I WANNA BE YOUR ENDGAME – Chapter 06

MONSTER - Modern!Sukuna x Reader

When you meet a sexy, tattooed stranger in a club, you can't bring yourself to care that he looks like he might be bad for you. In fact, you wouldn't mind if he became the monster in your bed

Inspired by "Monster" by Lady Gaga. A while ago, someone sent me an ask about this song and Sukuna. I can't find the ask anymore, but I hope you will see this story! This is one of my favorite Sukuna songs, and I always feel so insane about him when I hear it. I wish he was the monster in my bed uwu 🖤 Modern!Sukuna x Reader (female). 3.5K words. 18+, smut, oral, rough sex, squirting, cumshot, mentions of alcohol. Minors don't interact. Divider @/benkeibear

You meet him in a club downtown. He's leaning casually against the bar, sipping his vodka, looking so sexy, with all those tattoos adorning his face and his body. He's dressed all in black with tight jeans and a sleeveless shirt to show off his gorgeous muscles. He is confident as hell. Arrogant even. But it makes him even more attractive to you. That smug, playful smirk on his tattooed face drives you crazy.

His face is beautiful, like an angel's, but you can tell that he is the opposite.

A bad boy. The type of guy your parents would tell you to stay away from because he is bad news. The type of guy your friends would fuck in the bathroom of the club because he is too irresistible to turn down, but they would never go for more because he surely brings all kinds of trouble into your life.

But none of that matters tonight. Not to you.

Not when he is so enticing, and there is this intense eye contact between the two of you that makes you feel light-headed. As if his eyes are full of a wordless promise.

You can't stop staring at him, giggling nervously at the way his gaze seems glued to you as you dance with your friends a few meters away. There's a look in his eyes that makes goosebumps rise on your arms. No one has ever looked at you that way. With such hunger in his pretty eyes. Like a powerful predator, a monster watching its prey.

It makes you shiver but, at the same time, you feel like an emptiness you have felt all your life seems to get replaced by something else. Something you have been missing and craving all your life. A kind of desire, a kind of want you have only read about in books or seen on TV screens. The kind of desire and attention you have been dreaming about but never thought would ever be directed your way.

But here he is. The sexiest guy you've ever seen. Like a devil, beautiful and seductive. As if someone overheard all your stupid little fantasies, all your nightly yearning, and manifested it into one person. You want him like you never wanted anything before.

Your friend says something to you, but you don't even hear her. All your focus is on him. And he smirks at you as he sets his empty glass on the bar counter, unashamedly looking deeply into your eyes, making your face feel so hot that you feel like you have a fever.

His eyes and his smirk seem to challenge you. Beckoning you to come over to him. Like a Venus flytrap, which sends out its seductive lure to attract its victims. And you are oh so willing to fall victim to this man.

You are so drawn to him, unable to stop yourself from dancing closer and closer. He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, smirking that sexy, arrogant smirk again. A smirk that becomes wider when he lifts a large, tattooed hand and makes a beckoning gesture with his index finger. There's black nail polish on his nails, you notice, and small tattoos and rings on each finger.

You slip out of your friend's arms and take the last remaining steps toward the handsome devil who's been calling for you all evening. He is so tall that you have to tilt your head to look at his tattooed face. You are met with that arrogant, knowing smirk again. He looks good enough to eat, but you are sure that if anyone devours the other, it will surely be him who sinks his teeth into you.

He exudes confidence and danger, but you want him so bad, and you don't have the willpower to push him away when he puts a large hand on your waist and grinds against you in rhythm with the new song that is playing.

He looks intimidating with his tall height and broad shoulders and all those tattoos and piercings. But somehow everything feels so easy with him. He takes your hand in his much larger one and pulls you closer, drags you into his world, so all you see, feel, and know is him.

And he feels so good against you. Firm and strong, and smelling so good that it makes you bite your lips as you look up at him, trapped in the intense gaze out of those beautiful maroon eyes that almost glow red in the neon lighting of the club.

The bass is thumping loudly, making the whole club vibrate, sending a delicious feeling through your body. Or maybe it's because of the boy in front of you. Because of the way his large hands wander over your body.

His lips claim yours after just a few minutes, kissing you feverishly like you've never been kissed before. He grabs your chin, his thumb brushes over your lips, pulling down your lower lip, and then his tongue licks over your lips, hot and wet and so enticing that it makes you moan.

His kiss is savage. He licks deeply into your mouth, making your head spin as you feel his large, calloused hand cup your chin and tilt your head back, claiming you.

He has a tongue piercing. It feels amazing in your mouth, when he lets the small metal ball glide over your tongue with every deep kiss. It's arousing. It makes you get bolder and run your hands hungrily all over his tall, buff body, feeling him up, feeling all those firm muscles under your fingers, making you wish this dance will never end and you can just keep your hands on him forever.

The fact that he is so tall that you have to get on your tiptoes to even be able to kiss him makes it even hotter somehow. And his hand is on your chin, holding you in place, a long finger caressing your jaw, making you open your mouth even further for him, wanting more of him, wanting to give him more of you. And he takes it. He takes everything you offer him, and maybe even more than that.

Maybe he takes a part of your soul that night. But you don't care. At this point, if he told you he is a monster, a demon, or the devil himself, you wouldn't run, but instead sign over your soul to him oh so willingly, just for one more kiss, just for one more touch.

It feels exciting to be with him. He takes control so naturally, and it feels so comforting somehow as if you can finally let go of everything that has been worrying you. Nothing matters anymore apart from him, apart from this sexy stranger and his skilled tongue in your throat.

At some point, you shout over the music, asking him for his name, and he grins at you and leans down, teasingly licking the sweat off your neck, letting the metal ball of his tongue piercing glide over your sensitive skin before he bites your earlobe and murmurs in your ear,

"Sukuna."

He doesn't ask for your name. Maybe he doesn't care. Or maybe he doesn't need your real name because he already picked a name for you,

"Come closer, princess."

His voice is a low, velvety caress that sends shivers down your spine. Another light bite, his teeth gracing your earlobe, his lips spreading in a smile against your heated skin. No, you don't need him to know your name. You are quite happy with being his princess.

Somehow, it makes things even more exciting, even more forbidden. You are just two strangers dancing and making out in a club, and Sukuna's kisses and body feel so good, and that's really all you need to know.

His tall, firm body is pressed tightly against yours, grinding slowly against you. His large hands wander over your body, wrapping around your waist, his thumbs dipping lower, even in the middle of the dancefloor, teasing you, making shivers run through you. And his breath is so hot on your skin when he whispers in your ear. Nasty promises of what he will do to you.

Sukuna is a monster. He knows exactly what he's doing. He knows exactly how sexy he is and how crazy he drives you with everything he says and does.

He asks you to leave with him, smirking that sexy smirk that has you all crazy for him, and before you can even think twice, you already nod and smile up at his tattooed face.

Usually, you don't go home with strangers. Usually, you don't take any risks. Usually, you are always too scared to enjoy life to the fullest. But tonight, something is different. Or maybe it's not the night that is different, but the boy in front of you.

Sukuna pulls you along toward the exit while your heart beats so fast that you feel light-headed from it. This is the craziest thing you have ever done. It's exciting and scary, but you want it so badly. You want him so badly.

You stumble out of the club behind Sukuna, your hand in his, laughing, feeling so exhilarated, almost high, even though you didn't take any drugs. It's just the effect he has on you. He makes you feel so free, so invincible. As if this whole city belongs to you. As if he is laying it at your feet with the way he looks at you when he turns to grin at you.

"Let's go to your place, princess. Or do you want me to fuck you right here in the back alley?"

You shiver, not sure if all of it is from the chilly night air and the light rain coming down or also from the adrenaline buzzing in your veins. Sukuna's words make everything more real, and your head is spinning, but you refuse to let your fear win. You have never wanted anything so bad as you want this night with Sukuna.

Your face feels hot when you look up at him and tell him,

"We can go to my place."

You have to avert your eyes a split second later, too shy to keep looking into those smoldering maroon eyes after he announced he will fuck you.

Sukuna's low laugh fills the dingy back alley. He puts an arm around you and pulls you flush against his side as he leads you out of the dark back alley and into the glittering lights and the streets filled with a nameless crowd.

You have never done this before. Your mom always warned you about leaving with a stranger. But you feel like you will never forgive yourself if you let this chance pass.

And a little voice in the back of your mind whispers that maybe you won't even mind if Sukuna turns out to be a real monster. You want him to devour you. You are tired of always holding back, of always being the good girl, of always playing it safe. You want to let go for once. You want to experience all the things you have missed out on until now. Even if it means the monster will eat you alive.

And so you smile up at Sukuna as your heart thunders excitedly in your chest, and your small hands grab his tightly, telling him that you only live a few stops away from the club.

You sit on Sukuna's lap on the subway train, not caring about the other passengers, when Sukuna gives you nasty, open-mouthed French kisses that make you squirm needily on his muscular thighs. Your laugh comes out breathless, and you put a hand on his chest, clawing hungrily at his shirt, digging your nails impatiently into the defined muscles beneath it. You have never wanted any other boy in your bed this much.

You put your other hand on Sukuna's neck, fingers running over the short stubble of his undercut and into his soft pink hair, pulling firmly on it and pushing your body tightly against his, humming softly when your tits press against his pecs. This time, you are the one who claims his lips in another passionate kiss while Sukuna's low, amused laughter fills your senses.

Maybe what Sukuna shows you is that not only are you into monsters, but you are some kind of monster, too, driven by a dark desire, desperate and hungry for anything that Sukuna is willing to give you. Desperately craving his tongue in your mouth and his large, rough hands all over your skin. Craving his dick that's pressing hard against your thigh through his tight jeans.

He shoves you against the wall next to your front door, smirking against your lips while he kisses you deep and nasty while you try to find your key in your small handbag. Your heart hammers wildly in your chest when you slip inside the house, taking Sukuna's hand and tugging him along and up the staircase.

No going back.

He tears your clothes right off the moment you step into your apartment, making your pulse flutter when you are standing in front of him completely naked while he is still fully dressed, and his burning gaze trails hungrily over your naked tits and pussy.

He licks his lips, a lopsided grin lifting one corner of his lips as he looks deeply into your eyes,

"You look good enough to eat, baby."

It sends an intense longing through you, making you moan and press your thighs together. Thighs that get pushed apart a moment later by Sukuna's rough hands when he throws you onto your bed, exposing your embarrassingly wet pussy to his smug gaze.

You are in a daze, heart racing, moaning breathlessly when Sukuna buries his handsome face between your legs, kissing and licking your pussy hungrily, teasing you with his tongue piercing, and sucking on your swollen clit in a way that makes you sob and squeal and tug needily on his soft pink hair.

He is unrelenting, holding you down even when your hips buck wildly. Sukuna devours you. Kisses and licks and fucks your pussy with his mouth and his tongue, filling the room with obscene wet noises that make your cheeks burn. He makes you cum twice on his tongue before he lets go of you, smirking lazily at you as he straightens up and pulls his shirt over his head.

You lose your mind all over again when you watch him undress, revealing his broad chest and defined abs and even more tattoos. You moan when his large hands unbuckle his belt and push down his pants.

He puts your hand on his bulge, laughing when he hears your sharp intake of breath when you feel the heat of his hard cock through his boxer briefs.

"Don't be shy, princess. You can touch anywhere you want."

But his laugh turns into a sexy low groan when you rub your face against his abs, trailing kisses down his sharp v-line while your nails scratch his muscular thighs.

You find the courage to pull down his underwear and your mouth instantly wraps around his cock, sucking hungrily on his gorgeous swollen mushroom head. You moan around it, wondering why you find such bliss in feeling Sukuna's dick in your mouth.

You feel high, looking up at Sukuna's face as you suckle lovingly on his swollen tip. Your eyes meet Sukuna's, and it's the most intense eye contact you have ever had with anyone. He smirks down at you, one large hand wrapping around the back of your head, long fingers caressing your hair oh so lightly, making you shiver deliciously.

You suck his thick cock devotedly, holding eye contact, feeling your spit run down your chin and your arousal run down your thighs, basking in the soft groans coming from Sukuna's parted lips.

But he stays in control the whole time. Only lets you suck his cock for a short while, pulling you off it before you can make him cum, pushing you back down onto the bed, but this time he follows you and covers you with his tall, heavy body.

Sukuna is the monster in your bed, who knows how to touch you to turn you into the biggest mess. Deep, hungry kisses and dirty words whispered against your skin. Warm lips suckling on your sensitive nipples and calloused fingers caressing your throbbing clit.

And finally, his hot, thick cock glides teasingly slow between your pussy lips, massaging your clit in a way that makes you moan his name shakily. He fucks you open just around that gorgeous thick mushroom head. In and out. In and out. Giving you just a taste, driving you crazy.

Sukuna truly is a monster. Someone who doesn't just take you but makes you beg for it. Makes you so wild for him that you sob his name and look at him with big pleading wet eyes, abandoning all shyness, begging him to fuck you for real, begging him for his heavy cock. Begging him to fuck your brains out.

When he finally fucks you, it's like you entered a dark paradise. Sukuna fucks you rough and deep, so good that your eyes roll back. You have never been dicked down like that. No other cock has ever made you act this way. Turning you into such a horny mess. Uninhibited, unrestrained, squealing loudly while the headboard of your bed bangs against the wall in rhythm with Sukuna's deep strokes.

It's almost feral how he fucks you, how his hips snap against you, and his lips and teeth mark you up, his large hands restraining your wrists, his low grunts and moans in your ear. Savage. But he never loses control. His dick makes you cry, every thrust so precise, so calculated, making your legs shake and heat coil deep inside you.

It almost feels too good. Sukuna rolls his hips, and he hits that spot inside you that makes you splutter embarrassedly, squirming beneath his heavy body, ashamed of the way your body is reacting, but Sukuna doesn't let you go. He doesn't slow down. He doesn't stop making you feel so fucking good. He doesn't stop until you squirt all over his cock with a loud cry of his name.

And he watches you with a smug smirk playing around his lips. He pulls out after you stop clenching around him, but only to smack his heavy cock against your swollen clit, laughing at the nasty, wet sound of it.

"So messy. Sweet little thing got so excited for me, huh? How cute."

He drives you crazy, makes you lose your mind with everything he does. You're not even able to feel embarrassed anymore when Sukuna kneels over you with those strong muscular tattooed thighs on each side of your body, one hand wrapped around his enormous cock, stroking it with fast, long strokes, while his other hand pushes between your legs, rubbing your clit, spreading your wetness all over it, having you on the brink of another orgasm only seconds later, moaning and whimpering his name as you look up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.

And Sukuna smirks down at you, licking his lips as he moans and tells you to keep looking at him,

"Open your mouth for me, princess. And stick your tongue out like a good girl."

You follow his every command, lost in the rush of the pleasure he is giving you, already feeling the familiar tightening deep inside you again as Sukuna toys with your clit while he jacks off unashamedly over your face.

Two long fingers get shoved into your twitching pussy, right when a low guttural moan escapes Sukuna's lips, and his warm, sticky cum shoots down on you, nutting heavily all over your face and tits, thick and milky. And you cum so hard on his fingers that you almost black out, screaming your soul out.

He silences your screams with another savage kiss, leaning down to cover your much smaller body with his. Your bodies are sweaty and sticky from Sukuna's cum, but you still pull him closer, craving him, wrapping your arms around him and sighing when he rests his weight on you and presses you down into the bed.

His lips claim yours again, kissing you deeply. He tastes addictive, like maraschino cherries and smoke, and somehow you know you will search for this taste all of the rest of your life, in every other person you kiss, but you will never find it again.

Maybe that is the true monstrous thing about Sukuna. He is the best, and everyone else you meet will never even come close to what he gave you.

And tonight, Sukuna is yours, and you can get as much of him as you want. And so you keep kissing him, and touching him, and letting him push his hard cock into you again, letting him fuck you another round, over and over again.

He stays the whole night, blessing you with more kisses and more sex, fucks you from behind, and bounces you on his thick cock until you start crying from the bliss of it.

Finally, he rolls over, grinning lazily at you before he slumps down half on top of you, falling asleep and trapping you under his heavy body, his face buried in your neck and one large hand sprawled over your tits possessively.

He leaves your bed in the morning with your marks on him, deep scratches on his broad back, and dark red hickeys all over his tattooed neck. And you know when you walk past a mirror, you will find the testament of your night spent with Sukuna on your body, too.

But Sukuna's mark isn't just physical. It's much deeper, and you fear you will never get rid of it again. That boy is really a monster, and he consumed you whole.

KUNA, PLEASE BE THE MONSTER IN MY BED!! 😘😘

I hope you enjoyed your wild night with Sukuna!! Thank you so much for reading, and thank you so much to the person who sent me the ask about this song.

Comments and reblogs would be sweet 💗

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

England passes in beautiful shades of green, the last time you'll see it, so you soak it in. Rolling hills streak the landscape like scars. In the distance, you glimpse faded architecture, imagining people living and working there. An ivy-covered university appears, and you picture yourself dozing off in a lecture. These little fantasies entertain you for the next two hours, but Blue isn't distracted by the same game. When you look at her arm, you notice pink scratches just below where the friendship bracelet hugs her wrist, made by her nails mindlessly.

You tear your eyes from the window and nudge your shoulder against hers. "Hey. What do you call a cow with no legs?"

Her lips twitch at the broken silence and she lifts her azure eyes to yours, a bead of sunlight catching in them. "What?"

"Ground beef."

Those eyes roll. "That's stupid."

Nereida smiles from the other side of her. "Oh, I've got one. What did the ocean say to the beach?"

Blue sighs. "Ghost said that one before. Nothing—it just 'waved'."

A recoil passes over Nereid's kind eyes. "I apologize. That's the only one I know."

Quiet air fills the space again, and when you notice Blue's nails dig back into her wrist, you gently lace your fingers through hers and pull her hand to your lap, allowing her to scratch your thigh, instead. 

When an old theme park erects from the grass, Blue's interest piques. "Woah. What is that?"

"None of it works anymore," Ghost mutters, one hand on the wheel.

"It looks cool, though. I have to pee, anyway. Can we stop here?"

"I could use a little stretch for my legs," Nereida adds.

The pitstop is brief enough to allow Blue the chance to curiously look through the decrepit bumper cars, carousel, and even a small rollercoaster that still has the car sitting mid-track. She grabs Ari's hand to show him, but he doesn't seem as intrigued given the pale look on his face. He ends up rushing to a bush and keeling over.

"The back gets a bit bumpy," Kyle says when he notices your expression. "He'll be fine."

"I'll switch with him for the rest of the way."

"You don't have to."

"It's fine. He can probably entertain Blue better than I can."

Everyone uses the small break to eat a little lunch. You already had some of the beans Ghost packed, so you feel uncertain whether you should eat anymore of his food. You haven't even discussed sharing. Rather, you ration the jerky you made and save the rest. 

It is a small meal, so you eat it slowly to trick your stomach into feeling full. Just before getting back to the truck, you spot a tree by the entrance to Kettering Kastle. Hickory. Paul told you once they make for great arrows, a softer hardwood. Pliable yet strong. This excites you. Your sheath is only half-full, so you grab your serrated knife and cut a few midsized branches to take with you.

Sitting in the truck bed is far from pleasant. The tail wind makes it hard to breathe, and you have to grab the side of the truck to keep yourself from flying out. Kyle notices your struggle and seems amused, but reaches an arm over in offering. You hold onto him and it does some to keep you stable. 

The motorway passes through Kettering, which is a smaller city. The smell is retched, though the only Greys you spot don't take notice to you, trapped between buildings and toppled telephone poles. You make out a sign that reads A14 and figure it is headed to Cambridge. If you continue this pace, you'll reach the coastline by sundown.

Of course, things don't work out that way. The road becomes more obstructed with abandoned vehicles. Ghost has to weave through them like a maze, wasting time and fuel. The sun crawls higher in the sky. Finally, there are a few kilometers of straight road. Speed ticks up only to come to an abrupt halt when he reaches an underpass. You let go of Kyle and stand up to see what has caused the stop—a semi truck completely blocks the way through it.

"Jesus," you mutter.

Consecutive slams of the fronts doors indicate Price and Ghost are checking it out. Kyle hops out with them. After a few minutes, he returns and explains with a sigh, "We'll have to backtrack and find a side street that will lead to another motorway ramp."

"That's going to eat time. The sun will set soon."

He offers his arm again as Ghost begins reversing. "I know. It's fine, we'll just get to the water tomorrow. No rush, yeah?"

It adds an extra hour and a half. The sky turns a remarkable orange that would've had you gawking if not for your irritation of having to stop again. Ghost pulls over just before it gets too dark to set up the tents in a small market town called Haverhill. There's hardly anything here except fields of bright, yellow flowers and little shops with slanted CLOSED signs. It is actually pleasant and well-preserved, until you catch the distinguishable shape of a corpse hanging from one of the telephone poles, a black trash bag over its head.

"Don't look at it."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," you dismiss under your breath. 

A more forested patch of land at the edge of the town is where you make camp for the night.

They eat canned goods and you finish your last pieces of jerky. This means you'll have to find more food for yourself tomorrow, or ask Ghost for some. The thought makes you anxious. The last thing you want is to seem like an extra burden. Dead weight that they'd be better off leaving behind. But he also didn't comment when you ate the beans. The uncertainty of where you stand means you need to make yourself useful.

The men need rest, so you offer to keep watch.

Prices dismisses you. "You don't have to, Twix. The three of us can take turns."

"No, really. I'll keep watch and you guys can all get more sleep. I've just been sitting in a car all day, anyway."

He gives in, visibly fatigued after being up over twenty-four hours.

Ghost and Price sleep first.

That leaves you sitting with Kyle when the stars begin to flicker like bright, little heartbeats against the black night.

You pull out your smoother knife—the one you found back at that base—to carve the sticks you found, careful of your bandaged thumb. 

Kyle lays his rifle across his lap. "First time I am seeing you smile today and it's while carving sticks." 

"Arrows," you correct, holding one up and tapping your index lightly against the sharpened point. "And it's good wood. Hickory."

"You're an easy woman to please," he teases.

"My tastes have changed over the years."

"Really? I can't imagine you as one of those people who cared too much about nice things."

You flash him a raised brow. "Are you saying I was cheap?"

