AFTER DARK. Armin Arlert (CH. 6) (18+)

AFTER DARK. Armin Arlert (CH. 6) (18+)

☰ pairings: Armin x Reader, Slight Eren x Reader

┌─ ✮⭒｡ story summary: Armin was tired of being seen as an innocent, goody-two-shoes, little flower boy. Instead, he wanted to be seen in a more romantic and…sexual light. You just couldn’t turn down a sweet boy like him, so you agreed to hone his charms and teach him special…skills.

And he turned out to be much more powerful (and hotter) than you'd ever expected.

└─ ✩⭒｡ story #tags: fluff, angst, smut, friends to lovers, friends w benefits, drama, jealousy, hurt/comfort, manipulative armin, virgin armin, loss of virginity, childhood friends, lots of tension, nerd armin, and then he glows up, love triangles, unrequited love, gaslighting, lots of buildup

☰ CHAPTER SIX. armin's first

┌─ ✮⭒｡ chapter summary: Things get heated. Things get so, so heated.

└─ ✩⭒｡ chapter warnings: smut (p in v sex, fingering), fem bodied reader, loss of virginity, petting, literally most of this is foreplay

wc: 9.7k

☰ table of contents | previous chapter | next chapter

In the dim of your living room, your eyes could only see him. And right here, on the plush of your couch, your body only knew his. 

Armin held you, secured you, and grounded you, strong arms snaked around your waist as you became all too aware of your intermingling bodies. The squish of your thighs against his, the unashamed press of your tits against his chest, the weight of his breaths against your lips…

You could still feel the tingle on your lips where he’d last kissed you, a ghost of his touch. 

Above you, the clock ticked louder and louder in your ears, louder than the blood that rushed to muffle your hearing and the pounding of your pulse, a looming reminder that it was late. That you had work in the morning. That you were running out of time. 

That you shouldn’t be doing this.

Another sound intruded on you. A voice, his voice, running rampant in the back of your head.

Will your roommate be home soon?

The fact that he’d asked that question…just what did he want?

And on top of that, you had already confirmed that, no, your roommate wasn’t going to be home any time soon. In fact, she wasn’t going to be home at all, meaning you’d have the entire night with him alone, undisturbed. 

Sitting here, Armin quietly eyed you, curious and content yet half-lidded and torn by lust. He suddenly silenced your thoughts with a kiss, swooping in hard, teeth clashing, causing you to instinctively grab his face to ease him down. 

The kiss oozed of messiness, an exchange of saliva and wet, meshed-together lips that barely held any rhythm. The feeling consumed you fully—the warmth and fervent press of his lips—as you slowly guided him. 

Lost in the intensity, you instinctively swiped your tongue against his bottom lip. He jolted, pulling away. 

You thought that was so cute of him, seeing him like this. So ironically innocent.

“S—sorry,” he stuttered out, a bashful look on his face. 

Your brows furrowed, worried that you had done something wrong. “Did I go too far?”

“No, it’s just….” He tightened his grip on your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. “God, I’m so nervous.”

Squeezing your hands on his shoulders, you reassured him, “It’s okay. We can go slow.” 

“Okay.”

Armin smiled up at you, so sweetly and boyishly—so contradictory to the thoughts you’d been having about him. But even so, he was still nothing like the little boy you’d known. Not when he was gazing at you with that blush, reddened and far-gone, and that glint of lust—that hunger—in his eyes. 

You still couldn’t believe he was here with you. If you’d known you’d be kissing your childhood friend ten years down the line, you’d probably flip out in disbelief. 

But he’d matured so much from then. That boy was nothing like the man under you, holding onto you. Nothing like how tempting and alluring and irresistible he looked right now. 

His palms flexed around your waist, once, then twice, then dragged up the sides of your torso, slowly, almost mindlessly, then back down. Pressed up like this, chest-to-chest, you could feel the racing of his heart so hard that you felt yourself rattling. And even though his hands had stopped shaking, the fast, repetitive thump inside his chest told you more than anything else ever would. 

Sitting in silence, hearts beating out of sync, you let him roam your body like that. Slowly and hesitantly, like he hadn’t quite fully grasped the situation. 

"You're a good friend,” he mumbled quietly, no longer meeting your eyes, fixated on where he was touching you instead. 

Cheeks heating up at the praise, you shuddered with a laugh that sounded a little too strained and nervous. 

You were a good friend? No, he was a good friend. He was the whole reason you wanted to do this in the first place. A good, caring, considerate friend that you would never turn down even if it meant putting your friendship on the line. 

“I trust you. I wouldn’t ask anyone else this,” he continued. 

Breathing in deep, you cupped his face affectionately. “No, please, you’re so good to me. How can I say no to you?” 

His hands stilled, and you could see how his eyes instantly softened. Armin’s right hand fiddled with the hem of your shirt, eyes meeting yours momentarily before darting away. 

“Thank you. So…can we keep going?” 

Your lips lifted into a small smile, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his eagerness. “Yeah, um. Do you…want to try using tongue now?”

As soon as you’d finished that sentence, you fought down the nervous, embarrassed lump that rose to your throat. It couldn’t get any more straightforward than that. 

“Yeah,” he replied breathlessly and nodded.

“Slowly, okay? We’re just gonna ease into it. When I lick your lips, open your mouth a little. And then after that, it’s like…” You swallowed, tensing. “Um, I don’t really know how to explain it. Just try to match me.” 

He gazed at you with so much anticipation that you could almost taste it. Sliding your hands back onto his shoulders, you latched onto his lips again. 

This time, there wasn’t a rush. Just slow, methodical, and relaxed movement as you relished the softness of his lips. You loved this feeling. Soft and sweet, like him. 

His hands began roaming your body again, starting from the sides of your chest down to the tops of your thighs. His palms slightly brushed the outer parts of your breasts, but it was still nowhere close to where you really wanted him.

You took this as a cue to mimic him, hands gliding down to his biceps where you gave him a light squeeze. Even though you knew he worked out, you were still surprised to feel the dips and tautness of hard muscle. It wasn’t that you forgot, it was that you didn’t normally expect it from Armin, someone usually so nice and mellow. 

As you trailed down his stomach, you could feel the defined ridges of his abs under your splayed palms, and you swore you almost moaned. For someone with such a cute face, he had such a strong body. 

When your tongue finally soothed over his bottom lip, he parted his lips ever-so-slightly. And the moment you slipped your tongue in, he let out a small noise that was so, so quiet. Your tongues met, warm and wet. 

You could tell he was hesitant, but you continued at the same pace, slowly licking into him and swiping your tongue over his. He’d completely stilled, hands etching themselves harder into your waist. As you were letting yourself taste him, something tugged on your heart, weighing heavy. 

Because it dawned on you that you were making out with Armin. 

Something so intimate and passionate like this could only be reserved for lovers, not for friends.

Armin reluctantly slipped his hands under your shirt. Just right there, right at the threshold of your torso and not any further, like he was testing the waters. He held you there, only tasting. Your breath hitched, startled by the warmth of his fingers, but the flow of the kiss remained the same. 

The pressure of his tongue was soothing as it moved against yours, and he was getting the hang of it little by little. And the moment it seemed to click—where it felt like you’d reached the perfect rhythm and the perfect amount of energy—you moaned into his mouth to let him know he was doing good. Thank God he was a fast learner. 

Cradling his neck into your arms and threading your fingers into his hair, you rolled your hips into him experimentally, pelvises meeting. You heard him inhale sharply, but he didn’t break the kiss. He only tightened his hold on you, pushing you down slightly as he rolled his hips, matching you.

The friction felt so undeniably good. You knew he felt good, too, because you could feel the area of his crotch stiffen under you.

It was like that for a while, the two of you grinding on each other, so focused on outdoing the other that the kiss wasn’t even a kiss anymore. Just a mix of messy lips and hitched moans and saliva. So much so that you had to wipe away the drool at the corner of his mouth. 

You were the first to pull away for air. 

“How was it?” he instantly asked, licking his lips. They were swollen, and that gave you the urge to kiss him again. 

“Just a little messy. But good. You did good for your first time.” You laughed. 

He laughed with you, bringing a thumb to swipe over the corner of your mouth. “Sorry about that.” 

Just like that, the two of you shared a cute moment, and you began to think that nothing would change between you—that you two would still be friends and embrace these moments no matter what. 

As the atmosphere from your makeout session died down, you were left with one final thought. 

What now?

“Hey…” you started. You didn’t even know how to word this. Do you know where this is going? Do you even want to keep going? 

You stood up, all too abruptly like you were running on autopilot as your brain tried to catch up with your body, hands detaching from his neck and thighs from his lap. You looked at him warily, wedged between the coffee table and his parted legs.  

Armin frantically stood up, too, half hard in his pants as he reached for your forearm. “Something wrong?”

It was late, you remembered again. 

But now, in this lapse of judgment, you guessed it didn't matter if you should or shouldn't continue. Not when he was staring at you, pleading with his eyes—with his body. You could almost hear his heart thumping out of his chest.

You wondered if he could hear yours, too.

“Um,” you trailed off, wondering how to save yourself.

Before you had the chance to recollect your thoughts, Armin cut you off. “Sorry, um. I mean, I know it’s late…if that’s what you were going to say. I should probably go. You did say I should only stay for a little bit—”

“No—wait, no.” You pressed a palm to his chest. 

Armin subtly tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “I thought you had work in the morning?”

“I know, but...” Your eyes trailed down to his crotch, suddenly guilty. “Do you want to stay?”

He regarded you with a look of uncertainty, hands hovering beside your arms like he was about to hold you. “Yeah…?”

“Then…what do you want to do?” It came out in a slight whisper, and you instantly wanted to slap yourself for that question because, one, it was definitely the wrong question. All you wanted was clarity as to whether he knew where this was going, and two, what did you mean by what he wanted to do? 

You could feel his eyes burning into your head, but yours were averted to where the neckline of his tee dipped down to reveal his collarbone.

He gulped. “What do I want to do?” he parroted, breathing in a steady breath. “Um…what do you mean?”

You pursed your lips, knowing you were going to sound desperate. “Was kissing…all you wanted to do?” 

He looked visibly taken aback now, lashes fluttering as his eyes flitted over your form in surprise. 

“No…” 

“Then what?” 

Maybe you really were desperate as you stood here so close to him, pushing your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache. 

“Well, I think—I think you know,” he mumbled shamefully. “Don’t make me say it.” 

“Say it. Please? I just want to be sure.”

He pursed his lips, too, while contemplating, flushed a deep pink on his cheeks. “I want us to…go the whole way. I want you.” He cleared his throat. “To teach me.”

For a long moment, you were convinced you stopped breathing. 

It was so loud now. Your heartbeat was so unbearably loud, reverberating and bursting through your ears. A breathless silence filled the room.

He didn't waver. Not once. He only gazed straight into your eyes—straight through you, irises deep and blue and overwhelming and darkened by lust. He'd lost that innocent, bright shine long ago.

The beat of your heart only quickened, even quicker than what it already was.

Was this it? Was this the next step? Was this it after all of those needy kisses and flimsy touches and longing, vulnerable stares? 

Nevertheless, a sense of relief washed over you. You wanted this, too, despite the fact that you were risking something precious to you. Something irreversible.

Not that'd you stop now. 

And then you were onto him, capturing his lips in a sloppy kiss. He returned it just as quickly, rough and intimate. His hands slid to your waist and held you tight against his body while you clung onto him like it was the end of the world. 

Licking his lips teasingly, you murmured in between the kiss, “My room.” 

He broke away a little, muttering a little “okay” before you cut him off by pressing your mouth back onto his. 

When you pulled away, he surprised you with his next words. 

“Can I carry you?” 

Without hesitation, you lightly jumped onto him, and he caught you, carrying you effortlessly in his strong arms. You loved the feeling of his hands on the back of your thighs, firm and warm. He was so surprisingly muscly that you wanted to squeal. 

The walk wasn’t far in your small apartment space, and you quickly found yourself being placed gingerly onto your bed and your limbs untangling from his body. He stood there like he didn’t quite know what to do. You scooted back onto your pillows, beckoning him to come closer. 

“Get on top of me.” You tugged on the front of his tee. “Like this.” 

He stumbled onto your bed, settling in between your legs as his hands braced him up. You tugged him even closer still, and he fell to his forearms. 

You looked up at him only to find him blushing, a dark, rosy color tinting the apples of his cheeks, watching you with eager eyes as his chest heaved with heavy breaths.

Heat bubbled in your stomach. “Are you sure you want to do this? Remember, this is…this is for you. This is about how you feel.” 

“I’m sure,” he answered quickly. 

Then, Armin kissed you for the millionth time tonight, but this time, it was short yet thorough, like he just missed your taste. 

“Kiss me on my neck,” you urged, craning your head. “Just don’t leave any marks.”

Armin dipped down instantly, but he stilled for the next second, hesitantly staring at your neck. The conviction finally hit him and his lips met your skin, ticklish and titillating and warm. He peppered slow kisses along the juncture of your neck, leaving one long, suckling kiss—one hard enough to make you feel good but soft enough not to leave a mark. You could tell he was unsure about his movements, so you softly grabbed him by the hair to bring him to a specific spot. 

“Right—ah—there. Yeah,” you assured him as he gave another suckling kiss. 

“Is this good?” he asked timidly into your skin, and you could feel the tickle of where his lips moved. 

You hummed in response. “It’s good. You’re doing good,” you replied, words tumbling out of your mouth in an awkward way. 

He pulled away, and his eyes raked over your form, suddenly stopping at your chest. While you should’ve been excited, something else happened. Something like dismay filled his eyes as his brows twitched downwards. 

“Is this Eren’s sweater?”

Oh. 

“Yeah?” you weakly breathed out, voice pitched a higher octave than you’d like.

His eyes flitted back to your face again, still strewn with an emotion you couldn’t quite place but knew wasn’t good. 

“Can I take it off?” he asked, pawing the hem of your sweater. He seemed confident almost, but you knew that the barely discernible, nervous strain in the thrum of his voice gave it all away.

You nodded wordlessly like the air had been punched out of your lungs.

Armin grabbed onto the hem of your sweater with both hands, peeling it off you so slowly that you couldn’t tell if he was teasing you or just simply nervous. Your stomach coiled in anticipation the farther he went, with each inch of skin he revealed. He was so agonizingly slow—or maybe you were so impatient that it felt like time had slowed down—yet the rush of cool air against your torso was instant. 

The moment he reached your bra, your heart seemed to beat out of your chest, and you needed to steady your breathing. 

He stopped and looked for only a minuscule second, as if he didn’t dare to stare any longer, and picked up the pace, pushing the last of your sweater above your raised arms. 

“Pants, too,” you whispered softly. 

With shaky hands, Armin obediently worked them off, past the fabric of your panties, all the way down your legs. 

He’d seen you in a bikini before, but it was different this time. You were laid out all nicely in front of him, clad in a bra and thin panties. On your bed, for him. 

The newfound cold nipped everywhere at your skin, goosebumps prodding up your arms and legs. 

“Take my bra off for me.” You said shakily, turning to your side to give him access. “You know how?” 

He laughed out what seemed to be a mix of a chuckle and a scoff. “I’m sure it isn’t hard.” His knuckles brushed the skin of your back as he took hold of the straps and unclasped your bra. You could feel his hands shaking against your back. “Easy.” 

As he slid it off of you, that heavy feeling in your heart resurfaced, and you began to feel self-conscious.

But it was just Armin, you reminded yourself. 

Your upper body was now completely bare to him. The cool of the air swept over your already-hardening nipples. 

Armin only stared at you. Didn’t say a word. Just outright ogled you with raw, unfiltered desire in his eyes as his hands twitched where they were resting near his thighs. 

You grabbed both of his hands, placing his palms directly on your chest. “C’mon. Touch me.”

Gulping hard, he leaned into you, broad, unpracticed hands cupping your tits, squeezing just once. Then his hands started moving, experimentally pushing and squeezing over the plush of your tits, palms grazing over the peaks of your pebbled nipples. 

You clamped your eyes shut, letting yourself go for the moment. It felt so pleasant, just steady friction against your sensitive breasts. 

Armin’s hands were soft—that much you already knew—just as everything else was about him. But while his hands were soft and gentle, his gaze was hard. He was so fixed and focused on you, blue eyes practically dripping with unbridled lust. 

He cupped your tits again, a soft nudge, then his hands slid down the curve of your waist. You could feel the trail of warmth that his fingers left on your skin. It clung to you even as his hands moved away to rest on your abdomen. His thumbs pressed into your skin so briefly that his touch might’ve been a spasm of a finger as the bottoms of his palms grazed against the hem of your panties. 

The warmth followed down the curve of your hips, down your thighs, and down to your knees. You shifted your legs closer to your body, and his hands quickly cupped the underside of your thighs, squeezing once. 

You knew this was his first time, so you let him explore your body as your hand came to his cheek to pull him down for another kiss. His tongue prodded at your lips, and you happily welcomed it. 

His hands were everywhere now—your thighs, your hips, your waist, your shoulders, your neck, your arms. You could tell he was losing rhythm between keeping up with the kiss and touching you, but you couldn’t care less. 

He pulled away first, leaving a string of saliva hanging between your lips. 

“Armin, play with my….” The embarrassment hit you again. You didn’t even want to finish your sentence, but luckily, he seemed to understand. 

“Oh.” His fingers found your tits again, thumbs swiping over your nipples before he lightly pinched them, tugging them upwards. “Like this?” 

You gasped and squirmed. “Yeah. Like that. Just very lightly. Try rolling them between your fingers.” 

His thumb and index finger met with your nipples, and he did what you told him, twisting and rolling your nipples between his fingers. 

That elicited a little whine from you. “Feels nice.” 

Armin continued his ministrations on you as he alternated between tweaking your nipples and groping your tits whole. It was sensual and quiet, save for the sound of your soft moans.

He suddenly sighed, eyes clouded. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered softly and fondly.  

You didn’t answer. Instead, you smiled at him and let your cheeks heat up from his compliment. It caught you off guard. Because somehow, in a suggestive moment like this, he managed to make it sweet. Judging from the tone of his voice, you knew it was genuine. 

Because he was a genuine guy.

You cupped the back of his head and pushed him toward your chest. “Put your mouth here.” 

He doubled back, eyes wide, but didn’t waste another second to envelop his lips onto your chest. He followed your orders so easily—like a dog to its owner—that you couldn’t help but chuckle at the charm of it. 

For a second, you wondered if he needed guidance, but when his tongue laved over your breast, you only held his head tighter as your back arched off the bed in pleasure. His eyelids fluttered shut, feathery, blonde lashes resting against his cheekbones. He kissed your nipple just as he kissed you, licking and sucking meticulously and thoroughly. 

One of the things that you liked about Armin was that he was such an adaptable learner. Took things he learned and applied them somewhere else. Not that any of this required any big skill, but he just did it so well and so quickly. 

You grabbed his hand and brought it to your other nipple, and he quickly understood, playing with you like he did before.

Suddenly, his teeth took hold of your nipple—just a light graze, and you gasped again. You felt the ache between your thighs throb, shamelessly getting wetter. Where did he learn to do that? 

“Okay, that’s—that’s good.” You tapped his cheek. “Over here now.” 

His mouth unlatched with a pop and he switched to the other breast, repeating the same routine. You felt the remnants of his saliva on your skin mix with the cool air, tingling. 

You were sure your panties were drenched now. Sure that the arousal made the fabric stick to you. 

Armin pulled away, licking the spit from his lips, and looked right into your eyes. “Was that okay?” he asked innocently. 

“Mhm,” you hummed, but you were convinced it came out more as a whine. You clutched a handful of the fabric of his tee. “Off.” 

He sat up straighter, surprised but willing. “Off? Okay, okay.” Armin reached behind him to grab the collar of his T-shirt, and in one swift yank, it came off. He threw his shirt on the floor like the rest of your clothes, and you were left to ogle at his body. 

Your eyes raked over the smooth planes of his chest, his slim waist, and the hard, toned stomach where your hands had previously felt. 

Even at pools and beaches, he opted for T-shirts with his swim trunks. And the last time you’d seen him shirtless, he wasn’t this jacked. 

“I never get to see you like this. You’re so—you’re so built.” The fluster was so evident in your voice as you trailed your fingers down his torso. 

He shyly laughed, pink on his cheeks. “Thank you.” 

“You’re so pretty, Armin.” Before the embarrassment and weight of your compliment caught up to you, you quickly grabbed the hem of his jeans. “Take—take this off, too.” 

You eyed the bulge beneath his pants, hard and begging to be freed. 

You gulped. Now you two were really getting into it—seeing and doing something so intimate. You had no problem undressing yourself, but when it came to him…

He nodded as his hands fumbled with the button and zipper, thumbs slotted in between his waistband as he shakily pulled them down. You helped him get them off, anticipation and nervousness coursing through your veins. 

Once his jeans were off, he seemed even bigger now. You could see the clear outline of his dick straining against his boxers, and it was messing with your head. This was your best friend, for crying out loud. Both of your most intimate places were each just a layer away, just inches away. 

“Fuck, I’m so—” His eyes scanned over you, from the eager expression on your face, to your bare tits, and to your legs that were spread to accommodate him. “You don’t know how hard I am right now.” 

You gulped again. “Yeah?” you teased, palming him through his boxers. 

He sharply inhaled and cursed low under his breath, but before you could go any further, he grabbed your wrist. There was a look of worry on his face—maybe it was desperation, you thought—and you wondered if you did something wrong.

“W—wait. I want to know how to make you feel good.” 

Your face morphed into one of surprise. Armin wanted to please you first. 

You felt the arousal creeping up on you. Felt it soaking your panties again. 

You breathed out slowly, and for a second, the words died on your tongue. He was going to see you fully naked. Only a flimsy piece of fabric away from erasing the line between your friendship and this…whatever this was. 

“Yeah, that’s good. Wanting to please your partner first, that is.” You regained your footing. “Help me take them off?” You eyed him innocently and pulled his hands towards your body until his knuckles touched your panties. 

He stared for a moment—definitely at the wet, darkened patch over your crotch. Armin finally took hold of the hem of your panties, fingers hot against the skin of your pelvis. Unblinking, he pulled them down gently, agonizingly slow. You could feel your slick sticking to your panties and the fabric grazing your almost quivering thighs. In an instant, cool air rushed to you. 

His eyes never left you as he pulled your panties past your knees and ankles, so fixated and eager that he made you nervous. The coil in your stomach returned, tense, like it was moments away from bursting. 

You felt like a virgin all over again. You were embarrassed—even though you knew you shouldn’t be because it was just Armin—and on the brink of clamping your legs together, but you couldn’t because his body was right in between you, even closer than you’d noticed before. 

“God, you’re so…” Armin gulped. He was quiet, muttering to himself, struggling to find his words, and nervously pushing his hair back. It fell back messily onto his forehead. “What do I…what do I do now?” 

Clutching his hand between both of your palms, you shaped his hand into a “thumbs up” sign and brought it to your slit, spreading yourself with one hand. “This is the clit. If you…if you didn’t already know.” 

His thumb grazed over your clit, and a twinge of pleasure shot up your lower body. 

“I know.” 

Armin thumbed your clit some more, swiping circles and pressing down lightly. You could feel yourself get wetter by the second.

“Is this good?” he asked. 

“Mhm. A little faster—oh! Yeah, that’s good.” Your hips bucked as he sped up. “You—you could also use your middle and ring finger.” 

You demonstrated with your hand, and he quickly followed, pressing his fingers onto you again. 

This time, he started off slow and worked his way to match the pace from before. 

“A little lower.” And suddenly you were arching off the bed. “Oh! Wait—”

“Am I doing it right?” he interjected, voice shaky. He was watching for your reaction, blue eyes boring into your face. 

You nodded as the pleasure spread through your lower body. He wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t bad in the slightest. He made you feel good, nonetheless. The pads of his fingers were warm and smooth, rubbing all the right ways against your clit. 

“You wanna move down now?” you asked. 

Wordlessly, his eyes flicked down to your entrance, and the urge to clamp your legs shut returned to you again. You were dripping—you had to be, slick with your wetness pooling around your center. He lingered for a second before his attention diverted back onto your face. 

“Show me how.” He said, adamant. 

“Just know that…” Your fingers ghosted over his knuckles. “You don’t have to necessarily make me cum. This is just to stretch me out. To prep for the real thing.”  

He regarded you with a tiny frown and peered at you hungrily through his long lashes. “What if I want to?” 

Your heart skipped a beat and your stomach simmered with warmth. 

“Well, you can.” You nodded and swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure of what to say. Taking his hand in yours, you isolated his middle and ring fingers and held them close to your entrance. As you did so, something tingled and churned inside your stomach. Nervousness, you thought, apprehension, maybe. Not in a bad way, but in the way that every next step with him left you remembering just how private and raw this was. 

“Just like that,” you whispered. 

With a gulp, his fingers slid into your soaked cunt. You were so wet and tight, and you knew he could feel it. Feel it envelop his finger, warm and so, so slick. You instinctively clamped down on him as he pushed further. 

“Oh, God…Y-Y/N,” he all but stuttered out. “Is—is this what it…”

The desperation showed clearly on his face: lips parted, brows knitted, and eyes drooping with lust.

You grabbed his wrist. “K—Keep going.” 

