100% I Highkey Wanna Let Toji Mess Up My Life Like This~

100% I highkey wanna let Toji mess up my life like this~

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒꒱ park fling

TOJI x f.reader

Overview; Toji met you at the park and just had to take you back to his car to show you a good time

Content; smut, dilf + tattooed Toji

Warnings; 🔞 mdni, smut, implied milk dad behavior (poor Megumi sorry m'boy)

Kinks; public sex (park), light breeding kink, hookup sex, implied age gap (20s ~ 30s), taking off condom, creampie, car sex, dirty talk, a brief use of pns 'daddy' and 'good girl'

A/N; srry just eyerolling for toji so bad lately thought i'd squeeze out some more yummy content 💕

He was just someone you met at the park one day. All you knew about him was that he had a son and previously they were on a picnic together, catching up on life like they so rarely do.

It was the holidays. An especially bright sun cursed the summer sky, you constantly kept your hand held to the crown of your head to shade your squinting eyes from the harsh sun rays.

That tall, brooding man crossed your line of sight and immediately snapped up your attention. The way his tight black T-shirt defined his muscular physique made you clench your thighs together tightly. And when he spoke to you? You batted your eyes like crazy and gave him a cheeky, horny smile.

His greasy black hair reminded you of the bad boys you used to crush on back in high school. His bold tattoos were just the cherry on top. Speaking of cherries... he was clearly very interested in yours. "Wanna go someplace quieter?" he asked.

That deep, rolling voice of his went straight to the center of your brain, reverberated in your chest and travelled down south between your thighs, which he knew you were rubbing together because of him. He was sorely aware of the effect he had on girls like you.

After sending his son off down the block to the store for some lame, made-up excuse, Toji took you to his black, pretty Porsche and eagerly squeezed himself inside your needy, wet pussy as you sat pretty on his lap in the driver's seat. He angled your body so that he could get as deep as possible, and you happily let his calloused hands explore your body.

He let out handsome, deep groans while his nasty cock squeezed in and out of your pussyhole. The way he meanly rolled his hips up and roughly squeezed the crease of your hips made you feel like you were his toy — his newfound favorite, his pretty little fleshlight. Those snake green eyes narrowed in pleasure, cockhead skillfully bullying against your G-spot each time he plunged inside.

The condom bothered the two of you so much that you told him to just get rid of it already, so he peeled it off his cock. Sinking inside you raw sent him straight to heaven. And you? You could barely keep a coherent thought in your head. You could feel the texture of his cock, each kink and curve, and the angry veins that decorated his shaft.

He fucked you so good that you just threw your head back in bliss and voiced every bad girl desire in it.

" 'm gonna cum!" you cried, clawing at his meaty biceps. The pleasure was so good you rolled your eyes back and made a face like a pornstar, it made Toji chuckle.

"Cummin' f'me?"

"Mhm! 'm gonna cum, 'm gonna — ahhh, cumminggg!" you squealed, feeling your hole tighten up so much that you really felt the shape of his cock. It had a curve to it that just absolutely drove your pussy nuts.

"Aw, look at you." Toji cooed against your face, admiring your slutty expression as you orgasmed. "Daddy's gonna cum too, 'wanna take it inside like a good girl? Get that pretty pussy knocked up? Hm?"

You nodded and replied with such a frantic "Yes! Yes please! Knock me up!" that he chuckled. It felt so good to cum knowing that you wanted to get knocked up by him; this total stranger who you let rail you in his car even though you talked to him for only two hours, this daddy who already had a son. But hell, he didn't mind having another kid if it came from someone as cute as you.

He barely managed to get any words out before he came. "Ah — fuuuck, 'take it, take it all." he growled lowly in your ear. You felt him throbbing and pulsing, broad chest heaving; for a moment it felt like he was never gonna catch his breath again.

Stilling with an erotic groan, he kept a firm hold on your hips as if he was gonna go in for another round because, truthfully, it just felt too good to throw in the towel yet. Creamy white liquid dribbled out of your little loosened up hole.

Meanwhile, his son returned to find his dad not where he left him, so he scratched the back of his head and rung up his dad's phone. "Dad, where you at? Just up and fucking vanished again?" he sighed sarcastically.

Toji slipped himself out of you with a little pop sound. "Stay put, I'm coming back." he told Megumi.

Aw, he must have really cared about his son, because he drove back to the park to meet him. Of course, not without hastily stuffing another creampie up inside your hole and putting his number in your contacts.

Daily reminder that Gege hinted that Sukuna practically lactates 💀

This was really good, I legit wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t say this was your first time writing a full fic, I love the way you wrote toji he’s fr ✨daddy✨

Got me looking like this⬆️ early in the morning lol

12:13 am : ̗̀➛ toji fushiguro

After coming home tipsy from a night out with your girlfriends you needed Toji badly. Whatever you need, Toji is willing to give it to you. Especially if what you need is his cock.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: 2.4k

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ | fem. reader, established relationship, drunk sex (reader is tipsy), raw sex, alcohol mentioned, petnames (baby, sweetheart, princess, pretty girl), degradation (slut, whore), oral (m. receiving), fingering, cowgirl position, dirty talk, nipple play, use of good girl, spanking (ass, thigh), daddy kink (sry i had to), choking (fem. receiving)

Important: this is my first time writing a full fic, feel free to comment feedback on how i can improve for future fics or comment your thoughts on this fic. Obviously there is smut under the cut so if you are under 18+/an ageless blog DO NOT interact or be blocked!!

“Toji”

Nothing.

“Toji, wake up” you say as you tap your boyfriend on his shoulder. Every time you went out with your girlfriends you always had a great time and plenty of drinks.

When you finally came home you slipped your heels off at the front door, stumbling your way upstairs. Opening your shared bedroom door, you see Toji sleeping peacefully on his stomach with the blanket pulled up over his body leaving more than half of his muscular back exposed. The sight of it rising in sync with his breaths made your body heat with arousal.

Whenever you drank the strong liquid, it always made its way to your cunt leaving you a horny mess. A mess that Toji was always willing to clean up. “Baby, please wake up” you whine making the man next to you stir. Finally, Toji wakes and turns over on his back with one arm behind his head and the other reaching for you, while staring at you with sleepy eyes.

You almost feel bad for waking him up, just so he can fuck you. Almost.

“You’re home,” he said while rubbing soothing circles on your thigh. “Did you have fun sweetheart?” His voice sounds rougher since he’s coming out of sleep. The sound of it making you rub your thighs together, something Toji took notice of. “I did,” you say as you lean over and start kissing down his neck. “Missed you Toji,” you say in between the kisses you were trailing down his neck leading to his chest. His chuckle turns into a groan when you begin playing with his nipples and softly moving your hands over his chest and abs.

Toji’s cock begins to harden in his sweatpants at your movements. He knew that when you went out with your friends, you would come home tipsy and begging for him to fill you up with his big cock. This time was no different, except for the fact that he wanted to catch up on some sleep since he just came back from a work trip, which also feeds into your need for a fuck. But, seeing you all needy and doe eyed made his need for sleep go away.

With you still placing kisses on his neck and chest, he takes his hand and gently cups the nape of your neck then guides your mouth onto his. The minute your soft lips met his slightly chapped ones you instantly melted into the feeling. You tasted like vodka and… strawberry, from your lipgloss Toji thinks. The kiss started slow and gentle, but the sounds you were making drove Toji crazy causing him to devour you like a man starved. You slung your leg over him and made your way onto his lap so that your clothed cunt was on top of his bulge.

Now seated on his lap, you began to grind down on him making the man groan into your mouth. Toji raised his hand and slapped your ass making you gasp, which made it easier for him to slip his tongue into your mouth. “Mmmm,” you whined making the man part from your lips. “What is it, baby?” He asked looking up at you. “I need you Toji.” The man below you looked at you with enough lust in his eyes to make your skin feel like it was on fire. “Need what, princess?” You knew what he was doing. Toji loved hearing you beg and tell him all the dirty things you wanted him to do to you.

“Need you to fuck me.” You took his hand and placed his middle and ring fingers into your mouth and began sucking on them. The sight made Toji’s cock twitch in his pants. “Yeah?” He chuckled. “Uh huh,” you mumbled while shaking your head up and down for further confirmation. Toji snaked his other hand around you giving you light teasing smacks on your ass making your cunt clench around nothing.

“You’re such a needy little slut for me aren’t you?” Toji asked. “Jus’ for you” you answered while his fingers still filled your mouth. “That’s right baby. Now I need you to get my cock nice and wet so I can fill that pretty pussy. Can you do that for me princess?” Toji asked while guiding you off his lap and placing you right in front of his clothed dick straining in his sweats. “Yes.”

Overcome by the sudden need to feel him in your mouth you pull off his sweats first, followed by his boxers causing his cock to spring out and tap on his lower abdomen. Taking your hand, you lifted his cock and let your spit drip onto the tip. Using your hand, you spread the spit onto his cock jerking him off before placing the head of it into your mouth. Toji moaned at the feeling of your hot mouth sucking his sensitive cock head. It wasn’t long before you got into a rhythm and began enthusiastically sucking him off.