He nudges your knee. "Not what I'm saying. You just seem like someone who would prefer a little movie date over a fancy dinner."

"I liked sushi. Is that fancy?"

He hums. "There were some good cheap sushi spots in London—hole in the wall type places. When there was some kid doing their homework at one of the booths, that's when you knew it'd be good shit."

"You're making me hungry."

"Well, you should've eaten more." He looks at you knowingly. "You're scared to ask anyone for food, aren't you?"

Are you really that easy to read? You place the half-finish arrow across your knees and look at the ground, brushing your fingers absentmindedly through the soft grass. "I just—I am aware of my place here."

"Your place?"

Your hands tightens the grass into a fistful. "I am at the bottom."

"The bottom," he repeats slowly, and his voice lowers. "You really think that?"

You rip the grass and sprinkle it over your boot, glancing up at him. His eyes have darkened, or maybe they are simply mirroring the sky. "I am not complaining. I understand that everyone here has others who they would prefer to keep alive over me, that's all. I just don't want to stick out anymore than I already do."

He reels in your words. "You're forgetting that everyone here has their own perspective, their own wants. It is not as simple as you're making it seem." In a change of topic, he reaches for the arrow on your lap. "Here—let me help."

You hand him the knife and he begins carving expertly as a few minutes of silence ensue. You are lost in your thoughts, keeping your eyes on the surroundings, when he suddenly stops in his handiwork, holding up the knife. You watch him study the leather handle carefully, shake his head to himself, then look at you.

"Where did you get this?"

"Huh? Oh—I found it. At a military base actually."

Your answer seems to strike him, and he releases a disbelieving exhale. "The one near Manchester?"

You nod. 

"It was my brother's."

What?

Reading your expression, he shows you the handle and rubs his thumb over a small etching at the bottom that you can barely make out in the moonlight: PG.

"Patrick Garrick," he explains in a murmur, and your chest tightens. "I didn't even notice it at first. It's been years since I had it. The last time...the last time was when shit happened, and I lent it to a friend of mine at the base."

"Who?"

"Soap," he says, a memory taking over his expression as he rubs his jaw. "He was the other member of our spec ops unit."

"You... Someone mentioned him before. Ghost—he asked you guys about him when you arrived. You don't know what happened to him, right?"

Kyles nods. "He stayed back at the base to keep helping even when Price and I jumped ship. That was the Scottish in him—stubborn as hell. Soap was just his codename, of course. Like mine was Gaz." He looks up at you with a faint dimple. "And yours is Twix, huh?"

"I guess." You press your tongue to your teeth and grab the knife, frowning at it as you try to recall exactly where you grabbed it from. "What was his real name, then?"

"John MacTavish."

"I think—I think your friend is dead. I'm sorry." You gaze at him. "I remember now. I found it in one of the rooms, and there was a skeleton with that name. He... he had it quick, though."

The expression on his typically warm eyes turns unreadable and his shoulders stiffen in the slightest. You wonder if you should have bothered sharing this, but then he shrugs it off with a sigh. "It's okay. Figured as much. Many people have died. He's just another name to the list."

Instinct draws your hand to his shoulder, and the muscles softens beneath your touch. "I'm still sorry."

His eyes find yours. 

He smiles solemnly.

Then, somewhere in it all, he leans over and closes the gap. The sudden, foreign feel of lips pressed against your own stuns you. His lips move gently, cold and soft against yours, and only when he threads a hand through your hair to pull you closer do you fully register what he is doing. Your eyes fly open and you break away, leaping to your feet.

"Why did you—what was that?"

He stands up with you. "It felt right in the moment."

He tries to touch your shoulder but you flinch away. "I'm sorry. I just—I was just trying to comfort you."

"I misread the moment." His eyes are clouded. "So you didn't want it?"

Did you? Your mind feels fuzzy. "I don't know. I need to...I want to be alone right now."

You grab your knife and sticks, rushing around the tents to find solace by the truck, needing to process what just happened. As you move, you bump into a hard chest—Ghost. Somehow you failed to hear the jagged teeth of the tent's zipper. Avoiding his gaze, you try to slip past, but he grips your elbow, holding you in place.

"What is it?"

The lie wedges out of your lips. "Nothing. I just—thought I saw something so I am going to sit over there and keep an eye out."

The difference in height leads to his stare burning into your scalp. "What did you see?" 

"I don't know. Something. Maybe just an animal."

His hold doesn't soften. Stoicism forces itself on your face as you press your lips into a line.

You're easy to ready.

He finally lets go. "I'll take over now. You can sleep."

You find yourself nodding soundlessly, internally glad to be relieved of this duty. 

Sleep offers peace of mind, at least until morning. 

Dawn breaks over the small town in a quiet clatter of spoons against cans and the shuffling of bags being packed up. The dream you wake up from was one of an old life—the last kiss you experienced. But it fizzles quickly from the recesses of your brain the moment your lids shutter open. 

Both you and Kyle seem keen on acting as though nothing happened. More than anything, you are confused. You try to search inside that box of yours for how you feel, but all you find is fear. You've barely been able to keep up with the fear. You busy yourself with helping get everything back in the truck, fitting the supplies like a jigsaw puzzle. You have nothing to eat. A day or two without food is doable until you can properly hunt for something—

"Here."

It is Nereida who catches you by the truck before leaving. She practically shoves a can of tuna into your hands and you look up at her in hesitant gratitude.

"We're all sharing food," she says. "That is how it should be."

"Thank you. Really, this is—"

"Don't thank me. There is plenty for everyone."

For now, your mind chides, but you swallow the thought while scarfing down the meal you pretend is London's finest sushi. 

Once everyone is ready, you head to the back of the truck, expecting an awkward encounter with Kyle, only to find Ghost sitting there beside the kayak, hands relaxed behind his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Needed a break from driving."

You glance at the front to see that Price is behind the wheel, and Kyle is in the passenger side. In a way, you're relieved. You breathe through your nose and hoist yourself up. The bumpy ride is quiet at first. His body takes up space so that each pothole nudges your shoulder or knee against his. The morning ages. You swear you can see there coast at one point, but it must be your imagination, because the passing sign reads Halstead. 

"You really need to work on lying better."

The brash accent registers low against the hum of the engine, and his eyes are closed when you look over. He is leaned back, one leg straight and one bent, seeming to enjoy the seat more than you are. 

"Fine. I'm bad at lying."

"Care to share the truth, then?"

He needn't elaborate for you to know what he is referring to. "I was...I was upset because I found out my knife—the one I took from the base—belonged to Kyle's brother."

His brow ticks.

You continue, "But he actually gave it to Soap, and I—I found his dog tag on a skeleton. John MacTavish. You were friends with him, weren't you?"

His eyes open, but they are too murky to decipher from just his profile. His jaw flexes. "I wasn't a man with friends, Twix."

"You know what I mean."

There is a pause, and then, "He was a sergeant under my command. A good man. Grating, at times. But good."

"Well, I'm sorry he didn't make it. If you of all people say he was a good guy, then he really must've been."

He hums in agreement. Thoughtful. Then—two gloved fingers touch your jaw, turning your eyes to his. "You are still lying, and still bad at it."

You wet your lips. "I wasn't—"

"Help!"

Ghost drops your chin and grabs the gun from his waist.

Your eyes flash around at the sound of a second plea. There is a man at the side of the road, leg draped in bloodied bandages, but there isn't a chance for you to register more of him when the truck takes a sudden, sharp left down a side street and you brace yourself by grabbing the edge with both arms. The small city-scape whirls by in a blur. Ghost swears under his breath, scanning the area as he bends on one knee and keeps the gun secure in his grip. Confused, you grab his arm.

"That man was injured."

His voice is harsh and alert. "He has fucking friends somewhere here. He was just trying to—"

A shattering sound. An audible pop. You're thrown against the truck bed even harder this time as it skids across the street, nearly slamming into a flipped-over car. Ghost covers you, the weight of him keeping you from flying out. The truck swerves to a halt. Everything is black until his weight lifts. He barks an order, jumps out, and pulls you with him.

Pressed against the side of the truck, the world becomes consumed by loud sounds and the distinct smell of gunpowder. Ghost rips open the passenger door and urgently pulls Blue, Ari, and Nereida out, ordering them to keep low. From the other side, you hear Price and Kyle shouting, followed by another series of gunshots.

Boxer Sukuna who, despite his hard and heavy appearance, is an absolute lovesick bug once you start dating him.

Boxer Sukuna who makes you kiss his knuckles before a match. Makes sure the stain from your lipstick/balm and grease is there on his knuckles before he puts his gloves on. (Nobody knows why he kisses his gloved knuckles in the middle of a match)

Boxer Sukuna who appears to be a relentless bully to you in public, biting your shoulder, pinching your sides, flicking your forehead, sinking his fangs into your cheeks, but is gentle when his mouth is on yours, gentle with his arm around your waist, gentle with his hold on your shoulder as he helps you navigate through a crowd.

Boxer Sukuna who is pliant in your arms. Who comes home after a tiring day and sinks into you, eyes heavy and shoulders sagging, and lets you run your fingers through his hair, massage his shoulders, and mumbles a heavy, “talk.” into the skin of your neck as he quietly lays on you, occasionally he chimes in with a , “what a pathetic bastard,” or “remind me to break his fucking nose,” when he listens to you rant about one of your lab partners.

Boxer Sukuna who finds himself reaching out for your favourites at the grocery store, at the deli, anywhere really.

Boxer Sukuna who knows your schedule by heart so he promptly slips in a sandwich or a wrap in your bag on days where you’re too busy.

“Eat.” He texts you the second the clock strikes one.

“Forgot to pack lunch.” You answer and he can picture your sheepish grin.

“Third pocket in your bag. Eat.” He answers.

Boxer Sukuna who doesn’t admit it, but is so stupidly in love with you.

A/N: Not sure if i should add this to the series.

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 9 / 10

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence, references to SA - 7.2k words

𝐈𝐗. 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 / 𝐗. 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

an: I combined chaps 9/10 as 9 was only 2k-ish words long. Want to get all the Ao3 chaps up here quickly :)

You smell that sour iron, metallic and hot, miasma oozing from the pool of blood on the floor before you. Or is it your own blood you can scent? Coating your teeth, sticky on your lips? 

It doesn’t ache, though, the split in your gums, nor the chip in your tooth. Roaring adrenaline still floods every nerve ending. Too many abhorrent sensations overwhelm you. Too many storming thoughts torment you. 

You can still see the sneering grin of that American commander, his cocksure laughter and cloying drawl that convinced you he thought he was charming you. And how quickly that smile sunk into a cruel satisfaction when you spat a hunk of acrid saliva onto his cheek. You had given him an excuse. Fuelled his retaliation. 

You can still feel the wrenching of your babydoll’s silk seams, cutting into your flesh as it was yanked from you. Can still hear the shrill zip of the satin being torn into shards. Still feel the shiver down your spine at your exposure, at the rapacious sneering of your tormentors.

Still feel the fingertips on your skin. Their dents in your flesh. Their intentions in their wake. 

Still feel the searing agony in your scalp. Your skin being separated from skull as you were hung by your hair, the sound of it crackling as its connecting tissues began to split. 

Still feel the knuckles on your cheekbone. Your tongue between your teeth. Can hear the ringing in your ears, the throbbing of your shaken brain.

You ruminate on the cold hard edges of that gun, the weight of its possibilities in your palms - the possibilities you had quickly forsaken, handing off your last resort to your only hope. You can still hear the thunder of that gunshot, the two times it had been unloaded into your worse aggressors by your reticent captor. Was he protecting you as a person or as a possession? 

You reminisce on the sickly sweet satisfaction that doused you as you watched, in awestruck, shock-ridden silence, your hunter hurling fist after hurling first into the smug head of your torturer. 

You can still see his face. The skin beneath the skull. It had inexplicably surprised you that he had a face at all, that he was a man and not some hideous beast. You had imagined him with fangs, you imagined those honey-brown eyes peered through a coat of slick fur, that his tongue was forked behind those pointed teeth. But now you know for certain that he is human, his face lingering behind your eyelids as plainly and brightly as it was first revealed to you. 

He had softer eyes than you had expected, than the slit in his mask exposed; they were weary and heavy, dark with both greasepaint and a potently resentful exhaustion. His nose was sturdy, thick at the bridge, perhaps once broken by a fist and healed slightly crooked. His lips were full and pale, marred by a pink scar from a split lip. And other scars littered his pale freckled skin, slices and welts, carving through a tawny shadow of overgrown stubble that coated his jaw, through thick but fair brows that permanently furrowed above his eyes. 

He may have been once a good looking man, in his youth, before whatever hatred he’s laden with began to seep through and stain him. You saw his face and thus suddenly a glimpse of his distant humanity, however cryptic and transient it may be. You saw his face and now fabricate a past, a reason - there must be a reason, that he has become such a laconic, violent creature. He must have been entirely human, once. 

You wonder if he thinks the same thing of you. That you’ve been just as stained by the pessimistic hatred that pumps through your thinning vessels, dark and coagulated. Made ugly by it. Made into a creature much the same, running on base instinct alone. Maybe that’s why he seems to hold such visceral disdain for you. Why his eyes are always so heavy with contempt when they stick to you for too long. 

But his unmasked expression was novel. As if the bitterness in his eyes gained a new, a different meaning in the context of the rest of his features. Told a different story, when you could see the curl of his vaguely concerned brows, the jutting of his angered jaw, sour and furious after beating the sadistic American cunt to near-death. 

No, instead, he looked… sorry. Sorry that you had to bear witness to his face, his behaviour, had to see him at all. Sorry that you seemed to draw hope from it. 

But you did, anyway. You hope that if he looks human, he might act human. That it was sympathy in his poignant glare and not pity. 

You know you’re concussed. You know the feeling well; the throbbing, the ache, the vertigo. So you fight the dragging urge to sleep, so heavy on your shoulders that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand even if you tried. You haven’t left your spot on the floor, back gritting against the cold wall, knees against your chest. The blood on the floor can’t reach you, here. 

You fear your nudity. You fear exposing yourself any further than you are already by moving from your cocoon. Might there be cameras in here? Who could unlock your door and step in to leer at you? You’re not foolish enough to forget that no amount of clothing deters a predator with his sights on you. But you know how they use your bareness as an excuse. 

So when shadows of boots peer through the crack under your cell door, and precede the heavy clatter of keys in the lock, you only tighten the knot your body is in. 

It’s your hunter. 

Riley, you remind yourself.

His mask is still on. He locks the door behind him, his back to you still. 

You take a short breath, bracing to speak - but you spot his arm full, with what you’re not yet sure, and bite your tongue. He turns finally, hesitantly, squinting eyes almost fighting their immediate focus on you.

Seems he bears gifts. In one vascular hand he holds an unbranded plastic water bottle, almost dwarfed in his straining grip, in the other a large chunk of black cloth. 

You tilt your head back to follow him apprehensively as he approaches you, as he wordlessly hands you the fabric item first. 

You mustn’t respond in time, because with a frustrated shake he jabs it at you. “Fuck’s sake, take it.” 

Snatching it from him petulantly, you unravel it to reveal a hooded sweatshirt. Thick, black, vastly too big for you. Which is likely on purpose, given he hasn’t brought you trousers to pair with it. Still, you find yourself grateful. Only reminded of the bitter cold in your cell when an alternative warmth is presented to you. 

You do your best to stay tucked-in as you pull it over your head; though you don’t doubt some amount of nipple slipped out from behind your knees, as you struggled to find the neckhole in the tent of black fleece. You grit your teeth, suppose he’s already seen it all. 

The hoodie smells of dust and tobacco, like it might have sat in storage for months without a wash since the last person wore it. Once you adjust it over yourself, long enough to cover everything, you feel the tight snarl in the pit of your stomach loosen, if only slightly. Concealed, finally.

“Thanks,” you mutter, as he then hands you the bottle of water. You take it with fury and tear off the royal blue cap, swilling it with sincere desperation, teeth clamping into the ridges of the screw top. The water is stale, tainted with the ghosts of ammonia and salt - but it could be toilet water, for all you care, you’d been completely unaware of your thirst until the first drop touched your tongue. 

He crosses his arms, again, the disgruntled mammoth, ever impatient with you. 

“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you.” 

Whatever threat he may have been trying to convey was lost in his tone, hoarse and bizarrely sincere. A solemn reminder. 

“If I don’t spy for you?” 

He curtly nods. 

“You told me already,” you murmur, surprising yourself with the defeat in your voice. “You’ll kill me.” 

His chest swells with a laboured sigh, near a grunt. 

“If you’ve got a deathwish, you should’ve put that gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” he retorts, monotonous yet severe. “Because it’ll be a long time before you get the bullet you want.” 

You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your wrists, tucking in your palms, a nervous habit. Your hands are cold. Fingers are blue. “What do you mean.” 

“You had a go of it already. You don’t need me to remind you.” 

Your stare drifts through him, blurred and dizzy. You still taste the blood.

Exhaustion trumps your better judgement, obfuscates your ability to consider your words too carefully. “Then why don’t you just shoot me. You keep saying you will. You haven’t yet.” 

“I don’t like wasting bullets,” he grouses, “and I don’t like being wrong.” 

“Wrong about what?” 

He seems to hesitate before he speaks. Breathes irefully, like you’re the one pestering him. “I was certain you’d be useful. And I convinced my boss to take you instead of assassinating you in your bathroom.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” you grumble. 

He chuffs. “You don’t want to die, Mia. You’d have fuckin’ shot yourself. And you didn’t.” 

He was right. 

You had only briefly considered it, in reality; imagined the cold tip of its mouth on your temple, imagined your fingertip caressing the stiff trigger. You considered the torment that might have lay ahead of you, the dogs that might salivate at the sight of you, might chase you, might catch you in their teeth. 

You even envisioned holding the gun outward, pointing it at your masked captor, tugging that trigger as many times as the weapon would allow you to. Firing holes through his thick, heaving body, watching how many it took to bring him down. 

But even as that pistol sat heavy in your hands, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the faint chance of  going home. A possibility that would be quashed no matter where you sent the bullet. 

You couldn’t help but daydream about walking down the cobbles of your hometown even though you had no great fondness for it, about sitting on a café chair in the morning sunlight on one of three days a year it didn’t rain, about wearing your old wellies and trudging through the grass, petting old ewes.

And you weren’t going to die for your fucking husband, nor his sadistic coconspirators. 

Spotting your silence, perhaps sniffing out your lapse in conviction, he once again makes his offer. “Like I said, quid pro quo,” he repeats, voice low and dry, you can hear his confidence in his chest. “You help me, I help you.” 

“How,” you spit. “How will you help me.” 

“You get the intel we need, and we’ll get you on a plane home. You’d have a clean slate. New name, new address. Mia Zakhaev will’ve never existed.”

You snort at that. She never did. 

“You’d be sending a corpse home,” you growl, feeling the terror creeping up the back of your throat. “If there’s one left. There probably won’t be once they find me out. And that’s only assuming your fucking men don’t get to me first.”  

“My men won’t touch you,” he says coarsely. “You’d have protections as an informant.”  

“Yeah? Well I don’t have many fucking protections from the men that you want me to spy on,” you bark, voice breaking, your sudden loudness makes you dizzy. Your sore eyes swell, their supply of tears seemingly replenished by the water he had provided you. 

“You wouldn’t-” he starts, but your tired, terrified anger lurches from your throat and viciously interrupts him. 

“You have - you have no idea what these animals do. What I’ve seen them do.”

You hear him spitefully suck his teeth. “I know exactly what they do.” 

Taking a moment to breathe, to gather yourself, your eyes finally shudder up to meet his. “Then you know I won’t last an hour with them.” 

“You wouldn’t be sent in alone,” he rumbles, taking an irate pause. “You’d have protection.” 

“Can’t say I feel any safer around your men,” you retort through a croak. 

“Not them,” he grits amidst a reluctant sigh. “Me.” 

Despite what Ghost believed to be an inborn skill in reading people, your expression continues to elude him. Is it disappointment in your glistening eyes? Terror? Or is it relief? Hope? 

You swiftly look at the floor again, perhaps at the pool of blood Ghost nonchalantly stands in. Not the first time he’d trail red footprints. Not even the first time within the walls of this very compound.

It must be confusing for you, having him condemn you and then help you. Harbouring a hatred for him almost as potent as your awareness that he’s your only option. But it won’t be as confusing for you, as it is for him. He felt sick and bitter as he handed you that sweatshirt, one he had quietly dug from an empty storage room, had carried to you in the dark so that he wouldn’t be seen doing you a favour. 

Earlier this very night he would have left you naked and bloody. He wouldn’t have intervened whatever creative technique Graves had to make a spy of you. Graves wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all - he would have done it himself. 

That’s how disgusted by you he was. When he knew you as a conniving, vapid sadist. As a warlord’s avaricious consort. As a slithery creature complicit in the suffering inflicted by your kind. 

But at every step, you seem to have confuted him. 

Perhaps you’re that good of a liar. A talented actress. You would have to have been quite the thespian, to fulfil the role of Victor Zakhaev’s loving wife. And Ghost can see your attempts to decipher him, to write a script based on your readings so that you might have him play the part that would serve you. 

It’s what he’d expect. From you, and from anybody. Honesty has been a rarity in his sordid life, something so elusive he struggles to believe that anyone truly has the capacity for it. Even himself. 

“If I do this,” you breathe, hesitating. You glare directly downward, sucking on your words as you fail to spill them out. “If I do it, and they catch me, will you - will you get me out?” 

He sucks in a wary gulp of air. “I can try.” 

Your glower shifts to him, dark and tired, peered up from under your stiff brows. “And if they don’t, when can I go home?” 

“Once you get the intel we need.” 

Quiet, reluctant, you seem to despair every word you release. “And you promise I can go home? I can just - disappear? Like none of this ever happened?” 

He nods stiffly. “Like I said. Clean slate.” 

You shiver. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll… I’ll do it.” 

~

The lieutenant had decided to let you sleep. 

He hadn’t said such a thing, of course, it wasn’t a favour that he had offered you. After you had obligated yourself to their scheme, he nodded curtly and left without another word. You weren’t sure, at the time, whether he had let you be out of some charitable sympathy. But, despite the effort, you hadn’t carefully deconstructed his actions nor his words, like you would have in a more alert, more conscious state. 