His fingers reached their hilt inside of you, and you had to resist squeezing down on him. He felt like no other guy you’d been with. Because he really wasn’t any other guy. 

He pulled them out swiftly, fingers and knuckles now tainted with the remnants of you. “What—what else?” he choked out. 

The absence of his fingers left you wanting more. With your grip still on his wrist, you tugged his hand closer to your center. “Curl your fingers like this. When you’re inside.” You choked, too, and cleared your throat. “Just keep moving.”

“Like this?” He entered you again, gently, and pressed against a spot inside you that drove your hips to lurch off the bed. 

You nodded weakly, whining. “More.” Your hand on his wrist urged him out, pulling backward. Confused, he slightly resisted. But when you pushed him back in, he seemed to understand the hint.  

Armin pressed into you, thrusting his fingers in and curling them right at that sweet spot that had you gasping out. He slid in and out so easily, guided by the slickness of your insides, and worked slowly, almost teasingly, but you squeezed his arm, encouraging him.

“Right there,” you gasped out. “You’re doing so good.” 

He groaned in response, a borderline moan. “H—Here?” And curled right into your G-spot. 

You let out an abrupt gasp, akin to a stuttered breath, hips bucking upwards as pleasure seeped into your insides. His pace was reckless, but the calculated way the pads of his fingers pushed and grazed against your G-spot had your stomach twisting and your heart racing. 

Beside you, you noticed his other hand fisting the bedsheets. Reaching out, you put a hand on top of his. “You okay?” you asked breathily.

Armin glanced up at you, eyes blown out, pupils dilated in such a starved, animalistic way that looked so out of character. He surprised you by lacing his fingers between yours. 

“Can I kiss you? Please?” 

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t get to register your shock before you were crying loud with a particularly hard thrust. “Please. Please.” You didn’t know why he was even asking. 

Armin’s lips crashed onto yours, capturing you in the most heated kiss of the night. Immediately, he dominated the kiss, all spit and tongue, lips hot and molding together with a firm press. His fingers kept fucking into you relentlessly, filling the room with lewd, wet sounds. 

His other hand held yours still, squeezing once before letting go and landing on your waist. 

“Just wanna feel you,” he mumbled. 

Nodding, you strung your hands through his hair as he caressed your waist and tits. His palms grazed over your nipples, making you shudder and bite back a moan. 

The coil inside your stomach winded tight and kept winding tighter and tighter when his fingers hit that spot again. The pleasure swirled through you, wave after wave, your hips lurching off the bed and your hands gripping his hair even tighter. 

You moaned into his mouth. “So close.” 

He groaned, drawn-out, lips wet with saliva, swallowing the noises that came out of your mouth. 

“You’re doing so good,” you praised. 

Armin whimpered at that—whimpered—and picked up the pace, faster, harder. It was sloppy, but it wasn’t imprecise. He flicked up into you so perfectly until you were stretched out and dripping, and until it finally snapped. 

The coil snapped. 

“Armin, I’m—I’m cumming! Don’t stop!”

“Hol—Holy shit, Y/N—”

The coil snapped, and sweet euphoria coursed through you, rushing through you like open floodgates. You gushed onto him in the same way, cunt fluttering against the thickness of his fingers. The feeling hit you like a truck and filled you whole. 

“Can’t believe this is happening,” he mumbled under his breath in a desperate whine. 

You pulled him into a desperate kiss—or was it that he pushed the kiss onto you?—and he dipped down to embrace you. The twitching weight of his clothed cock brushed against your thigh. It wasn’t intentional—at least you didn’t think, but it only reminded you of what was to come next. 

As he slowed down, you felt your cum leaking down his knuckles and onto the bedsheets. 

“Was that…good?” Armin timidly asked between heavy breaths. Above you, he panted like a dog, even more than you, pretty pink lips parted as if he was the one being fucked. So cute. 

You stayed quiet for a moment, relishing in your subsiding orgasm, fatigued and cozy. 

“Mhm. That was amazing. You did amazing for your first time.” 

He visibly relaxed, slumped back onto his heels, and sighed. “Really? Th—Thank you.” 

Even from above you, he looked submissive, face filled with a desperate need. You giggled at his shyness. The irony of it. “Yes, Armin, you…you just made me cum. That’s…”

Uncertainty weighed down on your tongue. Impressive? Was it really impressive, or should it have been expected from him? A part of you knew that he didn’t need any effort. Not because he was somehow a natural or that he was a fast learner, but that it was him, and that gives your body enough stimulation to push itself off the edge. 

Hazy and blinded by your orgasm and the strong presence between your legs, you stopped yourself from dwelling on it any further.

“Y/N, what do I do with this…?” He lifted his hand, still slicked with your fluids. His middle and ring fingers parted further, and your shiny, milky cum stretched between his fingers. The sight almost made you gape, such a contrast to the curiosity and genuine concern brimming in his eyes. 

“Taste it.”

He sent you a look so incredulous and so quick, those blue eyes widened to the depths as if your suggestion meant total absurdity. “Taste it?”

“Taste it. It’s hot when men do that. Or, you could also make the girl taste it,” you pushed, rising from your spot. You grabbed his wrist, leading it closer to his mouth. 

He hesitated and tensed, but when his eyes met yours, you only leaned in, urging him with a look in your eyes. He complied quietly and stuck out his tongue. 

The sight was lewd. His face reddened impossibly more, up to the tips of his ears, as his mouth engulfed his two fingers wholly. He crinkled his nose so subtly that you couldn’t tell what ran through his mind. He tasted your fluids on his tongue, sucked it for a second, then swallowed. 

Armin’s fingers slid out with a little pop, and you didn’t waste another moment to cup his face and pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself when you pressed your tongue against his. He moaned at the sudden intrusion but melted into you easily. You could already feel his improvement as he reciprocated your energy and licked your mouth so nicely that the naturalness of it baffled you. 

A passing thought in your head told you that this might’ve been too much for his first time, but when he dragged his clothed dick against your clit, you knew he enjoyed this as much as you did. You both shivered a little from the contact, prompting him to pull away.

“So…” he started, voice tiny and breathless. “What’s next?” But the way his eyes darted to your bare, leaking pussy and then to the bulge in his boxers suggested he knew exactly what came next. 

You looked, too. Looked at the tight fit of his boxers on his bulging cock. Something about it—the unexpected size of him—made you giddy. Swelled your stomach with an indescribable weirdness. 

“Take your boxers off.” Though you asked him, you couldn’t stop yourself from sneaking your hands to his hips and taking hold of the waistband. “Can I?” 

He nodded hurriedly and gulped, tension and desperation etched on his face. 

You pulled his boxers down, and with a little lift from his hips, you got them down to his strong thighs. Immediately, his cock sprung up against his abdomen, leaking precum that beaded down his red, aching tip. You licked your lips and gulped involuntarily at the sight because he was just so…

“Big…” you whispered softly. 

“What?” He sounded out of it, like his question hadn’t carried any weight, rubbing a palm over his eyelids and pushing it into his hair. Like he couldn’t believe his eyes. An unspoken awkwardness filled the air as Armin removed his boxers completely. “Is—Is something wrong?” 

He sat in front of you, naked in his entirety. Broad, smooth chest, taut, defined abs, muscly arms, thick thighs, and the softest, sweetest face that did not match the rock-hard, needy cock between his legs. 

“Armin, I…I didn’t know you were so…big.” 

He sputtered out, “W—What? I’m—I’m really not.”

He looked so nervous, so unsure. So sweet and so submissive. Instead of answering him, you wrapped both hands around his dick, lightly squeezed, and swiped a thumb over the slit where his precum spilled. You spread it down his shaft, wetting him with his own fluids. 

“Agh…fuck…” he groaned, throwing his head back and squeezing his eyes shut. When you started jerking your hands up and down the length of his dick, his head moved forward and his hands came to cup your face. His hips bucked up with every jerk. You sensed his stare, but you were too occupied playing with his pretty dick.

“You’re so beautiful,” he complimented quietly. He gulped so hard you heard the small breath that followed after. “I wish you could see how you look right now.” 

“Yeah?” you teased, looking up at him between your long lashes. His eyes, lidded and drooping with lust, scanned your body, from your face to where your legs parted and revealed your slit. 

“I don’t think you understand how pretty you are to me.” He inhaled sharply and brought a hand to squeeze the area where his shaft met his head, right over where your hand rested. “I could just cum looking at you.” 

You didn’t expect that from him. He was just so obscenely honest, wasn’t he?

“Y/N.” He suddenly stopped you with a hand on your shoulder. “I think—I think that’s good…don’t wanna take the spotlight. I’m here to please you.” 

Your chest warmed at his words, and you fought down the urge to continue pleasing him to release your hands. 

“O—Okay,” you stuttered out, gulping and shivering all in one breath. Your body moved on its own and reached for your nightstand. Deep in the last drawer, stashed behind all of your cluttered knick-knacks, sat an unopened box of condoms. Three, actually.

Shakily, under his watchful gaze, you tore apart a box and unveiled a singular, foiled package. 

"Oh, you have a lot." He stared in mild disbelief, bringing a hand up to cover his mouth, eyes crinkling. If you knew any better, you'd think he was smirking under there.

“It's not what it looks like! Sasha gifted it to me as a gag gift. I haven't done anything in a while,” you quickly defended, trailing off quietly at the end. 

He didn’t respond, eyes fixed on the package between your fingers. The air held still, deathly silent beside the sounds of the crinkling wrapper. He had a hand wrapped around the base of his cock, very lightly squeezing. 

“You know how to put on a condom?” you finally spoke up. 

“I think so.” He nodded. 

“Want to do it?” 

He hesitated, and you caught the exact moment an idea clicked in his head. “No. Want you to do it.” 

Something about that riled you up. Something about him watching you. Something about your dainty hands near his aching, needy cock, too impure for the likes of him. 

He whimpered when you started sliding the condom down the length of his cock. The sweet sound of it rang through your ears. Made your heart lurch and your stomach heavy. When you finished, your head lifted to look him in the eyes. His cheeks were flushed so pink you wanted to kiss the color off of them. 

“Ready?” You ignored the way your voice shook, borderline a stutter, and circled your arms around his neck. 

“Yes. Please,” he whined. He was speaking with his eyes—begging with his eyes.

In one fell swoop, you both clambered down onto the sheets. And in this moment, when your eyes met his in a sweet remembrance, it felt like time had stopped, and all the anticipation you’d ever felt plummeted back into the pit of your stomach and built back up all over again. 

He loomed above you, flushed, domineering, and most importantly, nervous.

You only wanted one thing. 

"Please. Need you inside me."

He inhaled a deep, unsteady breath, holding back a whine. 

Then, you felt the tip of his dick brush against the slicked mess of your opening, and you clenched around the empty, ghostly graze. The hands on your thighs pressed into you with a little more pressure at the contact. He was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

“P—Put it in slowly, ‘kay? Don’t want to hurt the other person.” 

Armin listened, and in that final moment of anticipation, he slid in slowly, just the tip. You both gasped at the feeling. You were so, so wet and your heart beat so, so fast and his skin against your skin felt so, so right and so, so warm. The stretch had yet to creep up on you but you were already squirming under his touch. 

He pushed into you, the feeling of him inside warm and fulfilling. He let out a strained “shitttt” as his hands moved to dig into your waist even harder. Eyes squeezed shut, he seemed to lose himself in the pleasure. You could tell by his labored breaths and flushed cheeks that he already was so, so sensitive.

With a final push, he bottomed out, touching a spot deep in you, far deeper than your fingers or his fingers or any other man that had come before him. And God, were you wet. Instinctively, your pussy clenched around him. 

He hissed, pinning you down with his pelvis. “Don’t. Don’t do anything. Please, or I’m going to cum.” 

And then it hit you—that you’d finally done it. That you’d just taken Armin’s virginity. 

You had. 

Shit, you clamped down on him again, and this time, he groaned and abruptly pulled out. 

“Y/N,” he warned, voice drawn with honey. “I am not going to last,” he said, exasperated. 

“It’s okay. It’s your first time.” You placed a hand on his cheek. “Besides, you’re with me. You don’t have to worry about it.” 

He leaned into your touch, nuzzling into your hands, then gave you a small frown. 

“Then how am I supposed to make you feel good?”

“Trust me. You’ll always make me feel good.”

With a cute—yet sinful—smile and a hard swallow, he lined himself up again, hands on your thighs, and gave an experimental thrust.

You whined at the intrusion, reminded again of how he fit so perfectly. How the hardness of his cock dragged so pleasantly against the slickness of your pussy. 

And he did it again and again. Thrusted into you, albeit slowly, again and again. You’d let him intoxicate you again and again until all your body knew was the shape of his cock.

He moved deliberately, relishing every inch sheathed inside of you. He’d pull out with all the time in the world, dick coated in your wetness and eyes locked on where your bodies intertwined, and thrust back in with the most fervor and impatience.

The slowness of it, the intimacy of it—you couldn’t help but buck your hips in hopes of more. 

With soft moans, his thrusts sped up, and without a warning, you felt him fully, the whole weight of him spilling inside of you. His hands slid up to your waist as his head tipped forward. You arched your back into him in a silent plea, finding yourself yearning for his pretty lips, the knot inside of your stomach swelling with pleasure. As if he could read your mind, he drowned your lips in a feverish, hot, kiss, burning your mouth with his tongue. 

Every thrust met with the slap of skin-on-skin and the squelch of your fluids. It echoed through your bedroom walls alongside your muffled, whiny moans. You let yourself sink into the pleasure, letting him know that you felt good—that he made you feel good. 

Because truly, he did nothing wrong; it all felt so right with him. 

As he broke away from the kiss, leaving yet another string of saliva between you two, you took the chance to grab his hand. 

“Play with my body. Like here.” You placed his palm onto your breast, squeezing it with his hand underneath yours. “Or here.” You sensually dragged his hand down to your slicked-up, aching clit. 

Wordlessly, he complied, gulping down a constricted moan that bobbed his Adam’s apple. Armin rubbed your clit like you’d taught him, watching your hips wriggle under his touch.  

As a reward, you tightened around him. Oh, did you like seeing him lose composure. You liked picking him apart. You liked plucking the petals off of this innocent, little flower. And judging from his dazed, barely present expression and the hands gripping hard onto your hips, you knew he liked it too.

He whined again, and the sound rang in the air in a soft whisper. So vocal, wasn’t he?

“Don’t be afraid to make noise. I wanna know how good you feel,” you asserted through lidded eyes. 

Armin hummed a noise of confirmation, but it came out more of a moan as he juggled responding to you and recklessly pounding into you. You could tell he felt good—too good—as did you. 

The ebb and flow of pleasure swam inside you with each fill of his cock into your pussy, waiting to burst. You felt so close yet far away, but you let him experiment, toying with you, trying every angle in both erratic and deliberate ways. 

“Fuck!” you both cursed simultaneously with a perfect thrust into that spot inside of you. Your back arched off the bed unwillingly, arms clasping around his back and nails digging into his skin. 

Armin moaned oh-so-sweetly. “I’m so close!” he panted out, a borderline whine. 

“Cum for me. Please, Armin. Do it.” 

And his hips never stopped. Kept fucking hastily and sloppily into you in chase of his climax and in chase of the sweet yelps pouring out of your mouth. You spurred him on, almost able to taste his final moment. 

But the moment never came. You could hear the relentless, wet smack of your colliding bodies and the mix of low groans and hearty moans tumbling from his lips. His hips still never stopped, still chasing, still tasting. 

You couldn’t believe he lasted this long. He really did want to hold out for you, to make you feel good. 

Mewling again, you tightened your arms around his neck, the warmth scalding but the softness soothing under your fingertips. “Touch me. Please.” 

His fingers pinched your perk nipple before you could even finish your sentence. He rolled the bud around with his thumb and forefinger until he heard you moan, finally laying a palm down to squeeze your entire tit—and squeezed hard. You relished in the way his hand trailed down, slowly, to where he could swipe his fingers over your throbbing clit. 

Right now, all you knew was the shape of his cock. Heat radiated from his body and wrapped around you in a warm embrace. His breath tickled your earlobe, face hovering just above the crook of your neck. 

Oh, please, it felt so good, so intimate. Everything about this. Everything about him. 

"I love you. I love you so much,” he rasped through squeezed-shut eyes.

You looked at him wide-eyed, confused, and spellbound within the haze of lust, so out of that you believed your ears played a trick on you. It slipped out of his lips so wantonly you believed he uttered the words accidentally.

Your room suddenly felt too stuffy and a hundred more degrees hotter. A lone, oddly watchful bead of sweat rolled down your brow. 

It took him only a second of your silence before he started nervously blabbering in your ear. "Um, wait, sorry. Shit. I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I got lost in the moment. I’m sorry.” 

He slowly inched away from you, but you paid no mind and pulled him back onto your lips. 

You didn’t care that, caught so deep in emotion and pleasure, he said “I love you” during sex—during his first time, no less. His first time with you. And now, after it happened, you didn’t care to warn him of that taboo. You wanted to selfishly indulge in the possibility that he’d always say it to you, regardless of who he shared his first time with. 

In your pleasurable bliss, you let yourself give in. “I love you too, Armin.”

He pulled away abruptly, your lips pulling apart with a wet click, disrupting the strange magnetism between the two of you. 

"I'm sorry,” he whispered, then kissed you full force. 

His love seeped into every pore of your body when he started thrusting into you again, full and hard and deep and starved. He didn’t spare you a chance to breathe with the way his mouth and cock engulfed you whole. 

A mixture of whines, moans, and smacks filled your bedroom once more. The pounding rhythm between your legs grew sloppier, though still unyielding and energetic. You wanted to cry out, louder than ever and let your neighbors know because everything felt so unexpectedly good. Armin. Your best friend. 

You ran your hands through his already-messed-up, blonde hair. You loved this look on him, a side of him that people never saw. Disheveled, falling apart, and...crazy.

He leaned back on his knees, still moving his hips, lust-filled eyes a dark, stormy blue that raked over your body. 

And he did something you didn't expect of him—like he let it slip, like he couldn't keep his composure anymore. 

He smirked down at you. 

But you were convinced it was a mere twitch in your delirium, disappearing when you blinked. 

His tip brushed your G-spot again, and you finally did cry out. “Right there! D—Don’t stop!” 

Armin groaned in response, choking on his words, and suddenly laved a tongue over the pulse point in your neck. “You feel—you feel so good! I can’t hold…!”

That coil in your stomach thrashed with the need to burst and taunted you with the promise of an orgasm. You felt tight all over, so constricted with pleasure and emotion and heat. 

“Y/N, you’re driving me crazy, I’m cumming, I’m cumming, I’m—”

“M—Me, too! I’m close. Cum for me, please.”  

With one last thrust, he came, moaning loud, spilling hot cum into the condom. You felt him twitch inside you as a gradual warmth filled your insides. 

Fuck, that did it for you. You came right behind him, wrapping your legs around him tight like a vice, white-hot pleasure consuming every vein in your body. In that moment, you kissed him and clamped your eyes shut, focusing hard, your cunt squeezing down on him to wring out the last of his orgasm, fluttering and pulsing so uncontrollably hard. It was like your pussy never wanted to let him go, wanted to relish the last of that feeling of home when his cock rooted deep into your pussy. 

All the while, he spewed praises at you, some dirty, some sweet.

You couldn’t tell how long the two of you took to come down, to stop kissing, for your cunt to stop gushing, and for him to pull out—because it seemed like that moment lasted forever. Your cum coated your pelvis, his pelvis, your thighs, his thighs, and the already-soaked bedsheets.

With bated breaths and shaky hands, he pulled off the condom, tied the latex up, wrapped it in a tissue from your bedside, and threw it onto the floor where it landed among your sparsely scattered clothes. 

Armin slumped down on you, wrapping strong arms around your waist in a suffocating, hot embrace. You gladly welcomed his weight. 

It smelled of sex, sweat, and the dwindling remnants of his cologne.

You laid there, catching your breath. 

You did it. He did it. You finished taking his virginity, and he successfully made you cum during the process. 

And everything left you wondering…

Why was that…good? Sex with a virgin. Sex with your best friend. Did you even teach him enough? Because that was definitely a learning experience for you. The post-orgasm clarity hit you now like a slipper to the face, and you couldn’t wrap your head around what just happened. 

Sleepily, you broke the silence, “Good job, Armin. You did amazing. You’re attentive, a fast learner, and just already so good to me. You made me cum twice. For a virgin.” A hearty laugh parted from your throat as you strung your fingers through his mussed hair. “I guess you aren’t one anymore.”

Armin remained silent. Was he already asleep?

In the quiet darkness, your heart started beating fast, even after the sex. Laying here felt domestic, like somebody made this bed for the two of you to snuggle in tonight, like a real couple. 

Armin, face wedged between your sheets and your shoulder, hugged you impossibly tighter when he shifted to look at you. 

“Thank you. I love you, Y/N.”

He breathed those three words with so much adoration in his eyes, gazing at you longingly beneath his thick, long lashes. The blue of his eyes shone brightly even in the dim lighting and through the hair obscuring his face. 

“I really do love you,” he continued. “Not because of the sex. But because you’re a good friend. Thank you for letting me be vulnerable.”

Oh my gosh. You really didn’t deserve him. You’d exchanged your fair share of sentimental, platonic “I love you’s” to each other, but this one wrenched your heart like no other. Especially after sex. 

He left you at a loss for words. But sleep tugged at your eyelids and your mind screamed at you to clean up and your post-nut clarity still remained unresolved; you couldn’t think of a reply even if you wanted to. 

Even overwhelmed, your heart called out to him and you mustered up something. 

“I’m grateful to have you as a best friend. I love you,” you gritted out. 

Wrong. So, so wrong. Right now, this conversation was getting too emotional for a strictly physical agreement. But you didn’t lie nevertheless, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise. 

Feeling grimy, you wriggle under his hold. “We should clean up. It’s good for women to pee after sex.”

As the final rip of the bandaid, he pecked you on your jaw. “I can’t.” 

Your face twisted in confusion, still clouded by tiredness and the daze of lingering thoughts. “You can’t?”

“I can’t help it,” he suddenly mumbled. 

“Armin, what are you—”

You didn’t get to finish your sentence when you felt something poking your thigh, stiff and hard. 

Armin groaned deep in his chest, the sound rumbling against the shell of your ear as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

The hands that were once wrapped around your body slowly released their hold and grabbed onto your hips, hard and impatient. Armin started rutting into your thighs, dragging you along with him. 

Your heart stuttered for a moment, in disbelief that he could keep going and that you would have to keep going, but your pussy clenched around nothing at the promise of something more.

“Can’t help it. I’m—I’m hard again.” 

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singlemom!reader x neighbor!sukuna. you miss having a baby and Sukuna is dying from a combination of your sexual tension, his lowkey(highkey) baby fever and the drudgery of attending a child's birthday party

cw: Sukuna's breeding kink, red flags are present and accounted for, no one gets laid tho so sad face. this actually ended up being way more sincere and heartfelt than I intended but honestly very typical of me

"Oh we're not together, Sukuna's just been letting me and Bug crash while we look for an apartment."

"Oh he's not my boyfriend, we're just friends!"

"He's actually not Bug's dad. No, no. But, they get along really well. She enjoys having someone else to hang out with aside from me, I think."

Your laughter after the last one plays on repeat as he goes to grab the two of you some refreshments. Sukuna feels like he's living the world's worst version of groundhog day, except instead of being some sad loser who relives the same day over and over, he's apparently a sad loser who is going to live the same conversation over and over again.

"Fuck this shit."

"Um, excuse me but could you watch your language. This is a kid's birthday party." Sukuna wants to ask the bitch who is correcting a grown man's language if he would mind watching his own fucking business but you seem to care about what these losers think and he won't make life difficult for you.

If he happens to step on the guy's foot as he leaves with two cups and a juice box caught in his elbow, well, his steel toed boots need the exercise.

Sukuna knew that if any of his acquaintances, he didn't have friends after all, could see him now, they would die laughing. Die ,because he would kill them for laughing, but fuck he couldn't even really blame them, even in his hypothetical.

Once upon a time, Sukuna was a feared criminal. People pissed themselves when he cornered them in a dark alley. Other bad guys would look at him and say, "wow that guy's a real piece of shit" and now look at him. Stuck at some three year old's birthday party. One more kidzpop butchering of an already shitty song away from committing another felony.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he knew he was at least getting some pussy out of it, but he had just spent the past two hours hearing you deny him to anyone who asked and it was really starting to get to him.

He knew he was being a little bitch about it, and he wasn't upset just because you weren't fucking him. He was upset that all the things you were telling people, they were technically true. He was just letting you and your daughter crash. He was just your friend, not your boyfriend. Even the comments about him not being Bug's dad, but him being positioned as some kind of really invested babysitter, those might have stung more than the ones about your relationship but you thought that was true too.

Thinking about the kid made him look for her, not that Sukuna ever wasn't aware of where you and your daughter were. It had become instinct before he was even aware of it.

Bug was laughing with some kids he recognized from daycare and others from their regular trips to the park. Her happiness was contagious and Sukuna found his lips twitching up at the ends despite his shitty mood.

Your daughter's eyes found him from across the playground. "kuna!" she called, waving her little hand at him. He waved back with his available hand and made his way towards her. She met him halfway, her little legs unsteady on the wood chips but she didn't seem to notice. She was always like that when she saw him, she ran fearlessly. Maybe she just trusted he'd catch her.