“So good princess f-fuck.” “Keep going just like that.” Toji moaned while putting his hand on the back of your head to encourage you further. Your movements were sloppy but, the look in your eyes and the smile you had on your face while sucking on his balls was enough to make him cum in your mouth. But Toji didn’t want that to happen. He took the hand that was on your head and threaded it through your hair pulling your mouth off of his cock. You gave him a confused look to which he said, “if I’m gonna cum it's gonna be inside you, not in your mouth.”

Toji took your hand making you crawl onto his lap. He gently pushed you back so you were sitting on his thighs, exposing your panty covered pussy to him. He guided his thumb along the obvious wet spot there humming in approval. “Did sucking my cock make you this wet baby?” He questioned. You were so sensitive that the slightest touch to your cunt, made you tremble with need. “Yes” you said breathlessly. Toji kept playing with your pussy through your panties making the wet spot on them grow. With you in a tipsy haze and being unbearably horny, the teasing was proving to be too much for you. You needed Toji, and you needed him now.

“Toji fuck me p-please” you moaned bucking your hips hoping his fingers would give you the friction you craved. “In a minute princess. I need to stretch this cunt out so you’ll be able to take my cock, don’t wanna hurt you.” He said. You felt a quick slap on your thigh, warning you to behave or he’ll prolong the torture. Not wanting him to punish you, you just sat there and took what Toji was giving you. You were being such a good girl for Toji that he finally pulled your panties to the side showing off your glistening cunt to him. Strings of your arousal were connecting your panties to your pussy, making Toji’s mouth water. “Fuck your pussy’s so wet. ‘Bet my cock would slide right in won’t it?”

Toji lightly grazed your clit with his finger, making you jolt from the sensation. He added pressure to your clit and began making circles on it, causing you to sigh out in relief. You closed your eyes, the feeling becoming too much too quickly. Toji then took his free hand and eased his middle finger into your cunt. The stretch made your eyes snap open and you let out a string of moans. Slightly after he inserted his ring finger, and began slowly finger-fucking you.

“You’re so wet for me princess.” The feeling of his fingers slowly massaging the inside of your cunt was making it hard to form thoughts let alone words to say to Toji. “You hear that baby?” he asked as he started to move his fingers in and out of you faster, just so you could hear the squelching sounds your pussy was making for him. “That’s what I do to this messy cunt.” Your skin began to heat with embarrassment as you looked away from him, trying to mask how much his words turned you on. “Look at me sweetheart” Toji commanded. The sternness in his voice made you look at him directly in his eyes, letting out a satisfied hum he says, “there’s my pretty girl.” Toji loved seeing you like this. Watching you become a brainless slut for him was something Toji truly cherished during these moments.

As Toji kept finger-fucking you while still doing circles on your clit, you felt your high approaching. “You’re gonna make me cum Toji” you moaned out. “That so?” While shaking your head up and down you whimpered out a “yes” while Toji’s movements never ceased. As you felt your orgasm coming on, your legs began to spread wider just as your hips began moving in circles. It was getting harder and harder to control the sounds that were spilling from your mouth. You were going to cum, and you were going to cum hard. Just as you were about to topple over the edge and descend into bliss, everything stopped.

No No No. You looked at Toji who was staring at you with a shit eating grin on his handsome face. “That’s for waking me princess.” You felt your orgasm disappear and the unshed tears that were in your eyes began to fall. You were frustrated at him, but so fucking turned on by what he was doing to your body. “So mean” you slurred, looking away from him again. Toji placed his had around your neck and brought your face close to his, so he can give you a kiss full of saliva and tongue. Once he pulled away he chuckled saying, “you like when I’m mean though.” The hand that was on your neck moved down to your tits gently massaging them, to your waist picking you up so you were positioned right above his cock.

“I want you to ride me pretty girl. Think you can do that for me?” Instead of answering him, you grabbed his hard cock and rubbed the tip up and down your slit before slowly sitting down on it. You were so wet that there was barely any resistance, which made his cock go in and out of you easily. The feeling of his fat dick filling you made goosebumps rise on your skin, it felt so good, he felt so good. You continued to bounce on him, the pleasure was so intense you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to, which you definitely didn’t want to do that. “You feel so good daddy” you moaned. Toji placed his hands on your hips holding you in place so you can stop your movements. “What did you say?” You and Toji have talked about using that name during sex. It would always be on the tip of your tongue but you just never got the courage to say it, until now.

It’s the alcohol talking you think. But It doesn’t matter. Calling Toji daddy just feels natural.

You took his hands that were holding you in place and moved them slowly up your body while also grinding down on him. Placing one hand on your tit and the other around your neck. “You feel so good inside me daddy,” you expressed while giving him a seductive smile. You felt his cock twitch at the use of the title and something inside Toji snapped. He took the hand that was on your neck and pressed down on the sides making you whimper at the feeling, he then moved the hand that was on your tit and quickly placed it on your ass where he delivered hard spanks while fucking up into you. “Such” *smack* “a” *smack* “fuckin” *smack* “whore” *smack* “for me.” Each slap he gave to your ass made your pussy clench hard around his cock. “Yes yes ‘for you only for you!” you cried out. To add to your pleasure, Toji took one of your nipples into his mouth and began sucking, and lightly biting it.

The feeling of his hot mouth on your nipple was pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “R-right there daddy p-please.” He reached down towards your ass to spread your cheeks apart, making your cunt spread as well. Deep, he always reached so deep inside you this way. “Riiight here baby?” Toji said as he adjusted his hips so his cock was hitting your g-spot perfectly. “Yes yes yes fuck fuck Toji!” Your orgasm started building, after all the teasing and all the good fucking this man was giving you, you were finally going to cum. “I want you to cum for me princess” that’s all you needed to hear before you came hard, all over his cock. “F-fuck daddy I’m cumming I’m fucking cumming!” You basically screamed. Your cunt began to tighten and contract on Toji’s cock, making it hard for him to move inside of you. You threw your head back, the force of your orgasm making you see stars behind your eyelids.

Toji moved your hips in circles, grinding your clit just above the base of his dick, which prolonged your orgasm. “Atta girl just like that, keep cumming just like that baby, that’s my good girl.” Finally coming down from your orgasm you put your arms around his neck and began placing kisses on there. Whispering in Toji’s ear you said, “please cum inside me daddy please.” Everything slowed down and you wanted nothing more than the man below you to fill you up with his cum. With one hand on the nape of his neck, you trailed the other down to his nipple and gave it a quick pinch. “Oh fuck” and just like that Toji came with a loud groan as your name fell from his lips.

Once Toji came down from his high he leaned in and gave you such a soft kiss you barely registered that it happened. The way he can go from fucking you rough and hard to being sweet and loving made you dizzy. During the kiss Toji was drawing circles on your back which made you clench around his dick which was still inside you. He pulled away from your lips and let out a hiss at the overstimulation. “Sorry” you giggled to which Toji replied with a light smack on your ass. “Is that what you needed princess?” You let out a yawn sleep overtaking your body. “Yea. Thank you daddy” you sleepily said. Laying you down on the bed Toji pulled out of you and walked to the bathroom to get a washcloth to clean you up. The last thing you heard before drifting off to sleep was Toji softly saying, “you’re welcome princess.”

2023 © thebimbopalace — please DO NOT copy, change, or repost my works on any other platform. All rights reserved to @ thebimbopalace

H-he so mean but like the masochistic  whore in me still wants him🥺

the intruder (m)

pairing fushiguro toji + fem!reader

synopsis

a home invasion befalls your lonely penthouse just days after your husband goes on work retreat, and it turns out he’s indebted to a lot of dangerous people.

but for a certain intruder, money isn’t the only thing on his mind.  

content warnings explicit content, infidelity, threats of blood and violence, dubious consent, unprotected sex, size kink, use of handcuffs, brat-taming, pet-names, oral (m receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, nonconsensual recording, riding, cervix-bumping, praise + degradation, squirting, hair-pulling, breeding kink (sort of), choking, toji is masked the entire time but loves to put on a show,

word count 7,500+

read on ao3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT

Several built-in security cams, a motion-detected entrance, and a generously paid night-team.

In all honesty, this must’ve been a set-up.

Perhaps, a tasteless prank. How six masked intruders managed to break into your penthouse just a few days after your now-estranged husband left for a retreat is beyond you. All of these security inspections to ensure that your penthouse was impenetrable, and yet, above twenty-seven floors, befell a home invasion.

The penthouse was dim-lit, muted by the cityscape and exposed on slender, double-paned windows. In a private residential building, designed for the vieux-riche and white-collared, there was no room for the ordinary. 

One of the masked intruders noisily whistles, swivelling his large frame as he gawks at the interior. “Impressive.”

“You can stare later,” another says, dropping his duffle bag onto your modular sofa, “hurry up and take what you can.”

