All Of It Was An Emotional Rollercoaster But I Loved Every Part Of It 😭🤞🏻

The happiness I felt reading this as a desi girl 😩🤞🏻

ˏˋ main yahaan hoon ࿐ྂ "I'm in the lights of your eyes, you see me wherever you look"

summary: in which you meet Sano Manjiro a month before your wedding and fall in love. you didn't realize you fell in love with him till the pre-wedding rituals began.

pairing(s): bonten!mikey x desi!reader

notes: title translates to 'I'm here'. a purely self-indulgent fic based on Veer-Zaara(2004)'s song Main Yahaan Hoon if Veer was a gang leader and was actually at the wedding instead of Zaara hallucinating him. line dividers by rookthornesartistry heart divider by cafekitsune

warnings: infidelity, cheating, arranged marriages, implied emotionally absent parents, emotional blackmail, suggestive themes, implied oral(f), manjiro carries reader, slightly open ending

word count: 5690

Your father was a politician, businessman and just well very rich. You’re his only daughter so he spoils you rotten. Giving you all the things you can ever want. He was a good man, your mother a great person too. However, it wasn’t a very emotionally fulfilling relationship. You were okay with it though. Jewels and clothes sated the ache in your heart even if it was temporary. You got engaged almost as soon as you turned of age. The man was just a little bit older and also a politician like your father. Arranged marriages were common in your culture and you had never dated before anyway. It’s about a month before the wedding you meet Sano Manjiro. You aren’t sure what he does but he’s also really rich like your father. He has a few close business associates and they all have matching full moon hanafuda tattoos. Sanzu Haruchiyo let you trace his tattoo for some reason after seeing your fascination with it. 

Bonten were business associates of your father. You weren’t sure exactly for what but you also couldn't care less. They were all pretty fun people. You made them watch Bollywood movies with you and do a whole bunch of other things and they did it without any complaint and seemed to enjoy it as well. They were all cool and then there was Sano Manjiro… 

Sano Manjiro was different from the rest. He had a quiet intensity about him, a presence that demanded attention without a single word. You noticed his eyes first—dark, deep, and endlessly contemplative. He was always observing, absorbing everything around him with a sharp, discerning gaze. Despite his quiet demeanour, there was something undeniably magnetic about him. At first, you thought he wouldn’t be putting up with your childish games but he proved you wrong. When you called him a stupid idiot he didn’t get mad but instead, he smiled. He was amused. For some reason, it surprised you because he didn’t seem like the type to smile or just show any kind of emotion in general. 

Your father, of course, invites them all to your wedding. It was all fine but you don’t want to marry your fiancé. He was nice at first but there was something about him that put you off. You didn’t like that man. You sit in your father’s office in your engagement outfit while music echoes from the bottom floor of the mansion to the top. A white lengha with intricate embroidery adorns your figure with a full-sleeve blouse along with a diamond necklace gifted by your future mother-in-law and a matching tikka in the same style resting in the center of your forehead. Your dupatta is draped over your head and right now it feels too heavy. Although you and your fiancé were already engaged, your mother-in-law insisted on having a flashy ceremony to kick start the wedding week.  “You’re my only child… Hence, I’ve pampered you and given you freedom” Your father says, his hands clasped behind his back and using his businessman voice “I haven’t raised you like a girl but like a boy”

There is a lump in your throat. You know if you speak you’ll cry. Your father walks toward you. “Usually the mother has to explain to her daughters about her duties. But since I think of you as my son, I’ll explain your duties to you”

You look up at him. You’re sitting in his chair the same way you would when you were a child. But unlike back then, your bare feet press flat against the hardwood floor. “You already know that your grandfather was a respected politician. But he died a few days before he could attain success. Since that day, as his heir, I’ve been trying to take his party to great heights but I’ve been unsuccessful so far” He says and you know already what he will say next “But with the help of your finacé’s father, I can attain that success”

You don’t feel too good. The lump in your throat gets bigger and you desperately try to swallow it. Your father turns your back to you, staring at your family picture. “Soon you’ll get married into their family. It’s your duty…” He pauses and turns to look at you again “...to understand the importance of this relationship. Spread happiness, whether the times are good or bad and strengthen the bond of every relationship and to protect the honour of both families at all costs. A small mistake or a bit of carelessness from your end could ruin everything… I hope you understand what I’m trying to say.”

He knows, he knows, he knows. Your father had a feeling you no longer wished to marry the man you were betrothed to. You swallow the lump in your throat and whisper out a pitiful “yes.”

“Is there anything you wish to say?”

You simply shake your head no. You couldn’t. You had to marry this man even if you didn’t want to. Your father was practically begging you without actually begging. He smiles. “Come here”

You stand up, your anklets jingle with each step you take. “It’s been so long since I saw my daughter smile,” He says as you now stand in front of him “I hope you haven’t left it in Japan”

You smile weakly. How were you to tell him you did? How do you tell your father you left your heart in Japan? He pulls you in for a hug and a single tear runs down your cheek. 

You did not wish to marry the man you were promised to but you didn’t want to break your father’s heart either. 

Your father leads you down the large marble staircase, the railing covered with flowers and the entire bottom floor decorated lavishly. The vibrant colours and festive sounds of the pre-wedding celebration fill the air, yet your heart feels heavy with an unspoken sorrow. As you descend the staircase, your eyes scan the crowd, seeking a familiar face—a face that brought unexpected joy and confusion to your life. In the midst of the lively guests, you spot Sano Manjiro standing quietly at the edge of the room with his associates. He is dressed in beige slacks and a silk back button-up shirt, his presence commanding even in the bustling environment. His eyes meet yours, and for a brief moment, the noise around you fades. His gaze, deep and inscrutable, seems to reach into the very depths of your soul. The rituals proceed with the grandeur expected of such an event. The music, the dancing, the laughter—all blend into a blur as your mind drifts back to the times spent with Manjiro and his associates. The times when you could be yourself when you laughed genuinely and felt a connection beyond words. Sanzu Haruchiyo, always mischievous yet kind, had once teased you about your fascination with their tattoos. “Do you want one too?” he joked, letting you trace the lines of the intricate hanafuda design. 

You had laughed, but deep down, there was something about those moments that felt more real than anything else in your life. As you and your fiancé exchange rings, you feel Manjiro’s eyes on you, a silent support that gives you strength. The night progresses, and you find yourself stealing glances at him, your heart aching with an unspoken truth. You didn’t want this arranged marriage. You wanted something more, something that only he seemed to understand. 

It feels stupid though. It’s probably a simple infatuation but oh you had never felt this way in your life before and even as your fiancé slides the engagement ring onto your finger, the only thing that goes through your mind is Manjiro.

You sit alone in your room late at night on your bed, too lazy to sit at your dresser. Your dupatta was carelessly discarded at the foot of your bed as soon as you entered your room, too lazy to even remove your lengha and get in bed. The day had been tiring. You start to remove your jewelry, starting with the large diamond necklace that felt way too heavy. It’s as you are taking off the tikka from your forehead that someone enters. You don’t need to look up to know who it is. The air shifts, and the familiar, intense presence washes over you. It’s Manjiro. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, his voice soft, almost a whisper.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. He steps closer, his movements silent on the plush carpet. He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there, watching as you fumble with the clasp of your tikka. Your fingers tremble, and the delicate piece slips from your grasp, falling onto your lap. “Let me,” he offers, reaching out. His hands are gentle but firm as he takes over, carefully removing the tikka and setting it aside. 

His touch sends a shiver down your spine, and you feel a warmth spreading through you, melting the anxiety and sorrow that had been weighing you down. “Thank you,” you manage to whisper, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s a question in his gaze, an unspoken query that you can’t quite decipher. The silence between you is heavy with words left unsaid, emotions unacknowledged. “Why did you come here?” you ask, needing to break the silence, to understand why he’s here, why he makes you feel the way you do.

“I needed to see you,” he replies simply, his gaze steady. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

His concern touches you deeply, and you feel tears welling up in your eyes. You blink them back, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. Manjiro sits down next to you, being careful to not sit on your skirt. He reaches over and starts to remove your earrings. Despite his fingers being calloused and rough, his hands are gentle. He touches you like the slightest touch might break you. Each brush of his fingers against your skin feels like a promise, unspoken but powerful. You sit there, letting him help you, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over you. The weight of the day's events begins to lift, replaced by the warmth of his presence. When he's done, he sets the earrings aside and meets your gaze again. His eyes are filled with something you can't quite name, something that makes your heart beat faster. “Let’s get this off, hm?” Manjiro’s hand reaches around you and tugs the strings on the back of your blouse free

Your breath catches, but you nod, trusting him implicitly. The fabric loosens, and you feel the pressure on your chest easing. He helps you out of the heavy, ornate lengha, his movements were careful, his eyes never straying where they shouldn't. This was wrong. So wrong. You were a damn cheater. But as Manjiro unzips your blouse and pulls it off your arms, you can’t find yourself to care. “‘Jiro…” Your breath is shaky as he lowers your bare body down

“Don’t worry” he whispers, a heavy hand cupping your cheek so tenderly

Something in your head tells you it’s been years since this man was tender to anyone. Your breath hitches at the touch of his roughened palm against your cheek, a stark contrast to the softness in his gaze. Manjiro's thumb gently brushes away a stray tear that you hadn’t realized had fallen, his eyes holding a depth of understanding that seems to pierce through your very soul. "I shouldn't be here" you murmur, your voice barely audible, a mix of fear and yearning.

It was a little stupid you were even saying that since it was your own room. "But you want me here" he counters softly, not a question, but a statement of truth.

The words hang between you, heavy with unspoken emotions. Your heart beats wildly, torn between duty and desire. You don’t reply, unable to deny the truth in his statement. Manjiro’s presence is intoxicating, a dangerous allure that you find impossible to resist. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me to leave, and I will," he whispers, his lips so close to yours that you can feel the heat of his words. "But if you want me to stay…"

You close your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. The choice is yours, and you know what your heart wants. "Stay" you breathe, barely more than a whisper, but enough for him to hear and without missing a beat he slides your engagement ring off your finger

Manjiro doesn’t take your virginity that night. Instead, he calls you a good girl for saving yourself for after marriage and then gets down between your legs and ravishes you. 

 The next morning was the Haldi ceremony. In the ceremony turmeric paste would be smeared on your face and oil on your hair. It was more of a fun kind of thing anyway and during all the weddings you have attended in the past, all the guests would end up getting the turmeric paste all over themselves while playing around with it. You were wearing a yellow salwar kameez with flowers embroidered on the top and your dupatta was bright pink. You sit on the ground by the pool while your cousins hold up a heavier more embroidered dupatta over top of you like shielding you from the sky. “Don’t put too much” You warn your dad as he smears some of the turmeric paste on your cheek

There is oil dripping down your forehead from when your cousin decided he wanted to be funny and poured the entire bowl on your head. Tumeric paste is smeared on your feet, arms, cheeks and nose. The vibrant colours of the ceremony blur together, a swirl of yellow and pink, laughter echoing around you. Yet, despite the cheerful chaos, your mind is elsewhere, drifting back to the previous night. Manjiro's touch lingers on your skin like a haunting melody, one you cannot shake off no matter how hard you try. Your father's laughter brings you back to the present, his smile wide as he steps aside for the next relative to apply the turmeric paste.

As the ceremony continues, you feel a pair of eyes on you. You glance up and catch a glimpse of Manjiro standing a little away from the festivities, his usual quiet intensity softened by a hint of something tender. He stands apart from his associates, watching you with an unreadable expression. For a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. The noise of the ceremony fades, replaced by the silent conversation happening between your gazes. Your heart beats faster as you remember his whispered promises from the night before. His words, his touch—they haunt you, make you question everything you thought you knew about your life and your impending marriage. You know it's reckless, dangerous even, to let yourself feel this way. But you can't help it. Not when his presence brings you a sense of peace and belonging you’ve never felt before. “This stuff smells weird” Koko comments as he crouches in front of you and smells the turmeric paste on his fingers before smearing it on your cheek “Are you sure this is safe for your skin?”

“Of course it is” you reassure with a smile

The rest of Bonten does the same. Finally, it’s Manjiro’s turn. He crouches down in front of you, an unknown emotion swirling in his eyes. Without a word, he takes the yellow paste and smears some on your right cheek then the left. His touch is gentle, yet it sends shivers down your spine, the same way it did the night before. The world around you seems to disappear as he smooths the paste over your skin, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence between you is filled with unspoken words, emotions too raw to be expressed in the midst of the celebration. Your heart pounds in your chest as his fingers linger on your skin, his touch both comforting and electrifying. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear. 

His words are simple, but the intensity behind them makes your breath hitch. "Thank you," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the noise of the celebration. 

You feel a blush creep up your cheeks, mixing with the turmeric paste. He offers you a small, almost shy smile, and for a moment, you see a vulnerability in him that he usually keeps hidden. You bring your hand up and smear the paste on his cheek too, making him laugh. His laughter is a rare sound, rich and deep, and it reverberates through you, filling your heart with warmth. You can't help but smile in response, your fingers lingering on his cheek for a moment longer than necessary. The world around you resumes its chaotic pace, but the connection between you and Manjiro remains, a silent promise amidst the noise and colour of the celebration.

As the Haldi ceremony continues, your mind is a whirlwind of emotions. The weight of your engagement ring, now conspicuously absent from your finger, feels like a liberation and a burden all at once. You glance at Manjiro again, finding comfort in his steady gaze. It’s as if he understands the turmoil within you without needing to ask.

As the ceremony comes to an end and the guests start to leave, you struggle to pick your dupatta off one of the chairs with your turmeric-covered hands. “Damn it” you mutter and look around for someone to help you

“Here you go” Rindo picks up your dupatta for you

You sigh in relief. “Thank you. Can you help me go up to my room?”

It was going to be a task going up to your room while covered in turmeric paste so you needed help. Rindo nods and offers you his arm, guiding you carefully through the crowd and up the stairs. The turmeric paste makes everything slippery, and you're grateful for his steady presence. As you make your way to your room, you can feel Manjiro's eyes on you, a silent promise of his support and understanding. Once inside your room, Rindo helps you sit on the edge of your bed, his touch careful and respectful. “Do you need anything else?” he asks, concern evident in his voice.

You shake your head, offering him a grateful smile, your eyes lingering for a moment of the front of his throat where the full moon hanafuda tattoo it etched then you look back up at his eyes. “No, thank you. I’ll manage from here.”

Rindo nods and leaves, closing the door softly behind him. You sit there for a moment, the events of the day and the night before swirling in your mind. You know you need to wash off the turmeric paste, but your thoughts keep drifting back to Manjiro. Eventually, you stand and make your way to the bathroom. The warm water washes away the turmeric, leaving your skin tingling and fresh. 

Later that night was the mendhi ceremony. Your hands are covered in intricate designs of flowers and swirls made with henna all the way up to your elbows and your feet with the same. “Ma~” you whine to your mother who was too busy talking to her sister to feed you 

Your mother laughs, a twinkle in her eye as she waves you off, engrossed in her conversation. You sigh, looking at the plate of food in front of you, and then at your hands, which are still wet with henna. The intricate designs are beautiful, but they make it impossible for you to eat on your own. You glance around the room, hoping to find someone to help you. Your eyes meet Manjiro’s from across the room. He’s standing with his associates, but his gaze is fixed on you, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. Before you can beckon him over, he starts to walk towards you, effortlessly weaving through the crowd. He kneels down next to you, his presence a comforting weight. “Need some help?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

You nod, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “Yes, please. I can’t eat with this on.”

Manjiro picks up the spoon and gently lifts a small portion of food to your lips. His movements are careful, and deliberate, as if this simple act holds profound significance. You open your mouth, feeling a mix of embarrassment and gratitude. As he feeds you, you catch the subtle smirk on his face, and you can't help but smile back. “This is quite the look for you,” he teases, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Covered in henna and unable to eat by yourself.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, your voice playful. “This is supposed to be a special time, you know?”

“It is,” he agrees, his tone softening. “And you look beautiful.”

The sincerity in his words makes your heart skip a beat. You chew and swallow, the taste of the food mingling with the warmth spreading through your chest. Manjiro continues to feed you, the moment intimate despite the bustling celebration around you. Each spoonful feels like a silent promise, a shared secret that binds you closer together. “Food is spicy…” He murmurs 

“You don’t like spicy food?” you ask him

He shakes his head no. “I like the sweets though… After you get married bring me some in Japan?” You laugh softly, the sound mingling with the music and chatter in the room. “Of course,” you promise, a warmth spreading through you at the thought of sharing such a simple pleasure with him. “I’ll bring you all the sweets you want.”

Manjiro's smile widens, a rare glimpse of genuine happiness on his usually stoic face. “I’ll hold you to that,” he replies, his gaze steady on yours. “But only if you promise to come back soon.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and you find yourself nodding before you can even think. “I promise,” you say, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

The rest of the mendhi ceremony passes in a blur of laughter and music, but the memory of that moment with Manjiro lingers, a silent promise of things to come. As the night draws to a close, you find yourself reluctant to leave his side, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing moment. 

It’s as you lay in bed and stare at your henna-stained hands, searching for your fiancé’s name among the intricate designs. But as you scan the patterns, your heart sinks, and a furrow forms on your brow. The once-clear inscription has been smeared beyond recognition, lost amidst the swirls of henna. A mix of emotions washes over you—relief, guilt, and a pang of sadness. Relief because it feels like a sign, a small reprieve from the impending marriage you’re dreading. Guilt because you know you shouldn’t feel relieved, and shouldn’t be hoping for a way out of a commitment you made. And sadness because despite everything, there’s a part of you that still longs for the simplicity of what could have been. You trace the faint outlines of the henna design, your mind swirling with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

The bond between you and Manjiro grows stronger with each passing moment, a silent promise of a future you never dared to imagine. But the reality of your situation weighs heavily on your shoulders, reminding you of the duty and obligations that bind you to your fiancé and your family.

With a heavy sigh, you curl your fingers into fists. The events of the day replay in your mind—the stolen moments with Manjiro, the whispered promises, the shared laughter. Despite the uncertainty of the future, one thing is clear—you’re falling for him, and there’s no turning back.

The next night is the ladies' sangeet. It’s the last thing left and the next morning is the wedding. You sit with all your female relatives as they sing and dance to old folk songs. You sit among them, a forced smile plastered on your face, your mind drifting to thoughts of the impending wedding. Tomorrow, you'll be bound to a man you don't love, forced into a life of duty and obligation that feels suffocating. When no one is looking, you stand up and hed to the backyard where most your male relatives are, drinking away as usual. You can see Ran has unfortunately been cornered by one of your drunk uncles and is explaining Punjabi politics to him. Ran looks at you for help but you just grin and shake your head. You spot Manjiro walking over to you and you smile at him. “Hi” You say as you walk through the garden together, you anklets jingling with each step you take. 

"Hi," Manjiro replies, his voice low and warm, a stark contrast to the chaos of the sangeet unfolding behind you. His presence brings a sense of calm, a welcome respite from the suffocating atmosphere of obligation and expectation.

You walk through the garden together, the soft glow of lanterns casting a warm light over the flowers and foliage. The air is filled with the sweet scent of jasmine and roses, a stark contrast to the heavy perfume of the crowded hall. You feel a weight lift off your shoulders with each step, the knot of anxiety in your chest slowly unravelling in his presence. "Having fun?" Manjiro asks, his gaze steady on yours. 

There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of the situation. You shake your head, a wry smile playing on your lips. "Not exactly," you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I feel like I'm suffocating in there."

Manjiro nods in understanding, his expression sympathetic. "I can imagine," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper “Japanese weddings are not this… festive or colourful. Must be a little overwhelming” 

You nod, grateful for his understanding. "It's not just that," you confess, your voice tinged with frustration. "It's the weight of expectation, the pressure to conform to tradition and duty." You pause, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. "I feel like I'm being suffocated by it all."

Manjiro listens in silence, his gaze unwavering as he takes in your words. There's a depth to his understanding, a sense of empathy that makes you feel seen in a way you haven't felt in a long time. "I know what it's like to feel trapped," he says finally, his voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "To feel like you're living a life that's not your own."

His words strike a chord within you, resonating with the turmoil you've been feeling. "Do you ever wish things were different?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Manjiro's gaze softens, a hint of something tender in his eyes. "All the time," he admits, his voice filled with honesty and you watch his hand come up to touch the full moon hanafuda tattoo on the back of his neck "But sometimes, we have to make the best of the hand we're dealt." 

You nod in understanding, a pang of sympathy tugging at your heart as you take in the vulnerability in Manjiro's words. His admission resonates with your own feelings of frustration and longing, the desire for a life beyond the confines of duty and expectation. "But that doesn't mean we have to give up hope," you say softly "We can still fight for what we want, for the freedom to live our lives on our own terms."

Manjiro's gaze meets yours, a flicker of something akin to hope dancing in his eyes. "And what do you want?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to voice the question aloud.

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of your desires heavy on your shoulders. “I… I don’t know yet”

And Manjiro simply smiles at your answer and says “well clock is ticking… better hurry up and figure it out” then turns to go back to where he was sitting with your father, other business partners and relatives 

As Manjiro walks away, leaving you alone in the tranquil garden, his words linger in the air, a gentle reminder of the urgency of your situation. The weight of expectation and duty presses down on you once more. You watch Manjiro's retreating figure, his silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of lanterns, and you can't help but feel a sense of longing stirring within you. Despite the uncertainty of the future, one thing is clear—your heart is leading you towards him, towards a life of freedom and possibility.

You turn back towards the bustling sangeet, the music and laughter spilling out into the night air. Tomorrow is the wedding, the final culmination of weeks of preparation and anticipation. But as you rejoin the festivities, your mind is elsewhere, filled with thoughts of the man who has captured your heart and the future that awaits.

As the night wears on and the sangeet draws to a close, you find yourself lost in a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, apprehension, and a simmering sense of rebellion— something you shouldn’t be feeling. Tomorrow, you'll be bound to a man you don't love, forced into a life of duty and obligation. But tonight, in the quiet solitude of the garden, you allow yourself to dream of a different future, one where you're free to follow your heart, no matter where it leads.