Was it so wrong of him that he didn't like the reminders she wasn't his. That it stung, not just because of his feelings but because it just couldn't be true. He might not have fathered her, but fuck anyone who said this little girl wasn't his.

"I got you a juice, you've been running around so much you gotta be thirsty."

"Not thirsty," Bug argued leaning into him. He held up his hands that were holding the grown up drinks for the two of you, and moved the package still lodged in the crease of his elbow towards the petulant toddler. "Take it, or I'll drink it."

Bug stuck her tongue out at him and grabbed it. She struggled to get the wrapping off the straw and Sukuna didn't even notice what he was doing until she had the straw stretched out towards him and he was pulling the wrapper off with his teeth. He spit it out on the ground as your daughter gave him a polite thank-you and then walked away, sipping her juice as she went to catch up with her friends.

What had become of him?

"Need a hand?" You smile at him and Sukuna hands over your cup before taking a sip of his own. There was unfortunately no alcohol in it but drinking it occupied his mouth before he acted like a pussy and asked you, "what are we?" or "should we get married?" or something equally as pathetic.

"God, I want a baby."

Sukuna almost spit out his drink but he manages to tone it down to just a little cough before turning to look at you. You don't even seem a little embarrassed which is just infuriating. Sukuna's about to make a suggestion on how he can help with that when you sigh and point to where some loser is holding their ugly baby.

"Aren't babies just the cutest, I miss when Bug was that age."

Oh, so this was just you looking at other people's red-faced brats and feeling nostalgic and was not in fact a call to action. Sukuna rolled his eyes and leaned back on the hand closest to you so he didn't touch you as he was so tempted to do these days.

"That baby, like all babies, is hideous. All they do is cry, shit themselves and vomit and I'm not even sure Bug is the exception to that and she's the best kid there is."

You look touched at his affection for your daughter but also fired up on behalf of babies everywhere.

"You can't just say a baby is hideous, Sukuna. Those are the Zenin's. Bug is friends with some of them."

"Well are the older ones cuter, because that baby looks like someone fucked one of those hairless cats."

"Sukuna!" you hiss but he sees you smile, despite yourself. "Okay, maybe that baby isn't like the cutest baby-"

"Hideous."

You continue after smacking his arm. "But Bug was cute, okay. And I'm not just saying that because I'm her mom." You take out your phone and quickly swipe until you get to what you're looking for. "See, cute baby."

Sukuna grabs your phone and looks. It's not the first picture he's seen of a young Bug and he's taken his share of photos of her himself, but he finds himself taken in by it anyway.

It has to be a picture from when Bug was really young, she still had the scrunched up, red face that he associates with newborns. But he thinks you're right, she's still cute. He doesn't know if it's because he knows that baby will grow up to be your daughter, but he finds his thumb caressing her little baby cheeks, the wisps of hair he can see peaking out from where she's wrapped in a baby blanket. It's then he sees she's not alone in the picture and there's a different version of you holding her.

The thing that stands out to him is how tired you look. He thinks this couldn't have been too long after you gave birth but still, he wondered if you'd gotten any rest those first few months. You still didn't like talking about your ex, or the circumstances that had led you to his apartment, but Sukuna knew that chances are you were taking care of Bug single handedly and that couldn't have been easy, cutest kid or not.

"She was beautiful, she still is." He reluctantly hands the phone back to you and you look at the picture again, tears building up in your eyes.

"She is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I-I wish that the circumstances were different in how I got her. Sometimes, I wonder how I'll explain everything to her when she's older. She just deserves so much better than him, you know?"

"You both do." Sukuna reaches over and brushes away one of the tears that had managed to fall down your cheek. He leaves his hand there a moment, holding your cheek in his palm, just appreciating the warmth.

"Do you want any?"

"What?" Sukuna isn't sure what you're talking about anymore. He can only see your lips right in front of him, the way that your eyelashes brush against your cheek as you blink faster and faster.

"Babies, do you want any?"

Something short circuits in Sukuna's brain and he wants to say, fuck yes.

He wants to tell you that he thinks about it every day. Every time you put Bug on your hip or send him youtube videos of hairstyles you want to try on her. Whenever it's late at night, and little feet pad out of your room and Bug asks him in the loudest whisper he's ever heard, if he can get her some water because she's so thirsty.

He thinks about it when the sun streams through the curtains of his apartment in the morning and it lights up your hair as you move throughout the kitchen, a force of nature, a creature from somewhere far too good to have ended up here with him.

He thinks about it when the three of you go out and people just assume you're a family, because of course you're a family. When you and Bug play some made up game, or Bug gets tired even though she denies it and he carries her sleeping form against his chest. When he holds her in his lap on the subway and you lean to rest your head on his shoulder and he feels like this, this is what he's always wanted.

He's not all pure and good though, because he thinks about it late at night in his bedroom too. After a day of your smiles, of seeing your thighs stretch out of those sleep shorts you started wearing when the weather warmed up, whenever he remembers the feel and smell of your panties when he's lucky enough to find a pair in the laundry basket, he thinks about how the two of you would make some really cute fucking babies.

He's imagined it a million ways. He's imagined you telling him you've gone off your birth control and you need him now after he takes you out on an anniversary dinner. Or him crowding you up against the kitchen counter and you begging him to put a baby in you.

His favorite fantasy is currently one where you get so carried away when you finally finally fuck that you don't ask him to wear a condom and he spends the whole night making sure you're nice and good and full of him and when you tell him a few weeks later you missed your period, he'll let you freak out. But then he'll tell you that he'll take good care of you, and Bug, and your soon to be little one and he'll finally have you, all of you and once you have your second, he'll knock you up again, as many times as he can because there could never be too many mini-you's running around.

At this point, Sukuna remembers he's talking to you, the real you and he swallows a few times before he speaks.

"I do," he says simply but something must show on his face because you're looking at him in a way you never have before. He hears your breath hitch and he leans in to kiss you, and you smell so good and his thoughts are consumed by the little family he just knows you're going to have when suddenly he's pelted by a variety of sharp, little objects.

Sukuna immediately holds up his arm to shield you from what he now sees is a barrage of wood chips which are being thrown at you by an army of toddlers, including your daughter.

You immediately get up and start talking to the kids about the danger of throwing what are basically large future splinters at people's faces and Sukuna is contemplating the murder of every child that isn't his own when you turn to look at him.

You're not just looking at him, you're seeing him and oh. Maybe he would be getting laid tonight, after all.

The slow burn is almost done folks.

thank you to the amazing reception to this series and the one-shot I posted(which there will be a prequel of soon!). it's literally so insane. Masterlist will be up tomorrow which I hope helps with accessibility!

edit: masterlist is up!

꒰ྀི 𝒪𝒞𝐻𝒪 𝑅𝐼𝒪𝒮 ꒱ྀི

꒰ 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 . . . ꒱ 12.9kay words , black fem reader coded , strangers to friends to loverz , tutor armin :3 , some miscommunication , pining , slight flirting , sex on a yacht , oral sex [ r. + a. receiving ] , fingering , cum swallowing , dumbification , reader has a phat creamy pussie :3 , soft dom + service dom armin .

𝜗ϱ 𝓁𝓊𝓋 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 𝒻𝓇𝓂 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝓀 . . . had noooo idea dis wuz gna b dis long . . ૮꒰ ྀི . . ꒱ა . uhm . fic title inspired by dis song c: Minors + Ageless Blogs Do Not Touch ! ! ! ! !

life has a funny way of pissing you off, you think.

of pissing you the fuck off, actually.

if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. in spite of you ultimately  managing to find a balance between your social, academic, and family roles, after having attended winsome university for almost three years mind you; the beginning of your junior year, and first statistics lecture, all it really takes is ten seconds, ten for you to realize that all the work you have spent fighting to find an equilibrium between those three mantles is now swirled down the drain.

because within those initial, mere ten seconds, your professor introduces herself, guides you all to click on the link of a syllabus decreed almost mockingly near the top of your incoming emails, and what you see on the first page of the, admittedly sublimely, organized opening page is, ‘ exams — 75% of your grade. ‘

“i’m so screwed.”

your professor’s name is ida sullivan. her ratemyprofessor’s rating sits at a decent 3.5 / 5, 62% of the general population of students would take her course again, and her level of difficulty is a solid 4.0.

from this, you declare your own score by comparing yourself to the rest of winsome university’s students — a 3.5, round that up to a 3.8 . . and the difficulty level, a hard 4.4. while you were clearly intelligent enough to be accepted into the university ( acceptance rate is a cruel 8%, categorizing it as one of the most competitive ivy leagues in the country ), you are painfully aware that when compared to majority of your peers, you sit at a very low rank. what are subjects that took you half a lesson to grasp in high school, now takes you nearly three in college. disparate to others, you have to fit in an extra day to study before a quiz or exam, all in efforts to get a grade just near theirs.

it’s discouraging.

walking the campus’ quad, through the hallways, bypassing buildings that a multitude of your friends’ mothers, fathers, and grandparents threw thousands of dollars into every year — each day you open your eyes, you’re hit with a sense of . . dread. no true sense of belonging.

“what’s wrong?”

a month later, after having been struggling with statistical concepts for twenty two long, extremely winded days, it’s a friday.

disregarding your school being named a ‘ bottomless pit of big brained knowitalls ‘ within a world-known news outlet article, your football team wasn’t half bad. mikasa enjoys going and dragging you along because ymir’s there, you let her to escape the four, ghoulish gray walls of your dorm who seem to be trying to speak to you after spending six hours at a desk going over the same fifteen note cards.

after the game, the rest of your group of friends find you — eren, pieck, reiner, ymir, and historia — and sometimes, usually after a win, you all pile up into reiner’s pick up and head to his.

a high rise condominium that over looks the bustling life of the city, completed with high windows showcasing a panoramic, three sixty view of it all. you love reiner’s apartment because, while clearly a token of affluence and grandeur, it’s also lived in. there are frames of family photos hung along the walls in the foyer, pictures of scruffy art drawn in vivid crayolas and pastels made by his baby brother pinned to the fridge, a guest room dedicated just to him when he visits. it’s precious.

“ ‘m gonna fail my stats course,” you whimper into the palm of your hands when you’re all seated upon the balcony, reposed along the propane firepit. “ ‘ve aced the syllabus and first two lesson quizzes but there’s an exam coming up in a week and i’m,” you recognize it — the choke, that mass of your throat closing as it tries to somehow work in more oxygen come the influx of tears. “m-my gpa’s gonna drop — i don’t wanna go on academic p—“

“—chill, hey.”

“no, don’t cry.”

as annoying as they can be, all of your friends are ultimately good people. there’s a soothing rubbing on your back, a comforting hand on your shoulder, hair ruffle from no doubt reiner, and a big squeeze of a hug from eren. “stats?” historia’s questioning with a darling head tilt. “hmm . . — have you tried—“

“—‘ve tried everything.”

you’re falling back against the cushioned bench where you sit, crossing your legs atop of one another and dabbing the few pearls of tears that’ve glided themselves across your cheeks with the small pads of your fingers. “different note taking, studying methods, ‘m like . . burnt out.”

reiner takes a thick quaff of the beer he holds within one rough paw, eyes glancing up towards the glittering pellets of stars for a moment — as if they held an answer prior to lifting a shoulder, letting it drop, then retorting, “get a tutor.”

voices are overlapping before your response.

“oh, shit. yeah,” eren’s smiling — that boyishly handsome smile that achieves in placing all of his aligned, white teeth on display. “yeah. i had to get one when i took quantum physics.”

a tutor.

you have never needed a tutor. you don’t think you want a tutor. in a way, you suppose that it all kind of, cements it all — that you need help. that you aren’t as smart as you’d thought.

you want to simply mold yourself inside of the linen — ingrain your body within the weaving and take your stupid brain with you. “. . a tutor?”

slipping a cig from the inside of his pocket, eren places it between his lips in advance to leaning his face dangerously close to the fluttering flames of orange and gold and lighting it. mumbling around the stick, “yeah. i know a few people who do it for letters of recommendations from professors,” he inhales, holds it, and through a strained breath, concludes, “others, just because.”

“who’s the best?” you inquire. might as well. “like, in stats.”

“. . uh,” eyebrows furrow, green eyes lift. “. . connie?”

“no,” ymir rolls hers. “connie’s good for like, english lit and shit. he’s very articulate. go with armin — he’s a fucking genius in everything. especially math.”

armin.

the name sparks something — enters your ears, squeezes past your brain, and knocks along the walls of it. “armin uhm,” you nibble on your bottom lip, mind churning to remember a surname. “a-arlert? he’s blond?”

with the confirmation, you’re suddenly reminded of a familiar blond that sits within your lectures, always in the front row, far to the left.

“please be reminded that you do not only have me to come to for any questions, but also my ta, armin here,” first day of class, professor sullivan had gave a small chin raise his way. “he will not steer you wrong — top student currently here at the university, please take advantage.”

mikasa seems to perk up come the mention of a clearly familiar name, “oh god, yeah. armin’s so nice. yeah, ask him.”

you’d thought with their encouragements that you’d be able to actualize tough enough skin to walk up to the guy, ask for some help, and get it over with — nonetheless, at the end of the day, you’re just a girl with an insane amount of pride. you don’t need tutoring. you’ll be okay.

commence your exam grade being returned back to you — 68 / 100.

it’s a tuesday when you finally generate the guts. thankfully, you aren’t the only one who has questions for armin. there are two students ahead of you — a guy you recognize by the name of hayden, campus’ running back on the football team, and a girl, grace. hayden asks him a simple question, something about what’s going to be the main topic on the next exam and if it’ll be as long as the previous. come him stepping away, you see the shift in grace ahead of you.

she comes to a stop in front of his desk, and after placing her exam down upon it, inclines toward him with a small lean to gently question, “on question eight — uhm, i guess i’m just . . a little confused. can you tell me where i went wrong at?”

you come to realize that armin’s voice is gentle. there’s the occasional sound of a deep tenor when he says ‘did’ and ‘some,’ words with short vowels, however, he’s mostly quiet. you can’t really hear, nor see him, only grace. she gives an occasional nod, a quiet, long, drawn out ‘ ohhh ‘ and eventually, a small giggle when the conversation is apparently over. “okay, great. thanks. i’ll see you on thursday then.”

“same here.”

upon her exiting, and you replacing her spot at his desk, seemingly, about a feet on either side of him — there’s the scent of citron and ambertonic. you wouldn’t say there’s a cloud of it surrounding him, because in a case like that, you doubt you’d be able to breathe, nonetheless, it’s definitely there. it teeters a line of an aromatic wood; reminds you of those gossamery salt tinged breezes you feel at the beach, and you suppose, come being in his line of sight for the first time, that armin’s cologne . . suits him.

he’s . . handsome. he’s attractive. he’s . . . pretty — in a kind of . . all american, golden boy way.

tawny blond hair sits atop of his head in tufts, falling near midway of his ears with a, presumably, natural part in the middle. it’s a bit darker at the roots, a kind of light brown, however it’s natural, you can tell. he doesn’t dye. his skin tone is a bit on the lighter side — there’s a blush tinged along his knuckles and the tips of his ears. it’s autumn, nearing winter, that’s to be expected, albeit still, there resides a sort of . . flaxen glow within the undertone. he tans well in the summer, you can tell.

his eyebrows match his roots, they’re admittedly well groomed. thin framed, gold matte, polygon framed glasses shield long eyelashes — and those border pools of beautiful, ocean blue. they catch you immediately, your eyes feel pinned to them due to the fact . . they aren’t necessarily an unsettling shade of blue — they teeter the shade of . . ultramarine? there are peppers of baby blue near his pupils, but, they’re . . pretty. the type of blue found only in jewels buried within the ocean floors of fiji and moorea.

“hey.” he gives a small smile, it’s polite, warm.

“hi,” you rub your lips together, quickly averting your eyes downwards — they find the chain he wears . . a simple curb chain, made of silver? white gold, maybe? it stands out against the starking white hoodie he wears, looks to be bleached by the gods. “uhm, i’m ( ❤︎ ). i heard that . . you tutor?”

he’s closing a binder, his laptop, and standing while you talk.

oh.

okay, he’s taller than you thought. for so many days, you’ve only seen him from afar, never thought he looked any taller than six feet at most, albeit, up close, he graces the line of at least six three. “oh, uh, yeah. did you fail the exam?” his eyes are . . concerned. he packs his backpack slowly, a plain, black moncler, wow, all while keeping his attention on you.

you want to wince at that word. fail. you’re close to doing so. you know it. “uh,” you hesitate, finding interest in your nail when it finds a divot in the desk beside your thigh. “i got a D.”

he doesn’t flinch away or give a sympathetic coo, only a quiet, “huh,” underneath his breath. “okay, sure, yeah,” he swings his bag over a single shoulder and pockets his phone within the one of his hoodie. “i’ll tutor you. we can start . . tomorrow? at the library? around,” he looks up, rolls those pretty, blue eyes skywards towards the high ceilings of the classroom and clicks his tongue against the fine porcelain of his teeth. “four?”

you feel relieved. your shoulders fall forwards as you both begin the trek towards the door. “yes. thank you,” oddly, you feel as though you want to cry. “i appreciate it.”

“no worries,” another warm smile, then a large hand is held up as a goodbye. “i’ll see you tomorrow then.”

wednesdays are always kind of a busy day for you. you have your microbiology lecture at ten am, and come it ending at twelve thirty, anthropology begins at one. there’s little to no time to go back to your dorm and change in preparedness for your first tutoring session because by three fifty eight, after leaving your lecture and stopping near the dining hall for a quick meal, you realize that you’re going to be late.

winsome university’s library sits on its own acre of land across the campus. it’s labeled something akin to the state’s pride and joy — was built by the founder of it and all. half of the money donated towards the school is to upkeep the library and add improvements when necessary.

admittedly, the building is gorgeous. rustic and sylvan-like — the inside of the five story high structure houses eighty thousand books, an entire level of study rooms, and two computer labs. you have only ever been a few times — twice with mikasa, once by yourself. within a distant part of your mind, you wonder why. it’s a pretty place, a quiet place. you adore it — think it’ll act as a nice change of scenery when studying. upon first entry, there’s a hushed stillness settled over the interior, save for the occasional low murmur and cough. the wicker platform of your sandals click against the buffed chateau flooring as you slowly walk, head on swivel, searching for a familiar mop of blond hair.

amidst finding him, huddled in his own, little corner on the second floor, at a desk between a shelf of autobiographies, you tap your fingers upon the wood to alert him of your arrival.

he looks up at you while pulling an airpod from his ear, giving a sort of quick scan of your face in efforts to recognize you prior to smiling, “hey,” he quietly murmurs. collecting a few books and folders that are scattered along the surface of the desk, armin soon closes and gathers them in a stack beside his expanded macbook to make room for your backpack and ipad. “sorry. i realized when i got here that . . i didn’t tell you where to meet me.”

you shake your head, “it’s okay. i found you.”

when you take a seat adjacent from him, you find yourself reimmersed within the intimate, salt tinged breeze of his cologne again. it drains your brain a little empty. “uhm,” when your ipad is opened onto a blank doc, pencil in hand, you look at him. “i . . dunno . . even where to begin.”

taking hold of the top and bottom of his frames with one hand, armin pushes his glasses a bit higher up on his nosebridge, “shit, yeah, well,” he licks his lips. “she’s started on chapter three right? frequency distributions? you . . do you get that part?”

you pause on your rejoinder. your automatic response is ‘yes,’ be that as it may, you’d only lie. big and blue, his eyes are expectant, though they don’t judge. when you quietly shake your head, he doesn’t sigh or suck his teeth, only nods and opens a notebook to a fresh page to begin to sketch a few things. “well,” he utters. “statistics’ just . . all about data, right? uhm, collecting it, reading it, drawing conclusions from it. a lot of it is taught so that we’ll have the proper methods on how to conduct research and employ the correct analyses. what do you major in?”

“pharmacology,” you reply, thumbing with the silicone nub of your pencil. “minor in ethics.”

beneath his glasses, still writing, he looks up at you, “hm,” he mumbles. “mkay,” armin looks back down. “interesting.”

his reaction . . is unreadable. it stumps you. “what do you major in?”

“petroleum engineering with a minor in communications and a foreign language.”

wow.

blinking, you quietly hum, “you must make your parents really proud.”

he scoffs a bit . . then he smiles. it’s a big grin — the biggest you’ve ever seen. it pushes charming dimples into his cheeks an inch away from deep smile lines. “ah,” he chuckles. “you’ve no idea. but,” insert a shrug, a blasé one. it says ‘eh, what can you do?’ “thankfully, i actually do love the subject, so . . can’t feel too bad for myself.”

with the intention of only warming your brain up, armin introduces a practice question to you.

‘ Data from a sample of 10 pharmacies are used to examine the relation between prescription sales volume and percentage of prescription ingredients purchased directly from the supplier. The sample data are shown below. ‘

“starting off simple, i want you to find the mean of the sales volume.”

easy enough, you think. you can do that.

as you work, the table falls quiet. armin watches you, moreso, your fingers — he needs to make sure you’re following the correct procedure. or at least, he’s supposed to. you’re distracting him. your handwriting is quite lovely as you scribble along the doc of your ipad and his eyes linger on how you hold the pencil — nails are layered with acrylic . . long and square. they’re nude based with pastel designs and pretty, gold charms. he trails them up your wrist wear a few bangles sway from, to your shoulder, your neck . . .

hm.

. . you’re actually quite pretty.

you’re very fucking pretty.

“like that?”

your eyes are wide, when they look up into his — oases of mahogany. you’re standing on pins and needles, aching for his approval.

“can i see?” armin turns the pad his way and double checks your work. “. . yeah,” gently, he begins to nod. “yeah. good work. now, do the same for the ingredients purchased directly.”

complying, from then on, step by step, he instructs you on how to properly plot the residuals. he gives you another question after that, and another, and then two more. by six o’clock, you find yourself heavy eyed. the library closes at seven. warm, dim lights are now illuminated throughout the aisles and the green visored lamp that sits upon the desk you both work scrawled atop of had been lighted by armin almost an hour ago. “thank you,” you’re softly saying as you pack your bag. you feel a little more confident in your skills — not completely A+ worthy, nonetheless, some progress was made. “i understand like, half of chapter two now.”

he’s simpering while packing his own bag, “nice. cool. you’re really not that bad at it. i think you make it harder when you double back on things just because they don’t seem right — most of the time they are.”

he’s correct. you’re just not sure of how to resolve that fickle way of thinking. “thank you, armin.”

when you’re both outside, you find yourselves cloaked within the darkness, a moon, and her millions of children. under silver rays armin’s hair lightens to platinum. you take a look at him again while he has his phone pulled in close to his face, shooting a text to someone.

he’s disgustingly handsome.

how haven’t you noticed him before?

“do you need a ride home?” he points in the vague direction of two cars — a simple, grey honda civic beside a metallic blue bmw i5. no need to wonder which is his.

you gather enough willpower to take a step back, towards the direction you came. “oh . . no,” you shake your head and your island twists move along with it. “i live on campus. it’s not a far walk.”

he looks past you, in the direction of the university’s main grounds. you’d have to walk along the twisted, lengthy pathway between here and there to get to it, past the main, lecture halls, and the dining hall, to enter the dorm buildings. his eyes squint a bit, eyebrows gather in close, and lip curls as he sucks his teeth — it’s a cute face. “that’s a long walk . . at least twenty minutes.”

“i need to get my steps in.”

“it’s cold.”

“i have a sweater.”

arminfinds himself at a loss, you have him absolutely stuck. he wants to be demanding — say something like, ‘( ❤︎ ), just get in the car,’ however, when regarding the state of the world today, he’s aware of what he’d look like. he would never. he wants you to feel and know that you have a choice, in everything. albeit, in spite of this, his mother raised a gentleman. he isn’t going to feel right, driving home, knowing you’re out here walking alone. “mm.”

you read the obvious frustration slathered across the soft slopes of his face. it’s an interesting thing — to see features like his harden and inure.

“hm,” you turn your head over your shoulder to gauge the distance once more. it is a long walk. “i think . .” a step back towards his way. “i’ll jus’ go ahead and take the ride, actually.”

he leads you towards his car, using a keyless remote to open the doors with a small ‘ beep! ‘ he’s smiling, you realize, a small thing paired with a head shake as he opens the passenger door, allowing you to slip in against cool, leather seating.

you have tutoring sessions at the library with armin twice a week — early evenings on wednesdays and late mornings on fridays. he’s helpful, he’s kind. with his methods, you pass your next exam with a lustrous B+, and for the first time in a long time, your pending future doesn’t loom over your head bordered by an infernal grey cloud full of disappointment and failures.

there isn’t a word to really describe how the two of you interact during the sessions — it’s all very . . formal. he demonstrates a math problem — muttering quiet and slow, and attentively, you listen. on more lazy days, days where your mind is churning just a bit more idle than normal, still traced with the sluggish residues of sleep, you like to admire him. today’s one of those days — because armin’s charming, he smells good, and upon a few accidental grazes, you’ve come to find that his skin is as soft as it looks, too.