Reeling from your sudden wake, forcibly handcuffed to a radiator pipe. It had only been a few hours before you were abruptly forced from your bed, held at gunpoint to keep quiet, and lured into the living room to watch your home be ransacked to skint. Carelessly—along with their heavy bags, filled to the brim—they pace around with a gun you’re convinced couldn’t be loaded.

If it weren’t for your composure, you’d be dead already.

“All this space,” a disillusioned voice scorns from another room, unseen. “For what? Three people?”

“Two, asshole.” You mutter under your breath.

“You got a smart mouth, lady,” the brawny man—jade eyes discerned from the dark-grey ski mask covering the rest of his face, kneels down in front of you. (You definitely whispered it, and he definitely wasn’t close enough to hear that). “Do I need to shut you up as well?”

It's demeaning. With a tight lip, wavered to the tremor of having your life under threat, you turn away to avoid his stern gaze. Turned to your chef, teary-eyed and pale-stricken, muffled by a roughly knotted tie found in your husband’s drawers. Made an example of, gagged like her so that you were forced to keep quiet on your accord. It didn’t stop her, worsening the situation with every stifled wail, earning an empty threat from every passing intruder.

For the sake of not having another gun pressed against your temple, you simply watch. Observe.

Sheathed in puffer jackets and black ski-masks, they had been hard to distinguish from one another.

Except one.

One of them had the audacity of disregarding a jacket, wearing a simple black, tight-fitted t-shirt that defined every ridge and curve of his upper frame. He didn’t even bother wearing gloves. The way he simply tampered with the emergency line and security cams made you think he’d been here before, familiar. And if that were the case, then you were in trouble.

Guilty, very guilty of noticing how his bulky arms would tense with every movement. Flexed under every packed bag or veined by alabaster protrusions; a pitiful thing to notice while he carried your belongings. His voice sunk twenty-feet down your spine as if you were made of bottomless chasms—another reason why you’d be able to differentiate him from the rest.

It didn’t matter. He carried a poise that told you this wasn’t his first time; overly confident and tactful.

And this reckoning was coming.

Your husband was a conglomerate who attempted to juggle risky affairs with his company matters, leaving at odd hours and returning with rum-iced breath and a sunken gaze. A driving force behind the rift in your marriage, consumed with an undying urge to flood his bank accounts with more money, gluttonous. This was something you should’ve seen coming, but he had abandoned you at a shadily specific time; a work retreat he’d call it, important matters to be handled in Hokkaido with an urgency that left you no choice but to let him leave.

You nearly doze off, worn-out from the constant manhandling before one of the intruders’ pace towards you. He kneels down, pats your cheek with the muzzle of his gun. “Hey,” he exhales, vexed. “Where’s the rest of the money?”

​​You jadedly sigh, overrun with the same questions that all boil down to one inadequate answer: “I don’t know.” He exhales even louder, clasping the gun tighter. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know.”

You do, kind of. It’s a teeny lie because while trust did go both ways in a four-year marriage, there had been little disclosure around his work between the two of you. As newly-weds, he swore to confide in you but since moving into this penthouse, he had completely left you in the dark; distance grew, and the double-glazed windows grew longer and there was a void to this place that had an odd semblance to your love life.

You knew that he had a hidden room, a vault, somewhere in his library, but that’s how far it went. Company files (and filthy secrets), heaps of cash, prized possessions, family heirlooms and a few weapons to spare—all for him to touch, and for you to bear the consequences of.

But when you think you’ve convinced the brutish man, he suddenly presses a gun to your chef’s head, who wails through the gag shoved into her mouth like a leaking pipe. “I’ll give you another chance to tell me something I want to hear, and if you don’t, I’ll blow her brains out.”

Untold confessions burn into bile. “I don’t know.”

He heaves through the mask. “I’ll count to three then,” he grits his teeth, presses it forcefully to her temple as she continues to shriek. “One,” he begins while your resolve slowly breaks down, “two,” the trigger squeaks under his thumb, “t—”

“—it’s in the library, I think. But I don’t know where—”

“Behind the bookshelf, huh?”

A familiar voice says from the distance, earning a burst of mirth from the group of masked men as a loud creak resounds the penthouse; your eyes flutter closed in a strange feeling of relief and discontent, slumping against the radiator when they leave to join him in the library. As a ruffle ensues over there, you’re forsaken to observe your chef’s unkempt state, whom you nearly killed because of your misplaced loyalty.

The guilt chews at your own resolve, unable to find the words to console her or aid your own discomfort. Before you can even think to do so, he walks in—saunters with a smugness that forces you to bite back a curse, and a brimmed duffle bag. He drops it before walking towards you, crouching down once again to meet your surly gaze, teary and loathing. He spends a fleeting moment observing your twisted expression, clearly reeling from the very real threat of gunpoint. And he’s relishing it.

He's eerily quiet, calm. Somehow, it’s worse than the other man’s fiery temperament.

“You got what you wanted, you can take it and leave.” You utter with a weak lilt.

“I don’t think I have,” he retorts casually, his head cocked to the side. The glimmer in his eye changes like a heavy tide on a full moon, eventually settling on an impish gaze that bursts with inspiration. “Now, why is the lovely wife here when she should be with her husband?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“How do ya expect to live with an attitude like that?” he asks, clearly unaffected by your hostility. If it were anyone else, they’d put a bullet in your head already.

“Next time? With a gun.” 

He chortles through the mask, and you can even hear a wicked smirk brush against the fabric. “What makes you think there’s a next time?” he chides, picks up a piece of fluff from your cheek, and you nearly flinch. “Maybe I’d be doing your husband a favour then. What do you think, lady?”

He turns to your chef, still cowering in her spot, momentarily pauses her snivelling to register his question. The masked man tuts, roughly yanking the gag from her mouth, doused in spit and snot. She takes the release as a false invitation to blubber pleas, it goes on and on and on, which he lets happen until he’s had his fill—he’s a psycho. 

“Hey,” he respires, “shut up.”

She promptly closes her mouth.

“She a good wife?” he asks, nudging his head towards you like he’s indulging in weekly gossip, pinning the poor lady’s frame down with his gaze. Your chef can only deduct from what she sees, and she has seen… a lot; enough to gauge that there was nothing respectable about the truth.

“Good wife—no, not really. They—uh, they fight a lot.” She mutters.

“Ouch,” he scratches the skin behind his ear, turning to you. “No wonder he left such a pretty thing behind.”

You’re rendered wordless, a heat cloyed in your gut.

“How about this,” he says, fiddling with your handcuffs. When his fingers brush against your skin, it sends a evanescing shudder through your body—it’s cold. “How about you help me send your husband a little message?”

“But—” you sputter, beat. “—but don’t you have what you need?”

“Nah,” he says, unshackling you from the pipes and firmly grabbing your upper arm to haul you up. He’s far stronger, manhandles you through the hallways as though you’re lightweight—you must be—for arms that bulky, he’d be able to lift a car. “Not quite satisfied yet, princess.”

“Where are you taking me?” you exclaim as obscurity swallows you whole, separated from the commotion in the living room.

But you’re stumbling into your bedroom; torso lurched onto the chair he rolls from your desk, the windows draped in velvet curtains, but there’s subdued moonglow seeping through and it pales his exposed skin. He handcuffs you once more, behind the backrest of your chair this time, demanding a camera from one of the other intruders.

The brawny man pulls you to centre stage, in front of him, and mutters with a caustic swing. “Don’t be scared.”

It’s not reassuring at the slightest—it’s not meant to be. You thrash against the handcuffs, watching in confusion as one of his hot-headed subordinates return with a thick-lensed camera and tripod. He makes note of the ring-light at your desk and pulls it over to him as well. Your efforts are to no avail, slumped in a satin blue nightgown that creases just above your knees.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you sigh, admitting defeat. “At least make it quick.”

It is difficult to read him when he’s hiding behind a mask, but his calmness resides in his mannerisms. He gives no allusion that he wants to kill you, but that’s worse—his temperament is completely unreadable, and there’s nothing you can do but try to draw an actual answer from him. “Kill you? What kind of message would that send?”

Maybe you’re digging your own grave instead. “That—that you leave no witnesses?”

He chortles at your response, stretching his limbs once he’s done adjusting the camera. His burly arms extend above his head and his shirt fleetingly lifts to reveal his terribly toned abdomen, freckled with swirling hairs around his belly button and a thick mound of it just peeking above the hem of his boxers. You no longer try to make sense of what that sated pull in your gut means, (whatever it is, it’s bad-mannered).

“Careful now, you’ll make it sound like a good idea.”

“Then what? What do you want with me?” you push, frustrated.

He evades your question once again, clearly not up for any transparency and instead, he turns on the camera; a red flicker that beeps just below the large lenses, then he abruptly switches on the ring-light, adjusted to the brightest level and you quickly turn away, flinching.

“State your name.” He simply orders.

“What?” you ask, barely able to see him past the glaring light.

“State your name, and don’t make me repeat myself.”