After every physical and psychological torment that had been inflicted on you in the ten hours since your abduction, your mind had atrophied into grey milk. Runny, formless, utterly incapable of amassing a single thought or sensible decision. And despite your wounds, visible and otherwise, you fell into a hollow, dreamless sleep the second your feeble body made its way to the deteriorated mattress. You lay as close to the wall as possible, facing it in the hopes you could cast away the savagery that stained the floor behind you. 

Your sleep had functioned more as a system failure than a recuperation, and so, as you wake up, you feel as though you had not slept at all. Despite being damp with sweat and panic, your skin pricks in the dry cold of your cell. You have no indication of how much time had passed, how long you had slept, what time it is - your cell has no windows, after all. The sun might have risen and set already, or it might still be the same unending night. With a painful, irrepressible yawn, grinding your bruised jawbone against your skull, you wonder if only a single hour had gone by in your slumber. 

There’s a throbbing in your head, radiating and sharp; the forceful ache thumps out from the swollen bruise on your temple and bounces off the back of your skull. You feel your heart racing behind your ribs, pathetic little beats, it seems as if it barely pumps your blood an inch at each twitch. Anxiety, you’re sure, instant panic at the reminder of your imprisonment once you open your eyes; but you know that fluttering as a different omen, one foretelling a self-inflicted sickness. 

You hadn’t taken an oxycontin since the evening of your abduction. Four hours before your hunter had broken into your home, sadistically assassinated each of your sentries, and stolen you from your sanctuary. Unable to know for sure how long it had been since then, you suppose at least twenty hours. Perhaps more, perhaps less. 

Your oxycodone, though not prescribed, is controlled-release, long-acting - which has spared you, at least, a quick descent into withdrawal immediately after your abduction. But its arrival is inevitable, however prolonged it may be. They must have something in the compound, you think, you pray. If they’re soldiers, like they say - there must be analgesics, maybe some codeine, or surely some vicodin. You could ask the Lieutenant, maybe, you are in pain, after all. Or you could ask, beg, the Captain, the one who pretends to be so caring and so noble - an injured, beaten woman, surely he would not stand to see you in such agony? 

But just as the flustered panic sets in, there’s a loud, pounding knock on your cell door. Thud, thud, thud. You jump, shooting upright from where you lay flat on your creaking bed, and before you are given the opportunity to speak or dispute, the door is unlocked and thrown open. Three men file in, you dread, three of them - soldiers, in grey and black. You spot the union jack patches on their bulky vests, and find yourself feeling some inkling of relief - not the Americans that had brutalised you - though you recognise none of them. 

They waste no time, organised and hasty, two of them march towards you and the other stands guard by the door. You squeak in terror, backing up to the wall on instinct - they offer no comfort, no patience as they take you by your arms and pull you uncaringly from the bed. You’re tossed and spun, hands tugged behind your back and cuffed with another cable tie as if you present any danger to them. 

“C’mon,” one grunts, the only word spoken to you. His tone just barely encouraging, like he is instructing lumbering livestock to file obediently through his gate. 

Hyperventilating, you try to look over your shoulder - before, once again, a black cotton bag is pulled over your head. Blinded and incapacitated, they are swift to twist you and yank you, dragging you by your arms; you stumble over bare feet and feel the stickiness of undried blood on your soles. 

“Where are you taking me,” you whimper, not expecting an answer but disputing all the same. They won’t hurt you now, right? You are doing what they wanted. You agreed to their terms. What more can they take from you? 

“A meeting,” one says stiffly, the one on your right. Your feet do their best to take steps as they cart you out of the cell, presumably down the maze of hallways. You hear the echoes of their boots in the labyrinthine cement tunnels. 

Your instinct is to ask, with who? But, you can guess, can’t you. If not the Lieutenant, then the Captain, who you suppose had orchestrated the scheme in the first place. Though you begrudge their needless brutality, you follow their physical instruction without further complaint. 

They’re not the American soldiers in black, you remind yourself - so surely, you pray, they aren’t taking you to the Commander for some form of comeuppance. His business with you was unfinished, you suspect, there is no way he is done with you. 

But your violent escorts come to a halt, and you hear them knock on a door right in front of you. There’s murmuring emanating from behind it, the dull thuds of boots approach before the sound of it opening.

A grunt, a sigh, you hear the ire in the man’s breath, whoever it is. “Right. Bring ‘er in.” 

The Scotsman. You don’t have much of a read on this one, you recall, besides the salivating, dog-like hunger that oozes from him. Though it is less potent, now, you suppose you must appear far less appealing in a dusty, poorly fitting sweatshirt, than in your priceless silk lingerie. 

You’re shoved unceremoniously into the room, almost tripping over your feet before a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Far from a gentlemanly gesture, he then pulls you by your bicep, pushing you downwards until your ass lands in a cold, seemingly plastic, chair. You hear the door shut behind you. 

Before you can speak, the sack is pulled roughly from your head, yanking a few of your hairs with it, and the stark brightness of the room forces you to squint. 

“Jesus,” the Scotsman scoffs, as he sees you, before going to sit in another chair. “Graves is a fucken’ animal.” 

As your eyes adjust to the light, your glare shoots around the room - there are four of them, around a table, you have been seated at the head. You recognise three, the Captain, the Scotsman, and unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant. The fourth, you guess, must be the sergeant - the one you had heard on the helicopter, but who you have not yet seen. He looks somewhat less jaded than the others, and disturbed by the sight of you. A grimace of shame dents in his brow when you meet his eye, and he turns his head to look at some paper on the table. 

There’s a window in the room, and while you had just earlier been wishing for one, you now scorn the daylight that glows from behind it. A reminder of the outside world, you feel it glaring in at you, taunting you with freedom. You wonder how many storeys high the building is. You can’t see any trees. The grey sky obfuscates the time of day - it could be morning, or afternoon, for all you can tell. 

“How the fuck is this gunna work if she looks like that?” The Scotsman gripes, gesturing at you with his thumb.

Leaning back cavalierly in his seat, with his arms crossed, Lieutenant Riley snorts spitefully. “Ask the Cap.” 

The Captain stands, then, at the other end of the table, he leans on his knuckles against the synthetic wooden surface. “D’ya sleep alright, Mia?” He asks suddenly, directly to you, as though casting silence on the others. 

There’s an itch under your left ear, it makes your eye twitch, and you cannot scratch it. Vexed, tired, you simply scowl. “No.” 

He seems to find humour in that, huffing as if quietly laughing. “Of course not,” he admits with a sigh, “you poor thing. I’m sorry about all of this, I truly am.” 

You spot the Lieutenant scowling at him, eyes lidded darkly, he radiates a fury that you can taste from where you sit. You decide not to answer, not yet, you wait in uncomfortable silence for the Captain to get to the point. 

“I was told you’ve considered helping us,” he says, a cautiousness in his throat. “S’that right?” 

You swallow. “I was told I could go home,” you answer quietly.

“And you will,” he nods sincerely, “if you do what we tell you to do. If you get us what we need.” 

“What do you need,” you ask, shuffling in your seat, doing your best to only subtly stretch your shoulders - they ache from where they are pulled behind your back, you feel your cold fingertips swell. 

He laughs, then, a self-deprecating chortle, as he sits himself back in his seat and tugs himself forward. “Ah, well - of course, that would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?” 

His casual amusement unsettles you deeply, you glare at him in anxious anticipation. “It would,” you croak. 

“We’ve asked you about Makarov, haven’t we,” he explains. “I don’t think you were honest with me about how well you know him, eh? Not according to Riley, here. Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him, have you?” 

You say nothing. 

“Well, love, he’s who we’re after - if you hadn’t guessed already. Your husband was, let’s say, one on a long list. We would like to apprehend him, definitely, but you see - he’s like a virus, this man. He has infected plenty of other men with his ideas. If we take him out, well, it’ll be hard for us to figure out who else his plans may have spread to. He wouldn’t be as lovely and cooperative as you have been.” 

You feel the knit form in your brow, viciously upset by his comment. Cooperative? As if you had a fucking choice in any of it. As if you could have defied them any more than you had already tried to. As if you’d be gifted the option of a swift execution if you failed to comply. 

“So,” he continues nonchalantly, “ideally, we’d like to get as much information from him as we can while he’s in his natural habitat, so to speak. We want to know what he is planning, and who else is involved, so we can intercept it this time.” 

This time. You find yourself stuck on that. How many other times have there been? What else have they done? What else had your husband helped commit? You suck deep a careful breath in the subsequent silence, he evidently waits for you to offer some input. 

“You think he would tell me anything?” You mutter doubtfully,  “that he’d tell me anything about this plan?” 

“Well, love,” he grunts, “for your sake, I hope he does.” 

“You won’t ask him directly,” the Scotsman suddenly speaks. You didn’t expect him to participate much in the scheming, he seems to you as thick as a plank. “That’d be a bit obvious.” 

“Couldn’t we bug the place?” The Sergeant asks, speaking up for the first time since you had entered the room. 

“They’ll have RF detectors,” Riley remarks bluntly, shaking his head. “At least.”

“So, you…” you hesitate, thinking aloud, “you want me to eavesdrop?”

“Assuming they talk about anything of value,” the Captain agrees. “But you’ll prompt them where necessary, won’t you?” 

“You know them, Mia,” the Scotsman interjects, again, and you begin to question your first assumption about his stupidity. “So, if you think there is a better way, a… safer way to get the intel we want, then say so. We want to help you, help us.” 

You stare at him, doubt on your tongue. You know, in the pit of you, that if your cover is blown, they will leave you to die - simply another failed scheme, and they will move on to the next one. But he is right, in that, of course, you want to find the safest way to fulfil their ploy and guarantee your freedom. Desperately. Your eyes flit between the four men before you, who shoot glances at each other before looking at you expectantly, as if you might have some suggestion. 

And in the silence it dawns on you quickly the fact that you will soon have to face them again. Have to be seen by, have to walk amongst, have to talk to the very men you had denied your fear of for as long as you had known them. Then, when you were a wife, they feigned respect, they kept their tasteful distance. Now, you’d be a widow, a ripe fruit hanging from a low branch. That in itself sends painful pricks down the nape of your neck, but the thought of having to question them about their clandestine crimes, even daring to speak to them - you know, with conviction, that it will be your death sentence. 

“I can’t ask him,” you utter, shaking your head twitchily. “There’s no- they will know, straight away, if I ask them anything about it. Even if I just - even if I express interest in what they are talking about, they will know. And if they don’t think I’m a rat, they will still think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. As a wife - a widow. They’ll say it’s not my place.” 

“I’m sure it’s not abnormal for their wives to ask innocent questions,” The Captain shrugs, artificial support in his tone, as if he is providing you some reassurance. “They’ll be more receptive after a few drinks.” 

“Are you stupid?” You anxiously blurt, immediately regretting your sudden insult, but quietly relishing in the minor outburst of long-craved aggression. He simply looks surprised, almost amused, like he thinks it was cute. “You’ve been spying on these men for - for so long, and you don’t know anything about them, do you?” 

“That’s what we’ve got you for,” the Scotsman retorts.

“They won’t just give me a scolding, a slap on the wrist, if I displease them - if I disobey them - do you think they are forgiving?” You assert eagerly, angrily. “My friend Sasha, she raised her voice at her husband in front of the rest, and so he poured boiling water on her face. I went to her funeral two months ago. One of them beat his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to death for denting his car. They held Alena’s hand to a stove after she smacked her husband, they had to cut her hand off. She was lucky. And Vladimir-”

You stop yourself, stumbling on your tongue. You sweat with stress and hot terror as you remember each horror you had to witness or hear of, each of them long buried and desperately ignored so that you could bear to live in your bubble of fragile safety among the monsters that had enacted them.

“Vladimir what?” Riley queries rigidly. 

Glaring at him, you shift uneasily in your seat, your brow knots in worry as you struggle to let loose the words. “He’s the… he’s the worst of them.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He-” you bite off with a groan, frustrated with your frightened inability to even describe what kind of a man, what kind of a beast, he is; you feel your heart shrivel at the thought of him. “He hurts, he kills, anyone. Anyone. If he wants, if he decides to.” 

They remain silent. Expectant. You involuntarily elaborate, as your sore eyes begin to well. 

“I - I saw him murder one of my maids, in my home. He was a guest, in my home, and he pulled her by the hair into the kitchen and slit her throat - and he never explained why, he just left her body there and went back to dinner. Nobody even asked him why… God forbid I asked him, or even showed that I was upset by it, he would’ve… he… I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. I knew what, I knew what he’d do. Because, h-he - there’s nobody he won’t hurt. Even, last year, he tried to sleep with Vasiliev’s wife, and s-she rebuffed him - so he had her put in acid. He put her in acid. He put her in while she was awake and then left her in the barrel on her driveway.”

A disturbed quiet settles in the room, as you suck down a wet and quivering breath. You contort your shoulder to wipe the errant tears that had dribbled down your cheek. The four of them seem to take the moment to consider, a thick air of disgust and guilt seeps from each of them. The Scotsman rubs his eyebrow, the Sergeant holds his hands to his forehead, the Captain drums his knuckles against the table in disquieted thought. 

The Lieutenant, though, had not turned his eyes from you. He keeps his thick arms crossed, glower low and sharp through the hole in his mask. 

“Did he ever threaten you?” He asks severely, voice hoarse. Despite emphasising you, evidently asking about you specifically, no concern for you could be gleaned from his tone. If any concern, at all, merely a worry that such a thing might in some way affect his mission. You wonder if he had deduced from your terror that Vladimir might have turned his sights on you. Clever man. 

Worriedly biting your tongue, you sniff back the frightened tears that threaten their persistence. “Not explicitly,” you mumble. “But he - he would remind me of her. He’d remind me of what he did to her, if I didn’t do what he wanted.” 

“What did he want?” The Captain questions, leaning on his elbows, interlocking his fingers as though still plotting something unspoken. 

You scowl at him, red eyes laser in his direction. “If you’re asking whether he wanted to fuck me too, then no - he didn’t.” 

“No?” He queries gently, frowning in apparent doubt. 

“No,” you spit, tearful, “he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have tried. Victor was protective.” 

“I bet,” the Scotsman chuffs, and your lips curl in disgust. 

“So he didn’t hurt you, then, I take it?” Asks the Captain. 

Your eyes shoot briefly to Riley, the man still scowling behind his mask, he bounces his leg as though irritated. “Why does it matter,” you bite. 

“Because if he’s going to throw you in acid the second we send you back, then it won’t be a very successful mission, will it?” The Captain explains, condescension dripping from his tone. 

You shut your eyes for a short moment, frustration and fear thundering in your temples, you take the second to breathe deeply. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” 

“He must have liked you then.” 

You weakly shake your head. “He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t useful to him.” 

The Captain again drums the wooden surface with the tips of his fingers. “Well, you could make yourself useful to him,” he suggests wryly, “couldn’t you.” 

You grimace, sniff, glaring at him like he had smacked you. Another fucking use - such an apparently short list of uses you serve, and yet all of these dogs seem find you useful for one thing or another. You know what he is implying. 

“I just told you what he did to the last woman he thought might be useful.” You snap with sore venom. 

“Then what do you suggest, Mia,” the Scotsman asks bluntly. 

You inhale deeply, warily, staring at the centre of the table as you do your best to separate your terror from the reality of your situation. 

“I can eavesdrop,” you hesitantly insist, “they think I don’t speak Russian very well, so I can listen. I’m - I’m sure that they’ll have a lot to talk about after… after Victor’s death. But - they’re going to have questions. They’ll ask where I have been, where I was. Where his body is. They’ll ask about, about everything. I’ll n-need a story.” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” the Captain asserts, “we’ll sort one out.”  

You swallow, you wonder if they can see you shaking, now that your tentative future encroaches on you so violently. “How?” 

He seems to mull over his words before he replies, perhaps deciding whether you are even allowed to be privy to his plan.

“We’ll plant you back at your estate. Zakhaev, too. It’ll look like a botched assassination.” 

The tears threaten their swell, at his mention - at the thought of having to lay eyes on your husband’s cold body. You see his face erupting from the inside out, then, in an instant; you see the crater left by the bullet that tore through from the back of his skull, the pieces of brain and bone and meat that hung in strands from the hole, having turned black and dry in the hours since his murder. You wonder if they had left his corpse there, buckled over and dripping, still tied to that seat, festering under the fluorescent light. 

And you imagine having to step around the frigid bodies of your guards, the pools of blood that will stain every floor, of every room in your home - having to avoid getting it on your feet, and further staining the carpet with your footprints. Nausea churns in your fragile stomach, your skin shivers as you sip in quick and shallow breaths.

“Mia,” he grits, as though getting sick of your panic. 

He grounds you though, somehow, bitterly reminding you of your circumstances, of the deal you made, of the things you will need to do to go home. 

So you nod, hastily, once again using your shoulder to try and wipe off the stream of salty tears that dripped from your chin. “Okay,” you relent, shaking, “Okay. I can - there’s someone I can call to, to make it believable. But it… it’ll take time to clean out the house, for the, for the funeral, so-”

“We won’t have time for that,” Riley interjects, tone dull and irate. “Was he Orthodox? Is there a church? Cathedral? A place to hold it instead of the mansion?” 

Your husband was not a religious man. Not outwardly so, anyway. You suppose you can’t fathom committing the crimes that he had while still worshipping a supposedly benevolent God. 

“They wouldn’t - I don’t think they’d expect to hold the funeral at a church.” 

“Why’s that.” 

“When - when someone like Victor, someone important dies… it’s more of a business meeting, than a funeral. When his father was killed, they didn’t even have someone there to give a sermon.”  

The Lieutenant grunts in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. 

“I could have them come to the estate in Kastovia,” you suggest sheepishly, now so surreally disconnected from your situation that it has begun to feel to you like you’re discussing the plot to a film. 

He scoffs at that, Riley, with an air of spiteful disgust. “Another one?” 

“It was - it was a gift, from Victor. He’d send me there when h-he had business I wasn’t allowed to be home for,” you ponder, barely murmuring. “It would make sense for me to go there after, after everything.” 

“Fine.” He retorts flatly. “Kastovia it is.” 

“Right, then,” the Captain muses, evidently enthused, satisfied with how the strategy has so far unfolded. “The Lieutenant will act as one of your hired guards. He’ll keep a close eye on you. And he speaks plenty of Russian, don’t you Riley, so he’ll fit right on in.” 

“No, he-” you interject dryly, but insistently, “...his Russian is bad. If he talks, they’ll know.” 

The Scotsman snorts at that, chuckling and shooting a mocking glance in the Lieutenant’s direction. Riley falls briefly silent, and it leaves you fretting viciously - had you angered him? Will he take that out on you later? You’ll be stuck with him. Only him. Nobody to hold him accountable, and nowhere to run. 

“She’s right,” he instead dismisses, through a grumble, and you let out a small breath of relief. “They’ll pick up on my accent. She’s not even Russian, and she did.” 

The Captain grunts in irritation, rocking his head back with a sigh. “Then, Christ, make up a story about your tongue being cut out. Fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter, they won’t ask about it. I’m sure you’ve gone through plenty of bodyguards in your day, eh, Mia?” 

You nod restlessly. 

“Good,” the Captain barks, smacking the table with a satisfied hand. “Perfect. Let’s get you ready to go then, eh?” 

You feel your chest close on your ribs, your blood floods to your feet and renders you sick and dizzy. “Now?” You croak, barely, staring vacantly in his direction. 

“Not backing out, are you, love?” He questions, the casual friendliness in his tone belying a clear threat, you can see it in his piercing stare. 

You shake your head desperately, hyperventilating, you swallow dry. “No, no I’m - I’m just, I don’t think I’m ready-”

“‘Course you are,” he encourages you, and you watch as the Scotsman stands, black sack in his fist, he steps uncaringly towards you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you home. You just need to be brave, yeah?” 

You whimper, let loose a wet sob, as the sack is crudely tugged over your head, and you are plunged into the violent unknown once more. 

Ghost stays seated, leaning back deep in his chair, sourly thankful that Price had brought the ‘meeting’, as he called it, to a hasty end. He couldn’t stand to see the man feign charity and empathy for a moment longer, watching him leer at you while pretending to be a voice of comfort. Asking how you slept - who the fuck does he think he is? He was the one that had endorsed your beating, after all, he seemed to have no qualms about it then. The fucking hypocrite.  

He watches in resentful silence as Soap grabs you by your arms, his thick hands gripping you wrenchingly tight as he shuffles you through the door. He listens to you whine and cry quietly, to yourself, looks at your bruised and trembling legs as they stumble over each other on your way out of the room. In the lull, he rocks his head back in exasperated fury, glaring at the panelled ceiling and releasing a loud and hoarse sigh from this throat. 

“Not gonna lie,” Gaz grunts, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and plucking out a crumpled box of Richmond cigarettes, “I’m starting to feel bad for her.” 

Ghost scoffs. “Want a cookie, sergeant?” 

“Piss off,” comes Gaz’s quick retort, as he lights the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips. “Just ‘cause you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean we all are.” 

“Remember what she is, yeah?” Price remarks dully, scooping up the folders and sat phone he had previously left spread across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cap, she’s just a hooker,” Gaz mocked, groaning, “you’re not as chivalrous as you think you are, eh?” 

“God’s sake, Gaz,” Price grouses, lips twisting in a disapproving curl under his dense moustache. “Nothing to do with that. She’s a fuckin’ oligarch and she’s a terrorist. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t you get the vibe she had nothing to do with any of it?” Gaz asks, cynicism in his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ghost cuts in, flat and hostile. “She married a warlord. Whatever happens to her now is her own fault.” 

Gaz snorts, shooting a scornful glance at Ghost before turning to the Captain. “You really gonna let this guy take the mission alone with her?” He asks derisively. 

“Ghost has the right attitude,” Price dismisses. “You feel guilty, you get attached, the whole fuckin’ mission shits the bed.” 

“If you think she’s a terrorist, why’d you offer to send her back to England, eh?” Gaz interrogates, punctuating his doubt with a drag of his cigarette. 

Ghost looks down at his hands as they knot into a single fist, and Price releases an awkward huff; an indignant silence between them seems to answer Gaz’s question. 

“You’re not serious,” he spits, agog at the realisation, “are you fucking serious?” 