“so,” he’s different today. behind his glasses, rings of mauve underline the skin beneath his eye sockets. his chin is rested within the divot of his palm and, almost idly, a finger traces the shape of his lips as he mumbles, “you gotta remember this formula — memorize it for me. the probability of success equals,” his voice breaks off in a yawn. he turns his head away, using a fist to cover it as he does.

you can’t help but yawn too.

“shit, sorry,” he smiles, sniffs, and shakes his head quickly as if to shake the drowsiness off. “uh . . the probability—“

“—n equals the number of trials. r is the number of successes during the trial. and p is the probability . . of success on a given trial.”

his eyes twinkle something akin to delight when he looks at you, “good,” he whispers. “very good.”

unable to help it, you let your upper body fall and with it, your head follows until it plops onto your folded arms, “ ‘m sleepy, armin,” you tenderly say. you’re hoping that this session could be cut short. you’ll see him again on wednesday. the two of you can cram some of this lesson into it to fall back on track. “i need a nap.”

“you need to learn this, though,” he’s tracing his lips again, absentmindedly. you wish he’d stop. “it’s gonna take us a while to get back on course.”

“but ‘m tired.”

“so?”

“you look tired, too.”

“don’t be a hellion.”

you’re giggling before you can help it, covering your bright smile with a couple fingers, “. . a what?”

he’s smirking and shaking his head, eyes focused out towards the large, arch shaped, stained glass window ahead of you both, “a . . minx. pirralho,” his smirk widens into a grin. “a brat.”

you bristle with taken ignominy. “ ‘m not,” your voice doesn’t display your true emotions. it’s quiet, a mere grumble. “i’m not a brat.”

he closes a text book with a firm thump, “wanna go grab a coffee?” he’s already shoving binders into his pack. “there’s a uh . . cafe a few blocks down. they’re really good.”

oddly, your heart skips a beat . . and in that same moment, you feel its speed pick up. you’re lifting yourself up slowly, “a coffee?”

“yeah,” he’s waiting for you. “c’mon.”

the cozy kettle is a little hole in the wall a mile out from the university. it’s sweetly nuzzled between a thrift shop and record store and upon first glance, nothing stands out to you. there’s a sign outside of it and written in pastel colored chalk on it are the specials, however, that’s about it. it’s sort of a shame though, because the interior is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.

similar to how it looks from outside, it’s small, nonetheless welcoming, pleasant. there’s the smell of roasted cocoa beans and marshmallows, the sound of mellow piano keys and boiling water. the decor is homely. there are cushioned seats, a sofa, framed photos of customers, and precious, porcelain figurines. strangely, you want to cry again. you adore places like these. you can see why armin gravitated towards it.

he fits right in with his cream, cable knit sweater, tattered blue jeans, and warm, blond hair. “hey dré,” he greets the cashier by name and looks towards you first. “need a second?”

the menu is . . extensive. your eyes tremble, darting from left to right while you try to figure out what you wanted. “uhmm . . n-no, uh, just a dalgona coffee.” you’ve always wanted to try one.

he’s humming, leaning towards you on the tips of his toes, “that’s it?” he asks softly, eyes low yet inquiring. “are you sure?”

you give a nod, he squints them prior to turning back towards the register, “large dalgona coffee, please, with a large strawberry matcha latte, honey cruller, and strawberry cruller.”

after your order is taken, armin pays, and leads you up a short, spiral staircase whose landing opens into a small dining area. it overlooks the lower half of the cafe. “this is so . .” you try to find the words as you both take a seat within a little nook. it’s a plush bench, inserted within a window. you can see the busy avenue ahead and his car parked in front. “cute.”

his irises glimmer with mirth, “yeah,” he nods and takes a quick look around himself — as if he were trying to view it from your perspective. “it is very cute. i found this place a couple months back, it’s quaint.”

“mhmm.”

with a new bout of silence, you find yourself nervously picking at a loose thread of your thermal tights. other than the occasional ride back to your dorm, and of course, the ride here, armin and you are hardly ever . . truly alone. there are always other students around you both, other professors, other distractions. you have nothing to do but gaze out of the window. you don’t want to touch your phone, ‘cause that’d be rude, right? yeah.

“uhm,” armin speaks up and you’re hooked on his words, instantly, giving him your undivided attention. “so, is stats the only class you need help in?”

you pause for a moment to think about the question, “. . kind of, yeah. i mean, ‘m taking microbiology, anthropology, and an elective, too — ceramics. they’re challenging however, i get the gist of them,” abstractly, you find yourself twisting a curl that’d been threaded into one of your island twists around one of your fingers. “stats is . . . yeah,” you breathe out with a small smile. “the only class so far where i really struggle.”

armin listens to you. his eyes are pinned on yours and refuse to move anywhere else, despite you breaking the contact multiple times to look down or away.

“well,” he has his hands resting against his knees, and he sits . . comfortably — back against the window, legs agape.  “as i said before, you’re getting pretty good at it.”

“ ‘m not a natural at it,” the thought makes you pout a little bit. “not like you.”

he smiles again. you feel your palms getting a little sweaty. “nah, nah,” he shakes his head. “not a natural.”

you roll your eyes, “don’t be coy, armin.”

he’s quiet, “. . . alright. maybe.”

when you release a small groan, he laughs — it’s a boyish thing. he inhales hard between each cute cackle.

“you’re so smart,” you hum with a small smile, looking back out towards the street. “i wish it was natural for me. i have to study, like . . all day, everyday. it’s so tiring.”

“hm, you’re intelligent, ( ❤︎ ).”

when you make a face — lift your eyebrows and purse your lips, it says ‘ yeah, right. ‘ armin nudges at your knee so you’d look at him when he says, “you are.”

you don’t agree, nonetheless, you won’t disagree with him. crossing a leg over the other, another silence ensues. if you decide to be honest with yourself, they’re painful. you kind of ache . . . to know more about him, to listen to him speak again, and laugh, and smile at you. “you don’t live on campus?”

he shakes his head, the soft tufts of his hair follow with him, “no. i have a loft, about . . ten minutes away.”

“oh.”

“yeah,” armin turns himself more toward you. “so, uh, tell me . . about your parents. are they cool?”

armin listens to you while you talk, he does, really. however, he can’t be too sure that he actually retains a lot of what you say because his mind is fucking . . fogged. it’s clouded with you. he quietly admires the softness of your brown skin, the way the long wispies of your eyelashes flutter as you blink a few times, trying to remember things, how your lips pout out sometimes around certain words — you’re a fucking enigma.

a paradox difficult for him to figure out.

or maybe, you just tangle his feelings and thoughts together and — that doesn’t happen much. it’s a skill he’s mastered a long time ago with the help of his father, to never let his emotions get in the way of doing things that had to be done, disregarding the person or situation.

armin’s been sure that it’s simple attraction. it’s dwelled and has started eating at him since your second session together. and he’s thought of people as pretty before. he’s wine and dined before, has fucked only three girls in his lifetime so far, albeit, none of them have ever sparked the sentiments he’s been inwardly battling for nearly a month now, except for you.

he thinks now that this is . . a crush. he isn’t sure if he likes it. it’s too much. he feels too much, thinks too much.

“what about you?” he’s tuning back in when you give him a polite smile. “are your parents cool?”

“oh . .” he shrugs. “yeah. they’re nice. they’re . . old.”

“they’re old?” you’re giggling again.

he smiles. he likes the sound of it. “yeah, m’dad is like . . fifty eight. mom’s fifty five. they’ve been together for thirty five years now. was an arranged marriage type deal but, they actually liked one another.”

“do you have siblings?”

armin shakes his head, “no, ‘s jus me. i have dogs though,” he’s states. “had them since middle school.”

a barista is setting your drinks and crullers down on the small table in front of you soon after. they all appear so tempting. you and armin give your thanks and as you take a teaspoon of the coffee froth toppled atop of your own drink, you take a look at armin’s.

there’s pink near the bottom of his glass cup and it fades into a sweet gradient of green from nearly half of it on up. “here,” after he takes a sip, he pushes his glasses up higher upon his nose and brings the plate of crullers closer between you both. “have you ever tried one?”

you nod slowly, “years ago though.”

the crullers are both golden brown. the honey cruller is glazed with syrup and dusted with powdered sugar, however the strawberry one is more of a pastry. there are two of them stacked on top of one another with whipped cream layered in the middle. “ ‘ll just . .” armin takes a butter knife, and carefully, he cuts the first one in half, followed by the strawberry. “there you go.”

you watch, amazed, how he pops his half of the honey cruller inside of his mouth and begins to slowly chew.

by no means was it a little piece, both desserts are about the size of his own fist. “y’just gotta . .” he’s smirking while he chomps. “go for it. tastes even better that way.”

you try to do what he does — only fit half of it inside and sticky sugar smears along the corner of your lips. unleashing a small sound of disappointment, you take a napkin to dab it away.

“ ‘s good, no?”

“it’s yummy.” it is. the texture’s heavenly.

you notice that he eats the strawberry cruller more slowly — bites half of it, lazily chews, swallows, then finishes it. marveling the tincture of his drink again, you soon sweetly denote, “you like strawberries.”

there’s the pink of his tongue, swift, it peeks past his lips so that he’s able to rid them of specks of sugar. “hm? you can tell?” he's chewing on the inside of his cheek — the motion of it causes the dimple in his cheek facing you to play peek a boo. “yeah, they’re m’favorite fruit. an uh,” he huffs a small laugh here and thumbs with his glass. “a family friend, she owns a strawberry farm. i go there every spring . . she lets me pick like, a freaking boatload of ‘em. i ship ‘em here to m’loft.”

“yeah?” you’re simpering. you try to picture it — a more tanned armin, crouched and picking through bushes for the most plump, most ripe berry with sweat beads dotted along the margin of his forehead. “that sounds so nice.”

“it is. you should come this spring.”

unheedingly, your spine straightens. ‘ this spring. ‘ the sun, the greenery, a strawberry farm, armin in tees and short sleeved garments. your cheeks swelter, your heart blooms. “uhm,” you revert your attention back outside of the window. you hope your smile isn’t too wide. “yeah. that’d be swell.”

you don’t really know how it happens.

armin remains your tutor for the rest of the semester. four days and nearly eight hours a week spent around one another — it is no secret to yourself that what little attraction you’d felt towards the boy at the start evolves into something more . . a feeling more ample and vast than you could have ever imagined. on friday afternoons, after your tutoring lesson is over, you both frequent the cozy kettle. you order your dalgona coffee, he grabs his strawberry matcha latte — contrarily, never the same pastries. there are the yummy macarons, iced with little faces of bear cubs in buttercream, moist banana breads, and sweet strawberry tarts. and over these delicacies, what are seconds spiral into minutes, and what are minutes, hours. you immerse yourself within a boy — a sweet boy. you learn about his favorite color ( cornflower blue ), his favorite foods ( creamy tomato prawn pasta and smoked salmon sandwiches, toasted bread preferably ), what his hobbies are ( chess, painting, and . . wood carving ?! ) , what he enjoys doing when not focused on his schooling ( sleep, taking walks within the city ).

armin arlert is beautiful, you discover. he’s beautiful inside and out, starting from the few, dark moles that pepper the back and sides of his neck to the childhood scar that runs vertically across the top of his right foot ( showed you one day while you both sat on the sun warmed grass of the quad . . learned a lesson to not run with scissors after that anymore ). he interweaves himself within your life until he’s nearly all you think about, every single day.

your friends notice. they’d all explained that they knew armin from way back — the group of them attended the same high school, therefore, it was no question as to how they were aware just how far his intelligence ran and why they recommended him to you as a tutor, all’d shared a class with him at one point. nonetheless, come college, armin’d gravitated and became more close with connie and jean. and while he wasn’t as tight with the others as you were, it didn’t stop the rest from light teasing. never in front of him, only towards you.

you’d never felt your face so warm. “it’s cute,” mikasa had smirked at you one night while giving a slight nudge toward your shoulder with her own. “it . . works. can’t say ‘m too surprised.”

then january came — a new semester, new classes.

you aced your statistics course and what few classes you needed left to receive your degree were all quite simple. near the beginning, four meet ups with armin a week dwindled into three, and then two. you were busy with classes. he was busy with his thesis — it made sense. however, what became a week of not seeing one another, soon progressed into two without even texting one another. you don’t know how it happened, really, however, by april, you and him were basically . . . strangers once more.

it hurt. if you decide to be honest with yourself, it still hurts. you barely see him around campus, he’s hardly ever in the library anymore, and during, admittedly, desperate attempts to run into him at the cozy kettle you’re never successful because, according to dre, ‘ you just missed him ‘ or ‘ he hasn’t stopped by in a while. ‘

blond hair now sends a frigid chill down your spine. you smell a familiar cologne and the disconcerting sting of viscid tears boil the surface of your eyes. you wished you were able to just . . forget. redact his name from the fissures of your mind and bowdlerize the feeling his name evokes when you hear it from inside of your heart.

and mikasa knows you best. she knows you better than anybody, at times, even yourself.

you need to escape the prison of your dorm, go out, socialize, hopefully find a new person, even if just temporarily, to occupy your time and mind. and you agree. why not? jean has some yacht party he’s throwing. a farewell before spring break and, you like jean. he’s polite, he’s funny, he’s kind. you’re aware of what this can entail, however — jean being one of armin’s closest friends and all, there’s a high chance he could be attending and you think it’s this simple regard that has you tunneling yourself within the furthest pits of your closest to produce your most shortest and skimpiest two piece set.

berry blue, the top is to only be held up by a thin string tied at the back of your neck and another around the mid section of your back. the neckline follows more of a cowl style, however, cinches tight in the middle, accentuating your tits. the flowy excess fabric of the skirt skims the tops of your thighs, inches above your knees. it’s . . a lot. it’s . . just what you need.

everyone on the yacht appears to follow your lead, because you end up not being the only one to go for something so flimsy.

the ship pushes off from the dock when the sun is hung high within the sky — it’s thronged with people, lots you recognize from your classes, from bow to stern. on the upper deck are four, bass boosted, five foot surround sound speaker towers. they stand beside the dj who shouts at the crowd below on a mic. “this is fucking insane,” mikasa’s giggling behind a meticulously manicured hand. the two of you stand beside the main deck aft’s bar. she nurses a pink tinted drink within the other, however you can’t find the energy to remember the name. your eyes are shifting, from here to there, in search for one, tall, blue eyed, dimple cheeked, horribly handsome boy. “i think jean fuckin’ outdid himself with this one.”

“well,” you reach for her hand to bring her drink closer between you two. lowering your head, you wrap your lips around a thin, black straw and take a long sip. sweet, tart, bitter. “he’s graduating next month. might as well.”

“mmm, where have you been?” there are arms being draped along your shoulders before you can as much as so blink — heavy ones, buff ones. you have to feel a small smooch on your temple and the scruff of a beard to know who it is.

“reiner,” you whine and push back against him to let his arms fall. “my hair.”

with reiner comes eren, ymir, and historia.

the blond in front of you is shirtless. he wears nothing but black swim trunks, printed with a designer’s name all over in abstract. “i apologize,” he’s smirking and reaching a hand out to help you fix a curl out of place, albeit, is not surprised to get a quick swat on the knuckles within the same second of doing so. “got excited. haven’t seen you in like, three weeks, no?”

maybe you were more depressed than you’d thought. “i know,” involuntarily, you’re pouting. you’ve missed him too, you’ve missed them all. “been busy . . studying for finals and stuff.”

“mhm. been okay, right?” he’s concerned, tilting his head, waiting until you give him a sweet nod. “okay, good. need to make sure. you know my parents have been asking about you.”

you’re brightening up come the mention of them — how sweet the brauns are, you can’t help but smile. “really? what they say?”

“want you and everyone over for dinner again, especially you,” the golds of his eyes are slyly rolling. “some . . - something about your major. they like learning about it, hearing you talk about it. i don’t fuckin’ know.”

once the opportunity reveals itself, you’re pushing at one, tough, broad shoulder, “ugh, jealous much?” the brauns are sweet. his mother bakes the sweetest pumpkin pies and his dad is entertaining — has a thousand stories about his younger days working in the mines. you wouldn’t mind another dinner with them, not at all.

reiner entertains you for the time being, “mm, you can’t imagine how much.”

it’s nearly ten minutes of you chatting with reiner before you feel it — it’s a subconscious thing at first. there’s the sensation of a bug crawling across your shoulder. it startles you, nonetheless, without breaking eye contact with reiner, you quickly reach and rub it away. but, there it is again, this time, on your neck. you swat at it irritably, glossed lips pulling downwards into a frown. by the third time, you’re flinching and huffing, swiftly turning on your heels and holding your hair to one side to grant him a more extensive view, “can you check if there’s a bug on me, please?”

while reiner’s humming, eyes scanning your back, you look up, catching the familiar blues of someone’s across the ship.

unwittingly, your body pulls taut.

you’d wanted to see him first before he saw you, gather some conviction, some tenacity, be that as it may, it’s clear he’s been watching you for a while.

his eyes don’t hold the same kindliness as they once did. while they used to remind you of sweltering summers spent in palau, of fine sapphires and calm seas — from nearly forty feet away, you can view the hidden lividity that dances within them. calm seas are now raging waters. sapphires roast within an inferno. they’re set on you, unmoving, even while the bodies between you both shift and sway this way and that, he remains where he is. nevertheless of connie saying something to him, leaned in close to his ear so that he can hear, armin’s clearly not listening.

you snap your eyes away quickly.

turning back to reiner, you await for him to give you an all good before you’re slipping away, from everyone, and everything. you head to the bow of the boat. you’re pleading with the stars, begging for them to not have him follow you — you need to breathe for a moment, replay that meager interaction back a dozen times in your brain to dissect and figure out what’d just transpired. but, it’s clear the universe is out for blood today. you hear footsteps, they’re steady, firm — they make you walk faster.

there’s a teeth suck, an annoyed sigh.

he doesn’t say anything though, not until you’re both alone, at the front of the boat . . away from brain rattling music, loud laughter, loud splashes, and squeals. you take a seat within the sunken area meant for accommodation — arms folded, back straightened, you refuse to look at him.

armin plops himself down nearly three seats away from you and through your peripheral, you watch his head tilt back as he downs the rest of his drink. it falls back forward as he swallows and places the glass down on the floor between his feet. your knee is bouncing — you hadn’t even realized.

“i don’t . .” his voice is low, quiet. you try not to react to it — try so hard not to melt within his lap and sob. “i don’t think i . . really know what to say . . . where to begin.”

your response is simple, “mm.”

armin turns his head, fixing you with a stare of incredulity. he tries not to focus too much on your dolled up face . . how you’ve taken your braids out which now leaves tightly coiled curls resting a few inches past your shoulders — half of it is pulled into a ponytail with a small, pretty, glitter dusted scrunchie. he doesn’t want to focus too much on your attire — jesus fucking christ, just what were you doing?”. . . reiner?”

eventually, you look at him. your expression crosses a line between bewilderment and irritation, “what?” you mimic his same tone. whether it was done intentionally or not, armin doesn’t know but his own aggravation rises.

turning his face back forward, he then folds his arms and leans back within his seat, “would’ve thought eren was more your type,” he utters. “or . . fuckin’ jean, i don’t know.”

“what are you even talking about?” your tone is exasperated, you plop your face within your hand and shake your head, visibly annoyed. armin refuses to elaborate. the longer silence stretches, the angrier you become. “why . . do you even care?” your body’s straightening once more and again, you look at him. “like, what the hell is your problem, armin? seriously?”

his hair has gotten longer. it isn’t a drastic change, but . . still. and the earrings he wears are no longer white gold and round cut however, black, square cut diamonds. you weren’t supposed to look at him for so long. you find it hard to look away now. “don’t do that,” his face is screwing — morphing annoyance into a meld of discomfiture and vexation. “don’t sit here and . . .”

you remain mute, waiting for him to finish though he never does. he only tilts himself back forward and places his elbows on his thighs to reach up and comb a hand through his hair. his sigh is quiet. “. . i’m sorry,” he murmurs.

you hadn’t expected an apology, truthfully. it stupefies you.

you aren’t sure of what to say. to forgive or apologize, too. there’s no reason you need to do either, you suppose. he’s apologizing because he sees you, that’s all. he’s had your number for months now. he could have easily called, or even texted, albeit . . nothing. for nearly eight weeks, it’s been nothing from armin. complete radio silence. and now he’s here . . . it’s insane how bad you’ve wanted to see him for so long, although, now being within his presence, you want nothing more than to leave. “whatever.” you’re standing and beginning up the short flight of stairs to head back towards the stern, however, armin’s right behind you again. he intercepts your path, holding an arm out between you both to keep you from taking another step.

“i’m . .” he’s confused. “i’m sorry. i apologized.”

your folded arms acts more as a fence separating you and him, rather than an action to exhibit your huffiness, “good for you, armin. i don’t forgive you.”

he doesn’t seem surprised. “you don’t forgive me.” his voice is low — not a sad low, however, he’s contemplating . . studying you.

“i don’t. i want to go back to my friends.”

he’s motionless . . and he’s quiet. behind his specs, armin simply stares at you for a moment, tracing the shape of his lips slowly — the same way he always does when he’s evaluating or ruminating on something. you feel like a literal open book. it’s a feeling of excruciating bareness. “come with me.” grabbing hold of your hand, armin interlaces his fingers within the spaces of yours while leading you behind him. he walks swiftly — a step of his takes two of yours, and in no time, you’re stumbling after him, holding onto his forearm with your other hand. “armin — c-can you not?”

he’s leading you down to the dining space of the yacht. there are a few people dotted here and there — most of them using the space for shelter against a beaming sun. he ignores them, so you do, too. a short flight of stairs below the dining area opens into a short hallway concealed by a door. he opens it, turns right, opens another, then softly nudges you inside first. it’s a bedroom. it’s minimalistic — only a queen sized bed, a few pieces of art hung along the walls and a comfy sectional, however, still . . it’s quite nice. there are two, rectangular windows that over looks the right side of the yacht. the room sits about a foot or two below the sun deck it seems because you can see people below you.

“i find that people usually enjoy saying what and how they really feel when in an enclosed space. when alone outside, you’re never truly alone.”

armin stands beside the sectional, hands on his hips. it appears as though he’s waiting.

you remain rooted beside the window. “. . i have nothing to say.”

“no?”

you look back out towards the sea, “yeah, no.”

he’s walking over . . steps deliberate, quiet. you’re stiffening the closer he gets because you know what he wears. black swimming trunks, and a thin, black button down top — only a few of them were fastened near his sternum. when he’s directly behind you, you sense the warmth of the sun, still embedded within his skin, radiating off of it onto yours. he’s close, he’s very close, albeit, he isn’t touching you . . simply, crowds your space. “. . i’ve missed you.”

your head drops and your eyes close as you rub a temple. “you’re so mean. you’re being mean.”

“ ‘m sorry.”

“stop it, armin.”

“. . i’ll leave.”

when you feel the warmth of his body retreat, you’re turning, “why would you — . . stop it, armin,” before you can really realize it, your fists are balling, you’re stomping a foot, and you’re exploding, “why did you do that? you jus’ . . stopped talking to me, stopped . . dealing with me. who does that to a person? to a friend?” you’d started off strong — voice firm and adamant, however, it weakens near the end; leaves you quiet and feeble. “that’s not . . nice, armin. that’s mean. you’re mean. you can’t keep saying sorry if you don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

armin loathes this. he loathes what you make him feel. he sees the beginning of tears glisten your eyes and he’s walking over to take a seat on the bed and carefully pull you between his legs consequently leaving you to stand above him. albeit it’s only an inch or so separating your faces, it’s still good enough. he wants you to look at him. “i fucked up,” he admits quietly. “at first, i was busy . . i was just busy, ( ❤︎ ), honest.”

“and then what?”

you’re frowning again. armin crumbles underneath your stare. you don’t know what you do to him — what you continue to do. groaning out, he drops his head, “i just . . i can’t . . i couldn’t be around you.”

he feels you withdrawing. thoughtlessly, his hands are on your waist and he’s tugging you back, “i needed to focus,” he mumbles. “when i’m around you, i don’t focus. it’s very fucking hard for me to even concentrate on breathing when i’m with you. i didn’t . . want it to go like that. i just needed some time, but then, a week turned into two and by three i thought,” he rubs the back of his neck. “you’d be angry with me. i just, i never grew the balls to approach you head on until today. i’m sorry.”

he feels pathetic. utterly fucking pathetic. when it’s said out loud, he realizes just how much of a dick he truly is. he found himself thinking of you, every second of every day. it’d gotten to a point where he’d even dream of you — your smile, your lips, your touch. “i’m sorry,” he’s sighing and pulling you closer. “i shouldn’t have done it. forgive me.”

you’re not as tense as you once were. granted, you’re still refusing to touch him — you aren’t pulling away either. and with a ticking silence, armin admires his current position. you smell of brown sugar and patchouli, and you’re soft. he opens his legs wider, pulls you even closer. you sharply inhale comes his grip on you tightening. “armin,” your tone is hushed. he can’t help it. softly, he deposits a kiss upon your tummy, right above the gold bar of your dangling navel piercing. “i’m sorry,” he whispers against your skin. he engraves the apology within you alongside another kiss — this one upon the mole he’d always catch a peek of when you’d wear cute baby tees and cropped tops. it sits right upon your hip. “ ‘m sorry.”

he goes higher. kisses each of your bone of your ribs, your sternum. he feels you squirming, however, it isn’t away. you push into him — lean when he pulls away and tugs when he’s close. “let me show you.”

a hand skims down your thigh — it raises small bumps in its wake. you feel yourself trembling as he takes the back of your knee and makes you bend it to plant your foot upon the bed, slow and careful. “won’t happen again, i promise,” his eyes are fixated upon yours as he falls to the floor upon his knees. they don’t move, even as he kisses along your calf, pushing himself higher with each passing second.

your heart’s pounding. you let the small shoulder bag you wear fall off of your arm when he reaches for it and places upon a nightstand. tension cascades off of the walls of the room — slow and thick. you no longer hear the constant thump of bass outside, but each shallow, quivering breath he takes. it’s maddening how unhurried he is — you can tell he feels your frustration, because he smiles, dimples exposed. “you smell so fucking good,” he utters within the inside of your thigh, stunning you when he suddenly kisses a patch of skin there, nibbles, then draws it tight inside his mouth. it’s . . impressive — how quick he marks you. “all the time. everyday.”

higher he goes and the more you tremble.

his whisper is quiet, “stay still.”

majority of his face is now hidden beneath the chiffon of your skirt. you think you’re going to faint. there’s the sensation of a finger, one single finger, hooking within the crotch of your panties . . carefully pulling them aside. you whimper, suddenly apprehensive, “a-armin.”