Hesitantly, you drone each syllable of your name. Your eyes drift idly to the carpet, to whatever can hold your attention, anything is better than the beam of light sharply meeting your retina.

“Look at me,” he focuses your attention onto him, where he stands a little closer, slightly shadowing the shaft of light behind him and when you meet his gaze, intimidated by his large stature, you’re taken aback. “Say it again.”

You state it clearly this time, with a sourness—a harsh bite to each word that doesn’t go unnoticed by him, but he’s somewhat satisfied, nodding in approval. “Good girl.”

The sudden term sends another awkward twinge to your gut (or, to the part of you that throbs mindlessly, without will, just want). You ignore it, watching fretfully as he picks up a few papers the other guy dropped onto your bed earlier.

“You can read a script, right?” he neatly folds the papers together. “I want you, princess, to tell your husband what’ll happen if he doesn’t bring the rest of my money by the end of this month.”

“Hm?”

He stands by the camera once again and hangs the first page beside his face. It’s written in a very large font, as though it was intended for a reader unable to see from this distance, or they were merely in a rush. Impatient, he sighs. “Speak up.”

“They—they’ll tell everyone about the operations behind his company,” you murmur, trying to digest the information written on the piece of paper. Reality thickens, and everything you suspected your husband to be involved in now holds substance to it. “What operations?”

“Recite this.” He says, displaying the second page.

“Oh my g—”

“Hey, recite it.”

You recite it—word for word—every single shady job that transpires beneath the company’s general operations and it leads to an obvious conclusion; he moves drugs. Whoever these guys are, they’re shady and fucked-up, but they’re borne by your husband’s misdemeanours. He had clearly crossed them, and now he had left you to suffer the consequences.

“Suppose it’s better that it comes from his own wife, right?” he says, putting the papers away. “You see,” he directly says to you, instead of the camera, “if he fails, I’ll come back to finish the job, and this video—all those documents, they go live, understood?” 

Indignation rattles your chest, and you’re not sure who you’re mad at, the perpetrators or the intended target who abandoned you. “So, what? You’re all drug dealers, then? Fuck you. You couldn’t threaten him yours—mph!”

He grabs your chin, stifling the rest of your tirade—it boils at the tip of your tongue, and he touches it, sliding a thumb across your bottom lip. “That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, squinting down at your resentful gaze, jaw clenched, and chest heaved, “—don’t think a gag is going to fix that attitude.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me?”

“I could,” he mulls with a shrug, pressing down on the tongue that craves a good finish, between the teeth that itches to bite it. There’s an eyelash just above your cheek, and he slowly picks it off. It’s a thick tension you could slice with a butcher’s knife, one apparent beneath the ongoing silence while he ponders on his next motives. “Or I could put that mouth to better use.”

Your face twists in puzzlement, unable to take in the turn of events when he’s suddenly uncuffing you, just to cuff you again once you’ve stood up.

He turns to the masked man at the door, who has been idly standing there for a while, awaiting his next instructions. “Load up the van.”

Eventually (and soundlessly) he walks away, nearly intrigued if not for the brawny man’s firm instructions, leaving the both of you alone to the stillness. When you’re dragged to the end of the bed, he sits and pulls you towards him—flailing and protests falling short when he swiftly bends you over his lap—one hand pushing your lower back down, the other lifting your nightgown up.

Your torso stretches against his thighs. “What—what are you—oh!”

A shrill smack suddenly booms, then follows a stinging sensation that settles on your ass cheeks.

You heavily exhale, mind reeling from the echoes of a slap.

And it dawns on you, a cloak of realisation: he just slapped your ass.

Sheer shock and indignation, it churns, disoriented by the brute force of his hand meeting your skin. Your squirming intensifies. “What the fuck?” you exclaim.

“Watch your mouth,” he simply warns, slapping your ass once more; this one is a more cruel, and the burn sticks around for a few more seconds before he lands another one for sport. Every slap is paired with a strained wince, but when he kneads that sore spot, that throbbing pull returns—tenfold—it’s turning you on. “From now on, you’re gonna be on your best behaviour.”

He's mocking you, resorting to childish chastises to make the humiliation of it all sink a little deeper.

He doesn’t care about your attitude.

“Huh? No—”

Another one, it’s now less of a prickle and more of a dull pain, uncomfortable. “What was that?”

“But—”

And another.

All of your protests are countered by an unkind blow, intensified with every swoop, and you try, with the utmost effort, to hold in your whimpers but it gets jolted out of you. You’re being scolded, and all you can do is take it. If that isn’t enough to make you reel in mortification—the pool of slick building up between your legs—might stop your heart completely. Ruination overwhelms your imagination, and before it gets too far, you obey, hoping he’ll stop before he notices. “Okay, fine. Fine—I’ll behave, okay? Can you let me go now?”

“See how easy that was?” he leers, coyly playing with the lace of your panties, cerulean lace to match the deep blue of your nightgown, and he admires the dedication to craft. It’s a satisfying match. The end of his strikes leave a daunting hush to fill, but as you try to dismiss the ache that cries for his attention, he pries your thighs apart, tightly locked, and slides his palm down your clothed slit. It’s damp.

You try to jump forward. “Don’t you fucking dare—!”

He vigorously smacks your ass to cut your words down, letting it get trapped in a hoarse gasp that thrums against the back of your throat. His palm sinks between your thighs, wrist trapped in between, presses the fabric into your sodden cunt. “It’s wet. What’s goin’ on here?”

“Don’t,” he presses the flat pane of his fingers to your clit, “—wait.” 

“Now why would I do that?” he sneers, lifting the fabric, pulling upwards until it sinks between your soaked slit like a thong and tugs purposefully to make sure it presses firmly against your swollen nub. A low chuckle rumbles inside of his chest when your head flops against the side of his thigh, earning throaty gasps that almost resemble frenzied hiccups when he manoeuvres the fabric to just barely scratch the surface.

He’s tugging, and tugging, until your cunt squeezes for more, and he can see the soft lustre of slick—it’s as clear as day.

He continues to display his amusement in soft chortles; torment was his pastime, and he’s enjoying this, whittling you down into nothing but a toy to be played with. Just as you think it’s enough, he smacks your ass once again, hard and fast, an abnormal speed that almost diverts your attention from the prompt pull of your underwear, until he’s dragging it down to your ankles. Your cries of shock—chagrined—ends with another callous strike to your ass.

Two, thick fingers sink down to trap your clit between its slenderness, motioned up and down to stimulate it. “Fuckin’ soaked. Who got you like this?”

Oh, he knows.

This asshole knows (or, he really is oblivious to his own allure—the latter seems impossible).

“I’ll remember your voice,” you shakily threaten—hard not to, his cadence carried a slow twang to it, a level of poise that couldn’t be found in any of the intruders. Perhaps, just aged a little more than the rest, fine wine. It’s difficult to focus on that now when his fingers are squeezing your nub, scissoring, then the flat pane of his digits rub circles around it, causing your legs to flail about in the air, crook upwards, toes curling until it tenses, “—I’ll send you straight to pri—ah!”

He's established a pattern now, cutting your curses and threats short with a harsh blow to your ass, yet overwhelming your senses with the unrelenting motions against your clit. “Don’t get mad at me, princess. With a poor attitude like that, this is just a slap on the wrist.”

“Yeah? How do you think I should—fu—should talk to someone who’s threatening me with a gun? Stealing all my—my—”

“Steal what?” he follows, languidly drawing circles to worsen that ache.

You can’t answer, slacked against his body, cursing under your breath.

“Talk like ya want to live,” he chuckles, answering your question, indulging in how your weak cries erupt whenever he reverts your attention back to him with a cruel smack. “You’re enjoyin’ this a little too much, don’t ya think?”

It’s too much.

A mend of guilt and lust cloyed in your gut builds up, until a mirage is formed before your ears, crafted by budding tears. It’s as though he knows your body; what strings to pull, when to stop, when to start again, prolong your suffering and intensify your desperation. Even as you try to bite down on your whining, soft squelches resound the room when he picks up the pace, applying pressure and rubbing your swollen nub feverishly.

Then he slows down, presses down even harder, and watches you squirm in his lap.

And repeat.

“Let me go,” you shudder, jutting your hips into his thigh. Nothing about your actions can make sense of your tearful pleas. “Let me go! Just take the money and oh g—”

He takes your objection as a sign of wanting more, slowly nudging two of his thick, sticky fingers into your cunt, welcomed with heat, slicked walls that clenches fitfully around him. He stretches his fingers to shape your walls, twists and curls them. “I don’t think you want that.”

You soak his fingers knuckle-deep, feeding his huge ego with noises you fail to keep trapped beneath your tongue. He lets you slack against his lap, works at your pussy with the utmost intensity, motioning them back and forth, returning with a flood of slick. You’re numbed, chest tightened, and your focus is only brought back when he slaps your ass, demanding your attention once more.

Murmurs under his breath, uncaring to whether you can hear, and watches his fingers sink further inside. “Fuck, that’s tight.”

