inner thighs. He let out a low, rough sound deep in his chest, almost a growl.
“Fuck… look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “So small. So fucking pretty.”
He shoved his pants the rest of the way down his hips and kicked them aside. His cock sprang free, heavy and thick, the veined shaft curving slightly upward. It was meaty — obscenely so — the girth making your mouth go dry. The flushed head was already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Even fully hard, it looked almost too big, too heavy, the weight of it making it hang thick and full between his powerful thighs.
You couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that escaped you.
Sukuna noticed. His smirk was dark and satisfied as he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping deeply under his much larger frame. He settled between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders forcing your legs wider apart. The size difference hit you all over again — he was so much bigger than you, his body completely eclipsing yours as he hovered above you.
He gripped his thick cock in one large hand and dragged the heavy head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness. The blunt, meaty tip nudged against your entrance, pressing just enough to tease the stretch.
“You’re tiny compared to me,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Gonna feel every inch when I split you open.”
He pushed forward slowly.
The thick head of his cock breached you, stretching your entrance with a slow, burning pressure. You gasped sharply at the sheer girth — he was so thick that your walls had to part around him, fluttering and clenching as he sank deeper. The heavy, meaty weight of his cock filled you inch by inch, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you until you were full, so full, your back arching off the bed with a broken moan.
Sukuna groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. His balls rested heavy and warm against you.
“Shit,” he breathed against your neck, voice strained. “So fucking tight… this little pussy is sucking me in like it was made for me.”
He stayed buried deep for a moment, letting you adjust to the overwhelming stretch, the way his thick cock throbbed inside you, hot and heavy. Then he started moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his meaty length along your walls with every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of him sliding in and out of your soaked cunt filled the room, slick and filthy.
You whimpered, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “Sukuna… you’re so big—”
He growled at your words, hips snapping harder, driving his thick cock deeper. The drag was exquisite, every vein and ridge rubbing against your most sensitive spots. His size made you feel impossibly full, stretched wide around his girth, the pressure bordering on too much but so, so good.
“Take it,” he rasped, voice dark and possessive. “Take every fucking inch like the good little wife you’re trying to be.”
He leaned down and captured your mouth in a messy, hungry kiss, tongue fucking your mouth in time with his deep thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against you with every powerful stroke, the wet sounds growing louder as your arousal dripped down his shaft and soaked the sheets beneath you.
You moaned into his mouth, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, heels digging into his back. The size difference made everything more intense — his broad chest crushing your breasts, his muscular thighs spreading you wide, his massive frame completely dominating yours as he fucked you into the mattress.
Sukuna pulled back just enough to look at you, breathing hard, eyes dark with lust and that lingering edge of suspicion.
“Tell me again,” he growled, hips grinding deep, the thick head of his cock pressing against that perfect spot inside you. “Tell me how much you like your husband’s cock while I’m ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could barely think through the overwhelming fullness. His cock was so thick it felt like he was splitting you open with every slow, deliberate thrust. The heavy drag of his veined shaft against your walls made your toes curl, pleasure bordering on too much.
“I like it,” you gasped, voice breaking on a moan as he rolled his hips again, grinding the fat head against your g-spot. “I like your cock so much— fuck, Sukuna, you’re so deep…”
A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his chest. He hooked one of your legs over his arm, spreading you wider, and drove into you harder. The new angle made his thick cock hit even deeper, the heavy weight of his balls slapping wetly against your ass with every powerful thrust. Your juices coated his shaft, dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you, the lewd squelching sounds echoing obscenely in the quiet room.
“So fucking tight,” he groaned, voice rough and strained. “This greedy little cunt is sucking me in like it doesn’t want to let go.”
He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a messy, dominating kiss. His tongue fucked into your mouth in time with his cock, deep and filthy, while his hips snapped forward harder. The sheer size difference made everything more intense — his broad, muscled body completely covering yours, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as he fucked you with long, punishing strokes.
You whimpered into his mouth, nails raking down his back, leaving red lines across his tattooed skin. Sukuna hissed at the sting and rewarded you by pounding into you even harder, the thick head of his cock bullying that sensitive spot inside you over and over.
“Again,” he demanded against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“You,” you moaned, legs shaking as another wave of pleasure crashed through you. “It belongs to you— only you—”
“Good girl.”
He sat back on his heels, pulling your hips up with him so your lower back was off the bed. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his thick cock stretching you wide with every brutal thrust. His thumb found your swollen clit again, rubbing tight, firm circles while he fucked you senseless.
The wet slap of skin against skin mixed with your broken moans and his low grunts. Your breasts bounced with every powerful snap of his hips, nipples tight and aching. Sukuna’s gaze was locked between your legs, watching hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked pussy again and again, stretching you obscenely around his girth.
“Look at that,” he growled, voice dark. “Taking every inch like you were made for me. So fucking pretty when you’re stuffed full of my cock.”
The pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, burning hotter with every deep thrust, every swipe of his thumb on your clit. Your thighs trembled violently in his grip.
“Sukuna— I’m gonna—!”
“Cum,” he ordered, hips slamming into you harder. “Cum on your husband’s cock like the desperate little wife you are.”
It hit you like a wave. You came hard with a broken cry, walls clenching violently around his thick length, pulsing and fluttering as slick gushed around him. Your whole body shook, back arching sharply as pleasure tore through you.
Sukuna groaned deeply at the feeling, hips stuttering. “Fuck— that’s it. Milk my cock.”
He fucked you through your orgasm, prolonging it until you were whimpering and oversensitive. Then, with a low, guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, thick ropes of hot cum flooding deep inside you. He kept grinding his hips in slow circles, pushing his release even deeper as he emptied himself completely.
“We’re not done,” he said quietly, a dangerous promise in his tone. “Not even close.”
Sukuna pulled out of you with a wet, filthy sound, your combined release dripping down your thighs. Before you could catch your breath, he flipped you onto your back and manhandled you like you weighed nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled you into his lap facing away from him, and hooked his powerful arms under your knees, folding you in a full nelson.
Your back pressed flush against his broad, tattooed chest. Your legs were spread obscenely wide, knees pushed up toward your shoulders by his strong arms. The position left you completely helpless — folded in half, pussy exposed and dripping, his thick cock sliding hot and heavy between your slick folds.
“Fuck, look at you,” he growled right against your ear, voice feral. “So small and folded up for me. Perfect little fucktoy.”
He thrust up hard, burying his massive cock back inside you in one brutal stroke. The new angle made him feel even thicker, even deeper. You cried out, the sound raw and broken as his meaty length stretched you wide open again, the fat head bullying against your cervix with every thrust.
Sukuna went feral.
He fucked you like an animal — hard, fast, and relentless. His hips snapped up with powerful force, slamming his thick cock into your soaked pussy over and over. The wet, obscene slap of skin against skin filled the room, mixed with the lewd squelching of your dripping cunt taking every inch. His heavy balls slapped against your ass with every brutal thrust, the impact jolting through your body.
You were cockdrunk almost immediately.
Your mind went hazy, eyes rolling back as pleasure overloaded your senses. All you could do was moan helplessly, body limp in his hold as he used you. His thick cock dragged against every sensitive spot inside you, the sheer girth stretching you so wide it bordered on pain, but the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t think straight.
“S-Sukuna— ahh— too deep—” you slurred, voice broken and whiny.
He only fucked you harder, arms locked tight under your knees, keeping you folded and helpless as he pounded into you. His chest was slick with sweat against your back, his hot breath panting against your ear.
“Take it,” he snarled, voice feral and animalistic. “Take every fucking inch. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? My cock ruining this tight little pussy.”
You could only moan incoherently, head lolling back against his shoulder. Drool slipped from the corner of your mouth as he fucked you senseless, his thick cock bullying your insides with every savage thrust. The wet sounds were filthy — your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his balls, soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up so your ass was high in the air. He slammed back into you in one brutal thrust, fucking you in deep, punishing doggy style.
“Fuck— yes,” he groaned, voice wrecked. One large hand came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, the sharp crack echoing as he pounded into you from behind.
Your face was pressed into the sheets, ass up, completely at his mercy as he railed you. His thick cock drove so deep you felt it in your stomach, the heavy drag of his veined shaft making your eyes roll back. He smacked your ass again, gripping the soft flesh hard as he used you.
“You’re mine,” he growled, hips snapping forward relentlessly. “This pussy is mine. Say it.”
You could barely speak, mind blank and cockdrunk, but you whimpered obediently between moans, “Yours… it’s yours—”
Sukuna snarled in satisfaction and fucked you even harder, the bed creaking violently under the force of his thrusts. His heavy balls slapped against your clit with every brutal stroke, pushing you closer and closer to the edge again.
He was relentless now — grunting low and animalistic, cursing under his breath as his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. He claimed you with deep, punishing strokes, each one driving his thick cock so deep you felt it in your stomach.
“Fuck— this pussy is sucking me in so greedily,” he growled, voice wrecked and animalistic. One hand left your hip and came down hard on your ass again with a loud smack, the sharp sting blooming hot across your skin. He did it again, harder, gripping the soft, reddened flesh and spreading you wider as he railed you.
Your mind was completely melted. All you could do was moan and whimper into the sheets, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth as he pounded into you. His thick, meaty cock stretched you so wide it felt like he was reshaping you from the inside. Every deep, punishing thrust made the fat head kiss your cervix, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure-pain shooting through your body.
“S-Sukuna— too much— ahh—!” you slurred, voice broken and whiny, barely coherent anymore.
He laughed darkly, low and breathless, and smacked your ass once more before gripping both cheeks and spreading you obscenely. He watched hungrily as his thick cock disappeared into your soaked, fluttering pussy again and again, your juices coating his shaft and dripping down his heavy balls.
“Look at this greedy little hole,” he rasped, hips snapping forward brutally. “Taking my fat cock so well. You’re dripping everywhere, wife. Making such a fucking mess on my sheets.”
He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you in place while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him drive even deeper, his heavy cock bullying that perfect spot inside you with every savage thrust. The wet, filthy plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass filled the room, mixed with your broken moans and his guttural grunts.
You were shaking, thighs trembling violently, another orgasm building fast. Your mind was blank — nothing but the overwhelming stretch, the heat, the relentless drag of his thick veined cock inside you.
Sukuna’s breath was hot against your ear. “You’re mine,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder. “This tight little cunt is mine. Say it while you cum on my cock again.”
You could barely form words, but you whimpered obediently between moans, voice slurred and cockdrunk. “Yours— it’s yours— Sukuna— please—!”
He fucked you harder, hips pistoning relentlessly, the heavy slap of his balls against your clit pushing you over the edge. You came with a shattered cry, walls clamping down around his thick length like a vice, pulsing and fluttering as another intense orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his cock, soaking his thighs and the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna groaned loudly, the sound raw and feral. “Good fucking girl—”
He didn’t stop. He fucked you through your orgasm with deep, stuttering thrusts, hips snapping erratically as he chased his own release. With a final, powerful drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you, pulse after heavy pulse filling you until you felt impossibly full, the warmth spreading through your core. He kept grinding slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles to push every drop deeper, making sure you took all of him.
You could feel it leaking out around his thick cock — warm, sticky, and messy — dripping down your thighs and soaking the sheets beneath you.
Sukuna stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, his massive body pressing you firmly into the mattress. His chest heaved against your back, hot, ragged breaths fanning across the side of your neck. The scent of sweat, sex, and his skin filled the air with every shaky inhale. One of his hands stroked slowly up and down your side, almost possessively, while the other stayed gripping your hip, fingers digging in like he still wasn’t ready to let go.
“…Not bad,” he muttered, voice hoarse and low against your ear. “For a little liar.”
He finally pulled out slowly, inch by thick inch. A heavy trickle of his cum immediately leaked from your abused, fluttering pussy, warm and obscene as it ran down your inner thighs. Sukuna let out a low, satisfied hum at the sight before he rolled you onto your back and collapsed beside you.
Without a word, he pulled you against his chest, one strong arm wrapping around you possessively. His skin was hot and slightly damp with sweat, his heartbeat still racing steadily under your cheek as he held you close.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on your skin as he caught his breath.
But he didn’t let go.
a\n: honestly didn't know how to end this but hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs appreciated!!
“hey, baby girl,” satoru chuckles and happily accepts the hug his two year old gives him. she giggles and squirms around in her dad’s embrace before stretching her arms out to him.
she opens up her tiny fists and reveals a bunch of flowers she’s plucked from the nearby patch of grass. your toddler’s eyes twinkle as she talks to her dad, “those for mama! papa make pwetty flower crown for mama.”
she looks at you as you sit next to satoru on the bench. your little girl does this every time you take her outside to the park; gathering random things to give her parents. it’s quite heartwarming.
“yeah? a pretty flower crown for a pretty mama,” satoru nods with a gentle smile. he brushes his daughter’s snowy bangs to the side before planting a soft kiss on her forehead.
he settles her comfortably on his lap and starts to work with what’s given to him. your husband listens attentively to your kid as she babbles about how he should make it look really pretty for you, “don’t worry, little princess. papa will make it real beautiful.”
and so satoru does. he gives the flower crown to the energetic toddler once done and guides her to put it on top of your head. she gasps at the sight and excitedly claps her hands, “look! papa! mama’s so pretty!”
you laugh along and shake your head, feeling embarrassed by her compliments. as well as satoru’s wide grin whilst his eyes look at you like it’s your wedding day all over again, “mhm. that’s my lovely wife, so gorgeous.”
satoru loves you. and so does your little bundle of joy. the two most important people in your life.
Summary: When a visa issue puts you at risk of leaving Japan, you end up in a fake engagement with your assistant/secretary Satoru Gojo as a last resort. But after meeting his family in Kyoto and spending more time together, the line between performance and reality uncomfortably blurs.
Content Warnings: MDNI, plot w/no porn (for awhile hehe), mentions of deportation, brief mentions of infidelity between two individuals, work misconduct, n*oya z*nin, fake engagement, fake marriage, enemies to lovers, boss!reader x secretary!nerdjo, suguru, shoko, and nanamin cameo, yeah thats abt it
Chapter One:
Satoru Gojo’s mornings weren't built for urgency that came with tardiness.
They were built for repetition. For patterns that comforted him despite how belittling. For the quiet certainty that even when things went wrong, they would still somehow arrive exactly where he expected them to be.
Which was why the current situation felt almost offensive.
His alarm had already survived the seven times he slammed it shut before opening his eyes. By the time he actually got up, it was because someone else had decided he needed to.
A call from Suguru who was already in the office. His voice tight, "Where the hell are you Satoru?! The boss is in a total mood today and if you don't get your albino ass here in 15 minutes with her favorite coffee, you're screwed Gojo!"
Satoru sat up slowly, one hand dragging through his hair, the other already reaching for his phone like it had not betrayed him by ringing in the first place.
“Yeah yeah,” he yawned, voice still rough with sleep, “I'm late....”
".....it's 8:57"
“Shit shit shit! I'm fucking late!" Satoru hung up before they could argue further.
His first mistake of the morning was even answering that phone. The second was forgetting coffee. Luckily that one fixed itself quickly.
His apartment was too clean for how chaotic he was. Everything existed in a state of almost order. Shirts half aligned. Papers stacked with intent but no follow-through. His room decorated with Digimon posters and figurines that he chose to prioritize rather than non instant-ramen dinners.
He showered fast. Water crashing down his pale skin as he managed to rapidly scrub himself red. By the time Satoru was out he was tightening his tie before loosening it again like he was negotiating with it. Shirt buttoned with one hand while he checked messages with the other. Suguru, Shoko, and Nanami kept trying to reach him but he kept ignoring them.
Satoru grabbed his keys. Pausing and when the realization hit, he sighed.
“My glasses!” he groaned before dashing to his nightstand. Hrabbing his wobbly thick rimmed pair.
Then there was the coffee, that was the real priority.
The café downstairs knew him too well.
That was the problem with routine. It became recognition. Recognition became expectation. Expectation became something annoyingly close to responsibility.
The bell above the door chimed when he walked in.
“You're later than usual Gojo,” the violet eyed barista Hana teased immediately, not looking up yet.
“Morning Hana-chan, ” he replied.
She finally glanced at him, already reaching for his order without asking. Black coffee. Extra shot. No sugar. The same thing every day. Predictable enough to be insulting.
“I knew you wouldn't miss a day,” she exclaimed as she worked. "Got your order ready for you anyways Gojo."
The drinks slid across the counter.
Perfect as always.
He reached for it immediately.
“Have a good day,” she said.
“I always do,” he replied automatically.
And then, because he was already mentally somewhere else, already halfway into the building and out of this conversation, he left.
He did not notice what was written on the cup.
He rarely noticed things like that.
By the time Satoru reached your building, the city had already shifted into full motion. Glass reflections, traffic noise, the steady rhythm of people pretending they were not all trapped in the same system.
He moved through it like he was slightly out of sync with everything else.
The elevator ride was predictable. Someone avoided eye contact. Someone else looked at him twice like they were trying to confirm he was real. Satoru simply ignored both.
When he stepped out onto your floor, the air changed immediately.
It was all less noise. More pressure. The kind of silence that meant something had already gone wrong and everyone was waiting to see how badly it would land.
Down the corridor, voices carried too clearly. He slowed, curiosity always won against responsibility. And then he saw you.
You were standing in the center of it all, completely still. Not tense. Not reactive. Controlled in a way that made everyone else look unstable by comparison.
Opposite you stood a man Satoru vaguely recognized. Mid-level. Confident enough to be dangerous, not competent enough to survive it. Naoya Zen'in.
“You think you can just sit there and dictate everything?!” he yelled, “like you're untouchable? You do not even understand how things actually work in the field you fucking venomous snake!”
Satoru leaned lightly against the wall, coffee still in hand, watching.
“I asked for updated figures,” you replied finally, calm and precise. “Not your interpretation of my authority.”
The man scoffed. “You are impossible to work with! How would anyone know what a wishy-washy woman like you wants?!”
“Incorrect,” you replied. “I am impossible to work with incompetently, Zenin.”
His gaze drifted to his colleagues, as if they'd assist him in any way that mattered. A few people shifted under his glare. Satoru however couldn't hide his grin. He tilted his head slightly.
This was already entertaining.
“You know what your problem is?” Naoya spat, his face red with humiliation. “You're a tyrannical bitch! Nobody can fucking stand a sick woman like you!”
The room froze. Even Satoru paused for half a second.
That was not a common reaction.
You blinked once. Slow and measured, before stepping forward.
Oh.
That was when he knew it was over.
“Repeat that,” you asserted, rather cheerfully in a way that left everyone in unease.
The man, emboldened by poor judgment, did.
“You heard me. You are a vapid bitch.”
Silence sharpened. Then you nodded once.
“Understood.”
Something in your expression closed off completely. “Effective immediately,” you said, “you are terminated.”
A laugh broke out from him, sharp and disbelieving.
“You can't do that.”
“I already have.” That ended the argument right there. Then, without even looking away from him, you addressed HR.
“Escort him out.”
The man’s expression shifted rapidly now. Confusion collapsing into anger.
“You will regret this,” he snapped. “I will make sure your career collapses. I will ruin you!”
That made the air tighten.
Satoru watched you more closely now. You stepped closer, not aggressive, but final.
“Maybe if you spent more time managing your career,” you assured softly, “and less time managing your mistress, you would still have one.”
Security arrived by then. You turned away before they reached him. Like he was already irrelevant. Satoru straightened slightly as the corridor cleared. That was when he decided to move.
You were already back at your office when he arrived. Of course you were.
He knocked, but at this point it was more of an announcement with Gojo rather than a request.
He placed the coffee on your desk without ceremony.
“Before you say anything,” he said, “yes, I saw it.”
You didn’t look up.
“I didn't ask for your input Gojo.” You glared, your gaze controlled and flat, a warning almost. But he leaned against your desk anyway.
“I also brought coffee, per usual boss,” he added before passing you the cup. He didn't plan to have that prick Naoya manage to rile you up before Satoru's big request, but he was hoping the heavens could be on his side this time...
They weren't.
“Look, I've been thinking about that editorial expansion proposal.”
You exhaled, “no thank you, Gojo.”
“That was fast.”
“It remains no.”
He smiled much fainter than usual. “I would still like to pitch it properly.”
“You will not.”
“I'll try again then, Boss.”
“Focus on your job.”
He straightened slowly, like that answer amused him more than it should have. “Fine,” he uttered.
He turned toward the door to exist. Storming off with the door slamming behind him.
This didn't phase you, Gojo was always insistent.
You were holding your coffee now, expression unreadable, before your eyes flickered towards your cup. You walked out of the office and approached his desk
"Call me when you can Gojo-san!" you read out.
He blinked before quickly reaching towards the cup in utter confusion.
“Oh,” he murmured. “I don't know what that's about ma'am”
You paused before staring at him for a second longer. Then, almost dryly, you asked, “Are you collecting problems now or just ignoring the important ones in new creative ways, Gojo?”
You stepped out with your own coffee, already moving with purpose, already somewhere else mentally. Your eyes flicked once to his cup, then up to his face, then briefly back again like you were scanning something that required no further analysis.
“…huh,” he murmured, more to himself than anything else.
Then he shrugged faintly and kept typing away, already deciding this advancement was not important enough to file anywhere in his brain that required long-term storage.
Behind him, your office door opened.
You stepped out with your own coffee, already moving with purpose, already somewhere else mentally. Your eyes flicked once to his cup, then up to his face, then briefly back again like you were scanning something that required no further analysis.
Satoru relaxed into his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other still holding the now-cold coffee like it was the only stable object in the room. His phone lit up with messages he had no intention of answering properly, and he was halfway through ignoring them when the meeting alert appeared.
He sighed, stood again, and grabbed the coffee more properly this time, like it had officially been assigned the role of emotional support object.
If he was going to endure something tedious, he might as well be caffeinated while doing it.
The conference room was already full when he arrived.
He didn’t enter immediately.
Instead, he paused outside the glass, catching fragments of conversation through the thin corporate barrier.
“…visa risk escalating…”
“…no viable extension pathway…”
“…possible enforced departure within weeks…”
Satoru tilted his head slightly.
That was not standard corporate language. That was controlled panic disguised as procedure.
He pushed the door open.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, stepping inside casually.
A few heads turned.
You didn’t look up immediately.
Of course you didn’t.
He moved to the edge of the table, leaning slightly, coffee still in hand, posture relaxed in a way that always irritated people who were trying very hard to look serious.
“I need to flag something quickly,” he said, interrupting the flow without asking permission. “Suki is not available for the Kuroyanagi coordination.”
The room paused.
The publishing head frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Suki,” Satoru repeated. “She is getting married. Immediate transition. She will not be available to organize anything with Tetsuko Kuroyanagi.”
Confusion rippled through the table.
“Right now?” someone asked.
“Yes,” Satoru said. “Apparently it is quite urgent. I was not informed until five minutes ago, so I am also adjusting emotionally.”
No one responded to that part.
You finally looked up.
Expression neutral.
Completely unimpressed.
“Is that all,” you said.
“Yes.”
“Sit down.”
He didn’t.
He just stayed where he was, leaning lightly against the table edge, because sitting implied compliance and he was not feeling particularly compliant.
The meeting tried to continue. But it didn’t recover because legal cleared his throat, shifting tone.
“We need to return to the primary issue,” he said carefully. “The visa situation is becoming critical.” That immediately pulled attention back into place. Satoru stopped pretending to scroll on his phone.
“…risk of removal,”
“…no clean legal extension pathway,”
“…processing delay could extend up to a year for re-entry…”
That last part changed the air in the room.
A year.
That was not a delay. That was removal with paperwork attached. Satoru looked up slightly and you were still completely still. Which meant you were thinking. Despite how much of an obstacle you were to his dreams, this company wouldn't be much without you. At least not for long.
“We want you here,” the publishing head said carefully, turning toward you. “Your leadership is essential to ongoing expansion. Losing you would destabilize multiple strategic pipelines.”
“I understand,” you answered back.
“But we require a mitigating condition,” legal continued. “A recognized status anchor. Familial association. Marriage. Dependency classification. Something documentable under review conditions.”
Silence settled again.
Satoru slowly stopped moving.
Not because he understood yet.
Because he was watching you.
There was a shift in you now. Subtle, internal, precise. The kind of recalculation that meant a decision was forming in real time.
Then you spoke.
Calm.
Flat.
“I see.”
A pause.
Satoru tilted his head slightly.
That tone usually meant the outcome had already been selected.
You looked at him directly.
And said,
“I forgot to mention something.” The room waited, Satoru did not like that pause at all.
“I can't believe it slipped my mind! Luckily Suki's little dilemma reminded me, we are engaged.” You cheerfully announced, holding onto Satoru's arm.
Silence hit instantly.
Not gradual, immediate.
Someone dropped a pen. Someone else made a sound that suggested oxygen had briefly stopped being available.
Satoru didn't move. For two, painfully stiff seconds.
Then slowly, he turned his head toward you.
“…come again?”
You looked at him like he was the one failing to keep up.
“Engaged sweetheart,” you repeated through nearly clenched teeth.
Then, without changing expression, he returned,
“Sweetheart.” That landed differently than Satoru expected. He blinked once, then twice. Then, he leaned back slightly in his chair, staring at you like reality had just shifted without permission.
“Mhm, I wish this was a joke baby,” he almost chided.
“Oh dear, of course it's not!” You retorted.
The publishing head looked between both of you rapidly now. “This is… confirmed?” Like they wanted to believe it for themselves.
You nodded once.
Satoru exhaled slowly.
“…sweetheart,” he repeated under his breath, like testing whether language still worked correctly.
You didn’t respond.
The room, however, did.
Because hesitation began immediately at the board level.
There was movement. Small shifts. Uneasy glances between senior members. Then one of them spoke.
“Is this… ethical?”
Satoru turned his head slightly toward the speaker. You did not.
You just looked at them as the silence stretched. Then the publishing head cleared his throat Before you could answer, another board member spoke again, more cautious now.
“This could be considered misrepresentation of employment status,” he added.
A pause, then another voice, quieter.
“Legally, it is…sensitive I do suppose.”
All eyes shifted slightly.
Not to you.
To Hamada.
He stiffened slightly in his seat, immediately aware he had been pulled into proximity of responsibility.
“I am simply raising concerns,” Hamada rushed.
You finally turned your gaze to him.
Slow.
Measured.
Then you spoke. “Given your experience in this exact field, with your own office romance,” you commented, “I assumed you would not have an issue with procedural ambiguity.”
Silence.
Hamada gulped. The implication landed fully.
Satoru watched the exchange now with mild interest.
You continued.
“Unless your past involvement in similar cases has changed your perspective on what is acceptable when outcomes are favorable.”
That did it.
Hamada shifted slightly in his seat.
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “If it is… operationally necessary.”
Another pause.
Then the publishing head exhaled, rubbing his temple once like he had already decided this was not worth fighting.
“As long as the engagement is formalized,” he said carefully, “and leads to marriage within a reasonable timeframe, we can treat this as a valid mitigating circumstance.”
A few heads nodded slowly.
Not approval, not agreement. But rather acceptance of inconvenience.
Satoru stared at the table for a moment. Then leaned slightly toward you again, voice low enough to avoid the room.
“You just started a corporate loophole with one sentence,” he murmured. You still didn’t look at him.
“Focus,” you chided as you leaned in. He exhaled once through his nose, almost amused again despite himself.
“…this is going to be a very long year,” he muttered.
And for the first time since morning,
the entire room had decided to collectively look away from what they had just agreed to.
I never got to say thanks for 100 followers, now we're at 150 and that's rlly crazy y'all
anyways this is sort of a passion project of mine. I didn't proofread tho, it's really late and I wanted to wrap this chapter up. I'm planning on 5-6 chapters that focus more towards plot than smut
also the mean nerdjo oneshot will probs be out tmrw plz shall thy poetry blow up thy tumblr lords i think i failed chem for ts
anyways thanks to my pookie @whispersingojo for the idea of cocky nerdjo being the chosen gojo! gosh i love my albino king
“You speak as if you are easily replaced.” he says at last.
The words are not cruel.
But they are not kind either.
That was how he was.
You offer the faintest smile, though it does not quite reach your eyes. “Everything is, my lord. It is only a matter of time and circumstance.”
A quiet exhale leaves him, something almost like a scoff, though it lacks its usual bite. “You think too much, don’t you think?” he mutters.
“And you think too little of things that remain, my lord.” you answer before you can stop yourself.
GENRE: alternate universe - heian era;
WARNING/S: nsfw, r-18, romance, angst, hurt.comfort, emotional hurt, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of violence, dubious morality, domestic life, court politics, harem, dynamics, intimacy, pilgrimage, blood, murder, existential, identity, motherhood, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, reputation, trauma, alcohol, drunkness, explicit sexual content, naked bodies, fingering, creampie, unprotected sex, double penetration, two cocks, p v sex, rough sex, wall sex, dominance, praising, dirty talk, size difference, blood as intimacy, toxic relationship but they work, concubine reader!, heian! sukuna;
WORDS: 19k words.
NOTE: took me a while to finish this all, but i had to finish this before i rushed off an do some other things irl. its always a challenge to write heian sukuna and concubine reader, because their relationship is so complex. still, im blessed to still be able to write things for their life. i hope you enjoy it!!! i love you so much!!! <3
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if you want to, tip! <3
kayu's playlist — side 5000;
THEY HAD WOKEN YOU BEFORE DAWN. You sit up as you hear that a servant had come all this way to the Vermillion Hall for something important. You were agitated, having been unable to sleep well last night. Still, what could you do, when this was the life you had to live as the great lady of the King of Curses?
Grabbing your silk robes in haste, to look presentable enough, you asked your head servant to lead them in. It wasn’t long till the servants bearing the request arrived quietly, prostrating to you in haste as they spoke in hushed tones.
“Speak. What do you need from me at such an early hour?”
One of the servants, forehead still pressed flat against the polished wood, his voice carefully stripped of any tremor that may betray their nervous feeling, began to speak. “My lady… the Earthly Might Hall requests your presence. Lady Fubuki has gone into labor with her babe.”
For a moment, you say nothing. You had been seated by the open screens, the evening air brushing faintly against your skin, your thoughts elsewhere. So far removed from the suffocating routines of the inner palace, far from the endless cycle of women vying for attention that is so rarely given.
But such a duty is not something you are allowed to ignore, let alone to the other women in the household and your lord husband is not here, let alone does not wish to be disturbed by these trivial matters. He would not even send Uraume, you knew that too well.
You rise without haste, the layered silk of your robes settling around you like something alive, something obedient. Almost like the ocean in the moonlight. You do not ask questions. You know that you do not need to. You already understand why they called for you. It wasn’t long before you were asking them to stand up from their position to dismiss them.
“But my lady, lady Fubuki—”
You furrowed your brows. “I did not say I will not be there. I will be. Let me dress.”
The tension that had gripped the room only moments ago dissolves all at once, as though an invisible thread has finally been cut. Relief does not come quietly. It spills out of them. They were all muttering audible, overwhelming responses, almost desperate in its release.
Shoulders that had been held rigid for hours finally sag, breaths that had been shallow deepen, and one by one, the servants nearest to you drop to their knees. The motion spreads like a ripple, until the floor is filled with bowed heads and pressed palms.
“Thank you, my lady….thank you for your kindness…”
Their voices overlap, gratitude tumbling over itself in their haste to be heard, to be acknowledged. It is not simply thanks for the safe delivery, it is thanks for your presence, for your authority, for the unspoken assurance that things would not fall apart under your watch.
You do not bask in it. You have heard it too many times for it to mean anything more than noise. A quiet sigh escapes you, soft enough that it does not disrupt the atmosphere, but enough to betray a flicker of weariness. Without raising your voice, you gesture faintly toward the entrance, summoning one of your attendants.
“See them out.” you instruct, your tone even, already moving past the moment. “Ensure Lady Fubuki’s household returns without disturbance.”
The servant bows deeply and moves at once, relaying your command. There is no hesitation, no questioning. Within moments, the cluster of attendants belonging to Lady Fubuki begins to withdraw, their movements still reverent, still careful, as though afraid that any misstep might undo the fortune they have just been granted. They leave relieved by your word, and most of all, your willingness to act.
The quiet that follows is different from before. It is no longer strained nor was it brittle. Instead, it carries a softer weight, one shaped by exhaustion rather than fear. Your own attendants return shortly after, moving with practiced efficiency.
They bring with them a wash basin filled with clean water, fresh clothes, and a change of garments more suitable for the state you now find yourself in. The faint scent of herbs rises from the basin, meant to cleanse away the lingering traces of blood and effort.
One of them approaches you with a comb, her hands steady but respectful as she offers it. You accept it with a small inclination of your head. “Thank you.”
The words are quiet, but they are not empty, it never has been. Turning slightly toward the polished surface of the looking glass, you begin to draw the comb through your hair. The strands, once perfectly arranged, now carry the subtle disarray of long hours spent in tension-filled stillness.
You work through them patiently, each stroke deliberate, untangling what has been disturbed. A yawn slips past your lips before you can fully suppress it, your body finally acknowledging the fatigue you have been holding at bay. For a brief moment, you allow yourself to simply exist in the quiet rhythm of the motion.
“Do you think it would be a girl or a boy, my lady?”
The question comes hesitantly, but curiosity wins over restraint. You meet one of the servants, a young girl whose gaze looked far too innocent through the reflection of the mirror. She is young, you think to yourself. Perhaps younger than you had been when you entered the harem.
That youth still remained an obstacle to her, you think to yourself. Youth hinders learning how to bury such questions properly. But you know there is no malice in her tone, only a kind of earnest wonder that has not yet been worn down by the realities of the palace.
“Do you…do you think Lord Sukuna would be happy about it?” she adds, her voice softening further, as though even speaking of his reaction requires caution.
Your hand stills for just a fraction of a second before continuing its motion. You consider the question. Not because it is difficult, but because the answer is not something they truly want to hear. You knew too much of the man.
He may be restrained most of the time.
But your lord husband is still such a man.
A man they will never know was too much of a god.
And gods do not have leniency for human things.
Let alone emotional interest in what makes it human.
“I think…” you begin slowly, your voice measured, your gaze steady in the reflection. “I think that a child is a gift, whether it is a girl or a boy.”
It is the kind of answer that offers comfort without promising anything. You pause briefly, letting the words settle before continuing, your tone shifting ever so slightly. You knew that you would end up becoming more honest, though no less controlled.
“As for whether my lord would be happy…” You draw the comb through another section of your hair, the soft sound filling the space between your words. “That is not something I can say with certainty.”
Your eyes lower, just for a moment, not in submission but in quiet acknowledgment of a truth you have long accepted. “My lord keeps his thoughts close. What he feels…he does not always show. And what he does not show is often more telling than what he does.”