“She’s a war criminal, as far as we know,” Price says, close to a murmur. “It’d be a threat to national security.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz vents, rubbing his jaw with tense fingers. “You’re both sick.” 

Ghost involuntarily clenches his jaw, gritting teeth. He didn’t consider himself as lying when he told you that they could get you a passport and send you home. If you succeed, if you prove your loyalty - he is sure that would convince Price that you are worthy of rescue. 

Rescue, he curses at himself - as if you need rescue. As he said, he reminds himself, you made your bed and now you are lying in it. You’re so good at it, clever girl, at twisting their impressions of you, at wringing pity from them by fluttering your eyes and letting loose your sparkling tears. Your bruises must hurt, he’s sure, but they must only help you, now - you can brandish them and whimper like a beaten puppy, you can whine and beg for comfort and protection. 

He tells himself, demands himself, not to fall for it. You had already swindled him once, tricking him into bringing you water and clothes by sitting naked and shaking on the floor of your cell. You just looked so wounded, so defeated, so desperate… 

“You keep her hopes up, won’t you, Simon?” Price orders apathetically. 

Ghost nods silently, running his tongue along his teeth. 

“And if she gets herself caught - leave her with ‘em. Get yourself out of there, they’ll take care of her.” 

There’s a sordid silence as Ghost glowers jadedly out of the window, watching the dark clouds of an encroaching snowstorm roll closer across the low-lying sky. 

He huffs. “Yes sir.” 

in the quiet spaces between you and i

simon 'ghost' riley

tags: smut & fluff, sleepy morning sex, tender & loving, established relationship, simon is smitten by you,

rain hit harshly against the window of your bedroom. you exhaled deeply as you slowly opened your eyes. it was one of those days, you knew it was going to be raining all week. but, you didn't expect it to pour.

it was a sham because you had been having quite a sunny spell in the city. but for now, the grey skies and heavy patter of rain made you seek refuge in the arms of your much larger lover. simon. the ghost as he was known in service, but in the quiet flat you both shared. he was just simon, or si, or honey. hell, even one of the million other nicknames you had for him.

you opened your eyes a little wider and yawned loudly. simon slung an arm over your middle and you pressed your face against his built chest. you admired how strong he was. he had arms that could choke someone out and thighs that could crack a coconut. but nestled in the sanctuary of your bed. he was as gentle as a lamb. one who easily leaned into your kisses with a half-asleep smile. your short nails lightly dragged down the side of his jaw, feeling the stubble against your digits. you leaned in and kissed him tenderly, with such love.

simon was a catch, he could be terrifyingly intimidating. but, those brown eyes only grew soft when they were gazing at you. always protective. but not patronizing. he knew you inside and out, that came from years in the military. he studied you, but not the way a scientist would a bug. but, rather a man trying his best to be the partner you deserved. and if being the best meant carrying an extra umbrella in his bag because you had a habit of forgetting yours then so be it.

"love." he said in a quiet voice, "whatcha lookin' at? got drool on my face or somethin'?" his voice was like a bear growl, a rumble that made you smile. you kissed him again and his eyes remained shut as he enjoyed your kiss.

"shh, shh." you cooed when you pulled away from the kiss, "just admiring you." you giggled softly.

he smiled a little, "nothin' to admire. like lookin' at a garbage heap." he tightened his grip around you and hoisted you up onto his waist as he laid on his back. his brown eyes a little more open as he admired you with a dream-like gaze, "you on the other hand." he smiled a little more, "lookin' at you is like lookin' at art. kinda wish i could nail ya up against the wall too." then placed his hands on your hips. your softness felt nice in his rough hands.

hands that could kill and maim. he was like a wild animal, he would tear through what he could in order for some primal driven ideal of peace. instead he held the fat of your hips with such a devotion, like you were going to slip through his fingers at any moment. but you'd never leave, not with the life you built together. simon really felt like a ghost before he met you. home had no roots until you slowly planted them in the cracks of his soul.

bland food was replaced with home recipes, a single pair of work boots were replaced with many pairs of shoes along with a closet near bursting with clothes, blank walls were panted over in brighter colours and decorated with photos. simon hated having his photo taken, but he'd do it for you.

his hands trailed up and down your sides, he pushed up the large black tshirt you wore. he exposed the boxers you wore (and stole) underneath. you liked to sleep in his clothes, it made you feel closer to him. as if you weren't buried under his arm almost every night. his eyes went a little wider when you peeled the shirt off and exposed your beautiful breasts to him.

his eyes quickly darted to your face as he asked, "do.. do you want this? you can stop if you want." he never wanted to force you into any act of sexual activity. he may have his urges, but he would never force you into anything.

you nodded softly, "si, i always want you. wanting you is like wanting air, or water or cheap kebab. i can taste it on my tongue when i think about it too hard." then pulled at the waistband of the underwear you wore. simon's gaze was on you as you stripped down and when he broke himself out of his trance, he stripped down as well.

you ended up on his waist once more. his hard cock up against your soft stomach. you licked your lips. you asked him, "do you want this? are you comfortable?"

simon nodded. consent was a two-way street. it took at least two to tango this way, both parties had to be happy, even if a little sleepy. he held onto you and guided you onto his cock. he tensed up and said, "yes, yes. that's it. oh, fuck." he swallowed as you easily took him. he wasn't small by any means, but careful movements got you seated on him like it was your personal throne.

you asked, "do you like that?" the rain continued to batter against the window. but you two were dry and warm in each other's embrace. you knew today would be a lazy day in bed. maybe simon had to check a few work emails, and maybe you'd get leftovers out of the fridge for dinner. but with the weather outside, you'd be rather cozy curled up in your flat.

simon took your hands and placed them on the expanse of his chest. you could feel the tawny-blond short hairs under your finger tips. you could feel the leap in his heartbeat and you smiled softly at him. he smiled softly at you. he once said he didn't smile as much in the previous thirty years of his life compared to the two years he had known you. it was hard not to smile when it felt like the sun itself was beaming at him at all times.

he moaned a little, "yeah, sunshine. you're doin' amazin'." his expression was still a little sleepy as you moved against him. the sex was slow, but lined with passion. you always held passion for one another, a flickering flame in your heart that you carried with you. and in moments of quiet intimacy, the pair of flames met. kissed and fluttered in each other's company. you loved simon, you loved him in a way that felt like it came from a storybook. even in the hard times.

the days apart, hell, the months apart. simon's ability to emotionally close off and your ability to feel nothing but a cold of anxiety through you. but in moments of weakness you built up one another, and it bloomed into the life long intimacy you both shared. the love that went deeper than waves of the ocean.

you leaned down and kissed simon on the lips as you moved against him. you felt your love for him wrapped up in a sexual fever that climbed from your core up to your brain. it left sparks in your blood as you planted your hands firmly on his chest. your hips rolled slowly and the kiss only deepened.

he groaned against you. this was heaven. simon once believed that he had died on the battlefield and somehow weaseled his way to heaven. there he met an angel, you. and you loved him and stitched back a broken man. piece by piece. he said close to your lips, "i love you."

and you replied with no uncertain terms, "and i love you, simon riley." his name on your lips sounded like gospel. it excited him just as much as it scared him. he held onto you a little tighter and let you move against him. the pleasure coursed through both of you, the heightened heat would only lead to a orgasmic high that would make your toes curl.

it was a mutual goal as you continued to move against him. heated breaths in a quiet bedroom. outside was gloomy and cold. but the sparks of light made the room you shared inviting and comforting. this was the man of your dreams.

scarred, tattooed, many times beats and many more times broken. but wasn't that love? to pick up the pieces of another, shake them it in their face and demand that they allow themselves to be loved?

that was all you could give simon. your love, your loyalty and a future.

the two of you kissed while pleasure coursed through the both of you. your pace staggered as the want made your heart race. it felt amazing, it always did. being intimate, soft, loving. to be held by your beloved simon as you rocked against him. there were no expectations, you could not cum and you'd still feel happy. to feel loved, oh to feel loved by simon, that was worth more than orgasm after orgasm.

he groaned when you parted the kiss. he held onto you a little tighter and exhaled deeply as the pleasure properly washed over him. he said through tense words, "i'm close. baby, i'm close."

and you worked yourself harder on him. the sex between you two was electric and you felt the urge to finish come over you. you let out a sweet moan, like dessert wine. it left simon drunk off as feeling. as you came, he came as well. he leaned forward to bury his face in your soft torso as you continued to ride him through both of your climaxes.

your voice was tense as you said you loved him once more. you never said those words without meaning them. you were everything to him and he in turn was everything to you. when your pace slowed, he pulled you back down with him onto the bed.

he smothered you in his love as he feverishly kissed you in the hot after glow of sex. while it wasn't the most extreme form of love making you felt soft and warm. you felt the love in love making. simon's kisses were silent prayers to his angel as he held you close in his strong arms.

you giggled against his lips before you pulled away and held his face lovingly. you felt heat in your face and could see the heat in his. you smiled, the kind of loopy, happy smile that lovers had. he kissed you once more before you managed to get the covers over you once more.

the clothes could wait, as could breakfast. because while you had pancakes on the brain, your lover's kisses were more filling. <3

simon who is just straight up cruel when it comes to fucking you when he's in a bad mood.

he comes home after a long shift at work. he was so pissed off that he couldn't think straight. captain has been driving him up the fucking wall, nagging at him for doing something that he isn't particularly comfortable with during one of their missions or whatever. he can't even remember? he's so mad.

you barely got any words out of your mouth before his tongue was shoved deep down your throat?!

fifteen minutes later, he's folding you in half till jt was physically impossible. your legs pressed right up against your chest while his cock slams in and out your wet pussy.

you can't even calculate anything but his cock ruining your deluctable pussy. you know you look fucked out of your mind right now. don't need a smart-alec to figure that one out. tears prickling out of your eyes, staining your pretty cheeks. mouth wide open, jabbering on nothing but full-on bullshit.

simon wasn't paying attention to that though - too pleasure-hungry for his own good. he grips onto harder onto your thighs and continues to drive his cock in and out of your wet channel. you were close, and you could tell he was too. his movements beginning to slow and become incoherent.

he moves the pad of his thumb against your clit, drawing soft circles until the knot in your stomach bursts and your pussy quivers around his cock. your arousal dripping down his cock as you come down from your high, which was suddenly taken from you when you feel a sharp feeling against your clit. you choke upon your tears as his thumb continues to tease your twitchy clit and he doesn't stop fucking you wrecklessly, "don'worry, sweetness. cummin' soon."

he utters out between a groan. he was true to his words. his cock pulsating inside of you as his load fills you cunt up, hand digging into your thighs which was bound to leave grim bruises later, but whatever.

he expels a shuddering breath before pulling out of you. his cum drizzles out of your fluttering hole and he stares at your throbbing pussy in awe. you try shift up onto your elbows, but he stops you with a hand on your stomach, pushing you back down in place.

"nowhere near done, lovie."

PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation ( f) oral (m and f receiving) fingering, spit kink low-key, cum swallowing, reader is innocent DON'T read if you don't like that, mutual pining, obsessive Gojo, he can't get hard if it's not you, this whole damn chap is smut so, aftercare and feelings. A little bit of angsttt, a lil bit of cuteness, demisexual reader and pornstarr Satoru what a pair.

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!? WC 10.6k!

<<<Chapter One - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Three>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Two

“Come in.”

You shyly take him in, how fucking gorgeous Satoru Gojo looks, shirtless with just a pair of dark jeans sound low on his hips, showing that perfect body up close. You can smell the shampoo he’s used, wafting in the fancy penthouse, just standing there and staring with your lips parted.

Pull it together!

“Thank you, it’s good to see you again.” You say softly, when he shuts the door behind you with a gentle click, and you eye him now, his gorgeous eyes bright and glittery, lips quirked up.

“You sure saw a lot of me.”

“Shit.” You cover your face, and he gently eases your hands down, smiling at you, laughing just a bit.

“Where are your glasses?”

“Contacts today. Do you um, like them?”

“I do, they’re cute on you, but I do like seeing your pretty eyes better.” He’s gently cupping your face as he murmurs, you’re trembling from his touch, his proximity. “Take off your converse. Keep on the kitten socks.”

“You like these huh?” You’re feeling so comfortable already, despite your nerves, of why you’re here, how fucking bold you are, so out of your comfort zone, but it feels fucking perfect. You ease off your shoes, and he kneels, making you gasp, as he runs his fingers over the soft fleece of those socks.

“They’re so hot. Shit.”

“They a-are?” He sighs, pressing a kiss on your thigh and looking up at you then, on his knees, he can inhale your arousal, making him almost press you up on the wall and eat you then and there. He barely controls himself, knowing you’re clearly not experienced, kissing your other thigh and standing slowly.

“Very hot. Need a drink?” You nod shyly, and he takes your hand, as you cross the luxurious expanse of his beautiful home, the finest furniture everywhere, plush shag carpet that would be impossible to clean, over to his kitchen now. “Pick your poison sweets.”

“Do you have wine? I do drink that a bit.”

“Do I have wine? Psh, what vintage, what year?” He pulls open a blue lit wine fridge then, stocked full, and you blink in surprise, peering down with him.

“Nothing fancy! Goodness, I like Rose?”

“Rose it is.” Satoru opens it with ease, some fancy electric cork opener that fascinates you, just making you cuter as you study it. “It isn’t that fancy, swear, this bottle is just ten years old.”

“Isn’t that fancy then?”

“No, not really, but it’s really sweet. You’ll love it.” He leans up, as you take in the enormous kitchen, he reaches a high up cabinet, snatching up two crystal glasses, your fingers brushing the pretty black marble.

“Your home is gorgeous.”

“It better be, fucking expensive as shit.” You can’t stop the little nervous laugh, praying you don’t snort this time jesus that had been embarrassing, thanking him when he hands you a glass filled with pretty pink liquid.

“Thank you so much. Mmm!” You taste it and sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the juicy strawberries hit your tongue. “Oh it’s to die for.”

“I taste better.”

You almost spit out the wine, and he’s grinning and wiggling his brow, you take another sip for courage. “That will be burned into my brain.”

“Good, it should be. I can think of a lot of things I’d love burned into my brain right now.” He sips that wine, just a drop spilling, which you lean over to brush off with your thumb, sighing as he grabs your wrist now, pulling you impossibly close. “Images of you have been steadily fucking me up since that night.”

“So it’s not um, one sided?” He scoffs, setting down both of your glasses, walking you until your back is against the counter, his scent overtaking your sense while his touch burns you.

You wondered, was it the party, was it in your head?

No.

His touch is everything, your eyes are drawn to his, while he leans lower over you now. “One sided?”

“Well, it’s insane and… Satoru I don’t just see you as some object, please know that, we could just… talk and I’d be happy.” He pauses as you murmur nervously, looking down, biting that lip too hard.

“Think I’d mind if you used me? I’d let you use any part of my body.” You gasp, eyes wide when they go up to his now. “Think you haven’t been on my mind since I blew that smoke in your mouth?”

“I didn’t know if- mnh!” He’s pressed you against the counter now, arms barring you on either side, your breath comes so fast as he towers over you in his elegant kitchen, eyes locking on his, head falling back just so.

“I wanted to respect you, despite my very disrespectful thoughts, of everything I wanna do to you.” He’s leaning lower, cupping your face with a hand now, breath mingling as he brings your face so close, lips a mere centimeter away. “Filthy things, I’ve been thinking of.”

“O-oh y-yeah?” He can’t stop his little laugh at you, sighing and tilting his head, pressing a kiss on your lips, just a brush of them that ignites need in your body, heart and fucking soul, which you try to shove down, to focus on how good your skin feels against his.

“Precious little thing, would be so fun to ruin you. Filthy fucking thoughts. But we’ll start with this one.” He picks you up now, you cling to him, arms around his neck, as your eyes meet, and he’s holding you like it’s nothing, hands gripping your ass under your skirt, squeezing and pressing you against him. “I wanna watch your pretty face when you cum so hard you can’t think.”

“God, Satoru…” He’s kissing you again, carrying you effortlessly to his room, you can’t even look at the luxe surroundings, enwrapped in his arms, drowning in his messy, expert kisses. “Mnh!”

“The little sounds you make.” Satoru certainly doesn’t fuck girls that aren’t co-stars or in the industry, but he can’t think of any time he’s ever been this ready, this filled with need for anyone. You feel so perfect in his arms, but you look even better when he pulls up, seeing you in the center of his huge bed, pretty lips swollen from his kisses.

“I love kissing you,” at your sweet words he pauses, and you clear your throat, feeling that flush hit your cheeks, looking down at his chin, touching it gently with a finger, before slipping fingers down his throat. “Too much?”

“No, I love making out.” You smile in relief, he should say how much he loves kissing you, but he doesn’t do that, right? He doesn’t just go dating, falling in love, with his lifestyle, it would just drag a good girl like you down, it’s why he held back, but now that you’re here, he can’t prevent himself from feeling it all.

He wondered, was it in his head?

How good you tasted, felt, your scent?

It wasn’t, and it’s even more intense now, the need unfulfilled by jerking his cock to you constantly, nothing like your soft, yielding lips and body under his, your breasts so soft even as nipples press hard through that fabric. He pulls back, littering kisses down your chest, your collar bone, watching you writhe under his sure touch, his ardent mouth.

“So good, ah!” Your hands grip his blankets, sweating just slightly as he drags down your cardigan, moaning then.

“No bra?” You’re shaking your head, and he smirks now, some of that LA Satoru Pornstar showing through. “Slutty.”

You giggle, before you moan, as his kisses delve lower, and he reveals a breast fully with an unbutton and tug, sighing as he sees one of your pretty tits. “I’ve never been called that.”

“I’m always called that.” You both laugh again, it’s easy, fuck, you feel so good just being under him, his huge hand gripping your breast now, eliciting a moan. “Like me calling you slutty when you’ve been such a good girl, hmm?”

“Oh my god.” He’s chuckling again, the man knows his effect, but you can’t argue, all you can do is gasp out, as he plucks a taut nipple between two fingers.

“Perfect tits, mmm.” He’s kissing down one now, tongue lapping your nipple, tastebuds rolling over the peak, and your eyes flutter shut, tummy clenching with ache for him. “Pretty, perfect, bet all of you is.”

You’re melting under his expert touch, perfect pressure everywhere you didn’t even know you were craving. “You’re so sweet.”

“I taste sweet too. Remember?” You’re furiously blushing now, covering your face as he grins down at you. “You asked, you know, slutty, it’s proven now.”

“It is slutty,” you’re giggling before he yanks the material apart further, mouth latching on to a sensitive peak. “Mnh, Satoru!”

“Mmhmm.” He’s sucking your nipple, pulling back with a pop of his lips, trails of saliva dripping from lush lips, and your heart won’t stop hammering, hot desire shooting through you.

A girl that has to have feelings.

But you already fucking do, admitting it or not, it’s more than his beauty, it’s so much more. You don’t want to scare him off, you just want to experience this, the longing so tangible it’s eaten you alive all week. The videos of him and your friend, him and other girls, dying to know what it feels like, but the way he is with you?

It’s different.

He’s gentler, more careful, sweet, with every caress you’re getting wetter, but also you’re falling into the abyss that is him. “What all have you done before, sweetheart?”

His question brings you back to the matter at hand- experience. “I have had sex once.”

He blinks now. “Once a day?”

You snort at him, as he grins, undoing the rest of your sweater and sighing at how beautiful you are. “Silly. No, just once with my ex, but I guess it was not very good, we split up the day after.”

“Your pussy probably ruined that boy.” You’re giggling again, god it feels good, natural under him, no wonder he’s just so very popular. He makes you feel so pretty as he’s slipping up your skirt, moaning softly. “Oral?”

“No.” He pauses a bit, running his fingers up and down your slit.

“Fingering?”

“Ah!” You can’t stop the cry that escapes your lips when your sticky wetness pours against his fingertips over your panties.

“Asked a question, pretty.”

“Hard to focus.” You’re crying out again, when he eases them down your thighs, eyeing your bare, glistening cunt and almost losing it.

“God it’s perfect.”

“Oh, Satoru, you don't have to say that.” His jaw clenches a bit, eyes narrowing, those white lashes shielding just a bit of the dazzling blue.

“I mean it, I am kind of an expert, you know.” You’re flushed underneath him, so adorable as you run a hand up and down his body, feeling every strong muscle, his cock is twitching, aching to fuck into you. But he holds back a bit, spreading your thighs, hands slipping up them now. “That’s why you asked, because I’m an expert?”

“Because I’ve never felt so comfortable, so…” you trail off, looking down shyly, lashes casting dark shadows on your cheeks, from the soft light over head. “I haven’t felt so wet.”

“Fuck…” He’s running his finger up and down your slit, watching you fall apart from that damn near, thighs tensing, your eyes shooting back up to his own. “You are soaked.”

“It’s a new problem.” He grins again, cocky and self sure, but there’s something to that smile, you try to pin it down but soon he’s thumbing your clit, and you’re gushing further down his hand, dripping onto his bed. “Oh!”

“You touch yourself?” You nod, covering your face again. “Show me.”

“Show you?” He nods, easing back and gently pulling your hand off your face, until your fingers are kissed so sensually, and he puts it down to your pussy, enjoying the color spreading across your cheeks. “Like now!?”

“It’s how I’ll know what you like. Women please themselves better than most men do, so I avidly study. Are you a clitoral girl, a g spot girl? Penetration, friction?”

“It’s like a science to you huh?” You’re fascinated, but not as fascinated as Satoru Gojo is when he’s watching your tiny little fingers part your plump folds, pressing up to find your little clit. The action is sexier than anything he’s seen, and he’s seen so many lewd, wanton things, but this?

God you’re just art.

How your lips part, brows together in concentration, as his hands press into the plush of your thighs, blue eyes drawn right to your slick cunt, drooling wetness out of your little hole. He’s barely hanging on by a thread, a man of his experience and profession, decimated by the pretty girl tentatively rubbing her clit for him, in nothing but a little skirt shoved up her hips, that sweater laid out under her. 

“Mnh!” Your quiet little moan elicits something feral, he tries to remain calm on the outside, give you a smirk, as he leans down, pressing a kiss on your inner knee, feeling you tremble underneath him.

“So you like your clit played with?” His husky words just make you wetter, more sensitive, as you play with yourself spread wide for this man.