You say whatever comes to mind, incoherent and senseless. “F—f—shit—asshole!”

“What a mouth you got,” he tuts, momentarily tending to your aching nub before crooking his fingers further inside; exploring, caving to the senseless contractions and bumps into every corner he can brush. “What did I say?”

“I’m s—sorry,” you whimper when he intentionally misses the mark. He hums in approval, running the one hand that isn’t defiling you along your back, slinking around your nape to hold your head up, so you can catch him in your peripheral vision—he wants to watch. You can feel his eyes burn into the side of your head, gaze drifting to every contortion on your face, then he curls his fingers just right. Right where you want it; that spot that encourages black splotches to corner your blurry eyesight, moans unfiltered and far too sickly sweet for his own palate.

“Did I move too fast, doll?” he mocks, immediately pulling away.

“No. No, don’t do that.”

“Yeah? Want me to keep rubbin’ right here?” he pretends to be unaware, or so blatant that he wants you to know that it’s just a façade to get you to be more vocal, to beg, returning to that sensitive spot. “This it? That feel good?”

You can only muster an incoherent sound, something of a hum and a cry, nodding fretfully as your cheeks begin to soak your tears.

He watches in awe as you convulse in his lap, sliding his hand further down your neck to keeps you upright. “You want it, don’t ya? Say the word, and I might consider it.”

“I can’t—”

“Ya can’t what? Come?” he taunts, as though he didn’t spend his time torturing you, now relentlessly pushing you to a violent climax. “It’s obvious y'r piece of shit husband doesn’t know how to touch you properly, so it’s up to you, princess.”

“F—fuck. Yes, okay—okay. Please.” You say the word, through gritted teeth, shuddering when he refuses to rest.

Your clenched jaw slacks when he abruptly curls his fingers again, brushing your sweet spot with precision; back arches uncomfortably with your restrictive handcuffs and his hand wrapped around your neck, it moves away to knead at your ass again, to watch the slick run down your thighs—to his lap, and your head flops. Splatters of tears fall to the fuzzy carpet, disappearing in fields of wool. “This tight cunt is drippin’ all over my fingers. You get fucked by intruders often?”

“Shut—shut up,” you whimper, eyes squinting shut as he tugs at that sated pull, the heat in your abdomen spreads. “Just like that—oh my g—”

“Naughty, naughty wife,” he emphasises the word to make you remember where you are, your reality that’ll eventually sink in when he’s done with you. But something hard prods your lower abdomen, and it grows. “Should save us some time and fuck this pussy right now.”

You clamp down on his fingers, refrain from vocally letting him know that you’ll completely break if he doesn’t.

“Oh? Ya want that?”

His fingers fasten, clapping against the plush of your ass, earning louder squelches and wanton moans. Contact connected by strings of slick, and it’s vulgar. You almost forget that there’s still a bunch of intruders in your home, and your chef—

“Oh f—I’m close—oh sir, I’m so cl—”

“Sir? Yeah?” he relishes in the way you formally address him—a sign of respect for a man who doesn’t deserve it. “This pretty pussy really wants someone like me to fuck it?”

“Hm, please. Please.” You shamefully whimper, succumbing to your urges.

But he’s unkind, doesn’t intend on serving your needs right now, and pulls away, ends with a strike louder and harder than all the ones before, distracting you from the hollowness that resides within you. “Too bad. You don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

He pulls you up using your handcuffs, suddenly hurling you onto the bed to confront the burly man holding a voracious gaze, pins you down with it, both of his arms entrapping you in his shadow.

“Like I said, put that mouth to work,” he echoes as you sink under his weight, the bed unfamiliar but so forgiving to this foreign presence, “…and maybe, just maybe, I’ll consider it.”

Intensely, you reciprocate his ravenous stare.

Your disdain for the intruder returns, it’s coupled with lust this time. “Yes, sir.”

It’s laced in ridicule, and he can tell, scoffing before he yanks you forward, causing you to fall to your knees with a quick thud. His bulge meets you at eye-level, earning a budding eagerness that settles in your gut. He’s slow, unzipping his pants in a pace that has your fingertips clawing at the handcuffs, drawing blood.

When he pulls his briefs down, your jaw slackens, back straightens—it rises, thickens, and his size is monstrous.

You must be losing your mind. “What? Ya like what you see?”

Absolute girth that leads to a rose-burn tip, and it oozes, unpigmented veins that protrude on either side, earns a soft lustre when he thumbs his cockhead, rubs it all over. It’s not enough, so he spits on his hand, swivels around his fat cock to your own dismay; his bulbous tip to the mound of hair that settles above his fisted grip, it sucks you into a hypnotic trance that you can’t get out of.

He holds it, heavy in his hand, and presses the other to your head. “Don’t have all night,” he slurs, directs it to your parted mouth, and it puckers around his leaking tip, following his stare once you’ve wrapped wholly around it. It’s a slight burn to the inner corner of your mouth, but your tongue glides over the thick shaft, carefully whelming his cock. “Just like that, good girl.”

A guttural moan barely draws from his mouth when you hollow your cheeks, half-way there, sucking and bobbing to submerge his cock in the warmth of yours. His neck strains beneath the hem of his mask, jaw clenched, and his hold tightens until your roots begin to tear.

“That mouth can’t take anymore, huh?” he scoffs, forcing you further down his cock. He’s unforgiving, barging past your gritting throat to sink as deep as he can, and he does, clogging your senses with his musk and sheer girth, he begins his merciless thrusts. “Such a slut, letting the big bad guy fuck your throat? How do ya think your husband’s gonna feel when he finds out?”

You scowl at him, wondering if this trespasser had any grit in making your life any more difficult (but you couldn’t test that). You can’t focus beyond his unrelenting thrusts, relaxing your jaw to give him a better opening, slobber slipping down your chin. It’s messy—meeting a mound of hair with every thrust—gargling under the concoction of fluids puddled in your throat. You slicked his cock just right.

But your cunt throbs at the sight of his jade eyes, dazed, squinting as his abdomen flexes, hips stuttering.

You can sense a manic grin behind his mask. His tone is thicker. “What? Do ya think I’m bluffin'?”

His control mildly cracks, desperation seeping through gritted teeth, grinding into the heat of your mouth; it’s a gradual shift to such a cruel pace, holding your head still when his tip settles in your throat, hindering your breath for a few seconds, and returns to drag it along your tongue. He doesn’t even let you hack, cough or catch a meaningful breath, and chases a marble euphoria.

He chuckles through his mask. “Poor wife’s too desperate to get fucked to realise the camera's still on?”

There it is.

The bluff that simply doesn’t exist, because a man of this poise, could never bluff—he delivers.

His grip on your hand loosens, letting you messily bob your head, still dying to satisfy him despite your grasp on the situation. His other hand spins the camera around, directing your attention to the red glimmer in the corner, (it’s still on, if you couldn’t tell). “See your wife, asshole? Ya heard everythin’, right?”

Handcuffed, mouth stuffed full, and the ache between your thighs overwhelm your hindered senses—unsure whether you should be livid that he set up like this or letting him do so in spite of your estranged husband. He huffs in disbelief when you lick a long strip along his length, sucking on his cockhead and nudging the tip of your tongue into his slit, earning a strained hiss.

Strings of snot and saliva connect your cheeks to him, it’s all so wet, coupled with your tears and his persistence.

He thrusts his hips forward, taking back control. “A tight cunt, and a mouth like this, I’d start cherishin’ her,” he breathily mutters, your gurgles are savoured, chased after, and he’s insistent on making it hurt, until it’s permanent, that feeling of his cock shaping your throat. His head lolls back, and you notice the beads of sweat gleaming on his neck. “F—fuck.”

His hips stutter, and he directs all of his attention to you, placing both of his hands on your marbleized cheeks, angling his torso upright to get a clear, self-indulgent look at your face; upturned eyebrows, hollowed cheeks, and webbed eyelashes, like dewdrops. He’s slow with it, observing the way your glazed lips wrap perfectly around his cock—the way he melts into your mouth, sweltering.

It does feed your ego. Even though you’re unable to see his expressions through his mask, he makes no effort to hide it; carnal panting that bleeds through his disguise, eyes squeezing shut and head falling back with every suck. He lowers the camera. “Wanna watch me cum down your wife’s throat?”

You moan at the thought, and he could read you. It’s the rush of it all, (and now you think, surely, the rest of the penthouse couldn’t hear this). It’ll tear through him soon enough—a gale of white.

“Fuckin’ slut. She wants it.” He grunts through his mask, still talking to the camera, and it’s obvious, he clearly had something to prove. He releases you before he breaks. “Nah, I got somethin’ better.”

He gives you a moment to respite, hacking from the pulsation at the back of your throat. Pulls you up by your arms, heaves you towards the bed again, adjusting you on all fours so that your soaked cunt is in clear sight, for him and the camera. “Wait—wait, the camera—”

Interrupts your stammering with a slap to your tender ass, kneading it just to indulge in the slick that makes a mess of you, all the way down to your inner thighs. “I’ll fuck you dumb. Tell me how much you want it.”