The room grows a touch quieter at your words. Even those who already knew this seem to feel the weight of it anew when spoken aloud. At times it's easier to imagine things than to let yourself deal with the things you already know to be reality. In a place like this, it keeps one sane.
“Ah…I wish that my lady would have a child as well.”
The words slip out before they can be stopped, from one of the much younger, newer girls. The other girls seem to realize her mistake only after they have already taken shape in the air, but they say nothing, hoping you would not pay mind to such a comment. Her expression falters, her lips parting as if to retract what cannot be taken back.
“Such a little one would be—” She does not finish. An older attendant, standing just behind her, reaches forward sharply and pinches her arm, which was a silent reprimand that carries far more force than any spoken correction.
“Do not speak so carelessly, girl.” the older woman hisses under her breath. “You have overstepped the boundaries. Your comfort with my lady is astoundingly reckless! Apologize!”
The younger girl pales instantly, the weight of her misstep crashing down on her all at once. She drops to her knees without hesitation, bowing so quickly that her forehead nearly strikes the floor. “My lady, forgive me—I did not mean—I spoke without thinking—”
Her apology tumbles out in uneven fragments, far too clumsy and too desperate, as you would expect for young girls her age. You watch her for a moment through the mirror. Then you exhale softly, the sound neither harsh nor indulgent.
“Do not trouble yourself, little girl.” you say, your tone steady as you set the comb aside. “You are not the first to say such things to me. And you will not be the last.”
Your words ease the tension, but they do not erase the truth behind them. You turn slightly, finally facing her directly. “That is not my role in this home.” you continue, your voice calm but firm, carrying a quiet finality that leaves no room for misunderstanding. “And my lord has made it clear that it is not meant to be.”
You gesture lightly for her to rise. She hesitates only briefly before obeying, still keeping her gaze lowered. “My place is not to bear his children, at least that is what is.” you add, not with bitterness, but with clarity. “It is to support him, to ensure that what belongs to him is maintained, that his household remains in order, and that those under his care are raised as they should be.”
Your gaze shifts, if only for a moment, as Chiharu’s presence lingers at the edge of your thoughts. You smile at the thought of that. Taking care of her is the closest you could ever experience motherhood and perhaps you can only be thankful for her in making you something close to being a mother.
“To guide Lady Chiharu. To see that she grows as she must.” There is no resentment in your tone. No longing. Only acceptance. “I know my place.”
The room settles into silence once more, more aware than discomfort. You are not the gentlest among them, you knew that much. You do not offer soft reassurances or empty comforts and even when you did, you did not make it your habit.
You are not the most maternal, nor the most openly kind, there are other women in the harem who have such kindness that makes them almost like goodness in the flesh on earth. But you are the one he has chosen above the rest. And in a place where favor dictates survival, where attention is both a weapon and a shield…that makes you indispensable.
“Let us hurry in this.” You finally spoke again. “Lady Fubuki is in need of me.”
The Earthly Might Hall was a bit further than the Vermillion Hall. But it was far enough that it warrants some effort to get there. After thirty minutes, you find yourself at the precipice of its gates. The hall greets you with heat, with incense, and with the unmistakable tension of a room teetering on the edge of chaos.
The moment you step inside, the atmosphere shifts. Servants who had been rushing suddenly slow, their movements growing careful, deliberate. Midwives who had been whispering urgently fall into a more controlled rhythm, their voices lowering as if your presence alone demands composure. Even the air itself feels heavier, thick with expectation.
Lady Fubuki’s cries cut through it all. This is her first child with lord Sukuna, and you expected nothing less than grievance at the situation. The young woman is sprawled across layered futons, her hair undone, clinging to her damp face, her body trembling under the strain of labor that has clearly gone on far too long.
The sharpness of her voice speaks of exhaustion as much as pain. Each cry coming out of her mouth was weaker than the last, but no less desperate. You take it in at a glance, a careful and attentive one. You purse your lips in a flat line. The blood. The tension in the midwives’ shoulders. The way no one quite meets your eyes, as if awaiting judgment.
“She’s been laboring for hours, my lady.” one of the midwives says, bowing low, her voice betraying just enough strain to reveal the truth they are all trying to contain. “We fear the child—”
You cut her off, not harshly, but with a certainty that leaves no room for speculation. “The child will come, and you must make it so.” you say, your tone even, controlled. “Do your duty. If you do not, it will not. Fear will not change the outcome.”
It is not cruelty that stills them. It is clarity and it’s one you are willing to provide, now that you are here. You move forward, unimpeded, kneeling beside Lady Fubuki. Up close, the fragility of her state becomes even more apparent.
Her breathing is uneven, her hands clutching at the sheets as if they are the only thing anchoring her to the world. When her gaze finally finds yours, something flickers there. There is panic, yes, but also something softer. Relief, relief that you had come to support her.
You brush damp strands of hair from her face with a measured hand, neither overly gentle nor dismissive. Your touch was just enough to ground her. Just enough to remind her that she has not been abandoned to this.
“If you waste your strength screaming and not letting yourself hope to live, it will be for naught, girl.” you tell her quietly, your voice low enough that it does not carry beyond the two of you, “Go on, breathe. Focus. Survive this first, for yourself and for your child.”
She nods weakly, clinging to your words as if they are something solid in a moment where everything else feels like it is unraveling. It wasn't long till you held her in your arms, almost like a mother would.
“Go on, push!”
And that lady Fubuki does. Everyone seems to finally find the rhythm in this moment, trying to still themselves in focus, as Fubuki screams and screams, trying her best to get her babe out. You give her words of encouragement, you wipe her sweat. One after another, you bring her back to reality.
It wasn’t long before you sensed her presence before you heard her. Those same soft footsteps approach from behind, effortlessly light and unhurried, entirely unafraid. It reminded you of a cat who was stealthily making its way without being noticed. Still, it was her voice that got you to notice her.
“My lady.” The voice is calm, composed in a way that feels almost unnatural for someone so young. You turn your head slightly, and there she is. “I’ve come.”
Ryomen Chiharu does not bow. She never has and she never will. And you have taught her not to, whether it was you or anyone else, it is what your lord husband had told you. She only bows when it is her father, as is customary.. And that is how it must always be. She is above everyone else here.
Where the other children of the harem’s walls have been shaped into careful obedience, into lowered gazes and softened voices, she stands as she is. Chiharu is straight-backed, observant, her eyes sharp, akin to her father’s, and has a kind of quiet awareness that is far too familiar, one that only soldiers have.
There is something in her that echoes everything that makes her lord father. Of course, not always in the obvious ways, not in cruelty or dominance, but in perception and presence. In the way she looks at the world as though she is already dissecting it. And garners the same response to the majesty only she and her father carry.
But that is what comes when you are the descendant of the Ryomen.
She comes to your side as if it is the most natural place for her to be, settling beside you without waiting for permission. You remained focused on calming Fubuki as she readied herself to push once again. The young girl’s gaze drifts to the laboring woman.
“Is she dying?” she asks, her tone devoid of panic, carrying only curiosity.
The midwives stiffen at the question. You do not. “Not yet, not now.” you answer simply. “I am here to prevent such a thing.”
Chiharu smiles. “You are not god, mother.”
“I am the wife of one.” You reply to her. “My will is as good as his.”
Chiharu tilts her head, considering this as though it is a problem to be studied rather than a life hanging in the balance. After a moment, she lowers herself to sit beside you, folding her legs neatly beneath her.
“I want to watch.” she says.
You look at her then. She is all but a child, nearly ten years of age. She’s far too young to see something like this. But you knew that your lord husband has shown her worse than a woman giving life into the world.
Regardless of his affection, she is still his heir. He must teach her of the world she inherits, and it is one which is so full of violence and grievance and pain. You think that this is the least of her worries. But you cannot help but feel the deep pit of your stomach coil at this moment.
It’s hard to think about this without feeling horror that such a child would be exposed to such a vision of life birthed in the struggle of a mother’s pain like this. A child has no place seeing such pain. You purse your lips in a flat line.
“Then watch, if you wish, little flower. I am sure that your father says the same thing.” you reply back to her.
She nods. “That he does, mother.”
“Then do not look away when it becomes unpleasant. There is nothing to learn from turning your eyes from truth.”
She nods once, accepting this without hesitation. “Very well.”
Time stretches in a way that feels almost deliberate, as if the moment itself refuses to resolve quickly. The labor progresses in uneven waves. Pain rises and falls, each crest leaving Lady Fubuki weaker than before. The room grows hotter, the scent of incense struggling to mask the metallic tang of blood that lingers in the air.
You guide the midwives with quiet authority, correcting their movements with minimal words, adjusting what needs to be adjusted without disrupting the fragile rhythm they are trying to maintain. You do not raise your voice. You do not rush. You simply ensure that things move as they must.
Beside you, Ryomen Chiharu watches everything with intrigue. Her gaze follows each motion intently. The tightening of muscles, the tremor in a hand, the moment when fear overtakes control. She observes it all with an intensity that would be unsettling if you did not already understand where it comes from.
After a long stretch of silence, she speaks again. “Why do they do this?” she asks, her voice thoughtful rather than critical.
You glance at her briefly. “To bear children. ” you say. “Many women do such a thing—”
Her expression shifts, just slightly. “That is not what I meant.”
Of course it isn’t, you already know that. You turn your attention back to the task at hand, your hands steady even as the tension in the room builds, wiping away the sweat from Fubuki’s face. You give a small look to the young girl.
“They do it for the same reason I serve your lord father well.” you explain after a moment, your tone calm, measured. “They do it because they believe it will give them purpose. Because they hope it will secure their place. And because they think it might earn his attention.”
Chiharu absorbs this quietly. “And does it?” she asks.
You pause, not because you do not know the answer, but because the truth requires no embellishment. “Sometimes.” you say softly.
“But father does not always do such a thing, does he?”
“Your father is a god.” You reply to her as Fubuki seems to lose consciousness. You tap her, trying to keep her awake. “Gods don’t always reply.”
Chiharu did not reply. It did not take long for the final moments to come suddenly, violently, as they often do, as they always have been. Lady Fubuki’s cries reach a breaking point, her voice tearing from her throat in a sound that no longer resembles anything human.
The midwives move with renewed urgency, their earlier hesitation replaced with desperate precision. You remain where you are, steady as ever, watching as the moment unfolds, encouraging her as she gets herself there.
“One more push, Fubuki. Do it for yourself, do it for your child!”
Fubuki raises her head and screams louder than she ever has, pushing harder than she has ever done these many hours and soon enough, her hard work is rewarded. It didn’t take long for a sound to interrupt it all.
Suddenly there was something fragile, something tender and small born into this world. Then there was a small crash into a mighty cry. The room stills as if caught in a held breath. You finally found yourself feeling some relief.
“You did it, Fubuki.” You gave her a small smile, a tender look as she looked back at you and then the child being held in the midwife’s arms. “You’re a mother.”
One of the midwives lifts the child, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she announces, “A daughter, my lady. A healthy daughter!”
The words seem to settle over everything. Lady Fubuki then collapses back against the futon, her body finally giving in to exhaustion, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as tears slip freely down her temples. Whether they are born from relief or sheer survival hardly matters.
You let yourself stand, moving closer to where the newborn is being cleaned and wrapped. She is small, her skin still marked by the ordeal of her arrival, her cries weak but persistent. There is a fragility to her that is unmistakable, but she is alive. That is what matters. For now.
Chiharu rises beside you, peering at the child with open curiosity. “She’s loud, isn’t she?” she remarks. “Huh, she’s so small.”
“Yes, most babies are like that.” you agreed. “She will cry a lot, though. She worked hard like her mother to be born.”
“Was I ever like that?”
You looked at her. “I….I do not know. Your father brought you home when you were a bit bigger than this little girl.”
“I see.” There is a brief silence before she asks the question that lingers beneath all others. She moves to whisper it in your ear. “Will he care?”
You do not answer immediately. Instead, you reach out, adjusting the cloth around the infant with practiced precision, ensuring that she is properly secured, properly presented. Your touch is neither affectionate nor detached, it is simply correct. Only after a moment do you speak.
“If she proves worthy of his attention.” you say quietly. “Only she can do that for herself.”
Ryomen Chiharu nods, accepting this without question, because she already understands what it means. In this place, existence alone is never enough. Unless you were the daughter of Ryomen Hiromi, like Chiharu was, then you will have to work twice as hard to prove yourself.
You were thankful your child would not have to go through this. For your child does not exist and perhaps never will be. You were content with this, you thought of yourself, you convinced yourself. This was more than enough.
You make arrangements for Fubuki and her child to be cared for. You give the midwives your thanks and the promise of some money for their good work and their services. You cleaned your hands and made your way out.
By the time you step out of the Earthly Might Hall, the night has already given way to morning. The shift is almost jarring Inside, time had stretched and coiled around pain, blood, and breathless anticipation, each moment heavy with consequence. But beyond the threshold, the world has moved forward without hesitation.
The sky is pale with the early light of dawn, the air cooler, carrying none of the suffocating heat that had filled the birthing chamber. Somewhere in the distance, servants have already begun their routines for the day.
Their footsteps echoing softly along stone paths, the faint clatter of preparation rising from the kitchens, the quiet hum of a palace waking as if nothing of importance had occurred. It is a strange kind of indifference.
A life has just been brought into existence, fragile and uncertain, tied irrevocably to the lineage of a being feared as much as he is revered, and yet the world does not pause for it, let alone willing to celebrate it.
You walk forward regardless. Chiharu follows at your side, her presence as composed as ever, her small steps unhurried, perfectly in sync with yours. There is no lingering curiosity in her now, no questions about what she has just witnessed. She has already absorbed it, stored it away, turned it into something she will understand later in her own way.
A manservant stationed along the corridor notices your approach immediately. He lowers himself into a deep bow, head inclined, body still, waiting. You do not stop walking, but you do not ignore him either.
“Inform the harem that another descendant of the Ryomen has been born into this world.” you instruct, your voice calm, carrying easily without the need for emphasis. “Let it be known that the child survived the labor and has been named by her mother, Fuyuka. It is only my lord who will decide if she is given the Ryomen name.”
You continue, your thoughts already moving ahead to what must follow. “After that, go to the kitchens. Have them prepare proper meals for the household, something substantial at the very least for today’s breakfast. The others will be expecting it.”
A pause, brief but intentional, before you add as you remembered. “Oh, and ensure that when Lady Fubuki wakes, she is given food suited for recovery. Something nourishing. Nothing that will weaken her further.”
The manservant nods without lifting his gaze. “Yes, my lady.”
He begins to withdraw at once, stepping backward with careful precision, ensuring that he does not turn his back to you too soon. Only once he has put sufficient distance between himself and your presence does he straighten and move quickly to carry out your orders.
Everything settles into place as it should.
It always does.
For a short while, you and Chiharu walk in silence through the courtyard leading to the path of the Phoenix Gardens. The palace corridors stretch before you, bathed in soft morning light, their polished surfaces reflecting a world that appears far more peaceful than it truly is.
The quiet between you is not empty. Instead, it is simply unforced, a shared stillness that does not require constant words to fill it. Eventually, you glance down at her as she starts to sing a new tune.
“When is your father expected to return from his battle?” you ask, your tone casual, though the question itself is not without purpose.
Chiharu does not hesitate. “He wrote to me the other day that he intends to be home by tonight, mother.” she replies, her voice steady, as though she has already repeated this information to herself more than once.
You nod, acknowledging it with a quiet hum. “I see.”
There is no outward reaction beyond that, no visible anticipation or concern. You have long since learned not to dwell on his comings and goings in any way that might suggest attachment too openly. He returns when he chooses. And when he does, the entire palace reshapes itself around his presence.
Chiharu’s lips curve into a small smile as she looks up at you, a flicker of something softer passing through her otherwise perceptive gaze. She leans close. You sigh as you enveloped her in the same arms you held Fubuki.
“There is no doubt he will dine with you, mother.” she says, the certainty in her tone carrying a quiet familiarity with patterns that rarely change. “That is his routine, is it not?”
A soft sound escapes you, something between a snicker and a restrained laugh. “Then I must sleep before that happens, for I am exhausted.” you reply, a faint trace of amusement threading through your voice. “Your father has a habit of stretching conversations far longer than necessary.”
It is not a complaint, not truly. More of an observation, one made with the kind of ease that comes from repeated experience. Chiharu considers this, her smile lingering as she tilts her head ever so slightly.
“It is his way of making you feel appreciated, mother.” she says to you. “He only speaks with people that intrigue and entertain him.”
Her words are simple as they were earnest. And for just a moment, they linger in the space between you. You do not answer immediately. Instead, your gaze drifts forward, toward the path ahead, toward the chambers that await you, toward the quiet rest you intend to claim before the night returns with him in tow.
Appreciation.
It is a curious way to describe it.
Let alone summarize your relationship.
Your lips curve faintly. It was not quite a smile, but not entirely devoid of warmth either. “Is that so?” you murmur at last.
Whether you believe it or not…you do not say. But you do not dismiss it either. And as the two of you continue walking through the waking palace, the morning light stretching longer across your path, there is a quiet understanding that settles in its place.
“I know so.” Chiharu says to you. “After all, he would not make you my mother if you were so distant from him.”
You purse your lips. You supposed that was the truth of it. He would not give you such a privilege, let alone such rank, such a duty if he does not trust you enough to handle it all for him. You released her from your hold.
“I suppose you are correct.”
“I will break my fast with you, mother.” Chiharu tells you, smiling softly. “It has been a while since I have done this.”
You smiled at her words. “You are more than welcome to join me.”
YOU HAD RISEN FROM YOUR SLEEP JUST IN TIME FOR HIS ARRIVAL. But you were a step ahead. Being informed of it all had allowed the Vermillion Hall to be prepared long before his return. You had seen to it yourself, as soon as you had broken your fast with Chiharu.
Even after leaving the Earthly Might Hall, after the long hours spent in the suffocating heat of labor and blood, you did not allow yourself the indulgence of complete rest. You had bathed, changed into fresh robes, and given quiet instructions as Chiharu returned to break her fast with you.
You had been giving orders as soon as you started to get your hair done by one of the servant girls. You were measured and precise with each and every order. You were not willing to leave any room for error. Your lord husband expects the best from you and you must continue such expectations with results.
The floors had been cleaned again, though they were already spotless. The lanterns were trimmed so their light would not be too dim nor too harsh. The low table was arranged exactly as he preferred, each dish placed with intention rather than decoration.
And the food, most importantly, the food. Your lord husband does not get hungry as humans do. But he appreciates good food, and ones which suit his tastes. You had lived long enough around him to know what they were.
You had paused in the kitchens longer than necessary, watching as the cooks worked under the weight of your silent scrutiny. The meat had been selected carefully, its cut precise, its seasoning adjusted just enough to suit his taste without overwhelming it.
You had corrected a hand here, a measurement there, until you were satisfied. Not because you feared him. But because it was easier when he was pleased. You would not have to deal with the problems of his displeasure.
When he returned, the temple palace shifted its course. It was not something that could be seen directly, nor heard in any obvious way but it was felt to the bone. It was like a pressure settling over everything at once, like the air itself bending to accommodate his presence.
You did not greet him at the gates, not today. You were still ensuring your household was ready to receive him. Chiharu had gone to both of your steads. You had heard whispers he had grumbled about it, but had said nothing more.
You snickered about such a thing. But you did not think much of that. Instead, you continued the preparations within the Vermillion Hall. And when that was done, you merely waited, enjoying the view of the Phoenix gardens, drinking a cup of tea seated and composed, as though you had always been there and always would be.
By the time he entered, everything was ready. Now, the candlelight flickers softly against the lacquered walls, casting long, wavering shadows that stretch and distort across the room. Those shifting patterns crawl over his form as he sits across from you, their movement doing little to soften the sharpness of his features.
Ryomen Sukuna does not rush when he eats. He never has. Each movement that came from your husband was deliberate with his efficient control, as though even something as mundane as a meal is beneath him and yet still worthy of his full attention.
He picks at the meat with careful precision, bringing each bite to his mouth without haste, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. He took a moment to evaluate it. You watch without appearing to. Observing him is the only way to gauge his mood.
And when he does not stop, when he does not discard the food, does not sneer, does not call for the cooks with that dangerous edge curling beneath his voice, you allow yourself the smallest, most private sigh of relief.
He likes it.
Good.
That is good.
That means there will be no irritation tonight, no idle threats about feeding incompetent cooks to whatever curses linger beyond the palace walls, no drawn-out complaints that would force you to intervene in ways that are far more exhausting than they should be.
It is a small victory. But in this place, small victories are the only kind that matter. You sit opposite him, posture straight but not rigid, your hands folded neatly in your lap. You have had some food earlier with your tea.
There is no need for you to share this meal with him, but you still take some food in small intricacies, just to avoid him noticing it and questioning you about it. You quietly take a small bite, before you pour yourself a small amount of sake.
You slowly lift the cup to your lips, taking a measured sip, letting the warmth settle faintly in your chest before setting it back down. You do not refill it immediately. Tonight, you are not in the mood to drink more than necessary. Not when your thoughts are still lingering elsewhere.
The rest of your servants are gone for the night. They were not dismissed by you, but by your lord husband. Before the meal had even properly begun, he had waved them off with little more than a passing remark, his disinterest in their presence clear.
There had been no hesitation in their departure, no attempt to linger under the pretense of duty. They had bowed and retreated quickly, grateful for the permission to remove themselves from his proximity.
He had already decided he would remain here tonight in the Vermillion Hall, with you. That alone had been enough to send a subtle ripple through the palace. Even when he says it is a hassle to return to Heaven’s Hall, there was something else to it. But you were not willing to talk about it. Not tonight.
Now that there are only the two of you, there is quiet tranquility. The cool wind brushes against your cheek as you look at the massive well lit pond separating you and the Phoenix Gardens. The quiet is not uncomfortable tonight, but it is heavy.
The soft clatter of utensils against porcelain echoes more loudly than it should, filling the space between you in the absence of conversation. The scent of roasted meat lingers in the air, rich and grounding, though it does little to distract from the awareness of him sitting across from you.
You do not speak, at least not yet, not without his urging tonight. You were not in the mood to break the ice yourself. Because you know better than to fill silence for the sake of it. That would not be something good.
It is only after some time, after he has taken another slow bite, after the rhythm of the moment has settled into something almost languid, that his gaze finally shifts. Those scarlet eyes lift. And then land on you.
“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, little one.” His tone is casual. Almost indifferent. “Intriguing.”
But his gaze is anything but. It is sharp. Intent. Peeling back layers with a kind of ease that would be unsettling if you had not grown accustomed to it. You lower your eyes, allowing your gaze to fall to the polished surface of the table.
Your reflection stares back at you, almost so pale like the moon from the white make up, almost too composed in your position, betraying nothing that you do not allow. For a moment, you hesitate, not for fear but out of consideration.
You could remain silent. You could deflect. You could offer something trivial and allow the night to pass without complication. But he would not allow it. He never does. And if you refuse him now, he will simply take the answer from you in a way far less gentle. So you choose your words carefully.
“Another child has been born, my lord.” you say at last, your voice soft, controlled, each syllable placed with intention. “From one of your concubines. Lady Fubuki, of the third rank.”
The words settle between you. For a brief moment, there is no reaction. Then, there was something you did not expect. A low, amused sound escapes him. He leans back slightly, a faint smirk curling at the edges of his lips as he shakes his head, almost as if entertained by something only he can fully appreciate.
“A third rank concubine? Then she is a madame.”
You nodded back at him. “Indeed, my lord.”
“Hm. A child, you say? That’s quite intriguing.” His gaze sharpens just a fraction. “I didn’t hear of this when I had arrived.”
“It was kept quiet, my lord.” you reply smoothly, lifting your gaze just enough to meet him without challenging him. “Until it was certain the child would survive the night. I had made it my duty to inform you of it.”
There is a pause. He looks at you, snickers and says, “I see. Well, I suppose it is your duty.”
“Yes, it is, my lord.” You nodded back at him.
“What’s the child’s name?”
“Fuyuka, my lord.”
“You have not given her the name, as per protocol, little one?”
“Yes, my lord. I have not.”
He settles further into his seat, his posture relaxed in a way that only makes him seem more dangerous, not less. The flickering candlelight dances across his expression as his smile widens just slightly.
“Good. That child will not be acknowledged by the Ryomen name.” he says, his voice almost idle, as though discussing something of little consequence. “At least until she grows to prove it otherwise, in the pit.”
Your fingers tighten ever so slightly in your lap, though your expression does not change. “Only when they can stand in the pits, as the other children do–” he continues, his tone carrying a faint edge of amusement. “—and prove their worth in blood…will they earn the right to be seen.”
The words are spoken so easily, so casually. As though he is not deciding the course of an entire life with nothing more than a passing thought. You lower your gaze again. Not because you are told to, but because it is easier this way.
The warmth of the room, of the meal, of the candlelight, it does nothing to reach the quiet chill that settles deep within your chest. Another child. Another life. Another existence bound to a path already carved in violence, in struggle, in a constant need to prove something that should never have required proving.
You think of the newborn girl. She had been so small and so fragile as she cried into her existence in this world. You think of what she will become. What she will be forced to become. Your stomach twists faintly.
For a fleeting moment, even just for a moment, you allow yourself a thought that is as selfishly thought of as it is quiet resignation. Lucky me. Your fingers curl slightly against your palm. I do not have a child.
There is no one tied to you who must be thrown into that world of pits and blood. No one who will be shaped, broken, or hardened under expectations that allow no room for softness. No one will have to survive him.
The thought lingers onto you, a bit heavier as it leaves to be unspoken. And across from you, he continues his meal as though nothing at all has changed. You could only pour more sake onto your cup. Before long, it was burning down your throat.
“Do be careful, before you end up drunk, little one.” Your lord husband teases. “You are human, after all.”
“Then my lord will have to teach me his godly ways, in order to prevent it.”
Ryomen Sukuna snickers. “You never fail to entertain me, little one.”
You lower your head. “That is all I am to do, my lord.”
Sukuna’s amusement lingers for only a moment before it fades into something quieter, something more observant. His scarlet gaze does not leave you as you lower your head, your words settling between you with a weight you had not quite intended, but cannot take back.
That is all I am to do.
The faint clink of porcelain against wood fills the space as you set your cup down, though your fingers linger against it, as if the warmth might ground you in something steadier than your thoughts. The sake burns less now, dulled by repetition, but the heaviness in your chest remains, unmoved.
Across from you, Ryomen Sukuna tilts his head ever so slightly, studying you in that way he does when something has caught his attention, not outwardly disruptive, but impossible to ignore once it settles.
“And who decided that?” he asks, his tone no longer teasing, but not yet sharp either. It lingers somewhere in between, almost thoughtful.
You lift your gaze slowly, careful, composed. “My place was decided the moment I entered your halls, my lord.” you reply, your voice even despite the quiet tension threading through it. “To serve. To maintain order. To ensure your home runs as it should. If I entertain you along the way…then I am fulfilling that purpose well.”
He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. Then another. The silence stretches. It was not uncomfortable, but it was enough to make you feel something that makes you feel too many things inside of you. It was deliberate, as though he is weighing your answer against something unspoken.
“You speak as if you are easily replaced.” he says at last.
The words are not cruel.
But they are not kind either.
That was how he was.
You offer the faintest smile, though it does not quite reach your eyes. “Everything is, my lord. It is only a matter of time and circumstance.”
A quiet exhale leaves him, something almost like a scoff, though it lacks its usual bite. “You think too much, don’t you think?” he mutters.
“And you think too little of things that remain, my lord.” you answer before you can stop yourself.
The moment the words leave your mouth, the air shifts, not dangerously. But noticeably. Your fingers tighten slightly against your lap as you lower your gaze again, correcting yourself in the only way you know how.
“Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”
For a moment, he says nothing in response. He raises a brow intrigued. A low chuckle slips from him, softer than before, edged with something faintly amused. “If I took offense to every word you spoke out of turn, you would not still be sitting there, don’t you think?”
You let out a quiet breath, tension easing just slightly from your shoulders. Still, you do not look back up immediately. “You are not wrong about it.” he continues after a moment, his tone shifting again, quieter now. “Most things are replaceable.”
Your gaze flickers upward then, cautious. “But not everything.” he adds.
The words settle between you more heavily than anything else he has said tonight. You do not respond right away. Because you are not sure if he meant for you to. Instead, you reach for the sake once more, though your hand pauses midway, reconsidering. When you finally do pour, it is less than before, your movements slower, more deliberate.
“You speak as though you believe that, my lord.” you say softly.
He hums, leaning back slightly, his attention still fixed on you in that unrelenting way. “I don’t believe in many things, little one.” he replies. “But I recognize what is worth keeping.”
Your breath catches faintly at that. It was not enough to be seen, but enough to be felt. You lower your gaze again, this time not out of submission, but to steady yourself. “And what determines that then, my lord?” you ask.
“I do.” He says to you, drinking your cup of sake, from right under your nose. “Isn’t that a god’s will?”
The answer is as absolute as everything else about him. And yet…it does not feel as distant as it once might have. The candlelight flickers between you, shadows shifting across his features, across your hands, across the quiet space you both occupy.
For a long moment, neither of you speaks again.
But this time, the silence feels different.
It was light on your soul for the first time in a long time.
YOU WERE NOT IN THE MOOD TO ACCOMMODATE YOUR LORD HUSBAND TODAY. The thought lingers, quiet and persistent, pressing at the edges of your mind even as your weary face remains composed, untouched by all that could show your truest of feelings.
You have long since learned how to carry such things without letting them be seen. It is a skill you perfected out of necessity, having been shaped by years of standing at his side, of understanding when to yield and when to remain still like an obedient doll.
Most days, it is effortless, something you do not even notice the weight of. But today feels different. Today, even the smallest disturbance feels like too much for you. You sit by the veranda, your gaze resting on the lotus pond just beyond the open screens.
The blossoms have only just begun to bloom, their pale petals unfurling slowly, delicately, as though they exist in a world untouched by everything that fills this palace. They drift lazily across the water, carried by a current that asks nothing of them. You watch them with quiet focus.
“They seem lighter this year, don’t you think, little flower?” you murmur, almost to yourself, your voice soft enough that it barely disturbs the air. “As though they have nothing tying them down.”
Just a little bit to your side, Ryomen Chiharu pauses in her writing, her brush hovering just above the paper. “Do flowers change, or do we simply notice them more, mother?” she asks, her tone thoughtful in that way she has.
You think she is too perceptive for her age, at times. You wish she takes more interest in being a child, for she is one. You glance at her, the faintest hint of something gentler touching your expression. It was always like that, always for her.
“Perhaps both.” you reply to her. “Or perhaps we only look at them when we wish to forget something else.”
She hums at that, returning her attention to her calligraphy, though you can tell she is still thinking about your answer. The breeze shifts, cool against your skin, carrying with it the faint scent of water and greenery. For a moment longer, you allow yourself to sit there, suspended in that quiet, fragile peace.
“You will accompany me.” His voice cuts cleanly through it all of the sudden.
Chiharu turned her attention to her father. She stands up and lowers her head. “Father.”
The stillness does not shatter loudly at all. Instead, it simply disappears, as though it had never been there to begin with. You do not turn immediately, even knowing that your lord husband had arrived before you like this. Chiharu lowered her body and her attention back towards her writing.
Meanwhile, you do not stand up, nor greet your lord husband. You instead let your gaze linger on the pond, watching as a ripple disturbs the surface, breaking apart the reflection of the sky. Only after a breath do you rise, turning toward him with the same calm composure you always wear.
Ryomen Sukuna stands where he always seems to. He’s always within the space, yet separate from it, almost as if to him, such a thing was not worth his time. His presence alters the atmosphere without effort, pressing into everything until it feels as though the room itself belongs to him.
“Where to, my lord?” you finally reacted to a question, your voice even, respectful, untouched by the faint reluctance that had lived within you moments before.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, his gaze sharp, assessing, as though measuring whether there is anything beneath your calm worth drawing out. “Kyoto.” he answers at last.
The word settles heavily. The imperial capital of Kyoto is not a place one visits without reason. Let alone for someone who was a rogue like your lord husband, who has reestablished his dominance over Hida, the Ryomen heartland, without the authorization of the Imperial court.
It carries too much, when one thinks about Kyoto. The history, the power, all the things that linger long after they should have faded. But you knew very well that your lord husband would have the backing of the Gojo and the Mikoto in such a visit, as he usually had.
But the question is this: why must you go?
He has never asked you to join him before.
Not when this was his devotion to the woman he loved.
You tilt your head ever so slightly, considering. “Kyoto is not a place you go to idly, my lord.” you say carefully. “Shall I assume there is something there that requires your attention?”
There is no challenge in your tone, only quiet reasoning. His lips curve faintly, not quite a smile. “You assume correctly, little one.”
A pause follows, just long enough for the weight of that to settle. “And what is it that calls you there?” you ask, your voice softer now, more measured. “A matter of politics? Or something… more personal?”
Chiharu’s brush slows behind you. She did not stop fully, but rather slowed her strokes. She does not look up. She knew better than that. Instead, she remained listening. Ryomen Sukuna exhales faintly, as though the question itself is only mildly interesting.
“To pay homage.” he says to you, a hint of sentimentality over his gaze. “To someone’s corpse.”
The simplicity of it makes the meaning heavier, not lighter. Your fingers are still slightly in your lap. You do not ask which one. You already know. Ryomen Hiromi, the ghost you cannot escape, even after all this time. Even when you look to your side, you would see her face, in the daughter she left behind.
The name presses quietly against your thoughts, unspoken but unmistakable. You lower your gaze for a brief moment, then lift it again. “I see.” you say, your voice steady. “It has been some time since you last visited her, hasn’t it, my lord?”
There is no accusation in your words. But there is awareness. Ryomen Sukuna was not daft. He knew your feelings, a god would be foolish not to know. Yet he knew you were always so wise not to voice them out loud. His scarlet eyes narrow slightly, in something closer to interest.
“Time means little to the dead, little one.” he replies, finding himself seated closer to the ponds. “Whether I go now or later makes no difference to her.”
“Perhaps not, my lord.” you say, your tone is calm. “But it may make a difference to you.”
The words slip out before you can stop them. It was neither sharp nor defiant. Yet for the first time in a long time, such words did not come out entirely safe either. You had known your place, the other woman. Yet with such a life, you understood why it permeates through your lips like this.
For a moment, the air stills. Chiharu’s brush stops completely this time. Yet she still does not look up. Instead, she felt her hands descend low to her lap and turn into fists. She was quite aware of who her mother was. Yet she did not know her mother.
She only knew you, the woman who raised her. There was no other woman she could devote herself loyally to. And somehow, all at once, she felt your pain in the words that lingered in the air. She felt guilt, even when it was not her fault. She felt guilt that you suffer this way.
Sukuna looks at you once more. There is something in his scarlet gaze now that lingers a fraction longer than before. “You speak as though you understand my reasons, little one.” he says to you. You hold his gaze, unflinching.