As the first light of dawn breaks over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the garden, you feel a sense of anticipation stirring within you. In a few hours, you’ll be married. It’s scary. So scary and you feel sick. You sit in a yellow kameez and white salwar, fingers trembling as you put on the naath, hooking it to your nose and fixing the chain over your ear to see how you look in it. The cool metal of the jewellery rests over your lips that you’ve bitten raw. Your makeup lays untouched, face bare. You need to start getting ready. 

It’s the early hours of the morning, not many are awake except the servants who are getting the house ready. Your deep red wedding lengha is draped over your bed and seems to be mocking you. Your fingers linger on the intricate embroidery of the deep red lehenga, but the touch brings you no joy, only a sense of resignation. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, the naath adorning your face, you can't help but feel a sense of disconnect. The woman staring back at you seems like a stranger, a mere shell of the person you once were. The weight of the impending marriage hangs heavy in the air, suffocating you with its inevitability. It’s suffocating, and overwhelming, and you find it hard to breathe.

But then, amidst the chaos of your thoughts, a sense of determination takes root within you. You refuse to let fear dictate your future, to surrender to the expectations of others. You may not know what lies ahead, but you know one thing for certain—you can't go through with this marriage. Your father may love you and only want the best for you but you are not a pawn in his plan to rule the world. 

Gathering your courage, you make a decision—to follow your heart, no matter the consequences. It won't be easy, and there will be challenges ahead, but you refuse to let fear hold you back any longer.

As you slip out of your room after grabbing your yellow dupatta, the quiet of the early morning enveloping you like a comforting embrace, you feel a sense of liberation wash over you. It’s just as you make it past the hall, your anklets unfortunately still jingling with each step(you probably should have taken them off), you come face to face with Manjiro, Sanzu and Rindo. “Hm? And where do you think you’re going?” Manjiro asks and his hand comes up and lifts the naath up then lets it fall back in place resting over your upper lip 

You freeze, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. For a moment, you're at a loss for words, your mind racing to come up with an explanation. But as you meet Manjiro's gaze, you see something in his eyes—a flicker of understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil raging within you. "I..." you begin, your voice barely above a whisper, "I don’t want to get married"

The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of your confession. You expect judgment, condemnation, but instead, there's only silence. Manjiro's gaze softens, a hint of something tender in his eyes as he reaches out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “Hm?”

You let out a shaky breath, henna-covered hands clenching at your sides. “You asked me last night what I wanted and this is what I want…”

There is a moment of silence. Manjiro looks back at Sanzu and nods and the latter pulls out his phone, frantically typing away texts. “C’mon then” Manjiro says and sweeps you off your feet in the same way the male leads in Bollywood movies would

You aren’t sure how things will turn out but as Manjiro carries you down the marble staircase and into a car, you don’t think about anything else. Just him. Manjiro’s arms feel solid and reassuring around you as he carries you down the marble staircase, the weight of your decision becoming lighter with each step. The early morning light filters through the windows, casting a golden hue over everything, as if the world itself is blessing your choice.

As he sets you down into the backseat of a car Manjiro brushes a strand of your hair away from your face then kisses your forehead. “I’m here” he whispers

end notes: at the end, when Sanzu is on his phone, he's texting Koko to post a bunch of evidence of corruption that reader's fiancé’s family has done. Now MIkey could have done that before but he wanted it to be reader's choice so.... yeah. Hope you enjoyed it loll.

gojo is met with a small slap to his face. one that wakes him up from his stupor, head swiveling around with barely open eyes. his first instinct is to grab for you, but the only thing he feels is a tiny, plump stomach.

when he opens his eyes wider, his infant daughter is laid next to him, sucking on her favorite binkie. her tiny hand is raised in the air.

you’re laying on the other side of her, passed out and face barely visible from beneath the pillow. he sighs and turns his body towards his daughter. “why are you hitting daddy, hm?” he asks, voice groggy and quiet so he won’t wake you. he knows how you are when you get woken up. “am i snoring again?”

his daughter simply blinks.

he can’t help but smile, pulling her close and laying her on his chest. “fine, fine. i’ll be quiet. it’s too late for you though, little munchkin. go to sleep so daddy can put you to bed.”

his daughter nuzzles her small face into his neck, causing her father to sigh wistfully. he feels himself going back to dreamland, face relaxing.

not even two minutes later, he’s snoring like a hog.

he’s awoken by another smack, harder this time.

MHA Fantasy AU Barbarian/Dragon Prince Katsuki Bakugo x Reader Story Idea

Really considering on writing this when I have the time.

Tell me what you guys think!

The idea is that reader is a princess who's father (the king) has made an arrangement for you to marry Katsuki as an arranged marriage for protection.

You had never met Katsuki in your life, but you had heard many rumors about him being a brutal brute who raids villages and kills innocent people anywhere he goes.

You of course have no other choice but go through with it for the good of the kingdom.

Before the wedding your father sends you to the fire lands to get acquainted with your to be husband for a few months.

Over the 3 months that you spend getting to know him, the two of you don't really get along too well, but you get him to cooperate with you since the two of you have to go through with this marriage, and the 2 of you end up falling in love in the time before the wedding!

Pairing: Muzan x f!reader.

Content: Part 2of 2. Approx 15.5k words. NSFW. Oral sex (reader receiving), vaginal sex, fingering, animal death, character death. Canon-typical violence and themes. Canon-divergence. Read Part 1 here

In Another Life- Part 2

Chapter 7

There was no world for Muzan beyond your tender flesh. The caress of your lips, your fingers in his hair, your body against his. Warm and oh, so fragile. His hand brushed slowly down your back, following the ridges and curves of your spine, all-too aware that he could snap it in two before your next heartbeat. 

And a voice in the back of his mind told him he should. 

How little it would take to be rid of you. But then, he was certain he never truly would be. No, not after tasting your lips, not after hearing your sigh of pleasure, or the way your breath caught beside his ear when his kisses trailed down your jaw to the delicate skin of your throat. 

He was ruined, and you, vexing creature, were the source of it all. 

What was going through your mind, he wondered. Were you in crisis as he was, wondering whether you should put a stop to it. It was improper. If the pair of you were discovered, you might assume your reputation was destroyed. And yet, you didn’t seem to care. Your hands grasped him with just as much fervor as he allowed himself to exert upon you, your fingers at the back of his head, not just running through his hair, but holding his mouth to your neck, encouraging him to continue. 

Demanding. 

That was it, you were so very demanding. And Muzan was only too pleased to obey your unspoken commands. He kissed where you wordlessly instructed him to, his tongue following the throbbing path of your veins, every caress of his lips an act of pure worship. 

A war raged on inside him; the desire to please you, pitted against the instinctive urge to tear you asunder for your audacity. What power did you believe you had over him? And why did he yield to it as though you were the demon and he the mortal? 

It was wrong. It was against the order of things, and yet, he could not stop it. He let you take his hand, guiding it to your thigh, the fabric of your yukata slipping away so easily to reveal your bare flesh to him. 

“Are you certain?” he heard himself asking, his voice like that of a pitiful mortal man. 

“No,” you replied with a slight chuckle. His kisses had rendered you breathless, your face flushed with arousal. It excited him beyond measure. “And yes, Tsukihiko, I am.”

That accursed name. He wished beyond anything he had simply given you his true name the moment he met you. How he longed to hear you gasp it as his fingers slipped beneath the damp layer of your underwear. Slick and swollen with arousal, so responsive to his caress. Hands capable of tearing flesh from bone stroked your core with such gentleness he hardly recognized them as his own. 

And fuck, the sound you made at his touch; relief and pleasure carried on a broken breath, your lips hovering agonizingly close, then suddenly frantic against his as you pulled him back to you. This dance. He knew the steps so well. So many days he had been too weak to please you with his cock or his tongue, so his fingers had had to suffice. But gods, you never seemed to care. He knew your body like he knew his own, knew the pressure you liked, the pace. He knew exactly the curse you would mutter against his ear when he pressed two fingers inside you, and found himself smiling when his hypothesis proved right. 

He knew you.

And he was helpless. In a thousand years, he had not felt anything akin to the rush of blood pooling at his core, he had not uttered a single sound as desperate as the whine which escaped him when you pulled your lips from his just for a moment to draw air. How pitifully mortal you rendered him. 

How beautifully you destroyed him.

“Tsukihiko, I’m…”

That name again. If he could pull it from the air he would tear it to shreds and burn it so that he would never hear you utter it again. “Hm?”

“Don’t stop…”

He couldn’t. No matter how his pride snarled at him for following orders, he couldn’t stop if he tried. The demon king bowed to your command, his thumb devoutly stroking your clit, feeling your cunt clench around his fingers as you chased your high. And he needed it. Needed you.

“Yes…” he gasped, as though your pleasure was his, as though there was nothing in the world that could satisfy him more than your ecstasy. Not a means to walk in the sun, not blood or flesh, not an end to those who opposed him. You. Your bliss. Your breath. Your lips. “Come. Please…”

You came undone at that, fingers gripping the flesh of his forearm, cries muffled against his lips. On and on, you tensed and quivered and cursed beneath your breath.

Oh, how he adored the way you fell apart, so familiar, so utterly beautiful. “Perfect. I’ve longed for you. Longed to… to hold you…” The words spilled from his lips before he had a chance to consider how they sounded. Surely you would think he had lost his mind.

But you simply smiled, pressing your forehead against his chin as you fought to regain your composure and rein in your breaths. “Hold me for as long as you like.”

He couldn’t though. Not the way he wanted to at that moment, because you simply didn’t have an eternity to be held at your disposal. 

It was near dawn when he returned to the Infinity Fortress, his heart thundering in his ears, a pressure at his temples making him feel as though his head would explode. His lips tingled from the intensity of your kisses, his skin shivered as it lamented the loss of your touch. It was absurd, infuriating, maddening, enraging. 

His fingers flexed in the empty air, longing to feel you beneath them once more; your heat, your delicate mortality, you. 

As he stalked through the ever-shifting hallways, the castle molded to his needs and led him to the room which held the accursed vase he had put back together so long ago. He had to end it, forget you, destroy the memories and you along with them. 

“Foolish,” he spat, gripping it by the rim and preparing to hurl it into the abyss opening up in the center of the floor for just such a purpose. 

And there he stood, motionless, holding the vase you had fawned over on the day of your wedding a thousand years ago. Layered in silks of purest white, as though the rays of the sun had fallen for your beauty and draped themselves elegantly over your frame. 

He hadn’t known you then. He didn’t particularly want to.  In fact, he hadn’t wanted to take a wife at all. He was nothing but a sulking boy with a sickly body exhausted simply from the act of dressing formally and complaining all the while. Oh, how he had glared as you spent far too long thanking people for their gifts, mooning over that damnable vase like it was something fit for an empress. 

He’d wanted to smash it then and there, but doing so, he told himself, would ensure the marriage was irrevocably doomed. And how right he had been. The day he finally broke it was the day he took your life. 

Muzan scowled. 

Her life. 

He could not believe what his foolish heart told him. He could not believe the yearning cries of a soul which did not even exist. She was dead. You, for the time being, lived, and for the meantime, he could allow himself the indulgence of pleasure at least. He would permit himself to use you. 

Drawing a slow breath, he set the vase down back on its stand and stepped away from it. “Yes. That’s all it is. It means nothing and it is mine to take. That’s all there is to it.”

But even as he spoke he knew it was a lie. 

In truth, he felt the thread between you wound oh so tightly around his heart. And he knew there were only two choices before him: admit his true nature, or pretend to be Tsukihiko forever. Because he could not, would not give you up.

And neither one of the choices were possible. 

▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎

Tsukihiko came to you the next night, and the next night, and the next. Each night began with conversation and ended with kisses and pleasure; his fingers skillfully coaxing your climax while he kissed you as though you were the love of his life. 

He was pleasant to be around, gentle, polite, and so devoted to your pleasure. One night as you kissed, your hand wandered down to his groin, pressing against the bulge tenting the loose fabric of his hakama. 

Gods, the sudden hitch of his breath, the way he twitched as though he hadn’t been touched in forever, the choked back groan deep in his throat. He was addictive. And with Douma still missing and your pursuit of the demon king making no progress, there was nothing to do but indulge in your newfound vice. 

“I swear, I could taste nothing but your lips for an eternity and never crave another thing,” he whispered one night, weeks after the first as you lay together on your bed, limbs tangled, barely a hairsbreadth between your lips. 

You stroked back the silken waves of his hair, gazing into his eyes. What a curious hue they were, but their color was the least interesting thing about them. It was their softness, the reverence written across his face, a picture of adoration and awe. You couldn’t help but kiss him; first between those pretty eyes, then up to his hairline, down to his temple, his cheeks, his chin and on and on. And Tsukihiko laughed softly, luxuriating in your barrage of kisses, drinking in your affection like parched earth soaking up the first rains.

It did nothing to alleviate the pressure in your chest; the tightness gathering with every second you spent in his company which threatened to burst out. A declaration you would never be able to take back once you let it loose. But you did, you felt that. Love. Overwhelming, all-consuming, rendering everything beyond him dull and colorless. You loved him and that was disastrous.

Some part of you longed to run away from it all; the temple, the corps, the mission. You could take Tsukihiko’s hand and steal him away, find somewhere where the two of you could live forever in that state of perpetual bliss.

But it couldn’t be. 

Sorrow, sudden and sickening consumed you, causing you to pause your affections. You were a demon slayer, you reminded yourself, your job was to fight and quite possibly to die; to eliminate Muzan Kibutsuji no matter the cost. In all likelihood you would not grow old with your love at your side. And the sweet man gazing at you from the pillow with nothing but innocent concern etched across his face could never know. 

It was far better to let him live his life free of the knowledge of the monster who stalked the night. He was too beautiful, too pure, too lovely to ever even know the name Muzan Kibutsuji.

“What is it?” he asked, the warmth of his palm against your cheek easing you back to the present. “Is something troubling you?”

You shook your head. “No, everything is perfect.”

The concern in his eyes never waned, and he watched you for a moment, as though trying to read your thoughts. 

“I’m alright,” you assured him. 

“Perhaps it’s time you went to sleep. It’s getting late.”

He was right but the thought of him leaving to head to his own room wasn’t a happy one. “Just a little longer?”

“You ask as though I could ever deny you anything.” Shifting positions on the bed, he made room for you to lay at his side, your head resting on his chest as his fingertips skated softly against your brow, urging you to close your eyes. “I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

True to his word, when you finally awoke, late in the morning, he was gone. 

You remained in bed, nothing but the lingering scent of him on your pillow and the butterflies in your stomach giving any indication that he was ever there at all. Where he went during the day you had no idea. He was nowhere to be found within the temple. Many times you’d resolved to ask him, only to find yourself incapable of remembering to do so once his lips were pressed to yours. 

After dressing, you headed out to the garden where your crow, Mokutan, was waiting, strutting around the garden paths with a distinct swagger in his step. 

“Message from Master Ubuyashiki!” he cawed, tilting his head as you unfolded a square of cloth from the pouch dangling from your obi, revealing a sliced plum you’d stashed away for the bird. 

“Go on…”

The bird held up his foot, offering a small scroll of paper laced to his spindly leg. Evidently he was done talking, the plum taking precedence above all else. 

The message was written with a trembling hand, the Master’s sickness clearly growing worse as time progressed. “I am writing to tell you that, should you believe this mission to be a lost cause, I give you my full support for you to leave the temple. At present there have been no sightings of the demon, Douma, nor of Muzan Kibutsuji. You have done well and I do not wish for you to feel anything less than proud. Thank you for your bravery and for all that you have done to further our cause. Ubuyashiki Kagaya, master of the Demon Slayer Corps.”

Weeks ago those words might have come as a relief, but as your eyes scanned over the note again and again, dread billowed inside your chest. 

“Tsukihiko…”

“Is that your answer?” the crow quipped, flinging a slice of plum to the side and pouncing on it as though he was a hawk. “Favorite word! Tsukihiko. Mmh…Tsukihiko. Oh… Tsukihiko!”

A wave of heat washed over your head as the damnable bird rolled onto its back, repeating his name over and over, as though he’d roosted for the night outside your bedroom window and heard you in the throes of ecstasy. “What? No, that’s not my answer! I need… I need some time to consider. Will you stay closeby until tomorrow?”

“Oh, alright. But dried fish tomorrow! And cherries! And—”

“You’ll be well fed, don’t worry.” You rolled the message into a tight scroll and slipped it into your pouch.

“Food for Mokutan. Goodbye kisses for Tsukihiko!” Mokutan cackled before taking off to fly onto the temple’s roof. 

Curse the feathered shit. 

Still, he was right. You simply couldn’t spend the rest of your days idling at the temple. Yet again, you felt the need to remind yourself that you were a demon slayer. There was no room in your life for Tsukihiko. 

Leaving the temple was the right thing to do. You resolved to say goodbye to your friend that night, to advise him to get out of the temple and start a life far away where he might meet someone who could give him the love he deserved without restraint. 

Gods, but the thought of him loving another turned your blood to fire. 

Some selfish part of you wanted so badly to claim him, a nagging feeling that it was right he belonged to you. But he had already lost one wife. Losing a second was too cruel. You had to end it and delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to help anyone.

Mokutan sulked as you tied your response to his ankle that afternoon, accepting the Master’s invitation to abandon the mission. “No cherries. No fish…”

“I know, I know. Life is suffering, Mokutan,” you muttered. “We all must make sacrifices.”

He petulantly pecked your hand, and didn’t even talk back as he flew off to deliver the message. 

At sunset you returned to the garden to meet Tsukihiko for the last time, your heart heavy and your steps slower than they had been. You hardly looked up as you approached the maple tree which had become the habitual site of your rendezvous. 

And the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. A chill filled the air, snapping your attention toward the darkness surrounding the garden. Something was out there. Something terrible. 

“Hello, sweet thing,” a voice you knew all too well cooed from the shadows. “Goodness, how I’ve missed you.”

Douma smiled sweetly as he approached, wrapping his arms around you in a vice-like hug, lifting you effortlessly from the ground. 

“You came back…” you managed to say when he finally set you down, your mind racing. How far had Mokutan gotten, you wondered. Would he even think to return to the temple when you didn’t show up at the master’s mansion?

“I did. Oh, it’s so good to be home, my sweet thing, we have so much to talk about. But right now I’m so very concerned.” Douma’s heavy brows pinched as he held out his hand, where something black and fluffy lay across it. 

In the darkness it was near impossible to make out, so you held out your hand, your heart stilling as your fingertips brushed against sleek feathers. 

“It’s a crow,” he sighed forlornly, confirming your fear before unceremoniously tossing Mokutan’s broken little body into the dirt beneath the spider lilies. “A demon slayer’s crow. I caught it not a mile away from here.”

A nauseating terror rose in your throat, your vision blurring as your every instinct told you to run. But it was hopeless. You had no sword to fight with, no way to call for help. “A demon slayer?”

“Mhm, I think there could be one at the temple,” Douma whispered, his lips so close to your ear his breath tickled. “They aren’t good people, sweet thing. But don’t worry, I’ll find who it is and make sure they won’t hurt us. I won’t let any harm come to you.” His pointed fingernails caressed the curve of your cheek as he pulled back and smiled. “I’ll find them. I promise.”

Chapter 8.

Tsukihiko did not meet you beneath the maple tree that night. Douma’s return to the temple caused such a stir that you found yourself temporarily swept up in it, standing toward the back of the room as he joyously addressed his congregation. 

“I was away, searching for something very important. Oh, but I missed you all terribly. Your sweet faces. It’s so good to be home with you all!”

His smile was so wide, so seemingly genuine, that for a moment you forgot about the Lord Founder’s many masks. His apparent happiness and relief were contagious, spreading through the masses, every one of them elated to see their leader returned. For a fraction of a second, you were among them. 

That was his power, his ability to draw people to him, to disarm and comfort them even as he devoured them. And you balanced precariously on the edge of his trap as a sliver of fondness seeped through your armor and needled its way beneath your skin. It might have remained there, buried deep and barbed, were the image of poor Mokutan’s body not branded into your memory, reminding you that the beautiful man throwing children up into the air and hugging every one of his disciples as if they were his siblings, was in fact the third strongest and most brutal demon in the world. 

For the briefest moment, you swore you caught a glimpse of a familiar face among the cheering crowd. Tsukihiko with his ebony waves, rich, dark eyes, and that telltale sensation of a tether tugging at your heart as the crowd shifted and at once he was gone. 

Perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

But therein lay another problem. Douma was on the lookout for a demon slayer, which of course was you, but Tsukihiko behaved strangely, and should Douma begin to suspect him… Gods, the thought of that made you sick. What could you even do in that situation, you wondered. You had no sword, no way to call for help, no choice but to reveal yourself to the upper moon two and hope devouring your flesh satiated him long enough that Tsukihiko could escape. 

The thought of it turned your stomach. 

“Goodness, I’m so happy to be home,” Douma reiterated as the congregation eventually filed out of the room to begin preparing a feast fit to celebrate their leader’s return. 

You found yourself strangely relieved to be alone with him. It felt familiar. Comfortable. 

“It’s good to have you back.”

He sat down on his plump purple pillow and held out his arms. “Come, my friend. Tell me everything that’s happened while I was gone.”

“Oh but it’s been so boring without you,” you said with a smile, reaching out to take his hand but remaining on your feet rather than curling up into his arms as you had in the past. “I’ve had no one to talk to at all.”

He grinned, his smile sharper than a sickle. “Liar.”

Cold fear lanced you through the heart. “I’m sorry?”

Douma laughed, lying back on the pillow and pulling you with him as he stretched contentedly like a well fed tiger basking on a warm rock. You fell to your knees, stretched awkwardly across his chest, your arm still trapped in his vice-like grip. 

“They left a little love mark, right here,” he chuckled, tapping a finger to your neck. “Has my sweet thing found love among my disciples? Who is it? Oh no, please don’t tell me it’s Takeo…”

“It’s not Takeo. Besides, Takeo—”

“Thank goodness. Oh but how lovely! To think your heart is all a flutter for someone. It’s very sweet. And don’t worry, I don’t mind in the slightest. Make lots of babies with your love and we can all live together. I think that would be nice, wouldn't it?”

“Yes,” you said, the word trickling from your tongue with such ease. Because it wasn’t entirely untrue.

Within the walls of the temple, surrounded by gilded lies and lying in the arms of a monster, you had managed to find precious glimpses of happiness, of belonging you hadn’t known before.