“there we go.”

a couple more kisses against your thigh, then he’s pulling you closer. you’re a second away from bolting — leg twitching, eyes locked upon the door. your nails are pinching within your own knee as you go to move, right as you feel the warmth . . of something firm, wet, and long, touching your clit.

you dissolve — eyes closing, face melting, as he does it again with a wet pucker — he’s . . kissing it. slow and deliberate. “oh my,” you gulp when he does. “. . god.”

armin’s slow . . careful. he pays attention to your clit, beckoning the little, wet pearl inside of his mouth to sweetly suckle before snaking his tongue down to your hole to get a taste from the direct source. you’re sweet, salty . . akin to rose water. he breathes out through his nose — a sigh of gentle relief because you taste just as good as you look, just as he’d imagined for so many lonely nights, lying in bed, fist wrapped around his cock that’d drip with an obscene amount of pre cum and lube. “dreamt of this,” he mutters into your pussy, suddenly grabbing a handful of one soft, plush orb of your ass to bring you even closer. “sweet fuckin’ pussy — god, give it. give me it, baby.”

you weakly sob his name, reaching a trembling hand for his head. soothingly, your fingers scratch through, soft and cloying, as if you were afraid you’d hurt him, prior to you establishing a grip. “mhm.” he presses himself higher, opens wider, strokes his tongue along the canvas past your lips, no longer paying attention to one, sole place. your hips shyly buck when he pushes.

“oh, god,” you sigh and let your head fall backward, body liquefying within his hold. he feels so good. his tongue, his touch, it churns your mind into goo. “armin,” you mewl his name, sweet and quiet. “ ‘min it feels so g-good.”

you don’t know how long he’s waited. how long he’s envisioned himself between your legs . . you using his mouth for however long you needed, however long you wanted. he feels your hips beginning to move with more assuredness, rolling and rocking down onto his awaited tongue, and his cock plumpens. it solidifies, twitching against the muscle of his thigh. “unh,” your moans are riveting — cute and whiny. he never would’ve guessed that your voice would become so broken, so tender when you feel so good. “please,” you’re whimpering. suddenly you’re reaching for your skirt, pulling it up to reveal his face. his glasses are fogged near the bottom, pupils are blown. “ ‘min . .”

“i know,” he breathes. “i know you wanna cum, baby. i know.”

you feel a finger. it traces the puffy rim of your hole as the tip of his tongue plays with your clit. he only sinks it in when you whine of restlessness — he enjoys the teasing, the building pressure. watching your face, armin evaluates it and intently observes each expression. slack jaw, crease between the eyebrows, chest heaving — you feel good. that’s all he wants.

your body literally jerks when he presses his finger as far as it’ll go then hooks it. “oh god,” your balance nearly teeters. you start to move again, pushing back against his finger then back forward into his mouth. you’re delirious, inhibitions gone, worries left somewhere astray within the seas surrounding you both.

armin groans, glasses knocked a bit askew — he doesn’t care, “fuck m’mouth,” he whispers, warm breath panted into your cunt. “y-yeahhh, jus li’that — . . so good. good fuckin’ girl.”

it’s at this moment when you admit to yourself that he’s all you want. he’s all you ever need. these couple months without him have been hell. you don’t want to go another day, let alone another minute without belonging solely to him and him, you. you cum with a hiccupy cry. your hand wrenches within his hair, pulling and seizing as he forces you to ride it out with shaky pivots of your hips. armin’s tongue refuses to quit for a moment. he pushes it alongside his finger to gather your sticky release within the opening vent of his mouth and swallow. “mmm.” only moves when you pull yourself away, palpably overstimulated.

your foot falls to the floor and you stumble before quickly finding stabilization against the bed. you brace yourself against it . . and for a while, there aren’t anything but pants heard within the room. armin’s face is drenched. he wears your cum like a necklace — driblets cling to the curve of his chin hanging there for several moments, as if stubborn to let go, before they fall to the floor between his knees. you watch him lick his lips prior to using one, large hand to swipe against his mouth and groom him back clean. you think you hate him . . you do because it’s clear he isn’t satiated. you watch him take off his glasses . . watch him quietly clean them with the fabric of his shirt. “. . stop it.”

“stop what?”

his tone is serene. he doesn’t even look at you.

“this.”

when they’re no longer smeared with a damp fog, he places them back on and rises onto his feet, slow and careful. “. . . i’m gonna go now,” he gives you a smile. it’s . . shocking . . what you now know, how filthy you know that same mouth can get, however now only imparts you a warm, civil simper.

you watch him turn . . watch him head towards the door.

“please don’t.”

his sigh is heard. it’s long . . hard. you remain where you stand, hoping he feels what’s clear that you want. “i’m not . .” he scratches his head for a moment before turning back around. what now lies beneath his eyes is a thin layer of frenzy. “you know what you’re doing, right?” one step closer. “i’m not . . doing this with you, ( ❤︎ ). i’m not. i refuse to even encourage the mere thought of having something strictly platonic again, especially fucking casual with you. i did that,” he points to the area where you both just were. “to exhibit my regret. to express my forgiveness. there was some selfishness in there, yeah. i’ll admit that,” another step closer. he stands only a few inches apart from you now. “but, you want me to stay,” his voice softens, his eyes do too. “if i stay we both know what will happen. we’ll fuck and it’ll be good. and i can’t place myself in a position to intertwine myself within you, even further just for sex. i’m not—“

you’re quickly rising to your toes, placing your hand upon the back of his neck to lower his face down and connect your lips against his. it quiets him and he catches on quick. armin’s pulling you into his body, molding his lips within the soft seam of yours, pushing and pushing himself until your back is flushed against a wall and he surrounds you completely. in the distant part of his mind, he’s cursing at himself. this isn’t supposed to be happening, nonetheless, what is a human being without some indulgence here and there? he needs this. if he can’t have you, one hundred percent, pure, and refined you, then the least he can have is this — a memory of your lips. they’re plush and soft; imbued with the taste of cake batter.

“don’t leave,” you mewl, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. you’re undoing them, one by one, revealing the plane of his abdominal muscles, faintly carved.

your lips are moving, slipping down his jaw, to his neck. armin’s eyes close as he melts and ingrains his nails within the wall behind you. you feel so good. “i can’t,” he’s shivering when you nibble upon the soft lobe of his ear. his cock is dripping precum down his thigh. it’s a mess. “can’t b-be just friends . . with you.”

“then don’t,” your nails scraps against his chest. they’re sliding, lower and lower until they find the hem of his trunks. “i’ll be yours. jus’ yours,” when it slithers its way in, your fingers wrap around the thickness of his base. involuntarily, he bucks within your grasp. “i promise.”

he’s kissing you again — this instance with more vigor. you let him spin and guide you blindly to the bed while his tongue weaves its way around yours. hints of salt reside upon his tastebuds, hints of you. you hear his shoes being kicked away when you’re lied down and he’s on top of you. you want to do the same with your strappy heels . . alas, they’re buckles. “lemme see,” he’s breathing while lifting up on his knees, inducing you to give him your foot. “look so pretty. don’t think i told y’that today.” he’s unfastening your heels and letting them fall, eyes fixated on your little skirt and low plunging top. “i like you in blue.”

you’re smiling, suddenly timid, “really?”

“yeah,” he’s opening your legs wider to accommodate his build. “you look like a princess.”

says him. armin’s princely in all that he does — suave and smooth. the way he walks, talks, the way he peels off your skirt and tiny panties, followed by your top. you’re bare below him within a minute, leaving him atop of you, still in his trunks and opened shirt. “wow . .” you squirm underneath his gaze, blushing and meek. “be still,” he whispers, eyes tracing your bod . . focusing on a mole here, freckle there, a cute birthmark. “let me . . let me look at you.” you watch him raise a hand . . it pauses midair above your tit, as if hesitant, before he carefully cups it. “hm.”

you keen underneath his touch, watching his thumb carefully roll the brown, hardened nub of your nipple beneath it. he’s studying you again — eyebrows furrowed in a bit, completely focused. he brings his thumb to his mouth, quickly wets it, then places it back against your nipple, this time gently twisting and squeezing at it. “ah,” you hiccup and writhe, dreadfully sensitive.

his eyes meet yours as his brows raise, “want my . . want m’tongue instead?”

he doesn’t give you much room to answer. his head lowers and his hands are dimpling the fat of your breasts as he presses his fingers into the skin to establish a good grip. you watch his tongue lathe across the surface of your areola preceding him completely enveloping it within his mouth. he’s generous. licks and suckles, trades between both, giving them equal amounts of affection and care. your pussy leaks between your legs while he does so. from his bent head, you’re able to smell his shampoo — a woodsy milk. and it’s a hard reality to grasp for a while . . armin here, above you, solid hard cock pressed up against your thigh as he nurses on your tits as though he’d been starving without them. “touch me,” you’re gasping and pulling him closer, leading his other arm underneath you so that he’s able to take a second nice grasp of your ass. “mmm.” you conceive that he’s a dream. a simple beaut made just for you. that maybe you’ve gone crazy and this is how your brain is coping after having been driven to the point of delirium.

but then, armin’s moving. he’s kneeling to shrug off his shirt, then his trunks are removed and . . . “oh my god . .?” you lift onto your elbows, thoroughly stunned. you’d felt him when you slid your hands down his shorts — knew he had the thickness about the size of a coke bottle, but . . you hadn’t expected the length.

“what?” he’s clueless. eyes wide in . . some form of unease and apprehensiveness. “is it bad?”

“what, no . . it’s,” your head tilts and you . . blush. “pretty.”

he’s cut with a fat coral toned tip. stands at nearly eight inches, seven point five maybe . . equal in girth and length. there’s a trail of light brown hair below his belly button that stretches into a thin patch of it against his groin, nevertheless, his balls are bare. they’re chubby . . soft yet a little droopy. you would’ve never expected him to be so . . perfect below the waist, albeit, when regarding everything else about him, you suppose it checks out.

“d-do you have . .”

he catches on, “oh, yeah . . uhm,” he picks his shorts again, reaching into the pocket for a lilac packet. “alright.”

you watch him spit into his palm. he strokes it along his length a few times, face momentarily melting into one of ease before he’s ripping open the wrapper, and though it was quick, you try to imprint the picture of him jerking himself within your brain — his arm pumping, bicep flexing, facial muscles relaxing.

your clit thumps. you try to hold off on touching it while watching him carefully roll the condom upon his dick. “hurry,” you’re whiny . . impatient.

he’s whispering, “mm, don’t be a brat,” while crowding back in again though this time he remains standing. he pulls you closer towards the edge of the bed, closer towards him, then forces your legs up and holds one of them out of his way when he grabs the foundation of his cock. you watch him lift it then let it fall upon your chubby, little pussy with a hard smack. you feel the weight of it when he does — it’s leaden and dense . . heavy . . your heart is hammering.

armin smooths the underside between them for a moment, back and forth, lets you both admire the way your lips hug his length tight . . how your pussy begins to speak to him with shy little quips of wetness. “mm, fuck,” he puckers his lips, lets a foamy dribble of spit fall from between him, and with the tip of his cock, he pushes the blob inside of your cunt.

“o-oh!” you tense and pierce your nails in the skin of your thighs, forced to watch as his cock presses in . . inch by inch. it’s weighty, just as you’d thought. it sits within your womb akin to a dumbbell inside of foam, slowly but never halting . . sinking deeper and deeper. “g-god . . oh . . god.” your head falls back.

armin’s watching you . . mostly silent. if it weren’t for his expression, you wouldn’t have thought he felt anything, however, you read how his eyelids have fallen low into his eyes . . his loosened jaw, how his fingers press in deeper and deeper into your calf. when its fully sheathed, you both sit there for a moment, settling in the moment. “mm,” you feel yourself loosening. your eyes flutter open and you take a peek down to commend the picture of your cunt stretched open and full, gratefully taking all that he gives. “y’can . . move.”

“yeah?” armin’s breathless. he’s holding himself scarily still, awaiting the instant you give him a sweet nod.

you don’t think there’s a lot of . . talking after that. he pulls his hips back, leaves about half of him inside, pushes back, then pulls further out, loosening you up further. and you’re trying to keep your eyes open , because armin’s body is pretty. the slight abdominals of his torso flex with push of his cock inside . . and, god, his face is even prettier. and you’re trying not to be too loud, make too much noise because neither of you know who could be outside the door listening. but, disregarding your obvious efforts, both happen.

your eyes shut as you lose yourself in the sensation of being rocked forward and back . . of a hard, thick cock working your pussy nice and well. “oh my god,” you’re whimpering, curling your toes, helplessly wriggling. “oh, fuck . . armin . . a-armin.”

he groans come the sound of his name leaving your lips so beautifully, so melodically. “yeah,” he sighs, pressing your legs back further, leaning himself closer. “feel good? do i feel good, baby?”

it’s adorable how quick you nod. you reach for him, little paws scrambling for his shoulders to bring him nearer. the smacking of skin soon arrives — loud and rhythmic. it induces your eyes to roll back into the back of your skull, coupled with the waxy sound of his dick fucking your slick out of you, firm and steady. “u-ungh . . feels so . .” you feel a harsh sting behind your eyelids. “oh my . . god,” you collapse into tears, holding him tighter when he attempts to pull away. they’re inevitable. you hadn’t known you could feel so good. it frightens you, too. “n-no, keep going . . please. n-need . . your cock . . your cum—“

“—unh, shit,” armin’s gone. you’ve successfully pulled him in. “wan’my cum? how bad?” he’s picking up speed, pushing you further up the bed, no longer opting to stand but lay directly atop of you and pound your sweet, little pussy sore from up above. “how bad? tell me.”

you feel yourself creaming. it’s dripping down the puckered button of your ass, effectively spreading across the front of his balls. “s-so . .” you’re hiccuping. “bad. so fucking bad.”

he’s kissing you, swallowing your cries and keens into the pit of his stomach, “good girl,” he huffs into your mouth. “so f-fuckin good, you have no idea j-just how good you are.”

he fucks you with everything he has — until the bed begins to squeak underneath your conjoined weight and the door rattles on its hinges. how bad he’s wanted this . . for so long. he thinks about what you said, ‘ i’ll be yours. just yours. i promise, ‘ and a warm tremor wracks across the length of his body. that’s all he wants. you as his, him as yours, forever until the end of time itself. he looks down at you — at your bouncing tits, gloss smeared lips, pretty eyes, and decides you’re the only one he cares for to have in this position again. mind completely gone, drool and tears trickling across the berry toned blush and glitter that powders the high peaks of your cheeks. “take it,” he’s moaning, voice broken. he realizes he sounds warbly . . close to erupting into his own laments of raw emotion. “oh g-god, take your f-fuckin’ dick.”

he’s fucking you so hard . . no longer settling on speed but depth. plop . . plop . . plop. your legs find themselves thrown over his shoulders, your knees touching your ears. “ ‘m gonna cum,” you’re gasping, wriggling harder. “f-fuck . . y’gonna make m’cum.”

“yes,” one of his hands reaches down and he finds the tiny, slick nub of your clit to sweetly caress with precious halos. “ ‘ll take it . . you know i will. give it to me.”

you feel out of body. your mouth falls agape however no sound emerges. it’s nothing but the notes of his breathing, skin clapping, and the bed creaking until you’re suddenly releasing a slow, hard sob as you paint his cock white with a slow deluge of thick cream. armin groans laggard and low along with you, stroking you through it, never increasing or slowing his pace. you’re dizzy. you don’t even comprehend him moving until you find yourself now up top — ass against his thighs, chest pressed against his. he’s underneath you, gazing up at you with fondness glowing within the chasmal darkness of his distended pupils.

“y’so pretty,” he whispers, rocking his hips up slow and steady, successfully pushing his cock up into the squelching warmth of your cunt each time. “pussy feels so good. don’t want anyone else. i jus’ n-need you.” he’s spewing every thought that enters his mind. you can’t help but kiss him. your affection is his vitality. suddenly his arms are wrapped around you, tight, mimicking a hug. it’s a hold to keep you still and firm as he pace increases, sending you separating from his lips with a small squeak of surprise emitted. “oh god,” you’re gasping, holding onto the headboard for stability. “oh — yesyesyesyes.”

“all mine, right?” he’s asking, face painted in titillation. “ ‘s my pussy?”

“ ‘m yours,” you’re weeping and nodding when he does, brainlessly complying. “m’pussy’s yours. all y-yours.”

there’s a smack — a loud one. he swats it against the cheek of your ass and repeats the motion against the other. and then, armin loses himself. he focuses on that fat, wad of pure, undiluted pleasure, rolling through the lines of his veins, towards the base of his core. his eyes close, head tilts back, “awe, shit,” his pitch is rising the closer he gets. “ungh, unh, shit, pussy’s s-so f-fuckin good — shit . .” he feels your lips on his neck again, skimming, suckling, kissing. it’s a pressure point for him. he’s sensitive. “. . i’m gonna f-fuckin—“

suddenly you’re moving. you’re hurrying, climbing off of him, sliding down between his legs and pulling the condom off. armin watches you eyes wide, breathing labored . . and then, against all odds, you’re swallowing his cock into the channel of your throat. it’s so sudden, so unforeseen that when it happens, his cum is erupting from the crown of his cock before you both can even really expect it. “o-o-oh fuck,” he shudders, eyes rolling back, fingers pinching the messy sheets. you whimper, guzzling it all down happily. your hips even shift . . from side to side, as if you were an overeager pup with a wagging tail. you don’t move until you swallow. armin gives a small whimper, watching his dick pop free from the confinements of your lips. you’re softly smiling, planting a kiss against the tip, stroking your tongue tenderly against his balls.

he’s done for.

nonetheless, you’re happy . . so he’s happy. your smile is wide, eyes glisten, and he can’t help but mimic it as you come to a sweet curl and nuzzle upon his chest. there’s a kiss given to the crown of your head and one given upon the back of his hand. you’ve never felt more sated.

“mm,” he shuffles, brings you closer and kisses your lips. “. . what’re you doin’ for spring break?”

the question has to take a moment to enter and process within your still foggy mind. you’re quiet for a while, simply thinking. “. . i-i dunno,” you whisper. “nothing. you?”

he gives you one of his pretty, princely smiles, “wanna camp out on a strawberry farm?”

---

sucker punch (m) — sae itoshi

in the pivotal moments leading up to the most significant fight of his career against his estranged younger brother, sae meets a girl who turns his entire world upside down

warnings:- underground fighter!sae, fem!reader, heiress!reader, reader is coded to be feminine (wears dresses, makeup, heels, etc), language, cursing, mentions of blood, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, unprotected sex, cowgirl, rough sex, petnames (princess, whore, slut, daddy's girl), choking, power play between sae and reader, degradation, sae is an ass towards reader

✯ chapter 1

Sae didn’t believe in love. 

Growing up in a harsh part of Tokyo where he had to fend for himself and his little brother, Rin, gave him an understanding that the world was a cruel place. Yet even crueller were the promises of a happy ending he read in crumpled up paperbacks the old bookstore down his apartment would throw out after it started to yellow. 

It was always the love stories that rarely got sold. 

Boy meets girl, they fall in love, they fight, they reunite and they live—

“Happily ever after,” Oliver’s voice slammed him out of his reverie. Those heterochromatic eyes prodded him when his silence got too loud. 

“Sae, were you even listening to what I just said?” 

The younger man slid his apathetic teal eyes to his comrade and friend. He gave a noncommittal shrug.

Aiku sighed. His frustration was threatening to boil over. It would be a month till the U20’s biggest match against Blue Lock and their starfighter was a million miles away. 

“I said: We can try the underhanded tactic to bring either Isagi or Rin down and then go for the throat. The money will be ours and we can make enough bank to last us for a year. Neither of us have to fight again. That will be our happily ever after.”

Sae was tired of listening to miracles. He stood up abruptly and nodded. 

“Whatever. I’m heading home now.” 

Aiku didn’t stop him from leaving, and neither did their other comrades.

Shouldering his heavy parka onto his sore shoulders, Sae stalked out of the U20 facility and to his car. The interior stank of takeout, sweat and the tinny rust of blood. He gunned the engine, but it faltered. Cursing under his breath, he tried again. And again. 

But, the stupid engine refused to start.

Contemplating if he should just push the damn car back to his apartment, he almost missed a soft voice clearing her throat.

“Do you need help, sir?” 

Sae was about to retort that he had it under control and she should mind her own business, when he caught sight of you. 

Dressed in a simple, beige A-line piece that showed off your legs and arms, a chain dangling from your neck and a pair of sunglasses perched on your head, you were the picture of quiet elegance. The fancy clothing couldn’t contain the humble appearance of your smile when you motioned to his car. 

“I have a pair of jumpstart cables. You could borrow them.” He still hadn’t responded to you. “If you want,” you added hastily, not wanting to seem pushy. 

Sae blinked. His silence stretched on without an intermission. 

You faltered and let your embarrassment swallow you whole. In hindsight, Sae found it adorable how you flushed and stuttered like you wished your entire existence would melt away just from his unresponsiveness. 

“Sure. That would be great.” After a beat of hesitation, he added a word which seemed foreign coming from his rough and rude tongue. “Thanks.” 

This should be the part of the story where boy meets girl. 

Sae jump started his car with your help, and as a treat for your kindness, he invited you to a late night izakaya selling his favourite kombu ramen. You were a stranger passing by, someone from the upper end side of Tokyo who noticed him struggling and decided to help.

You told him you knew what it was like to struggle and not be aided. Sae wondered what you could’ve possibly meant when he caught sight of the signet ring on your right hand. A mark of an elite.

He straightened, unintentionally freezing over. You didn’t know him; didn’t know that he was one of the men your world employed as free entertainment for nights when they craved a hit of violence. The both of you were as different as day and night.

“So, what do you do for a living?” you had asked him. 

Sae decided to tell you a lie. “I’m a blue collar worker. Delivering stuff.”

“Oh.” You took a look at the finished bowls and beers, the order sheet at the edge of the table. As if understanding what you were planning to do, Sae snatched the bill right in front of your extended hand. He couldn’t resist the small smirk decorating his face when you started to huff and pout.

“My treat,” he murmured, removing his battered wallet from inside his pant’s pocket. “And then we’re even.”

Except, he never did want to draw a tie or cut them off with you. 

Sae studied your car number plate, memorising it and used some of his connections to dig up more information about you. 

He didn’t have to look far. 

Your family were well-known as some of Blue Lock’s biggest sponsors, a direct rival of the U20 faction. Born from a history of blood and violence, your grandfather had been the first pioneer of a fight club that eventually changed the trajectory of his and many other poor men’s lives. As the money poured in, so did the promise of more extortion and exploitation.

Sae reasoned that he should’ve hated you. After all, you were partly the reason why he had to fight for a living.

But, he was intrigued by you. Your gentleness, your humble disposition. 

You were a rare jewel he had to unearth. 

One day, out of the serendipitous blue, life seemed to listen to his wishes and granted him a rare glimpse into your world.

As one of the rising Platinum fighters who everyone could bet on, Sae was invited to a networking gala hosted by none other than Ego Jinpachi himself. A raging egoist of a man who held his fighter’s lives in his palms like a deranged puppeteer, Sae found himself sitting opposite Rin and his bloodthirsty mentor.

Such a sight would not be unsettling.

As two opposite ends of the fighting arena’s spectrum, Sae and Rin drew lots of attention from potential investors.

The story of two brothers, once tightly knitted and now estranged only to eventually meet in the ring as opponents one day, was a huge investment factor. Filthy rich men with more money than God flocked to both Aiku and Ego to have a hand in orchestrating one of the biggest, historical fights in all of Tokyo’s history.

And tonight, Sae had to face each of them, wondering who would be the one to bolster up his gear or bet on whether he would emerge victorious against his brother. On the opposite side of the table, Rin was detached and uninterested. 

Both brothers barely said a word to each other all night; didn’t even glance at the other from across the table.

This apparently caused quite a stir with the investors who were taken by their stone cold treatment of one another. 