“I do not claim to, my lord.” you answered him cordially. “But I have stood beside you long enough to know that you do not act without one.”
A quiet exhale leaves him, something that might almost be a laugh. “Careful, little one.” he murmurs. “You make it sound as though I am predictable. And you know what comes out of such a thing.”
You allow the faintest trace of a smile to touch your lips. “Not predictable, my lord. Only… consistent.”
That earns you a sharper look from him. But he did not seem displeased, at least not entirely. The silence stretches for a moment longer before he breaks it. He slowly shifts his sitting position, to lean against the gazebo’s strong wall.
“You will prepare, little one.” he says, his tone returning to something firmer, more final. “We leave before dawn.”
You incline your head. “Of course, my lord…it shall be done.”
“The child will come as well.” The words land differently. He continues, almost as an afterthought, though you know better than to believe that. “She will pay homage to her mother,” he says, his voice flattening slightly. “And to her relatives. The Gojo. The Mikoto. Tiresome as they are.”
Behind you, the absence of sound is immediate. Chiharu lifts her gaze as she looks at her father. “Must I—”
“You must.” Sukuna immediately cuts her off, a sharp look following. “That is your lady mother. Your lord. You cannot think of her any other way else.”
Your chest tightens, just slightly as you see her reaction, conflict and anguish brewing in the storm of her scarlet eyes. It was as your lord husband had said. Even when you had raised Chiharu, Ryomen Hiromi will always be her mother. Not you. Never you.
For all that you have been to her, for all the quiet moments, the guidance, the unspoken bond, even as the woman who had raised her, you are not the one who gave her life. That place belongs to someone else. You never will be.
You glance at Chiharu, just briefly. She lowers her gaze once more. In the moments that pass, she does not look up, but the stillness of her hand betrays her thoughts. Then you look back at him. Your expression is unchanged.
“As you wish, my lord.” you say, your voice steady despite the quiet weight settling in your chest. “I will see that everything is prepared in her household, also.”
He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering in a way that is difficult to name. It is not the sharp, dissecting look he often gives when he is prying something open, nor is it the fleeting glance of disinterest he offers to things beneath him.
This is something quieter. Measured. As though he is weighing a thought he has not yet decided to speak. You hold his gaze, steady as ever, though there is nothing left for you to say. For a brief second, it almost feels as though he might add something.
You wonder if he has more to say. If there was something else that could come out of his mouth. It didn’t have to be something important. It can be something unnecessary, something that would not change the outcome but might shift the space between you ever so slightly.
But he does not. Instead, he exhales softly through his nose, as if dismissing the thought entirely. Without another word, he rises from where he stands, his majestic movements unhurried, assured.
The floor does not creak beneath him, the space does not resist him. Instead, everything simply yields, as it always does. Ryomen Sukuna turns, already done with the conversation, already beyond it. The decision has been made. It always is. And just like that, he leaves.
The absence he leaves behind is not silence. It is something heavier. You remain where you are, unmoving, your gaze drifting back toward the veranda as though your body has returned to where it had been before. But the moment itself has not, it won’t ever do so again.
The breeze still moves through the open screens, brushing faintly against your skin, carrying the same gentle scent of water and greenery. The lotus blossoms continue to drift across the pond, their pale petals undisturbed, untouched by anything that has just transpired.
Nothing in the world beyond this room has changed. And yet, the stillness you had so carefully held onto is gone. It was not shattered, and certainly not violently torn apart. Yet it slipped through your fingers, replaced by something quieter, more difficult to reclaim. You exhale softly, the breath leaving you slower than you intended, your gaze lowering as though to gather yourself once more.
“Finish your writing, my little flower,” you say gently, your voice softer now, stripped of the formality you had carried moments before. “You have heard your lord father. We will have much to prepare.”
You expect compliance. You always do. You had taught her enough of that to last her in the courtly life. But for a moment, there is nothing. Then, you hear the faint sound of fabric shifting. You glance toward her. Chiharu has lifted her gaze.
You can tell that there is something in her expression that does not belong there. It was not confusing nor curious. Instead, there was something sharper in the rims of her scarlet eyes. Something that unsettles you before she even speaks.
“She is not my mother.”
The words are quiet. But they land with a weight that feels far heavier than they should. Your eyes widened, mouth open agape as you gasped, before you could do anything else. You shake your head at the young woman.
“Chiharu, little flower, that is not something you should….” you begin, your voice instinctively lowering, caution threading through it. “You mustn’t say—”
“But it is true, isn’t it?”
She cuts you off. She had not said it loudly, at least not with defiance in the way a child might argue with an authority figure. Instead, she says it with a firmness that feels far too deliberate. Her hands tighten slightly around the brush she still holds, ink staining the tip as it presses too long against the paper.
“She did not raise me.” Chiharu continues, her voice trembling just slightly, echoing with endless frustrating and conflicting feelings. Something that has been sitting within her for longer than this moment alone. “She was never there.”
Your chest tightens. “Chiharu—”
“You did.”
The words come softer now, far more fragile than you could have ever thought. This was a moment you thought to yourself that she had allowed herself to be a child. And yet, you know those words carry more weight than anything she has said before. Her gaze does not waver from yours.
“You are the one who stayed with me.” she says, her voice quieter, but no less certain. “You are the one who taught me how to write, how to speak, how to sit properly, and how to understand him.” Her fingers curl slightly against the brush, as though grounding herself in the act of holding it. “You are the one who listens when I speak.”
There is no accusation in her tone. No anger either. Yet she speaks only the truth. And perhaps that makes it harder. You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, your gaze softening despite the tension that lingers beneath it.
“That may be so.” you say carefully, each word chosen with precision. “But it does not change what is there, little flower.”
Chiharu’s brows knit together, just slightly. “It should, shouldn’t it?” she murmurs.
There is something painfully simple in the way she says it. Something that speaks not of rebellion, but of a child trying to reconcile the world as she knows it with the one she is being told to accept.
You rise slowly, crossing the small distance between you. When you kneel beside her, your movements are gentle, deliberate, as though approaching something fragile. You give her a small smile.
“Listen to me, little flower.” you say softly, reaching out to adjust her grip on the brush, guiding it back into something steady. “There are things in this world that are not decided by feeling. Or by fairness.”
Her lips press together. “But—”
“Chiharu.” You do not raise your voice. But you do interrupt her firmly. She falls silent. “You are and always will be her daughter, as much as you are your father’s daughter.” you continue, your tone calm, unwavering. “That truth does not disappear simply because she is no longer here. And it does not lessen what I have been to you and what I feel for you.”
Your hand stills over hers for just a moment. “I do not need to share your blood in order to stand beside you, and proudly say that I had raised you like my own.” you add quietly. “And you do not need to deny her existence to acknowledge me.”
The words settle between you. They were heavy to say, just as much as difficult. But you try to make it as gently as possible. Ryomen Chiharu’s gaze lowers slowly, her earlier certainty softening into something more uncertain, more conflicted.
“I……” she begins, but the words falter before they can fully form.
You do not press her. Instead, you withdraw your hand, rising once more, allowing her the space to sit with what you have said. After a moment, you speak again, even softer now. “Finish your writing, little flower.” you repeat. “ Then you must get your things. We leave before dawn.”
She looks at you and gives you a small smile. “Yes….mother.”
The way she says it made your heart echo in tender feeling. As you turn your gaze back toward the lotus pond, watching the petals drift across the water as though nothing in the world could disturb them, you cannot help but feel it. That some things, once spoken aloud, do not settle as easily as they should.
TRAVEL MAKES YOU WEARY AND YOU DON’T LIKE IT. The journey stretches longer than most you have taken. It is not unpleasant, you knew that much. Your servants had made sure that there is no discomfort you would dare acknowledge, no hardship that has not already been accounted for in the comfort of your carriage as it passed through the flat lands of Kyoto’s roads.
But it is long in a way that forces awareness upon you. Each passing mile reminds you, quietly and persistently, that the world you inhabit within the palace is only one part of something far wider, far older, and far less contained. The further you travel, the more that truth settles in.
The air changes first. At times, it feels heavier, pressing faintly against your lungs as though carrying remnants of something unseen. In other places, it thins, lighter, almost hollow, as if something has been stripped away from it.
The land shifts with it too. The dense groves give way to open paths, quiet villages dissolving into stretches of untouched terrain where even the wind seems to move more cautiously to the fine firm roads of the Kyoto flatlands.
You notice it. Even if you do not speak of it. At the edges of your perception, something else lingers. Those little curses. It was not close enough to be seen, not bold enough to approach but they were present. Watching, perhaps. Waiting.
Their presence brushes faintly against your senses, like something just beyond reach. Each and every one looked different than the last, some flew, some slimed through the roads. Some had feet to walk with. But they do not come nearer to your carriage. They do not dare. Not with Ryomen Sukuna traveling with you.
The King of Curses’s presence is not subtle. It does not need to be announced. It simply exists in this world and everything else bends around it, retreats from it, avoids it as instinctively as prey avoids a predator it cannot hope to survive.
You do not look at him often during the journey.
You do not need to.
You feel him there.
That was more than enough for you.
Ryomen Chiharu rides beside you, her posture as composed as it always is, her small frame steady despite the length of the travel. She does not complain. She does not shift restlessly like other children might. But she is not still. Not truly. But if she was, would she even be her lord father’s daughter?
Her gaze moves constantly, taking in everything around her with quiet intensity. She watches the changing landscape, the distant figures that pass along the road, the subtle differences between one region and the next.
There is something almost analytical in the way she observes, as though she is trying to understand not just what she sees, but how it fits together. After some time, she turns her attention to you.
“You have been here before, mother?” she asks, her voice calm, but carrying that familiar thread of curiosity she rarely bothers to hide from you.
You glance at her briefly before returning your gaze to the road ahead. “No, not truly.” you answer. It is a simple response, but it is honest. There is a brief silence as she processes that. “I had not gone out much from the temple ever since your lord father wed me.”
“I thought you might have. Father took you to places, did he not?” she says after a moment, tilting her head slightly.
“Only in near-by villages.” You retort back to her. “I have issues with travelling far too long, little flower.”
“Then why join now?”
You laugh softly. “Because your father wills it.”
She takes that answer and considers it. “That’s interesting. You always seem to know what to expect, though. You seem to know the places too well even before they come before you.”
You let out a faint breath, something softer than a sigh. “Knowing what to expect does not always come from experience, little flower.” you reply. “Sometimes it comes from listening, reading. From observing what others say, or what they choose not to say.”
Chiharu considers that, her brows knitting ever so slightly. “Then what do you expect from this place?” she asks, her voice quieter now.
You pause, not because you do not have an answer but because the answer is not a simple one to you. “Kyoto is an old soul.” you say carefully. “Older than most places we pass through. It carries history in ways that do not fade easily. People remember things there. They hold onto them.”
She watches you closely. “And that is important?” she asks.
“It can be, little flower.” you reply. “Especially when those memories involve people like your father.”
At that, her gaze shifts forward again, her expression thoughtful. “Do they fear him there?” she asks.
You allow yourself the faintest hint of a smile. “They fear him everywhere,” you say. “Kyoto is simply more…accustomed to fear than most. After all, your lord father claimed Hida by will, not by right.”
That earns a small hum from her, as though she finds the distinction interesting rather than unsettling. After a moment, she speaks again. “Then we are the same, mother.” she says.
You glance at her. “The same?” you repeat.
She nods slightly, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “You have not been there.” she explains, “And neither have I. Especially in the Gojo and Mikoto strongholds. We will both see it for the first time.”
There is something in her tone, subtle, but present. You can tell that it was not quiet excitement that measured within the young girl. But you think that it was something close to it. A quiet kind of anticipation. You study her for a moment longer before responding.
“Yes, I suppose that is….” you say gently. “I suppose that is true.”
She shifts slightly in her seat, the movement small but noticeable. “Will it be different?” she asks after a pause. “From home, I mean.”
You consider the question more seriously this time. “Yes, I would think so.” you answer. “Kyoto is not going to be our isolated Hida.”
“In what way?”
“In every way that matters, little flower.” you reply. “And in some ways that do not.”
She exhales softly, as though that answer both satisfies and frustrates her. “That is not very clear, isn’t it?” she mutters.
“It is not meant to be.” you say, a faint trace of warmth entering your voice. “Some things are better understood when you see them yourself.”
Chiharu glances at you, her expression sharpening just slightly. “You always say that, don’t you?” she points out as she pouts.
“And you always ask, and I indulge you, little flower.” you return.
For a brief moment, something lighter passes between you. She looks at you and starts laughing. You felt the contagious echoes and laughs too. Before long, though, her gaze drifts again, returning to the world unfolding around you.
“And…her?” she asks suddenly, her voice quieter now. You know immediately who she means. You do not pretend otherwise. “She is there, my blood mother.” Chiharu continues, her tone more hesitant now, more uncertain. “In Kyoto.”
You nod once. “Yes, she is.”
There is a longer pause this time. “Do you think…” she begins, then falters, her fingers tightening slightly where they rest. “Do you think it will feel different? Being there? Seeing her?”
You look ahead, your expression unreadable. “Yes, I think it will be.” you say after a moment. “It would be your first time meeting your lady mother, won’t it be?”
She purses her lips. “I guess so….”
You take her hand into your own, giving her a small smile. “Do not worry. I am sure your lord father will be there with you, if it gets too overwhelming.”
“But….”
“Hm?”
Her scarlet eyes echo into your own orbs. “Will you be there too, when I get back?”
You squeeze her hand. “Of course, I will be.”
KYOTO DOES NOT GREET YOU WITH ITS GRANDEUR. There are no banners raised in your honor, no overwhelming display meant to impress or intimidate. Instead, the city receives you with quiet certainty, as though it has stood long before you arrived and will remain long after you leave.
The streets are orderly, the structures aged but meticulously maintained, each one placed with intention rather than excess. It is a place that does not demand attention, rather it simply holds it. You feel it as you pass through, watching the merging of the Ryomen purple echo against the Mikoto azure and the Gojo sky blue.
The weight of history here is different here. It was not suffocating, not chaotic like the temple palace, but you can tell that their identities in this space are deeply rooted. It was as though it was eagerly measuring you, trying to gather what to think of you within this space.
At the heart of it stands the grand Gojo estate. It does not tower, nor does it need to. Its authority lies in its restraint, in the quiet precision of its design, in the way everything about it suggests control rather than dominance.
Your lord husband had told you much about their old home in Hida, upon one of your visits in a monastery, having passed the ruins of the old Gojo estate in the proud lands. They had left more than a hundred years ago, after the Imperial court had called your lord husband an enemy of the throne, and that all sorcerer clans in Hida must move to the capital, in order to show their loyalty to the throne.
The age old Gojo was one of them, as was the young Mikoto, who are both descendants of Ryomen Hiromi from her two marriages. And as such, many of them have made their lives here. Including the last of Ryomen Hiromi’s children, the one hundred or so year old lord Gojo.
Your thoughts return you to reality as you hear a knocking upon your carriage. Chiharu has gone down first, as befits her status. Even though Ryomen Sukuna is your lord husband, you are still his concubine and Chiharu is his daughter. Your status is different.
Before long, you are expected to follow. Servants are already lined at the entrance, their posture immaculate, their movements synchronized as they bow in unison. There is no trembling in them, no visible fear but there is awareness.
There was a careful, deliberate understanding of exactly who had stepped onto their grounds. You notice the difference immediately. They do not cower before your lord husband. Instead, they look strident. They look like they’re willing to endure, come what may.
Before you can be formally announced, a presence steps forward to meet you. The aged old Lord Gojo approaches at an unhurried pace, neither rushing nor keeping his distance. There is confidence in the way he carries himself, but not arrogance.
Instead, there was something far more controlled, far more intentional. His expression holds a quiet amusement, as though this meeting is not unexpected, but rather…long anticipated this moment to come to pass.
“Ah, I see why you had taken her to be a bride, my lord.” he begins, his voice warm in a way that feels deliberate rather than natural.
You could see your lord husband’s eyes narrow. “You ought to shelter your tongue, nephew.”
Your eyes widened slightly. Nephew? Is lord Gojo his nephew?
The old weary man laughed energetically. “My lady mother would be quite upset at the fact that you seem to be like this, my lord. Such a long awaited visit and yet, you make me wait.”
“The young are so eager to make sharp witted comments.”
“I cannot seem to help it. I’m not getting any younger, my lord.” The old man points to his old face. “I had begun to wonder if you would continue avoiding Kyoto out of sheer stubbornness. I was already putting your old family portrait to do ceremonies for your funeral rites, uncle."
His gaze lands on Ryomen Sukuna, without fear, but rather there was familiarity. Almost an ungodly playfulness that you had never seen with anyone. Sukuna exhales through his nose, unimpressed, his eyes narrowing slightly as though the greeting itself has already exhausted his patience.
“You assume too much, foolish boy.” he replies flatly. “I don’t avoid anything. I simply choose where I spend my time. Kyoto has never been worth the trouble.”
Gojo lets out a soft chuckle, entirely unbothered by the dismissal. “And yet, here you are, my lord. Which means either Kyoto has suddenly gained value…or you have.”
Sukuna’s gaze sharpens. “Don’t twist it into something it isn’t, boy.” he says, his tone dipping lower. “I came because I had business. That’s all you need to know.”
“Mm, I should suppose so.” Lord Gojo hums, clearly entertained. “You’ve always preferred to call things ‘business’ when they carry a bit more weight than that.”
There is history in the way they speak to each other, something worn in, familiar, edged but not volatile. Then the old, decrepit lord Gojo’s attention shifts once more, fully towards you. The change is subtle, but unmistakable.
He studies you with his shining blue orbs, though not with the invasive scrutiny your lord husband uses, but with something more contemplative, more…searching. His gaze lingers just a moment longer than politeness requires, as though he is trying to place something already known rather than uncover something new.
“Well, this is not what I expected.” he murmurs, stepping just slightly closer, his brows drawing together in faint thought. “Perhaps this is the reason my lord does not visit at all.”
“My concubine does not travel well.”
“Hm, yet she is here.”
“Only this time.”
You meet his gaze calmly, offering neither submission nor resistance, your posture steady beneath the weight of his observation. “My lady…..” he continues, inclining his head in acknowledgment. “Has anyone ever remarked that you resemble someone dear to me?”
You do not rush to answer. Instead, you tilt your head ever so slightly, regarding him with quiet patience. You purse your lips in a flat line. It was always so odd to you, to be seen as a living ghost for someone else. Yet you could not avoid it. Not when the resemblance is there. And most of all, not when Hiromi’s son sees her in you.
“I cannot say that they have, my lord.” you reply, your voice even. “Though I suspect you would not have asked if the resemblance were insignificant.”
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “My mother…..” he says simply. He then looks at Sukuna. “Hm, yes.” The words settle between you. You hold his gaze, considering. “My lady, I hope you did not find me rude.”
“Not at all. I will take it as neither an insult nor coincidence regarding this.” you answer. “Only… an observation you felt worth sharing, even when….”
Old Gojo’s smile deepens, just slightly as you trail off, unable to say more. “I suppose so.”
Behind you, the air shifts. You do not need to look to know why. Ryomen Sukuna has grown impatient.
“Are you finished?” he cuts in, his tone edged now, though not raised. “Or do you plan to stand there comparing faces until the sun sets?”
Gojo laughs softly, shaking his head. “You truly have not changed, truly.” he says. “Still as intolerant of anything that doesn’t revolve around you.”
“And you’re still talking too much, foolish boy.” Sukuna returns. “If you have something to say, say it. If not, move aside.”
There is a flicker of something sharper in Gojo’s eyes, but it does not bloom into conflict. Instead, it settles into amusement. “Very well, my lord.” he says, though his gaze flickers between the two of you once more. “Then allow me to say this plainly.”
He tilts his head slightly, his tone shifting. It was far too deliberate to be mocking or serious. “I didn’t expect you to be the type.”
Sukuna’s expression tightens. “The type for what?” he asks, his voice quieter now, more dangerous for it.
“To keep someone like her close.” Gojo replies, gesturing lightly in your direction. “And to bring her here of all places.”
The implication lingers. Sukuna scoffs, though there is a slight delay. But it was just enough to be noticed. “You’re imagining things, fool.” he says dismissively. “She serves her purpose. That’s all.”
Gojo watches him carefully and then smiles. “If that’s what you prefer to call it, my lord.” he says, unconvinced but unwilling to press further, at least for now. Instead, his attention shifts downward to young Chiharu.
“Is this her?” he says, his tone softening.
Sukuna purses his lips. “Yes.”
“Hm, she looks exactly like you.”
“She is my child.”
“When you told me of her existence, I thought to myself that it could be a farce, but you did not like it. She looks quite a bit like my mother too.” Gojo narrows his eyes. “Isn’t she meant to be the elder child?”
“Not now, since I have changed the path of fate for her existence.” Sukuna retorts back. “Therefore, at this point in time, she is your youngest sibling.”
“Hm.” The old Gojo lord turned his attention fully to Chiharu. “You carry yourself well. Not many your age manage such composure.”
Chiharu meets his gaze without hesitation, her posture straight, her voice calm. “I was taught properly to be so, my lord.” she answers.
“Is that so? By him?” Gojo asks, glancing briefly at Sukuna.
Chiharu shakes her head. “No, my lord.” she says. “By her.”
Her eyes flick toward you in the smallest motion. But not one that goes unnoticed. The old decrepit lord Gojo’s expression shifts. He was subtle, but far too aware. He snickers. “I see.” he says. “Then the credit lies where it is due.”
Ryomen Sukuna says nothing. But his presence sharpens just slightly. The moment settles into something balanced. It was not tense, but it was also not relaxed. Instead, it is held in a careful equilibrium where no one oversteps, yet nothing is entirely without meaning.
At last, Gojo steps aside, gesturing toward the estate behind him. “You’ve traveled far from home.” he says. “It would be poor hospitality to keep you standing at the gates like this.”
His gaze returns to you briefly, thoughtful, measured. “You are welcome here, my lady. We are grateful for your efforts to come here, despite your restrictions.” he adds.
There is intention behind the words.You can feel it. You shake your head. “No, the pleasure is all mine, my lord. Thank you for welcoming me to your abode in such conditions.”
The Gojo lord smiles softly. “My mother would have done the same.”
YOU DO NOT MEAN TO DRINK MUCH. But having settled in your quarters for this visit, you find yourself trying to make yourself comfortable. You did not attend the banquet, you were not feeling the best and that lord Gojo had understood.
This meant that your lord husband must attend. But within the few hours that passed, Ryomen Sukuna had come to see you, having left Uraume and Chiharu to deal with the formalities on his behalf, having become weary from the conversations of the elites of Kyoto.
The night settles deeper around the two of you, the estate quieter now than it had been upon your arrival. Even the air feels different here. It felt warm and cool all at once, carrying the faint scent of aged wood and distant spray of sweetened incense.
The servants have long since withdrawn, leaving only the two of you in the dim glow of candlelight. You are no longer entirely composed, at the very least not when you had asked for multiple bottles of sake for dinner.
The sake has done its work, and of course, not enough to make you careless, never that. But enough to loosen the edges of your restraint, to soften the careful control you hold over yourself as you went ahead and sang songs under the glistening moon.
You sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, one knee slightly angled, your posture still elegant but no longer rigid. Your cup rests loosely between your fingers, tilting just slightly as you swirl what little remains inside.
Ryomen Sukuna watches you.
Sharp scarlet eyes dwelling.
He was not subtle with his intentions.
“You’ve had enough, little one.” he says, his voice low, steady, carrying that familiar weight of observation rather than concern.
You glance up at him, a faint smile pulling at your lips. It was slower than usual, softer, and touched by something warmer. The sleeve of your kimono falling to your side. “And yet, you haven’t taken it away from me, haven’t you, my lord?” you reply, your voice smooth but lighter than it should be.
His eyes narrow slightly. “If I wanted to, I would have, little one. ‘tis my will you must follow, after all.” he says.
“Mm, I suppose so.” you hum, lifting the cup to your lips and finishing it anyway, letting your gaze linger on him over the rim. “But you haven’t. This means to me you enjoy seeing me in such a state, my lord.”
He does not speak, and he does not deny it. Instead, he continues to watch you. You laugh as you down the remainder of the sake on your cup. A beat passes. It was then you set the cup down, perhaps a little more carelessly than usual.
The quiet stretches. It was not an empty quiet, but thick with something unspoken. Something comfortable, far too comfortable for its own good. You lean back slightly, studying him now, your head tilting just a fraction.
“Why did you bring me here?” you ask.
There is no careful lead-in this time. No measured softness. The question slips out, carried by the warmth in your chest and the quiet boldness that comes with it. His multiple scarlet gaze sharpens towards you.
“You’ve already asked that, did you not?” he says.
“And you didn’t answer.” you return, just as easily. “It is only right to ask once again, my lord.”
A flicker of something passes through his expression. You do not know what it was. Amusement, perhaps, or irritation softened into something more tolerable. He sets aside the brush and the scroll, to a safe distance, to be left to dry. He focuses his attention on you then.
“I told you the reason, little one.” he says.
“To visit her, to give Chiharu a chance to meet her family, yes. I know that.” you murmur. “But I—what….what is my purpose here?”
Your fingers tap lightly against the table. “That’s not the whole truth, and I know it in my heart.” you add, your voice quieter now, but more certain.
He studies you for a long moment. “The alcohol has made you bold.”
“And so what if it has?”
“Hm, it’s entertaining.”.
You blink. “…You’re doing it again, my lord.” you say, a quiet laugh slipping into your voice. “Avoiding the question.”
“Sit still, won’t you? You are so hard to draw like this.” he replies. You stare at him. Then you felt yourself laugh, so soft, so incredulous. “I will never get your nose right.”
“You are insufferable, my lord.” you mutter, though there is no real bite in it. “You command me as if I’m one of your soldiers.”
“You’re worse,” he says without missing a beat. “They listen for the first time.”
That earns a sharper look from you. “Do they?” you ask, leaning forward slightly, your eyes narrowing in faint challenge. “Or do they simply fear you enough not to argue?”
His gaze drops to your movement, then rises again, slow and deliberate. “Is there a difference?” he asks.
You hold his gaze. “Yes, I should say so.” you say. “One is obedience. The other is silence.”
“Then which one are you?” he asks, leaning forward. “Which one of them are you, little one?”
The question lands differently. You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you shift, settling more comfortably where you sit, though your eyes never leave his. “…That depends on who asks.” you say softly.
He narrowed his gaze. “What does that mean?”
“On whether you’re asking as my lord….” you murmur, eyes tender against his. “Or as my own husband.”
The words linger. Something in the air tightens. It was not sharply, but with a kind of slow, deliberate pull. Ryomen Sukuna’s grip on the brush stills for just a fraction of a second. Then resumes at that moment.
“You talk too much tonight.” he says.
“And you don’t talk enough.” you return, echoing his earlier exchange with Gojo without even realizing it.
That earns you a quiet, low chuckle. “Careful, little one.” he murmurs. “I will allow you everything. But such eager boldness gets you nowhere.”
“Am I?” you ask, your voice softer now, almost curious. “Being too bold for you?”
His gaze lifts fully to yours. “Yes.”
The word is simple. But it settles deep. You feel it in the way your breath slows, in the way your pulse lingers just a little heavier beneath your skin. You could feel flesh turn so hot. You could only wonder if it was your own flustered desire, or the sake that you had drank over and over again.
“Then answer me now, my lord.” you press, though your voice has lost some of its earlier edge, turning quieter, more earnest. “Why bring me here…of all places?”
“You’re still asking that?” he says.
“Yes.”
“Even when you already know the answer?”
“If I knew it, my lord, it would be a different thing.” you reply, “I wouldn’t be asking.”
A pause stretches between you.
Then he leans back slightly, studying you with that same intensity. But this time, there is something else threaded through it. Something heavier. “I brought you here, little one, because I need you.” he says slowly. “Because this is where everything that came before you still exists.”
Your breath catches, just slightly. “And how does that relate to me?”
“And I wanted to see something from you.” he continues, his voice lower now, more deliberate, “I wanted to see whether you would still stand the same way when faced with it.”
Your fingers curl faintly against your lap. “And have I?” you ask quietly.
He leans forward now, closing the distance. “Have you?” he repeats.
Your breath falters. But you don’t look away. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
That seems to satisfy him. At least, enough. His hand lifts, rough fingers brushing lightly against your chin before tilting your face up, not forceful, but unmistakably possessive. “You are, little one.” he murmurs. “And you shan’t ever leave me.”
“You already know that, my lord.” Your lips part slightly, your breath warm between you now, the space closing without either of you fully acknowledging it.
“Then there was no point still asking questions you already know the answer to.”
“Then say it anyway, my lord.” you whisper, eyes focused on him.
“You belong with me, little one. I want the world to know that.” he says to you. “Nothing will dim your value to me in the eyes of the world. Whether you give me a child, whether you are a ghost, I need you to light the way, even when it hurts you, even when it burns you. I need you.”
The words are blunt, unsoftened. But there is no dismissal in them. Only certainty. It settles into you deeper than the sake ever could. Your gaze becomes clouded with desire. Your loose kimono becomes looser still as you try to become nearer to his figure.
“You do not need to give me the world others do.” He whispers to you. “I do not need it.”
“Then what do you need?”
“You. You and only you.”
“Then don’t avoid me when I ask.” you murmur.
A faint smirk touches Sukuna’s lips. “You didn’t seem to mind enough to stop asking.”
“I never do, my lord.” you reply.
“I know.”
The words are quieter now, closer. And when his hand shifts, sliding from your chin to the back of your neck, pulling you just slightly closer, you don’t resist. You don’t hesitate. The kiss is not rushed. It is not desperate. Instead, it was something slower. Heavier.
It was the kind of embrace that lingers, that builds, that carries all the unspoken tension between you and lets it settle into something tangible. Your hand finds his sleeve first and then his shoulder, fingers tightening just slightly as the warmth between you deepens, as the distance disappears entirely.
The world outside the room fades again.
Sukuna's grip on your neck tightened slightly as the kiss deepened, his masterful tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual dance. He tasted like power and darkness, a heady combination that made your head spin.
Your fingers dug into his shoulder, pulling him closer as you lost yourself in the sensation. He has held you close, caged in his much bigger figure, almost as though melting into him, like you were becoming one.
One of his hands all but slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hip. Your lord husband broke the kiss suddenly, resting his forehead against yours as he caught his breath.
Soon enough, his fingers drawls onto your clit and then your cunny in endless fervor. One after the other, his massive fingers felt too good as they pierce through, reaching your crevices, your pleasure points, over and over again.
“It feels so good, fuck—”
"Fuck, little one…." he whispered hoarsely. "You drive me crazy, little one."
He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips before pulling back completely. Sukuna's fingers continued their relentless assault, pushing you higher and higher until you were teetering on the precipice of ecstasy. His thumb circled your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body as his fingers curled inside you, hitting that sweet spot that made your toes curl.
"That's it, little one." he murmured to you. "Let go for me. Come undone on my hand."
He watched your face intently, his scarlet eyes dark with desire as he felt your walls start to flutter around his fingers. Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered to you. "I want to feel you come apart for me. Want to hear my name on your lips as you shatter."
His long, muscular fingers pumped faster, harder, driving you towards the edge with expert precision. You screamed his name as the orgasm crashed through you, your body convulsing with pleasure as Sukuna gentled you through the aftershocks.
As he removed his fingers, the lace of your pleasure pelts and dwells slowly coming onto the palm of his hand. He snickers as he moves and lamps upon it, eating it all out clean all the while looking at you, never once leaving your gaze.
“You liked that, did you not?”
You felt yourself flushed, still recovering from pleasure. “It was too much….”
“But I am not done with you.”
“I know.” You whispered to him, earning a snicker.
Sukuna's soon hands moved to your waist, lifting you effortlessly as he pressed you against the wall. You can feel the way flesh burns against the naked wood, as he pushes your body deeper and deeper into it, as he captures your mouth in a fierce kiss.
You could feel his masterful tongue delving deep as he claimed you completely. His strong, strident hips ground against yours, letting you feel the hard length of his arousal through the fabric of your clothes.
"I need to be inside you, little one." he growled against your lips. "I need to bury myself in that tight crevice inside of you."
His hands worked quickly to remove your kimono and undershirt, tossing them aside carelessly. Sukuna’s darkened scarlet eyes roamed over your naked form hungrily before he shed his own layers of clothes in record time.
"Look at me, little one." he commanded you. "Watch how much I want you."
He positioned himself between your legs, the head of his cocks pressing insistently against your entrance. "Tell me you want this, little one." he demanded hoarsely. "Tell me you're mine."
“I want you….ha, I want you, my lord.” you couldn’t help but whimper against his tightened grips on your body. “Do you want me, my lord?”
He does not respond. He acts. You gasped as you felt not one, but two hard lengths pressing against your entrance. Your eyes widened in shock and arousal as you realized what Ryomen Sukuna was packing. The prong of his dual cocks twitched against your wet folds, leaking pre-cum that slicked up both of you.
"Fuck, fuck….oh my…fuck—" you breathed out, trying to still get used to him. "You're...you're huge. My lord…."
Sukuna could only smirk with contentment at your reaction, wrapping a hand around each of his shafts to guide them to your entrance. "I'm going to fill every hole in this perfect body of yours, little one." he promised you darkly. "Starting with this tight little pussy of yours.”
He pushed forward slowly, letting the heads of both cocks slide inside you inch by inch. Your body stretched and burned with the sensation of being filled so completely "Ahh...my lord..." you moaned loudly, drool falling over your lips.
"It's too much...I can't..."
"Shh, you can take it. I know you can."
Sukuna's hands gripped your hips tightly as he continued to push forward, inching both of his massive cocks deeper inside you. You cry out as your body stretches and burns with the sensation of being filled so completely.
"You're taking me so well, little one." he praised you as you mewled, holding onto his much bigger body. "So tight and perfect around my cocks."
He paused when he was fully seated, giving you a moment to adjust to the overwhelming fullness. "Breathe for me, little one." he commanded gently, pressing kisses against your smaller neck.
"In and out. You can do this." His thumbs rubbed soothing circles on your hips as he waited for your body to relax around him. Sukuna all but leaned down to press gentle kisses along your checks, your jaw.
"That's it, Good, you're too good…." he murmured approvingly. "You're doing so good, little one. Such a good little one for taking all of me."
Once you had adjusted to the feeling of being so thoroughly filled, Sukuna began to move. He started with slow, shallow thrusts, letting you feel every inch of his dual cocks as they slid in and out of your tight heat. His hips rolled against yours, grinding his pelvis against your clit with each thrust.
Sukuna’s massive hands roamed your body, caressing and squeezing every curve and dip. He pinched your nipples gently, rolling the sensitive buds between his muscular fingers before sliding a hand down to rub tight circles on your clit.