Douma sighed. “I need to make sure you're safe. That's the most important thing. See, with a demon slayer in our midst your life is in danger.” He pondered and massaged his temples with his long, clawed fingers. “I don't think there's a demon slayer strong enough to take me down, but my followers… my favorite… The slayers are a ruthless, heartless bunch. If they think you're in league with me they won't hesitate to take your life too.”

Lies. All of it. You donned your mask. “What can we do?”

He regarded you with those opaline eyes, a distant smile lingering on his lips as though he'd forgotten to wipe it away. “I could make you stronger,” he suggested at last. “I could ask my master to give you the same gift he gave me.” 

The world stood still and a bone-deep chill spread through your body. “You mean, become a demon?”

“Yes!” he said brightly. “Of course, the decision would be entirely up to Lord Muzan– you’ll have to meet him and win his favor— but I’m sure if I put in a good word for you he’ll agree. That way we can protect each other, and we’ll be strong enough together to protect your love and all the innocent people here in the temple from the slayer. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

The window you had waited so patiently for had opened. Finally, after months, you had an opportunity to meet Muzan Kibutsuji, to discover his whereabouts. But with Mokutan dead, you had no way of relaying that information back to Master Ubuyashiki unless you delivered it yourself. 

But it was your duty to seize the chance. Even if it was a distant hope, even if it meant the end of your life. Even if it meant sacrificing your love for Tsukihiko. 

Douma was kind enough to give you the night to consider his proposal, a night you spent alone, tormented by false hope and grim realizations. Tsukihiko was nowhere to be found, but perhaps that was for the best. Your love for him had only ever been a dream, the foolish hope of a heart condemned to death one way or another. And so instead of spending the night in the arms of your lover, you spent what might have been your last night alive planning a way to get the information back to Ubuyashiki. 

If Muzan agreed and turned you into a demon all hope was lost. Demons were unwaveringly loyal to their progenitor and you knew that once your soul belonged to Kibutsuji, you would not relay his location to the demon slayer corps. If you were devoured there was no hope either. It seemed unlikely he would refuse and simply allow you to return to your life with the knowledge which could spell his demise.

Only one path lay open to you, and the thought of it chilled you. 

If you were to delay your inevitable death long enough to reveal Muzan’s stronghold, you would have to win him over. And the only way to do that, you were certain, would be to reveal yourself as a slayer and offer Muzan something he craved even more than flesh. You would have to tempt him with something so tantalizing he couldn’t afford to kill you right away, and only then might he give you vital time needed to get word to the Demon Slayer Corps.

You would have to offer him Master Ubuyashiki. 

▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎

“My dear lord Muzan, I have a proposal—” Douma began.

“You have returned empty-handed,” Muzan glowered as Upper Moon Two grinned idiotically at him from the steaming onsen at the back of his temple. “You were not to return until you found the blue spider lily.”

“But I searched, my lord. I promise I did. I even asked mortals if they’d seen any sign of it but none of them had. Aww… you’re cross with me, aren’t you? I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, how’s that?”

Muzan rested his fingertips lightly on his eyelids and tried to massage away some of the urge to destroy the buffoon. Such an act would only diminish his ranks, he reminded himself. 

Instead, he slipped off his yukata and stepped into the water, allowing the heat of the spring to relax his body and ease away the tension. As a mortal he had enjoyed the steam of the onsen; a temporary relief wearing down the sharp edges of his pain, and it seemed that not even a thousand years had taken away from that simple pleasure even if he was no longer hurting or fragile.

“See? Isn’t this nice?” Douma sighed, resting the back of his head against the edge of the pool. “Life doesn’t have to be all business.”

“Actually mortal businessmen do this too,” Muzan muttered. “They bathe together and discuss their ventures at the same time.”

“That sounds like a great way to ruin a bath.”

Muzan chuckled monosyllabically. Douma, for once, was correct. Talking to the fool only disrupted the peace. “You’re right. Let’s not speak.”

Whatever proposal Douma had felt the need to divulge earlier was quickly forgotten, and the two demons basked in comfortable silence. 

Though in the stillness, his thoughts wandered to you, and that was just as infuriating as constant chatter. He should not have cared, but the thought of you waiting for him and realizing as the minutes passed by that he would not visit you that night, made him more uncomfortable than he cared to admit. Was your heart aching, he wondered. Were you craving his touch, his kiss, him as ardently as he craved you. 

He had half a mind to send Douma away again, to invite you to the onsen with him instead and enjoy your warmth along with the water. To feel your gentle hands against his chest, your lips against his throat. 

It pained him not to come to you, and that in and of itself was reason enough to stay away.

Finally, with a contented sigh, Douma climbed out of the water and materialized his clothing, “Well, I feel invigorated but I’ve worked up an appetite. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to choose one from my flock?” he offered. “You’re awfully pale, my lord. I don’t think you’re eating enough.”

Muzan’s eye twitched. Those words were never well received. “I’ve fed enough. Begone.”

“Oh alright, but tomorrow I’ll introduce you to—”

“Nakime.” Muzan commanded, and in an instant the fool was removed from his presence. 

In the silence of the night, Muzan found peace. He remained in the onsen, allowing the warmth to cocoon him. If he closed his eyes, he could picture the sun, imagine its rays pooling around him, not deathly as they were to demons, but comforting, welcoming, soothing. 

And in his fantasy you lay beside him on the sun-warmed grass, gazing at him with those eyes, full of adoration and affection, tormenting him by adorning his hair with a crown of red leaves and pink flowers. 

“You’re absurd,” he chided you, though there was no venom behind it. He had no intention of stopping you. 

Muzan’s brow furrowed. Was it fantasy or memory? The two had often tangled since he met you. Her face and yours had merged in his mind to create one inseparable entity. 

“Well well… and here I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the earth.”

Muzan’s eyes shot open and he whirred around to face you, his pulse thundering. Never once in a thousand years had anyone been able to surprise him so. The air was ripe with your scent, your footsteps near deafening on the graveled pathway. And yet you had gone unnoticed, standing but a few feet away from him while he bathed. Had he allowed his senses to become so dulled by you? Had he grown so comfortable around you?

“It’s late,” was the only coherent thought he managed to summon into words. “You should be asleep.”

You shrugged, the shawl about your shoulders slipping ever so slightly. “I couldn’t sleep. Besides, you’re one to talk.” 

“I suppose I am.”

You smiled halfheartedly. Something was troubling you, and it pained him to imagine he could be the cause. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to you—”

“No, it’s alright. I assumed with the Lord Founder’s return causing such a stir you’d simply gotten caught up in the celebration. I didn’t expect to see you at all.”

“I’m not one for parties,” Muzan replied. “And the onsen was calling my name.”

You nodded in understanding, walking to the edge of the water and crouching to dip your fingertips beneath the surface. A shiver ran through Muzan’s body; a deep ache he had yet to grow accustomed to, one he long thought himself immune from. The desire to be touched, to be close to you, the desire to be held and pleasured. And the desire to give pleasure in return. 

“How did you know where to look for me?” he asked, transfixed by the movement of your fingers beneath the water.

“I didn’t. I just wandered.”

His throat tightened. Was the universe so intent on tormenting him that it insisted on delivering you to him? “Do you want to join me?” 

Your eyebrows dipped in contemplation, no doubt engaged in that frustratingly human conflict between doing what you wanted and what was expected.  “We might be seen…”

“And?” 

You narrowed your eyes at his lack of concern for propriety, and Muzan found himself chuckling, but your expression soon faded into fondness. 

“You wicked man,” you whispered with a smile. “I have nothing to dry myself with anyway, as tempted as I am. I’ll sit on the edge and put my feet in, is that an adequate compromise?”

“So long as you’re happy,” he said, offering his hand to you as you sat on the edge of the pool, lifting the bottom of your yukata to midway up your thighs to dip your legs into the water. 

Your skin was only bared to him for a moment before his lips were tracing the length of your shins, his pride all but forgotten in your presence. Whatever power you held over him, he surrendered to it readily, gentle kisses turning heated as you ran your fingers through his dampened curls and offered your palm to his lips. 

Despite your insistence that he had caused no harm, there was something troubling you; he wasn’t so far detached from humanity that he couldn’t sense it. There was a desperation to you he hadn’t felt before when you reciprocated his kiss, parting your thighs to make space for him, not caring one bit if your clothes got soaked when he pressed his body against yours. 

You were sad. That was it. Your heart was breaking. And the thought that it was because he had neglected to come to you in favor of speaking to his subordinate did not sit comfortably with him. 

“Forgive me,” he whispered, as though those words were easy to utter. “Let me make it up to you.”

His kisses trailed down your body, one hand on your belly urging you to lay back with a gentleness he hardly knew he possessed. Yet you resisted, stubborn creature that you were, in favor of watching him as he slid away your undergarments and pressed the first devout kiss to your cunt, your breath hitching at the sudden spark of pleasure deep within your core. 

And gods, at that first taste of you, at the sound of your fractured breath, he was undone, the meek demeanor of Tsukihiko shedding away fully. Again and again he kissed you; his tongue caressing, tasting, teasing, pursuing your bliss with all the tenacity of a rabid beast.

So soft, so tender, flesh more exquisite than any he’d ever known. Your taste was like nothing else. Gods, how he’d missed it. 

He stifled your cries against his palm, the ache of his arousal gnawing at him, yet he ignored it in favor of your pleasure. Dragging the flat of his tongue along the length of your slit again and again, he licked you until your nectar dripped from his chin and you quivered beneath him. And then he lapped at your clitoris, surrounded it with his lips and kissed it with fervent hunger, enraptured by every frantic pulse of your sex. Until at last you cried in ecstasy, tensed and throbbed beneath his mouth, tugged sharply on his hair and squirmed in his arms, signaling for him to stop. 

And stop he did, eyes wide and wild and far too demonic, claws and fangs bared without restraint. Thank goodness you were still out of your mind with pleasure and he had time to compose himself before you sat up and pulled him to you, kissing him like it was the last kiss the two of you would ever share. 

What a fool he was to have believed that he could stay away from you. 

“Am I forgiven?” he asked between heated kisses as your fingers tangled in his hair and your trembling legs wrapped around his waist. 

“There was never anything to forgive,” you assured him, the gentle caress of your palm across his cheek, granting him more solace than he had felt in centuries. 

He felt himself smile, genuinely, without restraint, gazing into your eyes. “You’re soaked.”

“Yes, you saw to that,” you replied, glancing down at the wet cloth of your yukata. “Now I suppose there’s no reason for me to avoid getting into the onsen with you, is there?”

“No,” Muzan said, pulling loose the knot of your obi. “None at all.”

Chapter 9. 

The water of the onsen was black and infinite, and in the gentle abyss you found much needed comfort. 

Tsukihiko’s arms wrapped firmly around your waist, your taste lingering on his lips, your name whispered into their heated air between kisses. 

He was perfection, there was no other word for it; a man far too beautiful to be human but too vulnerable to be anything else. His heart was tender, healing, and he offered it to you with such aching sincerity you simply could not refuse.  He gazed at you with reverence as you perched on a rock ledge beneath the water, caging his hips between your thighs.

“Are you certain?” he asked, his lack of concern for propriety overridden by his constant desire to do right by you. Tsukihiko, you were rapidly learning, secretly believed the world owed him a favor, but never you. You owed him nothing. Everything, every gesture, every word, every kiss, was received like a gift he saw no entitlement to. 

He was beautiful,  wonderful, frustratingly perfect, and you had to let him go. 

Still, you saw no harm in modeling his behavior for the night. If you were to die at the hands of Muzan Kibutsuji in an effort to rid the world of demons, the least the world owed you was one night of pleasure. 

“Yes,” you said, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear and eliciting an almost feral growl at the back of your lover's throat. “I want to fuck you.”

Bracing your hands on the pool’s edge, you allowed yourself a moment’s indulgence, basking in the simple pleasure of Tsukihiko’s lips against your neck, the sharp pinch of his teeth against your flesh, and the excitement of knowing his control was slipping because of you.

He bowed his back, trailing his kisses lower, cupping your left breast in his hand and mouthing at your nipple with clumsy desperation, moaning softly as you put your head back and sighed in pleasure. 

The man was intoxicated by you, besotted, a shuddering breath escaping him as he rocked his hips, allowing his cock to slide back and forth along the length of your slit, his foreskin drawn back over his fat tip, rubbing against your clit so deliciously. He groaned against your breast as he teased the two of you, savoring the intimacy and the build-up until he could stand it no longer. And then he pressed the head of his cock against the opening of your cunt. There was a slight resistance as he eased into you, the water of the onsen had washed away most of your wetness, but your body gave way to accommodate him. A shiver ran through you both as he pushed inside and bottomed out with a groan. Perfect. He felt perfect. As though the two of you were made to be lovers. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve craved you,” he whispered, his face nestled in the space between your neck and your shoulder. “How many nights I’ve yearned to feel your touch once more.”

“I’ve craved you too,” you told him, “I want you so badly.”

Not just then, but always. You wanted to spend every night in his arms, yearned to grow old with him, longed to steal back every moment the cruel world demanded you sacrifice for people who would never even know your name or the magnitude of your deeds. 

You surrendered your hold on the pool’s edge to hold him, and the moment he felt your arms slide around his back, the muscles beneath your fingers flexed as he shifted his grip. Broad hands swept down the length of your spine to cup the flesh of your backside and his hips began to move.

Slow, savoring movement, grinding his pelvis against yours, chasing your pleasure above his own. 

You opened your eyes to find him watching your expression, seemingly fascinated by you, as if committing every detail of you to memory. 

“Like this?” he asked. “Is this what you want?”

It was perfect, as if he knew your body like he knew his own. And yet the night might have been your last, so you issued him with a simple command. “More.”

His lips curved into a feral smile, the sharp tips of his canines revealed in the pale moonlight. “More?”

“Don’t hold back.”

And he didn’t. 

He braced his knee on the ledge beside your thigh, giving himself leverage to thrust without restraint. And Gods, what pleasure then, his strength unlike any lover you’d known before. He was relentless, bestial, rutting against you, hard, fast, every sharp thrust punctuated by a breathless cry that never left the back of his throat; “Huh-uh-uh-” 

Nothing else mattered, not in that moment. Just the relentless pounding of his hips, the pinch of his nails digging into the flesh of your back as he dragged you out of the onsen and onto the smooth rocks at its shore where his strokes were unhampered by the water. You bucked your hips beneath him, meeting his stroke, rewarded by a guttural cry and the exquisite pain of his teeth pressing into the flesh of your shoulder. 

“Fuck. Oh fuck!” you cried out in agony and bliss. 

He tried to pull back, but you held him in place, pushing his head back down, urging him to bite harder. In pleasure there was solace. In pain there was catharsis. 

He brought you to the very precipice with him, his body trembling in your arms as he came undone. And he remained sheathed inside you even after his orgasm passed, one hand cradling the back of your head as the onsen’s waters lapped at your feet, only the slightest, slowest thrust breaking the stillness between you. With every languid grind of his hips, you couldn’t help but moan against his lips, the pleasure overwhelming, lingering. He pulled back to watch you, eyes dancing across your features.

“More?” he asked.

“Yes. Don’t stop.”

Your word was his command. He pistoned his hips again and again, his cock still unfathomably hard, fucking you with such desperation it seemed as though he too knew it would be the first and last time for you both. And you were both so greedy for each other, your nails raking across his shoulders, his teeth bared against your throat. You no longer cared if you were heard or seen. You silently cursed the world for demanding you rescind the happiness you had found in his arms, and scorned it with every fevered kiss. 

And when your pleasure peaked he held you firm, surrounding you with his arms and holding you as your cries of pleasure faded and all that remained in the stark silence of the night was your breath and his, and the whispered declarations it hurt you to hear. 

“I love you,” he said, tenderly kissing the aching spot on your shoulder that bore the marks of his teeth, “So very much.”

“Tell me I’m yours,” you said.

“You are. And I belong to you.”

And that was enough. 

Later, he brought you to your room, his curls still dripping as he bid you goodnight, kissing you softly on the cheek before he parted and leaving an unbearable emptiness in his wake. 

I love you too, you longed to call out to him. 

But it was done. It was over. 

A fitting goodbye.

You dressed in dry clothes and left your room, making your way to Douma’s quarters where the air was thick and heavily perfumed. His rooms were a separate temple all to their own, devoted to nothing but his enjoyment and pure opulence. The demon reclined contentedly on a mountain of silk pillows, sucking smoke from his waterpipe. 

He grinned as you approached. “Well, well my sweet thing. You smell just lovely tonight. I trust your lover treated you well?”

“I’m ready, Douma,” you said, causing his smile to widen.

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want to become a demon.” 

For years you had trained as a slayer, working to master your breathing and control the flow of strength to your body. And it took all of that training to steady your heart, to remain calm, to force the words from your lips and ensure they sounded genuine. You focused on that, on the mission, bristling with anticipation, attempting to prepare yourself to face the king of all demons. No matter how horrific he was to look at, you had to adore him. No matter how cruel his words, you would let them wash over you and dangle the promise of information too tempting to ignore before his rancid snout. 

You steeled your nerve and cemented your fate. “I want to meet your master and become one of you.”

▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎

A short walk from the temple a man lay dead, his lifeless eyes still pleading for mercy even after his heart had ceased to beat. It was meaningless. Muzan wasn’t hungry, the man had not insulted him or committed any crime beyond simply crossing the demon king’s path as he stalked through the mountains in search of… of what?

Muzan’s body could recover from injury in an instant. Blades, arrows, wisteria flowers; the pain they inflicted was momentary, more a nuisance than anything. But you, the ache you caused. That was pure agony. 

He continued his walk, hoping that the mountain air might offer clarity. 

A light shone in the temple below, cradled by the darkness of the valley, and he found himself wondering if it was you. Were you lying in your room with your lamp still lit, recalling the passion you had shared in perfect detail as he was. Did your heart lunge too whenever you thought of him? Did your blood burn for him as his did for you?

And what was he going to do with you? That was the most pressing matter of all. He had deceived humans before, charmed and manipulated them for his own gain without ever revealing his true nature. And those who had come to know what he was usually cursed his name, screamed in terror and tried to run. 

The thought of you running from him was enough to cause his jaw to clench. He could never reveal his true nature to you. Nor was it necessary. 

It would be so easy to live beside you undetected for the rest of your mortal life, aging his body on purpose so you would never suspect what he was. He would remain Tsukihiko until you died in his arms, loved and comforted by a lifetime of lies, whispering a name that was not his.

But then what? What void would you leave behind for him to dwell within.

Frustration simmered in his veins as he raised his hands to cover his face and growled against his palms. No. He would not watch you die. He would not be left alone when you slipped away from him. 

“You are mine,” he muttered as though you stood beside him. “And I will not let this accursed world tear you from my side. I will find the blue spider lily and perfect my immortality, and then I will find a way for you to defy death alongside me. Not a demon but something else.”

After all the cruelty the world had inflicted on him, it owed him that at least. It owed him you. And if it did not hand you to him willingly, he would tear the world asunder until it surrendered you. 

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, he tried to make sense of the veritable bramble thicket his thoughts had become. Barbs in every direction, yet when he was with you the world seemed not only simpler, but softer than he had ever known it to. 

One thing was certain, he would have to convince you to leave the temple and away from Douma. The upper moon had a preference for devouring women like you, and Muzan would not risk that. 

“Simple enough. Tomorrow night I will ask you to run away with me, marry me, and begin our domestic pantomime.”

The words were ash on his tongue. 

He wasn’t quite sure why he returned to the temple before dawn rather than seeking the sanctuary of his fortress, other than a simple yet infuriating desire to remain somewhat close to you a while longer. 

He wandered the gardens for a time, noticing most of the flowers had gone, no doubt withering away to nothing as the year drew to a close. The maple tree which had become your meeting point was beginning to drop its leaves and he sat beneath it for a time, watching insects crawl amongst the foliage until they noticed his presence and scurried away with an urgency they didn’t even afford to humans. 

Centuries ago there had been a tree just like it in the garden of his estate, its crimson boughs visible from his bedroom on the days he could stand to have the window open. On the worst days that tree had been the goal for the sickly mortal boy he had been. 

“If you feel better tomorrow we could try to sit beneath the maple,” you’d said, massaging an astringent balm onto his back which some quack had promised was a miracle cure and charged him an extortionate sum. “The sunlight will do you good.”

The pain was unbearable that day. Even drawing breath was agony. “Fuck the sun. And be gentle. Your hands feel like ox hooves.”

Such careful, gentle touches. Such patient love cruelly branded onto his soul so he could never escape you. 

“Lord Muzan!” 

Muzan’s jaw clenched as Douma’s voice carried across the garden, the upper moon beaming as he approached. Perhaps he would return to the infinity fortress after all. 

“Isn’t the garden beautiful tonight?” Douma said, “I’m so pleased you’ve been spending so much time here lately.”

“Not for much longer,” Muzan said, rising to his feet in one graceful movement.

“Awh, really? That’s a pity. Well, in that case let me give you a parting gift.”

The demon king arched a skeptical brow. “What is it?”

“A surprise, one you’re going to love, I'm certain.” 

Muzan despised surprises, but knowing Douma as he did, the gift could be anything ranging between a severed head to the damned blue spider lily formula perfectly recreated. Besides, if the demon displeased him, tearing off his limbs and beating him with them till sunrise might’ve been somewhat therapeutic. 

“This way!” Douma grinned, leading him into the temple’s main building, to the curtained off area you and he had once sat together in and talked over dinner. 

The curtains were sheer enough for him to make out the vague form of a woman dressed all in white, the upper moon’s penchant for opulence and drama applied to full effect. The floor was scattered with petals. The smoke of incense coiled from the burners, peppering the air and clouding his senses. 

“What is this?” Muzan demanded to know. “Douma…”

“She knows what we are, my lord. She isn’t afraid. And she wants to become one of us.” Douma’s elegant hands curled around the pulley cord of the curtain, parting the swathes of fabric with a gentle tug.

And there you stood, dressed all in white silk the way you had been the first time he laid eyes on you a thousand years ago. 

And the world once again stood still. 

Chapter 10. 

It was a joke. It had to be. You’d spent so long in Douma’s company you’d almost forgotten how cruel he could be.