“Y-yes.” Your little nod is met with a gasp, as you look at his fingers, slipping slowly up.

“Can you cum from it?”

“Usually… the wand…” He kisses higher up your thigh, watching as you get so wet you’re slippery, fingers slipping as he watches you avidly, watches the way you’re shifting, tilts his head to see where you’re pressing.

“She’s probably tiny and hard to get. Allow me?”

“Yes sir.” He chuckles at that, taking his thumb and pressing up, hitting your clit so good you can’t take it. “Oh! Oh my god…”

“She’s very tiny. But that’s good, easily stimulated,” Satoru’s murmuring now, touching your slick, bare cunt, making him die to taste you, pressing the quivering little clit while you cling to his wrist, whining out. “You like that, sweets?”

All you can manage is a nod, as he brings you to the edge, pleasure filling you, the sighs mixing with the sounds of your slick cunt clicking in his room, echoing and making it even more lewd, wild, while you let the man you hardly know touch you. Fuck you want him to, as he presses up harder, and you’re gripping his forearm, feeling those muscles tense as he works you.

“Satoru!” He moans softly, god he loves how you say his name.

“Ready for a finger inside you? Bet you’re so tight.” You nod nervously, when he slips his middle finger in then, so long it’s insane, making you gasp out, as he exhales, moaning out softly with you. “Knew it, so tight, but… here’s a spot baby.”

He curls his finger just so, and you’re gasping for a breath, while his thumb still presses your clit, your body writhing as he builds pressure. You are so tight, he’s questioning how much work up you’d need for his cock, but he’s sure it’d be worth it, to stretch this perfect little cunt out. He swipes back a little drop of drool off your lips when your back arches off the bed, tits begging for his kisses.

You realize then, it’s not just his skill, how good his thick finger feels inside of you, how beautiful his lidded eyes are, it’s the energy emitting from his being, with every exhale, how he looks at you underneath him. You gasp as he hits a spot deep inside your slick walls, making you see white hot stars for just a moment, soft cry escaping your lips, you’re so wet you can hear it, the squelching of your cunt so loud in his penthouse.

But it’s not just how good it feels, you know it’s something more, how Satoru looks at you like you’re the prettiest thing there is, like you’re all there is. His other hand strokes your hair back, as your thigh hitches up over his hip, allowing him to sink deeper with an impossibly long finger now. The way he feels, his weight on you, everything about him overwhelming all your senses.

“Look at you, fuck…” His soft murmur causes his hot breath to brush your lips, you taste just how sweet he is, your hands gripping his chest, as your eyes roll back with how his fingers hit. “There you go, feel her pulsing around me, can you take two, sweetheart?”

“They’re so thick…” He chuckles now, cocky in his little grin, pulling one out to suck it off, and your throat goes dry, seeing his cheeks hollow, and his own eyes fluttering shut as he moans.

“It tastes so sweet, god.” He sucks his other clean finger, tapping your thigh now. “Relax, if you can’t we’ll go back to one, okay?”

“Y-yes.” You’re so cute laid under him, the little squeak when he slips two into your tight little cunt making him chuckle. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You’re so adorable. Sorry.” He’s smiling at your half assed little glare, but you’re all flustered, your cheeks heated to the touch when he presses his lips on one, sinking both fingers in now, making you cry out at the stretch. “Loosen up, sweets, relax. Just feel it.”

Just feel.

But you feel too much.

Fuck.

You nod as he leans up, dying to yank his lips down on yours, craving the connection even as he eases you to relax, to take more of him, and when you do, when you’re that full, your moans get throatier, cunt slicker. He exhales as he feels it, as he watches you, easing back to shove that skirt higher up, to look at your little hole sucking him in so greedily.

“God I wanna bury my fucking face in her, can I?” Your lips part in a gasp, when he’s laying prone between your thighs, easing his fingers out to spread your lips, watching your little hole wink and twitch as it leaks more of your arousal out of it.

“Y-you do?” He smirks now, soft tousled hair falling over his brow, you brush it back then, making him even harder, cock twitching in response to that, as he inhales your scent.

“I would die to have you cum all over my face, drown me in it.” How is he. He’s insane and ruining you. “Your cunt is even fucking cute.”

“How can it be cute!?” He’s chuckling again, breathing against you, and yours comes faster, breasts rising and falling in your open sweater.

“They can be cute, especially yours.” He smacks a kiss on it - ‘muah’ making you giggle then, instantly relaxing, as you realize…

You trust him.

He’s a stranger, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like you’ve known this insane man forever, exhaling and spreading your thighs more, he notices the action, you relaxing under his palms, earning more of him dying to enter you. But he has this feeling, that once he does?

You’ll fucking ruin him.

Your taste alone is sweeter than any wine he’s had, the most corny shit he should not come up with in his sex addled mind, but you make him think of more, of every reaction of your pretty body. How you cry out, your sighs, the way your hips shift now, your little hands gripping his shoulders, nails pressing in, making him vividly picture how good it’ll feel when they’re raking down his back.

“You want it, hmm sweets?” He asks again, kissing higher, sighing as he nears you, feels your heat against his face. You nod then, shyly, and he leans up a bit, pressing one more kiss over your hood, chin brushing your needy little clit. “I need explicit consent, enthusiastic consent before we go further.”

Fuck he’s perfect.

You’re playing a dangerous game, you already feel yourself falling into the unreal swirling blue storms of the eyes looking up at you, from between your thighs. Your hands relax then, cupping his cheek, which he presses a kiss on your palm, and you decide any of him is worth it, how badly he makes you need him, how willingly your body is ready to respond, your heart needs to stay in its chest.

“Yes, I would love you to, please.” Your words end him, sweeter from your lips than he could imagine, and with that he doesn’t just lick you, no, Satoru Gojo devours you then and there. “Ah! S-Satoru!”

“Mnh…” He’s buried his face against your pretty pussy, and fuck he’s ruined further just from it, from sweet arousal seeping into his tastebuds, as he dives that tongue in your pulsing little hole. You’re tensing under him, tummy trembling when he presses down on it, making his next stroke so intense you start to fall apart under him, hands yanking his silky locks.

You taste sweeter than anything.

And fuck if Satoru Gojo doesn’t have one hell of a sweet tooth.

The way he devours you then is surreal, you’re clinging to his hair just to grasp the earth, his hungry moans vibrating your sensitive clit as he flicks his tongue up to it, sucking it in his hot mouth, making your toes curl under those socks, the sensations so overwhelming, and he’s just getting started. He’s got that smug look in his blue eyes when he glances up at you.

Your taste is something he can’t describe, Satoru loves eating pussy, but fuck if you’re not an entire delicacy, spread just for him. Some possessive, psychotic instinct takes over then, knowing he’s the first to kiss your pussy, lap you up, having you pull his hair so hard it hurts, as he presses his cock against the mattress. Why is he so fucking feral over you?

Every insane fucking instinct kicks in while he slathers your cunt with his saliva, his tongue lapping up your juices, and god there’s so much. You’re soaking his face, manicured nails pressing against his scalp, while you scream out hoarsely. Your moans and little cries just make it more intense for him, when he’s flicking his tongue just so, making you writhe under him.

He grabs at your hips, dragging you more impossibly on his face, and sucks on your clit, hard, making you jolt and moan his name now, your body arching off the bed. Satoru is relentless, his tongue flicking and circling, his teeth grazing, and it’s driving you wild, making you want to grab him and push him deeper, grind against his face. But you hold back, biting your lip, your hands tight in his hair as he devours you.

“You can fuck my face till you cum, don’t hold back.” His whisper is met with a lewd kiss on your clit, grinning against you now, you feel every line of those straight white teeth on your sensitive cunt.

“I c-can’t do that!”

“Yeah you can. Use my face till you get off.” You’re blinking in confusion, even when he’s literally been with so many women, you can’t help but feel special, how he looks at you then.

“You sure?” He nods, and you yank him against you then, to his satisfied moan, hips arching up to fuck his pretty, perfect face now, grinding on his long, talented tongue, as he continues to fucking ruin you with each stroke. “M’cumming!”

He just moans, as you can feel your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that’s going to shatter you, hitting your tummy and making it clench, the heat spreading while he works you so good, like he knows your body better than you do. And then he does it, he pushes his long tongue inside you, curling it just so and pressing on your gummy walls.

At the sensation your hips pause, his nose bumping your twitchy little clit, and you cum so hard you’re blinded, your body shaking as you scream out, so loud it should embarrass you, but he’s loving it all. Your cunt squeezing and spasming around his tongue, pussy pulsing with the force of your climax. He groans into you, the vibrations sending aftershocks through your body now.

“Oh my god, oh my f-fucking… Satoru!” You’re pushing at him now, when he flicks his tongue back on that clit, making you clench around nothing now, struggling as he pushes you into another fucking orgasm. “S-sensitive!”

“Good.” His first word since drinking you up. “Messy, slutty little cunt, she loves it huh?” He’s damn near talking to your cunt now, smacking another messy kiss along it, face glistening with you, making you flush. “Can you cum one more time?”

“It’s a lot I…”

“You can, hmm? C’mon, one more f’me, pretty please.” You manage a shaky breath, nodding while he sinks a finger into your pulsing hole.

“Oh! Mnh!” You’re reduced to noises, words can’t be formed when he curls his finger just so in your messy cunt now, pressing up and hitting the sweetest pressure, your hands grip his blankets until they crumple underneath your hands, as he pushes you once more, this time more intense. “Cumming, cumming!”

“Mhmm.” He just moans that, watching you with dilated blue eyes that appear almost black, curling a long finger so deep you shatter, weak and dazed as you come down from the high, blinking away stars.

“Holy fuck… what the…” He’s sighing now, easing his finger from your tight little cunt, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, as you brush back his hair, trying to catch your breath. “You’re better than any vibrator my god.”

“Of course I am.” He’s grinning, when you swipe off your slick, embarrassed and flustered. “You’re so messy baby.”

“I’m so sorry! I’ve never done all this!” You lean up on your elbows, looking at the wet spot under you, drooling across your thighs, and all over his lips and chin.

“It’s sexy, stop it.” He leans over you now, you gasp as his hot heavy length presses against you under his pants, taking several shaky breaths, eyeing his lips.

“Can you kiss me again?” Your whisper is raw and vulnerable, you’re trembling under him, as he leans closer. “Sorry I just need it.”

“Of course, you should taste yourself.” He slams his lips down, the charge between you both unreal, you’re drinking yourself off him, thighs pressing against his hips now. Your hands slip up his strong back, feeling how hot his skin is, while his tongue delves into your mouth, and you taste your sweetness.

“Thank you.” Your little whisper ends him then, between smacks of kisses between you two, he should be thanking you for letting him, since when has he thought that way? “God, fuck that was intense.”

“You came pretty easy for me, you know.”

“Oh!” He’s grinning and wiggling his brows, and for a moment it feels too natural, too easy to be under him, making you both pause.

This was what he did for a living.

He’s certainly having fun, but you can’t get too confused.

“What else would you like to do? Are you sure you’re ready for it all?” His intent makes you so nervous.

“I wanted to suck you? Is that okay?” Satoru’s cock hurts so bad it takes everything to hold himself back, from grabbing your pretty face and fucking it, stretching that little throat out. He thinks he’s dreaming, swathed in your taste, your scent, brushing your now messy hair back gently.

“Is that okay? Fuck yes.” You giggle now, as he helps you sit up, switching positions and lying on his back now. You are almost naked, the skirt still on along with your kneesocks - those kittens, so cute he thinks - something so seductive about you keeping them on as you get on your knees.

“He’s very pretty. Is that weird to say?” He shakes his head, letting you unbutton his pants now, watching you avidly, your hair falling to the side, just over one breast, which he puts back over your shoulder now. He watches you shiver from the contact, goosebumps on your breasts.

“He’s very pretty, I already know this.” You roll your eyes a bit at him, but his laughter dies when his cock is free, and he’s helping you take the rest of his boxers off his slim, long legs. “Blushing again?”

“It’s bigger in person!? How.” He’s just beaming, you’re sure this is merely stroking his enormous ego, but you can’t help it.

“The camera subtracts two inches.”

“Does it now?” You’re leaning down, hair brushing his thighs as your tiny hand wraps his thick, massive cock, tracing a pale blue vein under taut skin, watching as he jerks, whining out softly. “Is that okay?”

“God yes…” He’s swallowing now, it was easy to be conceited eating you out, but he’s a fucking mess when you barely touch him. He shuts his eyes, trying to pull himself together, he’s supposed to teach you, not get flustered like some damn virgin, about to bust from a touch. “Have you jerked one?” You shake your head. “I’m so confused, how did you have sex at all?”

“He just put it in, and it hurt.” Satoru frowns now, seeing the expression on your face.

“You can’t just put it in, you’re stupid - ah - tight.” You’re stroking a bit, laying down now, breaths against him.

“Two virgins I guess we sucked.” You muse softly, sighing a bit. “But you’re… much, much bigger.”

“Well I wouldn’t hurt you. Okay?” You nod then, smiling because you already know, pressing the flat of your tongue to his slit, making him whimper, the sound has you pause, as you taste him, sticky precum coating your tongue.

“You are yummy.” Satoru can’t take it then, yanking you up and making you gasp, pinning you beneath him. “Satoru, let me suck it please?”

“I can’t take it.” He kisses his taste off you, drool pooling in your mouth as he hastily unzips your skirt. “I’ll bust quick.”

“How? I’ve watched you, and your stamina-”

“No stamina right now. Shit stamina.” He’s kissing you again, and something shifts, hungry and desperate, overwhelming your senses, filled with him. Your hands grip his obliques, feeling them tense as he moves, as he breathes with you. “Let me have you cum again.”

“I wanted to make you cum.” Your soft whisper elicits a low growl from him, as he clutches you so tightly you almost can’t breathe, wondering just what the fuck you’re making him into. “If it’s fast won’t that mean I’m doing good?”

“That’s one way to look at it - ah!” You’re touching him between your bodies, stroking him again, watching how his lips part, his jaw clenched, muscles so tense his arms are shaking. “Shit, okay.”

He stands now, as you’re on your knees, brushing your hair into a ponytail and holding it there, pulling just a bit as he touches your cheek. “Tell me what to do?”

“Open.” His soft command is husky, reverberating through you, as you do just that, forward on your hands and knees, as he slips the tip of his cock against your open lips, painting the precum along them like the prettiest gloss. “Fuck…”

You stay open, god you’re a good girl, aren’t you?

“That’s it, use your tongue sweetheart- f-fuck…” As you do just that, and his cock fills your mouth, Satoru loses his tentative control, pulling your hair so hard you cry out just a bit. “Shit, you okay?”

You pull back with a pop, looking up at him with dilated eyes, lidded and full of desire. “I’m good, I um… liked it.”

He pulls it again, pricking pain that makes your cunt impossibly wet again, as you suck him in, trying to remember what you’ve seen before. Satoru’s moving now, sucking in a breath when he sinks deep in your throat, feeling you gag around it, he has to pause his thrusts, exhaling.

“Relax the throat, just like that, such a good girl, aren’t you?” You’re whining out, pressing your thighs together as you suck up and down his length, so long he makes you choke, tensing. “Breathe through the nose, there you go.”

You’re listening so perfectly, would you listen to anything he said?

Satoru’s never been one for too much bdsm, but fuck if you don’t elicit every goddamn thought of anything he’s seen. Tying you up, blindfolding you, making you cum until you faint from it, waking you up and doing it again. He struggles to cling to any sense of composure as you shut your eyes, nostrils flaring a bit, sucking him in so deep inside your tight throat, squeezing him.

“Fuck, you’re doing so good, look at you. Sucking him so deep, can you bottom out?” You try to concentrate, relaxing your throat, nodding just a bit, and Satoru can feel the bulge of his cock in your delicate throat as he brushes his hand along it, sighing at how goddamn sexy you are.

His abdomen flexes, the muscles taut and defined as his hips move, as his cock pulses in that tight chamber, gripping him and making him think just how perfect your pussy will feel. The thoughts of it have him fucking your face harder, faster, as you reach down, touching yourself, unable to take it, balancing on one arm now.

“Gotta touch your pussy again, love my cock so much?” This isn’t Satoru’s ‘pornstar voice’ no, it’s husky, desperate, broken, as he feels you pushing him closer and closer with each suck, flick, gag, god when you gag it feels so good, so much he wants to keep causing it.

You’re slipping two little fingers in your slick hole, they slip in easily which has never really happened before, but how can it not when Satoru had stretched you with one of his long, thick fingers? Something is heady when you look up at him under your lashes, hitting your own spot, whining and choking on his cock, watching the flush of his cheekbones, feeling him tense.

You feel so much, more than just sucking a beautiful cock, the intensity and care of him fucking your throat means too much, how he’s delicate, careful, holding back. You see it in his tense body, you feel him shaking, holding back so he doesn’t hurt you, testing just what you like. And you want to please him, god you do, you want him feeling just a bit of what he just gave you.

Satoru’s breaths themselves are pornographic, heavy and stuttering, his words broken as he fucks your face so goddamn good, you’re pumping your fingers in quicker, but god nothing felt like his. Long and thick, compared to yours, so short and not hitting a goddamn thing, squishing and clicking, along with the sound of your suction, slobbering all down Satoru’s length now.

“You’re so good, d-didn’t need a lesson, for shit- ah! Mmm!” He’s louder than you expected, in the clips you watched he was a little more quiet, he’s so loud and vocal while he thrusts, pausing then, pulling back, letting you take a dizzy breath.

“You like it?” Your whisper ends him, he shakes his head.

“Like it no.” That wasn’t a good word for whatever your innocent mouth is doing to him, he’s had the most practiced girls, he’s had multiple sucking him at once, as he came all over their faces, crossed eyes and tongues sticking out. But nothing is like your nervous little look, as he grabs your hand now, yanking it off you.

“Ah!” You’re gasping as he sucks your cunt off them, moaning as he does, making your jaw drop.

“I’m about to cum, where do you want it?” You turn into a flustered mess when he releases your spit soaked fingers.

“Wanna taste you.” Your answer has him desperate, he’s pressing your lips open again, cock shoving deep, you moan around him, pushing Satoru over that ledge.

“Wanna swallow all my cum, like a good girl?” He knows what that does, it’s so clear, and you manage a nod, when he fucks your face faster and faster, hands gripping your face delicately for as hard as he’s going. “Ready baby?”

You merely whine out, shaking as you feel him pulse in your throat, he pulls back, and then you feel it, hot and sticky, so much cum, ropes of it pouring in your mouth now, as Satoru whimpers again. This time you know it’s different from what you heard, his usual moans, looking up to see his eyes fluttering shut, his hands gripping your face harder as he keeps filling your mouth.

You swallow him all down, he is sweet, just a tiny bit bitter, but flooding your senses as your hands grip his thighs, and you suck him all down, every rope of white cum filling your throat and now your tummy. You’re so full, sucking more and more, until he’s sensitive, gasping.

“F-fuck, god, I’ve… you…” He can’t form a word, as an innocent, nerdy little thing has destroyed him, made him into a whimpering fucking mess.

How the fuck.

He eases back, and tilts your chin up, as your hands slip up his abdomen, brushing the soft white hair above his still hard cock. “Lemme see, did you swallow it all?”

You nod, opening as he guides your jaw, and he sees your pink tongue, your mouth devoid of his cum aside from some that had spilled on the corner of your mouth. Satoru exhales, swiping at it now.

“Want more of me?”

“Yes.” It’s instant, you don’t even think of it.

“Then open again.” You do just that, when Satoru spits right down into your open mouth, lewd and filthy, the saliva stringing down until it hits your tongue. “Swallow.”

You gulp him down, as his hand wraps your pretty throat, and he can’t stand it then, a cock that’s cum twice today won’t go away, it’s coming back if anything at how debauched he’s made you. How obedient you are, looking at him in shock, wiping at your lips, cheeks tinged with color.

“Pretty fucked out little doll.” You whine out as he kisses you again, craving his lips more than anything, the way you feel in his arms, as he presses you against his hard body. “Are you sure you’ve never done it?”

“Y-yes, um… you’re very sweet.”

God. Ruining him.

You’re ruining him.

He’s kissing you again and again as his phone goes off, he smacks at it, scowling, mouth back over yours, tits squished in his huge hands. His cock is hot and heavy against your thigh when it’s going off again, he sighs, leaning up and peering over at it on the nightstand.

“Manager, shit.”

“It’s fine, go ahead Satoru.” You whisper, stroking his cheek now, he moans and kisses you again, before leaning up now.

“Yep.” He answers, still running his hands down your tits, your nipples, eliciting cries you try to bite back, much to his pleasure. “Yeah I know I just… have wanted to do solo for a bit.”

You’re trying not to listen in, caressing a bicep, feeling just how strong and cut he is, while he smiles down at you. You hear the manager’s voice, and watch Satoru roll those baby blues, sighing now, sitting up a bit. You go to do so as well, but he gently pushes you down, shaking his head.

“I don’t wanna do the gang bang, too many dicks.” You can’t stop the little laugh, and Satoru smirks at you, pressing a little kiss to your collarbone. “You’re gonna scare my friend off. Yeah I have friends, the fuck?”

Satoru continues the conversation, still kissing on you, something you didn’t know how badly you needed or craved after doing so much with him, god his cum is inside you, along with his spit. Imagining him just… leaving you… or sending you home after he came was a big fear, and what you expected, but the fact that he’s so touchy is making you feel even more comfortable.

It’s like you’ve known him.

Since you met him you felt that way, your heart aches at his cute, almost boyish grin, while he keeps speaking. “Fine, I’ll do the shoot if it’s that much money, but I swear I’m tired of Sukuna lately. And Toji? Ugh. Fine, fine then.” He hangs up his phone, and you bite that lip, making him gently tug it. “I hate gang bangs.”

“That’s not something I thought I’d hear from anyone?” He tosses his phone aside, kissing up the side of your neck, making it tickle. “You have a shoot?”

“Yeah, I avoided them all week.” He pauses then, not wanting to say why, surely you don’t… feel anything other than pleasure, right? And if so, you’re a good girl - what if this life hurt you?

“Why are you avoiding it?”

Satoru sighs, kissing up to your ear, dying to say it - you.

But that’s fucking insane.