"You feel incredible, fuck." he groaned aloud. "So hot and wet around me. I could stay buried inside you….hah—" He threw his head back as his thrusts grew deeper and faster as he chased his pleasure, driving into you with increasing fervor.
"Come for me, little one." he demanded hoarsely. "Squeeze my cocks with this perfect little pussy. Now."
Your body responded to Sukuna's commands, your walls clamping down around his dual cocks as a powerful orgasm crashed through you. You screamed his name, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure washed over you.
Sukuna all but continued to thrust through your climax, prolonging your ecstasy as he sought his own release. "Fuck, yes…" he groaned against your glistening skin. "Milk my dicks with this greedy little cunt. Take every drop."
With a final, brutal thrust, Ryomen Sukuna buried himself deep and came with a roar. You felt his hot seed flooding your insides, coating your walls as he filled you completely. Sukuna’s massive body all but collapsed on top of you, panting heavily as he caught his breath.
You couldn’t breathe as he pressed gentle kisses to your face and neck, murmuring soft words of praise and affection against your skin. You had all but blacked out, shining against the moonlight haze.
He looked at you attentively, letting himself slowly raise his body, to give you relief. He could feel the abundance of his cum dripping out of you, even when both his cocks were still stuffed deeply inside of you. There is only pride in him.
"My perfect little concubine." he whispered to you. "All mine. All mine and only mine.”
IT WAS ANOTHER DAY ONCE AGAIN. Far too early and yet, the morning settles over Imperial capital of Kyoto in a muted haze, the kind that softens edges without truly changing what lies beneath all of them.
The path toward Ryomen Hiromi’s tomb winds through old trees and weathered stone, each step carrying the sense of something preserved rather than forgotten. This is not a place that welcomes intrusion or spectacle. It expects acknowledgement, and nothing less.
Ryomen Chiharu walks ahead of the group, not in defiance, but in instinctive separation. She keeps a distance just wide enough to hold her thoughts without needing to share them, yet close enough that she is still tethered to what surrounds her.
Her posture remains perfect, as you taught her, all too composed and disciplined, but just like her father, truly an unwavering force. Yet there is something different in her today. A heaviness beneath the control. A quietness that feels less like training and more like understanding something she cannot yet name.
You walk behind her, shadowing her. You stood there as something between presence and responsibility, the only mother she knew in everything but blood, and something more complicated in everything that cannot be named easily.
Your gaze occasionally drifts to her back, and each time, you find yourself noting the same thing. She is steady, but not untouched. Beside you, Ryomen Sukuna moves without hesitation. His presence fills the path even when he says nothing, as though the space itself adjusts around him.
Yet there is a restraint to him today that is not weakness, not softness, but awareness. As if even he recognizes that this place demands something different from him and he has chosen, for now, not to resist it.
At Sukuna’s side, the olden Lord Gojo walks with the ease of someone accustomed to both power and age, though the liveliness in him has been tempered into something more reflective. His gaze drifts forward often, resting on Chiharu, then briefly on you, then back ahead again, as though measuring something that cannot be spoken directly.
For a time, none of you speak. The silence is not empty. It is deliberate, shaped by the weight of where you are going. Even the wind feels subdued here. It is the olden Gojo who finally speaks, letting out a soft exhale as the breeze catches against him, his voice low enough not to disturb the stillness ahead.
“You chose well, I think.” he says at first, not looking directly at Sukuna.
Sukuna does not slow. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.” he replies without turning his head. “I don’t have patience for riddles dressed as conversation.”
A faint, almost tired smile crosses Gojo’s face. “Very well. Then I’ll be direct. The woman you brought with you, this woman, your concubine, she is not what I expected you to keep so close.”
That earns him a brief glance from Sukuna, sharp and uninterested all at once. “You’ve already spoken about her. You’re repeating yourself.”
“I’m correcting my observation, my lord.” Gojo answers calmly. “She does not behave like someone kept for utility alone. There is no hesitation in her position, no grasping, no attempt to elevate herself beyond what she is. She stands exactly where she chooses to stand, as though that is enough.”
Sukuna’s gaze shifts forward again, but he does not interrupt. When he sees Sukuna is not reacting, The lord Gojo continues, his tone quieter now. “That kind of certainty is rare. In most places, it breaks people. Or it makes them greedy.”
“They’re weak.” Sukuna says flatly. “She is not. That is the only distinction that matters.”
Gojo shakes his head slightly. “No. They are human. And so is she. The difference is not what she is made of. It is what she refuses to become.”
A brief silence follows, the sound of footsteps muted against stone and earth. Ahead, Chiharu begins to slow. You call her, but she does not turn around. Through the thinning mist, the outline of the tomb becomes visible.
You notice it too. It was the way Chiharu’s posture shifts, not breaking, but tightening as though she is gathering herself for something she does not yet have words for. You pursed your lips in a flat line, observing her, letting her take her time.
“She reminds me of my mother.” Gojo says after a moment, his voice lowering further, more deliberate now. “Not only in appearance. In the way she occupies space. She does not demand to be seen, but she is not overlooked either. She simply…exists, fully, without apology. A light in our dark, dull world.”
Sukuna’s expression tightens faintly at that, subtle enough that most would miss it. “I don’t care who she reminds you of, foolish boy.” he replies, though the words come slower than before.
“You should, though.” Gojo answers, turning his head slightly, his gaze settling on Sukuna with quiet clarity. “Because resemblance is dangerous. It invites comparison, and comparison is how people begin to treat what they have as something already defined by the past.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow. “Then speak clearly. What are you implying?”
Gojo does not look away. “Do not reduce her into something she is not.” he says simply. “She may resemble someone who came before, but she is not a continuation of that life. She is not a replacement. And she is not lesser for standing beside you instead of behind what you have lost.”
The words carry no heat, but they land heavily all the same. Sukuna exhales through his nose, irritation flickering briefly across his expression. “You speak as though I intend to discard her.”
“I am not speaking about intention.” Gojo replies, softer now, but firmer in meaning. “I am speaking about consequences. People like you do not always realize when something has become important until after it is gone.”
A pause stretches between them. Ryomen Sukuna does not respond immediately. For once, his silence is not dismissal. It is something heavier, less certain, as though the words have settled somewhere they should not have been allowed to reach.
Gojo watches him for a moment longer, then lets out a quiet sigh. “She stands beside you because she chooses to.” he says finally. “And I think you already understand what that means, even if you refuse to name it.”
Chiharu has stopped completely now. The tomb stands before her, weathered and unmoving, its presence swallowing the last of the mist around it. Sukuna comes to a halt behind her. You follow Chiharu, stopping slightly, your gaze resting on the stone marker ahead.
Lord Gojo does not speak again. Not because there is nothing left to say, but because everything necessary has already been said. And for once, Sukuna does not answer at all. Before long, you seem to realize you need to give Chiharu some space, and so you return to your lord husband’s side.
He has not moved much since stopping. His gaze lingers on the tomb only briefly now, as if whatever purpose brought him here has already been acknowledged and filed away. The weight in the air has shifted. It was not gone, but softened at the edges.
He looks at Hiromi’s statue for a moment, as if hoping for an answer to a question he has asked in the silence. You looked at him and where his eyes were at. It wasn’t long when you step closer to him, careful not to disturb the moment, though your voice breaks it anyway.
“What was that about, my lord?” you ask quietly.
Sukuna does not look at you immediately. When he does, it is brief. Measured. “What was that about, I wonder.” he repeats, not a question, but a correction.
You hold his gaze, unfazed. “With the lord Gojo, you were talking.” you clarify. “I saw the silence. The way you didn’t answer him.”
A faint exhale leaves him through his nose, almost dismissive. “It was nothing, really.” he says.
You don’t accept it at once. Your eyes narrow slightly, not in challenge, but in familiarity. You have learned the shape of his evasions, and this one does not sit cleanly. “That is not true, and we both know it.” you say softly.
His gaze shifts away from you, toward the ground nearby, where small wildflowers grow between stone and root. He crouches slightly without explanation, his hand moving through them with casual precision, selecting one without hesitation.
“You overthink things, don’t you, little one?” he mutters.
“You avoid things, don’t you, my lord?” you reply.
That earns the faintest shift in his expression. He stands again before you can press further. For a moment, you think he will dismiss it again. Instead, he lifts the flower. He was not offering it to you. For a while, he was just holding it between his fingers as he steps closer. You don’t move.
He studies you for a moment in silence, at least long enough that it almost feels like the question you asked has been set aside entirely. Then, without ceremony, he reaches up. His fingers brush through your hair, unhurried, as he places the flower carefully against it. Not rough. Not careless. Almost…precise.
Your breath stills slightly. “What are you doing, my lord?” you ask quietly, though you do not step away.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he adjusts the flower once, as if ensuring it sits exactly where he wants it. Then he looks at you properly. “It suits you, these sorts of flowers, little one.” he says. “We should have these flowers in the Phoenix Gardens.”
The words are simple. But they land differently in his voice. Your expression softens before you can stop it. “That’s not an answer either, my lord.” you murmur back, your cheeks turning warm red as you fiddle with your long hair.
A faint pause comes, and then, finally, something close to a smirk touches his mouth. “It is, little one.” he says. “Just not the one you were asking for.”
You search his face for a moment longer, but he does not elaborate. He never does when it matters most. Still, his massive hand lingers near your hair for a second longer than necessary before he lets it fall away.
Behind you, Ryomen Chiharu remains at the tomb, quiet and unmoving, as though she has decided this moment belongs to you and him alone. The wind shifts slightly through the clearing, brushing past the flower now pinned in your hair.
And for once, you don’t press him again.
You accept what was there.
For this is the only light there is.
This is the only truth you were allowed.
The only way you could love him.
epilogue
The village you had once called home had no more sound. It was already silent by the time the wind began to move through it. What had once been homes, voices, and daily life now existed only as ruin and nothing more.
It was burned wood collapsing into itself, shattered stone half-buried in ash, lantern frames bent and blackened like broken ribs. The air still carried heat in places, but it was fading, giving way to something colder and heavier. Something that would forever be final.
You stood in the center of it without moving. Blood had dried unevenly along your hands and sleeves, some of it yours, much of it not. It had soaked into the fabric at your wrists and collar, stiffening there as if even your body could not decide what to do with the aftermath.
Your breathing was uneven, not from exhaustion alone but from the realization settling in slowly, irreversibly. There was nothing left to fight, and nothing left to explain. Your precious son Chizuru was safe. Chiharu was safe.
That fact should have anchored you. Instead, it made the emptiness sharper, because everything else had been stripped away to ensure it. You had chosen this. You had chosen to end it all.
Or perhaps you had only survived what others forced you into until there was no gentler option left. You don't know what else to say or what to do. All you could do was stare at the consequences of your actions.
Harsh, brutish footsteps came from behind you, steady and unhurried through the debris. You did not need to turn to recognize them, as you still reeled from the silence you had forced into sound.
Ryomen Sukuna stopped a short distance away, his monstrous body towering over your much smaller figure. He did not look at the village first, nor did he comment on the destruction. His attention went directly to you, as though the rest of it had already been accounted for and dismissed.
“You finished it.” he said. “I didn’t expect you to go through with it.”
“You helped.”
“This is not new to me.”
“But it was to me.”
He looked at you. “I know.”
Your gaze remained forward as you answered, your voice low and uneven. “There was no other outcome. They were going to kill us.”
A pause followed, the space between you filled only by settling ash. You purse your lips in a flat line. When you spoke again, it came quieter, heavier. “It still does not change what I’ve done. It does not change anything about the blood in my hands.”
He moved closer then, stepping into your space without hesitation. His hand lifted toward you, and you felt it before you fully processed it. The warmth of blood still on him, still fresh enough to smear as his palm touched your cheek.
It spread across your skin in a slow drag, not careless but deliberate, as though he was making sure you could not distance yourself from what had happened. You did not pull away. You did not have the strength to.
Your voice wavered as you finally spoke what had been circling inside you since the last strike fell. “I am nothing now. Just a murderer.”
His hand remained on your face, steady, anchoring you in place rather than restraining you. For a moment, he said nothing, only studied you with that same unreadable focus he gave everything that interested him. Then his grip shifted slightly, not tightening, but settling more firmly as if correcting your conclusion.
“You are still here, we are here. The children are safe.” he said to you in reply. “That does not make you nothing.”
Your breath hitched faintly, your eyes lowering for a moment before lifting back to him. “What I am is defined by what I’ve done.” you said. “There is nothing else left.”
That earned the faintest shift in his expression, not irritation, not softness, but certainty. He tilted your face slightly with his hand, forcing you to meet his gaze fully as blood on his fingers marked your skin in uneven streaks.
“What you did was necessary. Do not feel burdened by it.” he retorted to you. “And what you are is not reduced to it.”
The words should not have steadied you, not in a place like this. Yet they did not feel like comfort in the usual sense. They felt like refusal, his refusal to accept the version of you that had already begun to form in your own mind.
Your voice broke slightly when you answered. “Then what am I to you?”
He held your gaze for a long moment, the ruined village reflected faintly in his eyes, untouched by sentiment. When he finally spoke, it was not grand, not softened, not explained. “You are still what you were to me as you are now.”
The words did not erase what had happened. They did not excuse it. But they did something else, something quieter, more unsettling in its certainty. They placed you back into existence without asking permission from the ruin around you.
His hand remained on your face a moment longer before settling more naturally, as though he had already decided there was no need to let go. And standing there among the ashes of everything you had destroyed to survive, you realized he was not looking at the blood as proof of what you had become. He was looking at you as if you had not disappeared at all.
You have been CEO Satoru Gojo's head assistant for over two years now - You do everything for him, including cleaning his messes, picking out his clothes, and writing his speeches. Sixteen hour days, night calls, you're tired of being overworked and at his beck and call. You decide you are going to put in your two weeks notice - when he finds out? He's shocked! Don't you love working for a bratty, spoiled Nepo baby 24/7!? He'll do anything to keep you - but you know better. Right?
pairings - CEO! Satoru x assistant! reader
warnings - lots of sexual tension, Gojo being a spoiled fucking brat, and a complete idiot, reader falls off a damn boat (you can't swim sry) some coke/weed use, cameo by CEO Sukuna, jealous Toru, kissing, fingering, again he's such and idiot I can't, lots of crack this chap lmao - 6.8k
this is a complete rewrite of my first fic -Rewriting my first fic 2 years later is so challenging and fun, I added a lot this chap you can thank @uhnosav and @yenayaps for him being so fucking dumb actually lmao <3
art creds here
<<<chapter two
chapter three - Sugar we're goin' down
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Nope! No no no.” You grumble to yourself, snuggling your little plushie close, throwing the blanket over your head as the hints of sunlight glare through the curtains and shining right in your face. You sigh, snuggling back into your cocoon of warm fuzzy blankets, praying for more sleep.
You would not work today. No fucking way.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
You scowl, putting it on silent, then bury back under the covers.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
“Fuck off, ugh…” You finally check, because you did not know if it was your family with some emergency at this point. But no, it was all just calls and texts from fucking Gojo Satoru. As you contemplated blocking his ass, he called again. “Oh my God, what do you want?”
“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” his voice was like silk, this fucking dick head. You grimace, shaking your head.
“Nope, I won’t do it.”
Satoru scoffs. “You don’t even know what it is yet!”
“I don’t wanna know.”
“Listen… please.”
“Can’t see those baby blues, so puppy dog eyes don’t work.”
“Fuck…” He says your name, and it’s too soft, too sweet. You hate that it sounds that good on his lips. “I really got trashed last night and I have a meeting in an hour. And well– hah, no speech.”
“Oh god. Meeting with who?” You sit up then, running a tired hand through your hair in frustration.
“With goddamn Sukuna.” You sigh. “You know he…”
Sukuna… he was something all right.
“He’s almost a bigger dick than you.”
“Mmhmm. Wait what do you mean almost!?” You just snort in laughter, and he sighs. “Listen sweetheart, I need you badly, you are the best with him. He is even nice to you – probably because he thinks you're hot.”
“Ugh,” are you really gonna agree with him? Fuck.
“Can you whip up a presentation with that genius brain, hmm?” Gojo was actually complimenting you. Maybe he had changed… “I can’t fuck around anymore, I have work and shit, Erica. Can you go get me a tie please? Thanks.”
You pause, blinking then. “Ahem. Erica?”
“Um… yeah…”
“Gojo, you were just fucking partying and fucking some bitch named Erica all night, and you want me on my day off to cover for your ass?”
“Oooh, are you jealous?” Gojo’s chuckle makes you wanna ring his fucking neck.
“You’re delusional, I have nothing to be jealous about. I won’t ever be in that bed. Lord knows the diseases on it.”
“I have my sheets professionally cleaned! Mind you, I also am a very clean man, you’re just a goody goody-”
“Bye!”
“Oh my god, I mean, angel that you are, my savior,” you roll your eyes. “You’re just the smartest, prettiest law student there ever was!”
You snort at his bullshit. “I hate you.”
“I know,” Satoru eyes the girl getting dressed, something feels utterly hollow about only hearing your voice from the phone.
What if it were you picking out his tie, you sleeping in his bed? As if you’d ever give his dumbass the chance for shit.
“Listen, I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
“You certainly say that a lot.”
“The boat tonight, remember? It will be so fun – also I didn’t fuck Erica, you can even ask her. Erica, come here.”
“I don’t want to talk to her, you idiot! I don’t care or want to know.”
“I really didn’t. Erica…”
“Jesus fuck,” you start to get dressed, putting the phone on speaker, viscerally cursing under your breath at your idiot boss as he gets the girl on the phone.
“It’s Gojo’s assistant, oh my gosh! Hi!”
“Hey Erica,” You start to rake a brush through your messy hair as she starts giggling and babbling on.
“We actually did not have sex!”
“Oh no? No blowjobs?”
“Nope!” You raise your brows in actual surprise at your slutty CEO. “Mr. Gojo just snorted coke off my ass and-”
“Erica!” You hear his panicked voice in the background, you can’t stop fucking snorting in laughter, shaking your head and wondering just how the fuck this is your life now.
“Well, you did!”
“Erica!?!” You hear the break in his voice and burst into even more laughter, how the fuck can he sound like a prepubescent teen at almost thirty?
“Well, we just partied. He seemed kinda stressed. He talked about you a lot, said you’re-”
“That’s enough!” Gojo snatches up the phone, you’re still snickering as you dab concealer under your eyes.
“No, put her back on the line, I like her,” you hear him sigh on the other line, and then the bubbly girl is back on the phone. “Erica, you seem sweet.”
“Oh, thank you so much!”
“Mhm, why don’t you find a guy who doesn’t act like a fifteen-year-old dick and snort coke off your ass at age thirty. One that can find his own tie, a nice guy maybe – someone who’d take you out on a date and kiss your hand or something. Yeah?”
There is a pause, then suddenly Erica glares right at Satoru, making him wonder just what the fuck you said.
“Hmm… you know, you’re right! You are smart!” You grin. “Mr. Gojo, I’m gone. Pick your own tie out!” You hear stomping and the door slamming, and you laugh deviously.
“You’re such an evil little fucking demon to me!”
“Oh, a demon hmm?” You glare at that phone. “Then good luck on your own, you little shit.”
“No! I’ll give you two days off!”
“You’re the fucking demon.”
“But like… I didn’t even fuck her!?”
“What do I care? I believe in Erica, she’s got this.”
Satoru sighs, shutting his eyes and leaning back against the wall. “You’re so fucking evil, I swear I hate you.”
“Same, I hate you even fucking more.”
“Do you hate me sweetheart?”
“Yes,” you two sigh simultaneously, like two angry little kids, when you say fuck it – it’s not like you’ll be working here much longer. “Okay I’ll do it – but you fucking owe me, Satoru.”
“That’s my girl! Anything you want – you’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah whatever.”
“I’ll be riding with Kiyotaka and come get you.”
“I can drive–”
“Nah. Quicker this way,” ugh as if you wanna be in the back of his fucking car after the other night. “Be there in twenty, wear something hot.”
“What? Why?”
“Sukuna will get distracted – lemme guess, you’re in some old nineteen fifties looking business suit.” You scowl at your reflection in the mirror – he was spot the fuck on. “Oh! With outdated shoulder pads I bet, and a tiny skinny belt.”
“What the fuck, are you spying?” He chuckles as you yank off the peach colored jacket, just a white dress blouse and the business skirt. You pop open a couple of buttons. “Okay… looking less like a nineteen fifties prude, I guess.”
“Perfect. See you soon.”
***
You stand there that afternoon with your makeshift presentation on the little whiteboard in Gojo’s lavish boardroom. Sukuna is sitting there with his assistants, smirking up at you with a devious fucking grin, Gojo still has his sunglasses on, thank god, considering his eyes were bloodshot. He just grins and nods as you lay the proposal out.
Just sit there and look pretty.
You had literally told him that on the way
You think I’m pretty? Aww!
Gojo was a fucking idiot.
“I absolutely love this idea, it’s perfect for our marketing campaign.” Sukuna peers up at you, a dangerous smirk on his tanned face. He was very handsome but also pretty intimidating in a way, shoulders so broad the man could scarcely fit in his suit. His little assistants had puppy eyes for him, nodding on every sentence, and he relishes in that shit.
“Thank you, Mr. Sukuna,” you smile, and he tilts his head, ruby eyes just darting down to your cleavage, you weren’t showing too much but just enough that it got his attention.
Shit, Gojo had been right about something.
“I know this is all you and not Satoru,” he says then, shrugging a broad shoulder, grinning at Gojo.
Satoru’s hair was falling over his forehead, long and silky today versus the usual spiked up look, it makes him look all boyish and innocent, like he’s not a fucking deviant. His full lips tense just a bit as he leans back in the gray leather office chair.
“Mr. Gojo and I went over ideas together, but I did put it all in a presentation, that’s kind of my kink.”
Fuck, you said that!?
Sukuna bursts out laughing, and Gojo is chuckling then – you realize you’re kind of losing it, slamming a hand over your mouth in a panic.
“Is it now?” Sukuna stands and heads toward you, looking down all tall – fuck he’s even taller than Satoru if that was possible. His eyes were also more lewd than Gojo’s could have ever been, shameless with how they dance across your collarbones.
“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, sighing and fiddling nervously with your hands. “I have had a hell of a night. It was my birthday.”
“Oh, I see,” he brushes your hair back, Satoru about cuts his fucking hands off which is nonsense – he doesn’t have some claim over you.
Does he?
No, he doesn’t… yet.
Fuck.
“No worries, I actually enjoy someone being real with me, not sucking up to me and shit. That's why I work with Gojo and Geto.” Sukuna wraps an arm around Gojo’s shoulder then, smirking at him. “They don’t bullshit me – and fuck if Gojo doesn’t have good taste in pretty assistants.”
“I do have good taste.” Gojo stands, coming far too close to you, shoulder to shoulder damn near. You feel the high energies of both tall men – they seem to constantly battle, who is better at this, who is better at that – at one meeting they’d literally had an arm wrestling match.
Men.
“Let’s have a drink and celebrate. Your office, Satoru?” Gojo nods, leading the way as you gather your materials, hoping to head home – wanting a nap desperately, but Sukuna pauses, watching you intently.
“Quit eye fucking my damn assistant, Sukuna,” Gojo hisses those words, the audacious pink haired fucking man just grins.
“She’s too good to work here,” he flicks his ruby gaze back to yours. “If you ever get tired of this asshole, you know I’ll hire you.”
Gojo stiffens, fists clenching at his side, sliding down his shades and scowling at Sukuna with his pretty blue eyes bright as fuck, his blood pressure rising as the man just looks at your body like it could ever be his. It couldn’t, right? Not when you so clearly belong to him.
You take a little breath, before smiling and holding your composure, addressing Sukuna then. “I appreciate that, but I am very happy.”
Lies. Maybe – but you sure wouldn’t let Sukuna make Gojo look bad, even if you can’t stand him right now.
“Too fuckin’ bad,” Sukuna sighs, leaning close, a hand on your own. He takes it and places a kiss on the back of your knuckles, earning Gojo’s scowl. “Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” you smile as the two shove into the hallway – there was so much masculinity in there it had been hard to breathe.
You just can’t wait to get a nap before this boat ride.
***
The boat rocks gently beneath you later that evening, the warm breeze rustling through your hair as you gaze out at the ocean – the setting sun was painting the waves that were a brilliant shade of crimson and orange in the sky, reflecting on the water. Satoru is nearby, his broad shoulders hunched over the steering wheel of the boat as he expertly navigates through the choppy waters with ease.
All while having a joint hanging from his lips, smoking with a lit cherry.
He was quite the damn sight, if you admitted it – you watch him curiously as he talks to the captain, Gojo’s boat was elaborate and gorgeous, little white fairy lights illuminating every inch of it. It was just the two of you and two men aboard who helped Gojo with the mechanics of things, it was honestly peaceful on the water.
The faint scent of salt and seaweed drifts through the air, mixing with the taste of the sweet, fruity drink you are sipping. You can feel the alcohol rushing through you – that delicious, buzzing warmth spreading through your veins. It makes your head spin just a little, and heat shoots down to your core.
The sight of Gojo driving a boat also just does things to you…
“Are you feeling good, sweetheart?” He is next to you in a flash. You nod, leaning your arms back on the railing, tilting your head back and looking up at the pretty pink clouds.
“Very fucking good, hmm,” your words slur just a bit.
“Want a hit? Or too much of a goody good?” He holds the joint, and you take a hit from it as he holds it to your lips – much to his surprise. You suck it in, letting the smoke fill your lungs, before gently exhaling it out in a puffy cloud, making Satoru’s white eyebrows raise.”
“What,” you cover a little cough with your hand. “Do you think I’ve never smoked weed?”
“Honestly? No, you seem so…”
“Goody Goody.”
“Yeah that.” Gojo takes another hit now, joint between those lips – leaning on the rails, flicking the little tip of the ashes out.
“I am not cool with coke, no, but weed is okay.”
“You’ve surprised me a lot lately,” he admits softly.
“I’m just so full of surprises,” you grin all pretty and fucking heartbreaking, the golden hour just gleaming on your pretty skin, making him ache to kiss every inch of it.
What if he wasn’t such a fucking idiot?
Could he ever have a girl like you?
He watches as you lean back again, your body half off the railing now, the cool spray of the ocean against your skin. “Careful, now,” he murmurs, gently holding your waist as the boat rocks, jostling you just a bit.
Your hands land on Gojo’s chest, clutching the open dress shirt, eyeing his bare chest, strong, lean, muscled…
“You’re stupidly hot,” you mumble the words, and her laughs, chest moving against your skin, rising up and down – the boat sways a bit as you look up at his unfairly pretty face.
“Oh? Just how fucking buzzed are you, my pretty little assistant?” Satoru errantly plays with a lock of your hair, destroying you with every breath.
“Very buzzed, buzz buzz buzz.” You start buzzing like a cute little bee, leaning back against the railing again, making him fucking ache as he sees the curve of your body, wondering if you’d arch like that underneath him.
“I’ve never seen you drunk, this is hilarious. Thought you’d be too stiff.” He brings your body upright to face him, lost in just how the sun is reflecting in your eyes.
God he knew you were pretty but what the fuck is this? How does he handle anything casually or even sexually when you’re so pretty he’s ruined?
“I have a drink after work kind of frequently, but usually just one,” you hold up your pointer finger, swaying again, steadied by those big hands, earning your cheeks flushing. “Then I just pass the fuck out like whoo!”
Satoru’s lips curve up, his snowy lashes lowering. “I drive you to drink, do I?”
“Sure…. Sure fucking… do. Mmm. Buzz Buzz.” You’re giggling at some joke your buzzed brain tells you, humming and turning, shimmying against this tall gorgeous jerk of a man with your ass against his muscled thighs.
Satoru tenses, it takes everything not to start rutting against your ass with his cock like he’s some fucking animal in heat, not Satoru Gojo.
“You… good baby girl?” He murmurs faintly, you hate that the words send these damn signals straight to your pussy, making you pulse around nothin’.
“I’m not good in general, but I’m good now,” you lean forward, deliberately pressing your ass against Gojo’s hardness, eliciting a hiss from him and a grip on you tightly on your hips, hands hot against you.
“Why hide this nice ass in your baggy work suits? It’s a whole fucking crime,” Satoru’s hand slides down the curve of your ass, making you giggle.
“Oh, would you be able to focus, Sir?” You look over your shoulder, biting your lower lip as you feel him squeeze harder, his length making you ache for him to be buried deep.
“Fuck no, but now I know it’s there, and that will just make me mad,” you wiggle your ass again and he tenses, yanking you up and standing you straight, cupping your chin and tilting it to face him. “Are you teasing me, fucking brat?”
“Teasing Mr. Gojo, the notorious womanizer!? Imagine! I’m a whole fucking femme fetale,” you turn – just a little dizzy, leaning back against the railing and unbuttoning your blouse just one, drawing his blue eyes are there in an instant. “How could I? You’re so, so experienced! Me, a whole nun.”
“Maybe I think nuns are fucking hot,” Gojo’s hands tighten on your waist, and you pop another button. “Very hot.”
“Oh, so is that your kink, Satoru? Nun fucking?”
You pop one more, making your cute tits spill out just enough, your hand trailing along your collarbone. You had no clue what you were doing, you had never seduced or really even flirted much. You did not care if you looked silly though. It was too fun, and the alcohol has stripped any of your inhibitions away.
Gojo stands there holding his breath, tongue sliding along his lower lip. “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart.... You know that right?”
“You’re so fucking edgy! Oooh, Daddy Gojo! Please punish me!” You’re giggling all pretty and cute, Satoru Gojo holds you, bending over your body to plant a hot kiss on your exposed throat. You gasp against better judgment, crying out softly when he bites at the delicate skin, damn near breaking it with those sharp canines.
His whimper is muffled against your neck thank god, imagine Satoru Gojo of all people whimpering from just a peck on your skin, feeling you shiver in his arms. He’s consumed by your scent, the taste of your skin mingling with the little bit of sea salt that’s sprayed on it, kissing even higher and feeling your body pressed against his.
You’re in just as deep, feeling heady and dizzy off his lips, his scent, his touch… you had to wonder just how he tasted.
“Look at that, I found out how to make you sweet,” he kisses down across those collarbones that are begging for his attention, your hands entwined in those silky white locks of hair, sucking in a breath through your teeth. “Shut you right up.”
“You… you shut up,” you feel his breathy laugh against you.
“You’re such a little brat, mmm… I bet she’s wet already,” a finger slides down your tummy, under the waistband of your jeans, popping the little button there. “You’re way too easy for me, aren’t you?”
“It’s… it’s not wet. Nope, it’s l-like the Sahara fucking desert,” he snorts at that, lips kissing higher, unzipping your jeans just a little, centimeter by centimeter, excruciating. You ache for him in ways you’ve never felt, wanting his touch so badly, not that you’d fucking say it to his conceited ass.
“A desert, hmm? I’m so terrified,” he murmurs, sliding one of his long fingers further, where the cute little hood of your pussy was, barely grazing your puffy lips, torturous and teasing.
“You should be. Snakes and shit in the Sahara. Like… mmm…” Your lashes flutter, he pulls back to watch you hungrily.
“Oh? Cat got your tongue again?” he’s a breath from your lips now.
How have you not kissed him yet? How did you make it over two years without giving in? Even if the man is a coke snorting, nepo baby slut, it’s not like you don’t want him, and if you quit what is the harm of trying those sinful lips once? That’s how you rationalize it in your head, as you lean forward, pulling him to you by his collar.
Your lips part as his fingertip grazes your twitchy lil clit, pressing up and running the pad of it on her, he moans in this slutty fucking way as he touches you, cheeks flushed this pretty pink. Satoru’s glittering blue eyes darken as he looks down at you, drinking you in.
“Fuck…” that’s all he manages, looking at how goddamn pretty you are – he could literally cum from touching your slick, moving his fingertip in a pretty pattern to watch you fall apart.
Satoru closes the distance in moments, his lips were damn near on yours just a breath away, your noses touching. Your heart pounds in your chest so rapidly you’re dizzy, but he doesn’t kiss you, even as his fingers slide under your panties, already stuck with strings of your slick as he pulls them.
He kisses the corners of your mouth, each side, then just below your lower lip as the rough pad of one of his finger tips finds your entrance, swirling in your wetness and teasing, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” his murmured words ruin you, making you whine rather pitifully in your opinion. “God you’re so fucking wet already. Do you want me to kiss you, baby girl? Want me to get you off?”
“I…” You gulp, seeing his smirk now. Shit, he’s gonna gloat forever over this. “Ugh… yes, okay?”
“Yes, please, Daddy.”
“You fucking wish – hell no, just kiss me, dick.” You try to yank him to you but he pulls back, grinning like a devious shit.
“Ask me nicely.”
“No.” You shake your head, knowing the power he was trying to take.
Satoru tuts his lips, yanking his hand away and making you whine out in frustration, he leans over you, tilting his head. “Say ‘Please’ you stubborn little brat.”
His lips brush against your cheeks as he tortures you over your panties again, your hands clutch his dress shirt.
“Say it and I’ll get your needy lil cunt off, hmm?”
“Fuck…” He stays there watching you with a raised brow, killing you to get you to admit it, to say it. “Please.”
Gojo’s lips slam into yours, the sensation annihilating any willpower you have left about you. Your whines drank by his soft lips, back arching as you tip toe to get even more of his kisses, his tongue sliding expertly against your own. Too expertly in fact – you’re mad anyone kissed him before.
What nonsense.
Satoru’s got you ridiculously wet against your jeans from a damn kiss of all things, his hand sliding back down, trembling ever so slightly as it explores your dripping wet cunt, running up and down your already messy slit. You’re trembling and gasping from the pleasure as hot need hits your core.
Satoru damn near fucks right into you, you’re utterly consuming everything around him, your scent, the curves of your body against him, how wet you goddamn are, everything about you. You just consume him, to the point he can’t even remember another name but yours in his head, with every soft gasp, every bit of your wetness that drools on his fingers.
They swirl in aching little circles on your swollen bundle of nerves, eliciting breathy little cries from your pretty lips, his other hand slides up, dipping under your blouse, finding your tit in his hand with ease and cupping it. The peak pebbles right up, hard against his hot palm, like she’s begging for his mouth instead, which he’s more than ready to give you.
He pinches that nipple with two fingers as the other hand plays with your needy little cunt, you’re so lost you can’t even think, all you know is you want more than that teasing fingertip. You want all of him. To feel that initial stretch as he pulls back and looks down at you.
“Satoru…” You whisper against his lips, your hips grinding for more of his touches, thighs spread, Satoru looks at you with those beautiful blue eyes, shadows of his handsome face with the setting sun… “I want-”
The ship rocks then suddenly, and you scream as you’re thrown off the goddamn rails and fly into the water.