“Please.” You beg, muffled by your duvet.

“Don’t think you want it enough,” he tuts, the bed dips beneath him and he positions himself behind you. “A mouth that loose never knows how to beg. Try again. Loud and clear.”

His thick tip rubs along your slit. You’re already humiliated by the situation, and the camera beeps to make you aware, the brunt of your dilemma lied with your stubbornness. You lift your head from the duvet, and grit through your teeth. “Can you please just fuck me. Hard—fuck me hard, please. I want it so bad.”

“Better.” He nods. “Ya hear that?” he speaks to the camera—reminding you that this is for your husband; your submission and this vulgar display of betrayal. Whoever this is, behind that mask, has you, wholly and completely. He lightly smacks your ass in approval, looms over you to conceal the lewd sight of your cunt leaking for him, slapping his cockhead against your swollen clit.

You want to run, in spite of your loose tongue, an intense burn rendering you feeble when he slowly sinks in, stifled grunts seeping through his mask. It bleeds through. Instead, you clamp down, and he pulls you back with a bruising force to nudge most of his girth inside, keeps muttering under his breath: “f—so tight, so fuckin’ tight.”

He's barely bottomless, yet you already feel so full. He hooks his grip onto you, and pounces.

“Ugh—!”

Skin-to-skin contact, connected by twines of your slick, and lecherous moans reverberate the bedroom, and you probably envision it sounding much worse recorded (or, maybe he intended on it looking like a homemade porno involving some heavy “roleplaying”), sinking into the duvet as if it were a cocoon. Fucks you just as you want it. It becomes much more difficult to let the undoubted sin settle in at this point. Every argument against getting fucked by this masked intruder glares red until it doesn’t, because he’s already fucked every coherent thought out of you.

Not when it feels this good. Not when that cloyed heat is ready to spread; coating his cock in so much slick that obscene squelches flatten against your bodies. Wanton moans that’ll plague your husband for weeks, months, maybe even years if this video gets out—a wretched memento in the form of a videotape, for the deserter; it isn’t him that’s fucking you this good.

These isn’t fake—it’s real.

To your discontent, your nightgown clings to your perspiring skin, all sticky and sweltering, as if you’re made of marble, and the both of you are still clothed in some way. The desire to see him nude grows by the minute; how sheen might cover his undulating chest, how his bare bulky arms would flex as he bounces you on his cock—

“You up?” he says, interrupting your indecent train of thoughts. “Don’t tell me you’re already givin’ out on me?”

“No, no—fuck, just feels so good,” you blubber, fighting through the heaviness of your eyelids. He hums in response, playing with the metal cuffs, before his movements start to hit a little harder; a small thud eliciting as he meets your ass, speeding up his thrusts. “Faster—just like that, ugh!”

“Yeah?” he chortles, slipping out to place you sideways, so this way, your eyes that teem with desperation meet the galling red, it flickers with your fluttering eyelids. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, and rams into your sopping cunt. “Let em’ know how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

“M’ so good,” drool trickles down the side of your mouth, barely comprehending his request as his cock drills into your cunt, unrelenting. It doesn’t help that he’s hitting the right spot, grinding into it, filling you to the brim and paying close attention to every pathetic whine that escapes you. “Harder—sir, please, fuck me harder.”

“Harder?” He repeats, shortly slips out once again and slaps his tip against your engorged clit. “Poor wife doesn’t get fucked the way she wants? Made her all desperate. C’mere.”

He sits up to haul you up onto his lap, into another position, but still in perfect view for the camera, with your legs pried apart by his burly thighs and your back pressed against his front. Bearing your sights to the red light that remains on; he’s aligning his cock with your cunt once more, heavy panting seeping through his mask, and it warms your neck.

You hastily sink down on his cock once more, trembling as his hands knead at your waist, wordlessly coaxing you through his girth. The restraints make it difficult for you to keep balanced, but his arms circle around your abdomen, trapping you in the heat of his embrace. You’re submerged in it, grinding hastily once he nearly bottoms out.

“Pretty fuckin’ nightgown, hm?” he observes the flimsy material, resting his chin on your shoulder as the straps slip off, “…bet it’s expensive,” he goes on, traces the hem with his finger, and it feels familiar, “...might have to take this with me too.”

Your head droops back onto his shoulder, hoping that he’ll just rip off that mask and blemish your skin with salivated marks, but alas, he focuses on your nightgown. Dazed, your soft grinding sparks another return of that heat, scorching, but you’re completely unprepared for when he pulls your nightgown down from the neckline, a strident rip following his forceful tug.

His hands instantly draw to your breasts, tugging and pinching at your aching nipples while you jump on his thick cock, feet flattered against the bed. Your bounces are sporadic, followed by eager grinding; it’s staggered, and sloppy, unable to balance yourself with your hands constrained like this. Your blurry gaze avoids the camera as you chase your orgasm, recoiling when you unintentionally slip further down, feeling a sudden intrusion, a burning kiss to the rim of your cervix. 

He groans loudly when you do so, firmly grips your hips to force you down his entire shaft, and it’s mind-numbing.

“Oh—fuck! Too deep.” You whine, sensing his carnal desire sink in, and it does. He lifts your legs up by your knees, slowly thrusting his hips upwards as your wetness sloshes around his cock.

“You can take it. You want it harder, right?” he breathlessly utters (just like you asked). He pays no mind to your apprehension—a mend of pain and pleasure spreading like wildfire, and he’s sadistic, completely bottoms out and picks up a merciless pace.

His balls slap against your sodden cheeks, being held in a near full-nelson, hands snaked beneath your knees to hook around your neck, and breasts bouncing with every thrust. It doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s ear-splitting; the only sounds that boom through your residence are your undisputed pornographic moans, his laboured panting and the noisy clapping of his skin meeting yours. But you’re too fucked out to care, feeling your climax rise and rise until it sits in your gut in one hysterical coil, just eager to burst.

An undoubted fact; it's terrible that a trespasser is fucking you this good, and it should anger you, but it only intensifies your desire—it’s unconventional, and downright bad, and you succumb to his thick cock. He removes his hands from your head, fingers suddenly reach out for your clit, as though he can read you, rubbing relentlessly as you tremble around him. “I'm cumming—!”

“Yeah?” He breathily whispers against your ear, “…cum all over my cock. Make sure you scream loud and clear for me, hm?”

“Ugh—! Sir!”

Gushing all over his cock, splashes of slick spurting off his rapid fingertips and his pounding, you convulse against his brute force. Your teary eyes peer down at the mess, sheer horror contorting your face, but he continues to fuck it out of you—picks up the pace, in awe of you squirting all over him. “F—, you’re makin’ such a mess. Don’t fuckin’ stop—keep cummin’ for me.”

It pours all over him, onto your thighs, his thighs, your stomach and your carpet. He doesn’t stop thrusting, pressing his fingers onto your oversensitive clit with even more force. Clear slick, light and thin, irregularly spurts out of you, and your thighs close around his remorseless motions, far too sensitive to go on. You only manage to trap his arm between your thighs, encouraging the hasty taps he places on your swollen nub.

He pulls his arm from you, momentarily digging through his pants that rest just above his knees.

“Bet ya dying for someone to fill you right up,” he hoarsely growls, following a sudden click. He uncuffs you, and your arms loosen, muscles still tense when the handcuffs get thrown across the bed. There’s a gnawing hope that he might use this chance to embrace you, but instead, his thrusts speed up again, the warmth of his chest waning as he lies down, hammering into your cunt with the utmost desire. It’s animalistic. “Take it.”

Your hands immediately reach for his thighs, gripping tightly as your cunt milks him dry. “Slow down.”

“You wanted this, doll,” he spits, pulling you down against his chest so that your head slumps over his shoulder once again. He bends his knees upwards, lifting his hips to glide his cock between your walls, meeting a delicious crush. His arms wrap around your waist and neck, and he carelessly squeezes. “Should’ve known you were a slut, fit into you perfectly. Fuck.”

“Let—let me see you,” you beg, succumbing to his merciless thrusts. “Please.”

“Uh, uh, not tonight, baby,” he coolly responds, hips stuttering. His balls slap against your ass, chasing the most insanely, lewd sounds of your cum coating his cock. He’s so close, frenzied, stuttering . “F—fuck, gonna fill this sweet cunt up. Make it all mine.”

You fondle your breasts. “Make it all yours.”

Holding your legs up, he pushes his cock further in, spurting his cum inside of you in one prolonged moment. His balls tighten and a rush of heat sprays your insides and it’s never been this filling. You clench around him, feeling your arousal swell into another rush of heat but he slows down, making sure it stays inside, eases your need to go again.

His cock slowly slips out, and clear white oozes out of your cunt shortly after, with staggered, lazy breathing circling this thick stillness. You fail to remove yourself from his embrace, all alarms in your mind (strangely resembling your security alarms that woke you up at this odd hour) blaring loudly as reality settles in.