It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? To face one’s own blood in a ring and fight to spill it? 

Sae felt his brow twitch, and the room was starting to cave in. He needed to leave for some air or he would lunge across the table and sock these lofty motherfuckers right in their faces. 

The garden was a work of art designed by Ego’s careful hands. After stumbling out of the mansion’s door, he tried to hide himself behind a hedge, staring up at the starless sky as his heart continued pounding in his chest. Sae fully expected to be alone, and not to find a familiar face outside just a few feet from him, nor for you to still recognise him despite the slicked back hair and fancy suit.

“Sae,” you smiled, red lips parted to reveal a row of perfect teeth. You put out your cigarette into a Roman pillar column, leaving a halo of ash and a burnt skid on the otherwise pristine concrete. Sae thought it was rather rebellious of you to do that. “Fancy meeting you here.” 

Tipping your head to the side, you studied him. His flushed cheeks, tight lips. 

“I thought you said you were a blue collar worker?” 

He decided to come clean, spitting out the truth in equal parts aggression and apathy. 

“I’m an underground fighter.”

The auburn-haired man fully expected you to crinkle your expression in disgust. Not nodding in understanding. 

“I figured. Most blue collar workers don’t have bruised knuckles.” 

Unconsciously, he tightened his fists, feeling the callouses and the split skin stretching across his knuckles. “If you knew who I was, then why didn’t you say something?” 

Why didn’t you leave? 

Rich girls like you had no use for men like him. He was a stain under your shoe, a man with a God complex high off a violent occupation with no God in sight. But, you only smiled at his question. 

“You didn’t fawn over me even when you noticed my ring. I like that.” 

Somehow, you had gotten close enough for him to smell the vanilla from your hair. Sae tipped his head back, turning his gaze to the side; the action pressing him deeper against the brambly hedge walls. “Whatever you think will happen tonight will not happen.” 

He pretended like his heart didn’t skip a beat when you reached for his hand, so much rougher compared to your soft ones. You circled your thumb over the bruise on his palm, increasing the pressure till he felt the wound throb. 

“Stop that.” But, he didn’t pull his hand away. 

You grinned. “What do you think will happen tonight, Sae?” 

His handsome, arrogant face broke out into a sneer. “Just because you order men like me around every single damn day doesn’t mean I have to give into your whims, princess.” He wrenched his hand from yours, trying to ignore how much your touch singed his skin. “And don’t ever touch me again.” 

Brushing off your crestfallen expression, he strode back into the mansion, feeling more breathless than when he abandoned the suffocating room full of investors and back-talk about his skills. Rin had left a few minutes after he had, and with his little brother out of the room, he could finally relax. 

Except, you chose this moment to enter the same room. 

Immediately, everyone stood up. 

“L/N-san. Welcome.” 

You weren’t the teasing, sweet girl in the garden anymore. Instead, you wore a look of fabricated disinterest, roaming your eyes over every single man. Lingering your searing gaze on his own wide ones before turning to Ego. 

“My father sent me here as a representative. Now, which star player do you recommend I speak to first?” 

Everyone started to clamour, calling for your attention like dogs scraping at their master’s legs for the last bone. 

Eventually, Aiku was the one who cleared his throat loud enough to get the entire room’s attention. Through the hazy tobacco smoke, he cut a handsome figure in his suit, languidly rising to his feet and gesturing at Sae.

“L/N-san, Itoshi Sae is one of U20's undefeatable players. A 6-streak win and low possibility of injuries. A prodigy. You should speak to him first, miss.” 

Sae felt like you were analysing him through his suit. 

After a beat of tension, you nodded. “Fine. Send him up to my private room.” 

You turned and left. Sae stood up, hesitantly casting his gaze to a triumphant Aiku. 

“Are you sure she is the richest one out of these assholes?” he murmured under his breath. 

Oliver chuckled.

“The richest. With her backing, we’re practically golden. Now, go and woo her. You’ll do great.” 

Straightening his tie, Aiku sent him off with a wink. Unlike the atmosphere at the garden, this time, Sae was aware he had to be on his best behaviour—which was a challenge considering he had already rudely brushed off a potential investor. 

Fuck, he swore internally. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Why had he been so brash with you?

There was no use in crying over lost chances. He had to man up and knock on the door to your office—face you when he had already insulted you right in the face.

Sae braced his hand on the red oak, breathing in deeply. Here goes nothing. He knocked three times. 

“Come in.” 

You were sitting on a sofa, legs crossed and expression neutral. Not once did you give him a look like you were hurt from his rejection in the garden. Instead, you stood up, gaze cold and faraway. 

“So. You’re the prodigy, hmm?” 

Sae kept his eyes lowered, not touching yours. “Yes.” 

You patted the sofa seat next to you, gesturing for him to come over. “Sit. We have a lot to discuss.”

Gingerly, he sat down on the other end of the sofa, putting enough distance between the two of you not to make things any more awkward than it already was. 

The silence dragged on. Sae stared at the fireplace—the flickering embers throwing lengthening shadows around the room. He counted the cadence of your breath; discreetly wiped his sweaty palms on his expensive slacks.

You broke the silence first with an airy giggle. 

“I had no idea I was speaking to such a talented young man.” 

He looked up and caught the barest hint of a smirk on your pretty lips. Swallowing his dry throat, Sae croaked, “And I had no idea you were… influential.” 

You chuckled, placing your hands on your demurely on your lap. “It’s not me. It’s my father. I’m just his representative. You see, he’s currently bed bound from an injury and doesn’t have any sons so it’s up to me to oversee his work.” 

Sae responded to your words with a heartfelt nod, wishing he could turn back the time and slap his old self from pissing off a very powerful investor (and a very beautiful woman). 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be.” 

Glancing at him up and down, you chuckled. “I guess we’re at an impasse here. And to think I nearly committed indecency by proposing you come back to my place.” 

The memory of your hand in his sparked like a flame in his mind, burning his skin. 

“Yes. To think we could’ve done something like that.” 

Your eyes lowered to his hands. His pretty teal gaze flickered to your exposed throat. 

“It would be horrible.” Your foot brushed his knee. Sae tightened his hands into fists. 

Despite the warning bells going off in his head, he relapsed back into his impulsivity, letting it taint his next move with his debilitating habit of never saying no to danger.  

“Disgusting,” he retorted, smoothly playing your game. 

You gasped, low and quick, when he stretched his hand out to graze your bare shin. He almost smiled at your eagerness. 

Pretty rich Daddy’s girl with not a shred of self-preservation in her…

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you mumbled, uncrossing your legs and inching closer to him. 

“We shouldn’t,” he confirmed, gruff and sure, but his body was betraying him; moving to meet you in the middle of this wide sofa. 

There was something mesmerising about your eyes and face. It entranced him, kept him hooked on the curve of your profile and those alluring lips. 

Your breath brushed his cheek, warm and inviting. “It would cause a scandal.” 

Sae curled his palm over your jaw, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “It would.” You turned your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb. Such a simple gesture made a thrill of electricity run up his spine, painfully shocking him to the heat pooling right in his groin.

“People will talk.” 

He was growing tired of this lame cat and mouse game. Moving closer, he bridged the gap, resting his large palm on your lower back to nudge you not-so-gently onto his lap. The weight of you felt familiar—right. This close, your scent of vanilla was stronger, nearly overpowering him. 

Before his lips brushed yours with an intensity that nearly made you dizzy with lust, he mumbled: 

“Let them.”

“Sae,” you mewled, nails stabbing into his fleshy biceps. 

He had you pressed against your own bedroom door, creaming right on his cock like the perfect little whore you were. Your makeup was ruined, red lipstick smudged and eyeliner crinkled in the corners. 

You had let him push your dress to the side, your panties ripped and in tatters on the floor. Sae was quick to fuck you the moment you gave him the green light to, and like the scrappy underground fighter he was, he never missed out on seizing a golden opening. 

Your thighs were trembling around his waist, struggling to hold yourself up right. Sae’s mouth devoured your weak mewls, and you let him paw at your covered breasts, ripping the dress down to expose your stiff, bare peaks. 

“No bra?” He murmured into the heat of your mouth.

You shook your head, a breathless laugh tumbling past your kiss-swollen lips. “I—mhm—don’t like to wear one.” 

“In a room with the other men…” Sae trailed off, a frightening flash of jealousy igniting his veins. The thought of any other man seeing those perfectly suckable nipples even through the silky hint of your dress made him want to break their teeth.

His growl reverberated against your throat, and you were thrown onto the bed, his larger frame crowding you into the sheets.

Sae hitched your thighs up to his shoulders, those teal eyes alight with feral lust.

“Slut.” He slid his cock back into your throbbing depths the second that degrading pet name slipped out of his mouth. “Whore. You could’ve shown them what was mine—what belongs to me.”

He bunched your cocktail dress out of the way, exposing your tits and pussy right into the cold air of your stuffy bedroom.

“Mhmf,” your eyes rolled back into your head. You were panting, bullets of sweat dripping down your face. “I-I belong to you? Says who?” 

The Prodigy nearly broke the headboard into two when he slammed into you, hard enough for the entire bed to shake. Your squeal rebounded across the room, sparking his filthy satisfaction.

“Me,” he growled breathlessly. “I said it. You belong to me.” 

Curling one hand possessively around your throat, the sloppy sounds of your two sexes meeting together sent him on a hazy high. Those teal eyes were glazed over, the broad muscles on his back twisting and flexing with every thrust into your tight, welcoming heat. 

Sae was careful not to choke you too hard, but hard enough for your mouth to fall slack, pathetic whines and drool slipping past your slick lips. 

Your toes were curled tightly in his periphery, one hand in between your legs to frantically rub your clit.

“Fucking whore,” he grunted, trying not to swoon at how pretty your sweat-covered skin looked like in the dim moonlight. “Daddy’s girl taking this dick like a champ.”

“Sae,” you dragged out his name. Ending it with a choke.

Sae felt your walls rippling around his cock, and he wasted no time in diving headfirst in between your cleavage to nip and suck at your plush fat; nursing on your nipples like a man close to starvation.

You seized, back arching and he felt those perfect velvet walls choke on his dick. Squeezing down on him.

“Cumming for me already?” He spoke in between harsh exhales. “Fuck. Fuck. This pussy is fucking perfect. I want you to cum for me—only for me. Do it, Y/N. Milk this cock, Princess. Let me fucking fill you up—fuck.” His choked moan made you see stars; the hand around your throat was now gripping your hair, forcing your feverish lips onto his. 

You practically ripped at his dress shirt, tearing two buttons off to scratch down his chest. Animalistic whines and low grunts filled the heated space between both your mouths. Sae tasted like champagne and regrets, his tongue lapping right at your teeth. 

With one last hard thrust, you broke around his cock, triggering his warmth to fill you up. 

Sae slumped onto you, and you dug your heels into the band of his slacks, pushing it further down his toned thighs to expose the rise of his firm ass to your wandering eye.

Your nails bit into the plush globes, raking down his thighs. You played with his balls, squeezing on them lightly to take every drop. Unable to resist taking all of him however you could. 

Sae smeared hot kisses down your throat, on your jaw and across your heaving mouth; completely smitten by how cockhungry you were. 

The both of you sat in the filth of your mutual mistake, stewing in the greasy silence until you nudged his shoulder. The look in your eyes was glorious; an opponent about to make her next move. Usually, he would push back—never surrender.

But, something locked his muscles in place, keeping him focused on the rise of your shoulders—the dip of your collarbone painted in his hickies. 

He let you push him back onto the bed, watching intently as you ripped the expensive dress right off your frame, gesturing to his still clothed torso.

“Take it off. Let me see you.” 

Like the obedient fighter he was, Sae unbuttoned his white dress shirt, letting it melt off his broad frame and onto the floor. Scars littered his milky pale skin, catching your curiosity. He silently observed as you straddled his thighs, working his cock back to half-mast with your much smaller fingers. All the while your other hand never stopped caressing his broad pecs and chest; tracing his scars. 

Sae didn’t know what possessed him to sit still and watch you. 

It was like seeing a painting coming to life; the remorse which melted into determination right in your fiery eyes. 

He let you sink down his cock, bracing your palms right on his shoulders. You bucked your hips slowly, grinding down on him with a painful passion; almost like you were afraid of making any sudden movement.

Sae found his large palms slotting perfectly on your hips, holding you right in place. 

Pleasure unfurled itself down your body, bending your spine back. It soused across your face, turning your determined stare hazy. You locked eyes with him, and he didn’t dare look away. 

“Feels so good,” you managed to pant. “Your cock feels so good.” 

He undulated his hips upward, instinct pushing him to surge towards the opening of your cervix. “Yeah?” he almost growled. “Can’t keep your fucking hands to yourself—you’re such an eager slut.”

Despite you being on top of him, Sae was still in charge. He clamped a hand around your throat; yanked on your hair until your neck snapped back and your cry bounced across the room. 

“Ride me,” he spat and then licked his lips. “Prove to me that good whores deserve to cum. Make me proud, baby.” 

Sae was entranced; unable to tear his eyes away from your pussy leaving milky rings of cream around his cock. 

“Mhm,” you tearfully whined. “Yes, yes! I wanna make you proud—wanna make you cum again.”

A thick arm swept you to his chest, muffling your cries right into his throat. Sae bit down on the tender juncture between your neck and shoulder, bucking his hips up into you with enough ferocity to nearly throttle you off the bed. 

“Fuck—” he snarled, grabbing at every inch of your skin; spanking your ass, groping it, raking his nails down your back. 

Doing everything he could to get you melting for him. 

“Give it to me, baby.” Not an order; but a desperate plea. “Cum for me—make me cum. Pretty girl. Pretty baby—g-gonna make me lose my mind—” 

“I’m cumming!” Your hitched gasp rang loudly in his ear, like an explosion of joyous surrender. “S-Sae, I-I’m—” 

Your walls rippled around him for the second time tonight, and for the first time ever, Sae found a new rush in his life that wasn’t centred around bruised knuckles and split, bloody teeth. 

He welcomed it—that surge of crazed passion, so different from when he was about to snuff a man’s life out with his bare hands. Felt it twist his bones, break his soul. 

The world exploded in a white ball of heat again, right into the depths of your body, his heart shattering into dust. 

Sae tasted your honeyed whisper of his name on his tongue, felt your tears stain his throat. 

He held onto you as tightly as he could, afraid that if he opened his eyes, he might find himself back in the ring, the glaring lights forcing your smile from his memory.

But, the jeers and cheers never came. The bell never rang. 

It was the sweetest fight he had ever lost. 

This was the part of the story Itoshi Sae never expected. 

Sae never had a home. His old apartment was recalled back by a shitty landlord who didn’t care about two orphans trying to stay afloat with what little money their dead parents had left them. When social services had taken Rin away, they tried to get him, too, but he was faster. 

Swiftly escaping out the window, Sae recalled nothing else but memories of wet underground passageways, nights rummaging through garbage bins and saddling up to the closest homeless community for warmth and company. 

Eventually, he met Aiku and everything else that transpired before he became The Prodigy was history. 

Fighting was all he had ever known. Violence and terror were all familiar flavours on his tongue. 

But tonight, in your sheets, Sae found another sensation creeping up his unsuspecting body that he could not quite name. It was sticky and hot, curling down his spine like a languid rush of lava to pool somewhere deep in his chest when he took in the sight of your pussy wrapped around his cock. 

He fucked you deep and hard, like he was trying to erase that sensation. But, you brought it back to the surface with your fingers in his hair, your lips on his and the sweet moans of his name brushing his hot ears. 

Where it was easy to repress his entire soul away from the world, Sae struggled to keep his emotions in a tightly shut jar under your gentle attention. 

Sae never believed in love; never believed in someone else’s goodness long enough to be confident in his own grace. But, he supposes that tonight’s encounter with you was the closest to love he could ever get. 

You let him stay the night, comfortable with him warming your sheets. Sae spent the entire sunrise staring at your face, memorising the curve of your nose and cheeks. That strange sensation was back again, this time stirring him to brush a piece of hair from your temple. 

But, like every good love story, it would not be the same without personal demons haunting every sentence. 

Sae wasn’t good for you; he knew that. You were a whole station above him, impervious and untouchable. 

Unlike fighting, there was no prize in the arena of love. No fame, no glory. 

Sae wasn’t sure what would be at the end of this chapter, and a part of him, the scared little boy who had been abandoned by forces beyond his control, didn’t want to stay to find out. 

Nothing good would come out of this if he pursued a story that he didn’t know an end to. 

The morning after, he had vanished, and you woke up alone in this too big apartment; smell of cedar and oranges still lining your blankets. 

Like it was a dream or a memory you could not quite shake off, you wandered down the halls, rustling every corner to find a shred of the man you had trusted enough to let into your inner world. But, he hadn’t stayed long enough to give your world any colour. 

The cold walls adorned with art your father had personally picked out for this apartment didn’t reflect your taste or your fondness as you stared at them, hard coals for eyes. The picture in front of you was of a woman, running free in a grassy sea. Above her, a weak sun shone down, illuminating her golden hair. 

Monet must’ve been the inspiration for this work, and though the French painter was known for his art that brought a sense of peace to the viewers, this particular one did not inspire the same notion. Perhaps it was the clinical wall it was attached to, or the furniture surrounding it that did not give off the warmth a serene painting like this was supposed to emote.

Whatever it was, you didn’t dwell on it long; turning on your heel and stomping back to your orange-cedar scented sheets, trying to ignore the pathetic ache in your heart which echoed the indent on the empty side of your bed.

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

---

Dilf Toji fucks you nice and slow when you’re done putting Megumi down for bed. He wants to thank you for being so good to him and his son. As a single dad it gets hard so when you came into the picture offering your services it was hard to deny such a genuine offer. You’re so good to Megumi, gentle, kind and patient. Toji can’t help the growing bulge in his pants when he sees you being such a strong mother figure. He has to show you his gratitude. The best way he can do that is by having you in a mating press so he can fuck you nice and deep. 

“You like that?” his voice is a soft hum. 

You feel dizzy. His cock feels so deep. He’s stretching you out more than ever before. You call out his name in a soft whimper.

“Yeah? I’m right here doll don't worry I’m not going anywhere” he groans.

Toji’s obsessed with the way you look taking his cock. Your hole looks so perfect clenching, barely able to fit all of him. You look so full, Toji can’t help but imagine how full you would look with his cum drooling out of you. He has to see it. He’s determined to fuck you full of his cum. His cock plunges in and out of you creating a pattern. Your moans fall past your lips making a tune Toji never wants to forget. 

“That’s it, good girl, say my name” you sound so pretty to him. “Tell me who fucks you this good, say it , tell me no one can make you shake like this, no one can fill this pussy up the way i can”

He’s never felt himself lose control like this before. There’s something about you, something that leaves him desperate for more. He craves you, desires you every waking second. The way your lips part letting pleads and moans drip off your tongue has him losing his mind. He can’t get enough of you. He knows he should be quiet but the way your cunt feels squeezing him so tight he thinks he just might lose his mind. “That feel good baby? Yeah I know” he coos “I’m gonna fuck you so full” his pace is picking up speed. 

His mind is practically blank thinking of how he wants to fill you to the brim with his cum. No that’s not enough he needs to give you every last drop he has. 

“You need my cum don’t you” he’s desperate to hear you say it. He’s practically begging to hear you asking for his cum. Tell him how much you want his babies. He can make you a mommy. Don’t you want him to make you a mommy?

“Our baby is gonna be so beautiful” he whispers. He isn’t sure if you can hear him but he doesn’t mind as long as you’re still losing your mind calling out his name. 

“That’s right” he growls “Say my name while I fuck a baby into you”

His hand push your thighs further down so he can reach deeper. The way he drags his cock past you slick walls has you shaking. Your words come out slurred. 

“It’s too big” you whine as he goes deeper

“No no you can take it.” he bites he lips continuing his long deep strokes. He knows you can take it. Your eyes roll back when he begins grinding his hips into you. He knows he’s hit the spot he’s been searching for. 

“There she is” he chuckles. 

You can barely contain the moans now. Your body is shaking uncontrollably. 

“Please” you gasp “S-slow down, I’m gonna make a mess” you cry.

Toji loves the sound of that. He thrust pick up speed, fucking into you even harder. 

“That’s it, just like that, make a mess on my cock.”

He’s desperately chasing after his own orgasm. He wants to cum with you. His thrust are sloppy. He’s moaning your name pleading for you to cum for him. 

“Cum-fuck Now” he demands. 

You can’t help the juices the splatter against his abs as he fucks his load into you. The two of you are a moaning mess. You ramble incoherent words paired with his name. His eyes are glued on the sticky mess between the two of you. The squelching sounds of his cock fucking his cum back in fill the room. 

“What a pretty sight this is. I hope it’s a girl” he moans “She’ll have your eyes” 

You can barely give him a reply to focused on the way his cock is still plunging in and out. 

“It’s too much” you slur.

“No baby it’s not enough” he groans “I gotta make sure this tummy is full of my cum. One more just one more okay”

Toji has plans on fucking way more than just one more load into you. He has to fuck you full until he’s sure of it you’ll be the one carrying Megumi’s little sister.

---

"creature of myth."

pairing: vampire!gojo x fem!human!reader summary: when you receive an offer of marriage from a mysterious wealthy lord, it’s too good a deal for your family to turn down. but nothing could be so perfect... right? content: MDNI (18+  ONLY), dark content, nsfw, gets dubcon/noncon in some spots, yandere behavior from gojo, implied death/k*lling of a character (not reader or gojo), arranged marriage, victorian au, plot that ends with porn lmao, spooky dooky vibes, blood, blood sucking/eating, praise, biting, unprotected sex, creampie, virgin!reader, discussion of virginity, cherry popping, pain, pet names (princess/love), reader is highkey clueless about sex, discussion of masturbation, ideas of masturbation as “sinful”, very minor religious themes, fated “mates”, gojo is highkey insane, coercion and manipulation, like SO much neck kissing, ooc gojo??? (had to alter his character to match a victorian vampire lord LMAO). a/n: PLEASE READ THE CONTENT WARNINGS. THERE IS DARK CONTENT AHEAD. is this a gojo fic or a twilight fic?? Going back to my roots fr fr. straight down to the “SAY IT, SAY IT”. this fic is also way too long my apologies bbs. i hope you like a hefty side of plot with your porn. parts of this fic feel way too cheesy to me but sometimes i eat that up, yk?? this fic was inspired by this amazing work by @rice5x ! and, finally, thank you all for the support on my most recent fics. i'm just getting back into being active on this blog and it's been amazing reading each and every comment/reblog/ask. they genuinely fill me with so much joy. keep them coming hehe. anyway, i hope you enjoy and remember, ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED. credits: dividers by @cafekitsune. banner art by @ndsoda on twitter. wc: 11.6k (sowwy)

You remember perfectly the way your mother’s jaw dropped when Satoru Gojo proposed to you. You’d never seen the man, and you still hadn’t. He’d asked to marry you via messenger, a simple letter delivered by hand with a list of all the things he’d be willing to pay for your hand. Offers of money, land, protection, connection- anything so long as he got you. You’d thought it was a joke. Your father nearly took a shovel to the head of the poor messenger, thinking the letter was some kind of cruel prank, some sort of targeted disrespect. You’d only started to believe when you really looked- saw the Gojo crest embroidered on the man’s suit, the fine leather of his boots. If it was a prank, somebody had spent a great deal of money and effort to pull it off. 

You’d asked for proof nonetheless, and you’d gotten it. Documents signed and sealed with a well-known waxen crest, gifts that could only have been purchased by a wealthy lord. The one thing you never got was the lord himself. He refused to see you, to come down from his mysterious castle on the hill. It didn’t surprise you. He rarely deemed town worthy of his presence. He had a reputation as a recluse, as a man who only ever liked to see and never be seen. What little glimpses people got of him were usually through the dark window of his carriage. Still, his appearance preceded him. White hair, light eyes… “haunting” said those who had the luck to see him. Those who went to work for the lord tended to return… changed— if they returned at all. 

You accepted, of course. How could you not? You were a peasant family with no status or wealth to your name. The promises Lord Gojo had made would make your parents into aristocrats all on their own. But that left you wondering… why did he want you? You offered him no benefit. If anything, you sullied his bloodline. The question scratched at the back of your mind. It came to you while you ate breakfast, while you washed your clothes, while you weeded in the garden. Some part of you told you that you needed the answer before you ever stepped foot in that castle. You needed that answer, but you’d never get it. 

Your wedding wasn’t even a wedding- just a piece of paper that had already been signed and witnessed, once again delivered by a familiar messenger. You signed at your dining room table and… that was that. You were married. 

Later that night the carriages arrive. Men flood your home, all dressed in blue velvet, the Gojo crest embroidered on their chests. They seem puzzled when you tell them you’ve packed all your belongings into a measly three bags. 

You say a quick goodbye to your parents, drawing them into stiff embraces. You love them, and they love you, but you can’t bear to see their faces as they send you away to a man who couldn’t even show his face for your wedding. 

The carriage ride is somehow longer than you’d thought it would be- apparently, the castle’s size makes it seem deceptively close. The trip is rocky and twisty and altogether unpleasant as you steadily make your way toward the castle gates. By the time you reach them you think you’ve probably dozed in and out of consciousness at least half a dozen times. 