Well, shit.
Cockblocked by the fucking ocean!?
Satoru is shouting out your name, and you sputter as the chilly water hits you, soaking your clothes, and the current starts to drag you down. You fight to doggie paddle, trying to tread water as best as you could, cursing yourself for not throwing on the life jacket like he suggested.
“Hang on, shit!” He throws the jacket and you glare up at him, clinging to it and narrowing your eyes. “Put it on!”
“You fucking idiot, how!? I’m going to drown,” he starts slipping off his fancy ass dress shoes that are thousands of dollars, hopping on one leg and throwing you a tube then instead, half inflated. “Satoru are you serious!?”
“Well these can’t get wet – hold on!”
“Fuck it let me drown,” you hold onto the tube as you look at him slipping off his dress shirt. “You’re a selfish little shit.”
“I’m coming okay!? God you’re always so impatient!”
“You’re a… f-fucking… ah, idiot!” Satoru leans over the rails and scowls at you.
“You’re calling me an idiot and expecting me to save you?”
“Don’t then! At least I won’t have to fucking work for your dumbass. Your Gucci shoes go fuck yourself.”
“You’re such a bitch!”
“You’re a stupid dick!” He curses, panic setting in when you sputter around even with his generous help with the floats, and in a flash Gojo dives off the boat, right when you’re sputtering, going under once more, holding your breath.
Satoru grabs you in his strong arms for a moment, treading water as he holds you, you come back up and start coughing, water burning your throat and nostrils, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Fuck you…” You’re shaking and he sighs now, his heart breaking as he realizes the actual danger you were in, sobering him right up.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs then, swimming back toward the boat. “Hang on to me, okay?” His voice was breaking in the middle, and suddenly you’re thankful for this damn idiot and his strong swimming ability.
You nod, clinging to his wet, muscled form tightly, linking around the neck, your legs wrapped around him. You all make it back and Gojo helps you climb the little pull out ladder quickly, picking you up so you don’t have to do the work, your limbs trembling. You collapse on the deck of his boat, chest heaving, so thankful you could kiss the damn deck
“Th-thank you.” You whisper finally, he shushes you, helping you up.
“I have plenty of clothes here, okay? Let’s get you out of these.” You nod, looking at him then, soaked head to toe, every inch of his toned body on display, the shirt being off is like a cruel joke.
He’s an idiot, but he’s pretty.
“Y-yes.”
You let Gojo lead you under down the stairs, to the little bedroom inside the boat, you noticed errantly how pretty and clean it was as you shiver, cold to the bone.
“Ya know, when I said get wet for me, I didn’t mean this wet,” Gojo dodges your smack, grinning as he grabs towels and clothes out of the slate gray dresser.
“You… ugh, I can’t…” You sigh, bursting out into a snort of laughter then. “I can’t fucking stand you, throwing a deflated floatie? God you’re dumb.”
“I know,” he admits as you’re laughing softly now, at the ridiculous situation, struggling with cold, shaky hands to unbutton your top. Gojo wraps a towel around your shoulders quickly, and you see he’d already gotten naked somehow. You avert your eyes with a blush. “Let me.”
He unbuttons and unzips your clothes quickly, and you two pause then, your breasts taut, nipples rock hard from the cold, rising and falling in the see through blouse, now open. He swallows but says nothing, though you expect some ridiculous lewd comment, instead he helps you slide it off, quickly wrapping you with the white fluffy towel.
“Thank you,” you whisper, suddenly a bit shy as you’re pulling your jeans off, grimacing at the heavy soaking feeling as they stick around your ankles. You yank them off fully, then, noticing that Gojo had a towel on his waist now, bare aside from that.
HIs body was chiseled within every inch of your life, long muscled legs, every bit of him toned, your damn throat goes dry.
“You’re… okay?” You nod, snuggling into the towel, he wraps a blanket around you as well, pretty eyes drinking you in. “Can I say something?”
“Yes, of course you can. You kind of just saved my ass, sort of… after almost letting me die, I guess?” And he had, without hesitation saved you, even if he was a little bit slow at it, he tried. It made you think…
Did he care about you?
Do you want him to?
“What is it, Satoru?”
“You’re…really beautiful,” his voice is husky, and you melt at that, warmth sliding back through your body until you were shivering for an entirely different reason than the cold water – desire.
“You don’t have to say that,” he tucks some of your damp hair behind your face, clearing his throat, before catching your gaze again.
“You are. Like some mermaid, or something stupid corny that I can’t even believe I’m thinking,” a thumb slides over your lower lip, rough across the sensitive flesh, making you ache. You kiss the thumb before thinking better, nibbling it, not putting much thought into the action, it just felt… good. “Fuck.”
He breathes out that word, leaning forward. “I-You’re beautiful.”
He smirks just a bit. “You’re being too nice, must be drunk.”
“Not now, that water really sobered me up,” you sigh, shutting your eyes for a morning. “I am confused about literally everything though. I was so sure of things, even this morning, I was like yeah I’m done. Now you confuse me.”
You wanted his hands on you, the ones cupping your face and caressing your jaw line. You wanted Gojo’s body on you in the worst possible way. His lips all over your skin – but did him being beautiful and charming really excuse all of the past couple years? Did it change anything?
“I’m confused too, I thought you were…” He trails off, shaking his head then. “I don’t know what I thought. When you fell… I…” his voice breaks, as if that were something he did not want to delve into, sighing and looking away.
“Yes?” You urge him on a bit, but he just laughs, a little dark, the sound making you tense.
“These will be way too long since you’re way shorter, but here.” He turns and then hands you some gym shorts and a black top. You take them, ever curious about what he had wanted to say.
“Thank you, they're perfectly fine – anything is better than that.” You look at your soaked clothes in disgust.
“Yeah… our clothes are hopeless. I’ll get dressed too. Wanna crash here or should I have Kiyotaka drive you later?”
You turn, starting to slip on Gojo’s clothes, feeling his gaze on your back when your towel falls. The feeling of his eyes was thrilling, as if that gaze was caressing you, making you just a little bold as you peek over your shoulder.
“No, I won’t make the poor man work more.”
The moonlight was glowing now as the sun has fully set through the window, Satoru watches as it makes your luminous skin glow, his gaze tracing your supple curves hungrily. You slide on his shorts, and the thought of you naked against his clothes made him hard all over again, nearly as hard as when he’d been pressed against you, feeling your wetness, kissing you…
Fuck it takes everything not to bend you right over that bed and slide his cock inside your needy cunt, to leave handprints on your ass.
He fucked up earlier, he is sort of dumb sometimes, but you wearing his clothes makes him utterly feral, hardly able to control it when you turn back to him, smiling, baggy shirt and shorts on now, tying the shorts into a tight little knot.
“These are super comfy!”
He smiles a bit, tilting his head and studying you. “Yeah? Well, you look cute in them.”
You blush furiously, though he’d just seen you naked, just touched you… but somehow this was so intimate. “So…”
“Hmm?”
“What… What's going on exactly? With us I mean.”
He rubs the back of his neck, looking to the side, the other hand casually in one of the pockets of his gray sweats. Of course he’d wear those slutty fucking things, his dick print glaringly apparent. Ugh… you try to not look, instead focusing on his face, his lips parted just a bit.
“I don’t know. I used to be so scared of you, y’know?”
“Oh jesus,” you roll your eyes. “Just stop it there.”
“Look, he sighs and cups your face. “You’re mean, yeah? Like you’re just a little powerhouse at things, a perfectionist. Now… I also see that you can be sweet, and god… you’re like also really fucking hot?”
“Poetic,” You grimace and look at this idiot – what had you expected? Gojo sighs, coming up to you, tilting your chin up a bit.
“Words aren’t my strong suit, sweetheart.”
You pretend to gasp. “Gojo Satoru admits he has a weakness? I’m going to faint from the shock.”
“Shut that cute little mouth,” he kisses you then, again, more aggressive this time than before, hand entangled in your damp locks, you glare and push at him a bit, breaking the kiss. He smirks down at you. “This is more my lane.”
“I see,” you sigh, shaking your head. “What am I even doing?”
“Getting wet for me, in many ways tonight.” He winks with a shit eating grin, and you scowl.
“Oh god, don’t even start.”
“I… swept you off your feet! Literally! Haha! Ha! I’m amazing!” Gojo smacked his thighs, laughing loudly, and you try to hold it in – you really do, until you can’t hold it in, snorting and joining his laughter.
“You’re an idiot!” He tugs you against him as you’re laughing, head falling on his hard chest, smelling the clean fresh scent he had, feeling the heat of him, craving more than you should.
“I had to! It was golden, baby. Golden. I got Miss stuck up brat to laugh.”
“I am so not stuck up, you have to stop with that. You’re the conceited little shithead here.”
“Nah, you are, but you’re loosening up some. I wonder… are you super tight here too?” Gojo yanks you by the waistband of his shorts, eyes bright blue, your lips quirk up as you smack his hand and lean back.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” His gaze gets lidded, conceited little grin on his face.
“I’ll wait till you beg for that, too,” he pats you on the head, then, turning away and walking a bit.
“I did not beg you!” You protest, following him back up to the deck. He snatcheds up two bottles of water, handing you one.
“Sure did. Please, please!” You wanted to fall into a hole, cheeks heating furiously. “You know when you blush, it’s your tits too.”
“What!? You fucking pervert!”
“Hmm, I wonder if it’s all over.”
“Ugh!” You sip the water with shaky hands, rolling your eyes. “I didn’t beg you at all, I was polite.”
You’re so goddamn cute he can’t help the dopey grin on his face. “Uh huh.”
“Yep.”
“Then I’ll wait for you to really beg for my touch, if that was only politeness,” he murmurs, you raise a brow.
“I won’t beg, ever, so don’t hold your breath.”
“I don’t even get a kiss for saving you? You really are ungrateful,” he was back in front of you, popping up like some annoying pest.
“You make no goddamn sound when you walk, the hell?”
“You don’t pay enough attention. Too wrapped up thinking about me,” he shoots you a wink.
“You wish. And I already kissed you!”
“Uh uh,” he taps your nose, making it scrunch up. “I kissed you. You kiss me now, as a thank you.” He crosses his arms, leaning back against the little black round table where the waters sit.
“Fine, fair is fair.” You put your hands against his chest, sliding one against it softly, paying attention to the catch of his breath. Your eyes hit him as your arms slid around his neck, lips are just a breath away, and one of his hands clutches the curve of your waist. “Hmm… maybe you should beg for it.”
“Mean little brat,” you pull his own moves, a kiss on each corner of his lips, then one on the bottom, hovering.
“Say please, Mr. Boss man,” your tongue slides against his lower lip then, his grip tightens painfully, pressing into your ribcage as he struggles to focus.
“No way.”
“Then, good night,” you spin quickly, and he grips your wrist, scowling right at you, especially when he sees your grin.
“You’re the worst, ugh,” Satoru leans down, but you back off, playing his game and making him grimace in frustration. “I’m not begging, baby girl, I’m Satoru fucking Gojo. You have it the wrong way, here.”
“Then no kiss for you, poor baby,” you tap his pink lips with your finger, smirking at him. You too could play this game.
“You’re such a brat, y’know ya want me,” he kisses down your neck, but you pull away before he could go too far.
“Ahem,” you clear your throat and look at his dilated eyes. “I get the bed, right?”
“We’ll share. I’m an expert cuddler,” he wiggles his brows,earning your eyes rolling back in your skull.
“One of your strong suits hmm?”
“Absolutely it is.”
“Weird because usually the girls I get Ubers for don’t look like they get cuddled, fucked maybe.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to cuddle anyone,” he glares now. “You should be so honored, fucking brat that you are.”
“I am such a special ‘brat’, huh?” You tease but Satoru actually looks a little serious as he studies your face, eyes narrowing a tad.
“You’re something that’s for sure,” he swallows down what he really wants to say, smirking instead. “Fucking crazy.”
“Says you!”
“Mmhmm. Cuddles or no? Has anyone ever cuddled you?”
“I…” You pause, frowning.
“That’s a no.”
“I have been! Um. Yeah totally cuddled, I think… Well, shit.”
“That’s another reason you’re so mean, no cuddles. We add that to no orgasms and you finally make sense,” he taps your nose again, chuckling when you try to smack at him. “I’ll be a perfect gentleman. Promise.”
He holds up two of his long fingers, and you hate your own brain – It’s just pure horny.
Why are they so thick, ugh!
“Unless, you don’t trust yourself! Would you take advantage of me!?” He puts a hand to his chest, gasping, you snort.
“You’re such an idiot, I won’t take advantage of you. In your dreams, maybe.”
“In my nightmares you just tape me down and make me go to your Ted Talks about law and finance,” he fakes a shiver. “It’s scary!”
“Fuck off,” you cover your amusement with a yawn. “Okay, let’s crash, and if you get handsy you’ll be going for the next swim.”
Gojo gives you a salute. “Ay ay Captain.”
You are going to cuddle with your boss…
Your boss you really wanna punch… who threw a floatie at you and had to take off his damn dress shoes. A complete idiot cokehead, who takes you for granted, but tonight something… something got you, when he tugs you in his arms and you both lay down together.
You want Satoru Gojo.
This idiot is starting to fucking get you.
he's so dumb lmao I cackled rewriting that boat scene
Basically Gojo and one of his fifth years/graduated students (the reader) were put in an arranged marriage and they had no choice but to go through the engagement process and i remember the reader being close with Maki. I just reallllly enjoyed the way the author was slow paced and wrote gojo so accurately. It was on Ao3
summary: the HYDRA mission was successful. steve's a little off, sure, but medical cleared him forty minutes ago. it's just exhaustion. except his heart won't stop pounding, heat's crawling under his skin, and his jeans suddenly feel far too tight. and every cell in his body is screaming that the only cure is you.
warnings/tags: SMUT, sex pollen (dubcon-ish elements), masturbation (m), oral sex (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms, creampies, overstimulation, hyperspermia, mating press, standing sex, aftercare, manhandling, size kink/size difference (reader is smaller than steve, but it's steve he's massive), praise kink, dacryphilia if you squint, sweat kink if you squint, roommates to lovers, guilty!pervy!steve who apologizes but can't stop, PWP but lowkey with plot?, sprinkle of yearning, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI
word count: 14.4k (wtf)
from maddie: official, diagnosed, terminal case of the yapperitis for this one. i got stressed writing pt. 2 of ocayf, and so decided to take a "little break" from it, and accidentally wrote this instead. it's sort of inspired by this post by @blobfishlol (hope you don't mind the tag!) and it was meant to be a quick, filthy little pwp but apparently my brain said no 🤍 it’s been a hot minute since i’ve posted anything this long and i feel like i forgot how to write halfway through, so pls be gentle with me!! (pls don’t be mad this isn’t ocayf pt2, it’s coming 🥹)
dt: my bb @love-stucky for letting me yap her ear off about this fic, and also for the edit of the steve pic <33
masterlist
Steve's still running through the debrief in his head when he pulls up outside his apartment block.
The bike's engine cuts out with a rumble, but Steve still feels a deep thrumming vibration in his chest that won't quit. His heart's pounding - has been pounding since he left the compound, he realises - and that doesn't make sense for someone whose resting heart rate is forty-five. Frowning, Steve rolls his shoulders like he can physically shake off whatever this is. Adrenaline, probably. Leftover cortisol.
Plus, the mission ran long, the debrief even longer, and he's been running on fumes for the better part of eighteen hours. Maybe this is his body reminding him that he's not actually invincible even if the serum makes it feel that way sometimes. He's tired. That's all this is.
Medical cleared him forty minutes ago. Routine checkup, vitals normal, no injuries to note. Mission success. Another HYDRA facility taken out, mostly inactive but still operational enough to need clearing. A handful of guards, computers full of encrypted files for Nat to sort through, and more dust than seemed reasonable for a place that was supposedly still in use.
It was a weird amount of dust, actually. Steve keeps snagging on that. Active facilities don't accumulate dust like that, yet the lab was covered with the thick powdery kind that coats every surface and blooms up in pale clouds when you move through it wrong.
And move through it wrong Steve had.
When he'd taken down three guards in the main lab, the force of the fight had sent up a particularly thick puff of it. Enough that his throat constricted and his chest went tight. A too familiar tightness, low and stubborn, like he was twelve again when every breath was a negotiation. The kind that used to plant itself behind his sternum on cold Brooklyn mornings and refuse to shift.
He'd actually coughed. Hard enough that he had to step out of the room, hand braced against the doorframe while he caught his breath like some rookie who couldn't handle a little particulate in the air. But medical had checked his oxygen levels, listened to his lungs, found nothing wrong. Probably just particulate irritation, they'd said. The serum would clear it. And they'd been right - his breathing's fine now. Everything's fine.
Steve shakes his head, swinging a leg over his bike, and heads into the building. He's overthinking. Natasha told him he looked like shit and should go home and sleep for once. He'd laughed, told her she was projecting.
But now Steve's starting to think she might've been onto something.
The building's stairwell is mercifully cool and quiet, and Steve takes the stairs two at a time like always. Five flights is nothing. He's done it a thousand times, usually without thinking, but tonight by the second floor he's warm - too warm for the mild evening. The leather jacket that felt fine on the ride home now feels stifling, clinging to his shoulders and back.
By the third floor, he starts pulling at his collar. By the fourth, he's unzipped the jacket entirely. And when he hits the fifth floor, there's a thin sheen of sweat on his neck and his breath is coming harder than it should.
Steve pauses, hand on the door to your shared apartment, and for a second he considers turning around. Going back to the compound, making medical run more comprehensive tests.
But the thought of another hour in that sterile medical bay instead of being home - instead of seeing you, sinking into that easy warmth you always seem to carry with you - stirs something wrong in his chest. Makes something tighten uncomfortably. He needs to be home. Needs the particular brand of domesticity that only exists in your shared space, where he gets to be Steve and not Captain America.
Yes. He just needs to get inside, see you, shower, and maybe eat something if you've made dinner. Then sleep for ten hours. Simple.
He pushes through the door before he can second-guess it, and the apartment wraps around him immediately - warmth, music drifting from the kitchen, the smell of garlic and pancetta that means you’re making his favorite pasta. Dropping his duffle by the door, Steve heads to the kitchen, drawn by the sounds of you humming off-key, moving around, the comfortable domestic soundtrack that usually settles something in his chest.
Some of the tension in his shoulders starts to ease. This is good. Normal. Exactly what he needs.
Until he rounds the corner and his brain stutters to a halt.
You're wearing his hoodie. Stood at the stove with your back to him, intently focused on cooking, and you're wearing his hoodie. It practically swamps your frame. The sleeves are pushed up past your elbows because otherwise they'd swallow your hands, shoulders so broad they slip off one of yours, exposing a lacy bralette strap and the curve of bare skin that Steve wants his mouth on.
And shorts. Tiny black shorts that barely qualify as clothing, just peeking out from under the hem of his hoodie, leaving your legs completely bare from where the hoodie ends.
You're swimming in the hoodie. In something of his. The size difference so obvious it makes his hands itch at this sudden, visceral urge to grab you and see how you’d disappear under him. To see how easy it would be to cage you in, crowd you back against the counter. To get his hands under his hoodie and find out if you're wearing his scent on your skin the way you're wearing his clothes, if you smell like him now, if you thought about him when you put it on, if—
"Oh my god, Steve, you startled me!"
The sound of your voice catches him mid thought, and his brain slams back to room. You've spun around, wooden spoon in hand, and despite the startled words your whole face lights up. There’s genuine relief there, happiness that seems disproportionate to him just walking through the door. "How was the mission? You look exhausted, are you—"
"Is that my hoodie?"
The words come out rough, almost accusatory, cutting across your concern. Steve doesn't even know why that's the first thing out of his mouth, why out of everything he could say - something normal like hello, mission was fine, dinner smells good - that's what his brain latched onto.
You blink, clearly surprised by the abruptness, then glance down at yourself like you'd forgotten.
"Oh. Yeah." When you look back up there's mischief in your eyes. "It's way comfier than all of mine. You don't mind, do you?"
Mind. Right.
Does he mind that you're standing in his kitchen wearing his clothes, drowning in fabric that smells like him, looking so at home and domestic and pretty that something in his chest is pulling tight enough to hurt? Does he mind that this is somehow more intimate than it has any right to be? That the sight of you in his hoodie is doing things to him that he absolutely cannot examine right now?
"No, it's fine." His mouth is dry. When did his mouth get dry? "Keep it."
"Good," you reply, grin widening. "'Cause I wasn't giving it back anyway."
There’s a teasing lilt to it that Steve feels low in his gut. Or lower than his gut. Somewhere he’s definitely not supposed to be feeling things about his roommate, his friend, the person who should feel safe and comfortable in her own home without him losing his mind over a fucking hoodie.
But God, you turn back to the stove and Steve can’t stop watching. Even as you start chattering to him about dinner, about your day, something that would normally have him leaning against the counter asking questions, he's not hearing your words anymore. Instead, Steve's gaze drops without permission, returning to the way the hoodie shifts when you move, how it rides up when you reach for the spice cabinet and shows more of how those shorts cling to your ass.
He takes a step closer without meaning to. Then another. Close enough now that your scent hits him properly and floods his senses - that particular sweetness he associates with you, but underneath it, woven through, is him. His scent.
You smell like you've wrapped yourself in him, like you're marked with it, and the possessive bolt of heat that shoots through Steve nearly buckles his knees. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, jaw clenching as his body responds with alarming intensity to something as simple as you wearing his clothes.
The kitchen feels too small suddenly - too hot, the air too thick, and Steve can't seem to get enough oxygen to his brain. No prizes for guessing where else it's heading.
And the heat under his skin, that constant low simmer since he left the compound, suddenly cranks up to something that makes him lightheaded. His jeans are getting tight, his cock beginning to harden. And there's this clawing need building in his chest that he doesn't know what to do with, doesn't know how to control.
Of course, it's not new, the attraction.
He's been attracted to you since you moved in six months ago. Since Sam had shoved your number at him and told him his apartment was depressing and lonely and that he needed a roommate. Since you'd shown up with boxes stacked in your arms and made some joke about not being a serial killer that surprised a laugh out of him.
Living with you has been comfortable in a way he hadn't expected, all casual dinners and movie nights and inside jokes. And yes, maybe he's spent more time than he'd like to admit thinking about what it might be like to close that distance, to make this more than friendly, to kiss you.
But Steve's not stupid. Asking you out could ruin everything. Could make you uncomfortable in your own home, make you feel like you had to say yes because of who he is, or worse, make you feel like you had to leave if you said no. The risk of destroying this easy, comfortable thing you've built together isn't worth it, no matter how many times Sam and Bucky tell him he's being an idiot and should just ask you to dinner already.
And yet, now his body doesn't seem to care. It's like every nerve ending in his body has suddenly rewired itself to point at you like a compass finding north. Something that's making his hands shake and his brain offer up increasingly detailed images of what he could do if he just closed the distance between you, if he just reached out and—
"Steve? Are you even listening to me?"
Your voice cuts through the spiral once again and he realizes you've been talking. You've turned back to look at him, and your eyebrows are doing that thing where they draw together with worry.
"You look really flushed." You're studying him now, concern sharpening in your eyes, and then you're moving toward him. "And you're kind of just... standing there like something's wrong."
Your hand comes up, and the second your fingers make contact with his forearm, Steve jerks back like you've burned him. Nearly trips over his own feet putting distance between you. The brief touch sends electricity straight through him, and his cock responds immediately, twitching and thickening in his jeans until they feel obscenely tight. He shifts his stance, angles his body slightly away, desperately trying to hide what's becoming impossible to conceal.
This is insane. He's going insane.
Your eyes are darting over his face now, head tilted in that way you do when you're trying to figure him out, and there's genuine worry written across your features. Everything about it - you being this close, smelling like him, looking up at him with those big, concerned eyes - is making everything exponentially worse. The ache low in his gut intensifies, spreading outward until his whole body feels like a live wire.
"Steve, are you okay?" you ask, and he makes the mistake of watching your lips form the words. "You're really worrying me."
"Yeah." His voice comes out wrecked, barely recognizable. He clears his throat, trying again. "Fine. Just tired."
"Are you sure?" You take another step closer and Steve's back hits the doorframe. "You're sweating. Like, a lot. And you're breathing hard."
He is. He can feel it now, a bead of it running down his temple. And his t-shirt is sticking to his spine despite the fact that the apartment isn't remotely warm. What the fuck was happening to him? His skin feels wrong. Too tight. Prickling with something that's not quite pain but certainly is more than uncomfortable. Every nerve ending feels raw and oversensitive.
His jacket is still on and it's unbearable, too tight across his shoulders and trapping heat against his skin. He needs it off.
"I'm fine," he lies, and even he can hear how strained it sounds. "Just—I need a shower."
"A shower?" Your frown deepens. "Steve, maybe we should call Bruce or someone, you're clearly not—"
"I'm fine." It comes out harsher than he meant it to, and he watches you flinch. Fuck. Fuck, he's making this so much worse. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I just—it's just muscle tension. From the mission. My muscles are sore and the serum makes me run hot sometimes, you know that, and I just need—a cold shower will help, it'll help cool me down and—"
He's babbling. He knows he's babbling, throwing out excuse after excuse while you stared at him like you'd never seen him before, like he's a stranger wearing Steve Rogers' face, but he can't seem to stop.
"The mission was intense," he continues frantically, needing you to believe him, needing you to stop looking so worried. "Lots of close combat and I'm just—I'm tense. All my muscles are tense. A shower will help. Just need to cool down and relax."
He turns and practically flees down the hallway, before he can say what he really needs - you, spread out beneath him, wrapped around him, making sounds he's only let himself imagine in his weakest, most shameful moments when his hand is on his cock in the dark and he pretends it's you touching him instead.
Steve stumbles into his bedroom and straight through to the en-suite, shutting the door and leaning against it like something's chasing him. His reflection in the mirror looks frantic. Face flushed dark, pupils blown so wide, chest heaving. His lips look fuller somehow, plumper and pinker, like he's been biting them without realizing.
Guilt churns in his gut alongside the relentless heat. He'd scared you. Snapped at you when all you'd done was try to help. Made you worry. Been completely fucking weird and now you probably think he's losing his mind.
Maybe he is.
Because he's so hard it actually hurts. His cock is straining against his jeans, thick and aching, pressing against the zipper unbearably. He can feel his pulse in it, each throb sending a jolt of sensation through him that was equal parts pleasure and agony. When he shifts his weight, the friction of denim against sensitive skin makes him bite back a groan.
He's never felt like this. This desperate, all-consuming need that won't quit no matter how much he tries to think it away, logic it away, force it down with sheer willpower.
Sweat runs down his temple, his neck. The leather jacket is still on and Steve tears it off with shaking hands, letting it drop to the floor. It doesn't help. Everything still feels too hot, too tight, like his skin has shrunk two sizes and doesn't fit his body anymore.
Steve's fingers fumble with his belt, clumsy in a way they never are. They're shaking now, struggling with the simple mechanics of a belt buckle while his cock throbs insistently behind the zipper.
He gets it open finally, pops the button on his jeans, and the relief of pressure is so immediate and intense that he has to brace one hand against the sink. But it's not enough. Not even close. He shoves the jeans down his hips and they catch on his thighs - still damp with sweat, fabric clinging - and Steve has to peel them off with more force than should be necessary.
His boxer briefs are tented obscenely, a wet patch of precum already visible at the tip, and Steve can't even meet his own reflection in the mirror.
The shirt comes off next, pulled over his head and discarded without ceremony. His dog tags clink against his chest, metal warm from his overheated skin. Every piece of clothing that comes off should make him feel better, cooler, but it doesn't. If anything, being bare makes him more aware of how wrong everything feels. The hypersensitivity of his skin, the way even air movement feels like too much stimulus.
Steve hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxer briefs, and just the brush of fabric as he moves pulls a sound from his throat he doesn't recognize. When he shoves them down, his cock springs free, completely erect and already leaking.
This isn't normal. Even for him, even with the serum's effect on his libido, this is excessive. Steve looks down at himself and feels something close to shame.
Turning away from the mirror, Steve reaches into the shower, cranking the cold tap as far as it will go. He steps in the moment the water starts flowing and the cold hits him like a physical shock. For a blessed moment, it cuts through everything else. His overheated skin welcomes the icy spray like a mercy, the temperature difference sharp enough to make him gasp in relief. Steve braces his hands against the tile, head hanging under the stream, and tries to breathe through it.
Tries to think about anything other than you. Anything other than your scent and your touch and the sight of you in those shorts and his hoodie.
The water runs over his shoulders, down his spine, plastering his hair to his forehead. It should help. But his cock is still hard. Still throbbing. And as the initial shock of cold fades, the heat comes creeping back. That insistent burning under his skin that the water isn't touching.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut and immediately regrets it.
Because his mind is flooded with images of you leaning over the counter in those tight little shorts, making dinner. And his traitorous brain doesn't stop there, it keeps going, imagining you in that same position but for different reasons, imagining him behind you, imagining his hands shoving that fabric out of the way to find you wet and needy for him.
"Fuck," he hisses through clenched teeth.
His cock throbs in response, another bead of precum forming at the tip despite the freezing water, despite the fact that he's actively trying not to think about you. He looks down at himself - still achingly hard, heavy between his legs - and feels another wave of confused arousal crash through him that makes his knees weak.
Maybe it's just because it's been so long?
Steve tries to think back to the last time he actually took care of himself. Weeks? No, longer than that. A month at least, maybe two. He's been so focused on missions, on taking down HYDRA bases, on being Captain America, that he hasn't exactly had time for anything "extracurricular."
This is probably the longest he's gone without any kind of release since waking up from the ice.
The serum amplified everything about him, including ramping up his sex drive to levels that had taken some getting used to. Back in the forties, right after the transformation, he'd been blindsided by it. Suddenly he'd gone from Steve Rogers who could barely keep a girl's attention to someone who had urges that were damn near overwhelming.
He'd had to learn to manage it, to deal with needs that were sharper and more insistent than anything a normal man experienced. So he'd figured out his body's rhythms, what it needed, how often. Learned to take care of himself efficiently and move on.
Except now he's apparently pushed too far, gone too long, and his enhanced biology is making its displeasure violently known.
That has to be it. Has to be why he's reacting like this. Not because something's wrong, but because he's pent up and his body is responding to deprivation the way the serum makes it respond to everything: excessively.
And you. God, you in those shorts, in his hoodie, being so sweet and domestic, had just been the trigger. The match to kindling that had been building for weeks.
It's not pervy. It's just biology. Enhanced biology, biology nonetheless. So if he just takes care of it, he'll be fine. The need will ease, his head will clear, and he can go back out there and have dinner like a normal person instead of someone who can barely look at his roommate without getting hard.
Steve's hand drifts down his stomach almost without conscious thought, and when his fingers wrap around his cock he can't stop the groan that rumbles from his chest. The touch sends electricity up his spine, pleasure so intense it's almost painful after being hard and neglected for so long.
He strokes slowly at first, testing, and his head falls back against the tile with a dull thunk. The cold water streams over his chest but he doesn't feel it anymore. All his focus narrows to the heat building in his core, the slick slide of his fist over sensitized skin, the way his cock throbs with every stroke like it's been waiting for this.
And in his thoughts, you're there.
Steve's grip tightens involuntarily and he strokes faster, chasing friction, telling himself to think about something else, anything else. But his mind won't cooperate. It just keeps offering up increasingly vivid fantasies: what you'd look like without his hoodie, whether you were wearing anything under those shorts, if you'd be wet if he checked, if you ever touched yourself in your room late at night thinking about—
"Shit—," he curses, the sound echoing off the shower tiles.
God, what would you sound like? The question burrows into his brain and won't let go. Would you whimper? Moan his name? Would you be loud or would you try to stay quiet, biting your lip the way you do when you're concentrating? Would you beg? He thinks you might. Thinks you might say his name all breathy and desperate while he slowly thrusts into you, feeling you stretch around his cock inch by inch.
A low groan builds in his chest and Steve has to bite down on his lip so hard that he tastes copper. You're just in the kitchen. The walls aren't that thick. And the thought of you hearing him like this should horrify him but instead it sends another bolt of heat straight through his gut.
Steve's free hand slaps against the tile, bracing himself as his knees threaten to give out.
His cock is leaking steadily now, precum making the slide slick and easy, as his hand speeds up, rhythm getting rougher, chasing the sensation. And Steve can't stop imagining it's your hand instead of his. Your smaller fingers wrapped around him, struggling to fit around his girth, looking up at him with those eyes while you learn exactly how he likes to be touched.
Or better yet, your mouth. Fuck, your mouth. Those pretty lips he'd caught himself staring at stretched around his cock, your tongue sliding along the underside, taking him deeper while he threads his fingers through your hair, guiding you, feeling your moans vibrate around him.
A strangled sound escapes his throat before he can stop it, and Steve has to sink his teeth into his shoulder to muffle it. He's so wound up, weeks of neglect and pent-up need making him hair-trigger sensitive. His hips thrust forward into his fist, searching for more friction, more pressure, chasing the orgasm building at the base of his spine with alarming speed.
This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. You're his friend, his roommate, someone who trusts him enough to live with him and wear his clothes and worry when he seems off. And here he is jerking off to fantasies of fucking your face. While you wait for him to come back for dinner.
But he can't stop. Can't make his mind go blank or think of anything else.
"Fuck—" His forearm isn't enough to muffle it and Steve bites down on his own arm as his orgasm slams through him. "Oh god, fuck—"
His cock pulses in his grip, and your name tears from his throat. Thick ropes of cum paint the shower wall, more than seems possible. The serum already makes him produce more than normal, but this is excessive even for him. It's almost painful in its intensity, pleasure so sharp it makes his legs shake, and he has to brace both hands against the wall to stay upright while it works through him.
For a few blissful seconds, pleasure drowns out every other sensation in his body
Then reality crashes back in, and with it comes the guilt.
Steve stares at the evidence of his release being washed away by the spray, chest heaving, and feels the shame burn through him hotter than the need had been.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters, scrubbing both hands over his face. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
But even as guilt churns heavy in his gut, even as he tells himself he's disgusting and inappropriate and a terrible friend, he looks down and his stomach drops. He's still hard. Not just half-hard, not softening. Fully, achingly erect like he hadn't just had one of the most intense orgasms of his life. The relief he'd expected, the clarity that should have come, was nowhere to be found.
Steve stares in disbelief. The serum gives him a faster refractory period than normal, sure, but this? This isn't normal. Even for him.
He wraps a hand around himself experimentally and has to bite back a groan. The touch sends sparks through his overloaded nerves, pleasure bordering on unbearable, but underneath it the need is still there. Still clawing at his insides, unsatisfied and demanding more.
If anything, the ache in his gut feels worse now. More insistent. Like his body is genuinely angry that he came and it wasn't inside you, that it was his hand and not your body taking it, not your pussy clenching around him and milking him dry.