Did an intruder seriously just give you the best fuck of your life?

On camera?

He carefully places you next to him, clearly not as exhausted as you are as he gets off the bed, adjusting his clothes and walks up to the camera. He briefly turns back to you; satisfied to find you drained and smeared with cum and sweat before he turns off the camera, following a chesty chuckle that’ll probably plague your filthy dreams. Riddled with guilt and fatigue, your lidded eyes submit to its heaviness.

“Your fingerprints…—they’re all over the place.” You tiredly mutter. You don’t why you’re even concerned, and before you try to find him, he’s already hovering over you.

For some reason, you crave more.

“He won’t do anything,” he chuckles, grabbing your chin, swiping a thumb across your glossy lips. “Because he knows exactly what’ll happen if he does, and you know what,” he leans further to whisper at your ear, and the next few words make your heart lurch to your throat once again. his fingers trail downwards, slowly rubbing your sensitive nub, coating itself in your slick once again. You flinch. “If he does end up seein’ this part of the video, he’ll know exactly who just fucked his wife.”

Silence overtakes you, trying to register the meaning of his words as he slowly saunters out of your room.

“Nice place by the way.”

author's note this is a reupload [and rewritten and made longer because my writing is always changing]. hope u enjoyed! i still love masked toji <3

I would be absolutely ready to make a new mistake

Good evening Dear Reader, it's been awhile, hasn't it? I've missed you so much! Don't worry darling, I don't return empty handed ;)

Now Presenting...

Starring: Ryomen Sukuna, in a modern day curse-less AU Summary: After being left at the alter by your less than magnificent fiance, you only have one thing on your mind: revenge sex. And who better to help you out than the man your ex hates the most.

Warning: This fic contains a gratuitous amount of smut, both praise and degradation, unprotected sex, face fucking, finger fucking, multiple orgasms, and is all wrapped up in a nice cream-pie. viewer discretion is advised ;)

Okay, admittedly, you may have had this coming. Everyone and his mother warned you about Satoru Gojo. About his womanizing ways, his commitment issues, his demanding job. Still, none of that mattered to you. You were convinced that you could fix him! That love would pull through. He’d realize that you meant more to him than being a playboy, and he’d settle down for you. You knew in your heart that you would have your fairytale ending with him.

Yea well turns out your hearts a dirty fucking liar. The weight of that realization was crashing down hard on you as you nursed a vodka sweet tea at what was supposed to be the reception for your wedding. You secretly vowed to never pick up another romance novel ever again. There’s not many things in this world more mortifying than being left at the altar. Maybe somebody pulling an “I told you so” right after you got left at the altar? That could be just as bad.

“I told you so,” Nanami said as he sat next to you, tie already undone. The groan that escaped your throat was a little more raw than you intended as you dropped your head into your arms. It was official; this was the most humiliating day of your life. 

“Thanks Kento, that's actually exactly what I needed right now,” You muttered as you picked up your head long enough to finish your drink.

“Always happy to help.” He said, patting your back in what you were fairly confident was meant to be comforting. You sighed as you rubbed your face, not even caring if your makeup smudged anymore. You were sure at least your mascara was wrecked. 

“I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” You admitted, turning to face the partying crowd, dancing the night away as if this wasn’t the worst night of your life. At least it was all on fuck faces dime. “I was the perfect fiance! I was loving without being suffocating, I supported him in everything he fucking did, I was faithful, shit man, we fucked constantly, it was like-”

“I don’t need to know the details, thanks.” Nanami said, quickly cutting you off before you put any images in his mind. He shook his head to expel any that had slipped in. “It’s nothing you did Y/n,” He assured you, “Gojo is just not the type to commit to a coffee order, let alone a marriage.” You shook your head, not wanting to accept it.

“I just wish I could find a way to hurt him like how he hurt me.” You muttered. You scanned the faces dancing in the crowd. You were shocked to see how many of his friends were still there. Nanami made sense, at some point he became more your friend than Satorus. But Suguru? That one didn’t make any sense. Unless it was to report back to Satoru what you were do-

Oh.

Oh, he was definitely here to make sure you were a fucking mess. He was here to report back to Gojo that you were indeed destroyed and were never going to get over him. No, No absolutely not, you were not going to let him have that. 

“Y/n, are you listening?” Nanami asked. You absolutely were not. 

“Uh huh, yea,” You nodded, scanning the crowd for a body to get under, “I’ll be sure to start investing tomorrow-”

“Nope, not even close to what I was saying.” Nanami groaned, rolling his eyes. He recognized that look on your face. “What are you scheming Y/n?” It was then your eyes landed on the perfect target- I mean hookup. Ryomen Sukuna, nursing a drink in the back of the venue, watching the party the way a lion watches a herd of gazelles. You never fully understood Satoru’s friendship with him, but you completely understood why he got the invite. The two were less close college friends, and more bitter rivals patiently waiting for the other's downfall. The two constantly had to one up and outdo each other, and you had no doubt in your mind his invitation was just another way to try and show off.

“So, Nanami, You still talk to Ryomen, right?” You asked, ignoring whatever he was saying before.

“I don’t like that you’re asking me that right now.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I just want to know if he’s sing-”

“No.” Nanami said firmly, looking at you with the same eyes a father gives a child that keeps drawing on the walls.

“No he’s taken or no you won’t tell me if he is or not?” you asked, taking out a compact from your bag to check your makeup. It actually wasn’t that bad! Shout out to waterproof makeup!

“No, I’m not going to watch you make mistake after mistake. Ryomen is bad news. You think Gojo was bad? Well he’s ten times worse.” Nanami warned, looking into the crowd to see if he could find Ryomen lurking in it. He didn’t even know he was here! And if anyone would be down to make a bad situation worse, it was him.

“How does my ass look in this dress?” You asked. Satoru had picked it out because it was “danceable” for you. It wasn’t something you would have chosen for yourself, but you still felt like you rocked it. 

“I’m not answering that question.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes in annoyance.

“You don’t have to, I know I look good.” You smiled and winked. The dress may not have been great on you, but it’s fine. Confidence is what's really attractive. You took a deep breath, then went to approach the unapproachable. Ryomen couldn’t have looked more disinterested if he tried, but the closer you got the more interesting he became. His black dress shirt hugged him just a little too tight, leaving very little to the imagination. He had his sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display while he checked his watch. He looked up from it just in time to capture your eyes with his, intrigue and amusement igniting behind his scarlet irises. 

“Hi Ryomen,” You smiled. You had been working on a loose outline of a script as you made your way to him, but now that you were next to him that script was about as good as your marriage was. And well, considering your marriage never actually happened..

“Hi Y/n. I’m surprised to see you here, honestly.” Ryomen had never been one to beat around the bush. You noticed his eyes fall to your cleavage.Oh good, he was willing to play ball.

“Why are you surprised? It’s my party.” You smiled, resting next to him against the wall.

“I don’t know many people that would want to go to the reception after getting so publicly dumped.” He said. Ouch, ok that was uncalled for. You hoped the sting didn’t show on your face. If it did it didn’t phase him.

“Hey, the party was paid for,” You shrugged, “No use letting a perfectly good open bar go to waste, especially when I’m not paying for it.” You grinned. You had successfully earned yourself a smirk from Sukuna, and a point for the home team.

“I’ll drink to that,” He laughed, “Want me to grab you something?” The ball was in your court, quick, be clever! 

“A drink actually sounds great right now. How about a Sex on the Beach?” You smirked.

“Ooo, I don’t think they’re serving those. How about I give you a Screaming Orgasm instead?” He smirked back.

“Hmm, I don’t know, I may need a Leg Spreader before that.” You hummed, giggling for the first time all night. He nodded, 

“Got it, a Blowjob for me and a Leg Spreader for you. I’ll be right back.” he nodded, walking off. The thought of Ryomen trying to take a blowjob shot, hunched over the glass and trying to drink the liquid without using his hands, genuinely made you laugh a little. You found an empty table nearby to take up residence at, and contemplate if you really wanted to do this. Your relationship was in the gutter, there was no getting around that. Being left at the altar was the kind of blow you can’t just come back from. 

But you didn’t have to fuck his friends (enemy?). Doing this was most definitely an act of war. Whether you were actively together or not, Gojo was extremely territorial of you. You knew that was why Suguru was here; to make sure you didn’t jump into a rebound. If he found out you slept with Ryomen Sukuna of all people on your (almost) wedding night of all days, that would eat him alive from the inside out. There would be hell to pay for sure.

Good. You reminded yourself that you didn’t ask for this fight, but you would win it. You smiled as Ryomen returned with two drinks: a whiskey neat for him and a drink that looked more akin to chocolate milk with whip cream for you. 

“Gotta say; looking a bartender in the eye and asking for a ‘screaming orgasm’ will never not be funny.” He joked, handing you your drink and sitting across from you. 

“Yea, why are so many drinks named like that? It’s weird, right?” You asked, tilting your head in genuine confusion.