Tsukihiko stared back at you, dumbfounded, his eyes widening at the sight of you draped in silk so fine you might have spent your entire life never knowing what it felt like beneath your fingertips if not for Douma’s sick little joke. 

You were dressed all in white, Tsukihiko in black; two halves of a whole. Pieces in a game only Douma seemed to know the rules to.

Whatever the upper rank demon had planned, you had to get that innocent man to safety no matter the cost. Your mind whirred with half-conjured, insufficient plans.

“Isn’t she lovely?” Douma was saying, his arm slipping comfortably across your shoulders before he whispered softly into your ear. “My sweet thing, this is Lord Muzan. He can make you into a demon like us, and then you’ll become strong and live forever…”

“Douma…” Tsukihiko said, his voice low and quietly commanding.

“Hm? Yes, my lord?” the demon at your side turned, smiling… obeying. 

“Leave.”

“Oh!” Douma gleefully clapped his hands. “Lord Muzan!! I knew you’d love her!”

Your lover’s eyes were burning red like hot coals, his pupils slitted like those of a cat. The air itself seemed to shiver and recoil, leaving your lungs completely empty. 

“Tsukihiko?” you whispered, a desperate plea, but even as you uttered his name you knew it was wrong. Some part of you had always known.

The man in black took a step toward you, still every bit as beautiful as he had always been. And yet, the demon at your side called him by the name of your sworn enemy. And he did not correct him. 

“Your name is Muzan?” you asked, the pounding of your pulse throbbing in your ears as you tried to keep your voice steady.

He paused, his lips parting slightly, as though he’d waited so long to hear you speak his name. “Yes.”

The acrid tang of bile rose in your throat and the world tilted beneath your feet. The fires of hell licked at your skin and lit the threads of your veins like a fuse. “Muzan Kibutsuji.”

His eyes widened at the sound of his full name, his breath audibly catching. “How did… oh…” The light in his eyes blazed with malicious intent as he stepped closer still. “I see.”

The air between you pulsed with danger and the desperate plea of your aching, foolish heart. It could not be real. You were dreaming. You had to be. The man you loved could not be Muzan Kibutsuji. 

Douma remained at your side, his shimmering eyes darting between the two of you before he released a pensive, “Huh…”

At once, Muzan’s eyes snapped toward the unwelcome audience, and faster than you could blink, the upper moon was gone along with his temple. 

You and Muzan stood facing each other in a room lit by the golden glow of electric lamps. The paper walls glowed a comforting amber as the air around you shifted and groaned. Pristine tatami mats padded the reddish cedar floorboards, soft and comfortable underfoot, but completely without scent. Beyond the windows sat another building, though its architecture made no sense. Walls upon walls, staircases which led nowhere, pathways one would have to defy gravity to walk. 

“The Infinity Fortress,” Muzan said in answer to your unspoken question. “We can talk without anyone else listening.”

You could talk, yes, but what to say? How could you put the maelstrom thrashing around in your heart and mind into words? Your lips parted, preparing to vent some of the pressure building in your throat but no sound came. 

“You’re a demon slayer?” Muzan said, more a statement than a question. “One of Ubuyashiki’s hounds sent to sniff me out.”

“You're Muzan Kibutsuji,” was all you could say in reply, painfully aware of how childish you sounded, whispering the demon’s name into the space between you. But in truth, it was the only way you could make sense of it all. Tsukihiko was gone— no, the man you’d loved had never even existed. It was all a lie and you needed to hate the monster that took his shape. 

A soft hum emerged from the demon king as he turned his back to you and walked toward a simple wooden chest, placing his hands gently on either side and opening it. “The Infinity Fortress is the domain of one of my demons. She obeys my command. I asked her to place us in a room with all that we needed to have this conversation.” He turned back to face you, a sheathed sword in his hand. “It appears our first lovers’ quarrel will be a bloody one.”

“We are not lovers,” you spat, lightning crackling through your veins as the demon tossed the sword to the ground by your feet.

“No?”

You crouched to pick up the blade, not daring even to blink. Even armed you stood no chance against the demon king. It was suspected that the combined strength of every hashira wasn’t even enough to defeat him. But the sword in your hand was solid and familiar, something to cling to as those plum-colored eyes watched you through slitted pupils.

“It won’t even hurt you, will it?” you asked bitterly. 

“No.”

“Then why give it to me?”

“So you can at least say that you fought.”

The moment you pulled the blade from its sheath he moved to strike, your reflexes kicking in and your blade tearing through the sleeve of his yukata. Crimson blood pooled in the slit causing your throat to close. That blood was the source of all that was evil and demonic in the world. And it was also the essence of the man you loved, a man you never wanted to harm. 

No, you had to stop thinking like that. That man had never existed and the thing which stood before you deserved to bleed. 

As soon as the wound opened it healed.

“Tell me then,” Muzan said. “Has your master stooped so low as to order his slayers to seduce his enemy now?”

“What are you talking about?”

His expression darkened as the lips that had kissed you with such devout tenderness curled back to reveal his fanged teeth. A clawed hand darted out toward you, your blade meeting his wrist with a sickening thud. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t continue his attack either. 

“For centuries the Ubuyashiki family has hunted me, doing all that they can to prevent me from discovering the whereabouts of the blue spider lily. But it seems he is even more malicious and cruel than I gave him credit for.” 

A black vine burst from the back of his hand, barbed and vicious as it wrapped around your wrist, tethering you to him. A sharp spike of pain radiated from the only thorn pointing inward and pricking your skin, drawing a single drop of your blood. 

 “I was not sent to seduce you, I didn’t even know you would be at the temple. My mission was to befriend Douma and have him tell me the whereabouts of your stronghold.” 

His eyes narrowed, the vine around your wrist tightening and dragging you toward him. “I believe you.”

The vine retreated, creating the perfect opening to strike. Your blade sliced through the air, cutting the flesh of his thigh before he blocked it, the impact of his forearm jarring yours like slamming into rock. 

Again and again you struck, and again and again he fought back, his moves thinly veiled attempts to block under the guise of an attack. You fought with everything you had, your frustration reaching its boiling point as your attacks did nothing. All your training, your experience, all your fury and skill were nothing, not even a mild inconvenience. 

“You’re toying with me,” you hissed. “You could kill me in an instant.”

He said nothing, but struck toward your chest, the collision of his fist against your sternum enough to knock the air from your lungs and send you staggering backward. Your backside hit the tatami mats with a heavy thud. And you could barely move your sword, the fatigue sudden and all consuming as you flopped exhausted onto your back. 

Suddenly he was staring down at you, his face a picture of neutrality. Before you came to the temple, the thought of facing Muzan Kibutsuji alone would have chilled you to the bone, but as you stared up at him, you didn’t feel a single shred of fear. Only… sorrow and something else. Anger. That was it. Gods, you wanted to tear the castle to splinters with your bare hands.

As if hearing your wish, the floor gave way beneath you, sending you plummeting headfirst through an endless abyss. Darkness surrounded you, the air rushing past your ears, the only other soul in that infinite pit the demon king himself. He fell with you, composed, upright, gripping your blade in his hands so tight his blood sprayed from his palms and into the air as he guided the sword to the pale skin of his throat. 

“When we land, you can use the momentum to remove my head,” he said.

“Would that work?”

“Not for me, no. But perhaps for you.”

The very sight of him incensed you. Your lips had traced every inch of his face, those hands had held you so gently. In your weakest moments you had mapped out a life with him despite some part of you knowing it could never be. You knew him. You loved him. And he loved you.

“Was it real?” you demanded to know. “Any of it?”

He looked back at you, and with utmost sincerity he tore your heart completely in two, “All of it. Every moment.”

With a flick of your wrist, your sword tumbled into the darkness and away from his throat. The two of you slammed into the ground, far softer than such a fall should have allowed, but with enough force to wind you again. 

Your fragmented breaths were the only thing breaking the heavy silence between you, the agony spreading throughout your entire body. And silently you cursed him, cursed your master for sending you on the mission and the hashira who first whispered the idea into his ear. You cursed Douma and the fools who gathered in his temple unknowingly praying for death. And above all else you cursed the world for making Muzan Kibutsuji, the demon king, for taking the man you loved and turning him into a monster. 

“It was real for me too,” you said at last, eliciting a bitter chuckle from the demon's lips as he lay at your side. 

But it couldn’t be. You knew it as well as you knew the sun would rise in the morning whether you were still a part of the world or not. It was wrong to love him. He was not a man but a demon; vile, cruel, the epitome of evil.

He had to be, because if he wasn’t, then perhaps it meant that you were. 

“Raise your sword, slayer,” he said, rising to his feet and observing you from above like you were a specimen on a microscope he needed to understand to make sense of everything. “Your heart is still so full of rage.”

Your hand trembled weakly as it searched the floorboards beneath you, until it finally wrapped around the hilt of the discarded blade. Every muscle in your arm screamed for rest. But he was right, you needed to go on, to fight, to resist, if only to say you did.

With a groan you rolled onto your front, your trembling arms lifting you from the ground, only to collapse beneath you. That low, thoughtful hum you’d come to know so well sounded at your back before Muzan appeared in front you, crouching to help you up.

You should have been afraid. You should have recoiled. You should have spat in his face and cut his head from his shoulders. It’s what you had been trained all your life to do, afterall. But the man crouching before you was gentle, patient, lifting you to your feet and cupping your burning cheek against his cool palm

“Keep fighting,” he urged you, his fingers curling on top of yours to keep them wrapped around your hilt. “You need to. There’s more to this than you know. Factors I myself am yet to reconcile.”

“What are you—” you shook your head, trying to make sense of it all. And yet some part of you knew what he was about to say. 

“You have always fought until you had nothing left. In this life,” he said, his brow puckering in contemplation before finally adding, “and in the life I once knew you in.”

A wave of cold washed through you as his words settled around you. And you knew, you understood, that pervading sense of belonging you had always felt in his presence. Your soul knew him even when your mind told you it was impossible. Your soul had always known his.

“A beast found its way into our home,” you said, recalling the story he had once told you with tears welling in his eyes. “The neighbors thought it was a wolf… or a bear. It attacked…” You pushed past the gathering nausea in your throat. “Me… in our bed and left nothing but blood and bones where I once lay.”

“You remember?” he asked, his voice but a breathless whisper of relief.

But you were once more tumbling into darkness.

There was no way to know how much time had passed when you awoke, but the world around you had drastically changed. You lay upon a plush futon, sheer curtains softening the brilliant light beyond them. The furniture in the room was ancient in style, yet the condition of it was new, all except for a big, beautiful vase which sat in the corner, covered in hairline cracks, as though someone had shattered it to pieces and meticulously put it together. And the sight of it caused your heart to squeeze. How you loved that vase.

“Muzan?” you called, not because you suspected he was nearby, but because the thought that he wasn’t was too horrible to bear.

Perhaps he’d fallen. Perhaps he’d tried to walk in the garden by himself and didn’t have the energy to make it back. Sudden panic pulled you from the bed, the pain in your body entirely forgotten as you pulled apart the curtains, expecting the familiar sight of the mansion’s garden. 

But in place of the maple tree, there was only darkness and distant, ever-shifting architecture illuminated by artificial light.

“We’re still in the Infinity Fortress,” Muzan said, sitting on the futon you had just risen from. “Nakime built it to my specifications.”

His appearance had altered, but it was still most definitely him. In fact, as he watched you from the bed in his comfortable white kosode, his long black hair spilling down over his shoulders, he looked more like himself than he ever had.

“How is your pain today?” you asked. 

He shook his head dismissively. “Non-existent.”

That should not have pleased you as it did. But you found your heart considerably lighter as you approached the futon and knelt by his feet, taking his hands in yours and looking for wounds. They were healed completely, you noted before admonishing yourself for such a foolish thought. Of course the wounds had healed; a thousand years had passed since he’d smashed the vase. 

No. That wasn’t right. The wounds from your sword had healed because he was a demon.  

“Muzan, what’s happening to me?” you asked, glancing up at him to be met with those rich carmine eyes, far too full of confusion and sorrow to be anything but human. 

He remained silent, contemplating your words while your hands remained joined. He traced a finger over the pinprick wound on your wrist and sighed. “In centuries, I have ended countless lives and never seen any evidence of gods or a world beyond our own. I have never received divine punishment. I have never encountered the vengeful spirit of a victim. People die and cease to be, that is the end of it. Or so I thought. No, I didn’t just think it, I knew.” There was real terror in his eyes, a silent and pervading dread as he looked up at you. “But I know with all certainty that my soul knows yours. We are bound somehow.” 

You nodded, already understanding the answer you sought from him. “I was yours in another life, and you were mine, in a room just like this. There was a maple tree with blood red leaves which burned like fire when the sun shone through them in the afternoon, and we would sit beneath it and curse the world together.”

“You say it so plainly.” He sighed, still agonizing even as he spoke. “It can’t be. But it is, isn’t it? You are her.”

“How long has it been?”

“A thousand years.”

“And the world is as shit to us as ever.”

The demon king laughed softly before laying back on the futon and making room for you to lay beside him. An overwhelming sense of belonging overcame you as you rested your head against his chest, like being swaddled in a warm blanket that had always been yours. 

There was nothing you could say to make sense of it, nothing you could offer him beyond the simple gesture of tenderly cupping his face and pressing your lips to his. And he kissed you like it was the first and last kiss you would ever share. Tender, adoring, desperate. The anger you had felt was gone, replaced by relief. Finally, finally you were home. 

“I wonder if it was just the once,” you mused later as you lay in his arms, your fingers idly fidgeting with the long waves of his hair. “Or have our paths crossed many times, many incarnations, and you’ve killed me in every one of them.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Why would you put that thought into my head, you wretched thing?”

“Well, it would serve you right”

“Would it now?”

“Yes. The pitfalls of indiscriminate killing—”

“Ah.” The subtle smile dropped from his lips. 

You brought up a hand to rest against his cheek, relishing the way he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch. Oh, you were most assuredly going to hell, but he would be there alongside you, and in that notion you found a strange sort of solace. “I don’t know what will happen or how we’ll do it,” you said, pressing your lips to his brow, “but we’ll find a way to restore your humanity.”

His eyes shot open, brows slanting in confusion. The air seemed to shift, to become harsh and cold. “Restore my humanity?”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

He sat, pulling himself from your embrace and glaring back at you. “No.”

Your heart plummeted as he moved away, climbing from the bed and pacing toward the window with its nothingness beyond.

“Muzan, we can be together…”

“I will not surrender my strength, nor will I die. I will find the blue spider lily and become a perfect being, and I will make you immortal too. Fuck our souls, we will be bound together for eternity.”

“I don’t want that.” Horrified, you rose from the bed to follow him, reaching out to take his hand. In one swift motion he pulled it from your gentle grasp as though the touch of your hand burned him. “Muzan… we can save you. We can talk to Master Ubuyashiki. One of the hashira studies medicine. Maybe—”

“Enough! I will not die,” he hissed. “How dare you ask that of me?”

“How dare I? How dare you ask me to become like you?”

He froze, eyes wild with fury. “Like me? A monster? Is that what you think?”

“Do you deny it?” you asked. 

He simply looked away, his lip curling to reveal his elongated fangs. No matter how human he appeared, it was only ever a facade. 

“You are a monster. How many people have you killed? How many lives have you ended like they were nothing, mine included.” The fire in your belly rose once more as those crimson eyes burned through you, his slitted pupils narrowing. “Muzan, I love you, but I cannot love the demon you’ve become—”

“Then your love means nothing,” he said, turning his back to you. “And neither do you.” 

You were back in your room in the temple faster than you could blink, and Muzan was no longer there. Your anger spilled over, hot tears lining your eyelashes as you bitterly cursed his name. 

“Ah, my sweet thing, there you are,” Douma sing-songed from the corner of the room, causing your heart to freeze. 

“Oh, Douma,” you breathed, placing your hand over your racing heart. There was a strange sort of relief in seeing him, the familiarity and comfort of your old friend. 

He watched you, a curious smile playing across his lips as he toyed with a scrap of paper between his fingertips. “I found this in a little pouch in your dresser while I was tidying away your clothes. It’s very interesting.”

Every cell of your body screamed at you to run. That paper… the little scroll your crow had brought you, relieving you of your duty. “Wait—”

“I am writing to tell you that, should you believe this mission to be a lost cause, I give you my full support for you to leave the temple. At present there have been no sightings of the demon, Douma, nor of Muzan Kibutsuji.”

Your blood turned to ice as he recited Master Ubuyashiki’s letter. “Douma. That’s not—”

“Oh but this is my favorite part. It’s so sweet,” the demon chuckled as he continued reading, “You have done well and I do not wish for you to feel anything less than proud. Thank you for your bravery and for all that you have done to further our cause. Ubuyashiki Kagaya, master of the Demon Slayer Corps. What a nice man. He sounds very polite, except for the little matter of wanting to kill myself and my dear lord Muzan.” 

“Speak to Muzan. You don’t understand.” 

“Don’t I?” He pouted, his dark eyebrows slanting in contemplation. “I’ve met many little liars in my temple, but none of them are quite as horrible as you. You sat beside me, listening to my stories, making me believe we were friends, and all the while you were planning to kill me, weren’t you? You were daydreaming about cutting off my head.”

He closed the space between you, backing you into a corner, the air pulsing with danger and sickening dread. Your pulse thundered. Every hair on the back of your neck stood on end as the weight of inevitability crushed you. “Please, D—”

And those were the last words you ever spoke. 

Chapter 11. 

The replicated Heian-era room lay in rubble around Muzan, pieces of shattered pottery scattered on the tatami mats, the curtains torn to shreds. Wrath and ruin were all he was capable of, so wrath and ruin he embraced. 

How dare you. 

The thought of him as a mortal man, weak, fragile, every beat of his heart a countdown to inevitable death, filled him with dread and a fear like nothing else could conjure. 

At least, that's the way it had been before you came back to him. Now the thought of spending eternity alone was even worse.  

As much as you had angered him, you had impressed him too, fighting so defiantly against him, knowing full well that you could not win. You were exactly who he needed. Fate, cruel bitch that it was, was also absolutely correct in its insistence to bring you to him. He belonged to you, and you to him. 

Still, you would require time to think over all that had happened and give your temper time to cool, as would he. He resolved to return to the temple the next night and try again to make you see from his perspective. 

He crouched and began picking up the shards of pottery. In his own way he had come to love it, to cherish it, knowing that no matter how many times it was broken it could always be mended. 

As he collected the pieces, Nakime appeared in the window, kneeling respectfully at the threshold. “Lord Muzan, upper moon two has arrived in the Infinity Castle.”

Muzan clenched his back teeth. His mood was still sour from the quarrel, though he supposed, he should speak to Douma and inform him that you were to remain comfortable at the Eternal Paradise temple until the two of you were ready to converse civilly. If he could only make you see…

“Very well,” Muzan said.

She needed no further instruction. The upper moon appeared before him an instant later, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of the destruction all around the demon king. 

“My my, the place looks lovely,” Douma chuckled. The sickly scent of death and incense filled the room, closing Muzan’s throat. His footsteps padded against the floor to a torn curtain which he inspected and tutted mournfully. “Aw, this is silk. It’s very nice—”

“Douma,” Muzan said, not even sparing him a glance as he continued his meticulous recovery of the vase. “The woman you brought to me. Take care of her.”

“Already done, my lord.”

“Good.”

The upper rank smiled contentedly, laying on the futon with an exaggerated sigh. “Ahh… this is comfortable. Sadly I’ve already eaten tonight and I’m still full.” He patted his stomach and stared at the ceiling. “But she’s gone. You have nothing to worry about from nasty little slayers.”

Muzan grew still, his fingers hovering an inch above a shard. Since Douma arrived, the air reeked of death, of blood… of you. No… No. His blood ran cold. “What have you done?”

The fool sat up, that damnable smile plastered onto his face slowly slipping. “My lord?”

A feeling unlike anything Muzan had ever known surged in his chest. Dread more powerful than that of his own death which had haunted him for a thousand years. It was nauseating, chilling, he couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t make sense of a single thing around him. All he knew was that he needed to go to you.

Nakime needed no instruction. A moment later Muzan was storming through the Eternal Paradise temple’s hallways toward your room. Dread sat like a lead weight on his chest, the cold creeping sensation of inevitability churning his stomach and darkening his vision. 

He felt so disgustingly human as he hesitated outside your door before sliding it open. 

Your room was as it always was, and there you lay, serenely tucked up in bed. Still, cold, lifeless. At once he had to turn away, his hands instinctively rising to cover his face as a burning hot mass gathered in the back of his throat and the world tilted around him. 

No. No. 

No it couldn’t be.

He summoned every ounce of strength he had, forcing the feeling down, commanding himself to remain calm.

“Stop this at once,” Muzan hissed, his intense gaze remaining fixed on the wall beside the door, refusing to look at you. “Whatever this is. If it’s some way to punish me for what I said, then consider the punishment dealt. You’ve done enough.”

Nothing. No subtle hiss of breath, no sign of life. Only death. Only emptiness. 

He turned back to face you once more, met with that awful, beautiful sight. 

Douma had indeed taken care of you, the shred of humanity his soul yet clung to ensuring your death was quick and painless. Eventually you would have been discovered and it would have been assumed that you died comfortably in your sleep, warm and at peace. Ascended to the paradise the temple promised. 

“Wake up!” Muzan snapped, the lights in the room flickering with his outburst. 

But you did not.

“Fine. If it pleases you to try it, we’ll search for a cure, as you call it. Will that make you happy? Will it bring you b—” He bit back his words, painfully aware of how pathetic he sounded. Gods, he was choking. 

He was still holding the shards of that damned vase, he realized, so he set them on the end of your bed before sitting beside you, lifting you into his arms and holding you to him. He’d watched you sleep for so many nights, listened to your shallow breaths, watched the subtle shifts in your features, the flickering of your eyelids as you dreamed, listened to you mumble and sigh. So many nights, yet, so few. And now there would be no more. 

You were gone. 

“I suppose you expect me to endure this life alone again for a thousand years?” he asked you, knowing you wouldn’t respond. “Is that my punishment for saying that you and your love meant nothing? Hm?”

A tear landed on your cheek, but it could not have been his. No, he would not believe that. Tears were a symptom of humanity, a sickness he was long ago rid of. He was loath to let them trickle down his cheeks. It was beneath him. 