"No," Steve says out loud, voice hard like he's ordering a subordinate. Like he can command his own body back into line through sheer force of will. "Stop it."
This can't be just pent-up sexual frustration. Something else is happening. Something must've happened at that Hydra base. It has to that - the dust. The way it had hung in the air, gotten in his lungs, made him cough like his body was rejecting it. What if it wasn't just particulate irritation? What if HYDRA had something in that lab, some kind of bioweapon that got into his system?
Steve's jaw clenches. He should call Bruce. Should've called him an hour ago instead of convincing himself this was normal. Bruce would run tests, figure out what he'd been exposed to, synthesize a counter-agent if needed. Or Tony. Tony has access to SHIELD's entire database on HYDRA weapons, might recognize the symptoms.
But the thought of making that call, of trying to explain, "Hey, I can't stop thinking about fucking my roommate, I'm hard enough to cut diamond, and I just jerked off in the shower while moaning her name," makes him want to die. Tony would never let him live it down, would make jokes about it for the rest of Steve's natural life.
He'd probably tell Natasha, who would tell Clint, and then the entire team would know that Captain America got dosed with some kind of HYDRA sex drug and spent the evening jerking off to thoughts of his roomate.
Maybe it'll pass on its own. The serum processes toxins faster than a normal metabolism; whatever this is might just need time to work through his system. He can get through dinner, make some excuse about not feeling well, go to bed early. Wake up tomorrow back to normal.
Turning off the water with more force than necessary, Steve reaches for a towel. Even the act of drying off feels like too much. The terry cloth dragging across his oversensitized skin makes him grit his teeth. He manages his chest and arms with rough, perfunctory swipes, but when the towel brushes his cock he actually hisses, the sensation sharp enough to make his vision blur.
He abandons the towel halfway through, still damp, and pulls his boxers back on, hissing at the friction of fabric against sensitive skin. The compression just makes him more aware of his situation. He's tenting the boxers obscenely, the outline of his erection impossible to miss, a damp spot already forming again where he's leaking. There's no hiding this. No way to pretend everything's fine when his body is advertising exactly how not-fine he is.
And the thought of putting anything else on makes his overheated skin crawl. Maybe he could manage sweatpants. Loose ones that won't cling. And then he'll return to the kitchen, try and act normal for dinner.
Steve takes a breath that doesn't quite fill his lungs, braces himself, and opens the bathroom door.
You're in his bedroom.
Standing there with frozen peas in one hand, and a pill bottle and bottle of water in the other. The shock of it - you, here, in his space when he's barely holding himself together, when he's standing here in nothing but his boxers with his cock still straining obscenely against the fabric - roots him to the spot. Your head snaps up at the sound of the door, eyes going wide.
"Oh! Sorry, you'd been a while and you were so weird earlier and I got worried..."
The words trail off. Steve watches it happen, the way your gaze catches on his bare, dripping chest. You're trying to be subtle, he thinks, trying to make it look clinical, concerned, but there's nothing clinical about the way your focus catches on the water beaded across his chest.
Your lips part slightly as you track a single droplet running down his sternum, over the defined ridges of his abs, following its path like you're memorizing it until it disappears into the waistband of his boxers.
And then your gaze drops lower.
Steve watches your pupils dilate the moment you see what’s impossible to miss, impossible to misinterpret. Time stretches. Your breath hitches just loud enough for him to hear, and neither of you moves.
"I thought—" Your voice comes out different. Breathier. You swallow so hard he can see your throat work. "I thought these might help. For your muscles."
You hold up the peas and pills like they explain why you're in his bedroom, but your gaze hasn't moved back to his face. It's still tracking over him - shoulders, chest, the V of muscle at his hips - and Steve can see the flush creeping up your neck in real time.
He should grab something to cover himself, should apologize, should do literally anything other than just stand there letting you look at him like that.
You start rambling now, that nervous spillover of words you do when you're flustered. "Frozen peas for the soreness, and Bruce made these painkillers specifically for your metabolism, remember? For when—"
"You didn't have to do that." His voice sounds like gravel.
"Sorry," you say quietly, and your eyes finally drag back up to his face. "I'm just… you really scared me earlier. I've never seen you like that."
The concern in your voice is palpable. But then you shift your weight and he catches the way your gaze dips again, just for a second. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips - unconscious, he's sure, but it doesn't matter because the sight of it sends heat straight through him so fast it makes his head spin.
Did you hear him? In the shower? Is that why you came to his room? Because you heard your name, heard what he was doing? The thought should mortify him. Should make him want to disappear through the floor. Instead, his cock gives an interested twitch that he knows you can see.
"Steve?"
Your voice pulls him back. You've moved closer. When did that happen? The peas and water are on his nightstand now and you're right there, close enough that when Steve pulls in his next breath, your scent floods his senses again. But there's something else now. Something sweeter, headier, that makes his enhanced senses lock onto you like a target.
Arousal.
You're aroused. The realization slams into him with physical force. He can smell it on you, subtle but unmistakable, and every instinct in his body that's been screaming at him all evening suddenly focuses with laser precision on that single fact.
"You're still really flushed," you say, and your voice has gone soft. Worried. "And you're breathing so hard. Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
Everything's wrong. You're too close and you smell too good and he can see your pulse fluttering in your throat and all he can think about is closing that last foot of distance and finding out if you taste as good as you smell.
"I'm fine," Steve lies, and it might be the most blatant one yet.
You turn to face him fully, and the genuine worry etched in your features makes his chest tight for different reasons.
"You do so much, Stevie," you probe, and the nickname lands like a caress. "You hold so much in. You've been working so hard lately, mission after mission." You step closer and Steve's breath catches, every muscle in his body going rigid with the effort of staying still. "I'm worried about you. If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, please tell me. I'll do it."
Anything at all.
Steve's mind immediately offers up about a dozen graphic answers to that - vivid, explicit images of exactly what you could do to help, each one more detailed than the last. He has to close his eyes against the onslaught, has to physically fight back the thoughts of your mouth on him, your body under his, the sounds you'd make if he just gave in and took what his body is screaming for.
You don't mean it like that. You're just being kind, being a good friend, offering comfort the way you always do. You have no idea what's running through his head right now, how close he is to snapping.
"You don't—" His voice cracks and he has to clear his throat, has to force the words out. "You don't need to worry about me."
But you're not listening, or maybe you're just too concerned to care about his protests, because your hand comes up toward his face and Steve's reflexes take over before his brain can catch up. His hand shoots out and catches your wrist mid-air, and the second skin touches skin everything goes white-hot.
The touch sears through him like lightning. He can feel your pulse under his fingertips, quick and fluttering, can feel the softness of your skin, and it takes every ounce of willpower he possesses not to yank you against him right then and there.
"Let me see," you protest, and before Steve can process the words you're pulling your wrist free of his grip. A determined tug that his lust-addled brain doesn't think to resist. Both of your palms come up to cup his face, cool against his burning skin.
Steve's lungs stop working. Your hands on his jaw, your thumbs at his temples, the way you're studying him with those worried eyes while standing close enough that he can see the individual flecks of colour in your iris is obliterating what's left of his control. "Oh my god, you're burning up. Steve, you're literally…"
He can't hear the rest. Can't process words when your hands are on his face and your arousal is flooding his senses and the coil of need in his gut has pulled so tight he thinks it might actually snap him in half. All he can think about is grabbing your wrists, pulling you flush against him, finding out if your mouth tastes as good as he's imagined when he finally stops being careful and takes what he wants.
Your fingers move to his neck - checking his pulse - and Steve stops breathing entirely. His cock throbs so hard it's painful and he can feel his control dissolving like sugar in water, going from solid to nothing in seconds.
He needs. God, he needs. Needs to touch you, taste you, needs to rip those tiny shorts off and find out if you're as wet as you smell, needs to bury himself inside you until this relentless burning finally stops, needs to pin you to his bed and fuck you until you're screaming his name and all of a sudden he can't remember why he was fighting this in the first place.
"I'm calling Bruce—"
"No!"
The word comes out too loud, too violent, and Steve watches you jump. He's scaring you again and he hates it but he can't stop, can't make himself be gentle when his whole body is screaming.
"You need to leave." The words sound strangled, barely human. His control is hanging by a thread and that thread is unravelling fast. "Please. You need to go. Right now."
"What? No, Stevie, I'm not leaving when you're clearly—"
"Please." It comes out like a whine, and some distant part of Steve registers that he's begging but he's too far gone to care about pride or dignity anymore.
He takes a step back, needing distance before he does something unforgivable. "You don't—you don't understand. You need to go back to your room. Lock the door. Don't come near me."
Your expression shifts to hurt and confusion, brow furrowing in that way that makes his chest ache even through the haze of need. "Why? Steve, I just want to help!"
"You can't help with this!" Too sharp, too harsh, and he watches you flinch like he's struck you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just—please just go. Please."
"You're scaring me." Your voice comes out small and it kills him, absolutely kills him. "Just tell me what's wrong. Whatever it is, we can figure it out togeth—"
"I can't stop thinking about you." The confession tears out of him before he can stop it, raw and desperate and too honest. "I can't—fuck, I've been trying, I've been trying so hard to hold it together but I can't think straight and all I want—all I can think about is—"
He cuts himself off with a harsh breath but it's too late. The truth is out there now, hanging in the air between you like something physical.
You stare at him with your eyes wide, and Steve can see your chest rising and falling rapidly. Can see the exact moment his words register. The shock flickering across your face, then understanding, then something that looks dangerously close to want. Your scent spikes so sharply it makes his knees weak, that sweet arousal flooding his senses until he can barely think through it.
"Steve," you breathe, and there's something in your voice he's never heard before. Something breathless and urgent.
You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up to rest against his chest, right over his hammering heart, and Steve's breath stops entirely. He can feel the tremble in your fingers, can see the way your eyes flick to his lips, and he knows with sudden, devastating certainty what you're about to do.
You push up on your toes, tilting your face toward his, close enough that he can feel your breath ghost across his lips, and Steve's last thread of control frays to nothing.
Lunging that last inch, he captures your mouth in a kiss that tries, briefly, to be gentle - some buried instinct trying for something tender, wanting to do this right. But the moment your lips part under his, a deep rumbling growl tears up from his throat and his hands are suddenly everywhere. One hand fists in your hair, gripping tight to angle your head exactly where he needs it, while the other clamps onto your waist. Tight enough that you know you'll feel the imprint of his fingers tomorrow.
God, you want to feel it tomorrow.
He yanks you flush to his body and you stumble into him with a gasp that's his undoing. Your mouth opens for him and Steve takes immediate advantage, greedy for it, greedy for every breath you'll give him, tilting his head to seal his mouth over yours properly.
His tongue sweeps past your lips to finally taste you properly, and you're even sweeter than every fantasy promised. Better than anything he imagined in that shower with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat.
When he sucks your bottom lip between his teeth and releases it slowly, you make this small wounded sound that goes straight to his cock. You feel it twitch against your stomach through the thin cotton of his boxers, and he's so big, so overwhelming, radiating heat and the salt musk smell of his sweat that makes your head spin and your thighs clench.
Heat floods his system at the knowledge that you can feel how hard he is, how much he wants you. And he knows he can't satisfy the clawing need in his gut through your mouth alone.
Steve tears himself away from your mouth and every cell in his body revolts violently like he's ripping off his own skin. A needy little protest escapes you as you chase after him without thought, lips wet and swollen and so devastatingly pretty he almost stops caring.
"You don't," The words come out between ragged pants, his voice wrecked, barely recognizable as his own. "You don't understand." His chest heaves against yours, breath coming hard and fast as he presses his forehead to yours, hand still fisted tight in your hair because letting go simply isn't something his body knows how to do anymore. "I'm not in control right now. I don't know if I can be gentle. Don't know if I can stop once I start—"
"Then don't stop," you whisper against his lips, and your hand slides up his chest to curl around the back of his neck. "Take what you need, Steve."
And there’s no universe, no timeline where Steve Rogers could survive hearing that from your mouth, not even if he were perfectly himself.
His last thread of restraint frays to nothing.
Steve's mouth crashes back into yours with bruising intensity, all desperate hunger and zero control. You open for him instantly, no hesitation, just pure wanting, and the primal satisfaction that rolls through his chest is almost violent in its intensity.
Then his arms slide down to grip your thighs, fingers digging into soft flesh as he hauls you up against him like you weigh nothing. You're so light in his grip, so easy to position exactly where he wants you, and the rush of it - the physical proof of how easily he can manhandle you - sends a dark thrill surging through him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively and your body moulds to his perfectly, soft curves yielding to hard muscle, and he can feel everything.
The frantic beat of your heart hammering against his chest. The clench of your thighs around his hips. The damp heat between your legs settling right against his cock through the layers separating you, and it makes him throb so hard he groans into your mouth.
But still, it's not enough. He needs you impossibly closer, needs to consume every inch of space between you. One hand shifts to palm your ass with a possessive squeeze that makes you whimper and roll your hips against him. It's an instinctive, needy grind that drags your core along the length of his still covered cock.
"Steve, please," you whine against his mouth. "I need—"
Your desperation makes Steve's pupils blow completely black, swallowing the blue entirely. He turns and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with the weight of his hips, using the solid surface to hold you exactly where he wants you.
"God, I know, sweetheart. I know you do," he rasps against your neck, teeth scraping your pulse point. "Tried to be good. Tried not to think about this. But so damn sweet I can’t think straight." His hands tighten on you possessively, fingers digging into flesh. "'m gonna take care of you now, I promise. Gonna make you feel perfect. Gonna stretch you open on my cock and fill you up until you can't take anymore. Fill you up so good you'll feel me for days."
Heat curls low and tight in your belly at his filthy promise, and your body reacts instinctively, clenching around nothing so sharply that a needy little moan slips out before you can stop it. Your fingers clutch at his bare shoulders, desperate for something to anchor yourself against the overwhelming reality of finally having him like this.
All that heated muscles under your palms, slick with sweat. He’s so much bigger like this, crowding every inch of space you have, caging you in, and your head swims with the sheer physicality of him.
But it’s the heavy, hard length of his cock grinding against you through thin cotton that nearly undoes you. Thick and insistent, pressed exactly where you’re throbbing for him, dragging against you with every subtle shift of his hips. The friction makes your breath stutter, your thighs tightening helplessly around him, trying to draw him even closer, to get more of that impossible, intoxicating pressure.
Steve moves with urgency that borders on frantic, carrying you the few steps to his bed and laying you down with slightly more care than the desperation vibrating through his body would suggest. But the second you're on the mattress, that restraint evaporates. He follows you down like he's magnetised, covering your body with his.
Heat radiates off him in waves, overwhelming, consuming. His breath fans over your cheek, uneven and ragged, and when his hips slot between yours, you feel just how hard he is. Thick, straining against the thin cotton of his boxers like he’s seconds from losing his mind entirely.
"Jesus," he groans, almost a choke, forehead dropping to your shoulder as if the contact alone might save him. "I need—sweetheart, I need you, I need you so bad."
He kisses you again, harder this time, nothing gentle left in him. His mouth is hot, frantic, stealing your breath as his hands slide over you in frantic sweeps, already pulling at your clothes. It's rougher than he intends - though he’s trying, god he’s trying - but whatever is burning through him is stronger than his control.
His hoodie is the first causality, tugged over your head and tossed aside without care for where it lands. Immediately his mouth is on your bare skin, lips and teeth working down your throat to your collarbone while his hands slide up to cup your breasts through the thin bralet.
The delicate fabric does nothing to hide your peaked nipples straining against it, and the sight combined with the feel of them hard beneath his palms makes him groan low and desperate against your skin. His fingers hook under the elastic, pulling it up with greedy, impatient hands before it can register that he should probably slow down, be more careful with you.
But he can't. His mouth trails lower, hot and demanding as he sucks one nipple between his lips, tongue circling the sensitive peak before his teeth graze it lightly, teasing. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging. He groans at the sting of it and sucks harder, alternating between your breasts with ravenous attention. Licking, sucking, nipping until both nipples are peaked and glistening with his spit, until you're squirming beneath him and making those breathy little sounds that drive him insane.
His hand palms and kneads the soft flesh while his mouth works, and every arch of your back, every tug on his hair, every whining plea that falls from your lips just winds him tighter. Normally could spend hours here, mapping every response, learning exactly what makes you fall apart.
But it's not enough right now. None of it is enough.
The need burning through Steve's veins is almost painful now, an ache so deep and consuming he can barely think past it. He needs more. Needs all of you. Needs to be inside you with an urgency that's rapidly shredding what little control he has left.
His mouth trails down your stomach, open-mouthed kisses that quickly become bites, small sucks that leave wet heat on your skin. He’s losing the thread of gentleness entirely, hands already at your shorts, fumbling with the waistband for half a second before impatience overrides coordination entirely.
He doesn't mean to - or maybe he does, he can't think straight enough to know - but his enhanced strength rips through the fabric like tissue paper, taking your panties with it. The startled sound you make is half protest, half arousal, because the ease of it, the sheer strength, makes heat pulse between your legs.
"Steve—!"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he rasps into your skin as he chucks the ruined scraps aside. "I'm sorry, I'll replace them, I promise, I just—" His hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider for him. "I need—I can't—"
But the words die in his throat completely because the sight of your pussy, slick and glistening for him, combined with your scent flooding his heightened senses, makes something in Steve's brain simply stop working. Every coherent thought evaporates, consumed by primal need. He's gone. Completely lost to whatever's burning through his veins.
All that exists is the need to taste you, claim you, bury himself so deep inside you that he forgets where he ends and you begin.
"Look at you," Steve breathes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip absently, like he can already taste you. "So fucking pretty and wet for me."
His biceps flex as he drags you down the bed effortlessly, hauling you closer with enough strength that a startled gasp tears from your throat. Your thighs end up over those broad shoulders and he settles between your legs like he's exactly where he's meant to be. His breath ghosts hot over where you're aching for him and you arch involuntarily, seeking and retreating all at once.
He's staring at your exposed pussy with an intensity that borders on feral, like you're something he wants to devour. Like's he's been starving for you longer than he'll admit.
Your cheeks burn. Heat pools low in your stomach as you try to squirm away under the intensity of his gaze, suddenly hyperaware of how exposed you are despite how desperately you want this.
"Don't," he growls against your folds, the word a dark, commanding rasp in a tone you've never heard from him before but makes heat flash down your spine.
His arms clamp tighter around your thighs, spreading you wider, pinning you in place easily. Utterly at his mercy. The possessive dominance of his grip steals what little breath you have left.
Then his mouth seals over you and any coherent thought you have dissolves into nothing. There's no teasing; whatever's burning through Steve's veins has burned away every shred of patience. He buries his face between your thighs and devours you like a man who'll die without his mouth on every inch of you.
His tongue drags through your folds in one long, devastating stroke that punches a broken cry from your chest that you barely recognize as your own voice. Steve's answering moan is one of pure relief, rumbling from deep in his chest and vibrating against your cunt. Your hips buck helplessly in his arms as he licks and sucks with focused, consuming desperation, and within seconds you're gasping his name.
Broad strokes of his tongue work through your slick folds, greedy in his pursuit of your pleasure and you're writhing against him, biceps flexing to keep you where he wants you. He finds your clit and sucks it between his lips with perfect pressure, circling the swollen bud with his tongue, and you grind against him shamelessly, fingers twisted so tight in his hair it has to hurt.
But Steve just groans his encouragement and you feel it everywhere, feel the way he's grinding against the mattress below seeking his own friction, aching for a bit of relief from the pressure, while he loses himself completely in the taste of you.
God, the sight of him. All flushed skin and flexing muscle, sweat making his broad shoulders gleam, chin glistening obscenely with your arousal. And those perfect plush lips are pink and swollen now, parted around another appreciative moan that makes you clench around nothing. His eyes are closed like he's savouring you, and when they flutter open to meet yours they're so dark and blown wide with need it sends another pulse of heat straight through you.
The flat of his tongue drags up again, licking up through your folds before spearing inside, and the obscene wet sounds of it mix with your gasping moans and his rough growls. One of his hands shifts from your thigh to spread you wider with his thumb, opening you up so he can fuck you with his tongue properly while his nose grinds against your clit.
The combination makes your back arch violently, pleasure spiking so sharp and quickly it's overwhelming.
"Steve—fuck—Steve, oh my god—" The words tumble out incoherent, your brain shorting out under the onslaught.
But he doesn't slow down. If anything, your babbling spurs him on. Two thick fingers slide into you, curling immediately to stroke that devastating spot while his tongue works in tight, merciless circles.You're shaking now, thighs trembling uncontrollably in his bruising grip, that coil winding tighter and tighter until you think you'll actually break apart from it.
"Need you to come," he rasps against you, and there's desperation in his voice that matches the frantic grinding of his hips against the bed, like making you come is the only thing keeping him tethered to sanity. "Please, sweet girl, need to have it."
The raw pleading in his voice is what does it. That broken desperation, the way he's begging you like he needs this more than air, sends you over the edge so hard and fast you don't even have time to warn him.
Your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your back arches clean off the bed, thighs clamping around Steve's head as you cry out his name - or try to, the sound coming out more like a broken sob. White-hot pleasure explodes through your nerve endings, radiating out from where his mouth is still working you relentlessly, and you can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except shake apart in his grip.
But Steve doesn't let up. He keeps his mouth sealed over you, licking and sucking like he wants to devour every aftershock, like he's trying to pull more from you even as you're already flying apart. It's too much, bordering on overwhelming, but when you try to squirm away his arms lock you down harder.
"Stevie—'s too much—I can't—"
He finally pulls back just enough to press open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, your hipbones, working his way up your body as you try to remember how to breathe. His hands roam restlessly over your skin and when he reaches your face his lips are glistening, hair dishevelled from your grip, face flushed and chest heaving.
"Perfect, you're so fucking perfect," he rasps against your mouth, kissing you deeply enough that you taste yourself on his tongue. "But I need to be in you, need it more than I've ever needed anything." His hips grind against you unconsciously, the hard length of him pressing insistently through his boxers, now soaked through. "Need it so bad I can't think, can't breathe. Please, pretty girl, need you so bad I'm losing my mind—"
He's already moving, pushing himself up just enough to shove his boxers down with shaking hands. The elastic catches on his cock and he makes a frustrated sound, yanking the fabric down his thighs and kicking them off entirely. When he springs free, your breath catches.
He's big. Thick and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach with prominent veins running along the length. The head is already leaking, a bead of precum glistening at the tip, and he's so hard it looks almost painful. Your eyes widen involuntarily as your brain tries to process how that's supposed to fit inside you.
Steve notices your stare, follows your gaze down, and a sound rumbles from his chest that's pure male satisfaction. The visual does something to him, you can see it in the way his pupils dilate even further, the way his jaw clenches, the way the muscle ticks. How much bigger he is than you, how easily he could manhandle you, how small and vulnerable you look pinned beneath all that muscle and raw strength.
"It'll fit," he promises, voice rough and absolutely certain despite the tremor in his hands. He settles between your thighs, caging you in completely with his body, surrounding you with heat and want. "I know I'm big, sweetheart, but you can take me, 'm gonna make sure you do."
One hand drops between your bodies and the thick head of his cock drags through your folds, gathering your slick, and the sensation punches a desperate sound from both of you. Each time he rocks forward your hips chase the friction instinctively.
His mouth finds your neck, lips and tongue working over your pulse before he sucks with an impatience that you know will bruise. You gasp and tilt your head without thinking, offering more, and Steve groans his approval against your skin. Teeth scrape over the sensitive tendon before biting down hard enough to make you whimper, and he soothes the sting with his tongue only to move lower and do it again. Marking you deliberately. Claiming you.
He keeps talking in between - words tumbling out of him like he’s not even talking to you anymore, just spilling whatever delirious need is consuming him.
“Fuck…'m gonna stretch this pretty little pussy open on my cock,” he babbles, almost dazed, eyes locked on where he’s lining himself up with you. “Fill you up so good… so fucking full. You'll feel me for days, sweetheart. Days. Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to have me inside you."
He's so hot and hard against you, and when he notches himself at your entrance - just the tip of him pressing in - and even that has you whimpering at the stretch. Your arms fly up to wrap around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you try to anchor yourself against the overwhelming sensation.
Oh god—Steve—" It comes out high and shaky, almost a whine. "Please—"
The plea tears from your throat but you don't even know what you're begging for. For him to go slower? For more? For relief from the burning stretch that's somehow perfect and too much all at once?
"I know, baby, I know," Steve coos against your throat, pressing kisses between words, and there's that desperation threading through his voice again. "Shh, I've got you, pretty girl. Just breathe for me."
But even as he's soothing you his hips press forward incrementally, working himself deeper, and you can feel every thick inch as he pushes in and your body struggles to accommodate him. The stretch burns and you bury your face against his neck with a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.
"Wait—Steve, you're too big, I can't—"
"You can," he pants, his voice is strained, shaking with the monumental effort of going slow when everything in him is screaming to just thrust home, to bury himself completely in your wet heat. "You're doing so good f'me. So fucking good. Just a little more—fuck—just need you to take a little more."
His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise, holding you still while he rocks forward another inch. You're so full already and he's not even halfway in yet, your body struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him, and the whine that tears from your throat makes him groan and press his forehead to yours.
"That's it, that's it," Steve breathes, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple - anywhere he can reach. "I know it's a lot, baby. But you're taking me so perfect. Look how good you're opening up for me." Another shallow thrust and you whimper against his mouth, nails raking down his back. "You're doing so perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, I promise. Just let me in, baby. Let me fill this tight little pussy up like you need."
The combination of his words and the relentless stretch is overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your nerve endings spark. Your body reacts instinctively, walls clenching tight around the thick length of him already inside you.
Feeling your wet cunt constrict around hi breaks whatever fragile restraint Steve had left. With a low, guttural sound he slams the rest of the way in, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust that punches the air from your lungs.
The cry that rips from you is sharp and broken - pain and pleasure so intense they're indistinguishable, blurring together into something that has you arching violently against him. You're so full you can barely breathe, stretched impossibly wide around him, and the sensation is so overwhelming you almost come from that alone.
Your walls flutter and clench around his length, desperately trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. Tears spring to your eyes, spilling over to track down your cheeks.
"Fuck—I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" Steve's voice cracks as he kisses frantically at your tears, lips pressing to your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. "I'm so sorry, pretty girl, I didn't mean to—you just felt so good, I couldn't—"
But even as he's apologizing his hips are already moving, pulling back and rocking into you with needy thrusts. He's not giving you time to adjust, can't seem to stop himself, his body operating on pure need now.
"So tight," he gasps against your skin. "So fucking perfect around me. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just need—" Another thrust, deeper this time, and you sob against his shoulder. "Need you so bad. Can't stop. Please tell me you're okay, please."
You try to speak. Try to form words through the overwhelming sensation of being so impossibly full but your brain can't form coherent words. All that escapes is a pathetic, whimpering "Stevie."
It's all you can manage before he shifts his hips slightly, angling deeper, and on the very next thrust the blunt head of his cock grinds right against your g-spot.
Pleasure detonates through you so suddenly you can't even cry out, mouth falling open on a silent gasp as he thrusts into you again. Your eyes fly wide, a shocked gasp tearing from your throat as white-hot sensation explodes through every nerve ending.
You're coming before your brain can even register it's happening. Two thrusts, maybe three, and your orgasm rips through you like lightning.
Your whole body seizes, cunt clamping down violently around his cock as you gush around him, soaking his length and making the slide obscenely wet. The sounds falling from your lips are helpless and incoherent, your back arching clean off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure shorts out your brain completely.
"Fuck—oh fuck, that's it, that's it—" Steve's voice breaks on a groan as your walls spasm around him. "Good girl, such a good fucking girl, coming all over my cock—"
You can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except convulse in his arms while your pussy milks his cock with desperate, rhythmic pulses that has Steve following you over the edge. With a guttural snarl he buries himself as deep as he can go as his cock throbs inside you, pulsing violently as the first rope of cum floods your pussy. Then another. And another. And it doesn't stop.
"Fuck—oh fuck!" Steve's voice breaks on a groan, hips grinding into you as he empties himself, and there's so much. Too much. Your walls are coated, flooded, completely painted white with his release, and he just keeps coming. Spurt after thick spurt filling you beyond capacity until you can actually feel it. Hot and excessive and so overwhelming your body can't contain it all.
"Steve—Steve—oh god." You try to squirm away instinctively, whimpering at the overwhelming sensation of being pumped so full. "I can't—there's too much, I can't—"
But Steve's hands lock onto your hips like a vice, fingers digging in bruisingly as he holds you in place and grinds you down harder onto his cock, forcing you to take more.
"Shh, shh, you can," he hushes against your neck, pushes you down harder onto him, forcing himself impossibly deeper even as his cock continues pulsing, and more cum floods into you. "You can take it, sweetheart. Take all of it. Every fucking drop, just a little more."
Cum starts leaking out around the thick base of him, even though he's still buried deep, still pulsing, still pumping more into you. It spills out of you despite how tightly your pussy is stretched around his length, dripping down your ass and pooling on the sheets beneath you.
"Please," You're babbling now, tears flowing freely as you shake your head helplessly. "Steve, please, 's so much, I'm so full."
"Fuck, you're dripping with it," Steve pants against your neck, hips still rocking through the aftershocks, trying to fuck his cum further into your already overflowing pussy. "Taking all of it. Every drop. Knew you could. Knew this sweet pussy was made for me, pretty girl."
His cock gives another violent pulse and you whimper helplessly, completely stuffed, cum sloshing inside you with every tiny shift of his hips.
Your limbs feel boneless, trembling with aftershocks, and you expect him to soften now, to give you both a moment to recover. But Steve doesn't slow down. Doesn't even pause. His cock is still rock-hard inside you and his hips keep moving - pulling back and thrusting in with the same urgent intensity, maybe even more now that you're slick with both your release and his excessive cum.
A broken whimper falls from your lips as oversensitized nerves spark with each thrust. You're so full, so overwhelmed, you can barely process that he's still going, still hard, still needing.
"I know, baby, I know—I'm sorry," He sounds almost pained, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down. "I'm sorry, I can't—fuck, just need one more from you—just one more, yeah? Need to feel this perfect pussy clench around me again. Can you do that for me? Please, baby, just one more."
His rhythm picks up, hips snapping forward with primal desperation. You can barely nod, can barely do anything except take it as he pounds into you, the wet obscene sounds of his cum squelching with every thrust filling the room alongside your breathless whimpers and his desperate groans.
But it's still not enough for him. With a frustrated snarl Steve pulls back, and before you can even whine at the loss of him, he's grabbing your legs, pushing them up and back. Your knees press to your chest as he folds you completely in half, and when he sinks back in this new angle has you seeing stars.
"Oh god—" The broken cry tears from your throat as he sinks back in, and he's so much deeper like this. Impossibly deeper.
"That's it—yes," Steve's voice is guttural as he starts moving again. "Need to get deeper, need to—fuck, you feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
You're completely pinned beneath him, folded in half and utterly helpless, unable to do anything but take the brutal pace he sets. The new position has gravity working against you too, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you're babbling - words tumbling out that don't even make sense.
"Can't—oh god, Stevie, you're—'s too deep, I can't—fuck—s'good—please."
Your hands scrabble frantically at his back, nails digging in and dragging down, leaving angry red crescents that make him hiss and thrust harder.
Sweat drips from his temples onto your chest, your neck, and he leans down to lick it off with a groan, tongue dragging over your heated skin. His hips never stop that relentless grinding, working himself as deep as physics will allow. Driven by something beyond his control to keep fucking into your used, dripping pussy like his life depends on it.
"Taking me so well," he pants into your neck between messy kisses. "Look at you, so good for me. Letting me use this perfect cunt."
One of Steve's hands snakes down between your bodies, finding your clit, and the second his thumb makes contact you cry out - sharp and broken - because you're so oversensitive, swollen and puffy from two orgasms already
"Steve—no, I can't—can't again, 's too much."
"You can," he insists, and his fingers start circling that abused bundle of nerves with just enough pressure. "Can feel you getting tighter already. You're gonna come for me again, pretty girl. Need to feel you squeeze my cock one more time, please."
The stimulation is so intense you need to escape it. Every muscle in your body wants to flee the overwhelming sensation, but pinned beneath him like this there's nowhere to go, no way to twist away. You're utterly trapped, unable to do anything but take it. Take his cock pounding into you and his thumb working mercilessly over your puffy clit until pleasure starts building again despite your body's protests.
"Oh god, oh my god—Steve please." You're sobbing now, tears streaming as sensation builds too fast, too intense.
But your body betrays you. The combination of his fingers and his cock and being trapped beneath him with nowhere to go builds faster than should be possible when you're this wrung out. Your pussy flutters around him, clenching weakly, and Steve groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it, come on, give it to me."
And you do. Your third orgasm rips through you with less intensity than the others but somehow more devastating because you're so oversensitive every nerve ending feels raw. You clench around him with a broken sob, thighs shaking violently where they're pressed to your chest.
But this time when you come down, gasping and trembling, Steve doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. If anything he gets more frantic, more desperate, like your orgasm just made the need worse instead of better.
His rhythm gets more erratic, more brutal, like he's chasing something just out of reach and it's driving him insane.
"Not deep enough," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's genuine frustration in his voice. "Still not—fuck—need more, need—"
Without warning he pulls out completely, ignoring your confused whimper, and his hands are on you - gripping, lifting. You barely process what's happening before you're airborne, completely off the bed, and Steve is standing with you in his arms like you weigh nothing.
"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, voice rough, and you obey on complete instinct, the words not even processing in your brain. The moment you do he's lining himself up and pulling back you down onto his cock with brutal force.
The angle is devastating. Gravity works against you, impaling you on his full length, and the depth has you choking on a scream. You can feel him everywhere, so deep and stretching you in ways that shouldn't be possible.
"There—fuck yes, there." Steve's head falls back on a guttural moan as he starts using you, biceps bulging as he fucks you on his cock like you're a toy made for his pleasure. Lifting you up and pulling you back down with ease that should be terrifying but instead has you clenching around him.
You're completely helpless, just a ragdoll as he manhandles you exactly how he needs. Your hands scrabble desperately at his shoulders for any kind of stability. Every time he pulls you down gravity does half the work, driving him impossibly deeper, and all you can do is take it. You can't form words anymore, just needy little sounds as he uses your body.
Your brain is completely gone, drunk on the feeling of him, on being so full, on the obscene wet sounds of his cum leaking out with every brutal thrust and dripping down both of you to splatter on the floor.
"Look at you," Steve rasps, eyes wild as they lock onto where you're joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. "Fucking look at you taking my cock. So small I can just—" He emphasizes with a particularly brutal drop that has you wailing. "Use you however I want."