“I get a little exhausted sometimes from it all, I figured I’d focus on the OF.” He leans up, brushing fingers across your cheeks, still hot to the touch, your gaze affixed on his collarbone now. “I really hate working with Toji and Sukuna. Suguru is fine, we’re so close I guess. But those two are so annoying. And one girl, four dicks? Dicks touching, balls touching.”

“Oh god.” You’re nervously laughing as he does. “So why do it?”

“It’s my job, I can’t keep turning em all down, already got my manager angry as fuck clearly.” He sighs now, because he can’t even fathom having a girl under him, it’s like you’ve done something.

“So a gang bang.”

“Yep. Ugh. Let’s not talk about it.” He’s kissing you again, and you can’t help but again feel envious of anyone that gets him, and you damn sure should not think this fucking way. “Do you want more?”

“I think maybe a pause. Because that was a lot. I’m a little worn out.”

“Amateur.”

“I’m not a pornstar!” You shove at him playfully and he laughs again, but this time you feel it, the tension, his hand gripping yours gently, warm and wrapped around your little wrist, as it rests on his chest.

“There are amateur pornstars you know.”

“Well that certainly couldn’t be me. I don’t think I’d let so many people see me naked- not that I mind that you do! Did that seem judgy!? Shit-”

“Shh. No, you’re just you, and that’s okay.” You heave a breath of relief, hoping he would never think you’d judge him, as you fall deeper into that gaze. “So when is your next lesson, student?”

“Student!” You can’t stop the blush, the giggle, that makes him die for you over and over, when the door opens. “Oh!”

“I forgot to mention, I share the penthouse with Suguru.” He quickly buttons your cardigan, as you slip on your skirt, and the two of you hear kisses and soft moans, Satoru steps out curiously, literally still naked. “Oh, hey Mandy.”

“Gojo!” Suguru is kissing down a pretty girl's neck as Satoru leans in his doorway, dick just out like he couldn’t care less, and you step up behind him, earning Suguru’s curious gaze.

“It’s the pretty girl from the party.” He smiles, as the girl - Mandy, you guess - looks at you as well, and you recognize her.

“Oh it’s Jenna’s friend, hi.” You wave and she giggles, bouncing over to you, while Suguru takes his jacket and shoes off. She gives Satoru a kiss on the cheek, then takes your hand. “You take the best pictures of her, oh my god!”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.” Satoru finally goes to slip on his jeans, giving you all a good look at his little round ass, as he slips them up over them. “She told you I took those?”

“She did. Hey, I’d pay good money for a shoot.”

“Oh, I don’t do it professionally…” Satoru comes back now, a hand at the small of your back.

“You took those of Jenna?” You nod now. “Shit they look pro.”

“There are always side hustles love.” Suguru says now, holding a hand out to you, and you put your much smaller one in his, as he brings it to his lips. “We didn’t officially meet. Suguru Geto.”

You give him your name shyly, and then he’s dragging Mandy to his room, as she waves at you now. “If you change your mind, let me know!”

“I will.” You’re fidgeting a bit as they shut the door, laughter echoing through Satoru - and Suguru’s - penthouse. “A co-star?”

“She’s mainly Suguru’s co-star, but I’ve joined in. That is about as close to dating as he gets I think.” There it is, the word - dating. He clears his throat then, tilting your chin up. “Seriously, those pictures are so good. I didn’t know you took them.”

“Jenna is just beautiful, it’s easy.” Satoru frowns, watching you look down nervously.

“I mean lighting, angles baby, that shit matters in the industry. You said you did graphic design?” You nod. “Not too far off art in general, and bodies are art.”

“You think bodies are art?” Satoru leans down now, one hand on either side of you.

“Yours sure is.” His words do too much damage, words you die to hear from his perfect lips, but here you are - falling - when you know damn well you can’t.

“You’re way too nice.”

“I am not even. I told you I’m an expert.” He grabs your waist now, and you can’t stop your heart from racing, from feeling too much, for a man that apparently will be having a whole gang bang tomorrow. No, you have to keep this separated, you got pleasure, he did, and that’s okay.

Right?

Get out of your head!

“Let’s get you something to eat, bet you forgot hmm? You’re all shaky.”

“You notice a lot.”

“I like to pay attention,”

He’s perfect, aside from… his job is to fuck people.

Shit stop caring!

“Let me heat you up something, come on.” You follow him into the kitchen, hearing the moans and cries, and Satoru smirks as he peeks at his phone. “They’re really on cam right now.”

“Oh!”

“Wanna see?”

“No, no. No way.” Satoru turns on the microwave, leaning on the counter, eyes raking over your body slowly, you feel it like a caress.

“Only watch me, hmm? I’m so special?” His lips turn up, and he’s teasing, but you almost say yes, he is, holding it back nervously.

“Maybe you are.” You want to seem teasing, fun, but your voice is just soft and nervous, Satoru’s lips part, as if to speak, then the microwave beeps. “You don’t have to feed me, Satoru.”

“Yes I do. It’s nothing, I have a million of these meals, and they’re full of protein- you need that after sex you know. Sit.” You sit up on the bar stool now, as he places the little meal in front of you, then turns to the fridge, to give you the best view of this man’s back.

God it’s sexy, the curve of his spine, the dimples in his lower back, the bulging muscles so defined, your mouth goes dry for a moment. He pulls out a water bottle, before going over to one of those pretty white cabinets, pristinely clean for two bachelors living here you notice. He takes a little packet, smiling at you as he tears it now, pouring it in.

“Electrolytes, for the waterfall.”

“Oh god.” You’re covering your face as he laughs, the sound is so nice, it’s too nice, how thoughtful he is, when he shakes up the bottle and hands it to you.

“It’s hot, stop. Eat.”

After eating as much as you could, and drinking most of the bottle he’s mixed up, Satoru has you in the bathroom, tenderly helping you clean up, fixing your outfit while you’re waiting on your ride. He is by far the sweetest guy you’ve met, careful when he wipes you up in places that make you blush, then tackling your hair with a flat black brush.

Satoru’s brushing your hair gently, you see him towering over you, behind you in the reflection, so careful as he slips that brush through your messy hair, so relaxing you almost fall asleep. “You’re spoiling me.”

“This isn’t spoiling, sweetheart.” God the thought of spoiling you fucks him up. Images of fucking you in just some diamond body chain, and nothing else, brings the cock he’s trying to calm down get hard all over again. “Aftercare is important.”

“I see this. You do… for your co-stars?”

“Of course I always make sure they’re cleaned up and okay, but especially for you and not being so experienced. I imagine you didn’t get that with your ex?” You shake your head a bit.

“I thought we were in love, after that I really closed off. But no he was sweet it was like we both were a little too sheltered, and then that kind of cinched it, that we weren’t compatible. Do you think everyone can be physically compatible?” Satoru purses his lips then, shaking his head.

“I can make anyone cum, because I know how, but,” his hand puts down the brush, now he’s eyeing you in the fancy gilded mirror, brushing your hair over your shoulders, studying your pretty face. “I don’t think everyone ‘vibes’ if that makes any sense.”

“It does, actually.” Was that it, you two mesh well? Not whatever fantastical ideas run rampant in your addled mind? When he rests his chin on your head now, holding you, you try to remember, Satoru is sweet, he does this with his costars. He’s just a good guy who knows women.

It can’t be more.

While Satoru remembers that he could not ever be good for a girl like you, and he shouldn’t even let this happen, because you’re fucking his brain up. The thought of fucking anyone makes him cringe, god all he wants to do is bury his face between your thighs again, keep having you cum. He’s got to remember you trust him to show you things, and that’s all it needs to be.

He has a career he loves, right?

His hands slip further down your body, your breaths quicken, his big hand splayed on your tugged cardigan. “You really are art.”

“Satoru, the things you say- mnh!” He’s lost now, cupping you between your thighs again, as he presses you against the counter, eyes so bright with those shrunken pupils, as you feel fingers glide against your panties again. Your eyes roll back, head falling against his chest.

“Let me have you cum one more time before your car gets here?” You weakly nod, how can you not, and he moans, bending low so he can slip your panties to the side, fingering you with two, you try to cover your cry, and he yanks your hand off your mouth. “Wanna watch that pretty face.”

You’re so fucked.

He has you gushing down his fingers, making a mess all down thick knuckles, hasty and quick in the bathroom, as his lips touch the shell of your ear. “I can’t wait to sink my cock so deep in this perfect cunt.”

“Ah! Satoru… ngh…” You’re ended, wrapped in his dangerous embrace, eyes losing focus when he murmurs again.

“Look at yourself when you cum.” You never have done this, you’ve never seen your face this way, the way your eyes are so dilated, you can barely see a ring of their color anymore, your parted lips, when he slips another hand under your chin, keeping your face forward.

You’re pulsing around his fingers once more, this time so sensitive from your orgasms it’s even easier for him, when he kisses up your neck, up to your ear, breaths heavy against it. Your vision shakes when you’re getting closer, ass arching while he presses you even more against the marble sink, the soft cream walls all fading as you begin to shatter.

“Art… see?” His whisper is so raw and genuine, you nod weakly, falling against his strong body as he eases his fingers, pressing them to your clit and eliciting one more orgasm, running in circles while he watches you, hungrily, and you know it even more, cunt spasming for him.

You really fucking like Satoru Gojo.

You want to be dumb and say what’s in your heart, but it can’t be, it’s his enigmatic charm, it’s his sweetness, it’s how sexy he makes you feel. It’s his presence it’s… god, all of him, intoxicating like some drug, and you’re not sure if a taste of him is anywhere close to enough, when he takes his fingers out, leaving you empty, putting his fingers to your lips.

“Suck.” His quiet orders are so easily obeyed by you it drives him to insanity, pulling you close as you taste his fingers, eyeing how sensual and fucked out you look in his arms, wondering how he lets you go.

*****

The Next Day 

The bright lights of the set are fucking blinding, there’s too many dicks, that must be it, not the girl that’s in his fucking head constantly, that he would do anything to have gushing down his face again. The one he kept thinking how beautiful her goddamn eyes were while she swallowed him, versus just thinking of the pleasure, no it was more, far more.

“Satoru, you really need Viagra buddy.” Sukuna says with a chuckle, when the director yells - cut! - and Satoru sighs.

“Oh fuck you, it’s all your dicks.”

“You look like you really don’t mind-”

“Toji, stop.” Suguru pauses him before Satoru and Toji fight as they tend to when they butt heads on a shoot. But, the directors wanted the top stars, and here they all were in one room with a beauty, who pauses sucking Sukuna and jerking Toji then, looking at Satoru curiously.

“I need a minute.” Satoru’s manager frowns now, having seen this before in the last shoot. He comes up to him now, as Satoru frowns at his usually at least semi hard cock just hanging there, irritating him to no end.

“Go take a break. Try to… get back to it.” Satoru nods, heading to the dressing room and downing a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning over the counter where they do their makeup, though Satoru never really needs anything but a little clear mascara for those long white lashes.

He came in your mouth, he had you on his face, shouldn’t that have fulfilled something, the longing and desire? Did he need to fuck you to actually be able to function? Or if he fucked you would he be good and ruined!? Considering her mouth and hand could do nothing to him, and his annoying co stars talking shit certainly didn’t help anything.

How were you?

He hadn’t heard from you today.

Since when does he care if a girl hits him up? He frowns now, wrapping a towel around his hips, hanging low, pulling up his cell phone and seeing it then, making him smile, and he sees how lovesick and goofy the smile is in the mirror. He immediately tries to stop it, the grin, but his lips keep twitching when he looks at the text again.

Good Girl🫦 (yes that’s what he saved you as, no he’s not sorry) I hope you have a great shoot today, Satoru. I am not working tomorrow if you’d like to get dinner? Is that weird? It’s weird. Just have a good day! Ignore me!

He laughs a bit, you’re too fucking adorable and just awkward, god he fucking loves it.

🌽🌟 Satoru (yes that’s his name in your phone, no you’re not sorry) You’re cute. Of course we can do dinner, you pick a spot?

He sits down as the three dots do more to make him hard than this stupid ass shot, wondering at you then. Was dinner code for a lesson, or did you want to hang out with him? Spend time? He fears that would make him fall just as much if not more as touching you, kissing you, because god if he doesn’t just love listening to you talk, like that night at the party.

You fascinate him.

Good Girl🫦- I sure can, six pm work for you?

🌽🌟 Satoru - Sure thing sweetheart.

When he calls you sweetheart you can’t stop the goofy smile on your face, but then you remember where he is. He’s probably on a break from… a fucking gang bang, and you can NOT be jealous about that. You cannot be upset that you already want him to yourself, greedy, stupid and selfish. God you knew you probably couldn’t handle this well, but the fact that it’s more intense than you anticipated is hard to swallow.

But you want him near you, even just for dinner, you were so nervous he’d turn you down, but god if you don’t enjoy his presence altogether. He makes you laugh, he makes you feel so good, as if this… emptiness you’ve had for a long time is filled by a big white grin and sparkling blue eyes.

🌽🌟 Satoru - We’re friends, right?

Good Girl🫦 - Absolutely, no matter what ‘lessons’ we do, I want to be your friend.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Then can I get a favor, pretty please? I will make it up by buying us dinner.

Good Girl🫦 - Of course, what is it?

🌽🌟 Gojo - Another picture of you.

You’re flushed now, surely on a shoot with a beautiful girl he didn’t need some picture of you? You’re home now, just in gym shorts and a crop top, hair in a messy bun, your glasses on.

Good Girl🫦 - Satoru I look like crap.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Bet you look hot.

Good Girl🫦 - Picture of what?

Satoru sighs in relief, biting his lower lip, wondering if he should just come out and fucking say it - he doesn’t think he can get hard if you’re not there, in his head, if he doesn’t see you. It’s a theory that’s getting more and more tangible by the moment, that he doesn’t know if he can perform his damn job anymore because your taste is soaked in his tastebuds.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Your perfect tits, please? I’ll show you mine.

You giggle then, shaking your head, skin so overheated when you nervously look in the mirror in your room, scattered books and stuffed animals covering the dresser. Can you do this, take a picture of… your body for him?

Good Girl🫦 - why? Aren’t there tits for you waiting?

You’re bratty, he didn’t realize till now. It makes you hotter.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Not even close to as pretty as yours - and there are so many dicks and balls. Help your friend out :’) I will make sure I kiss them as a thank you.

Good Girl🫦 - Image.

You freak out as you send it, the picture of your tits in your mirror, and Satoru moans out loud at it. Yeah, he saw them, but fuck, you’re perfect, hair up in some messy bun, your glasses on the bridge of your pretty nose, little baby yoda plush front and center against your mirror, god it makes you even hotter. You’ve wrapped an arm under them, pressing them up and together.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He’s throbbing now, looking down at his cock straining the terry cloth towel, scowling back at the phone, realizing he thinks you have put some spell on his perfect cock. Are you some witch disguised as a sweet little thing!? He eyes your tits again, almost whining at how pretty they look, at how badly he’d love to fuck you between them, cum all over them.

He’d cum on every inch of your body.

🌽🌟 Satoru - You’re so perfect.

You’re covering your face, sighing as his words - probably just being nice - are too much, they mean too much from him. You’re questioning everything you are and everything you’ve ever known, throbbing with need from his mere words, nipples aching for his touch. You look back at the phone, fingers hovering on the cool dark screen, shaking slightly.

Good Girl🫦 - You still on set?

🌽🌟 Satoru - Unfortunately. That brightened my day. My cock is smiling, you know.

You snort at that.

Good Girl🫦 - You’re silly. I’ll let you get back to work.

He doesn’t want to get back to work.

He wants you on the set, but fuck if he’d let anyone else touch you if you were his-

Wait.

What fucking kind of thought is this!?

He doesn’t think that way.

Looking at your picture again, he rushes back out, trying his very best to keep up the tentative erection, he can’t manage to get involved however, touching skin that’s not yours seems wrong somehow. You’re not together - he doesn’t date, he can’t date - but he can’t stay away from thoughts of you here instead, and how he’d film just the perfect video with you instead.

You would never, but the porn he imagines you two could make is what feeds his brain for the next twenty minutes or so, he tries to let the other men fuck her, as he lets her jerk him, or suck him, shutting his eyes and picturing the tits on his screen. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to cum, finally settling to jerk himself, when they’re all putting the money shot on the star.

He wants to cum all over your pretty face, god. He vividly sees it as his ropes of cum pour out, and he notices with relief the shoot is over. Usually he would have some friendly banter, but he’s distant, odd as he cleans up, it feels like he’s so uninvolved, even that night he’s staring at your pretty tits again, cock in his hand when you’ve messaged him.

Good Girl🫦 - Sweet dreams, Satoru.

Fuck.

He wants you in his bed so bad, but not just to finally fuck into your perfect little pussy, shit it would be nice to hold you. He’s never done that. To just kiss on you and watch your cute reactions, the little giggles you make. His cock throbs in response, since when has Satoru became someone to masturbate to a fucking photo?

You’re laying there, hating the thoughts in your mind, that he was with someone else today - but you’re friends. Friends with some ‘lessons’ that should not mean as much as they did the other day, not just the pleasure, or how badly you want him inside you, no it was his sweet kisses, him brushing your hair, fuck he fed you and made sure you were okay constantly.

You just want him, any of him.

Cruel, cruel joke - making you fall for a pornstar who will never date. But, here you are, watching three dots move now.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Good night, sweetheart.

The LOVE on chap one is insane for me, I am so glad you all love it! Taglist is closed bc it's too much but I'll keep everyone updated!! <3 I hope you enjoy I can't waittt to hear your thoughts hehe

Taglist 1 - @rjreins @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @gojoslovelylover @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 8.2k tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter

“You look so handsome like this…” a sultry chuckle is followed by a warm kiss to the lips. The man with a receding hairline laughs in a slimy way, welcoming the woman into his lap. Arms settled around her midsection, indulging in her lips. 

The moment is quickly shut down when an intruding voice cuts in. “Haruka! Some guy is waiting for you at the door.”

With a huff, she pulls back. Lip curled up into a scowl, turning her head over her shoulder to face the man at the top of the stairs. “Tell ‘em I’m busy, damn it!” She snarls out. 

The man sighs and rubs his bald head. “I already did. He said he wants to speak to you, now hurry up here.”

When the door slams shut, she turns back to her customer. “I’ll be back.” She smiles and kisses his wrinkly cheek before getting up and off his lap. She fixes her clothing, a simple tank top and shorts. Looking at the small mirror, she frowns and straightens down her hair. She’s reminded to dye her hair black again to cover up the incoming gray hairs that always greet her nowadays. She applies her usual red lick back to her skin, perking them up with a small pop noise. Her eyes, beady and dark, fixate back up at the door while her feet drag her. 

Once she’s up in the main portion of the building, she rounds a corner and sees a neatly suited man standing at the front desk. The man who called her attention before gives her a certain look before walking off and letting her deal with it. She smiles, leaning against the hardwood. “Why, hello there, handsome. How may I help you today?”

The man, undeterred and stoic, regards her with barely any emotion. The dark sunglasses on his face obscuring his eyes and Haruka’s brow twitches for a moment in annoyance. She still keeps up her game, however. Resting her cheek against her palm. “Well? How can I—”

“Ms. Haruka, right?” 

The stranger’s voice is deep and defined, causing Haruka’s eyebrows to raise in interest. Her smile widens and she hums playfully. “Ah, well depends on who’s asking. If it’s you, then you can call me Candy.” She whispers the last part, leaning in like she told him a big secret; giggling to herself. 

The man spares a brief glance down at his wristwatch. Haruka notices its pristine gold, oh how valuable. An idea is already forming in her head when she looks back at the man’s black, circular shades. But what he says next causes her body to go into a temporary state of comatose. 

“Are you the mother of Y/N L/N? If so, please come with me. There are some things my bosses would like to discuss with you.”

It’s the day after Christmas. You luckily got the day off and you’ve just been lounging around your place with Koji. Eating some leftovers and cleaning up a bit, watching him rave about the new toys he got; it’s a pleasant sight. Satoru hasn’t texted you anything today, and while you’re not holding him to that expectation, there’s a part of you that worries he’s still angry. Or maybe even upset at the gift you got him. It probably brought up negative emotions for him. But it was a last minute thing and you assumed he would greatly appreciate it. 

Maybe your assumption was wrong. 

You shake off the thought, refusing to dwell on it. Satoru has always been hard to read, and overanalyzing his silence won’t do you any good. Instead, you focus on Koji, who’s currently making his action figures reenact some elaborate battle scene on the coffee table. His laughter echoes through the room, bright and infectious, pulling a small smile from you.

“Koji, don’t forget to put the smaller pieces back in the box when you’re done,” you remind him gently.

“Okay, Mama!” he chirps, not looking up from his imaginary world.

You take another bite of your leftovers, savoring the quiet domesticity of the moment. It’s not often you get a day to just relax like this. Still, that nagging thought about Satoru lingers in the back of your mind, no matter how much you try to ignore it. Your fingers reach up, feeling for the star pendant Suguru got you. Smiling to yourself as your fingertips graze over the metal. You’re suddenly reminded of the fact that you haven’t thanked him. 

You grab your phone, thumb hovering over his contact. It’s a small debate to call or text him, unsure of which is more…appropriate. Maybe he’s busy or maybe he wouldn’t mind a phone call at this time. You bite your lip, inhaling deeply then letting it go, deciding that your gratitude would feel more authentic if he actually heard you say it. 

You click the call button and within the second ring, his voice lightens up the other end. “Hello?”

You clear your throat before speaking. “Hey, Suguru,” you say softly, twirling the pendant between your fingers. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” he replies warmly, a hint of curiosity in his tone. “What’s up?”

As you pause for a moment, your thoughts are being gathered. “I just wanted to thank you… for the gift. The pendant, it’s beautiful.” Your voice dips slightly, the sincerity in your words undeniable. “You didn’t have to, but… it means a lot to me.”

There’s a brief silence on his end before he chuckles softly. “I’m glad you like it. I figured it’d suit you.”

You can’t help but smile, your fingers still tracing the small, intricate patterns on the pendant. “It does. Koji said it makes me look pretty.”

Suguru laughs at that, the sound soft and familiar. “He’s not wrong. The kid’s got good taste.”