“How dare you,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss the smooth space between your brow, hoping to find comfort where there could never be any again. “You said earlier that you remembered cursing the world with me. That the world was as shit to us as ever it was but there was more we didn’t get to say. So much more.” He smoothed a hand across your hair before standing, carrying your body in his arms as he left the room, if only to get away from the cloying scent of incense which pervaded the air. How he despised it, pressing his nose instead to the top of your head, breathing in your familiar scent. 

“The world is cruel,” he said, “It has always been. To take you from me once more… and yet it brought you to me. And I do not know which I resent more.”

He carried you outside, to where the air was clear and the maple tree’s leaves fluttered softly to the earth, laying a crimson carpet for the two of you to rest upon. The sky was already turning from black to deep blue, and his demonic instinct begged him to retreat, but he told himself he would hold you there a little while, until the ache in his chest ceased.

Even then, he knew it was a lie. There was nothing waiting for him once he let you go.

“A lonely eternity, knowing what could have been,” he whispered, his hand gliding  down your cold cheek, wiping away the mess of tears that had accumulated on your skin. “That is the hell you’ve condemned me to with your love. Even if your soul is reborn, what chance is there you will cross my path again? And how long will it be? How long are you going to make me wait this time? Centuries upon centuries, you stubborn creature.” A bitter huff of laughter escaped him, and he shook his head, raising his eyes to the rapidly brightening sky. 

He had once enjoyed the way the sunlight shone through the red leaves, the fiery light it cast down upon the two of you as you sat in your garden centuries ago. Every cell in his body told him to run, to hide from the merciless glare. But what could he run to? What was left for him? He could not answer, and so he remained, cradling your lifeless body in his arms. 

“I am afraid,” he admitted. “But then… I have always been.”

You had always softened the world’s hard edges. You with your patient love. And so he held you firm.

The sun was still hidden behind the mountains when the pain began, but Muzan was accustomed to pain. Besides, it was only cells and nerve endings. Grief was a far deeper, more savage agony, one he clung to as his grip around you tightened and the maple leaves began to glow that brilliant, blazing red. 

And then, there was nothing. 

Muzan stood alone in darkness, the white cloth of his kosode stark against the abyss. Panic struck his heart, the sudden realization that you were no longer in his arms, that he had let you go. He was alone. He called your name again and again, bleating helplessly into that eternal night.

“I’m here,” you said, and at once his heart knew peace. 

He fell to his knees before you as you wrapped your arms around him, cradling his head against you and stroking your hand through the long waves of his hair. He no longer had the power to change it, he realized, but strangely, that no longer mattered. 

“Forgive me,” he whispered, holding you to him with a strength far beyond anything he had possessed as a demon. 

“Always,” you said. 

“I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to find you.”

Heat pressed against his back, the beckoning glow of hellfire he couldn’t shut out no matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes shut and hid his face against you. 

“I think we’ll always find each other,” you said, your comforting touch enabling him to stand and face the inevitable. “And before you try to argue, I am coming with you. I have no intention of being reborn into a world you aren’t a part of.”

With the flames licking at his back, Muzan found himself able to stand, and unable to stop himself from smiling. You were right, there was little point in arguing. You were far too stubborn. So he took your hand, and walked into hell at your side. 

“My love,” he said. “My stubborn, ridiculous woman. I will love you for eons… even if the world will not allow it.”

Chapter 12- Another Life. 

“Your bloodwork results are promising,” Doctor Kocho said, switching the display so Muzan's tablet screen filled with the report from his recent tests. “If this continues I think it’s safe to say we should stick with the Lycorisol.”

Muzan nodded. “Agreed. It seems to be working well.”

“How are your pain levels?”

“About a five.”

“That’s good, considering when you first came to me you told me the numbers on the scale didn’t go high enough and you had quite a few choice suggestions on where I should shove my charts.”

“And look at me now,” he said dryly, watching as a black car pulled up on the gallery’s security screen monitor. His first visitor was right on time. 

The doctor laughed quietly. “Hopefully that number will be even lower at our next appointment.”

Muzan hummed in acknowledgement. Hope was becoming a familiar feeling, though one he remained hesitant to trust fully. “Thank you for your time, doctor. I’ll speak to you again next month.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Kibutsuji. Good luck with the exhibition.”

He ended the call, and pulled in a steadying breath. 

The exhibition had taken years of planning, and now that it was happening, he found himself uncharacteristically nervous. His shoes and walking cane clicked rhythmically on the polished wooden floor as he walked through his exhibit for what must be the hundredth time, inspecting each piece, as if decades’ of passion and practice could ever be erased simply by one of his vases being a fraction off-center. He was being ridiculous. 

Over the years he had honed his skills as a potter, his fascination with recreating ancient techniques and styles of ceramic bordering on obsession. Or so the magazine reviews had said anyway. 

His attention was drawn by the soft tap of footsteps behind him as a visitor entered the gallery, and at once his heart began to race. Nervous didn’t cover it. 

You walked slowly from piece to piece, studying the vases one by one, reading the little plaques he’d meticulously typed up describing his process behind each vase. And he could see it in your eyes, the vague interest but soul-deep yearning for… for what? That was what he needed to understand. What was the thing his pieces were lacking? Why did it never quite feel right? 

And then his eyes met yours and the world stood still. 

“Welcome,” he heard himself saying, though it seemed an insufficient greeting. He never was much of a people person.

“Hi,” you replied with a smile he almost felt he knew. “Are you the artist?”

He nodded. “I am. Muzan Kibutsuji.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time.”

“Oh…” His cheeks grew mortifyingly warm. “A fan.”

Gods, what was wrong with him? 

Your slanted smile made his pulse thunder, the sensation of your palm against his as the two of you shook hands damn near made him lightheaded. Yes, you were physically attractive to him, of course you were, but there was something else too. He’d known you for all of a minute, and yet the yearning he felt, the longing…

“This is going to sound so silly, but I think I’ve been daydreaming about coming here for so long I feel like we’ve already met,” you said. 

He gripped the head of his cane so tightly he felt as though the wood would splinter beneath his hand. “Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“Oh, I could stay forever.”

“Please do,” he said, snapping his mouth shut as soon as the words left his lips.

But you simply laughed, quietly and not at all unkindly, glancing away as your own complexion darkened. And that’s when your eyes met the vase in the corner, the only one in the exhibition he had not made himself. 

“Oh… wow…” you said, walking closer to the piece. 

“Ah, that’s actually the vase which began my love of ceramics,” he said, standing beside you and finding himself transfixed by it as he always did. “I discovered the fragments inside an abandoned temple when I was twelve years old. The vase itself dates all the way back to the Heian period. It’s been broken and fixed many times. I used to play with it, putting it back together over and over like a puzzle until I learned the art of kintsugi.”

Your eyes traced the cracks he had permanently and painstakingly repaired with lacquer and gold powder. “It’s… I don’t know what it is…”

His heart sank just a little. “I suppose to most people it’s just a vase but I’ve always felt drawn to it.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not just a vase, is it? It’s a story.”

“Yes.” Muzan’s breath shook as he found himself suddenly on the verge of tears. His eyes met yours, and at once he felt as though he had found his place in the world. “You understand.”

▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎○▪︎

Three years later that vase stood on a plinth at the very same gallery as guests mingled and congratulated you on your marriage. 

Your new husband glared from across the room, his social battery completely drained and yet he couldn’t quite hold back the wry smile tilting the corner of his lips at the sight of you in your wedding dress. 

Not that he didn’t look absolutely gorgeous himself in his sleek black suit. So gorgeous, in fact, that you found yourself completely unable to stop staring at him.

He said something inaudible to the people surrounding him and made his way toward you.  

“Mrs. Kibutsuji…” he said as he approached, his hand slipping around your waist to rest on the small of your back as he pressed his lips to your brow. “I’m tired.”

“I know, love. We only have four more hours of wedding to endure,” you said leaning into his kiss. “But if you like we can bail and head back to the hotel–”

“No, let's stay, I haven't danced with my wife yet, ” he said, the gentle smile he reserved so often for you softening his features, “I am, however, keen to stop… how did you phrase it?”

“Playing nice?”

“Yes.”

You chuckled as he led you to the dance floor, swaying you to the music. Your husband was a curmudgeon– often with good reason– but he was completely, undeniably besotted with you. It was plain to see in his eyes, those soft reddish-brown eyes which gazed at you like you were the only person in the universe for him. And he was certainly the only one in the universe for you. 

He grimaced at the sudden shower of flashes from the guests’ cameras.

You couldn’t help but laugh as his misery compounded. “You poor thing, it’s killing you, isn’t it?”

“I must have done something awful in a past life,” he grumbled, but he didn’t mean it one bit. Muzan, despite his outward appearance, was happier than he had ever been. And so were you. 

“You must have,” you said, your lips seeking his, your heart full with the knowledge that Muzan Kibutsuji, that terrible, wonderful man was yours forever. 

THE END. 

balance the scales ; aemond targaryen. (m)

alternatively titled soda. track six of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; aemond targaryen x strong!f!reader

synopsis ; he flinched away when your fingers brushed against his eyepatch. despite this, you reached out once more to pull it off, your touch ever so gentle—and this time, he let you. you whispered that he was beautiful as your lips grazed against the marred skin of his cheek. aemond didn’t believe you, but he let you say it nonetheless.

words ; 40.3k (my longest oneshot!)

themes ; heavy angst, action, smut (minors dni!), mild fluff, enemies to lovers back to enemies trope, slowburn, betrothed au

warnings / includes ; violence/war, several character deaths, descriptions of injury/blood, birth scenes, oral (f recieving), unprotected sex, slight breeding kink, hotd s1 spoilers, reader is fiercely team black, implications of rape (aegon), really really heavy angst, harwin is reader’s older brother, helaena is the sweetest ever :( jace and luke are reader’s best friends, rhaenyra is practically reader’s mother, lots of Emotions in this one, asoiaf politics and references for all of you book nerds

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It was said that you came into the world silent. 

A problem with your lungs, the midwives had solemnly told your father, the Hand of the King, proclaiming you dead not three minutes after. Lyonel Strong was grief-stricken at not only having lost his dear wife to the perilous task of childbirth, but you as well. 

But you were a fighter from the very beginning. At least, that’s what Harwin had told you. Once they’d laid you in your eldest brother’s arms, your airway had miraculously cleared up and you’d let out a hoarse, shrill cry—and the rest was history. 

“I was twenty when you were born, you know,” said Harwin, voice rife with affection, reaching out to brush a lock of hair away from your face. “I was so scared that I’d lose you. Now look at you—eight years of age and healthier than ever. Are you excited to meet the new baby?”

Keep reading

Chapters: 2/3 Fandom: jschlatt - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: jschlatt/reader Characters: Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF) Additional Tags: jschlatt/reader - Freeform, Schlatt/reader - Freeform, RPF, Angst, scrapped from tumblr oops, Rekindled Flame, Catholicism mentioned, Doomed Lovers - Freeform, based on a fob song, Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), the nickname ‘johnny’ is used Summary:

it’s been nearly six years since the two of you abruptly ending your fling that blossomed through your freshman year of college. you got married, he became big on the internet. so what was really lying behind the two of you? maybe even insinuating it wasn’t just a fling, maybe fate.

Hello! are you willing to help me get my insulin? I'm down to my last pen and its pretty much close to being empty.Nt asking for a much, only need $67 rn to save my blood sugar. please help me with a small donation or share,reblog any help can save my life.  Thank you so much and be blessed.🙏 Donation link is available on my pinned post.

Though I can't help her financially, I can help her by sharing this, and so can you. Please share, reblog or donate to help her 🙏🏻.

Masterlist

Thomas Shelby ;

- Mere silver 

- Dancing on broken glass

- My dear Charlie 

- a little tipsy

- when the moon disappears

-little daisy

-jailbreak

-on a mission

-faith

-random headcanons | “1”

-baby, its cold outside / a poor , innocent woman

- a man with a reputation ; series masterlist

Neighbor!Toji w/crying Baby Megumi asking for your help?

Neighbor!Toji who shows up to your place with a crying baby Megumi in his arms. You usually babysat Megumi all 7 days of the week but requested a day off for your mental health. What you didn't expect was how bad Toji was with his own kid. The poor baby had tears streaming down his red face, snot dripping everywhere, and was failing in his father's arms.

Neighbor!Toji who lets out an impatient "tsk" and asks you to teach him how to fix his child. He huffs when you correct him that his baby doesn't need fixing, just some soothing. He's secretly relived when you invite him into your apartment. (He definitely contemplated leaving baby Megs in a basket outside your home and running off...)

Neighbor!Toji who watches in amazement as you rock Megumi and he magically stops crying. The child's wailing dies down almost instantly at your smile and he softly coos at you. Soon Megumi falls asleep and allows for you to place him down on a bed.

Neighbor!Toji who picks up Megumi to take him home, only for the baby to start screaming again. At this point a vein is popping out of his forehead and he's gritting his teeth in annoyance. You immediately take the child from him, sensing his annoyance.

Neighbor!Toji who calms down once you reassure him that a lot of children are like this. He sits slumped on the couch, watching you ease Megumi back to sleep.

Neighbor!Toji who can't go home because Megumi won't let go of you. He can't help but think how nice it'd be to wife you up and make you Megumi's mother. Soon he's chatting you up while Megumi sleeps in your arms.

This won't be the last time the father son pair show up to your place like this. It's almost as if they're in cahoots, with Megumi getting more cuddles while Toji talks to you, sliding in subtle flirty remarks here and there.

▸ manager in public, creampies in private - gojo satoru (hockey player/fwb!)

synopsis: His jinx — fucking the manager behind his coach’s back before every game — has become a rather risky ritual that he’s secretly developed over the years. With you, a regular pattern of his life, Satoru proposes a deal before his final game — the last time he’ll confess, “you wanna fuck me or do wanna date me?”

contents: wc: 15.2k(i am so sorry y'all.... i have no words for this), unedited. fem/afab!reader, she/her pronouns, reader is referred to as "girlfriend," pet names: baby, pretty, (there are so many), satoru calls himself daddy as a joke, locker room sex, fwb!, explicit language, p -> v penetration, creampies, lots of fucking. suguru moved to another uni. cunnilingus, squirting, fingering, teasing, mating press, doggy, gojo can carry the reader because he’s strong like that. little bit of Satoru’s pov..

The stadium is cold the moment you walk in. It’s enough to make your cheeks mildly sting and send shivers down your back, leaving the tip of your nose to feel frozen. From the crisp smell of the rink that’s been brushed out just moments prior, to the vibrant conversations of adults and the cheers from children anticipating the next game, everything tugged for your attention. 

At the apex of winter sports, today will mark the champions for the national collegiate tournament for Division I Hockey. 

For the normal attendee or avid fan of the sport, being there should be exciting. 

But it couldn’t be far more inapplicable for you. A nervous pit coiled inside your gut — a dichotomous force of friction that made your heart thump in anticipation, but your stomach churn in anxiety. 

Your mind felt like a fuzz. Guess, it didn't help that your ears also felt plugged, with every sound muffling inside that annoyingly distorted your rational thought — or whatever was left of it. 

Stumbling onto the bleachers with your cheeks feeling hot despite the chill that surpassed your skin, your legs felt wobbly while walking over to your designated seat as the beloved team manager; like a broken record, your mind replayed a moment you had not less than an hour prior. 

“Control him from doing anything irrational off the courts. That’s your only job today.” the head coach warned before making his way out of the locker room, his thick calloused hand placed on your shoulder, his firm grip a forewarning to not disappoint him.

“Whatever he chooses to do on it, he can go crazy all he wants as long as he brings home the trophy. I don’t care,” Yaga Sensei muttered, lowly chuckling as he hitched up his glasses, “you’re good at your job, make the last one count,” he firmly stated before closing the door behind you.

Of course, that was your job and in no way were you going to fuck things up. Every game was the same: regulate your star player, do damage control for his unhinged actions, and babysit him – the prodigy for the University of Tokyo, from doing anything negative that the press could get their hands on. 

Or in simpler terms: control your fuck buddy and do whatever it takes for him to not be so unfiltered — keyword: whatever.

You recalled the week prior, cringing at the aftermath of his actions, with you sowing the repercussions of damaging your almost perfect reputable reputation — a total disaster of an interview, the distress to your migraines you had every game day thereafter from both him and Yaga-sensei.

Granted, conducting an interview post-game wasn’t fun for anyone especially when it was painfully knowing that the reporters were only interested in trying to leach out any information to make a viral post of the handsome center.

His articles sold, and any gossip obtained was always a hit. 

His last article went viral — a hot topic of gossip in all outlets of social media, trending not only in Japan but in other countries as the hot man that kicked a reporter, Gojo Satoru, University of Tokyo’s center, and the most infamous, Gojo’s girlfriend. It was of a photo of Satoru midshot, kicking a reporter with his long legs easily reaching to their face with a cheeky smile while his hands were haughtily in his pants with a blurred figure hiding behind his back, nimble fingers grabbing hold of Satoru’s clothes. 

Surely, pretty privilege very much exists when more than half of the comments of netizens were:

omg look at his legs! He’s so pretty! That reporter deserved it. 

damn, wish I looked that good kicking someone. 

He makes me question my sexuality. What a beautiful man.

Definition of looks like a cinnamon roll, but would kill you. 

Don’t worry y’all! That’s me behind him! I’m the girlfriend 😘

SATORU HAS A GIRLFRIEND? I’M SICKKKKKKK

Is it weird to find this hot? I don't condone violence but if it’s Satoru… 

“So Gojo-san, what do you foresee as your next plan to defeat your rival player next week? Can we expect some friendly competition?” The reporter asked, intently waiting to type up any information Satoru had to give.

Sludging over the microphone, his voice vacant of any enthusiasm, but instead endowed in annoyance, “If he can keep up, then yea. It’s been over a year since we’ve been on the same court, I don’t keep up with his updates but I’m sure he’s been training on his own. He’s good at what he does.” Satoru tiredly sighed, brushing his bangs over his forehead, while lightly clutching onto the mic stand with his other hand, “Next question.”

And of course, the rather infamous question he gets asked every interview. 

“Are you currently dating anyone? I’m sure you have loads of people wanting to date you.” Upon hearing the rather obnoxious giggle of the reporter, Satoru’s jaws clenched with irritation. “Any special plans for the New Year with a certain special someone, specifically maybe the one you were pictured with?” 

Getting questions about his private life wasn’t out of the norm and was a regular occurrence. Usually, he’ll flirt with the idea and throw a little bait to the reporters, but particularly on this day, it rubbed Satoru the wrong way.

“What a stupid question, don’t you get tired of asking who I’m fucking?” Satoru numbly responded with life drained from his eyes despite the rather harsh clench of his jaws, “Well, if you’re so dying to know, I’m currently getting rejected on the daily by a rather oblivious person.”

“Any hints as to who —”

“Why?" he scoffed with a brow raised, unfazed, "so you can go harass her for information? Next question.”

“Hello, Gojo-San could you explain about the rumors that are going around about your fallout with Kyoto’s new center?” Another reporter quickly rode off the previous questions. 

“What rumors?” Satoru furrowed his brows, clicking his tongue against his teeth, briefly glancing at you off to the side. A fair warning that he was getting uncomfortable. 

Talking about his ex-best friend was still a sore spot for Satoru, a breakup without proper closure. 

It happened without a notice, a fallout that occurred in the middle of the season during Satoru’s sophomore year, and for a year he’s been silent until he’s made his return with the rival school.

Closing his eyes to calm himself down, fisting his hand as he clenched his teeth, Satoru annoyingly answered back, “We just aren’t on the same team anymore, nothing crazy about that. It’s normal in sports.”

“Well, people are wondering if it’s true that he betrayed you to give the game plays away to his current team.” The man responded, his ignorance seemed bliss, but the malice undertone with the slight tilt of his upper lip told otherwise.

“Betrayed?” Satoru scoffed, the air in the conference room immediately felt cold, irked from the reporter’s nonchalance in picking at his ego, “the only thing getting betrayed is you when your wife sucks my co —”

On instinct, you rushed over to cover his mouth — fucking idiot — and quickly stated through the mic with a routined rueful expression you’ve made one too many times — on behalf of this dumbass.

“I’m sorry, but we’ll conclude this interview from here on! I thank you all for coming.” 

While leaving, you quickly glanced at Yaga-sensei’s disappointed expression, his jaws clenched as he watched you both hurriedly make your way to the locker room with Satoru trailing behind with your grip over his wrist. 

You were one hundred percent going to get an earful from Sensei.

Gojo dumb fucking Satoru always making your life a complete hell; you were determined to chew his ear off.

“Just wait till we get into the lockers, Satoru” you stated through gritted teeth, your grip on his wrists getting firmer with each step.

“Yea? Ooo I like it when you’re rough with me,” he grinned, the utter audacity of him to take you as a joke, “what are you gonna do to me in the locker rooms?” he gasped, his voice innocent — it’s laughable, really — despite his breath close to your ears with his firm chest right behind you, taunting you to continue with your harmless threats.

It’s cute and makes his cock twitch and quickly pool with blood whenever you’re being dominant — at least when you try to. 

Opening the door, you snapped at him while taking a step in, “You’re fucking annoying —”

But things always seemed to take a turn to his advantage — always. 

The milliseconds leading to the locker rooms were silent — silence breaking the moment you stepped foot into it with Satoru’s lips rammed to yours, his hands hungry for greater access to your body. 

You’re completely caught off guard when his lips come crashing onto yours. The slight grunt of his voice mixed with a hint of a whine when he pushed you against the lockers, your hands naturally landing on his firm chest, easily melting into his grip — a sinful vice he’d been swaying over your head like a pendulum for the past years every time you both snuck around to fuck.

“I fucking tried,” he groaned into the kiss while he rapidly unclothed you. The annoyance that he’d felt a couple of minutes prior all dissipated out and funneled to you. It was apparent in the sheer urgency of his hands ripping off your clothes that his patience was running thin. 

“Ngh, S-Satoru!” your chest felt heavy, your mind feeling fuzzy when you met his carnal gaze, “we need to talk —” you’re cut short when his lips latch onto your neck, his hot breath lacing up your skin as he pulled your arms upward and caged your wrists with one hand, while the other traveled down your stomach, straight to your heated core. 