Your thighs are shaking violently, muscles screaming, but it doesn't matter because Steve's holding you up effortlessly. Using his strength to fuck you on him at whatever pace he wants, and right now he wants it hard and fast and deep.
"Shh, I know, I know," he coos even as he doesn't slow down at all. "But you're doing so good f'me. My perfect girl, letting me use this tight little cunt. Can feel myself in your stomach, can you feel it? Feel how deep I am?"
You can only whine in response, completely overwhelmed, pleasure bordering on too much but your body keeps responding, keeps clenching around him like it can't help itself.
The last of your strength gives out entirely. Your head lolls against his shoulder, too heavy to hold up anymore, and you're just gone. Completely boneless in his grip, every muscle turned to liquid, unable to do anything except let him use you exactly how he needs. Arms hanging limply around his neck, your legs barely maintain their grip around his waist; if it weren't for Steve's hands on you, you'd slide right off him.
"Can't—can't—Stevie I can't." The words slur together, muffled against the sweat-slick skin of his neck, your brain too fried to form anything coherent.
"I know, baby, I know, almost there." Steve assures, his rhythm getting choppier as he gets closer. "Just a little more, need—fuck—need to fill you up one more time."
His muscles flex and strain as he bounces you faster, using you like you're weightless, like you're nothing but a warm sleeve for his cock. The wet sounds are obscene - cum and slick squelching with every brutal thrust.
You're not even moaning anymore, just making these small broken sounds with every impact, completely and utterly spent. But your body still responds, still clenches weakly around him when he hits that spot deep inside.
"That's it, that's—fuck—" Steve's breath hitches and his grip on you turns almost painful. "Gonna—fuck, I'm gonna—"
His hips slam up one final time, burying himself as deep as gravity and anatomy allow, and then he's coming with a snarl, sinking his teeth into your shoulder. His cock pulses violently inside you and somehow - somehow - there's still more.
Hot thick ropes of cum flooding into your already overfull pussy, and you can actually feel this time, the way it has nowhere left to go, just gushing back out around his length to run down your thighs, down his, pooling on the floor. It's insane. He's already filled you once and yet he's still pumping more into you, his body shuddering with the force of it, and you can only mewl meakly against his throat as he empties himself completely.
His hips slow gradually, the frantic rhythm finally easing as his cock gives one last weak pulse inside you. Steve's breathing is ragged against your hair, chest heaving, but something shifts - you can feel it in the way his grip on you gentles, the way the manic edge bleeds out of his muscles.
The burning under his skin that's been driving him insane for hours finally starts to fade. His temperature drops, the desperate clawing need loosening its grip on his chest, and for the first time since he walked through that door he can actually think.
His cock softens inside you, and the relief that floods through him is so intense it's almost dizzying.
"Shit," he breathes, and his voice sounds like his own again. Clearer. "Oh god, sweetheart, I—"
You make a weak, mewling sound against his neck and Steve's heart clenches with immediate guilt. You're completely limp in his arms, trembling, and guilt crashes through him so hard it nearly takes him to his knees.
"Hey, hey, I've got you," he murmurs, voice going soft and gentle as he carefully lowers himself to sit on the edge of the bed with you still in his lap. His hands, which had been bruising just minutes ago, turn tender as they stroke up and down your back. "You're okay. I've got you now, baby."
He's still buried inside you and he knows pulling out is going to be uncomfortable, so he takes his time. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your sweat-damp hair, while the other supports your back.
"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He waits for some sign you've heard him - a tiny nod against his shoulder - before carefully lifting you just enough to slip free. You mewl at the loss, at the feeling of his cum immediately starting to leak out of you, and Steve makes a soothing sound. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, baby. Just let me take care of you now."
He shifts you in his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're something precious, and presses a kiss to your temple. His heart is still racing but it's slowing now, the frantic edge gone, replaced with bone-deep exhaustion and worry.
"You still with me?" he asks softly, pulling back just enough to look at your face.
With gentle fingers, Steve brushes the strands of hair plastered to your sweat-damp forehead, tucking them behind your ear with a tenderness that's almost painful after the brutality of moments before. Your head lolls without the support, too heavy for your exhausted muscles, so his hand slides down to cup your chin, thumb stroking your jaw as he carefully tilts your face up to meet his gaze.
"Look at me, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. "Need to see those pretty eyes."
Your lashes flutter, and when you finally manage to focus on him, Steve's chest constricts painfully. Your eyes are glassy, still wet with tears that cling to your lashes, pupils blown wide and unfocused in a way that speaks to exactly how far gone you are. The cloudiness there, the fucked-out haze, it's beautiful and devastating all at once.
Another wave of guilt crashes through him so hard he has to close his eyes briefly against it.
Keeping one hand cupped under your jaw to support your head, he reaches blindly for the nightstand with the other, fingers finding the water bottle you'd brought for him earlier - back when you'd been worried about him, before he'd lost complete control. The thoughtfulness of that gesture, the care you'd shown him, makes his throat tight.
"Gonna get you some water, okay?" He uncaps the bottle one handed, bringing it carefully to your lips. "Small sips, sweetheart. Just a little."
You make a small sound of protest, like even that is too much effort, but he persists gently.
"I know you're tired. But you need it, pretty girl." He tips the bottle carefully, supporting your head with his other hand, and relief floods through him when you part your lips and take a small sip.
The cool water touches your lips and you drink instinctively, slow and uncoordinated, and Steve watches with laser focus to make sure you don't choke. Some of it spills down your chin and he wipes it away with his thumb, murmuring praise the entire time.
"That's it. Good girl. Just a little more."
He coaxes a few more sips into you, before setting the bottle aside. And then his hands start hovering over you like he's not quite sure where to touch, if he should touch. The contrast between how he'd been manhandling you minutes ago and this careful hesitation would be almost funny if the guilt wasn't eating him alive.
"What do you need?" he asks quietly, and there's an edge of desperation to it. "I can—do you want food? A bath? I should probably get you cleaned up." His thumb strokes almost absently along your jaw, the only point of contact he seems to allow himself. "Just tell me what you need, sweetheart. Anything. I'll give you anything."
There's an edge of desperation in the offer, like he's trying to make up for everything, trying to fix what he broke.
With what little strength you have left, you burrow closer into his chest, nose finding the warm curve of his neck, and the small movement seems to surprise him. Your breath ghosts over his skin as you mumble, words slurred with exhaustion but unmistakable.
"Jus' want you," you mumble against his throat, words slurring together. "Don' go."
Steve goes very still. Then something in him seems to unlock, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders, the frantic worry in his eyes softening into something almost reverent. His arms finally wrap around you properly. Securely. Like he's allowed to hold you now.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Okay, baby, I've got you."
Carefully, like you're something infinitely precious, he shifts you both down onto the bed. He rolls onto his side and gathers you against him, pulling you flush to his chest with one arm wrapped securely around your waist and the other sliding up to cradle your head. You immediately melt into him with a soft, appreciative sound that's almost a purr, and Steve feels some of the horrible tension finally start to ease.
"That's it," Steve whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I've got you, pretty girl. Not going anywhere."
His hand trails down from your hair to stroke along your thigh with soothing, repetitive motions. Soft and steady, like he's trying to ground you both. Another kiss to your forehead, then your closed eyelids, his lips lingering there as you start to drift.
"Sleep, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll be right here when you wake up. Promise."
You make another small sound, already halfway gone, and Steve tightens his arms around you. As your breathing evens out and your body goes completely slack against him, Steve presses his face into your hair and tries not to think too hard about what happens when you wake up. Tries not to wonder if you'll regret this, regret him.
He should probably be planning how to explain what happened. How to apologize for losing control. How to convince you this wasn't just whatever got into his system, that he's wanted you for months, that this meant something.
But exhaustion is pulling at him too, and you're so warm in his arms, and he's too tired to fight the way his body wants to curl around yours like he can keep the world out if he just holds on tight enough.
He'll figure it out in the morning.
For now, he just holds you closer and lets himself have this - your warmth, your weight, your trust - even if it's the only time he gets it.
more mads: thank you so much for reading this absolute filth fest (like… 7k of it is smut. i’m unwell.). i hope you loved it!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make me grin like an idiot. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 p.s. i hope someone got the panic! at the disco reference in the title 🙂↕️
taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @/love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll - if you’d like to be added to my taglist, please leave comment here!
Warnings: mentions of a surrogate, fertility treatment/in vitro fertilization, a hint of gray Stucky, bisexual Steve/Bucky, smut in future chapters, breeding kink, pregnancy
Warnings: angst, fluff, she falls first, he falls harder (also im not the best writer)
Jake gets dared to ask out the least pretty, most basic looking, and most lonely-looking girl in The Hard Deck. That's you. A shy, insecure, mid-sized woman who hates attention. The kicker? Date you for six months. Will Jake regret the bet and fall? Or will he push through for that cash money?
Description: Will's best friend is in trouble and Jay steps in to be the hero.
Warnings: Domestic violence, abuse, mentions of blood, mentions of gun violence. DO NOT READ IF TRIGGERED BY DV
Pairings: Platonic Will Halstead x Reader, Jay Halstead x Reader
I AM IN NO WAY trying to romanticize domestic violence or abuse. If you are experiencing it PLEASE seek help. DV Hotline 1800-799-7233
The first time it happened, it was a grip on her wrist that was a little too hard. He said he didn't mean it, he was sorry.
"I love you so much, I just get a little upset"
Brandon knew how to sweet talk her.
Y/n and Brandon met when he had just started the academy and Y/n was starting school to be a radiologist. It was love at first sight. They were meant to be. Everyone that knew them said that.
They were the perfect couple and everyone loved them together.
The second time was a hard shove that sent Y/n falling into the coffee table.
The bruises and sore muscles the next day from the fall were hard to ignore but Brandon knew how to make her forget.
Flowers, cards, a romantic dinner. Multiple apologies.
The third time was Brandon screaming in her face, making her scared enough to fall down and then the kicking started.
The pain Y/n felt the next morning as she walked into work was enough to detour her day.
She looked around the ED, she knew she could go to Will. Her closest friend. But he would see right through her so she went for the next best option.
"Hey Hannah, got a sec?" Y/n asked, approaching the blonde doctor.
Y/N and Hannah were friendly, they had drinks at Molly's together--back when Y/n would show up. They aren't too close for Hannah to ask questions.
Hannah smiles, leaning against the nurses station "Yeah what's up? Everything okay?" she asks curiously.
Y/n shrugs, adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder "I was kinda clumsy and drunk last night, took a tumble I might have a cracked rib or two" She says it lightheartedly to make it more believable.
The blonde chuckles, nodding "Come on, let's take a look"
--
Will Halstead was observant. Y/n had stopped coming out to Molly's about 6 months ago. Always said she was too tired.
Then Y/n started slowly not answering his texts. Only talking to him at work.
He wasn't sure what he did to cause the distance.
The two had been inseparable since Y/n started. Will always saw her as a little sister and cared for her like one. Always checking in on her, making sure she was eating and drinking properly and Y/n did the same for him especially on those long shifts.
Y/n was the one (outside of Jay) that Will went to about everything s and when he needed to rant and usually it was always vice versa.
Until lately.
Will watched Y/n walk over to the nurses station, handing over a report to another doctor.
That's when he noticed her face, the slight bruising and cuts on her cheek raising red flags.
"Hey, what the hell happened to your face?" The red head questions, the concern written all over his face.
"Gee, Will, way to make a girl feel good about herself" Y/n says sarcastically.
Will shakes his head, looking at her in disbelief "Y/n. Seriously, what happened?"
Y/n rolls her eyes at him "I took a little tumble. Will, seriously, I'm fine" She says, a little laugh coming out.
"Dr. Halstead! Incoming!" Maggie calls from the entrance of the ED.
Will groans pointing at Y/n "This isn't over" He says seriously before grabbing gloves and running off.
Y/n lets out a sigh of relief. Thank you Maggie!
---
Relief. Joy. Warmth.
Those three words used to describe how Y/n felt when she walked into the apartment shared with her boyfriend of 6 years.
Dread. Sadness. Guilt.
Those three describe the feeling she got when she entered the apartment now.
She can feel the hostility as she hears him stomping around.
Brandon emerged from the bedroom, duffel bag in hand. Badge and gun on his hip.
"Finally home huh? What took you so long? Hanging out with your work boyfriend?" Brandon questions, his tone is hard to place but the feeling in her gut makes Y/n feel uneasy.
"I told you he's just a frie-"
Brandon cuts her off, his hand around her throat, slamming the girl back into the wall.
"He's just a friend my ass. Think you can step out on me? Do you forget who I am?" His other hand is on his gun as he stares at her with rage.
"I think you know better than to lie to me" The dark chuckle is followed by a hard punch, right to her left cheek.
Brandon lets her go, stepping back and walking to the front door, picking up his duffel bag and his keys.
"I'll be undercover for a few days--You better have this place spotless when I get back."
--
It took three hours for Y/n to gather her strength, to move from her spot on the floor where Brandon had left her.
She was cried out, her throat was sore, her eye was already swelling up and she could feel blood running down her cheek.
As if she snapped out of her dazed state, Y/n stood up, still shaky. Going to the bedroom she shared with him.
Quickly grabbing the duffel bag out from under the bed she hastily starts throwing clothes into the bag.
Not all of them, just enough to not have to come back for a few days.
She knew she should probably call before just showing up but there was no way she was up for explaining things over the phone.
Glancing back at the apartment one last time she shut the door behind her, making her way downstairs.
---
Y/n stood outside of the familiar apartment. Hesitating.
She could just walk away. She could not tell anyone. That seems easier.
But the feeling in her gut. Her mind flashing back to Brandon's hand on his gun while he choked her.
She couldn't go back.
Hesitantly, she brings up a shaky hand, making a loose fist and knocking on the door.
It takes a second before she hears shuffling. Then the lock unlocking.
The pit in her stomach grows.
"Hey! What are you doing he--Holy shit" Will is stopped dead in his tracks when he sees the swollen eye, the blood on her cheek and the bruises on her neck in the shape of fingers.
"C-can I stay here--just for the night" Y/n stutters out lowly.
"Are you kidding me? You don't even have to ask" Will is quick to take her bag from her, ushering her inside the apartment.
"What happened? Who did this to you? Was it Brandon?" Will questions as he rushes to the kitchen for an ice pack.
"Yeah" It's more of a whisper as Y/n looks down at her shoes.
"Let's get some ice on your eye--Here, sit, sit" Will guides her to the couch, sitting next to her and handing her the ice pack.
"Have you talked to anyone? Did you call the police or-"
"I can't, I can't call the police, Will, he's a detective. I can't..." Y/n trails off, her words are panicked.
Will shakes his head leaning forward "Listen to me. You have to report this--h-how long has this been going on?" he asks frantically.
Y/n hesitates, glancing at Will with her uncovered eye. Debating if she should tell him the truth.
Will is speechless for a moment. His brain racking through everything he's seen the past six months. How withdrawn she's been, the small winces when he startled her. Why didn't he question it?
"Listen, my brother, he's a detective with Intelligence. You can trust Jay, his whole unit. I promise. Please let me call him, just him" Will tries to convince her.
Y/n sighs, nodding slowly "Only him. I'll talk to your brother"
--
It was nearing 10 pm when a knock at the door makes Y/n Jump.
Will squeezes her shoulder, giving her sad smile "It's just Jay, I'm going to let him in okay?"
It might seem silly to ask if it's okay to let someone into your own home.
But Will was going to make sure she was comfortable with it first. He could see the fear in her eyes and her hands still had a slight tremble to them.
Y/n gives a slight nod, she feels like a bundle of nerves as Will stands up and approaches the door.
What if Jay knew Brandon? What if they were friends and he told Brandon?
It's Will's brother. You can trust him. She had to tell herself that as she heard footsteps coming to the living room.
"Y/n, this is Jay" Will says softly, entering the living room with a brunette man who Y/n would definitely say is attractive under any other circumstance.
"Hi" Jay says softly "I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances, I've heard a lot about you"
Y/n glances at him and then back to Will, feeling uneasy.
"From me" Will reassures her, he can sense that question rolling around in her head.
Y/n nods.
Jay's a little confused why he would hear about her from anyone else but he left it.
Jay pulls a chair from the dining table, setting it across from Y/n and sitting down while Will takes a seat next to her again.
"So Will didn't say much on the phone. Your boyfriend did this?" Jay asks, his voice soft, taking out his notepad and pen.
Y/n lets out a puff of air "Yeah-yes-um he did"
Jay nods "What is his name?" he asks, writing something down in his notepad.
"Brandon Wiley, he's a detective in narcotics in the 23rd district" Y/n glances at Jay nervously, noticing how he stops writing for a second and then continues.
"Can you walk me through what happened tonight?" Jay's stomach is turning, the thought of a cop doing this to an innocent woman.
It's definitely hitting hard for him.
"I-i came home from work around 6, he was in our bedroom packing a bag to go undercover. I didn't even set my things down, He started asking why I was home late, accusing me of being with my work boyfriend--It's what he calls Will"
Y/n pasues, rubbing her hands together nervously, reaching up to run her fingers over the brusies on her neck lightly.
It feels like she has a thousand eyes on her, like the two men are judging her but she knows Will would never. and Will wouldn't call Jay if he didn't trust him.
"He wrapped a hand around my throat, slammed me into the wall. He was screaming in my face saying not to cheat on him and to remember who he was a-and his hand was on his gun...and then he gave me this" Y/n gestures to her face, glancing between the Halstead brothers.
Will places a comforting hand on her knee. It's not romantic, just a friend comforting a friend. To let her know he's there.
Jay writes in his notepad, he can feel the weight of situation on his shoulders.
Something like this never sat right with him. A police officer who swore an oath to protect but instead he's inflicting the pain on someone innocent.
"Did he leave after that?" Jay asks, his voice is softer than normal, sensing how nervous the young woman is.
Y/n nods, "Yeah, it took me a while to get myself together after that I just kind of sat on the floor in shock. Once I snapped out of it I packed some of my things and came here" she sends a weary smile to Will.
Jay leans forward, closing his notepad and cautiously reaches out a hand, placing it on top of Y/n's shaky one that sits on her knee, catching her attention.
"I'm not sure what Will has told you but I work with intelligence. Just because this guy is a cop does not give him the right to hurt you and it certainly does not mean he will get away with this."
There's sincerity in Jay's voice, something in his eyes and his certainty that puts Y/n more at ease.
"Thank you" Y/n says softly--there's more to it, thank you for believing me. For listening.
She was terrified to go to any law enforcement about the abuse from a decorated detective but Jay made her feel silly for feeling that way. Not in a bad way but in a way that maybe if she had just talked to Will sooner, she could have gotten help sooner.
Jay gives her a sad smile, squeezing her hand.
"If it's okay with you, I need to take some pictures of your injuries and then the next step would be to come in to the district tomorrow morning so you can at least talk to my boss" Jay explains, taking his phone out.
Y/n looks at Will nervously and then back to Jay.
"You'll be there right?" She asks, feeling stupid and like a little kid. She knows Will can't come, he's working early in the morning.
Jay nods, a small smile on his face "I'll be with you the whole time".
--
The next morning Y/n woke up a little disoriented, her face and neck sore. The memories from the night before a blur.
She checked her phone, a few texts from some of her coworkers asking if she was okay after they heard she's taking a few days off.
Glancing at the bedside table, she noticed a bottle of Tylenol, a glass of water and a note.
"Take some Tylenol and drink water! Call me if you need anything, Jay should be picking you up around 9. - Will"
Y/n rolled her eyes at Will's overbearing nature but also smiled to herself. She was happy, not waking up wondering if he would be there.
She notices the time reads 8:45am.
"Shit" she mumbles, quickly getting out of the bed and making her way to the bathroom to get ready.
The first glance in the mirror was a shock, seeing her injuries for the first time since it happened. Her cheek and eye were a dark purple and blue. The fingerprints on her neck matching.
There was no way she could go to work like this. And mentally she thanked Will for calling her boss and letting them know she wouldn't be in the next few days due to a personal emergency.
She quickly and carefully washed her face, brushed her teeth and completed her morning routine-as best as she could-before getting dressed in whatever clothes she had grabbed from the apartment.
Thankfully she had grabbed an oversized hoodie that would cover her neck slightly in the way it sat on her frame. Slipping into a pair of jeans and a random pair of socks she felt a little more normal. The injuries forgotten for the moment.
A knock at the front door startled her for a second before she relaxed, realizing it must be Jay.
She quickly made her way to the front door, peaking through the peephole and then unlocking the door.
"HI, I'm ready I just need to get my phone and keys" Y/n said it quickly, a little too quickly, stepping to the side to let Jay in.
She was used to being rushed and then being screamed at when she wasn't quick enough.
Almost as quick as she said it she ran back to the guest room.
Jay frowned, watching her retreat quickly to grab the last of her things.
This guy really did a number on her.
That thought made his blood boil. From everything Will had told him about Y/n over the years, she was probably the sweetest and kindest person Will had ever met.
You have to be really messed up to hurt someone like that.
"Sorry that took so long" Y/n says as soon as she's back at the entryway, as if practiced.
"Hey" Jay says it softly, ducking down slightly to meet her eyes "You don't have to rush, you don't have to apologize. You're safe and he can't hurt you. Not with me around"
It took her a second to respond, not used to being talked to in such a kind way. But then something clicked in her brain. This is Jay. Will's brother. He's safe.
"I know, i'm sorry--shit--sorry it's out of habit" She finally meets his eyes, feeling secure.
Jay chuckles, shaking his head "Come on, you eat yet?" He asks, guiding her out of the apartment and locking the door behind him with the spare key Will gave him.
"Not yet"
"Breakfast first then, there's a diner down the street that has good food and decent coffee"
--
Y/n had been nervous when Jay suggested the diner, for one she looked horrible. and two, what if one of Brandon's cop buddies saw therm?
But then she realized she was with Jay and he wouldn't let anything happen to her.
So she let herself enjoy it and their time at the diner was full of Jay telling embarrassing stories about Will and laughter.
The ride to the district was easy, light, getting to know each other a little.
As Jay pulled his truck into the parking lot at the district he sensed her nerves.
He noticed her fidgeting with the seam on her hoodie, the way her leg bounced.
"Relax, breathe, you are safe. We're going through the back entrance, no one will see you but my unit. I'll be with you the whole time" Jay reassures her, flashing a smile at her.
Y/n nods, returning the smile, hers smaller but sincere. Her leg stills and she lets out a deep breath, smoothing her sweatshirt.
"Okay, yeah you're right, I'm being silly."
Jay shakes his head, reaching over and squeezing her hand.
"You are not being silly, you have every right to be nervous. You focus on yourself and I'll take care of the rest. Just breathe"
She takes a deep breath in through her nose, letting it out.
Jay takes the opportunity to get out of the driver side, making his way to her door and opening it for her.
"What a gentleman" Y/n says jokingly. But if she's honest, she's not used to a guy opening the door for her. Brandon would never do something that simple over the years they were together.
Jay chuckles as he shuts the door behind her, guiding her to the basement door.
Y/n notices the cage as soon as they enter the basement, glancing at Jay "I don't even want to know what that's for" she jokes, pointing at it.
"Don't worry you'll never be in it, I know someone that will be though" the last part is under his breath but Y/n hears it and she would be lying if she said that doesn't make her feel a little good.
Once upstairs, Y/n can feel all eyes on her as the four detectives at their desks watch them curiously.
None of them knew what was going on. The only one Jay looped in was Voight, explaining the situation late last night after he left his brother's apartment.
Voight was quick to tell Jay to bring her in. He had the same hatred for men like Brandon.
Jay knocks on the door to Voight's office, Y/n tries to relax but it's hard with all eyes on her. Jay senses it, sending her a small smile.
Which works, her heart rate relaxing slowly.
"Come in" a rough voice comes from the other side of the door.
Jay opens the door, letting Y/n in first before stepping in, shutting the door.
"Y/n this is my Sargent Hank Voight" Jay introduces, the older man standing from his desk.
"It's nice to meet you Y/n, Jay's explained the situation already. We're keeping this in house, meaning the only people that will be involved will be Jay, Myself, and the detectives sitting out there" Voight speaks softly, softer than normal trying to make her feel a little less nervous.
Y/n nods, giving Voight a small smile "Thank you, Sargent. I never thought anyone would believe me, I know it's tough with Brandon being a detec-"
The older man cuts her off, shaking his head "It doesn't matter who he is, he has no right to lay a hand on you. We're going to make sure he goes down for this" Hank reassures her, this time placing a hand on her arm softly.
"Would you be comfortable talking to the others to go over everything?" Jay asks softly from her right "No pressure"
Y/n contemplates it for a second before nodding "Yeah, as long as you're there"
That seems to be her answer for everything but as long as Jay is with her she feels safe.
"Okay, we'll talk in the conference room" Jay says, knowing it's a private area.
"You can take her to the conference room, I'll gather the team" Voight offers and Jay nods, opening the office door and guiding Y/n out.
The rest of the team watch them walk down the hall, curiosity eating away at them.
--
Meeting the rest of the intelligence went well, it was mostly Y/n recounting every thing that happened the past six months, which was when it really started to get bad with Brandon. When it got physical.
It started with little comments that were meant to bring her down, lower her self esteem. Then it built up to the physical stuff.
The rest of the unit either looked sorry for her or angry as she recounted everything, Jay by her side as she did so. Trying to give her some comfort.
The team all noticed that. The way she would tense up, Jay would place a hand on hers and she would relax.
You would think they knew each other for years.
The team had made a plan, Brandon was undercover currently and was supposed to be finished in two days. Voight was impatient, once they had things ready they were planning to pick him up. The photos of her injuries were evidence and they even found a girlfriend from the past, before Brandon got with Y/n.
It was in high school, he broke her jaw and cracked three of her ribs. It had been expunged form his record since he was technically a minor.
"That poor girl" Y/n said softly, feeling sadness as she sat in the chair next to Jay's desk, glancing at the girl that Haley and Adam were talking to in the small break room.
Jay only glanced at her, it was amazing how she felt so bad for the other girl, not even caring about her own injuries.
Brandon could have easily killed her that night and from what Jay had heard he almost did. Or at least probably thought about it.
Finishing up their interview, Haley guided the woman back down the stairs, the woman sending Y/n a sympathetic look.
"How are you doing?" Adam asks softly as he approaches Jay's desk and glancing at Y/n.
She shrugs "I don't know, I just feel bad for her going through that" she says quietly.
Adam smiles at her sadly before sitting at his desk.
Jay stands from his desk, picking up his keys and phone "Come on, I'll take you back to Will's. You should be resting" He doesn't say it as a question but not as an order either.
Y/n stands up, looking at Jay "I'm not broken" she says, hands on her hips.
Jay gives her a 'really' look "Will told me you were stubborn. There's nothing to do right now except let us work and arrest him. So, I am taking you home to rest and put some ice on your eye, okay?" He says it nicely, not in a mean way but in a concerned way.
Damn you Will Halstead
"William needs to mind his business" Y/n says under her breath as Jay guides through the hallway and downstairs to the basement.
"Couldn't agree more" Jay jokes, a smirk on his face and Y/n laughs quietly.
Once they get to the truck, Jay opens he passenger side door for her. Waiting for her to climb in the truck before shutting the door and starting the truck.
As Jay pulls out of the parking lot, Y/n has a thought swirling around in her mind.
"Jay" her voice has a different tone. scared. It makes Jay look over at her quickly.
"What if he finds me" it's quiet, whispered as if she says it too loud Brandon will just pop up.
"Then I'll be there. Hand me your phone" Jay's voice is calm, unwavering as he puts his hand out.
Y/n furrows her eyebrows, taking her phone out of her pants pocket and unlocking it, putting it in Jay's hand.
Keeping his eyes on the road, he taps the screen a few times, typing something in and then handing it back to her.
"You speed dial 1 and it will call me. Anything happens you call and I'll be there" It's a promise. A promise to show up. That's more than anyone has ever given her.
--
Y/n is sat on the couch in Will's living room, watching a movie and icing her eye.
Jay made sure she had everything she needed before leaving.
"Lock the door and lock the deadbolt after me" Jay had said and Y/n sent him a fake salute before he left the apartment, an amused look on his face.
It was only one more hour until Will was off shift and then maybe her uneasiness of being here alone with him out there would be gone.
That's when there's a loud knock on the apartment door.
Y/n's eyebrows furrow. Who could that be?
Then there's banging "Y/n, I know you're here"
Her blood ran cold.
No way.
This is not happening.
What a damn coincidence.
He wasn't supposed to be out of his assignment for two days.
Two more loud thumps.
"Come on, honey open the door" Brandon tries to sound nice, but Y/n knows better.
Her breathing is quickened as the door knob jiggles.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Grabbing her phone and moving as quietly as possible she goes the guest room, shutting and locking the door and then going to the bathroom and shutting and locking that door.
She can hear him banging on the door more and yelling.
Okay maybe it's time to call for help.
Unlocking her phone with shaky hands, she opens the call app, pressing the 1.
She can hear the ringing and Jay answers on the second ring.
"He's here" That's all she can get out.
That's all she needs to say before Jay is moving from his desk. Placing his gun in the holster on his hip and grabbing his keys.
"Where are you right now?" he asks, staying calm.
He covers the phone, speaking to the team "We gotta go, he found her"
They're all on their feet in a matter of seconds and making their way downstairs--Kim telling Voight.
"I-in the bathroom" Y/n responds before there's a loud noise heard through the phone "Shit, I think he just broke the door"
Jay's got his truck started in a matter of seconds, Haley in the passenger seat as he speeds out of the parking lot, the phone on speaker now.
"Y/n don't hang up, just stay where you are. I'm on my way, we're coming." Jay tries to reassure her but he can barely stay clam himself as he hears more loud banging and yelling on the other end.
"Come on! I just want to talk! I don't know why you do this to me" Brandon's voice is muffled but Jay hear it and he exchanges worried glances with Haley.
Another loud bang.
"There you are, I know you talked to the cops you bitch"
On the other end, Brandon grabs her by her hair, landing a punch to her left abdomen.
Y/n groans doubling over as he pulls her up.
"They'll never believe you, a detectives words against you? It will never work." He has a sickeningly evil smirk on his face as he throws her to the ground.
Brandon draws his gun, aiming it at Y/n's curled up body on the bathroom floor.
"Chicago PD!" Y/n hears Haley yell and the relief washes over her.
"Put it down, Brandon!" Jay yells, gun pointed at the man.
"I'm on the job guys" He says as if that makes everything okay.
Voight steps up, coming behind him and pressing his gun to the back of Brandon's head.
"Put it down" His voice is gruff and Y/n can see the look in his eye, Brandon finally realizing they are not on his side.
He drops the gun, Hank grabbing him and slamming him against the wall as Haley kicks the gun away.
Jay moves on instinct not even giving it a second thought, grabbing Brandon by the collar and shoving him against the wall again.
"Guess what, I believe her" Jay's voice is darker than usual as he forcefully turns Brandon, shoving his face into the wall as he handcuffs him, making sure the cuffs are extra tight.
Adam takes Brandon from Jay "You realize what's going to happen to you? Sure they hate cops where you're going but you know what they hate more? Guys who beat women" it's not a threat or a suggestion. It's a promise.
Once Brandon's out of his sight, Jay relaxes, finding Y/n sat against the tub, Kim checking on her while Haley goes to direct the paramedics.
Jay kneels down next to her "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner" he says it as if he's the only one responsible. As if they didn't save her.
"You showed up. That's all I needed" this time Y/n squeezes his hand comfortingly.
The paramedics finally enter the bathroom, taking Y/n's vitals and listening to her breathing. Of course she refuses to go to the hospital. Knowing they wouldn't be able to do much for her cracked ribs anyway.
The team has cleared out mostly, lingering in the rest of the apartment, Kevin and Kim speaking to the neighbors and getting statements.
Will comes running into the apartment, seeing the front door broken like it was kicked in.
He sees the team and he's terrified.
"Guys? Is Y/n-"
Adam stops him "She's okay, Brandon showed up, she's got a couple cracked ribs. Jay's with her and the paramedics are checking her out" he explains, pointing to the guest room.
Will lets out a sigh of relief "Thanks" he says before making his way to the guest room.
He finds Y/n now sat on the bed, Jay sat next to her and the paramedics packing up.
"Will, i am so sorry about the doors I will absolutely pay for them to get fixed" Y/n says immediately seeing her ginger best friend.
Will looks at her with wide eyes, his mouth opens and shuts before he finds his words "You think that's what I'm worried about?!" he questions in disbelief.
"Yes?" She says as a question and Jay does his best to stifle his laughter.
"Y/n I could care less about the doors" the red head sighs, looking at his brother "Thank you for being here"
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else" Jay says, looking at Y/n with a small smile.
Will knows that look in his brother's eyes but he doesn't say anything.
"I'm getting my kit to check you out."
"Will, the paramedics literally cleared me"
"And I literally don't care, stop being stubborn" Will says sassily, leaving the room.
Y/n groans, but instantly regrets it, her hand going to her side as she coughs.
"Alright, easy there, sassy" Jay says, an amused tone in his voice as he places a hand on her back comfortingly.
Will returns to the room with his med kit, glancing between his brother and friend knowingly.
in search of a steve rogers x reader fanfic i read on wattpad in 2021 and praying someone remembers this 🙏
so basically steve and reader hate each other but they’re put on a mission where they have to be a fake couple and live in a house together. and whatever enemy they’re fighting put cameras everywhere in the house (except bathrooms) so they basically are roleplaying as husband and wife 24/7. like they have to be all touchy and like do it so the enemies never get onto them. but then eventually they start falling for each other for real and steve initiates it in the bathroom so they’re doing it cuz they like each other not just for show and basically i’m not gonna describe the spice but they do it against the mirror. and I DONT remember how it ended but it lowkey kind of turned all wandavision in the end. it was maybe like 30ish chapters i think.
but i think that maybe it got deleted cuz i swore I bookmarked it and now its not there anymore. if anyone read this pls lmk.
Summary: Your dad - your father - is in deep shit. He owes a lot of money to a lot of important people. And you're his security deposit.
Word Count: 8.7K
CW: I mean Steve is a Mafia boss and your dad is a deadbeat, but apart from that, it's basically just a whole fluffy mess.
AN: Dearest gentle reader, it has been a long ass while. Like genuinely. Happy to be back. It's probably shit but I'm rusty as all hell so apologies in advance.
Dad didn’t even look up as he said it.
“I found a solution.”
He was hunched over the kitchen table, poring over the stack of documents in front of him. ‘OVERDUE’, ‘FORECLOSURE’, ‘FINAL NOTICE’ all stamped in bright red letters. Ash from the cigarette in his mouth fell onto his suit, the one you just got dry-cleaned, as she turned his head towards you.
You looked at him, confused, placing your bag on the table gently as you waited for the inevitable elaboration.