The castle is even more intimidating up close. Spires that swirl into the clouds, sculptures that stare, doors that look more suited to being locked than opened. It’s… terrifying. 

When you finally roll to a stop, you move for the door. When you swing it open you get your fair share of strange looks from your attendants and remember that you should have waited for the footman. Your face heats as you climb out anyway, unwilling to subject yourself to the further humiliation of waiting for assistance. 

Your feet hit gravel and all you can do is stare- up, up, up, to where the castle’s peaks disappear into the fog. When your eye flashes to a window on the east side of the manor you think you see a swaying curtain. You tuck your arms around yourself and shiver, but it’s not from the cold. 

You nearly stumble over your feet on your first step inside. The entrance hall is larger than your former house, with ceilings that stretch so high you can hardly make out the figures on the frescoes that adorn it. Silver and blue drape everywhere, the Gojo family colors. You swallow when you see a chair that is most definitely worth more than your family’s annual income. 

The floors are marble and when your worn heels clack against it, you only feel reminded that you don’t belong here. That question pricks in your mind again as you pass portraits of every Gojo heir to have lived in the last three hundred years. Why me? Why me? Why me? 

Your footman deposits you in your room, a place more lavish than you’ve ever seen. You have a four poster bed with a canopy of blue velvet, a window that overlooks a sprawling estate, and more square footage than you’ve ever dreamed of. 

“Pull this if you need any sort of assistance, ma’am.” 

You turn to see your footman referencing a silver cord at your bedside. You assume it’s one of those contraptions that rings a bell in the servants’ quarters. You try to hide your amazement- you’ve never seen one in real life before. 

You clear your throat and give your most ladylike nod. “Thank you, um-” you pause, your brow furrowing. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I asked your name.” 

Your footman appears stunned to silence, like he’d never expected you to care about his existence, much less his name. He recovers quickly, though, and forces a small smile. “Thomas, ma’am.”

You smile and it’s genuine. “Thank you, Thomas.”He bows and makes a beeline for the door, but you have one more question. “Oh, um, Thomas-” He freezes, turning slowly on his heel to face you. 

“Yes, my lady?” 

You cringe at the title. The sound of it creeps across your skin, foreign and… wrong. Why me? Why me? Why me?

You clear your throat again. “Do you know, um, well-” You shift, trying to word your question properly. “Do you know when I might see the Lord?” 

There is a pause, a moment of tension and silence, and then an answer. “No, my lady.”

Thomas does not stick around for more questioning. The door clicks shut behind him and then you're left with only the sound of retreating footsteps. 

You’re stunned to say the least, mouth still halfway open, more questions on the tip of your tongue. Should you seek him out? Was that proper? Would he come to you? Would he meet you for dinner, perhaps? Surely he would come to your room tonight to… consummate. Would that be the first time you lay eyes on him? When he’s over you? 

You sigh. There’s nothing much to be done about it now. You find your way to the bed and sit down hesitantly. It feels like a crime to rumple such primped and polished cotton. You do it anyway- it’s going to happen sometime, right? You fall back against the mattress and don’t fail to notice how utterly comfortable it is. The silvery patterns on your canopy swirl and bend together. You’re tired. You didn’t sleep much last night, anxious for the morning… and it’s only mid-afternoon now. You had time for a nap, right? Your eyes are closing before you can convince yourself it’s a bad idea and then you’re swept away into a world of warm darkness. 

You wake with a start. Your first thought is that it’s dark now. Your room is pitch black except for the stream of moonlight passing through your stupidly large window. Your mouth feels dry and your skin is cold, like you’ve just woken from a nightmare. If you have, you don’t remember it. Perhaps that’s a blessing. 

You sit up, combing a finger through your hair and laughing pitifully when you realize that you left your shoes on as you slept. You hope Thomas didn’t walk in to find you in yet another unladylike position. A glance at the foot of the bed reveals he might have. Your bags have arrived- all three of them. You eye them with a combination of longing and contempt. They don't match this place. They’re worn and used- everything here is shiny and new. Still, they’re all you have, and all you have left of your life before. All you have left of home. 

You stretch your arms above your head, nearly groaning at the burn in your muscles. The carriage ride did your body no favors and you suspect you’ll be sore for many days to come. 

You rise, no longer content to lie in bed. You’ve had your rest and, from the state of darkness outside, you suspect your new husband might be joining you soon. The thought twists a certain tightness into your gut, but you push it aside. If that was the price you paid for all he gave your family… then you’d pay it gladly. 

You start with candles, finding a box of matches at your bedside. You light every candelabra you can find. The room, the castle, seems so perpetually… black- like it soaks up every ray of light it touches. Even when you’ve finished it doesn’t feel like enough. You make a note to ask Thomas for more in the morning. 

You find a meal, carefully prepared and preserved, on a table near your dresser. Judging by the fact that it’s still warm, you conclude that it can’t be much past mid-evening. You originally intend to pick at the food as you unpack, but one bite has your mouth watering. It is the most delicious thing to ever touch your lips, complete with dessert waiting on the side. You clean your plate before moving onto your bags. 

You lay your clothes out on the bed. A few dresses, riding pants, undergarments, an assortment of ribbons and bows. At one time these items had been the finest things you owned- now you owned a castle. 

You find an armoire that looks like a master sculptor carved its edges and grab a dress, intending to hang it. Instead, your dress hits the floor when you part the doors to find the hangers already full. Your lips part. Luxury dresses of silk and satin line the rack, fading into some that appear more casual outfits of cotton and linen. You stretch a hand out, curious and utterly… amazed. To think your new husband had gone to all the effort… Your hand brushes purple silk and- 

“Do you like them?” 

You screech, jumping to face the voice at your back. It takes a moment for your eyes to find him, leaning casually against one post of your bed. Your breath is stolen for a second time. Snow white hair, piercingly blue eyes, pale soft skin… you know who he is even without looking at his dress, at the air of authority he claims. He’s your husband… and he is the most devastatingly beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

He laughs, then, and it’s a warmer sound than you’d thought it would be- rich and full. A sound that seeps into your bones and settles in your soul. 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, but the twinkle in his eyes makes you think that perhaps that’s a lie. 

Your heart pounds and your eyes flash to the door. It’s shut. You didn’t hear it open, nor did you hear it close behind him. You also didn’t hear footsteps, didn’t hear breaths, didn’t hear him. 

He follows your gaze and laughs again, though it sounds a bit… strained? 

“I have a habit of being unintentionally lightfooted. I apologize.” 

Your heart is still pounding but you find it in yourself to have some decorum. You snap your jaw shut and bow your head slightly in respect. “You must be Lord Gojo. Forgive me for my insolence.” 

There’s a beat, and then footsteps– ones you actually hear this time. You clench your jaw when he stops before you and then nearly gasp when he takes your hand and brings it to his lips. 

“Satoru, please,” he winks and you think you might stop breathing. “I am your husband after all.” 

You force yourself to nod, to swallow, to act normal. But how can you in the presence of a man that looks like… that? There’s something too unreal about him, too perfect. It’s almost… unsettling. 

“Of course… Satoru.” 

He straightens and shows you a close-lipped smile that digs a dimple into his left cheek. You have to look away to avoid stumbling over your own feet. 

“So, do you like them?” Your brows furrow- “The dresses,” he clarifies. 

“O-oh.” Your features relax into an easy smile. You turn back to your armoire, running a hand along another gown. You don’t think you’ve ever touched something so… finely made. “I like them very much. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

There’s a little chuckle as you turn to face him again and you have to steel yourself before you meet his eyes. He’s mesmerizing, too mesmerizing. You think you could probably lose yourself in those eyes forever… 

“No need to thank me. If they don’t fit, we’ll call for the seamstress in the morning.” 

You nod softly, still lost to the situation. There’s a beat of silence in which your husband does nothing but… look at you. His eyes roam freely and the hair on your arms stands under his gaze. He traces the lines of your nose and jaw and lingers on your pulse. Can he see just how fast your heart is pounding?

“Did you… get dinner?” It’s a stupid question, you know, but you don’t think you can bear another second of that look he’s giving you. “I fell asleep and found a plate. I hope I didn’t prevent a proper meal…” You trail off. Perhaps you shouldn’t have pointed out your own shortcoming? 

He gives you another smile and you swear he inches just a little closer. “You did no such thing. I’m… perfectly satisfied.” 

You nod, glad that he doesn’t seem upset at the very least. Your lips press together, unsure of what to do or say. You’ve never had a husband before. Wasn’t he supposed to just sort of… put you on the bed and… do it?

Your eyes flit to said bed and your husband must see because he hurries to continue. 

“Well, I’ll see you in the morning then, hm?” His eyes flit to your armoire and back again. “Wear the blue dress with the lace to breakfast, yeah? Been dying to see it on you.” He chuckles like he’s just told some sort of amusing joke.

Your brows furrow. That was… not the topic you’d been expecting. “You’re not…” You feel your cheeks heat and tighten your jaw. “Not staying the night?” 

His lashes lower a fraction and those eyes pierce you again. You don’t think you could move even if you wanted to, even with him prowling closer, each step eating up the space between you. He doesn’t stop until you’re nose to nose and you can feel his breath fanning over your cheeks. It’s cold somehow, chilling, and you shiver. He smirks. 

“Not tonight.” 

His head dips and for a moment you think he’s going to kiss you, but then he’s bypassing your mouth altogether and- his lips connect to your pulse. His mouth is cool, just like his breath, and you shiver uncontrollably under his touch. 

His touch is just a fleeting moment, just a wrinkle in time, and then he’s gone. His footsteps are quiet brushes on the hardwood and the creak of the door even seems tamed in his presence. 

“Goodnight,” is all he says, and then he’s gone. 

You climb into your bed an hour later wondering what in the world just happened. 

~  

You do wear the blue dress to breakfast and you can only gape in the mirror when you realize that it fits perfectly. It has you second-guessing yourself. Had you sent your measurements in advance and forgotten about it? No, you’d only sent a handful of pieces of information to the Lord prior to your marriage and you remembered all of them very clearly. Everything had gone through a messenger, everything had been clear and direct– you would have remembered sending your measurements– you didn’t. So had he just… guessed? 

That seemed impossible with how everything fit you like a glove, but it was the only explanation you had. The only one that made sense. 

When you join Satoru for breakfast it’s in a sitting room as lavishly decorated as the rest of the castle, but perhaps organized to be a bit more… liveable. He has no plate in front of him, only a tin cup that hides the contents of whatever he’s drinking. You assume coffee or juice. Perhaps he’s just not a breakfast person. 

“It fits!” he says. His hands clasp together in front of him and he smiles again, dimples and all. 

You nod and fight the heat that bubbles beneath your cheeks as you take your seat. “Yes, perfectly.”

A plate is set before you and a glance up reveals it’s Thomas serving your breakfast. You smile, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, for a small piece of comfort. Instead, you get his averted gaze and quick retreat. Your brows furrow, but before you can say anything, Satoru is back to speaking. 

“I hope Thomas treated you well yesterday?” 

You glance up, but Satoru’s eyes aren’t on you, they’re on your footman. His smile is bright, but it’s anything but friendly. You fight a shiver. 

You glance at Thomas. He’s perfectly still, perfectly straight, but you think you see a muscle clench in his jaw. You clear your throat. “Y-Yes. Thomas was very helpful.” When Satoru keeps staring the boy down you add, “-and very respectful.” 

That seems to satisfy. Satoru breaks his stare and some of the tension in the air instantly eases. He shoots you another dimpled smile, this one with a little more warmth. “Perfect.” 

There’s a beat and then he’s standing, draining whatever he has in his cup and then straightening his jacket. “Well, I have some work to do. I’ll see you for dinner?” He’s grinning again, like it’s so normal for a man to abandon his bride on their wedding night and then again the morning after. All you can do is nod. He chuckles. “See you then, princess.” And then he’s gone.

~

If this is to be your life you don't know how you will survive it. You spend the day milling about. Through the gardens, through the castle, through the stables. Thomas is never far behind, but any attempt at conversation is nipped in the bud by hit shortness. It’s like he fears coming too close. He’s never closer than a couple paces except when he has to bring you something, only to retreat again as soon as possible. The other servants barely pay you any mind apart from giving you a respectful greeting and then immediately averting their eyes. There is no work to be done, no guests to be had, no parties to plan… and no Satoru. You don’t see your husband once on tour around the grounds. You ask Thomas where his office is only for him to vaguely point out a window in the east tower. You don’t see so much as a ripple in the curtains. 

Dinner comes around at the pace of a snail. When it’s finally time to get dressed a lady’s maid whose name you don’t even catch arrives to help you lace your dress. As soon as your corset is deemed tight enough she’s back out the door with a curtsy. Thomas leads you to the dining room and your eyes roam the whole way. Even after having spent the whole day exploring, there are halls and corridors that you’ve yet to step foot in. 

The dining room is just as gorgeous as the rest of the place– filled with singular items that could feed entire families for years. Somehow, you think you’ve already grown accustomed to such things, since the only thing you truly care to look at is your husband. Satoru’s already seated, but he stands when you enter, looping around the table to pull a chair out for you. 

You give him your most genuine smile, accepting a kiss to your knuckles in greeting before you settle. “How was your day?” you ask as he takes his seat again. 

He chuckles. “Perfectly fine. And how was yours, princess?” Your nose crinkles. That’s the second time he’s called you that. Something about it feels wrong. You’re still getting used to being a lady. Princess feels even worse. 

“It was… good.”

You watch a perfect white brow arch in the candlelight. “Oh? Just good?” You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to the corner– to Thomas. 

You hurry to elaborate. “Well, I just– I can’t help but feel as if there’s not much… use for me.” Servants flood in, some carrying wine, others carrying trays that hold more food than the both of you could ever possibly consume. 

That brow arches impossibly higher. “Use?” His lips crack into that smile again, but it’s tight this time. Too tight. “You have no use. You only enjoy yourself. Surely Thomas has told you that.” 

A plate of steaming food plops in front of you. Even its heavenly smell can’t quell the sudden dread in your gut. “Of course! Of course he did.” Your stomach twists and you decide that perhaps now is not the time to press the subject. “I’ll just… I’ll try riding tomorrow.” You hate riding, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. 

Satoru’s smile thaws into something less menacing. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy that.” 

You nod eagerly. “I’m sure I will.” 

You grab your fork, eager for a new subject. From what you can tell, dinner is roast chicken and vegetables, though it’s the luxury version as everything seems to be. The spices are intoxicating and the green beans are even arranged in a pretty little pattern that makes them look too good to eat. You do anyway. The first bite nearly makes you moan, but you chew slowly, delicately, trying not to let your upbringing show.

It’s not until several bites later that you realize you’re the only one eating. A quick glance reveals your husband has no platter, no chicken or green beans. He’s only… watching you. You clear your throat, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. 

“You’re not… eating?”

That permanent smile grows a little wider and you can’t help but feel as if there’s something… menacing about it. “Ate before I came.” 

Your brows furrow. “Oh. Were you on the road?” 

You think you see something wild flash in his eyes. “No.” 

The rest of dinner passes slowly, almost painfully. Satoru doesn’t eat a bite, doesn’t even look enticed. You wonder how that’s possible when it smells like a spice bomb went off in the dining room. 

By the time you’ve cleared your plate you’ve discussed everything from the number of horses in the stables to kinds of crops grown on the estate. It’s comforting to know a little more about your new home, but it’s not enough. 

“Is there a library?” you ask. You’re on dessert now. It’s the best chocolate cake you’ve ever had and it takes everything in you to hold back a moan each time it touches your tongue. 

“Of course.” Your husband’s eyes flicker to Thomas again and you’re honestly starting to fear for the poor footman’s life. Everytime you ask a question it’s like Satoru is angry it hasn’t already been answered. “It’s yours to use as you please.” 

You smile lightly. “Perfect. Thank you.” 

He softens a bit at that. “Is there anything specific you wanted to read about?” 

You shrug. “The estate, I suppose. I should know my home’s history, no?”

His eyes get that wild look again, that sparkle that you know speaks to nothing good. “Oh, absolutely. I have some personal favorites to recommend. I’ll leave them aside for you?” 

You swallow and give him a shallow nod. “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

He chuckles. “My pleasure.” 

When dessert is finally over, you stand slowly. Satoru’s not far behind you, saying he’ll walk you to your room. Your heart leaps at his words. Will he stay with you tonight? 

He offers you his arm in the hall and your mouth runs dry when you feel the corded muscle beneath his jacket. By the time you reach your room, you’re thinking of tugging him in behind you. His denial to stay with you last night was not only confusing, but… off putting. Nearly offensive. Did he not like how you looked? Did he think something was wrong with you? 

You muster all the courage you possess and force your lips apart. “Will you stay with me tonight?” 

His eyes spark again and you hold your breath. He presses closer. This is it, you think. His lips hover over yours, eyes glimmering in the candlelight. And then he dips his head, his mouth pressing to your pulse. 

“Not tonight,” he whispers– and then he’s gone. 

~

You wake suddenly. It’s the middle of the night, you gather. The light streaming through the window is weak enough to only be that of the moon. 

Your heart is pounding and your skin is slick with sweat despite the chill in your bones. A nightmare, you think. It must have been a nightmare. 

As you settle back into your sheets you swear you see a ripple in the darkness. You close your eyes. If your nightmare is real, you’d rather not see it coming.

~

The library is huge. It’s sprawling and smells of paper and leather and everytime Thomas lights a candle you flinch at the idea that one misplaced spark could end thousands of years of knowledge. 

The books Satoru left you are… perfect. Just what you were looking for. They’re all comprehensive volumes of the history of the estate, many of which reference each other. You’re stunned to see that several are written by very well-known authors of both the past and the present. You knew the Gojo family’s influence reached far, but not that far. You peruse the titles. The Gojos: A History, A History of the Gojo Crest, History of the Gojo Castle, Revisiting the Gojo Family: A Comprehensive History. Altogether you have well over a few thousand pages of information– but there’s one book that doesn’t fit with the rest. It’s relatively unassuming. A black cover with some sort of gold rune etched onto its front. When you flip to the title page it reads “Creatures of Myth and Where To Find Them”. Your brows furrow. You slide it to the side– must have gotten mixed in with the others, you think.

~

You ask Thomas to bring the books to your room. He does. Very respectfully. He sets them on your bedside table and then retreats like a kicked puppy with only a polite goodbye. You sigh. His behavior has only gotten stranger in the past few days. You think the servants’ coldness must have something to do with Satoru, but you can’t figure out why. Had he ordered them to stay away? Why would he? 

You decide it’s a question for another day and dive into your books. You spend hours, days, reading every chapter, page, and word. The pure amount of information is dizzying. Apparently this specific estate had been in the hands of the Gojo family since the eighth century (with several razings and consequential rebuilds). You also learn that Satoru was not only the most wealthy lord on the continent, but the most wealthy man. Even wealthier than the king apparently, though that fact was kept fairly under wraps to protect the crown’s ego. The estimates of your husband’s net worth made your head spin.

Satoru joins you for breakfast and dinner every day. You never see him eat a morsel. It’s… unsettling to say the least. It’s always just that tin cup, filled with something you could never quite see. You develop a pattern of waking in the night, too, with the overwhelming sense that something is watching you. Sometimes you could swear you feel the bed shift as you jerk awake. Each time you simply close your eyes and try your best to slow your heart, convinced your mind is playing tricks on you. 

Your days feel a little more productive with a book in your hands, but you’ve read them all three times over by the time a fortnight has passed. You find yourself packing them up to return to Thomas when a certain black cover catches your attention. You grab it from the pile and settle back into your seat. You’ve nothing better to do, right? 

You flip back the cover, revealing a familiar title. “Creatures of Myth and Where to Find Them”. You don’t recognize the author’s name. A quick scroll through the table of contents reveals nothing particularly interesting, but you pick a random chapter on ghouls and decide to start there. 

It’s fascinating. Nothing about the style is boring and the words fly by. Your silly little myth book is a page turner. By the time you notice the light has started dying you’ve read about ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and goblins– all of which have been a delightful little read. A glance at the clock reveals you have a half hour before dinner. One more chapter, you think. Your eyes skim the title. “Vampires [Vampyr]”. 

You skim the first paragraphs until your eyes settle on a line that catches your eye. 

“Contrary to popular belief, vampires are not always crazed blood-hungry monsters. Many live among humans quite comfortably and are able to avoid detection with a little well-placed effort.” 

You purse your lips. What a… terrifying thought. You skim a little further. 

“A vampire’s key characteristic is, of course, their desire and need to drink human blood as sustenance. However, a vampire can be spotted sooner if one is able to recognize their subtler traits. Vampires often have skin lacking any sort of flush. The lack of blood in their veins results in a sickly pallor, even after the most rigorous exercise. Their skin is also noticeably cold to the touch. At best, a vampire’s body will reach room temperature. Vampires can also be noted for their preternatural beauty. They will stand out as the most attractive person in any crowd. Finally, a vampire will have fangs. If one wishes to identify a vampire, one only needs a good look at their teeth”.

A chill settles over your skin. You flip ahead a few pages. 

“Vampires are unable to consume typical human food. Should they attempt to, their bodies will immediately reject any and all foreign substances.” 

Your stomach drops. You don’t want to think about why. You skip the rest of the paragraph. 

“Vampires possess several supernatural abilities that set them apart as a human’s predator rather than their equal. Vampires are known to move unnaturally fast and are notably light footed. If a vampire does not wish to be heard, they will not be. A vampire’s strength is inhuman, well over ten times that of the average man. They also have a penchant for darkness, an ability to hide away in the shadows that cannot be explained. Oftentimes they will seem to appear from thin air.”

You skip ahead again.

“Vampires have been known to take mates. Mates usually come in the form of another vampire, but in some cases a human has been chosen. Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly. Oftentimes, vampires make these decisions with haste, with little regard for whether or not the threat was real. A vampire will do everything in their power to please their mate, but have been known to forcibly restrain their mates in situations of unrequited feelings. Above all else, vampires wish to possess their mates. Two bonded vampires will sometimes spiral into gloriously destructive fits in their endless desire to protect and possess one another. A vampire bonded to a human will show an increasingly protective nature, often isolating their mate from others.”

Your heart pounds. A bead of sweat rolls down your back. You flip the pages, desperate– desperate for a piece of information that will save you from the thoughts spilling in your mind, from the thoughts you will do anything not to believe. You reach the “Where to Find Them” subsection and nearly gasp with relief. Surely, vampires do not pose as wealthy lords of Europe? 

“Vampires can be found everywhere. They do not exist in only one country or continent, but all over the world. Odds are that you have faced at least one vampire in your life, unknowingly or not. Some vampires choose to live solitary lives, surviving in the wilderness where human society will not attempt to tame their wild nature. Others choose to live among humans, some even existing in positions of very high authority.” 

No, no, no. This can’t be happening to you. It can’t be real. You’re dreaming, you’re having one of those nightmares again. You’re going to wake up any second. 

“One tale recounts a razing of the Gojo estate in the 12th century.” 

You’re panting, hyperventilating. This isn’t happening. 

“Soldiers of the enemy force recounted a singular man, the son and heir of the then Lord Gojo, taking out a minimum of 800 men. He was described as having his family’s characteristic white hair as well as blue eyes. Eyewitness accounts depict the Gojo heir as covered in blood and killing savagely and with inhuman strength.” 

No, no, no. 

“(See next page for only existing portrait)”

Your fingers tremble but you can’t stop them. There’s no way. It’s not possible. 

You flip the page and Satoru stares back at you. 

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You nearly scream. Your door rattles angrily, but you’re not sure you can answer it, not with the knowledge flooding your mind. The knocking continues. You run your hand over your face and smooth down your hair. You feel frazzled, dirty, despite not having moved from your chair all day. Another knock prompts you to set your book aside and stand. You do your best to compose yourself, to put on a straight face. You fail instantly when you pull back the door not to reveal your faithful attendant, not Thomas, but Satoru. 

You bite back a shriek and instead force a smile. You’re suddenly very aware of the blood pounding in you veins and of the fact that he most likely knows. 

“Hello,” he says, but his voice is lower than usually, more intense. 

You force a breath into your lungs. “Hello,” you answer, but it sounds more like a squeak than a greeting. 

Something flashes in his eyes, something familiar, something that is no longer interesting but rather terrifying. “Are you alright? You seem a little… flushed.” The concern on his face feels anything but genuine. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, but even you can tell that reply too quickly, too eagerly. You rush to cover it up. “Is it time for dinner? Where’s Thomas?” 

His lip twitches and you see a muscle in his jaw flex. “Thomas has… left us.” 

No. This wasn’t happening to you. There was no way this was happening to you. 

“He… what?” There’s an unmistakable wobble in your voice that only causes Satoru’s face to fall further. 

“It’s no matter. He’s gone. Now it’s just you and me, hm?” He chuckles and the sound rattles your bones. “In fact, I was thinking I’d cut down on the number of servants we have entirely…” 

You mind races with the memory of knowledge you wish you didn’t have. “Vampires are fiercely protective of their mates, bordering on obsession. Any person deemed a threat to their bond or their mate’s safety is usually disposed of quickly.”

You nearly stumble, but lean against the doorframe just in time. Your husband had disposed of a man, all because he brought you meals and books?

“What have you been up to today, princess?” The question breaks your trance just in time for you to see your husband’s eyes flicker behind you. 