“Talk about what? How we fuck?” he moaned at the pleasurable feeling of your pussy being wrapped with his favorite cotton panties — the one he jokingly gifted for being his fuck buddy for a year — where soon he’ll be able to play with your cum coated folds while he fucked you against the mirror walls. 

“Oh god,” you huffed in the split moment he pulled away to catch his breath when his fingers started stroking up and down your folds, the tips of his middle and ring finger playing with your tight entrance, “Toru, w-we gotta talk, Yaga-sensei —”

Scoffing out a chuckle, he let go of your lips, his teeth pulling against your lower flesh with his voice deep. He peered down at you with his orbs strictly dilated and dark, “Aren’t you cheeky? Trying to get Sensei involved.” His thumb brushed against your lower lip, the throbbing pain of your skin feeling sensitive when his calloused finger presses against it, “but you need me to explain to him how we always fuck behind his back?” 

His hand traveled down your throat, his long fingers organically wrapping around your neck, a pleasing accessory around your neck, “I’d like that, too, it’s thrilling isn't it?” he taunted, his breath brushing against your heated cheeks, “but I don't think Sensei will particularly like what I say.”

“Y-your teammates ahh! —” You barely could let out a whine when his lips came crashing again, gasping when you felt the suffocated tension of your bra unclasping, exposing your breasts to the damp, cold air, the buttons of your shirt falling to the floor, “t-they’ll hear!” you tried whispering.

“They aren’t coming,” He growled, “ I locked the door,” his tantalizing voice contrasted with the sharp pain of his teeth biting into your shoulder, a dainty string of spit hung from his lips as he continued to paint your skin with his marks, felt all together euphoric. 

“But they're more than welcome to listen, we'll give them the hottest free porn.”

You can feel his hardened bulge being pressed against your hips, it was torturous to not cup your hands over his hefty cock. And he knew. He could sense it, feel in the way you pulled back into the kiss, the wanton sounds of your needy breaths pleasantly luring him to want more of you.  

“I need you,” he groaned while releasing your wrists and leading them to his member, having your hands hold his throbbing flesh, now painfully pooled with blood, while he aggressively shoved down his athletic shorts, freeing his very erect cock to spring out.

It was a sight to see — his cock freely nodding with pre cum leaking out of the slit, his head flaring a bright red while his veins bulged down his length. You can feel your mouth salivating at the sight of tasting his pebbled release sitting so prettily on his head. 

It’s embarrassing how you were so weak to his touch, how desperately you wanted a taste of his release, to ultimately end up being completely stuffed with both his cock and his cum filling you up to the brim that it just had to leak out of your tight hole.

And it doesn’t help how your mind becomes a blank slate the moment his fingers stroke perfect circles around your hardened clit, the sounds of his reciprocated desires to devour you echoed so licentiously through your ears. 

And accustomed to, your insides perfectly carved with the shape of his length, your inner walls throbbed, clenched the moment his fingers — one, two, three — slowly stretched out your needy pussy. 

“Fuckin’ perfect,” his voice was teasing with a hint of impatience, “good girl," he praised when he feels you innately opening up for him. "show me how much you can suck me in, I wanna feel every inch of you,” Satoru coaxed, “trained this pussy so well, yea?”

Obediently nodding, your arms immediately latch around his neck, pulling him closer to your heated body. And with that, something short circuits in his brain the moment he sees you vulnerably so ready for him. 

“You’re so fucking cute,” Satoru purred, the playful glint of his tone was the opposite of the sheer force he had when he quickly propped up your legs under his arms, pushing you further into the locker room as he rammed his cock inside you, your back arching at the sudden penetration — a dichotomy of pleasure and pain as three fingers surely cannot suffice and prepare you for the length and girth of his cock no matter how many times he’s fucked you. 

“Hold tight,” he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips traveling down to your ears, tauntingly whispering, “I gotta swoon over my manager with a good fuck.”

Aggressively thrusting upward as the tip of his head searched for your sweet spot, your body folded from his strength. It doesn't take him long to find it — gummy and deep — especially when you're trembling and writhing in his grip. "because she just loves my cock, doesn't she?"

“T—toru,” you moaned out, the sweet mating call of his name ringing pleasurable to his ears.

“Who’s my good girl?” cooing as he placed a kiss on your nose, gently smiling despite his cock bullying past your wet, puffy folds, the sharp slapping of his skin meeting your thighs harshly echoing in the empty locker room.

And he swears he saw stars when he hears you.

 — “Me.”

Currently shaking off the memory you had a week prior, you had one job: stop that from happening.

Well, that being another disastrous interview session — sex just so happens to come with it… always.

It’s not like you didn’t enjoy his company. It was rather quite the opposite — you craved his touch and longingly wanted to be by his side despite your words stating otherwise.

In short, you’ve been in denial. A secret you’ve upheld since the realization that he’s crept into your heart and took much more space in it than you would like to admit.

Falling in love with the university’s hot shot wasn’t something you’ve planned to do within your academic agenda. Being prompt with your studies, attending clubs, and enjoying time with friends while studying, with the occasional partying, maybe getting a boyfriend here and there, while accruing a job and work experience was part of the plan. 

Not, him.

More specifically, loving Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, the pretty boy with an even devilishly handsome cock, that’s won your heart despite being your fuck buddy, was not part of the plan.

It should be a universal law: to never fall in love with your friend with benefit. And if there was a fine for being defiant of such a law, you would be the one prosecuted and trialed for such a wicked crime. 

And to no surprise, even today, you were no saint. 

Moments before —

“You know?” panting with his arms wrapped around your waists, thrusting upwards while he met your pace as you bounced on his cock.

With sweat dripping down his temple, he sucked onto your perked nipples, groaning when he feels you further tightening around his length — which was already snugly wrapped around him, “we should seriously date,” he frankly stated.

“Shut up,” you groaned, combing through his hair, adjusting your position to move your hips in rhythmic waves, the fire of your thighs making it difficult to withstand this position.

“Why not?” he groaned while pulling you down, cradling the back of your head with one hand while the other motioned your continual movements, his firm touch gratifying and making you feel safe despite the vulnerability of fucking in a public space. 

“I—I don’t ahh ‘Toru that’s too deep! —” moaning from the hitch of his hips, forcing himself to go even deeper, the tip of his cock teasingly poking at your sweet spot as his girth stretched you out — each motion helping him to bottom out.

Your eyes are brimmed with tears as you hold his hair, pulling against his strands while the other digs into his shoulders, marking up his body — it was so easy for him to make a mess of you in such a short time, and he loved it; absolutely craved for it.

“You let guys that aren’t your boyfriend,” chuckling while he pushed your body down, feeling your juices run down his inner thighs, satisfied at how nicely his cock was soaking in your soft walls, “fuck” thrust “you” thrust “like” thrust “this?”

Despite the rather light tone of his voice, jealousy raged inside him. Because there should be no other answer than —

“No — “ your grasping at his back, using any part of his body to find leverage to mitigate the fullness you were feeling inside your tummy — the red scratches of his back and shoulders remnants of your relationship with him.

“Good,” he praised, gripping your ass with a sly smile teased at the corner of his lips, eventually blossoming into a brazen grin when he intentionally stopped his thrusts just to hear you whine out for him again, “and it should stay that way,” he confidently professed. 

Dating Gojo Satoru. That would be nice. 

Commitment issues? Sure, guess you can say you had that.

Insecurities? Most definitely so when your so-called partner was The Gojo Satoru — the university's hottest athlete currently in the process of being scouted to play in the professional league. 

It felt all too surreal, everything inside of you was filled with him — literally and figuratively. From the way his lightly trimmed, now wet with your cum, hair tickled your clit to the way his cock filled every inch of you in one second only to be languid — slow and easy — pulled out and the next, rammed into you like a pistol releasing its bullet.

He usually took his time before games to fuck you, to enjoy and absorb your godly pussy power — he liked to always add while balls deep inside you with your thighs plastered to your chest, his weight pushing against your body, with the silliest smile despite the rather not so silly act he was doing with you.

A jinx, he liked to argue. A just happened chance of a one-night stand, now leading to years of fucking multiple times a week, under his solid impression that without you, there was no success. 

Win after fucking. And a loss without it.

What can you say? Dick was good, but being in his arms felt even better.

It’s a sin. But at this point, did you have any leisure to contemplate if that’s even an option for you to not partake in anymore? 

For someone that sleeps with drool coming out of his mouth, to the obnoxious thirst pics he would send only to you with an even more atrocious emoji ‘😜’ with a little ‘heh’ at the end, he sure gave you butterflies in your stomach; his mere presence made you feel good.

Crying and fervently pleading, with broken moans while every crevice of his cock continually carved your insides with his template, “Right there! — fuck ‘Toru, I—Imma cum please!” and he’ll reply with the most greedy moan as he pumped his seeds into your tight hole.

Satoru liked taking his time, but he also lavished under the thrill of a quick fuck. Desperately clinging onto each other, fucked into an absolute mess while he quickly rearranged your guts — that was his favorite. 

“Can’t talk anymore?” he smiles. At the same time, he painfully fucks you at a slow pace, “Thought you were going to put me in my place?” cock twitching inside you when he notices how swollen your lips have become and the little squirm you release when you feel him growing within you, “it’s a shame, I like it when you curse at me,” he chuckles. 

“Shut up,” you tiredly croaked, “you talk too much.”

“Tired?” he breathed out, looking up with his lips slightly bruised from the feverish kiss you had with him just moments before he chose to open his mouth — the type with tongue with spit drooling down the sides, unafraid to use to teeth to bite and tug.

“Mhm,” you quietly nodded, pulling yourself closer to his body.

“Thought you’d get used to me by now,” he peppered your shoulders with gentle kisses, “you know? by how much I’ve fucked you,” his touch now soft — almost fragile in the way he held you. 

“You wanna try getting impaled by this,” clenching on his shaft for emphasis while you relished in his comfort, “and then tell me if you can get used to it too?”

“Relax,” he coached, chuckling as the padding of his fingers gently massaged your hips and eased out at your muscles, “I hear ya, just lean on me a bit.” 

The warmth of his skin felt nice. The touch of his hand pressing against your body felt like electricity pulsing through your body while the circuits of your neurons flashingly fired to cause the heat of your core to spark in flames when he pressed tender kisses against your shoulders — one too gentle and comforting for a fuck buddy to be doing.

“You know,” he hummed, “dating me won’t be all too bad.”

“Sure,” you thoughtlessly answered back, snuggling your face into the crook of his neck, taking a whiff of his natural scent.

“You like me,” he placed a kiss on your temple, “and I think we’re pretty compatible,” he continued to kiss areas of your face, spending time to adorn every inch, “Sex is good, and I’m hot, so I don’t see why you won’t date me?”

“Who said I liked you?” your useless pride spoke before you registered his confession.

“Rude, who’s the one that won’t let me go in the mornings?” scowling as he lightly flicked your head. “and you mumble when you sleep, you know?” he smirked, the tilt of his lips teasing, his crystal blue eyes half hidden from his lids as he briefly looked down at your swollen lips, “it’s cute, but I would rather have you confess to me when you’re not half asleep.”

“You freak,” pouting as you tried hiding your face, embarrassed that you unknowingly outed yourself yet still chose to proudly reject his confessions.

“How about this,” looking up with eyes sparkling with anticipation, “if I make the last point, then you go on one date with me.”

“Is there an option to decline?”

“No,” offended you would say such words, you could practically see every aspect of his demeanor — hair, face, eyes — all simultaneous sulk in unison.

“Then what if you don’t make the last shot?”

“You won’t need to worry about that,” he cheekily smiled, cupping your face to place a soft kiss on your nose before reaching your lips. You can feel his cock starting to harden and twitch, evident from the small hitches of his hips to burrow himself slowly into you.

Leading you into a kiss, pushing you upward to give a little space for him to squeeze his cock inside you, the patience within him to wait for you to slowly sink onto his length again dissipates the moment he hears you tease.

With your mouth gaping open, and eyes tightly shut while your nails dug into his chest, barely managing to garner the strength to go for another round, you always talked so big. “You’re prideful to think one date can win me over.” 

“I mean I already have,” shrugging as he leaned back on his elbows, scanning down to see where you’re both connected. it's arousing when he sees your pubic bone perfectly nestled on top of his, “You’re the one that’s sitting on my cock, no?”

“your mouth is the problem, Satoru,” rolling your eyes while you pushed him away, the heat of your cheeks burning up just as the core of your stomach flared up and coiled inside you. 

Pulling you back, tilting your chin to meet his wanting eyes, “Hey hey, look at me,” he softly breathed, “I’ll be good to you,” he whispers, “I don’t go fucking around other girls, it’s just been you. I promise.”

“ ‘Toru —” you feel him slightly adjust his hips and in tandem, his cock moves deeper inside.

“Shh… just trust me,” shoving the rest of his shaft fully inside you, clenching his jaws and immediately wrapping his toned arms around your waist. From the sudden suffocating tightness surrounding his size combined with the pleasurable sensation of you writhing in his arms, he knew today was going to be a good game — his career best, at the least.

"I'll prove it to you. I'll win."

"what if —"

And through gritted teeth, while he steadies himself inside you, with each breath he emphasized, the gushing of your wet pussy coating his cock, and the desperate whimpers of your moans sounding so organic and delicate in his ears as he prepared you for another climax, 

“Shh... you should know that best, princess. I always finish the job.” 

— 

Squirming in your seat, heart racing as you watched Satoru belatedly enter the rink, shaking out his white hair before putting on his helmet — droplets of sweat peeking through from his prior rendezvous, the slight bliss on his cheeks blooming with the puff of smoke huffed from his mouth. 

Swiftly skating to his teammates to start on warmups, donning a blue and white jersey with white lettering with the number 6, there was a divide of a deep chant of his name coupled with the shrieking enthusiasm of his fangirls whenever he effortlessly made a practice shot. Whenever he slightly even glanced over to the audience, there was a roar of adoration.

“Keep it all in for me, yea?” the source of your migraine chuckled as he held your trembling body. His hands naturally moved to lightly massage your sore hips, the huffs of his solid chest inviting you to breathe and wind down.

In response you reached up to pinch his nipples, groaning from exhaustion, "pervert..."

“it’s my last game, so be nice to me.” 

Fucking you till the last minute he could spare, Satoru decided to be cheeky and shoot his cum so deeply inside you. Huffing curses close to your ears as his arms pulled you further down on his cock, nearly piercing you with his length, his member pulsing with every splurt of his seeds pushed into you.

In conclusion, you’re now sitting in your seat, not daring to move for fear that it will spill. He was usually good at cleaning you up, taking his sweet time to kiss your cheeks and brush his bruised lips against your skin as he steadied his breath. But maybe it was from the nervous thrill he had of meeting his once friend, or the pent-up frustration of this past season that’s gotten to him, but one thing for sure was that Satoru came a lot — your wet panties currently pooled and soaked in his cum being proof of it.  

“What took you so long, was looking all over for you?” Someone chirped behind you.

Flustered from hearing his voice, you quickly turned around, flinching when you felt a lump of fluid squeeze out of your pussy.

Cheekily smiling as he pulled up his skates while apologetically smiling, “I need my strings fixed… wondering if you had any extra?” 

“Haibara-chan…” you forced out a chuckle, trying to shake away the sudden surprise, lightly shaking your head while you took his skates, “I’m starting to wonder…” slowly untying his laces, the cold stadium making it a bit difficult for your fingers to grasp onto the material, “if you’re doing something fishy with these?” 

“... That's Gojo-san,” Haibara mumbled under his breath, sitting down on the bench, the clothes of his uniform oddly too big for his growing physique, “It just somehow ends up getting worn out all the time,” the younger man sulked, “I blame Yaga-Sensei for running us so hard during practice.”

“Mhm,” you hummed while searching through the team bag to find a new pair of white laces, “I’m teasing, Haibara-chan,” opening up the fresh pack to string his skates, “just promise me, you won’t be like him.”

“Him?” Haibara curiously asked, cocking his head to the side, his blunt bangs moving with the angle of his head.

Yes, Him — the one who’s currently in a headlock from Yaga-Sensei for completely blowing off the pre-game interviews.

“Ah, guess you’re referring to Gojo-san,” Haibara looked into the field, and took a glance at you, “but you like him, no?” 

“Huh?” you felt a sudden pang in your stomach when hearing those words.

“Sorry! I meant like friends!” He raised his hands to rectify the tension from your question, cheeks blushing in embarrassment. “You’re close to him, right? We've noticed you both spend a lot of time together,” he hummed.

“Ah, yeah… I guess,” you softly answered, barely audible.

“He’s handsome and friendly, awfully a good athlete, and is smart too?” Haibara was practically bouncing on his seat while bragging about his beloved senpai, “There’s practically nothing the man can’t do!”

“Sure… but he’s the most insufferable human I’ve ever met in my life,” you grumbled, slouching in your seat to hide your face from possibly showing any emotion while talking about him. 

“Really? Wow, I’m jealous,” he whispered, yet his voice chirped in adoration, “maybe he just really likes you, you know… like how close friends do that to each other! ”

Close friends. 

Guess the dynamic of the relationship was of close friends but… not with a good conscience — close friends with benefits.

Despite the nature of your relationship with him, he wasn’t what you imagined. Indeed, you both didn’t start with the most cordial dynamic. You hated him and despised his guts when he “accidentally” stepped on your white shoes while he rushed out of the lockers. 

Normally you wouldn’t mind. Accidents happen and you weren’t particularly fussy about those things to care. But when the contender that stepped on your shoes had size twelve feet, a literal giant compared to yours, of course, you’ll get livid — especially when the dirt of his soles made your shoe look gray from one step alone; furthermore, when he didn’t dare to say a simple sorry. 

You recall grunting, mumbling curses at the stupidly tall asshole, with an even stupid smirk on his face while cleaning your shoes with a toothbrush during the middle of the night. You slept with the intent to kill him the next morning and make his life a living hell when you’re introduced as the team’s manager.

But guess what, Satoru would always have the upper hand. Before you can even introduce yourself, he’s stiffly walking towards you with a hand awkwardly scratching the back of his head while pushing something in your direction.

“Here,” he stares off to the side as he hands you a shopping bag, “I wasn’t sure what size you wore if it doesn’t fit, you can exchange it.”

“What?” you eyed him, unsure why he was acting so weird.

“Sorry, we got off on the wrong foot,” Satoru lamely threw out a pun, hoping the tension would ease out with a small laugh, instead he was met with your unfazed expression.

“tough crowd,” he softly murmured, sighing before leaving the room, “well, the receipt's in the bag if you don’t like it.”

Suspiciously eyeing the bag, you took out the box and opened it. Inside was a pair of shoes that were similar to the ones you wore yesterday before he ruined them, with a little note inside and a rather cute drawing of himself.

‘Hope we can get along. Welcome to the team.’

You felt acid slowly creep its way up your throat, gurgling in your stomach, making it painfully difficult to succumb anymore to this conversation. A stamp of reality that Gojo Satoru may possibly, after this game, become nothing more than a fever dream. 

It’s silly, really. And it was even more ridiculous how you pulsed in your seat, longingly wanting that he would win — not for his own success, but for yours.

“Sometimes I wish he would be —” 

“Yu and Kento, get your asses over!” Despite being from across the rink, Yaga-sensei’s voice boomed as if he was right next to you, breathing down your ear. 

“I think Sensei is calling for you guys,” you interjected, kindly smiling with your eyes as you passed on his skates.

“Oh shit!” His eyes rounded, face paling and body antsy in his seat, “Ahh thank you for stringing these for me.” Bowing multiple times in gratitude as he reached over his skates, “Nanami! We gotta go!”

“Tell Sensei I’m not here.” You could hear his faint voice coming from the corner, his thick jacket covering his whole body with only his laced skates peeping from the bottom.

“I’ll give you five seconds, ” Yaga-Sensei threatened, “or you’re both running laps around the field till you drop tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir!” Haibara immediately stood up, quickly dragging his fellow blonded friend along with him — for someone less enthusiastic about his games and practices, Nanami was always fully dressed for the game. 

“Ahh Gojo-san! Look this way!”

“GAHHH! Gojo-senpai is coming here! My phone! I need a picture!”

The shriek of his fans' screams painfully rang in your ears. 

The chant of his name gets louder, the shrill becoming overbearing when you notice him skating towards your side of the stadium.

“Don’t you dare come here,” you mouthed, your eyes shooting daggers at the smirk on his face.

You could tell — no, you could feel every inch of your body being observed by the audience, daggers being sent in your direction. 

Did he just fucking wink at me? 

It was infuriating just how normal he was on the court while you writhed in your seat, having a mental shock whenever you felt a hot gush of viscous fluid drip onto your panties. 

Satoru makes a crisp stop in front of you, taking off his helmet and shaking his hair. It was comical the way his fans fell to their knees, girls practically foaming at the mouth and guys mentally noting how to up their rizz game like the athlete.

Opening up the side door, he leans against the railing with his elbows resting on the surface, “you good?” he arrogantly asked. Though his words sounded caring, the slight mischievous twinkle in his eyes told otherwise.

“What do you think, Satoru?” You hissed through your teeth despite the friendly smile you gave him.

“Good girl,” he whispered out, just enough for you to hear, “ wouldn’t want you to waste any of it.”

“Gojo Satoru, I swear —”

The stereo briefly shrieks before announcing, “Ladies and Gentleman! Here come the visitors onto the rink! Give them your loudest cheers!”

Immediately you can see his jaw clenching, and the once vibrant color of his cerulean eyes becoming a shade darker as he turned around to face the opposing team. his gaze specifically lands on the team captain — Geto Suguru, Kyoto Spartan’s center. 

“Are you going to be okay?” softly placing your hand on his forearm, worried he wouldn’t be able to control himself and act on his emotions. 

“Yea,” he turned around half-heartedly chuckling as he looked down at your hand comforting him, only to look up with a smug look on his face, “you worried about your soon-to-be boyfriend?”

“I’m being serious, Satoru,” you lightly gripped his arm, the look of your eyes solidified his one of many reasons why he fell for you in the first place. 

You were kind. well, kind enough to accept all his bullshit.