“To the little money problem we’ve been having.” We? “I’ve made a deal. He said he’d write off the debts, if I gave him something valuable in return.”
You had nothing of value, you thought to yourself. Even if you sold everything in your name, it wouldn’t cover the amount your father owed. Not even half of it.
“You’ll marry him.”
The words struck you like a slap to the face. Bile rose in your throat and for a split second, you thought – you hoped – you misheard him. Your throat tightens, but you force your voice to work, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Mr Rogers needs a wife. And if you make a good wife – which you will, won’t you, sweetie – then he promised to write off the debts.” The barely veiled threat makes your skin crawl.
You slip away as your father turns away and back to the ledger in front of him, as if he hadn’t dropped a bombshell on your life. As your bedroom door clicks shut, you take a shuddering breath. What the-
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
Mr Rogers – or Steve – didn’t. Small things popped up around the house while you were asleep: new flowers, a fully stocked fridge, new sneakers to replace the ones you had worn thin.
The second real change came a week later though, in the form of a shadow in the form of white-chocolate-peppermint-mocha-boy.
The first few days spiked your paranoia. You tried to change your routine - took different buses, lingered in shops, pretended to forget things so you had to double back. But every time you looked up, he was there. Always at a polite distance. Always with that same neutral expression. As if he’d been told to watch you, not interact with you. Like a ghost with a mocha addiction.
When you finally confronted him, it wasn’t even dramatic. You just stopped in the middle of the street, turned around, and he nearly ran into you.
“Are you following me?” you demanded.
He blinked. “Yes.”
He didn’t even try to lie. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t pretend you were imagining things. Just dropped the word like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Why?”
He shrugged - shrugged - and pulled a card from his jacket. Thick. Expensive. Embossed gold lettering. You didn’t need to read the name to know who it belonged to.
“Orders,” he said simply. “For your safety.”
There it was. Those three words that somehow meant the opposite of what they were supposed to.
For your safety meant you belonged to him now, even before there was any paperwork to say so.
For your safety meant your life was no longer yours to control.
For your safety meant you were a commodity that he intended to protect, polish, and claim.
Instead of exploding like you wanted to, you tamped down your rage and sat the poor teenager down after your café shift. He’d been hovering outside like an anxious puppy, pretending not to exist and failing miserably. Up close, the intimidation evaporated. He looked nineteen at best, cheeks still soft, jaw still deciding if it wanted to commit to adulthood, and a nervous habit of tugging on his sleeves.
His name was Peter.
You slid a glass of water toward him, because if this was going to be an interrogation, you could at least be civilized.
“So,” you said. “Explain.”
He swallowed. “Ma–”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Just talk.”
He nodded like he’d rehearsed taking orders his whole life. “I’m assigned to you. Protection detail. Until further notice.”
You stared at him. Then you let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“I don’t need protection,” you said sharply. “Especially not from a kid who can’t even grow a full face of facial hair.”
His face flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. He touched his jaw instinctively, then dropped his hand with a defeated sigh. “That’s… fair.”
“Glad we agree,” you said. “So, you can go home now.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head immediately. “I mean – technically, I could go home, but I’d probably wake up unemployed. Or dead. Or both.”
You squinted at him. “You’re that scared of him?”
Peter hesitated. Then he surprised you.
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m not scared. I just… like my job. It pays really, really well.”
You blinked. “Define ‘really well.’”
He gave a small, sheepish smile. “Let’s just say I’m making more than most doctors. With hazard pay. And bonuses. And health insurance that covers… everything.”
You hated how practical that sounded.
You leaned back, arms crossed, anger simmering low and hot. “So, you’re sticking around because the pay check’s good.”
He shrugged helplessly. “If you were me, you’d stay too.”
He wasn't wrong. With that much money for just following a stranger, you would do that to the best of your ability. Especially a stranger who lived as boring and predictable of a life as you did.
So, you embraced your little shadow and started leaving little things for him - half out of spite, half out of pity. A spare pastry on the café table when you “forgot” to clear it. A bottled drink left on the bus seat you always took. Napkins with dumb doodles. A note once that said: Blink if you’re being held hostage, just to watch him choke on air.
You took more interesting detours, too.
Partly because you wanted to inconvenience the man who sent him. Partly because you hated the idea of being predictable. Partly because if you were going to be watched, you might as well perform.
So, you browsed bookstores instead of running straight home. You sat in parks you normally ignored. Walked the long way around the block, just to see if he’d follow. He always did. Patient. Careful. Polite. Never closer than necessary, never too far to be useless.
And somehow, despite yourself, “being stalked by a teenager on a mafia salary” slid into the background noise of your life - like the hum of traffic or the buzzing fridge. An irritation you adapted to.
In all honesty, Peter quickly became more of a family than your father ever was. More than your husband would ever be.
The final change came one night after you dragged yourself home from college, exhausted, brain fried from lectures you weren’t technically supposed to be attending.
Secret classes. Classes your father didn't know you were taking. Classes he wouldn't approve of. Classes he definitelywouldn't approve of.
Something felt wrong as you walked up the driveway to your house, fishing the keys out of your pocket. The house was silent, as it always was, and the drive was still, as one would expect it to be at this time of night. But there was a heaviness, a pressure, like someone had a tight grip of your neck.
The front door was unlocked. Shut, but not locked.
Your heartbeat picked up, the racing only amplifying your paranoia. You definitely locked the door this morning.
The door creaked as you nudged it open, laptop held in front of your body just in case. Not that it would do much, but something was better than nothing. The lights were off, the heating was on, not a single shoe was out of place by the door. You crept into the house.
A man was sat on your couch. One arm rested on the back of the soda, ankle casually crossed over his knee, posture relaxed in that careful, purposeful way that showed that even though this was your house, he held all the power in the room.
The man was attractive; you couldn’t deny that. Dark hair, tousled perfectly like a model, sea blue eyes that were calm where they should have been dangerous.
“Hello,” he said, voice smooth, polite. “You must be tired. You had a long day.”
You stared at him, every muscle in your body tense.
He smiled just a touch. “I’m James.”
James? A part of you dropped knowing that this was another man who worked with, or for, your husband. Something near the dining table caught your eye. Your gaze drifted past him.
On the back of a chair lay a dress.
A white dress.
Soft, white silk dress with long lace sleeves.
A small gasp caught in your throat as your lungs forgot how to function for a second.
James followed your line of sight and nodded slightly, like he’d presented something practical, like groceries, or a new coat.
"It’s fitted to your measurements," he said evenly. "There are shoes in the bedroom. Jewellery on the vanity. Hair appointment booked. A stylist will be here in," he checks his watch, "20 minutes."
You feel your throat close up as you place your bag down by the door.
"It’s…" You forced the words out. "It’s today?"
He tilted his head, "You didn't know?"
According to the timeline you had, the wedding was supposed to be next week, and even then, you were expecting more than a 2 hour heads up. You shook your head to James’ question before picking up the dress tenderly and disappearing upstairs.
It’s your fault, you think as you step into the shower. You had an inkling of what kind of man you were marrying. There weren’t many that would pay off the debts of a corrupt lawyer.
It’s your fault for assuming you would have a normal first meeting. It’s your fault for assuming that he would slip the engagement ring he left on your bathroom counter on your finger himself. It’s your fault for assuming that you would know the date of your own wedding.
Well, you know what they say about assuming.
As you stepped out of the shower, you made a promise to yourself. That this would be the last time you ever let this man get your hopes up. You would marry him, you would be a good wife, but you would never let him control your life.
You had had enough of small men who took whatever they could. Never again.
You tilted your head as you stared at yourself in the mirror. You were a bride. Your hair and makeup were done to perfection; the four stylists having worked their magic in an exceptionally short amount of time. The dress was perfect, exactly how you had always imagined and tailored to perfection. The engagement ring on your finger glinted as the light caught it, but you tried your best not to focus on it.
James knocked on the door again. He’d been knocking for the past half an hour, but you were giving him treatment befitting of the situation. The silent treatment.
Still, you were now ready and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. You would have to see James eventually, and you would have to marry Steve eventually.
Grabbing the heels placed by the door, you swung open the door and came face to face with James. He huffed. “Finally. You know the stylist left an hour ago? What took so lo-”
You shoved the shoes into his chest, catching him by surprise. He staggers a few steps back. “The shoes don’t fit. They’re two sizes too big. I won’t be able to walk down the aisle in these.”
Walking past him and down the stairs, you grabbed your sneakers and slipped them on.
“What the fuck are you doing?” James asked, running after you, seemingly aghast at the thought of you getting married in your sneakers.
“Wearing the only shoes I own,” You retorted, standing up to face him, “unless you want me to walk down the aisle barefoot. What would my fiancé think about that?”
"Steve's a right bastard, isn't he?" James muttered under his breath.
"If I say yes, will you tell him?"
James bursts into laughter. Not cruel. Just startled and deeply entertained.
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” he wheezes, genuinely delighted. “You’ve got teeth. I’m going to enjoy this.”
You don’t laugh. You weren’t going to enjoy this.
The chapel you pulled up in front of, was small. You were surprised. A man of your fiancé’s stature getting married in such an intimate chapel? James told you to wait outside a set of ornately carved doors, promising your father would be there soon, before disappearing through another door and into the chapel.
You heard the familiar notes of the Bridal Chorus and the shuffle of people sitting down. Where was your father? Seconds past as you realised he wasn’t coming. A tear pricked at your eyes, but you blinked it away. This wasn’t the first time he didn’t show up for you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
The sorrow faded into rage.
Never again, you reminded yourself. Never again.
The doors swung open. The chapel was mostly empty, quiet. A few men in dark suits filled up the pews, their attention fine-tuned even at such a joyous occasion. Beside some of them sat immaculately dressed women, their watchful eyes following your every move. These were his people.
Your grip tightened around the bouquet as you took a step forward. Alone.
The knowledge didn’t sting anymore – it burned. Hot and ugly in your chest. He sold you to save himself and didn’t even bother to see it through. Didn’t even care to walk you down the aisle.
Fine.
You lifted your chin as a show of confidence. He didn’t matter anyway. That’s when you saw him. Steve. The elusive ‘Mr Rogers’.
He was waiting at the altar, tall and devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair. Every stand of his dirty-blonde hair was perfectly in place, and when his sparkling blue eyes finally met yours, a tight knot formed in your stomach.
You were in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
His gaze flicked to your side, instinctive and quick, as if he expected someone to be there. The empty space answered for you. His jaw tightened as he looked back at you, not with irritation or judgement, but something closer to concern. Your anger twisted deeper in your gut.
Steve stepped forward as you reached the altar, and extended his hand, palm open, steady. An offering. You placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours carefully, like he was afraid of squeezing too hard. His thumb brushed your knuckles, just once, grounding. You hate that it worked.
The ceremony began. The priest in front of you was ancient, his voice quiet and monotonous like a drone. His words blurred together as you stared straight ahead, jaw set, heart pounding. You said what you were supposed to say. So did he. Neither of you had written vows – unsurprising as you found out about your own wedding mere hours before, and you were just security on your father’s loan to him.
Your anger stayed with you the entire time, a quiet companion at your side.
Then came the kiss. The priest announced it as the closing of his droning monologue, and you felt everyone’s eyes burning into your side. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs. Obviously, you knew this was coming, it was part of every wedding that you’d ever heard of. But you had never kissed anyone before. The realisation hit you all at once – this man, this stranger, was going to be your first.
Steve leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
One of his hands rested on your hip and the other at your face. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft. Chaste. Almost reverent.
You pulled back quickly, but Steve didn’t let go of your waste. You resist the urge to punch him.
From the chapel, there was no pause. No chance to breathe.
James opened the door of a blacked-out car, one hand braced on the roof as you were guided inside. Another man – Sam – tucked the train of your dress into the car before walking around the car to the driver’s side. James jumped in next to him.
Steve got in last.
The car pulled away almost immediately, smooth and controlled, like everything was in Steve’s world. But for most of the drive, Steve didn’t say a word. He sat, leaned back in his seat, phone in hand, blue eyes focused on the screen as his thumb scrolled. Whatever he was reading seemed to be important. Or maybe it was just an excuse to ignore you.
Without anything else to keep you occupied, you took the opportunity to take in your surroundings properly. You knew James, of course, who was sat relaxed in his seat, chatting to Sam, who grunted non-committally. Sam, unlike James and Steve, was on the shorter side with a friendlier face. Except apparently when James was talking about Fluffer Nutter sandwiches.
The man of the hour was even more striking up close than he was at the end of the aisle. The clean lines of his face, the way his suit fit his body like a glove, the way his hair was immaculately styled despite the ceremony. He smelled faintly of something expensive and understated. Exactly like him.
You could see the outline of a gun under his jacket, and the glint of a Rolex under his sleeve. You shuddered.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. It was the first time you’d every heard his voice, low and even with a softness you weren’t prepared for. “He was informed of the time and place. My men were supposed to have picked him up. I’ll look into it.”
You didn’t respond. You stared out the window instead, watching the city blur past, your jaw tight.
Thankfully, Steve didn’t push. He moved on, “At the reception, you will be expected to make an appearance, but not much else. There will be a toast, a meal and I need to meet some people. Then we can leave.”
Why is he telling you all this? It’s not like you have a choice to just not show up.
“There will be a second dress waiting for you,” he added. “Something… more your style.”
That made you look at him. “Another dress?” you asked, disbelief slipping into your voice before you could stop it.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a smug smirk. “Your father mentioned you love fashion. I bought you the newest dresses – you can take your pick.”
Your stomach churned. But you plastered a smile on your face.
Your cheeks hurt from the fake smile plastered on your face. Another couple came up to you and Steve, congratulating you on your nuptials. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
If you thought the ceremony was bad, the reception was so much worse. Worse because it was loud. Worse because it was crowded. Worse because every man who approached you does so only to get closer to him.
They all shook Steve’s hand like it was an honour. Businessmen with greedy smiles, local politicians with practiced charm, and wives that would kill their husbands just to get into his bed. Your bed.
They laughed too loudly at his pitiful jokes, leant in too close, said his name with reverence. They turned to you and mentioned how lucky you were to have him as a husband.
Your husband.
The words settled badly in your chest.
But instead of what you wanted to do, you laughed politely, stood beside him, smiled when prompted, and nodded when required. A silent accessory. You could feel it, how little you mattered in this room, how completely this world bent around his every whim. The power that radiated off Steve without him ever raising his voice, without him doing anything at all.
It scared you, because you had none of it.
You were trapped in a marriage arranged by debt and desperation, and no matter how gentle Steve seemed to be, the truth remained: you were bought. Sold. To a man who could crush all of Brooklyn with a smile and a sentence.
Then your father appeared. Late. Unsteady. Pupils blown. High as a kite.
You saw him before Steve did, slinking through the crowd towards you both. Your stomach drops straight to the floor. The sour stench of cheap whiskey rolls off him as he pulls you into a clumsy half-hug and laughed like all of this was some kind of a joke.
“Look at you,” he said loudly. “That dress must’ve cost a fortune.”
The words felt like a slap.
You hated the dress. It pinched at your ribs, scratched at your skin, heavy and stiff and nothing like you. It was ugly. It was wrong. It was a costume meant for a woman you father created to please your husband. A woman who doesn’t exist.
You didn’t respond. You could feel people watching. Judging. Filing this moment away as proof that you weren’t capable.
Humiliation crawled up your spine, hot and choking. You were tired. Your feet hurt. Your head ached. The aner you had been holding all day started to shake, threatening to spill over into something messier.
Steve noticed.
You weren’t sure how – you didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, didn’t signal that something was wrong – but suddenly he was there, his hand settling at the small of your back. Not possessive, anchoring.
He looked at your father once. Just once. And whatever he saw there was enough.
Within minutes, the music softened. Conversations politely ended. Apologies issued that didn’t sound like apologies at all. The guests were ushed out with practiced efficiency. The whole party dissolved around you.
Steve didn’t ask if you were ready to leave. He just guided you out, his hand steady against you, like he had already decided you’d had enough.
The car ride was just as awkward the second time, even more so because James and Sam weren’t having a conversation to eavesdrop on.
When you finally pull up in front of Steve’s house – your house – you have to stop yourself from gasping. The house was massive.
Not a home, a statement.
High gates. Long drive. Stone and glass and space stretching out in every direction. Another reminder of how powerful he was. Of how small you felt inside all of it.
Inside, he led you upstairs and stopped outside a door. “My room,” he said simply. “You can change. Get comfortable.”
Then he left you there. Alone.
The bathroom was bigger than your childhood bedroom. Marble counters, soft lighting, mirrors that showed you every tired, angry inch of yourself. You stripped off the dress with shaking hands, relief and resentment tangling together.
That’s when you saw them. Folded neatly on the counter were a pair of pyjamas, soft and familiar in shape. Yours.
How dare he? Not only break into your house for the thousandth time, but to rummage through your clothes without your knowledge or permission? Who the fuck does he think he is?
Steve was stood by the bed when you walked out of the bathroom, jacket off now, sleeves rolled, the picture of a man who assumed the night would continue in the way it had always gone for him. An eager woman diving headfirst into his bed.
The door clicked shut behind you. He looked up, blue eyes softening when they landed on you. He took a step closer, hand lifting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to reach for you.
Expectation hung in the air. That was when something inside you finally snapped.
You shoved his hand away. Hard.
“No.” The sound echoed in the room, sharp and final.
Steve froze. His eyes widened – not in anger, but surprise – as you took a step back, shaking with fury.
“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice rising. “You don’t get to touch me like this is owed to you.”
“I thought-” he started, stopping as you laugh bitterly.
“You thought?” you cut in. “You never even met me before today. Not once. You didn’t think I deserved that much?”
He opened his mouth again, but the words poured out of you, unstoppable and unforgiving.
“You broke into my house. Multiple times. You had men watching me, tracking me, deciding things about my life while I didn’t even know your face.” Your hands curled into fists at your side. “You didn’t tell me when I was getting married. You didn’t ask me anything. Not what I wanted, not what I was scared of, not who I even am.”
Steve took a step toward you, palms open. “I was trying to-”
“No,” you snapped. “You were trying to control all of it. Trying to control me.”
Your chest heaved as you glared at him.
“And now you think I want to sleep with you?” you continued, voice cracking with rage. “After all that? After being treated like a transaction instead of a person?”
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy.
You pointed at him, finger shaking.
“I will not sleep with you until you earn my forgiveness,” you said. “And that is never going to happen. I will never forgive you.”
Steve swallowed. You could see it, the weight of your words finally landing.
“And let me make something else very clear,” you added, stepping closer now, fury sharpening your resolve. “If I ever find out you have a mistress – if I ever so much as suspect it – I will castrate you before you can even confirm it.”
The words were calm. Deadly serious. The room was utterly still.
For a long moment, Steve just looked at you. Then, slowly, he lowered his hands.
“I won’t touch you,” he said quietly. “Not unless you want me to.”
Steve wasn’t in bed when you woke up.
You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide how to feel: on the one hand, you were relieved. You hadn’t wanted to wake up next to him, hadn’t wanted to navigate whatever awkward, heavy thing that would’ve been waiting for you in the morning.
But there was irritation too. Sharp and petty and undeniable.
You kind of wanted him to be there.
You wanted him uncomfortable. Apologetic. Grovelling.
With a huff, you threw the covers back and slipped out of bed.
Downstairs, the house opened up in front of you, and you stopped short.
The kitchen was… obscene.
Sunlight poured in through massive windows, spilling across marble countertops and warm wood cabinetry. Everything gleamed. It looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled The Kitchen of a Man Who Had Never Been Told No.
You wandered in, drawn toward the fridge.
Inside, it was fully stocked. Not just basics, everything. Fresh fruit, artisan cheeses, expensive-looking yogurt, bottles of juice you’d only ever seen at specialty stores. It was overwhelming in the strangest way.
You were standing there, the door still open, staring blankly into it when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Close the fridge. You’re letting the cold out.”
You jumped.
A woman stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed, her expression carved from pure disapproval. She was older, sharp-eyed, her hair pulled back tightly like she was perpetually braced for nonsense.
“And who are you supposed to be?” she asked flatly.
You swallowed. “Uh. I’m-”
“The wife,” she said, already unimpressed. “Yes. I know.”
She stepped past you, taking something out of a cabinet with precise movements. No smile. No warmth. Just efficient disdain.
“I’m Martha,” she added. “I run this house.”
Something about her tone made you laugh before you could stop yourself. It slipped out: small, surprised, real.
“Well,” you said, closing the fridge, “it’s nice to meet the real boss.”
That earned you a look. Long. Measuring.
Then, shockingly, she snorted.
Against all odds, conversation struck.
You sat at the island while she cooked, the smell of butter and coffee filling the air. You talked about nothing and everything: how ridiculous the house was, how ugly your reception dress had been, how your feet still hurt. She complained about Steve’s schedule, his suits, the parade of women who had passed through the house over the years.
“I hated every single one of them,” she said, flipping something in the pan. “They were loud. Or stupid. Or cruel.”
You grinned. “Good to know I’m already on thin ice.”
“You’re still here,” she replied. “That’s something.”
Upstairs, in his office, the smell of breakfast hit Steve like a warning siren. He froze.
Martha was cooking. Which meant you were awake. Which meant- oh god-
He was halfway down the stairs before he was even fully aware of moving, his heart pounding with a very unfamiliar feeling: panic. Martha despised everyone. Especially the women he brought around. You were very different to those women, but the fear ran deep.
He rounded the corner, ready to intervene – to shield, to protect – and stopped dead.
You were laughing. Actually laughing.
Seated at the kitchen island, your hair still rumpled from sleep, smiling so wide it stole the breath from his lungs. Martha slid a plate in front of you with a clatter, muttering something that made you giggle harder.
Steve cleared his throat. Both of you looked up. Martha’s expression shuttered instantly.
“Good morning,” Steve said carefully. She didn’t answer. That surprised him – Martha hated everyone but him.
She turned her back on him with surgical precision and continued cooking. It looked like she had already chosen his wife’s side.
Steve hovered near the counter, awkward in the way that only a man used to command and control could be when he was unsure of how to fix you. He cleared his throat.
“I- uh… I wanted to apologize,” he began, his voice low and measured, though you could hear the hesitation underneath. “For… last night. For… everything.”
You glanced at him over your coffee. Martha snorted quietly behind you, flipping a pancake with one perfect flick of her wrist.
Steve ignored her… or tried to. “I know… I haven’t been fair. I-”
“Steve,” you said, cutting him off. “You can’t just say sorry like that. You… you don’t get it.”
He opened his mouth again, fumbling, searching for words. His sharp jaw tensed. You saw it: the man used to being obeyed, used to being listened to, suddenly at a loss.
Martha let out a bark of laughter. Not cruel, just sharp and amused.
“You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head as she flipped the pancake onto a plate with a flourish. Then she patted your shoulder firmly, like you were a child she was proud of. “Don’t worry. He’ll figure it out eventually. Or not. Your call.”
You glanced at Steve, who was frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. He hadn’t processed the closeness between you and Martha, the quiet affection, the way she treated you like you mattered, like you belonged.
“Good morning,” he muttered again, as if he were trying to find a foothold.
You raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The morning moved in easy rhythms after that: Martha serving food, you nibbling toast, Steve sitting stiffly at the far end of the counter, unsure whether to talk or retreat.
Finally, Steve cleared his throat again. “I… I’ll be away for a few weeks. Business.”
You froze mid-bite. The words landed heavy.
“Business,” you echoed. “Right.”
You didn’t dare ask what the business was, or where he’d be going, or who he’d be with. The less you knew about the less than legal side of his business the better.
The first few weeks of living that life passed in a blur.
Mornings were spent in the kitchen with Martha, her sharp commentary keeping you on your toes as you cooked elaborate breakfasts, experimented with meals you had never dared make before, and learned the rhythm of a house that seemed to breathe and move without you noticing.
Afternoons were chores: dusting gleaming surfaces, vacuuming endless corridors, making sure everything was in its place. You checked in on the organisation in subtle ways, sending brief messages through Steve’s aides, approving small decisions, keeping the wheels turning while he was away. Most of the men didn’t even notice your involvement. That suited you fine.
Evenings were quieter. You read, studied, or helped Martha with household accounts. The house was enormous, but slowly, you made it yours.
And then Steve came back.
He walked in like he owned the world – because he did – but you noticed the carefully wrapped box in his hand.
“For you,” he said simply.
You took it, lifting the lid. The necklace gleamed under the chandelier. Diamonds. Too many. Blinding. You hated it immediately. It was garish, heavy, exactly the sort of thing your father had told him you “love.”
“I… thank you,” you said carefully, forcing the words past the disgust curling in your stomach. Your hands trembled as you accepted it. You slid it into the back of your closet before he could insist you wear it.
Despite Steve being back from his “business trip,” he still wasn’t home most evenings. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays had become your escape. You slipped out at five, Peter distracted elsewhere, your bag light with books. Classes. Nursing. Something you had wanted for years but never had the chance to pursue alongside your business degree. You didn’t tell anyone. Not Steve. Not anyone in his circle.
That night, you were late returning, your mind full of lectures and notes.
The house was silent when you stepped inside. That was when you noticed him. Steve, standing in the shadows, tall, unmistakable.
You froze.
“I thought we were going out for dinner,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped. Peter was nowhere in sight.
“I-” you started, but he cut you off.
“You’re sneaking around,” he said, his voice tight. “I know. Tell me what you’re doing. Now.”
You spun toward him, furious. “I don’t owe you an explanation!”
He stepped closer. “You’re married to me!”
“I am!” you yelled, panic and rage mixing together. “But that doesn’t mean you own me!”
He grabbed your arm. You wrenched free. His eyes were dark, searching, suspicious.
“Are you cheating on me?”
“I’m in fucking nursing school!” you shouted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. You stumbled back, your heart hammering, panic flooding through you. Without thinking, you slammed the bathroom door and locked it. Your body shook. The thought of him forbidding you, controlling you, keeping you from what you wanted – what you needed – made your chest constrict.
Minutes passed. Or hours. You weren’t sure.
Finally, you breathed, steeled yourself, and unlocked the door.
The bedroom was dark, but he was there, waiting on the bed. He patted the mattress beside him once.
You hesitated in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, your chest still tight from panic and adrenaline. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t say your name. He just waited, his eyes soft in the low light.
Eventually, you crossed the room and sat down next to him, careful, like the bed might give way beneath you.
Only then did he move.
He placed his hand on the mattress, close to yours but not touching. Close enough that you felt his warmth. Close enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have thought it.”
You kept your eyes on your hands.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would cheat,” he added. “That was… my fear talking. Not fair to put that on you.”
The words cracked something open.
Tears spilled over before you could stop them, hot, humiliating, relentless. You pressed your lips together, but your shoulders shook anyway.
Steve turned toward you fully then.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe… every foot.”
That earned a wet, startled giggle from you. You swiped at your face, mortified.
He exhaled, relieved, like the sound meant more than laughter ever could.
“So,” he continued, tentative in a way that still felt strange on him, “maybe we try again. Properly.”
He straightened slightly and cleared his throat.
“I’m Steve,” he said. “I’m a businessman.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
He smiled, small and self-aware. “Yeah. I know. I like golf. I’m terrible at it, but I keep trying. I miss my mum. Every day.” His jaw tightened briefly, then relaxed. “I love rap music. Old stuff. And I bake.”
You blinked. “Bake?”
He pointed at you. “You are sworn to secrecy. That information could destroy me.”
You laughed again, quieter this time, softer. Real.
He nudged your hand gently with his knuckles. Not claiming. Just… there.
“Your turn,” he said.
You drew in a breath.
“I’m-” you started, then stopped, correcting yourself. “I was a student. I chose business because my dad wanted me to. I want to be a nurse.” Your voice wobbled, but you kept going. “I miss my mum too. I love jazz. I like cooking, actually cooking, not just fancy stuff. And I like going on walks. Long ones. Especially when I’m overwhelmed.”
He listened like it mattered. Like he was filing it away somewhere careful. A silence settled between you, not heavy this time. Almost gentle.
Your voice dropped. “I’m scared I’m disposable to you.”
The words sat there, exposed and fragile.
Steve didn’t answer immediately. He turned his hand palm-up, close enough now that your fingers brushed his.
“You weren’t,” he said firmly. “I don’t treat people I plan to discard like that.”
You shook your head slightly, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I didn’t… I didn’t believe you.”
He just covered your hand with his and waited for you to drift off.
Morning light slipped through the curtains, soft and pale, brushing across your face.
A gentle hand shook your shoulder. “Hey,” a low, warm voice murmured.
You opened your eyes to find Steve leaning over you, holding a tray. Tea steamed softly in a delicate cup, a small biscuit on the side.
Your brow furrowed. “Tea?” you asked, confused. “It’s- what? Six?”
He grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t think I’ve noticed that you barely drink coffee? Come on, honey.”
You blinked at him, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. This wasn’t the man you thought you had married.
After breakfast, you both slipped on your shoes and headed out for a walk. The air was crisp, the world quiet, and for the first time in weeks, the noise of everything faded behind you.
Steve asked questions, careful ones, listening like he really wanted to know. You found yourself telling him things you had never imagined you’d share, the years of working two jobs just to keep the lights on while your father gambled away everything, the small humiliations, the moments of pride when you managed anyway.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. He just nodded, hand brushing lightly against yours as you walked.
When you asked about James, Steve’s eyes softened, the shadow of old memories crossing his features.
“We met in the army,” he said. “James… he took a bullet for me. Saved my life. That’s why he has the metal arm. The man’s practically a legend. And he’ll never let anyone forget it either.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Figures. He looks like he could take on anything.”
Steve’s smile was quiet, fond. “He can. And he would.”
The walk stretched on, conversations flowing easily. By the time you returned to the house, something had shifted.
The man you thought you had married – the distant, untouchable, powerful enigma – didn’t exist.
This man, standing at the door with hair mussed from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world, was someone entirely different. Sweet. Kind. Real.
Steve left you by the door, telling you he had to go to work. “But maybe we could have dinner tonight?”
Your chest warmed. You smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Yes. I would like that.”
Steve came home early. Earlier than planned, actually. He expected to find you waiting—maybe reading on the bed, maybe in the kitchen with Martha, maybe nowhere in particular but around. Present. Safe.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He checked the kitchen first. Empty. The living room. The study. He moved faster with every room, chest tightening as he called your name once, then again.
“Martha?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.
She looked up from the counter. “I haven’t seen her since you two came back from your walk.”
Something cold settled in his stomach.
He headed upstairs, heart pounding now, worst‑case scenarios lining up faster than he could shove them away. He reached the bedroom, pushed the door open… and froze.
There was a sound coming from the bathroom. Not movement. Not footsteps. Retching.
His breath stuttered. He crossed the room in two strides, stopping short of the door like it might explode if he touched it wrong. His hand lifted, then hesitated, then knocked soft and careful.
“Honey?”
Another awful sound. A moan.
Then, faintly: “It’s… it’s open.”
He opened the door.
You were curled on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, knees pulled to your chest, hair plastered to your face, shaking. You looked so small it knocked the air out of him.
He dropped down beside you immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice broke despite himself. “Talk to me.”
You tried. And failed.
The moment you looked up at him, your face crumpled. Tears spilled over fast and violent, sobs tearing out of you like something had ripped open. It caught him completely off guard. You had cried yesterday, yes, but this was different. This was raw. Uncontrolled. Desperate.
“Oh- hey, hey,” he murmured, panicking quietly.
He gathered you into his arms without thinking, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling your head against his chest. He was a good hugger. Solid. Warm. Safe. You sobbed harder.
Weeks, months, of tension poured out of you all at once, and the way he held you only made it worse because you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to be held. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
When your body finally gave out, he lifted you easily, carrying you to the bed like you weighed nothing. He settled you against him, still holding you close, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.
“Please,” he said softly, desperately. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
You didn’t answer. You just clung to him.
Your sobs slowed. Your breathing evened out. Exhaustion pulled you under while he was still watching your face like he was afraid to blink.
He considered waking you, just for a second.
Then he saw it.
Blood.
A small, unmistakable stain.
Realization hit him hard and fast, followed immediately by guilt. Fear. Helplessness.
“Oh,” he exhaled quietly. “Oh.”
He carefully adjusted the covers, made sure you were comfortable, then reached for his phone like it was a lifeline.
Steve: Martha.
Steve: I need help.
Steve: She’s sick and
Steve: I think she’s on her period.
Steve: I don’t know what to do.
The response came almost instantly.
Martha: I’ll handle it. Stay with her.
Steve set the phone down and looked at you again, curled into his side now, trusting him without even knowing it.
He didn’t move.
Once Martha had come and gone, he woke you just enough to sit you up, slowly and carefully, like you were made of glass.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing a pillow behind your back. “Just a little food, okay?”
You barely registered the plate until he brought it closer. A sandwich, cut into neat triangles. He fed you small bites, waiting between each one, watching your face like he was afraid you’d disappear if he looked away. When you finished half, he offered you a painkiller and a glass of water, steadying it while you drank.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be back.”
You didn’t ask where he was going. You just let your eyes fall shut again.
When you woke up, the room smelled faintly of night air and something sweet. You were groggy, limbs heavy, head foggy, but calmer. Steve was back, sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hair slightly out of place like he had rushed.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly, relief slipping through before he could stop it.
You blinked at him. “Hey.”
He reached for the bedside table and started lining things up, one by one, almost shy about it.
“I… bought some things,” he said. “I know your dad told me a lot of bullshit, so I just… guessed.”
There was chocolate. A couple of different kinds. Chips – your favourite brand, somehow. A book with a worn-looking cover that felt comforting just to look at. And a small bag of drawing pencils and a sketchpad.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t know if you’re allergic to flowers,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I figured… safer to skip them.”
You swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out suddenly. “For- last night. For climbing all over you. And for… bleeding on your bed.”
He stared at you for a beat.
Then he huffed out a laugh, soft and surprised.
“Honey,” he said, gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. “This is the best kind of blood I could ever be covered in.”
You looked at him. “That’s gross.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Occupational hazard.”
You laughed weakly, then leaned forward and hugged him again, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight immediately, like he had been waiting for it, one hand pressing warm and solid between your shoulder blades.
“Thank you,” you murmured into his chest. “For all of it.”
He pressed a kiss into your hair. “Anytime.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
Really look.
At the softness in his eyes. The worry that hadn’t quite left his face. The man who had brought you tea, walked with you, held you while you cried, and bought you chips instead of diamonds.
Your gaze dropped. To his lips.
Before you could overthink it, before fear could catch up, you surged forward and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to his mouth.
It was brief. Soft. Intentional.
When you pulled back, his breath was unsteady.
“Hey,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I trust you. I just… can we go slow?”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t argue. His thumb brushed your hand, grounding, patient.
“Take your time,” he replied.
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