You wet your lips. “Just some reading.” You plead that he doesn’t ask anything further. He does. 

“About the estate?” he asks. 

You nod and try to swallow the lump in your throat. “Yes.”

His smile returns and this time it’s not forced. “You got my books, then?” 

You try smiling back, but you’re fairly sure it looks more like a grimace. “Yes.”

“Anything interesting?” he presses.

This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Does he know? Does he know that you know? “Yes, of course. Lots.” 

He pauses and you see the debate and then the decision in his eyes. You think it’s the first time you’ve felt true terror when he meets your gaze again. “I think we should skip dinner tonight. It seems we have so much to discuss.”

You don’t even have the wherewithal to scream when he steps into you, forcing you back until he’s shutting your door behind him. He doesn’t stop there, though. He keeps pressing, keeps pushing until your knees hit the bed and you’re falling to the mattress. He crawls right after you.

“Who knew my little wife was such a reader? All those books in such a short time… You must be simply spilling with information.” 

You retreat across the mattress, squeaking when your back hits the headboard and his arms cage your waist. You’re trapped.

His hands find your hips and you’re all too aware of how cool his touch is. Even more so when he pulls you right into his lap.

“Satoru-” your voice is pitiful, breathless, and you’re ashamed to say it’s not just from the fear in your gut. He’s never been this close before, never touched you, held you like this. “Thomas-” 

“Don’t speak his name.” His face pulls into the first scowl you’ve ever seen and the sight is enough to root you to the spot. Never have you seen anything more frightening. A creature so beautiful, so perfectly angelic, filled with an insurmountable rage. It’s wrong. “He’s gone. He’ll never bother you again.” He’s closer now, his breath skating over your skin. It’s cool and now you know the reason why. 

You shake and tremble and you know– Thomas is dead. Your husband killed him– killed him for getting too close when all he did was stay at a distance. Satoru killed him. Killed him. 

He buries himself in your neck, his voice a near whine. “Thought I could put up with it, just so you’d have someone to take care of you…” He groans. “I was so wrong, princess. Couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the way you smelled more like him than me…” 

You feel him melt against you then, relief washing over his body in a wave. “But he’s gone. And now it’s just you and me, hm? Just you and me…” He hums, like remembering that fact is all he’s ever needed.

He’s kissing your pulse again, now, and your heart is racing faster than ever. Your fingers curl into his shoulders. You should push him away, away, away. He’s a killer, of thousands no doubt. You’ve never felt at home here, never felt like you belonged. This is why. You’re not even the same species. He’s something else, something your hands were never meant to touch. 

Your mind screams at you to do go, to shove and kick at him and leave this place behind. Go, go, go your gut says… but you don’t. You can’t. It’s too… good. The feeling of his cool lips against your skin, of what you’re sure is his tongue prodding at your pulse… it’s intoxicating. He is intoxicating. How could anyone blame you for wanting more of someone, something, so divine? 

“Have you figured it out yet, love?” Your breath hitches and he chuckles, licking a long stripe up your neck, before he settles back at your pulse. Always your pulse. “I can feel those little gears turning. Tell me, what have they discovered?” 

He knows you know. But he’s going to make you say it. You swallow and feel his grip on you tighten. “You’re…” Your breaths come faster. You can’t. Not aloud. Aloud makes it too… real. 

“Yessss?” he prods. He’s licking at you again, all the way across your throat to find your other pulse-point. 

“You’re not…” Something sharps nicks at your skin and you bite your lip to hold back a whimper. 

“Go on, princess.” You think he’s just smelling you now, just burying his face as close to you as possible and taking you in. 

You close your eyes tightly, holding back tears. “Not human,” you breathe. A piece of you breaks with the admission.

He huffs a little laugh against your skin and pulls back to look you in the eye. “That’s good,” he purrs. “But I think you can be a little more specific, no?” His lips press to your chin, then the corner of your mouth, then down to your jaw… “Tell me.” 

Your lips wobble, muscles clenching tighter with each passing moment. You don’t want to say it, don’t want to speak it into existence, but you also don’t dare to disobey him. 

“You’re a…” You shake and tremble. He draws a line up your neck with the tip of his nose.

“Mhm?” 

You open your eyes, thinking this might be the last time you see. “Vampire.” 

He chuckles and you feel his teeth press to the skin of your neck. “That’s right, princess. So smart.” 

He smiles and you suddenly realize you’ve never seen his teeth before. Everytime he smiles at you it’s close-lipped and dimpled. But this… this is the smile of a predator– all white and pointy and fitted with a set of menacingly long fangs. You sob at the sight. 

“Shhhhh,” he coos. He has your chin in his hand, forcing you to truly look at him, to see him for what he is. “I won’t hurt you, love.” You want to believe him so badly it burns, but his laugh washes away any fire and turns it to ice. “Not unless you want me to.” He wiggles a brow like it’s just a little joke, like he’s not an actual fucking vampire that had his fangs over your neck just moments ago. 

“Satoru,” you beg. You’re not sure what you’re begging for. Release maybe? But, no, that’s not right. You don’t want him to let you go, not when you finally have him close after all this time. “Why did you pick me?” 

The question slips out. You hadn’t even been thinking about it, hadn’t even noticed it scratching at the walls of your mind, but it made its way out nonetheless.

His brow creases, but not in confusion. Moreso in… thoughtfulness. “Do you think about that a lot, princess?” 

You nod and you suddenly want him closer, want him to touch you everywhere, hold you like his life depends on it. You want him, no matter how horrible it might be. 

He nods and hums, kissing the tip of your nose lightly. “Well…” he says. His thumb swipes over your lips when he leans in to whisper in your ear. “At first I wanted you for this.” His head dips to your neck again and you feel the familiar brush of his lips against your throat. “You smell…” he chuckles. “Like heaven. Which is a place I’ll never get to on my own, so I had to bring my own little slice home, no?” He laughs again, a little louder this time, genuinely amused. “Went into town one day and caught your scent on the street. At first I thought I must be walking past the bakery, but, lo and behold, there was no baker in sight.” He’s still kissing at your pulse, worshiping it. “Went crazy, princess. Didn’t think I was going to be able to contain myself when I found you. Thought it might be quite the scene.” He huffs a laugh and you shiver, somehow both terrified and intoxicated. “But then I saw you–” he groans and something clenches deep at your center. “And I knew I needed more than just your blood. Needed you.” He’s rocking into you now, and your breath catches when you feel something firm against your backside. “Went to you in that little room you slept in every night. Watched you. Couldn’t stay away. Knew I had to have you.” You feel him smile against your skin. “After a week I couldn’t take it anymore. Sent you that letter, married you. Made you mine.” He groans again. “Then I met you and you were so pretty, princess. Already knew it, but hearin’ you talk to me, look at me.” Teeth graze your pulse. “Needed you more than ever. Almost took you right on the fucking floor in here while you were lookin’ at those dresses.” You whine when his hips roll into you again. “Oh, but I knew I couldn’t. You’re so fragile, love. Had to wait, had to make you feel safe, yeah? Spent all this time forcing myself to stay away, ‘fraid of what I might too if I was in your presence too long. Had to control myself. Had to make you realize you could trust me.” He panting, like he’s so pent up he can hardly sit still. “Do you trust me, princess?” 

Your brows scrunch. Say no, say no, say no a part of you screams. Run, run, run. You can’t. “Yes,” you breathe. 

You feel him smile again, feel the pleasure of submission. “Good girl.” 

You’re on your back. It happens so fast your eyes don’t even have time to gasp. You don’t see Satoru, but you feel him. Everywhere. His hands are roaming your body softly, sliding under buttons and laces and popping them off. Your dress loosens with every passing moment until Satoru reappears above you, diving straight for your neck again. “So good, princess. Let’s get you out of this dress, yeah?” 

You nod wordlessly, entranced. He finds your mouth as he rids you of your clothes. His tongue presses in and you flail against him, unsure of what to do, of how to handle the intrusion. The kiss is heavy, too heavy, but Satoru can’t seem to stop. He devours you as he gives up on laces and buttons and simply shreds your dress down the back. You tremble when the cold air hits your skin, when his cool fingers dust your collarbone. 

“I always forget how many damn layers they make you ladies wear,” he chuckles. His hands run beneath your shift, up across your bare thigh. You gasp at the touch. No one has even been so close to you before. You feel the threads of your corset snapping away, feel your breaths growing deeper. You tremble when he pulls your sleeve down past your shoulder and runs his mouth along the newly exposed skin. 

“Satoru,” you gasp, and your hand pulls at his flowing white shirt. 

He chuckles, pulling back just enough to see your face. “You wanna see me too?” You nod, lips parted and eyes glassy, and he laughs again. He lips dust over the corner of your mouth. “Alright.” 

His hands shift from you to himself, working at the laces on his chest. His movements are speedy, practiced, like he’s been lacing and unlacing shirts for hundreds of years. Your throat tightens when you realize that he has. 

You gasp when he reveals himself, when his shirt slides away to reveal an expanse of pale skin and carved muscle. You’ve never seen a man like this and seeing one this close up for the first time is nearly blinding. He’s art, you think- nothing less. 

“Touch me, princess,” he says. You can’t. You shouldn’t. He’s too beautiful, too perfect to be beneath your insignificant hands. “Need a little help?” he asks, and there’s a lilt in his voice that makes you sure he’s grinning. 

His hands find yours and bring them to his chest, running your palms over his collarbones, his pecs, down, down, down across his abs that you can feel each and every one… You whimper, watching your own fingers grope his skin. He pulls you lower, lower, lower, and you gasp when your fingertips brush the waistband of his pants. But then he’s laughing again and he’s throwing your arms over his shoulders and pulling you closer, kissing your neck like it pained him to be parted from your pulse for so long. 

“Not so fast,” he says, like he wasn’t the one nearly stuffing your hands down his pants. His hands are on your corset again. You can feel it dangling onto you by a thread, literally. All he needs is a couple more pulls and you’ll be bare. By the look he gives you, you can tell he’s 

thinking the same thing. “You touch me, now I touch you, yeah?” There’s a tug and a tear and then so much… cold. You’ve never realized how cold this castle is, not until you’re exposed to its elements fully. You’re naked. 

Satoru sits back on his knees and just watches. His gaze is searing, burning, despite the iciness of his being. It’s too much. Your hands move to cover yourself, to maintain some modicum of your dignity- 

“No.” Strong hands find your wrists and pry them apart. “Let me see you,” he says. His tongue darts out to lick his lips. 

Your jaw clenches and your frame shakes, but you do as he asks, letting your hands fall limply at your sides. There’s silence for many more moments and it seems to go on so long that you can only squeeze your eyes shut under his gaze. Surely he will turn you away now, get up and leave, tell you this was a mistake, tell you that you’re– 

“Beautiful,” he breathes. Your eyes snap open to find him already staring at you. “Beautiful,” he says again, and then he’s on you, lips at your pulse, hands on your skin. His touch is cool and you squeak at the chill that runs up your spine. You’re not sure it’s entirely from his temperature. 

His mouth seeks yours and he devours you. You feel as if he’s sucking your soul out through your lips. “Tell me you’ve never done this before,” he begs. “Tell me I’m the first to touch you.” 

You whine against his mouth, both aching for more and overwhelmed by what he’s already giving you. “Y-You’re the first,” you whisper. 

His groan is deep, primal. It rattles through your chest and you whimper when his hands dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. “Yes,” he breathes, and you shiver again. “Lie back, princess.” Your eyes widen, with anticipation or fear you’re not sure. Probably both. He chuckles. “Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” 

You pray he means that. “Just relax, love. Here, hold my hand.” His fingers find yours, twining them together. When you swallow, his eyes follow the bob of your throat. He leans back again and your body twitches when his free hand skims the skin of your thighs. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he finds your knees and you gasp when he parts your legs, revealing you so completely to his gaze. The way he stares, like he’s committing you to memory, it’s nearly enough to make you snap your thighs shut, but a squeeze from his hand reminds you to relax, to trust. 

His palm skates up your thigh and settles near your hip, his fingertips inching closer to where you can feel an embarrassing throb. 

“Tell me, love. Have you ever touched yourself here?” His fingers dust low on your tummy- just low enough for you to catch his meaning, but not low enough to give you any relief. Your face heats and your teeth dig into the flesh of your cheek. You have, you have touched yourself there, but it’s the last thing you want to admit to your new husband. It’s shameful, it’s dirty, it’s- “Don’t think I’ll judge you, princess. Just wanna know.” 

You gulp down a breath. You should come clean. “Y-yes,” you stutter, and the sound of your voice so weak and helpless only makes you flush further. 

He chuckles and squeezes your hand again. “On the outside or the inside?” 

Your eyes widen. I-inside? You’d never considered that… “J-just the outside,” you answer. 

Your eyes grow even wider when his head rolls back and he moans straight up to the ceiling like your answer is heaven-sent. When he looks back to you his fangs are on full display. “Well, I think you and I are in for a little treat today, hm?” 

Your brow furrows and your lips part to ask him what he means– his fingers travel those last few inches down your tummy and find your clit. You squeak and jolt so violently that he presses a hand to your hip, holding you to the mattress. “Somebody’s sensitive,” he chuckles. He holds you still for a moment and then lets your hips go free. “Try to stay still. I promise it’ll feel good.”

You nod hopelessly, but this time you’re prepared for when he touches you again. Your muscles clench at the first touch, at the foreign sensation of a touch down there that wasn’t your own. But then it’s more. It’s languid, slow circles around a spot that you’ve never been able to pinpoint so well on your own. It’s heat building in your tummy that seeps through every vein and into every pore. It’s relaxation that you’ve never known, that has you melting into the mattress despite the chill of the touch. 

There’s a little huff of a laugh and then his voice. “Good girl. Feels nice, yeah?” You nod hesitantly and squeeze desperately at his hand, searching for an anchor. His head cocks to the side and you watch the smile slide across his lips. “It’s about to feel even nicer.” 

By the time you realize what he’s doing it’s far too late to stop him. His mouth closes around your cunt and you yelp, trying to wiggle away from the overwhelming sensation- but he’s got his freehand on your hip again and his grip is bruising, punishing, as he holds you in place. He licks a stripe through your folds and you find yourself jolting again, uselessly so against the pressure of his palm on your hip. “Stop that, princess.” Your heart drops at the admonishment until you feel his guiding touch. “Rock into me like this.” His hand rocks your hips into his mouth and the pressure of his tongue against your clit is so delicious that you whimper. “Good girl,” he says and your heart rises right back up. “Keep doing that, now.” You don’t dare defy him. You rock like he showed you, a little jerkily at first, and then you find a rhythm that has you seeing stars. “That’s it, love,” he says, and the sound is muffled against your cunt. “Here, put your hand in my hair.” He finds your wrist and guides you forward until your fingers are tangling in those snowy locks. They’re even softer than you’d imagined. “Good girl,” he whispers and suddenly he’s taking one last long lick and lifting his head to meet your eyes. “‘M gonna put my fingers in you now, princess.” Your chin wobbles. “It might hurt a little bit, but stay still, okay?” You can’t do anything but nod. 

His eyes return to your cunt and you can feel him prodding at your entrance, circling the hole as you clench in anticipation. “Relaaaaaax, love,” he says and you nod. A deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth– 

You feel the exact moment he pushes into you and a whine of pain rips from your throat. Your walls clamp down like a vice, angry at the intrusion– but it’s already too late. There’s a beat of silence, of anticipation, and then he’s– laughing? 

Your brows furrow when you hear it, your head lifting to a sight that locks your limbs in shock. Satoru’s hand is lifted in front of his face, his pointer finger coated in– blood, you realize. Your blood. And he’s a fucking vampire. 

“Oh princess,” he coos, and the manic look in his eyes makes you tremble. “You really are perfect.” 

Things seem to slow as you watch him take his blood covered finger into his mouth. You’re sure you’ve never seen an expression more blissful, more lost to sensation. His eyes roll back and his body shivers, like he’s ascending to some higher plane. Maybe he is. 

When he pulls his finger from his mouth it’s completely licked clean. You hold your breath. He’s going to go for your neck now, right? He’s had a taste and now he’ll want more of it, all of it?

“Fuck,” is all he says. His mouth is back on your cunt so fast you don’t even see him move. 

Your mouth falls wide. It hurts, the way he is so desperately licking at you. You feel his finger again, pressing in, in, in, only to pull back and suddenly be joined by another. The stretch tears at you. You thrash and jolt, but Satoru doesn’t bother telling you to stop this time. His arm wraps over your hips, holding you in place. He seems immune to how hard your legs squeeze at his head or your hands pull at his hair. He’s lost. You can feel him licking, lapping, and prodding at you like you’re a fucking gold mine. He’s lost to desperation, to the need for more, more, more. Every so often he lifts his chin and you see his mouth smudged with a mixture of your wetness and your blood. He laps at his lips like an animal, dragging his thumb across his chin and sliding it into his mouth to make sure he gets every last drop. 

You’re not quite sure when the ravenous pain turns to a ravenous pleasure, when it turns from terrifying to downright delicious. You don’t notice your moans filling the air until Satoru joins you, groaning and whining into your cunt and telling you to keep going, to keep making those sounds. The hand you have buried in his hair doesn’t fight to push him away any longer, only to pull him into those now practiced rocks of your hips. His fingers thrust deep, curling into a spot that makes you feel so good and his mouth has found your clit again. He sucks your nerves lightly between his lips, tongue swirling in little circles. Your thighs start to shake. 

“Yes. Yes. Give it to me.” 

“S-Satoru–” you breathe. Warmth and tightness pool in your tummy, and you recognize it as your approaching orgasm, though you know this one will be far different than any you’ve ever managed to give yourself. Your body shakes and your breaths tremble and then– you fall over the edge, rocking your hips senselessly, losing all form of rhythm. Warmth tingles in your spine and seeps all the way down to your toes. You think you cry out, cry for your husband, cry for more, cry for less, but if you do you don’t hear it. All you hear is the pounding of your pulse, of pleasure throbbing in your veins until the world slowly seeps back in through the corners of your vision. 

Satoru is grinning. A speck of your blood clings to his chin and his fangs peek out from behind his lips. The sight makes your blood run a little colder. If any part of you doubted what he was before… well, there was no doubt any longer. 

There’s a shift between your legs, his hips slotting between them, and you’re suddenly snapped back to reality. From the look in his eyes, you’re not done. 

Frantic hands find his pants and he undoes each button with a quickness that is almost inhuman. You wonder if he could go even faster, if he’s holding back so as not to scare you. If he is, it isn’t working very well. Fear surges in your veins right alongside anticipation. 

“S-Satoru–”

“It’s alright, love.” His hand finds yours without his eyes ever looking up. His grip is just a little too firm, a little too cold. “Just stay still.” 

You whimper, but you don’t think he’s paying attention to that, and soon enough, neither are you. His pants slide down just past his hips, just enough. You gasp. 

You’ve never seen a man in the nude, never even dared to think about what it might look like, though it seemed you no longer had to guess. His hand wrapped around his shaft, giving one long and slow stroke that made his breath hiss through his fangs. The tip was flushed, angry, and leaking something that looked clear and sticky. You couldn’t help but notice it was a lot thicker than a finger, or even two. If his fingers had hurt…

He moves with that alarming quickness again, leaning down to hover over you, chests nearly pressed together. “Gonna take you now, princess. Gonna make you mine.” His eyes bore into yours, blue and shimmering with something wild. His hand presses into the mattress beside your head. “Stay still, now.”

It’s all the warning he gives you. You feel like you’re splitting– straight up the middle. You wail, hands flying out to claw at his back. It hurts. It hurts. 

“Satoru, p-please! It’s–” 

Lips catch yours– hungry, feral. The kiss is not gentle, not soothing. It shuts you up, it keeps you quiet, it keeps you still as you feel him sinking further, deeper into you. It’s too much, you try to say, but the poke of sharp teeth against your lips keeps you silent. Your hips jolt and wiggle trying desperately to escape the stretch but it’s no use. By the time he’s fully inside you, tears are streaking down your cheeks, fat and heavy. His lips break away and his eyes reappear. You shake when you see that none of the wildness has been tamed, that you’ve only just begun.

“Good girl,” he coos, and a cool finger traces a line across your jaw. “Took me so well.” You hold back a sob when his hips shift a little, testing, prodding. He must see the pinch of your eyes, the twist of your mouth, because he’s quick to comfort. “Just hold my hand, princess.” His hips rock in earnest this time and you whimper, squeezing down on his hand with all your might. You’re panting as he chuckles. “Breathe, love. Breathe. Soon you’ll be begging for more,” he laughs. It’s not long before he’s rocking into you sincerely, setting a pace that stretches you to the brink of breaking. At first it’s all you can do to grasp onto him, to bite your lips through the whimpers and hold his hand. And then it’s… more. It’s heat and warmth despite the coolness of his body on yours. It’s sensation and… pleasure. He laughs when the first moan slides past your lips, burying his face in your neck once again. You hear him at your ear, panting his hot breath across your skin. 

“Feel good, princess?” You nod, letting your hips rock against his as he showed you before. It feels good– it feels right. He chuckles, but there’s nothing light about the sound. “Wanna feel even better?” Something sharp pokes at the skin of your neck, hard enough to make you squeak, to make you freeze at what you know he wants. 

He pulls himself back, pressing his forehead to yours, searching your eyes with his. Something like a cruel smile dances on his mouth. “Just a taste, love. I promise it won’ hurt.” His tongue darts out and licks across your lips, his thrusts rocking just a bit faster. “You’ll feel s’ good an’ I’ll only take a little.” He laughs again and it sends a chill through your bones. “Promise.” He sounds breathless, like he’s struggling to restrain himself. The increase of his pace makes you whine and you squeeze his hand again. He buries himself back in your neck, panting. “Come on, love. Say yes. Say yes f’ me.” Your eyes glaze over. Your body justles with each new thrust. He’s desperate now, seeking a release that you don’t think is any kind you’re familiar with. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants in your ear. You’re not sure when his words twist in your mind, when they settle on your tongue and push past your lips, but you know it feels so right when they do. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

His fangs clamp around your pulse. You scream when the sting rips through you, violent and savage– but it only lasts a moment. Pain fades to… ecstasy. You feel his throat bobbing with each swallow, feel your blood seeping from your skin and onto his tongue. You’d thought it would feel slicing, draining, like the life was being sucked from you. It doesn’t. It feels wonderful. Heat spreads under your skin, emanating from your neck and down to your toes. It feels like breathing for the first time, like sugar being pumped into your veins. It feels like heaven. Your hand tangles in his hair, holding him close. You don’t want it to stop, not ever. You could die like this, have him suck every last drop of blood from your veins and thank him for it with your dying breath. 

He’s moaning now, hands curling into your hips while he fucks into you relentlessly. The pace is grueling and brutal. You know it should hurt but only feels perfect. Anything less would not be enough. Anything else would leave you wanting. You feel it building, feel that familiar twinge at your core. The ecstasy flooding through your veins has it coming faster, has you teetering on the edge in moments. 

“Satoru…” You hadn’t noticed how dizzy you felt until you tried to speak. You wonder why… “‘M gonna…” 

He fucks you harder, something menacing and deep rumbling in his chest. The sound makes you shiver, makes you whine, makes you come. 

Your body shakes and a cry rips from your throat, cunt clenching like a vice around him. Your eyes roll back, hands scraping trails down his back. Your thighs quake with the intensity, with the overwhelming senses of pleasure that erupt throughout your body. Every nerve is firing, every hair rising. It’s an unstoppable current, one that sweeps you away, helpless to its pull. 

His thrusts grow sloppy and untimed. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place while he makes you his. His teeth break from your neck and when you look up through blurry eyes you see his head thrown back, your blood streaming down his chin in thick little globs. You feel it when he cums, feel the thick ropes of it seeping into your womb, feel the way he keeps fucking you, pushing it deeper and deeper inside. He’s moaning, chanting your name like a prayer at the heavens. 

When the moment ends he slumps over you, eyes half lidded and tired. There’s a familiar grin on his lips, one that inspires both comfort and uneasiness in your gut. You can’t help but stare at him, at the blood that stains his chin and cheeks, that reddens his lips so beautifully. You want to reach out and touch him, touch his blood-soaked skin and see what it feels like, what it tastes like. What you taste like. 

His eyes slide to the side, finding your pulse again. You groan. Yes, you think. Please, yes. More. You don’t think you’ll ever get enough of that. Of his teeth in your flesh, of the euphoria flooding your veins. More, more, more, your mind chants. 

He chuckles lightly and shakes his head. “No, princess.” He raises a finger to trace the curve of your neck. “I took more than I should have…” His expression doesn’t tense with worry. His cheeks pull into a smile, those little dimples shining through. “But what can I say? You just taste so good.” Like he needs to emphasize his point, his tongue darts out to trace his lips, lapping up some of the remaining blood on his chin. “You taste like mine.”

You whine. More, more, more. It’s all you can think about. You lift an arm weakly. You want to pull him to your neck, to make him drink, to make him fill you with the heaven you had just moments ago. 

He catches your wrist and brings it to his lips, inhaling deeply. His lips split into another grin and you see his eyes spark again with the wildness you crave. 

“Not yet, princess.” he coos. “But soon.” His smile grows even wider, until those fangs are on full display, until you’re trembling again. “Forever,” he whispers.

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