“I know, and I am, too.” He calmly reassured with his gloved hand placed over yours, “It’s gonna be a good game, and I gonna make you my girlfriend, so don't fall too hard, okay?” Satoru playfully winked, briefly squeezing your hand before leaving you to join his team,  “I’ll be fine, worry about me after the game because I’m going to need it.”

Today would mark the champions for the Mens Division I finals: the Tokyo Trailblazers vs. the Kyoto Spartans. 

The final terminus of once childhood best friends, Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru, now stood on opposite sides to be the final victor. Star players of both universities who played together till two years ago now stand as rivals at the collegiate championships. 

“Eyes on the puck at all times,” Yaga-Sensei forewarned, “You’ve practiced with Suguru, and knowing his playstyle should be second nature, by now.” taking a glance at Satoru in his zone, eyes fiercely determined yet his composure was calm, “he’s not in our team, so play aggressive. Don’t ever fall behind Satoru, keep up at his pace and pass when you see the moment.”

“Yes sir,” the team harmoniously responded.

“Yu and Kento, remember to be careful, be vigilant and sharp, especially you, Nanami…” Yaga-Sensei cautioned, the lines of his furrowed brows behind his sunglasses deeply cut into his forehead, “No one else knows your position better than Suguru.”

Sophomore year, summer —

Jinx. noun. An evil spell; a person or thing supposed to bring bad luck.

It all started during your second year of university. 

Just like how everything just happens, so does your relationship with Gojo Satoru. It started naturally — or you would like to convince yourself. 

You were the team’s manager by title, and Satoru’s freelancing PR manager in private. 

“Why the fuck do you always have to make my life miserable!” You hissed at Satoru uncaringly stuffing his clothes from his locker into his bag, “Sensei’s gonna kill me tomorrow,” you groaned, leaning against the lockers and sliding down to the cement floor.

“I think that’s a you problem,” he hummed, taking a glance down at you before he continued to pack his bags, “I told you, I wasn’t going to do that interview, especially after that shitty game.”

“You're doing this on purpose huh?” you numbly asked, the throbbing pain of your head making you feel dizzy, “you’re just a prick that can’t accept a loss.”

“Not exactly,” he nonchalantly responded while closing his locker, clicking his tongue in annoyance, “I just didn’t want to answer the same damn questions I get all the time, that’s all,” he stroked his hair back to expose his forehead before crouching down, leaning on his elbows, manspreading to your level while sitting on the bench, “it’s nothing personal, princess,” he winked. 

His face was dangerously close to yours, almost as if he was taunting for something more than just a petty banter — especially in the way he titled his face, making it so easy to just —

“I wanna strangle you sometimes, you know?” you huffed out, glaring at him gloating down at you with the most irritating grin to exist. 

Maybe it was the anger that blinded your senses but strangely he looked so fucking handsome, especially in his gray sweats that — you scanned him from top to bottom, and you can almost see the definition of his crotch through the lining. he was big.

You can almost bet the pink of his lips was so soft to touch, and plush to suck  — what the fuck were you thinking.

Smirking when he caught your gaze on his lips for a second too long, he drew even closer. reaching down to grab your wrists to grip around the collar of his shirt, licking his lips while he challenged, “It’s your lucky day, Princess. Try me.”

Starting is always the hardest, the rest is easy. 

you wanted to kiss him, badly. clenching onto his shirt with a million thoughts spiraling through your head, mentally cursing him with every possible word you knew. Everything soon became quiet the second your eyes zoomed in on him licking his lips — it was absolutely perfect — glossy with a perfect shade of pink that seduced you into agony.

So without thinking, your lips go crashing onto his. The harsh breathing through your nose sounds impatient and gruff. Kissing him, with teeth clashing and tongues fighting for dominance, Satoru immediately reciprocated by pulling you up to his firm lap.

“You wanna fuck me so bad, don’t you,” he panted in between kisses while his hand sneakingly ventured under your clothes to unclasp your bra and while the other pushed its way into your pants, harshly groping onto your soft ass.

Despite the tease in his voice, the quick speed of his hands curiously touching every inch of your body, groping and clawing, showed otherwise but leisure. 

“you started it,” groaning as you threw your head back, allowing his lips to peck kisses on your skin and for his tongue to trace up to your chin.

“You’re so honest when you’re needy,” he chuckles, “practically fucking me with your eyes.” Satoru always had a way with his words. He always irritatingly managed to get under your skin, as if he had an encyclopedia written on how to annoy you, he was practically an expert at it by now.

Normally you would scoff at his ego, and throw in curses just for some flavor. But you fell silent, pussy suddenly clenching on the air when you took a peek at Satoru, easily pulling off his shirt with one hand. His warm body was draped in a perfect muscle tone while he molded your breasts to his palm, his mouth sucking on your nipple, tongue tenderly swirling around your areola. 

“ngh shut up!” you rasped, “you’re so full of yourself.”

“Hmm,” he sounded pretty humming in response. Using his lips as a decoy to distract where his fingers were trekking towards, he pulled your panties off to the side to slip his slender fingers to touch your pussy — throbbing, warm, and laughably wet.

“let’s see,” groaning when he feels the warmth of your core, and your viscous juice coat his fingers. He swears that’s enough for him to cum in his pants but with all the willpower he had, he didn't — he couldn't until he's at least fucked you a couple rounds and has gotten a taste of your pussy — he lowly chuckled, “where you’re weak, princess.”

you gasped out a quiet, “fuck mhm, right there ‘Toru — j-just like that — please,” while tugging onto his hair, the hiss through his teeth sounding so melodic to your ears. 

With your fingers harshly entangled in his hair, you tried to register how this all happened. Your clothes were one by one thrown onto the cold floor, with Satoru now shirtless as he littered your bosom with tender kisses, holding you behind your curved waist while you pressed your chest further into his mouth, to feel the gratification of his warm tongue sucking on your nipple.

As his fingers stroked up and down your folds, the lewd noises of your erection squelched loudly while his mildly calloused fingers rendered pleasurable friction to your clit — a new, profound sensation you’ve never felt before, especially not with your fingers or even your most reliable toys. 

And it felt good — so fucking good. 

“you’re so soft,” he pulled out a groan deep in his throat, “hold onto me,” he ordered, his tongue trailing up your chest while he switched positions to have you lie on the bench.

Quickly pulling out his hand from touching your cunt, to strip you from your pants and throw them off to the side, he smirks when he hears a subtle whine subconsciously release.

“No — ’Toru please —”

That's all he needs to hear. Satoru doesn’t waste a second before he’s crawling between your legs and meeting your dripping pussy.

it’s wet—so wet, he can see it through your damp panties. He almost wants to chuckle and tease you a bit. call you out on your ego, but the ache that shoots down to his cock, painfully throbbing in his briefs, banging to be freed, reminds him that he’s in no position to tease you when he’s not faring any better himself — probably worse and much more needy, desperately wanting, than you can imagine. 

“I got you,” he huffed, pressing a tender kiss on your knees before spreading out your legs to settle in between them, his eyes soaking up every inch of your pussy to have it practically memorized, “I just wanna see you a bit.”

Pulling up your panties and seeing your puffy folds perfectly enveloping the fabric made his cock twitch, forcing his hips to push his hardened bulge against your needy core while a tantalizing, static pulse ripped through his body.

The thick padding of his finger pushes against your flesh. And if there was a pageant for the prettiest cunt, Satoru was goddamn sure you would win. especially with how your pussy softly recoiled every time he poked your wet flesh, simultaneously eliciting an even prettier, desperate moan. 

“god you’re fucking wet,” Satoru purred as he played with just how thick your juices strung onto his fingers, “prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen,” he delightfully praised under a solemn breath.

“Satoru,” you gasp in embarrassment, hands reaching for his hair and tugging him closer to where you need him most. 

So what better way is there than to play his own game — to tease and have him be the one yearning, begging at his feet.

“Yea?” gaining a bit of your conscience to lean your weight on your elbows,  instead of needly lying on the bench, expecting Satoru to do something — anything, fast, “you’ve seen other pussies? Thought you were a virgin,” you teased while looking down at Satoru, pushing his bangs away from his eyes — his white hair a mess, cheeks heated and eyes dark and dilated. 

but, it’s his game. no one knows the rules better than he does. 

So instead of your expected reaction, Satoru chuckles, and takes his time to spread your folds open with his thumbs, blowing air while he watches in wonder as you flutter around nothing. your hole pulsates in desire as arousal drips and leaves you into a burning mess.

It’s perfect—you’re perfect, everything about you is what he’s dreamed of — no, it’s better, far better than what he's fucked his fist to all this time.  

“Cute, you think so highly of me,” he snorted, unfazed by your mockery, eyes still focused on your pussy, “but you can see for yourself —” Satoru fastly pulled you down, causing you to yelp in shock at how strong he was. his face was now dangerously close to your leaking core, fingers delicately spreading out your folds, to uncurtain your pulsing hole and clit, contently smiling in adoration.

“—if I’m a virgin or not.”

“do you even know where the cli— oh my god,” you sobbed, the heaves of your chest becoming greater the moment you feel Satoru suck on your hardened bud, the plush of your thighs pushing against his head, curving your back as you pulled onto his hair, breathless from how he, too, was desperately eating you out.

it’s jaw dropping hot when his veins bulge and Adam’s apple bob while he gulps down thick saliva mixed with your sweet cum down his dry throat, his palm presses down your stomach to keep you pinned from squirming away.

he hears you and feels that you want him to. so he works, he works till his forearms burn and his biceps beautifully flex every time he fucks his finger into you, completely stretching you out, expertly adding more of his fingers to see your tight rim around his fingers clench in needy desire.

It doesn’t take him long to make you cum. Perfectly in tandem with the pressure of his mouth sucking your clit, to the rhythm of his finger inching deep within to find your sweet spots, guess, it’s not a surprise it takes him less than two minutes to locate it and another minute for you to be gushing. Quivering in his reign, the pleasure overwhelming as you came in his mouth— it’s almost painful how euphoric it felt.

Sucking and lapping every last bit of you while steadily pulsing his fingers in and out as you slowly came down from your climax, it wouldn’t be Gojo Satoru if he didn’t get the last word.

Letting go of your abused pussy with a soft kiss to your clit, his lips down to his chin were drenched, glistening, and dripping with your cum.

“You were saying?” he grinned.

Two hours thereafter, that day, Gojo Satoru performed a career-high of scoring seven goals.

Day of finals, thirty seconds till the game starts —

“Nanami,” throwing his arm around his Kohai, "I always knew you would be most fitting for this position,” a gentle voice welcomed himself.

“Geto-san,” Nanami's voice was emotionless, “you’re more than welcome to come and take it back,” the junior sarcastically jibed.

“Me? Don’t know if Satoru —”

“Get away from him, Suguru,” Tokyo’s team captain cut the rival off, “the game’s about to start, Nanami.”

Suguru shrugs while Nanami swiftly strides to his position as right-wing, carefully watching the scene behind Gojo’s back.

“Satoru!” The raven-haired now standing in front of Tokyo’s center amicably called out, eyes forming a crescent behind the thick black and white helmet, “long time no see.”

Satoru was straight to the point, desperate, “why’d you leave…?”

“No hello? My… Satoru,” the other chuckled while he comfortably situated his stick, next to the puck while both teams waited for the starting bell to ring, “where have your manners gone.” 

“are those rumors true?” Satoru asked while lowering his stance, preparing himself to get the first puck to start the game.

“The rumors?” Suguru questioned, a slight twitch of his lips giving away his faux innocence, “Oh —” scoffing while reciprocating Satoru’s actions, “Ahh, the one about me being a traitor?”

“Suguru, I know you. Tell me the tru —”

A loud buzz echoes in the stadium, Satoru’s words falling blank under the blaring cheers of the fans.

“Taking the lead —” the announcer reported live through the blaring amplifier.

“Guess, we’ll both have to see how much you know me, Satoru,” Suguru swiftly stated in the milliseconds of passing Satoru, speedily making his way for the opponent’s goal.

“— ladies and gentleman, has the Tokyo Trailblazers finally found their match? The Kyoto Spartans will take the lead with player Geto Suguru setting the pace!”

The second period, five minutes till the buzzer for intermission —

Tokyo (3): Kyoto (3)

Grunting as he pushed his way through the defense, despite the chaos of the stadium, he could hear the familiar crisp sound of skates closely behind him, “I heard you’re finally sleeping with her,” Suguru smirked, now skating parallel to Satoru.

“Shut the fuck up,” Satoru grunted, making every effort to keep pushing for the offense, expertly navigating through the rink while juggling the puck past the opposing team, quickly passing the biscuit to Nanami, “it’s none of your damn business,” Satoru hissed out.

“You're scared that she might not like you? ” Suguru breathed behind his ear, “when that’s all you’ve been painfully doing till now?”

Wrong, Suguru couldn’t be more far from it. 

Because since the beginning, for him, noncontingent of your response to him, it’s always been you.

And outside being the gifted athlete who’s endowed with greatness, with you, Satoru had two personas.

the one that desperately fucked you.

Crashing into the lockers, the impact of your back being further pushed onto the cold medal sent shivers down your body with every desperate thrust of his cock into you. It was awfully dangerous to moan out of his name, let alone to even breathe when his teammates were just outside the door.

“Shh, be a good girl,” he grunts while slowly fucking his cock out of you, only to ram it back in with even greater force, while his hand simultaneously covers your mouth, “don’t want people to hear you getting fucked, do we?” 

Muffling your moans with his palm, his cock relentlessly pistols in without any leisure to be accommodating to your aching core. His breathing becomes more hitched as his thrusts become more languid to press deeper — his length reaching as far in as it can go — it would be an understatement if you weren’t scared that he could practically rip you in half in this position.

You grab him. and your nails dig deeply into his back, marking his skin with angry scratches of crimson red. maybe he was a masochist, but the pain of your nails coloring his back was nothing compared to the pleasurable satisfaction he got when your gummy walls suffocated his cock.

Kicking out his teammates, only to fuck behind their backs as they cluelessly started on their warmups before a game was routine.

He’s memorized every inch of your body, studied where it makes you writhe, tremble, and immediately latch onto him for your dear life while he helps you reach your high. 

And right now, he knew. He can feel it in the way you’re clenching down on him that you were close. Not that he had any idle leisure of his own, but just enough to pump his cock feverishly into you, bullying past your abused hole as he lavished in the melodic symphony of his balls slapping against your cunt.

He has you folded against the wall, his arms holding you up and hitched under your thighs while he mercilessly fucked you. The burning in his muscles and the strain he felt in his body was nothing comparable to the heaven he was experiencing with your powerless stance under him while his hips snapped forward, his cock dominating your insides with his hand covered in your drool.

“—Toru please” you tried yelling, only for your voice to fall faint each time he rutted inside you, his cock completely disappearing in your body only to magically reappear to stretch you out again and burrow its length deeply within.

“angel,” he taunted, his breath fanning against your heated face, causing your eyes to swell up in tears when your eyes linked with his, briefly opening up his hand to allow you to breathe, “you gonna be quiet?”

You softly nodded, your insides clenching to stop the weird pressure that was building up inside, “it feels weird here, Toru — ahh it’s too much!” you whimpered, touching your tummy while your body ricocheted from his force.

“Yea? Then cum for me princess, I know you’re close,” he growls into your ear, his hot breath making it even more difficult to breathe, “you’re such a good girl taking my cock so well,” he praised, groaning when he immediately felt you throbbing around him in response.

The moment you see stars and your mind fall blank is when thick ropes of cum shoot inside you. you can almost feel the individual splurge of his hot seeds coating your walls, with every desperate thrust he made to completely milk out his cock, his tip throbbing while he grunted with pleasure. 

“I fucking love —” he rasped out, face nuzzled into the cave of your neck. it was difficult to mesh out his last word from his harsh panting to catch his breath as he felt the lumps of his cum squeeze past his member, still inside you, splattering onto the floor with a warm trail of liquid gushing down his thighs.

“good luck today,” you whispered.

Luck? he didn't need.

But you? he absolutely, detrimentally did.

Or, the latter.

The one that, still, fucked you — because he loved you, like a lover. 

With the days that surpassed as being his friend — with benefit — the more he’s taken a place in your life. It started with freely coming over after practice — fucking, despite not having a game the day after. Your bathrooms would naturally have another towel hung, and an extra toothbrush would stand next to each other.

Groceries were always Satoru’s duty, while you stocked up on the self-care necessities. Satoru particularly loved getting a facial with you with all the high-end masks and oils, cuddling under the blanket while you both watched cringy romcoms.

But it was undeniably his personal favorite when he could give you a facial with his cum splattered onto your face — it’s beautiful seeing you covered with his seeds. Or when his face is drenched in your sweet juice, despite his lungs desperate for air he immediately pushes you further down to sit on his face when he catches you trying to move away.

It’s become a ritual. you've become his religion.

He comes at exactly 8:47 P.M. And you wait for him.

The key to your door opens at the exact time. 

He grins when you walk up to greet him.

“Waited for me?” he softly cooed, placing his index finger under your chin, his lips onto yours while sucking gently before pulling away, a string of saliva connecting you both, but quickly snapping when he brushes his thumb across your cheeks.

If the universe orbited around you, he was your centripetal force.

“So pretty,” he praised while looking into your eyes, breathless as if he could be absorbed into it.

“I have food —” 

"Later,” he abruptly cuts you off, pulling you close to his body, ”but, I think —” humming with his lips barely brushing against your cheeks, his hand squishing them together as he confesses.

“— I'm gonna fuck you so hard,” his voice was unusually sweet for saying something so crude, “that you won't even be able to see out of those pretty little things."

You softly gasped, flustered and unsure of how to respond to such a comment. Instead, you roll your eyes as your hands find the back of his head to pull him into another kiss, moaning into his mouth as he grinds the throbbing erection in his sweats over your heated core. 

His hands roam around your body, particularly groping your ass before his fingers tug at the waistband of your shorts — his favorite ones that always managed to get him bricked up.

"No panties, huh?" He states with amusement, "Aren’t you a bad kitty acting all coy,” he chuckles.

"Shut up," you retort, your cheeks feeling hot under the pressure.

“You don’t want it?” he rebuttals, taking a step back as if there was even a choice.

It’s infuriating how much power he had over you, enticing you in his grip as you mindlessly frolicked in his palm. And it doesn’t help that he looks… well… he looks gorgeous, dangerously handsome — especially with his hair mildly wet, and his warm body fragrant with cologne and body wash. 

“I said,” wrapping your arms around him, further pulling him by the neck — so close that you can feel the tent that’s bulging under his sweats and the desperation that overflows in his visage while he angles his lips to perfectly match yours, “fuck me.”

“That’s more like it,” he murmurs before kissing you — it’s feverish and wanton, the type that makes you weak in your knees and your core to burn up in flames. 

His steps immediately guide you to your bedroom, groaning and grunting while clothes are being stripped off one by one, leaving a trail of evidence with no intent of stopping the kiss. 

Your feet knock against the foot of the bed, his signal to push you onto the mattress, abruptly ending the kiss as he looks down at your flustered expression with a smirk on his lips. 

Relishing in your gaze, Satoru strips in front of you. Pulling his shirt over his shoulders with one hand, he flexes his stomach and takes his time to get naked.

He knows you'll look — you always do. Outside of being an athlete, what was the purpose of hitting the gym? To catch you lusting after him. He can practically see your mind racing with thoughts, and he couldn't wait to show that he's better than what your silly, pretty, little brain could ever imagine him doing to you.

Examining him from top to bottom, propped up on your elbows, you absorbed the sight of his smooth, toned chest as he stripped, the dentures of his muscles beautifully sculpted down from his chest to the crisp lining of hip dents that led to his crotch. 

Leaning over, his body caging you with his toned arms, he gently places a kiss on your forehead, “like what you see?” he chuckles, “I’m pretty sexy, right?”.

"what the fuck?" you suddenly gasped.

“what?!” he whines — you can see his hair practically deflate.

Brushing your fingers over his chest, running your hand down to his abs, it’s smooth and toned. “thought your nipples would be pink,” you snorted, pinching his nipples.

He flinches at the pain, "it’s a brownish pink, for your information," He states, pouting, “and you’ve only noticed it now after how many times you’ve seen me naked?”

"I’m joking, stupid," You laughed, the melodic tune of your joy ringing in his ears like a constant melody.

“but I’m pretty right?” he pouts, biting your shoulders and softly kissing his denture marks. 

“Yea sure whatever,” you breathe out, throwing your head back as he now kisses up your neck, your heart just about to burst out of your chest.

"Let's get this off, hm?" Satoru kindly asks while tugging on the bra strap.

Obediently nodding, you raise your arms like a kid, and he pulls it off over your head. And unlike the trail of clothes you’ve both left behind, he manages your garment with care — especially after the last one he “accidentally” ripped.

His hands rest on your stomach, fingers stroking every curve before he brings them up to cup your boobs, pushing up your breast to squish it softly.

“Feel good?” he asks, watching your expression slowly unfold in bliss.

And before you know it, he's dragged his hands down to your thigh, his fingertips softly grazing slowly to your panties, getting dangerously close to womanhood.

"Tell me how much you want me to touch you," He whispers, and in response you shove your fingers into his hair, gripping tightly.

The light callous of his fingertips trail over your clothed clit, gently stroking the base with his fingers, feeling your panties slowly becoming more damp with each touch. 

Further opening up your legs, allowing him full access, he immediately takes the offer and ventures further along. situating himself in between your thighs to pull your panties off, kissing your hardened bud while peering up to see you touching your breasts, it’s a sweet sight to see for Satoru — breathless — while you longingly waited for him to just hurry the fuck up. 

“god, you’re soaked,” he groans, chuckling as he murmurs, “That’s fuckin’ cute.”

"Right there-" you whisper, and he nods, dragging his fingers along, slowly moving them around to stimulate you as he sucked on your clit, taking his time to prep you

“You still didn’t —” The vibration of his voice further stimulates your needy pussy, gasping as you curve your back, desperately reaching for more of his perfect stimuli, “answer my question,” he states.

"Don't piss me off," you groan, pushing his face back into its rightful place.

"Goddamn," He mutters, the grip of his hand on your thighs becoming harsher, and the stuck of his mouth further fueled fire to your core. 

"I don't know how much longer I can wait when you treat me like that," he grunts while standing up again, simultaneously pushing down his pants and briefs, wasting no time as he wiggles out of his sweats.