A small heat pools in your stomach, cheeks blushing a bit. When you glance over at Koji, you notice just how engrossed he still is in his action figures. “He’s been talking about that Spider-Man you got him nonstop. He even took it to bed with him last night.”

“Really? That’s adorable,” Suguru comments, his tone light but carrying an underlying fondness. “I’m glad he liked it. He’s a great kid.”

“He is,” you agree, your voice softening. “I’m lucky to have him.”

There’s a pause, the silence between you both comfortable yet loaded with things left unsaid. Finally, Suguru breaks it. “How are you doing? After last night, I mean. Satoru told me he was going over.”

The question catches you off guard, and for a moment, you’re unsure how to answer. “I’m… okay,” you eventually get out, though it feels like a half-truth. “It was just… a lot. But we did it. For Koji.” 

He hums from the other side. “Yeah, that’s good. I figured.” A moment of pause before he continues. “Satoru can be… intense, especially when it comes to you and Koji.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

“But other than that, it was good?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

He smiles. “I’m glad, you two deserve a good Christmas.”

With one hand, you bring your dirty dishes to the sink, the other keeping your phone to your ear. “What about you? Was yours good too?”

Suguru’s voice sighs wistfully. “It was, yeah. My team and I spent it handing out some gifts and hot chocolate to the kids. Seeing their faces light up with joy like that, it makes you feel really good, you know?”

Your heart warms at his words, picturing Suguru in his element—kind, compassionate, always thinking of others. You’re reminded back to the time you saw him that day with Koji. “That sounds wonderful,” you speak softly, leaning against the counter. “You’re really amazing for doing that, Suguru. Those kids are lucky to have someone like you.”

He chuckles modestly, the sound low and comforting. “I don’t know about amazing, but thanks. It’s just something small I can do. Makes the holidays feel more meaningful.”

You smile, twirling the pendant again as you consider his words. “It’s more than small. It’s thoughtful. It’s... you.” The words slip out before you can stop them, and you feel your cheeks flush immediately. Embarrassment floods your insides. 

There’s a brief silence on his end, followed by a soft laugh. “You’re too kind. But coming from you, I’ll take it as a high compliment.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. “It’s not kindness. It’s the truth.”  

Koji’s excited shout from the living room snaps you back to the moment. He’s discovered a new pose for his Spider-Man, proudly showing it off as he runs over. “Mama, look!”  

Suguru must hear the commotion, his tone lightening further. “Sounds like someone’s having a good time.”  

“He is,” you say, watching Koji’s eyes sparkle with joy. You nod in astonishment. When your son is satisfied with your praise, he rushes back to the coffee table. “He’s been nonstop since yesterday. I think this Spider-Man might be his new best friend.”  

“Then my mission was a success,” Suguru replies with a chuckle. “I’ll have to find something to top it next year.”  

You bite the inside of your cheek while his words bring a pang of guilt. It’s strange; how easy it is to talk to Suguru, how natural it feels to share these moments. And yet, there’s a part of you that wonders if you’re leaning on him too much, especially with everything unresolved with Satoru. You wonder if what you’re doing is wrong, and considering Satoru’s reaction to his friend’s gift to you, you feel like you’re almost…betraying Satoru. 

“Thank you again, Suguru,” you repeat, your voice calmer now. “For everything. You didn’t have to go out of your way for us, but you did, and it means a lot.”  

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says gently. “You and Koji... you guys are important to me too, you know?”  

The weight of his words settles over you, warm and steady. “That means a lot to me too.”  

There’s another comfortable pause before Suguru clears his throat. “Well, I should let you get back to your day. I’m glad you called, though. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”  

“Okay,” you promise, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Take care, Suguru.”  

“You too,” he says, his voice lingering for a moment before the call ends.  

As you set your phone down, you glance at Koji, who’s now back to his world of action figures. You can’t help but feel grateful for the people in your life now who care so deeply about you and your son.  

But even with that gratitude, your thoughts drift back to Satoru, the press, his parents. And you ponder over the idea of what he’s doing right now, whether he’s holding onto the photograph, if he set it up somewhere; and what it might mean for the three of you moving forward.

There’s no time to start drowning in your thoughts any longer. You’ve already done that yesterday and practically every other day before that. A bigger question has been gnawing at you, and now that you have some free time, you figure you should look into it now. Grabbing your laptop, turning it on and clicking on Google once the screen awakens. The small business card is placed to your right as you type away the company name in the search bar. 

You click on the first link. 

It takes you to an entire directory of the services of Carlisle & Harlow. 

The website loads quickly, its sleek design showcasing high-end properties and exclusive services. The polished images of luxurious estates, private jets, and lavish vacation homes scroll past as you navigate through the various tabs. The site is clearly designed to appeal to an elite audience—every detail is immaculate. You skim through the different services offered, including property management, concierge arrangements, personal assistants, and lifestyle coaching. It all feels a bit too polished, almost like an invitation into a world you’ve only ever seen from the outside.

You feel a slight unease in your stomach. Your mind races back to the business card Evelyn gave you—one that seemed so out of place given everything else you’ve seen in your life. You click through to the “About Us” section, hoping to find more answers about what the company actually does or who else is behind it. 

The page provides a brief history, detailing the company’s founding by the woman, Evelyn Carlisle and her now deceased husband, Noah Harlow—both of whom have since made a name for themselves in the luxury service industry. 

You click on the “Our Team” link. Several executives are listed, each with brief bios that read like glowing resumes. Next, you click on the “Contact Us” tab, staring at the address listed—an upscale location in the city’s financial district. It’s the kind of place where secrets are hidden behind high walls and the name on the door probably has a lot of power behind it.

Taking a deep breath, you mull over this instance. Maybe it’s time to investigate further, but you’re not sure how much deeper you want to dig—especially not without some sort of plan. But that Evelyn woman seemed a little strange to you. It’s just the fact that everything felt quite planned out to you, like someone told her to come to your workplace and offer a job interview. Your intuition has always been right and ever since you became a mother, that increased tenfold. But, this seems like it might have more of a good outcome than a bad one. 

You wouldn’t have to maintain the hard balance of working two jobs and a child. As you continue scrolling and clicking on multiple tabs within the website, one catches your interest. 

‘About Our Founders’

You’re met with pictures of Evelyn and her husband, posing with what you can only assume are other businesspeople, with paragraphs of their background to go along with it. Nothing looks out of the ordinary so far, until a particular picture. 

It’s Evelyn and her husband. Posing with Satoru and his father. 

Your heart stops for a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you stare at the screen. The four of them are dressed impeccably, their expressions polished with smiles that feel carefully rehearsed. The caption beneath the photo reads:  

“Celebrating five years of partnership between Carlisle & Harlow and the Gojo Group, fostering innovation and excellence in high-end luxury services.”

Your stomach churns. The idea of Satoru or his family being involved in this job offer. And it almost makes sense now—Evelyn showing up at your workplace, the too-perfect job offer, the strange sense of everything being orchestrated. It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. Unless it is?

Your fingers hover over the trackpad, trembling slightly as you click on the bio beneath Evelyn’s photo. Her background is as pristine as expected: Ivy League education, years of experience in luxury branding, and a reputation for impeccable taste. But it’s the section about her connections that catches your eye:  

"Evelyn Carlisle maintains close ties with prominent families, including the Gojo family, and has been instrumental in crafting tailored solutions for their elite clientele."

Your head spins. This isn’t just a job opportunity—it’s a calculated move. But why? Why now? And why through Evelyn instead of directly from Satoru or his family? You glance back at the business card on your table, its gold lettering gleaming in the soft light. It feels heavier now, like it’s carrying the weight of unseen motives.  

Koji’s laughter breaks through your swirling thoughts, grounding you momentarily. You look over at him, playing so innocently, so unaware of the tangled web you’re beginning to unravel. Taking a deep breath, you close the laptop and sit back. Whatever this is, it’s not just about you anymore. If Evelyn’s offer is part of some larger scheme, you’ll need to figure out the truth before you make any decisions.  

Maybe you’re overthinking this. The Gojo Group is huge and very obviously powerful, of course, they would have ties with Carlisle & Harlow. It’s not that far-fetched, right? It’s just a job opportunity, don’t think too much into it. 

It’s around the next day at work now. Walking to the café, phone in hand. Rereading Satoru’s first text to you since you last saw him, it’s not entirely underwhelming, you just hoped that he would have expressed his gratitude for your gift. 

Satoru:

Koji left his jacket here from last time, I’ll bring it over today

Your lips purse, thumbs going haywire over the bright screen. Should you ask if he enjoyed the gift? If he even opened it in the first place? Or maybe you’re dragging this out far too much. With a deep breath, entering the cafe, you type back:

You:

I thought you had work today 

Satoru’s response comes almost immediately, as if he was waiting for you to text back.

Satoru:

I do, but I can swing by during lunch. The place is a little far from me, can I come to your job and drop it off?

You hesitate, wanting to type back a ‘no’ as soon as he asked. It would feel a little weird if he came. Satoru and your workplace just don’t seem to mix—and you don’t want them to. If he came, it would only further solidify the fact that he’s integrating himself into your life. Again, you’re probably overthinking things, he’s just dropping off your son’s jacket. But the thought of seeing him right now feels oddly nerve-inducing. 

You:

Sure, I’m on lunch at 12

When you drop the pin of the café’s address, you pocket your phone and set your stuff down, tying the apron around your waist. Hana, on her phone texting, barely looks up when you enter. It’s becoming a bit more repetitive nowadays. Patting down the apron, you speak up. “Still talking to that Naoya guy?”

She hums and nods, giggling at something that was messaged before swiftly typing back a response. Your lips purse, brows knitting at her lack of acknowledgment for you. This guy must really be entrancing her. “He said he was coming today.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, offering a small smile. “I’ll finally meet the lucky guy.”

Hana’s eyes flick up at you briefly before returning to her phone, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Hm? Oh, yeah. but don’t embarrass me, okay?”  

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you grab a few boxes to refill the supplies up front behind the counter, cutting them open. “I’ll try not to. Just don’t expect me to be on my best behavior if he’s rude.”  

She scoffs, though her grin betrays her amusement. “He’s not rude. You’ll like him, I think. He’s… different.”  

You arch a brow, intrigued by her tone. “Different, huh? Guess we’ll see.”  

Hana waves you off, clearly too engrossed in her conversation to elaborate further.  

And so, the morning drags on, and you can’t help but notice Hana glancing at the door every few minutes, a mix of anticipation and nerves written all over her face. Meanwhile, you busy yourself with the usual flow of customers, though your own nerves begin to creep in as the clock inches closer to noon.  

When the bell above the café door finally chimes, you glance up instinctively. A tall man with sharp features and an air of confidence steps in, scanning the room briefly before his gaze lands on Hana. His hair is slicked back neatly, and he’s dressed in a tailored coat that screams wealth and status. The tips of his hair dipped black, his eyes are so cat-like that it almost freaks you out at first.  

Hana’s face lights up as she quickly puts the cleaning supplies that were in her hands down and waves him over. “Naoya!”  

He strides over, a smirk tugging at his lips as he leans in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek. “Hana,” he says smoothly, his voice low and self-assured. 

Your eyebrows raise at the blatant show of affection in front of not just you—but the rest of the customers. It’s slightly unlike Hana because you remember her telling you how much she despised PDA. Maybe Naoya is making her come out of her shell. That’s good, right? You watch the interaction from behind the counter, your initial impression of him forming almost immediately. There’s something about his demeanor—charming, yes, but also a little too smug for your liking. Your senses are telling you to be subtly on guard around this man. 

Hana glances over at you, her smile widening. “Naoya, this is my coworker—”  

“Friend,” you correct with a playful smile, giving her a tiny look. It’s strange how she was just going to introduce you as a coworker when she always calls you her friend. Not thinking too much of it, you step out from behind the counter to extend a hand. “Nice to meet you, Naoya. I’m Y/N.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but calculated. His eyes flicker over you briefly, as if sizing you up. If possible, his grin widens, eyes growing more crescent-like. “Pleasure’s mine,” he says, though the smirk on his face doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  

“So, you’re the one who’s been keeping Hana so distracted lately,” you remark lightly, folding your arms.  

Naoya chuckles, his gaze shifting back to Hana. “She’s easy to talk to. Hard not to get distracted by her.”  

Hana blushes, clearly pleased by the compliment, but you can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s something a little… off about him.  “Well,” you say, forcing a polite smile, “welcome to our humble abode. Let me know if you need anything.”  

Naoya nods, his smirk unwavering. “Will do.”  

As you step back behind the counter, you catch Hana giving you a warning glance, silently begging you not to say anything more. You just shrug, grabbing the rag Hana previously discarded to wipe down the counter, though you can’t help but keep an ear on their conversation. They convert over to a booth in the corner, seemingly for some privacy. 

Something about Naoya sets your instincts on edge. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself, or the way his smile feels more like a performance than genuine warmth. He’s reminding you of Satoru, just more insidious. It’s probably a little rude of you to have such a critical judgment of the man who’s making your friend swoon, but isn’t that what friends, do? Making sure the men or women that come into their lives are worthy of it? Whatever it is, you make a mental note to keep an eye on him—if only for Hana’s sake.  

You stop eavesdropping. Hana’s a grown woman, if anything, she knows what’s more right for her than you do. Besides, you’re one of the only ones working right now, so it’s better to focus on delivering customer service than ensuring the man in the corner (who has been keenly drifting his eyes towards your figure) is good enough for Hana. Hana, oblivious to your discomfort, continues chatting with Naoya, her smile wide as she laughs at something he says. Her back is turned to you, and all you can do is concentrate on the rising sense of unease in your gut. It’s the way Naoya’s posture remains open and confident, but there’s a hardness behind his eyes that doesn’t sit right with you. He seems like someone who expects to get what he wants, and the thought of him using his charm to manipulate Hana makes you clench your fists beneath the counter. You’re just trying to understand the strange energy he brings into the environment. Maybe it’s your overactive imagination, but you still can’t shake the perception that there’s more to this man than Hana is seeing.

As you refocus on your tasks, you can physically feel the weight of Naoya’s gaze lingering on you. It’s subtle, but unsettling—like he’s paying more attention to you than he is Hana. You shake it off, putting your mind into the register as a customer walks up to place an order. However, the uneasy feeling stays with you. You move through the motions of your shift. Every time you briefly glance over to the booth, his gaze is drawn to you. Not in the way you’d expect a person to look at someone they’ve just met, but with something more calculating. It’s almost as if he’s analyzing you, but why?

You don’t even know how long it has been, at least 15 orders later, when the two walk back up to the front. Hana grabs your attention. “Y/N, Naoya brought up a really good idea. His friend owns that new bar I was telling you about a few weeks ago! Do you want to go out tomorrow after your other job?”

You glance up, a bit surprised by the invitation. It’s not like you haven’t been out with Hana before, but something about tonight feels odd. Maybe it’s Naoya’s presence, or maybe it’s the weird sense of being observed earlier. Still, it’s a chance to unwind, and Hana seems genuinely excited.

You give a soft smile, though it feels a little strained. “I don’t know, Hana. I’ve got a lot on my plate. Plus, I’m not sure about the bar idea... not really in the mood for crowds.”

Her eyes widen, and she steps closer, lowering her voice. “Come on, you deserve a break. You’ve been working so hard lately. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

You meet her eyes, trying to gauge her sincerity. She’s always been good at getting you to loosen up when you're feeling overwhelmed. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go for just a little while, but you still have reservations about Naoya. “Alright, I’ll think about it. I’ll see if I can get out earlier,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. “But no promises.”

Hana’s face lights up. “Yay! I knew you’d come around.” She looks over her shoulder at Naoya, who’s standing a few feet away, reading the two of you with an unreadable expression. 

You suddenly feel like this moment might be the start of something unpredictable. As much as you want to just go with the flow for Hana, a part of you ponders if there’s more to Naoya’s invitation than just a night out. But, for now, you push the thought aside.

“Well, you don’t want to miss out,” Naoya speaks up, chuckling to himself. “Just try. It’s called No Man’s Land. I’ll be there around 10:30 tomorrow night, hopefully I'll see you both there.”

You nod slowly, still hesitant about the whole thing. Something about the way Naoya phrased it—so casual, so sure of himself—rubs you the wrong way. There’s an underlying expectation in his words like he’s already decided that you’ll both show up. You’re not sure if it’s just his personality or something more, but the thought of him controlling the situation leaves you with a strange feeling. Hana, though, looks delighted. “It’ll be so much fun, Y/N. Just relax. A drink or two won’t hurt.” She flashes you a grin before turning back to Naoya, all smiles as she talks about what they’ll do at the bar.

You’re like an outsider, watching as Hana becomes more entangled in Naoya’s charm. You wonder if she sees it too—the little things about him that don’t add up. The way he already seems like the type of man to be just one step ahead with a plan. But she’s excited, so you don’t want to rain on her parade. Besides, you can always back out later if it doesn’t feel right.

Luckily, she sees him out right after. 

And unluckily, you’re waiting outside on your break for Satoru sooner rather than later. 

You glance at your phone once more, watching the minutes tick by. Your break feels longer than it should, and the anticipation of seeing Satoru again only adds to the anxiety that’s been building ever since your last interaction. You tell yourself it’s just a quick exchange—Koji’s jacket, nothing more. But every moment feels charged as if something is on the verge of shifting.

The cool air outside offers a bit of relief, though the tension in your chest doesn’t quite let up. You stand near the corner of the café, eyes scanning the street for any sign of him. The sound of footsteps approaches, and you turn, only to find Satoru strolling toward you with his usual carefree aura.

“Hey,” he greets, his tone light, but there’s something different about the way his eyes stay on you—something that feels almost too familiar. He holds out the jacket. “Koji’s jacket. Didn’t want to leave him without it.”

You take the jacket from him, the weight of it making you more aware of the subtle intimacy of the moment. “Thanks,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I appreciate it.”

He doesn’t say anything immediately, just watches you for a beat too long. You shift on your feet, suddenly feeling acutely aware of the silence hanging between you.

“Is that all?” you ask, hoping the question doesn’t come off too abrupt.

Satoru tilts his head as if considering something. “What do you mean?”

God, you hate it when he plays stupid like this. It forces you to be outright with what you want to say. Standing up straighter, chin tilting high. “I mean…like—well I guess what I’m trying to say is that…did you open…the gift I gave you?”

Satoru’s gaze shifts slightly, his usual simmering confidence faltering just enough to make you second-guess yourself. He pauses like he’s weighing your question more carefully than he typically would. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve overstepped—if you’ve asked something too personal or too vulnerable. The silence stretches between you like a taut wire.

“Your gift?” he finally says, the corner of his mouth lifting just a bit. He sounds almost amused, but there’s a hint of something else in his voice, something you can’t quite pin down.

You feel a wave of heat rise in your cheeks, but you stand your ground. “Yeah. The one I gave you on Christmas.” The words feel clumsy as they leave your mouth, but you can’t take them back now.

Satoru’s expression shifts, the air tensing slightly. “I did,” he says simply, as though it’s nothing. “It was… nice.”

You want to push him further, to demand more of a response, but something about the way he says it makes you hesitate. Is that all? You want to ask again. Was it just “nice”? That’s all? After everything—the thought you put into the gift, the small but meaningful gesture—you wonder if maybe it didn’t even register with him the way it did with you. Maybe you were right, he didn’t even open it and is now coming up with a bullshit response because you put him on blast. 

But you don’t want to push too hard. You already feel like you’re treading on delicate ground. So you force yourself to smile, even though it feels a little stiff. “Well, I’m glad you liked it,” you reply, not entirely sure if you believe your own words.

There’s another beat of silence, and then Satoru shifts his weight slightly, signalling that he’s about to leave. “I should get going. Got some things to take care of,” he says, but he doesn’t immediately turn away.

Instead, his eyes flicker down to your hands, where you’re still holding Koji’s jacket. “Take care of yourself,” he adds, his tone softening just a bit.

You nod, trying to hide the strange pang in your chest. “You too,” you reply, though your voice is quieter now.

His lips thin into an awkward smile. It’s one you give a stranger or someone you barely know—but that’s how things feel between you now, isn’t it? It’s really not worth dwelling over the tiny things that further more prove the horrid line of connection between you two. But for some reason, it still hurts and picks at your heart. 

That moment is quickly splashed away when a familiar—but teeth-gritting voice squeals from behind Satoru. Your grip tightens on Koji’s jacket. Satoru’s shoulders tense up. 

“Satoru! Why’d you leave me in that boutique? It took forever to find you!”

She appears next to Satoru, her presence immediate and unmistakable. Her eyes flicker between you and Satoru with a mix of scrutiny and something else that you can’t quite place. She’s dressed in something designer, as usual, with that polished, effortless look that screams of wealth and status. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than necessary, a quiet challenge in her eyes.

You feel a knot twist in your stomach, an all-too-familiar sense of discomfort settling into your chest. Satoru’s gaze meets yours for just a moment before he shifts his attention to Himari. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you hanging,” he says, his tone light but lacking its usual warmth.

Himari, not seeming to notice or care about the tension in the air, flashes you a tight-lipped smile that screams fake. “Oh, well look who it is. The leech.”

“Himari.” Satoru gruffs under his breath, giving his girlfriend a dirty side-eye. 

“What? One minute we're spending the day together and the next you’re here with…her.”

Your jaw clenches, noticing the tug Satoru gives the other woman to the back of her dress, lowly whispering something into her ear. But her facial expression doesn’t deter, and neither does her snaky persona. 

“I thought you had work.” You utter, eyes flickering back to Satoru. 

His brows tighten, huffing out an exasperated breath. Before he can respond, she does it for him. “If you consider being by my side and treating all my needs work, then yeah, he is working.” She giggles at her own joke, making a show of turning his head towards her and plopping a kiss on his pink lips. It lasts only a few seconds before he pulls away. 

But even those few seconds feel like a lifetime.

You feel the bite of Himari’s words, even if they’re clearly meant to dig into you. The word “leech” still stings, even though you know it’s not intended for anything other than a cruel jab. Satoru’s response, or lack thereof, makes the situation all the more uncomfortable. His eyes flick to you for a brief second before turning back to Himari, his expression more quiet and guarded

 One question sounds throughout your brain. Why are you even with her?