You can see his dick is hard, twitching as it greets you. 

He exhales heavily, stroking his length as he situates his head to brush over your pussy. He’s seen it countless times, but will never get enough of measuring just how far he can settle inside you. The sweet plush of your tummy offers more cushion and excitement as he watches you hitch up your hips, impatiently waiting for him.

"aren't you excited?" Gojo says with a grin, using his thumb to rub circles around your clit, guiding himself past your folds, purposefully missing your entrance to coat himself with your natural lubricant.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer, and wastes no time pushing himself in, pulling out a whimpered groan, allowing your walls to open up and welcome his entrance.

He picks up his pace, rhythmic and balanced while sliding his hands under your hips to lift you up slightly to make sure his entire length can fit inside. 

"You're so tight.” Satoru grunts with a furrow in his brows as he dug his nails into your ass. hissing through his teeth while he continued to fuck through your tight hole, “You don't make this easy for me, do you?" He mocks, his grip tightening on your hips as he pulls you forward, your naked breasts bouncing with every impact.

You close your eyes, feeling every inch of his cock inside you. The slight tickle of his trimmed pubic hair brush against your clit as he slowly starts to roll his hips.

"You're so —" You whined, concentrating on keeping your sanity every time his tip painfully brushed back your sweet spot, "ngh — lazy!"

"Lazy, huh?" he scoffed, licking his lips like a predator locked in on his prey.

“ahh!” you yelped. within seconds you immediately find yourself on your stomach with Satoru’s weight crushing you from above. flipping you over without notice, wrapping a hand under your jaw as he turned your face towards him to deeply kiss, his feet harshly spreading and locking your thighs apart while his cock rammed into you, his balls splattering your wetness with each thrust.

"Maybe I won’t be so lazy if you become my girlfriend,” He states with a smirk, “just give in angel, you like my cock.”

“fuck — ‘Toru! slow d-down” you managed to cry out his name, his cock mercilessly thrusting into you, “you have n-no,” by now you were a babbling mess at how good he was fucking you, drooling with your lungs burning inside your ribs, “game tomorrow.”

“boo you’re boring,” He provokes, pushing his hand under your stomach to pull you on all fours, “never answering my questions.“ 

It doesn't take long for Gojo to adjust himself behind you. especially since your dripping cunt made it so for him to slide through every time. but it takes moments for you to readjust to him — every new position meant greater access for his cock to rearrange your insides.

“but this pussy will always be my good luck charm.”

It's almost as if you can feel his smirk as he grabs your hips, and begins to roughly pound into you in doggy.

"Look who’s lazy, c'mon, keep hips up, angel," He effortlessly teases, spanking your ass and firmly gripping onto the pulsing flesh.

"S-shut up, asshole,” you hissed, putting your head down on your arms for more leverage — it’s shocking how you’re not flying onto your headboard from the force of him thrusting into you.

"That's rich considering your asshole is right in front of me.” he chuckles, spreading open your cheeks to see your other hole pulsing on top of the one he was currently fucking, the rim barely withholding his girth, “ wanna try anal? it’s pretty, by the way."

"D-do you ever shut up?" You complain, reaching over to grab your pillow to muffle your moans. but in that split second, Satoru catches your wrists and pulls you backward, your back heavily arching and breasts rapidly bouncing in all directions, mimicking the robust thrusts of his cock pistoling into you.

“how can I, when you look so pretty,” his thrusts become more aggressive, “getting” thrust, he watches you crumble, face contorting in pleasure, he can tell you’re close, “fucked? thrust “by” he quickly catches your hand trying to reach down to stimulate your clit, “my” deeply pushing in, further splitting you open in half, the tip of his member knocking against womb, “cock.”

“too much…ahhh—wait! ‘Toru!” The bed violently shook as he drove his cock, balls slapping your wet pussy as your legs trembled with warm liquid dripping down from your thighs, slowly pooling onto the sheets.

“just say it, princess, you love me,” he growls, thrusting more as he nibbles on your lobes, pleasurable tears sliding down your cheeks as you instead gasp out his name.

“at least your pussy is honest.”

---

“I’m not here to talk, Suguru, get the fuck out of my way,” Satoru growled while pushing the other off.

“Don’t tell me, you still got no pussy to ask her out, Satoru,” the raven hair taunted.

“Nanami!” Satoru called out noticing his wing’s position wide open to shoot for a goal. It was apparent in the way Satoru briefly lost his balance, his composure starting to chip away from the strain of his muscles that he was getting exhausted — a feat Satoru would normally never struggle with until the last couple minutes of the game. 

But speedily passing by and braking with thick shaving of ice spraying from the sudden stop, intercepting the puck when Nanami passes — a gameplay Suguru’s practiced countless times with Satoru — the Kyoto’s center was now in possession of the puck, taking no moment to rest before charging the opposite direction.

In those split seconds, Suguru jeered, “wasn't this our favorite play?”

“Fuck!” Satoru muttered under his breath, quickly changing momentum to skate the opposite way.

And just before the buzzer goes off, Suguru easily angles his stick to chip the puck, the force of the impact causing the biscuit to shoot straight into the net.

Satoru huffs just meters away, dumbfounded at how much Suguru’s improved and curated his craft. A force he once relied upon and leaned on, trained tooth and nail while shedding blood, sweat, and tears together since fourteen now has become a thorn to his side that contrived to bring him down, Suguru bypasses his once best friend, standing in shock.

“are you still in denial, or have I answered your question about who’s the traitor, Satoru?”

Tokyo (4): Kyoto (5)

Intermission before the third, final period —

A tie (6:6)

It was the longest eighteen minutes of your life. no one dared to even speak. Through the chatter and vibrancy of the stadium, only the heavy huffs and gulping of electrolytes of the players were heard. Even Yaga-Sensei just sat there, brows furrowed with his thick arms crossed over his chest.

And Satoru, too, silently sat on the bench, leaning on his elbows parched to his thighs, manspreading with a towel thrown over his head. The heat of his body contrasted with the gelid stadium had faint white smoke radiating from his expended body.  

“Satoru,” you gently called out while handing out a fresh towel for him to use, “you’re going to catch a cold.” 

“Don’t need it,” he dully murmured without taking a second to raise his head to acknowledge you.

“I —,” Yaga Sensei grasped hold of your shoulder to stop you from saying anything regretful that would further disturb him. Biting your tongue, you sighed, “Sure.”

The cold response of someone who literally just rearranged your guts so wantonly before the game, sharing an intimacy with him throughout the years that bloomed into something more than what you’d like to acknowledge than simply being a friend with benefit caused both frustration and helplessness to boil within you for not being unable to help him.

Not like he needed your help, nor did he ever ask. But from time to time, you wished he would let down his burdens with you, and allow you to carry his weight for a while.

Only once has he ever shown you his emotional side. The infamous night when Satoru received the news of Suguru’s departure, you found him drunk in front of your apartment waiting for god knows how long.

all you could remember was that the night was awfully cold for someone to have a broken heart.

That night, despite no words being said, the comfort of your arms and the warmth of your skin helped him to sleep despite the storm that raged in his mind. 

It was understandable his mood. Normally he wouldn’t be so emotionally invested in a game, even if he had lost. During intermissions, he would either be chatting up a storm, blowing your ear off about all the plays he’s made and if you’ve finally fallen in love with him. Or, two, he’ll be listening to you nagging at him to not go throwing his opponents against the wall while wrestling for the puck.

Hockey was aggressive, but it was also an athlete’s duty to learn how to play smart and do their best to abstain from injuries that could potentially harm their career — especially, if the athlete in question is one preparing for his national debut to representing Japan in the Winter Olympics the following year.

Awkwardly, eyeing your expression, Haibara laughed while scratching the back of his head, cheerfully asking, “I would like a new one, mine’s a little damp.”

“Me too,” his blonded friend chimed in, his voice not as enthusiastic as Haibara’s.

Smiling in appreciation, you lent them a towel and extended the care to the other players as well.

“Why’d you give him the steal?” Sensei bluntly asked, looking at the rink while sternly watching Suguru make his way onto the field. His ex-disciple gave his old coach his respects with a little bow when he caught his gaze. 

“Are you seriously asking me that right now?” Satoru numbly stated, the clenching of his fists reflecting his true emotions.

“You know what to do,” Yaga-Sensei firmly stated, pushing his sunglasses up his thick nose, wasting no time before the buzzer rang again to redirect his player, “you know him better than anyone else, trust your instincts.”

Twelve minutes till game —

The crowd roars. Currently in the last period, with a couple more minutes on the clock to crown the final winner, both teams ferociously fought to control the game. 

The pluck clicks with each hit against the blade. Speedily sliding against the ice it was almost difficult to see it on the field. 

Currently, in possession, Nanami pushed forward, putting pressure on Kyoto’s defense as Haibara simultaneously rushed to the other side, leaving Satoru wide open for a pass. Nanami prepares to hit a pass over to his captain, hitching the puck in the air for a quicker velocity towards Satoru, who’s ready to receive —

The glass walls tremble on impact. Flinching at the loud noise, your eyes widen when you see it unfold in slow motion. Both bodies harshly collided against the wall with Satoru getting sandwiched between two forces. expelling out a groan as he slid down the wall, with puffs of white smoke spewing from his lips with each harsh huff of his chest. 

“Seems like a brawl has occurred between the two captains!” 

“And from the looks of it, Gojo Satoru is struggling to get back on his feet!”

“No,” you muttered under your breath, face paling and body going cold despite the adrenaline pumping through your blood, you pushed your way through the audience to get to where he was.

Your mind felt like a minefield. With bombs ticking, threatening to explode with each step you took. Nauseous from the anxiety, it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe as if there was a ball stuck in your throat. And despite the efforts to try and stay calm, it was rather difficult when your thoughts replayed the countless other injuries Satoru sustained during your time as his manager.

“He’s going to have to take at least 8 to 10 weeks off for his fracture to heal.” The emergency physician stated, pointing at the small crack on his right clavicle.

“He probably won’t listen,” Sensei remarked, crossing his arms while letting out a deep sigh, “is there any way he can recover faster?” 

“It’s fine guys —” Satoru tried playing it off.

“Shut up,” you and Sensei simultaneously interjected, scolding him to be quiet as if he were a child.

Clearing his throat, “As I was saying, it must’ve been painful for him to have played in this state, I imagine this was an ongoing injury he’s sustained in the past,” the doctor murmured while further analyzing the film.

You immediately shot daggers at him, glaring when the doctor unintentionally outed Satoru’s injury he’s been keeping a secret. Flinching, Satoru slowly sank further into his bed, covering his face with his blanket. 

“Though, being diligent with his PT and fully resting his body for at least six weeks will be the fastest route for recovery.”

But, well… it doesn’t take more than five weeks for you to get a text from Suguru.

From: Suguru

Don’t get mad… 

To: Suguru

You saying this makes me already mad. What happened?

From: Suguru

Just bring some icepacks and some sweets and head over to Satoru’s place. 

To: Suguru

I swear to god if you guys play —

From: Suguru

... it's his fault.

And it doesn’t take you more than thirty minutes to be blowing up his doorbell, knocking on his door at exactly 12:34 A.M. with an ice cooler with icepacks and a bag full of his favorite candy. 

Thud! 

“Fuck… ow that hurt.” You heard a muffled voice through the door. 

“It’s me.” You curtly announced.

Quickly opening the door, his elbow leaning against the door with an insouciant tone to his voice, he cracked a boyish smile, “Ah, isn’t this my favorite person. What brings you here?” 

“I told you not to —” Rage bubbled up inside you as you glared at him. 

“Okay!” Nervously holding up his hands, doing his best to calm you down, “before you get mad —”

“I’m already mad, Satoru —”

“Okay! Fine! Before you get even madder,” taking the heavy loads off your shoulders, settling them onto the floor, his warm hands cup your face, “it’s really nothing big. Just feels a little strained that’s all,” he tried to reassure when he sees you about to object.

“Really, I’m fine,” his eyes urged you to trust him, “I just… missed being on the rink, that’s all.”

Your eyes soften when you see the little sulk on his lip, and notice how he’s lost a little weight in his cheeks. Quickly letting out a deep sigh through your nose, you mumbled out, “I’ll be the one to decide if you’re fine or not.”

---

“Take your shirt off.” You ordered, firmly holding onto the hem of his white shirt while saddling on his thighs.

“Oh wow.” he placed his hands on his chest, acting innocent from your forwardness.

“Satoru, take your shirt off,” you grumbled, pulling at his shirt and rolling your eyes when it was easily removed, despite him acting naive, again his hands covered his bare chest — just managing to barely cover his sculpted pectorals.

“It’s really nothing,” he blushed, awkwardly looking off to the side with a guilty smile. 

“Satoru you just took off your sleeve,” you murmured, placing an ice pack on his collarbone, your voice filled with worry. 

“I’m really fine, baby,” he loosened up after seeing the cute pout on your lips, your brows faintly furrowed as your fingers ever so lightly iced his injury.

“I’m not your baby,” you stated with a glare, clearly not impressed with his defiance to go against his doctor’s orders, “I don’t date people that don’t listen to me,” you said without much thought while tending to his bruised clavicle.

“Oh —” his ears perked at hearing your words.

Fuck.

“Wait! What I meant was —”

It was evident that he was trying to contain his smile from the way he bit his lips. “You so wanna date me don’t you?” 

---

It’s not a surprise how you ended up in this position.

It started off with a light kiss, lips softly meshing with each other with light teasing of tongue — he swore, it’ll be just one kiss.

Soon enough hands start to idly move on their own accord, groping areas, and massaging places that wouldn’t particularly follow with just one kiss, leaving you both simultaneously panting and yearning for more. 

And then you’re grinding on his throbbing cock, spit slightly leaking from the edge of your mouths while tongues feverishly fought for dominance, naked with your pussy pulsing and dripping in need to swaddle and engulf him whole. 

Progressing forward, you’re slowly sinking onto his length, bottoming out with your ass seated on his thighs, foreheads linked while you both took a minute to adjust to one another. like an unspoken language, you both solemnly breathed, that even if the world crashed around you both, nothing would matter because the other was there.

He’ll cum.

It’s beautiful how he does it. And in moments like these, you can’t deny that the man who’s chasing after his high under you was the man you loved. 

With his mouth gaping open, his white brows furrow as he gasps for air while his large hands grip your bum, spreading out your cheeks for easier access through your hole. He desperately thrusts into you, unrhythmic and hips helpless from the warm seduction your plush walls have over him. His seeds shoot straight to your womb, filling you entirely with pulps of his cum leaking through your cunt. And it takes him a couple seconds to breathe as he rides out his high. 

And then you’ll be sandwiched in between the sofa and his heavy body, his cock rummaging inside, amplifying the sound of his member shoved through your dripping cunt. It’s loud and sloppy the way he fucks into you. Wanton and bashful in the way his muscles tighten in tandem with you clenching down when his head hits just the right spot. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his hips, securing him down to fuck you in that position. And he doesn’t retaliate from the limited position, instead, he welcomes it. With his face burrowed into the curve of your neck, his palms pushing your thighs to your chest—  biting, clawing, scratching, and licking — doing whatever it takes for you to rectify the burning ache in between your thighs, and for him to release his seeds into you again — again, and again, and again. 

“—toru! please,” you cried out and in your plea, he answered, “I’m right here,” Satoru groaned, “Keep up with me — fuck, I swear, jus’ a little more.”

Tightly wrapping his arms around you, his face nuzzled closely to your ear. Despite him already being inches deep within you, his every grunt and pant, the desperate moans he releases while he states your name, mixed with delirious curses has you craving for more.

With his mind hypnotized from the pleasure of his cock rummaging your insides, swaddled in care despite his cock bullying past your folds, he becomes possessive and carnal.

“This is mine,” he harshly bites your shoulders, pleased when you yelp while simultaneously tightening your reign on his cock burrowed within your walls, “all mine. You’re fucking mine,” he proclaimed.

“ — ‘Toru please keep going fuck right there!” you sobbed, cheeks stained with euphoric tears.

“Just say you want it,” he growls muffled with his lips smashed with yours, “tell me you want me.”

“yes, I want it. I want it so, so bad — need you so bad ‘Toru!” you mewled, letting out a soft whimper, feeling the vibrations of his grunts, pulses of ecstasy pulsing through your veins and straight to your core as you succumbed all authority and control for him to do whatever he desired.

“Fuck fuck fuckkkkkk.” he curses when he hears your words. Like a broken record, it echoes in his brain, with every release of his cum, his breath hitching and body vibrating as he finally reached his climax.

The voice of you calling out his name so dearly repeats so melodically in his ears. 

Soon, the room once filled with the savage slapping of wet skin and immoral use of dirty curses of pleasure while you both partook in unholy matrimony was now filled with a thick smell of post-sex pheromones, coupled with softened breaths and sweet hums of foolish lovers. 

“Be careful,” you softly mumbled, under him, while your hands lightly weaved through his damp hair. you placed a soft kiss on his bruised collar, his pale skin accentuated the blue-green tint, making it look far worse than it was.

“aw, you worried for me? I’m so touched,” he faked a sob as he pulled you tighter into his arms, mumbling while he lavished in your warmth.

“I still didn’t forgive you,” you lightly pulled on his hair. his eyes were droopy and his body felt even more heavy over your limp one. 

“Yea?” he hummed closer to your lips, gently kissing you while slowly grinding his hips to your wet core, “thought your harder harder ‘Toru harder was you forgiving me,” he lightly chuckled in between kisses.

“You’re the worst,” grumbling as you tightened your arms around his neck, snuggling closer to his warm body.

“Wow, you love me? I’m so touched,” Satoru softly chuckled, gently stroking your heated cheeks as he held you in his arms, he too, soaking in the warmth and feeling the beatings of your heart. 

—

Your eyes focused on nothing but him despite the chaos around you — just a couple of steps from touching his slumped body,

A loud buzzer goes off, quieting your thoughts, the loud announcement ringing static in your ears. 

“ Sustaining the blow, Gojo Satoru gets back on his feet again! He proves once again on the court he is The Honored One!” 

Two minutes till game —

Head throbbing, and every inch of his body burning from the strain, Satoru vigilantly fought for control of the puck. Every second felt like an eternity, and every stride of his skates felt tortuous as if every fiber of his muscle were being torn apart.

Satoru quickly passes to Haibara, and fastidiously receives the puck again when he's open. Faking a move to juke out his opponent, Satoru was getting closer to Kyoto’s goal. 

It was evident that fatigue was overwhelming each player on the court. With their voices hoarse, and sweat starting to sting their eyes, while puffs of smoke perspired with each agonizing breath causing their lungs to burn in their chest, no one was willing to back down.

Watching from the side while nervously biting your cheeks, you observed the game as Satoru flew through the rink. From the calmness of his eyes, and confidence in his strides, to the quickness of his feet and the gentle care to his game, things started to make sense.

For the man that obnoxiously barged into your life, ruining your pair of white shoes, to managing a spot in your heart, he sure made you fall — hard.

On one random afternoon while you watched him soundly sleep in your arms, lightly drooling as he mumbled something incoherent about some zunda and cream at Sendai Station — loving him came easily.

Because even if you tried running away, your feet would always end up back to him. And you knew the fire that you'll hold for him was going to burn, but you couldn’t resist the flame that he lit in your heart.

“With seconds to the clock, with Gojo Satoru’s lead, the Trailblazers are fighting desperately to win this game!”

Gojo Satoru — with him, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight, but it was something like that. 

“The Spartans are putting up a ferocious fight, Geto Suguru tries to steal the puck but is unsuccessful! Ladies and Gentleman, Gojo Satoru goes for the goal —”

Satoru sped his way across, the white tint of his jersey barely recognizable with his speed. The crowd cheers, sirens blow off to the throne the victors of this year’s champions.  

And currently, tears freely flowed down your cheeks. And you let them despite the blur as you rushed onto the rink, the soles of your shoes about to slip on the scratched ice.

Because the saddest word in the world is almost, and he was worth more than being dwindled down to a regretful almost. 

And if you had to defy fate, and create your own ending, so be it. You’ll suffer the consequence of meddling with destiny, and amend for your sins, in the future, when you’re dead if that meant there was a guarantee to have him in the present. 

Because in the world of almost 8 billion people, somehow your worlds are intertwined. 

“Be careful!” He panicked, throwing off his helmet as he rapidly skated over to you, “You’re going to hurt yo—”

Grabbing holding of his jersey, you slammed your lips with his — with thousands in the audience, cameras obnoxiously flashing up the rink in all directions. 

You won’t hear the end of it from Yaga-Sensei, he’s certainly, most definitely mad. 

Your anonymity is fucked, and now everyone will know you as the ‘girl that kissed Gojo Satoru’ — probably will be trending on all socials for at least a week, and that's being generous. 

Maybe you were delusional or so high off adrenaline that you didn’t notice the mayhem surrounding you  — especially not Satoru’s shocked expression when you suddenly kissed him. 

But your ignorant bliss was soon interrupted when you slightly opened your eyes and were met with a thousand flashing lights that almost blinded your vision.

“— oh my god!” you squealed, immediately embarrassed at what you just did, only for Satoru to quickly hide you in his embrace, your face nuzzled into his chest. 

“Looks like I’m not the one that’ll get in trouble by Sensei time,” he teased with his cheek placed on top of your head.

“Get me out of here,” you whined, “I’m so embarrassed…”

“Nah” Satoru cheekily smiled, tightly embracing you, “not until you give me a date.”

“You didn’t make the last shot stupid, Nanami did.”

“False, I assisted,” he stated after briefly calling out for one of his teammates, “If you weren’t so lovestruck by my handsome face, and actually saw my brilliant performance, then you would’ve seen the phenomenal play I had with Nanami.”

“Satoruuuu,” you whined, lightly stomping on your feet, getting increasingly squirmish from all the mess you’ve created.

“Told you,” whispering into your ear, “I’ll always win,” he stated before pushing his helmet over your head, reaching down to hold your hand as he led you out of the rink. The confidence in his walk looked almost arrogant, with you helplessly following, as he made his way to the lockers — a routined celebration after a game now as your boyfriend —

“Because you're my lucky charm, babe.”

author's note: if you made it to the end, thank you. i didn't expect a silly thought to lead to my distress about creating another au for him. But nonetheless, I hope you've all enjoyed ◡̈