You stand there, the tension heavy in the air between the three of you, white-knuckling onto Koji’s jacket, as if it could anchor you through this awkward, uncomfortable moment. Himari’s gaze holds yours for a moment longer like she’s trying to read you, trying to see if you'll react. You want to say something, anything, but you can feel the weight of the situation hanging on your tongue, making it hard to even speak.

Satoru looks between the two of you, his jaw tightening slightly. "Let's go," he mutters, more to Himari than to you, though you can tell he’s trying to smooth things over. Himari, however, isn’t having it. She steps forward, a small smirk on her face as she eyes you again. 

“So,” she starts, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “you two still playing catch-up or is it ‘out of sight, out of mind’ now?” 

Her clipped tone is pointed, deliberately meant to prod, and the weight of them sinks in—her intent clear. Satoru doesn’t reply, simply glancing at you with a silent apology in his eyes—if you can even call it that. You want to scoff at his lousiness. It’s clear she’s trying to assert her dominance in the situation, but you’re not sure whether it’s her trying to put you in your place or if it’s something else entirely.

You force a tight smile, the words you're looking for escaping you. “No need to worry,” you manage to say, the words barely leaving your lips as you turn to look at Satoru one last time. “I’m sure you both have things to do. I’ll get back to work.”

Satoru doesn’t protest, and Himari just gives you another dismissive glance. "Whatever," she mutters under her breath, but you catch the taunt in her voice. She might be playing it off, but you sense otherwise. 

As they walk away, the weight of the encounter lingers in the air around you. You stand frozen for a moment, the jacket still in your hands, and then—almost instinctively—you turn on your heel and head back inside the café. Your heart still pounds in your chest, the sting of Himari’s words lingering long after they’ve both left.

You don’t even know what hurts more—the fact that Satoru’s dismissive attitude didn’t change, Himari’s words somehow managed to rattle you more than you care to admit, or the fact that he barely…stood up for you. It is selfish to at least hold him to a certain degree—a degree where he has the decency to protect you from the cruel shit his now girlfriend so nonchalantly delivers towards you? Maybe how he acted during that first unexpected encounter was all for show.

And of course, the pain in your chest feels more like a slow burn now, another brutal—unwanted reminder that things between you and Satoru, whatever they were…are long gone.

An Izakaya of this caliber is something Haruka would have only dreamed of sitting in. Warm lighting is stationed above them, inside their own private room while she drinks away and away—solely because the people before her are buying. There are dishes of food scattered around, some picked from and others haven’t been touched yet. “You know, I really appreciate you spoiling me for the past two days, it’s nicer than any man has ever treated me.” 

She laughs to herself, casually leaning back on her palms, holding her pitcher of beer back up to her lips and sipping like a madman. Emi and Kenji Nakamura regard the woman with equally disgusted faces. Beside them is their personal lawyer. 

“So,” Haruka starts, burping and leaning forward once more. “What’s this all about my precious daughter, huh?” Her lip quirks up in a sneer at the reminder of the child she had and practically threw to the wolves. “Is she acting up again? She’s always been a little troublemaker.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen the articles, yes?” Kenji’s firm voice replies. “Involving your daughter, Satoru Gojo, and their son.”

She chokes on her spit. “What?! Son?! No, I haven’t seen anything! I’m a free spirit and I don’t believe in social media, it’s the devil’s play!”

The couple show no further emotion to her outburst. 

Haruka’s face contorts with an expression of disbelief as she wipes her mouth hastily with the back of her hand, trying to regain some composure. The news about Satoru Gojo and her daughter having a child seems to rattle her more than anything else. She leans back again, almost toppling over from the force of her sudden shift in posture, eyes wild. “I—what do you mean, son?” Her voice cracks, and she shoots a glance at Emi and Kenji, her eyes narrowing. “Are you telling me that boy… and my daughter? They have a child?!”

Kenji’s lips curl into a slight frown, his eyes cold. “Yes, it seems your daughter has kept things a secret for years. The media and everyone else have only just found out.”

Haruka’s eyes flash with something venomous, but she quickly masks it with a laugh, the sound forced and hollow. “Ah, what a little dirty sneak. And, please. You know I’m not interested in all that family nonsense. And that son? How could they even think of bringing a kid into their… situation?” Her head shakes as she scoffs at the thought of you bearing a child of your own. And especially with…him. 

“You may not understand now,” Kenji mutters darkly, before leaning in slightly. “But I think it’s time you start paying attention. Because this situation concerns you more than you realize.”

Haruka’s face twitches, the words hitting her harder than she wants to admit. The weight of the sudden revelation was heavy. She glances down at her beer, swirling it absentmindedly, her mind clearly racing with thoughts she doesn’t want to process. “You’re telling me my daughter has a son with him?” she scoffs, shaking her head. “That’s rich. Really rich.” Her tone is bitter, but the realization of the reality around her seems to slowly sink in, and she takes another long sip from her pitcher to steady herself. “She’s such a goddamn fool, I almost feel bad for her. I provided a lot for her, you know? Then she threw it all away.”

Kenji and Emi watch on in disinterest. The lawyer beside them brings out a formal sheet of paper. “We’d like to offer you a deal, Ms. L/N,” Kenji states. 

Haruka looks back up, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Haruka’s eyes narrow, expression shifting from one of indifference to one of calculated curiosity. She shifts in place, wiping her mouth once more with the back of her palm. “A deal? What kind of deal?” she asks, her voice carrying a note of skepticism, but there's a flicker of interest behind her gaze. She leans in slightly, one hand still gripping the pitcher of beer as she lowers it to the table now.

“You see,” Emi starts. “Our only child—our precious daughter is dating Satoru. She probably felt the most disgruntled in this situation out of everyone else. With the suddenness, we fear that everything we have worked for will be put to waste.”

“And with the news of your daughter’s involvement with Satoru Gojo, it has thrown things into disarray for us. What we need is to ensure that this situation doesn’t jeopardize our family’s legacy—both our reputation and, more importantly, our fortune.” Kenji finishes. 

Haruka snorts softly. “I see. So, you’re telling me this little bastard of hers is a problem for you too? What does that have to do with me?” Her words come out sharper than she intends, but she quickly masks it with another bitter laugh.

Emi’s cold gaze sharpens, a glint of something unspoken flickering behind her eyes. “Everything, Haruka. Your daughter’s ties to Satoru Gojo are a direct threat to the family’s interests. And with a child in the picture now… it complicates things further. But we’ve come to a solution, one that involves you—if you’re willing to cooperate.”

Haruka tilts her head, eyes narrowing as she watches the lawyer slide the formal paper across the table toward her. The ink on it is neat, but her eyes flick over it quickly, scanning the contents before she lets out a quiet scoff. “What is this? Some kind of bribe?”

The lawyer, keeping a neutral expression, nods. “It’s an agreement that ensures your cooperation in smoothing over this… situation. If you agree, your involvement will not only secure your own future, but it will also protect the financial interests of both families. In exchange, you’ll receive a position of influence, a stake in the inheritance.”

Haruka’s laughter rings out again, more amused. “Influence? A stake? Do you think I’m some desperate fool who’ll fall for your little schemes? I don’t need your money. I have enough desperate fools willing to give me that already.” She sneers at the paper but then pauses, looking at Kenji and Emi, the weight of their gaze pressing down on her.

She takes another sip from her pitcher, her mind whirling as she weighs her options. A part of her wants to lash out, to dismiss them and their offer completely. But there’s something about the way they’re looking at her, something cold and calculating that makes her pause. The truth is, she’s always been a gambler, and she knows when to fold and when to play her hand. “You really think this is gonna work out?” she says, her voice quieter now, but still filled with an edge of disbelief. “This… deal?” She hesitates, eyes flicking over the paper again, the signature line staring her down. “What exactly are you asking of me?”

Emi leans forward slightly, her posture unyielding. “We need you to leverage your relationship with your daughter. Influence her decisions, guide her actions—anything you can to help steer her away from Satoru. We want to ensure that the child and his existence don’t affect our plans. In return, we offer you protection, money, and a place at the table. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Kenji watches her closely, his expression hard, but there’s a glimmer of expectation in his eyes.

Haruka’s mind races, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her beer glass as she processes the offer laid out before her. The temptation of power, of influence, is hard to ignore, even for someone who prides herself on being a free spirit. But she’s also no fool. She knows this is a high-stakes game—one where the risks outweigh the rewards if she misplays her cards. And the amount of 0’s she’s staring down at is inexplicably thrilling. She’s already imagining what she can buy with it. 

For a long moment, the room is silent, the tension thick. Emi and Kenji both stare at her intently, their eyes cold and calculating, watching her every move. The lawyer remains as neutral as ever, the formality of his expression only adding to the weight of the situation.

Haruka's lips curl into a smirk, the edges of her mouth twitching slightly as she leans back in her chair. “Leverage my relationship with my daughter, huh? You really think I can do that?” Her voice is laced with a mix of amusement and disdain. “You must think I’m a puppet master or something. But I’m not interested in some petty manipulation games.”

Kenji’s eyes flash for a brief second, a flicker of something darker crossing his features. "You know the consequences of doing nothing. You’ve been avoiding your daughter long enough, Haruka. But she’s not the same girl anymore. She's tied to Satoru Gojo now, and that complicates things. We need you to make sure she doesn’t forget her place. The family’s future is on the line."

Haruka’s hand freezes in mid-air, her gaze locking with Kenji's. She can feel the weight of her daughter’s past mistakes bearing down on her, the consequences that could affect everything she’s tried to distance herself from. Her jaw ticks, her eye twitching. What a stupid little girl, I tried warning you, didn’t I? “I don’t care about your legacy or your fortune,” Haruka mutters, her tone turning colder, sharper. “But I’m not stupid. I can see what you’re offering me.” Her fingers curl around the edges of the paper, her nails digging into the surface. “I have one question for you, though. What happens if I refuse?”

Emi doesn’t blink, her gaze unflinching as she answers. “If you refuse, Haruka, you’ll be left in the same position you’ve always been—irrelevant. Your daughter’s problems will escalate, and your connections, your influence, will be stay meaningless. You will never succeed and you’ll lose the tiniest amount of leverage you have. You’ll watch as everything you’ve ever taken for granted crumbles.” She pauses, the words hanging in the air. “But if you cooperate, we can guarantee your future. Your daughter’s involvement with Gojo doesn’t need to ruin you.”

Haruka’s eyes flick over the paper again, the signature line now feeling like an anchor, pulling her down into a world of obligations and consequences. She takes a deep breath, feeling the familiar rush of excitement that always comes when she’s faced with a gamble. It’s the thrill of uncertainty, the pull of what could be hers if she plays her cards right. Her bottom lip is worried between her teeth. 

“So, what you’re saying is... I’m supposed to ruin my own daughter’s happiness for the sake of your precious family’s legacy,” Haruka says, her voice low, almost contemplative. She stares at the paper one more time before meeting Emi’s gaze. "Fine. You’ve made your offer. But just so you know, I’m no one's pawn. I’ll make this work for me too. You’re not the only ones with something to gain."

Emi gives a small, satisfied nod, and Kenji’s lips tighten, but there’s a small shift in his demeanor—one that signals the deal has been struck. "Good," Kenji replies, his voice firm. "We’re glad we could come to an agreement. We will contact you if necessary and when your action is needed.”

Haruka, for the first time, sets the pitcher of beer down, her fingers now gently grasping the edge of the paper. She grins maniacally and signs it with a flourish. The ink is dark and permanent, sealing the agreement.

With the ink dry, she sits back, a smirk curling on her lips. “This will be fun.”

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❥ KATSUKI BAKUGOU X FEM! READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: a/b/o dynamics (alpha Katsuki/omega reader), knotting, age-gap (Katsuki is in his grumpy 40s, you're in college), he calls you "kid", fucking in a pool, some mention of sex toys, degradation, creampie

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

God, he’s too fucking old for this shit. Too god damn tired of the animal that kicks against his ribs whenever the slick smell of a willing cunt passes his nose. 

“ ‘m sorry,” you whisper, rolling your hips to suck his cock deeper in your drooling pussy. He grinds his molars at the too-tight feeling. 

“Fucking brat,” he hisses and clamps his hands to your doughy ass, jerking you up and down his cock. “Knew you were trouble. Fucking told you to stay away from me.” 

Katsuki knew he would end up fucking the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed college girl the day you moved in next door. He tried to stop it, he really did, showing you his teeth and growling any time the sweet stink of your omega scent greeted him. 

Yet he’s the one who couldn’t help himself. Humid summer air brought your pathetic smell right to him, had him peeking over the fence that separated his house from yours like a fucking perv.

The sight of you in your little pool, desperate to cool your too-hot skin, bikini bottoms floating next to you as you shoved a dildo into your aching hole was his breaking point. 

And now here you are, stuffed full of throbbing, thick alpha cock. Because you begged him, all fat tears and plump pouts as your heat clawed at your insides. 

He might be too old for this, but he’ll never get tired of how fucking stupid omegas get for dick. 

“The t-toys just weren’t…weren’t good enough.” 

You’re pinned between him and the pool wall, lips of your cunt dragging along his length over and over again as you try to find release. 

Copious amounts of slick gush from you, making his thrusting easier. Pearly strings of your cream float around the pool, lost to splash of him fucking into you. 

But even still, he’s so engorged with blood and hormones ready to knot that his fat cock struggles against your gummy walls. You hiss, not from pain, but from relief, so happy to be full that no amount of stretching will detract from your pleasure.

“You’re fucking pitiful.” 

Shame briefly shines in your blown-out eyes, a bit of humanity peeking through the haze of animal instincts. Shit. This is why he hates this, why he’s tried to avoid all the breeding nonsense. Omegas are so emotionally squishy. 

Not that he’s any better. One pout from you as you locked eyes with him across the yard made him jump a fucking fence and plunge his cock into your weeping hole at two in the afternoon. 

“Just can’t help it, can you, kid?” 

Red eyes trace over the body he’s been trying so hard not to imagine. The triangle fabric of your swimsuit is peeled away from your tits, your nipples puffy from how hard you were tugging on them before he got his hands on you. 

A little mhmmmm-mhmmmm sounds from lips pressed too tightly together, your head lolling back as you keep bucking against him with your eager, exposed pussy. 

You’re a mess, all swollen and gooey and desperate. 

“Such a dumb omega,” he groans and wraps his arms around your back, pressing your soft body all the way against his, “fucking yourself out in the open. Wanted me to find you? Wanted the old man next door to fuck you stupid.”

“N-no,” you lie so easily. “Too hot, was too hot and couldn’t get off and—”

“Bullshit. You started splashin’ around out here just praying I’d catch your scent.” 

“C-can’t help it, pr-promise. You just always smell so fucking good, alpha.”

Makes sense now why you always seem to be out on a walk when he gets home from work, and why you always seem to need something from him. He was a nice neighbor and gave you his number when you moved in all on your own, a little omega lost in a big college town. You would message him for help around your place at least once a week—changing light bulbs, fixing a leaky faucet, even opening a goddamn jar a few nights ago. 

He told you several times to stop bothering him, yet you never could catch the hint that fooling around with an alpha was going to get you bitten. 

Relentlessly he pounds his hips, the buoyancy of the water making it effortless to hold you and fuck in deep. His thighs barely feel any strain, his back muscles rolling like a true predator as he starts to use his arms to pull you up and down. 

Katsuki slides his fat cock until it’s barely in your pussy, mushroom tip caught by the suctioning ring of muscle inside of you. Then he bottoms out, balls connecting with your ass under the water with a muted thump. 

“God, fuck, that’s good, so good,” you’re fucking loud, “feel so fucking good in my pussy.” 

“Christ, you wanna let the whole neighborhood knowing I’m fucking you?”

​​The fuck-drunk little smile on your face tells him that maybe you do. 

And he thought he was the perv. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he whispers furiously, kissing you with so much force it makes your back arch in his strangle hold. 

A thick hand wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just leaves it there possessively as his tongue forces its way between your lips. You unconsciously moan, your own tongue meeting his, but he presses it down, not wanting it in the way. You give in, letting him encircle your tongue with his own so he can taste you. He pulls back to suck your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth roughly dragging against it.

“Like feeling my cock spread you apart, hm? Maybe I’ll get you a dildo my size for next time you wanna put on a little show.” 

You purr and it makes him want to scratch you to pieces. 

The burning stretch of your omega cunt is bliss. The smell of sex and chlorine sting his nose, make him lose it a bit and press so hard inside of you that his cock nearly meets the resistance of your cervix. Not that you seem to mind it—your nails are sinking into his wet shoulders, holding on for dear life as he fucks you in the heat of a summer afternoon. 

When Katsuki shifts his hips down, heavy cock sliding out of your tight hole, you bare your teeth and growl at a man nearly double your age.  

“Easy, tiger,” he tuts and drops you in the warming water, “turn around and let me hit it from the back.”

He loves that your instincts are to obey.

You turn your back to him with an indignant little huff, bending over the edge of the pool and waiting. Katsuki locks his arms around your thighs, pushing up and letting the water do the work. Your legs float open easily, spreading wide as he spears his way back into your slutty hole. 

“Ever been knotted before, kid?”

Looking over your shoulder, you shake your head, hiccuping as he works his shaft in and out of you. 

“Please, please, ah, knot me. Wa-wanna know what it feels like.”

He’s toying with an ancient fire, he knows that. One fat knot from an alpha and you might be begging to move in with him, but it’s worth it. Your pussy feels too goddamn good and he’s too worked up not to plug you full. 

Katsuki works you into an absolute frenzy, waves of water splashing onto the edges of the pool as you mewl and focus on how effortlessly he fucks you. Your walls meld to him, each thrust hasty and claiming, scented sweat steaming from the heat of your body and the blistering of the sun. His dick curves just perfectly inside you, cockhead purposefully brushing against the most sensitive, spongy spots within your depths. 

“Surprised none of your stupid boyfriends knotted this tight cunt before.”

“Wouldn’t,” your fingers are gripping the edge of the pool for dear life, like you’re gonna drown any second, “wouldn’t let them.” 

“And you’re gonna let me? Just a slut for older men?” 

“Slut for you,” you correct him with a bounce of your ass against his pelvis, “love a big, strong alpha.” 

He rolls his eyes at the shameless flattery, yet still the ego inside him flares to life. 

“Young, stupid omegas always think they can get whatever they want,” he growls, all while keeping a rough pace inside your body, watching how the water parts for the two of you grinding into one another. 

You give him a knowing gaze over your shoulder, sultry and coy. 

You are getting exactly what you want. All you had to do was get his attention, pry at his most basic instincts and now here he is losing his mind over the tight squeeze of your omega cunt. 

Maybe you aren’t so stupid after all.

But he’ll fuck you stupid, he’s sure of that. 

“I’m too old for silly games, kid. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

He proves his point by pawing at your belly under the water, pressing in until you can both feel how deep he is in your guts. The realization makes you whine, pushing hard back against him. 

“You think I’m just some toy to use during your heat?” Katsuki tuts, licking at one of his canines. “Just wait until I knot this stupid cunt and you beg me to keep coming back.”

A symphony of sex is ringing in your backyard, sounds of primal grunts, shrill little screams, balls slapping against your ass, water gurgling and splashing.

Any animal nearby knows what’s happening, that nature is running its course and you’re both nothing but senseless bodies looking for the simplest relief.

Katsuki slides the hand on your stomach lower, pinching your aching clit before he starts swirling it under the pads of experienced fingers. You start thrashing, cunt sucking so tightly he’s sure you’re hurting with the need to cum. 

“Pleasepleaseplease oh god please!” 

You shatter and his pride nearly bursts with you. Your cunt clenches, so pleased to cum around a thick alpha cock. You babble absolute nonsense, beg for his knot and a string of thanks yous and pleases and alpha alpha alpha dripping from your mouth into the wake of the pool.

The way your pussy squeezes him tells him you’ve been looking for this orgasm for hours, walls so swollen and pulsing. You must’ve been fucking yourself with useless toys since morning and finally got desperate enough to make a scene and get him to fuck you the way you needed. 

“Poor thing,” he coos, watching your cream float to the surface of the water. 

You’re totally mindless now as he continues to fuck you, body sloshing in the pool as he manhandles you to take what he wants. 

“Don’t even know if you can handle a knot, kid. You’re too tight.” 

That stirs you, makes you flatten your hands against the edge of the pool and push back to meet his rhythm. Over and over, you keep up with him, so fucking fraught to finally feel an alpha swell in your guts.

“Please don’t stop, please. Need to feel it, been in heat for d-days.”

“Oh omega, have you been fucking yourself silly with all the wrong toys, hm? Been stuffing yourself all alone in your room? Should’ve, ah, just asked me to come fix it.”

“You told me to stop b-bothering you…” 

“You’ll annoy me when your sink’s leakin’ but not when your pussy is? So fucking stupid.”

Only he’s starting to go dumb at the wrap of your cunt around him. The beast in his belly is raging, alpha instincts boiling in the summer sun. 

“C’mon, slut, milk my cock,” he pants and slams into you, lost in the way the water reflects around your curves and how your thighs are locked around his waist. He swears your body listens, some reflexive instinct that has your pussy clamping around his shaft until he can feel the veins of his cock squishing into your walls. 

The orgasmic build starts rushing up his spine, inflating the base of his cock inch by inch. 

“Holy shit, fuck~” you whimper at the first stretch of his knot. “Kat–Katsuki, ‘m so fucking full!” 

Finally he bursts, knot bulging into your gumminess until you’re plugged with him. His cum spills into your tight channel, filling you whole. 

Your sweet, stupid omega brain can barely comprehend the stretch. Another orgasm wrecks your body, has you falling face first into the pool. Katsuki scrambles to grab you, hoist you up and into his arms as you gasp and crest and cum all over him again. 

He can’t help but chuckle, easily maneuvering his back to the pool’s edge. He lets you calm down in his hold, your head falling against his shoulder as you try to breathe. 

“Get what you wanted, brat?” 

Katsuki pats your bloated belly, making you squeal as he rubs the heel of his hand against his knot. 

You nod dumbly, eyes closing to focus on the feel of him. He smirks realizing you’ll never forget him, your first knot. Omegas really are so emotional. 

Yet he’s taunted by the stupid bikini bottoms still floating in the water, mocking just how easy it was for you to boil him down to his base instincts. 

He’s too old for this shit. Especially as you start grinding down against his knot, cooing, reminding him you’ll be fucking him until your heat decides it’s done with him.