“All bartenders are secretly nymphomaniacs,” He said with enough confidence you were almost convinced that was a real requirement to make drinks. “You’d know that if you slept with more.” and he said that as if it was some moral failing on your part that you had not slept with an adequate number of bartenders. It made you laugh.

“Oh, my mistake you’re right. I’ll fix that right now,” You bluffed. He raised an eyebrow and gestured to the bar.

“Be my guest.” He offered, calling out the aforementioned bluff. 

“Oh, but that means I’d have to leave my guest alone, and that’s just bad hosting.” You faux pouted. He shrugged.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be alone for very long.” He smirked at you from behind his glass before taking a drink. You wanted to call him out on his bluff, but, you knew he wasn’t bluffing. Satoru had dragged you to enough social events with Sukuna to know that he rarely went home alone. You decided to go with a different strategy. 

“Well, what if I told you I had my sights set on a better prize for tonight?” You asked, batting your eyes and bringing your arms together to emphasize your chest. Sukuna gave a dark grin, seeing right through you.

“I’d say good choice,” he winked, “especially for what you’re trying to do.” Welp, you didn't have anything planned for that comment. You blinked at him

“What do you mean?” You asked, playing dumb. 

“Come on Y/n, I’d hope you’d give me more credit than this. You got stood up at the altar by your asshole, hopefully ex, fiance, and now you want to fuck the guy he hates more than just about anything else to get back at him. It’s a solid plan honestly, and luckily for you, I’ve had my eyes on you since the first time Satoru brought you around.” He was making eye contact with you. The fire in his crimson eyes danced with mirth and hedonistic intent. You realized this was probably why Sukuna had even bothered to show up to the reception. He had your plan before you even did.

Before you could respond, you were startled by a heavy hand on your shoulder. “Hey Y/n, how you holding up?” You looked up to see Sugurus' gentle smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. His eyes held nothing but steel and mild resentment. He always looked at you like that. You moved your shoulder from under his hand.

“I’m fine Sug, thanks for asking.” You muttered, taking a long sip of your drink. ‘Don’t sit down, don’t sit down, don’t sit down,’ played in your mind on repeat.

“Of course, Y/n. It’s the least I could do.” He said, sitting down. ‘Fuck!’ “I know this must be hard for you.”

“Actually, You’d be surprised.” You said, getting your nerves back together. This was Gojos' spy. You couldn't let him see you falter. “I’m just ready to be over it.”

“You know what they say; the best way to get over somebody is to get under somebody.” Ryomen chuckled as he finished his drink. Suguru glared at him.

“Yea, I never liked that advice.” He said, venom lacing its way into his words as he shot daggers at Sukuna with his eyes. He turned back to you, “It’s always sounded like a good way to make your situation worse.” Was that a threat? 

“I mean, You never know until you try.” You challenged.

“I disagree.” Suguru warned. You brushed him off. 

“Well, If that’s how you feel, so be it. Do me a favor?” You asked, looking at him with your best doe eyes.

“Of course, anything.” He said, plastering back on that fake sympathetic smile.

“Watch my drink for me,” you said, standing up and taking Sukunas’ hand, “Ryomen and I were just about to dance.” You grinned. Ryomen returned your grin ten fold, laughing as he followed you to the dance floor, leaving an almost visibly confused and quite frankly offended Suguru to seeth at the table. Last time you looked back, he had taken out his phone and was furiously typing on it. Good.

“I knew I liked you.” Ryomen whispered into your ear as the two of you made it to the dance floor. 

“Try to keep up with me.” You whispered back. You let the music flow through you, taking a few seconds to find your rhythm before moving your body in time with the music. Ryomen to his credit didn’t miss a beat, dancing not only to the beat, but in harmony with your own body as well. 

As the music played the two of you became more acquainted with each other's moves and dance styles. You thought you would switch it up on him, going in to grind. He didn’t falter for a second, placing a hand on your hip and matching your pace. You expected a lot of things from this exchange, but the electric pulse his touch sent through your body was not one of them.

“Am I keeping up with you?” Ryomen mumbled into your ear, the sound of his rough voice sent waves of heat through you and directly to your core. You spun around to face him, realizing that now he was within kissing distance.

“You’re doin’ well enough,”' you purred to him, running a hand over his chest and god damn. It should be illegal to be that well built. Between the tight shirt and your own sense of touch, you felt like you had a pretty good idea of what he looked like without that shirt on. Still, you desperately wanted to confirm your theory.

“What do you say we get out of here?” Ryomen asked, almost as if he could read your mind.

“I say that's a pretty good idea,” You nodded as the two of you left the dance floor. He wrapped his arm around your waist as he led you to the exit, and you slipped your hand into his back pocket. You really hoped Suguru had a clear view of this. ‘Eat your goddamn heart out Gojo’ You thought maybe just a bit too smugly as you found your way outside, and he gave his ticket to the valet boy.

You took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to ground yourself back into reality. It didn’t feel quite real yet. Your almost four year relationship had just barely ended, and already you were hopping into bed with someone you knew was bad news. Nanami wasn’t joking when he said Sukuna was just Gojo ten fold. In the four years you’d known him, you had watched him lay waste to more hearts than you cared to keep track of. You just hoped you weren’t next. 

All doubts evaporated like water in Texas when Sukuna approached you again. He had unbuttoned three of his shirt buttons, showing off hints that his tattoos didn’t stop at his face and arms. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips. He removed it long enough to exhale smoke as he approached.

“Valets on the way.” He informed you. You willed your brain to think of anything other than Ryomen naked long enough to nod. 

“Good to hear.” You nodded. You had a whole new set of anxieties now. You knew Ryomen had a lot of experience. What if you didn’t measure up? Apparently, your nerves were evident in your features. You caught a smug smile from the pink haired man next to you.

“You nervous?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Me?” You chuckled to hide the fact that yes, you indeed were. “I’ve got nothing to be nervous about Ryomen.” 

“Hmm, Well see about that.” He smirked. Before you had time to ask what the fuck that ment, a far prettier car than you were expecting pulled up. A gorgeous, 1957 Ford Thunderbird, with a beautiful cherry red paint job and, from what you could tell, a black leather interior. You knew that all of Gojos' friends were just as loaded as he was, the fact he had a nice car wasn't a surprise. But you had expected a Bently or a Lambo. Not a classic bombshell.

“You have a T-bird?!” you scoffed in disbelief. He laughed and nodded. 

“You like her?” He asked, beaming with pride as he tipped the valet. “I fixed her up myself.” He added, opening the door for you. You slipped into the soft leather seat, and a few seconds later he joined you.

“I never pegged you as a car guy.”

“You’ve never pegged me at all.” He grinned, laughing at his own joke. 

“Wow, you’re so funny you know that?” You scoffed, dripping in sarcasm. Despite that, you were giggling softly to yourself.

“Oh, I’m the funniest. You’d know that if you didn’t have your head up Satorus ass for four years.” He scoffed, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe that relationship lasted as long as it did. You shrugged softly, not really having a come back for that one. 

“What can I say?” You shrugged, “The dick was just that good.” If you had thought you had heard a full hearty laugh from Sukuna before, you hadn’t. You realized that as he fell into near hysterics over that comment. And, despite yourself, the sound was warm and infectious, making you laugh along with him.

“God, was he your first? That’s the only way I could see anyone thinking Gojo was good at sex, god.” He laughed, taking a drag off his cigarette before dangling it out of the window again.. You raised an eyebrow at that.

“And just how would you know? You get a little close and personal with our boy?” You said, wiggling your eyebrows at him. He was laughing, warm and hearty, again.

“Good God no!”He shook his head, “Some of us have standards! No, I don’t have any personal experience with him. But he brags all the time. Or, really, he thinks he brags. In reality, He talks about how bad he is at sex and we all just kinda nod and laugh at him behind his back.”

“Wait, He hasn’t talked to you guys about what happens in our bedroom, has he?!” You asked, a new wave of betrayal overtaking you. Ryomen just gave you a look and you knew the answer.

“Right, forget I asked.” You muttered. 

“Don’t worry Doll,” He assured you, placing a hand on your thigh. You thought your heart might explode at his warm touch. “After tonight, all of his bullshit will just seem like a fucked up nightmare.” You hoped he was right. 

💒💒💒

You were beginning to doubt your decision to bring him to your apartment instead of going to his. It’s not that you were ashamed of where you lived, on the contrary, you knew you had a beautiful residence. The shame came from the fact that this was technically still your shared dwelling with Satoru, and evidence of him still lingered in every corner of this apartment. His things were still here, which shouldn’t have been surprising really, but you were less ready to face it than you thought. 

The good news was Ryomen gave you exactly no time to start to miss your ex. His mouth was on yours almost the moment the two of you were in the door, pulling you close and taking your breath away in a needy kiss. You moaned softly into him, tangling your fingers into his soft pink hair, getting drunk on the scent of pine needles and Marlboro cigarettes. 

He kissed his way from your lips, to your jaw, all the way down to the base of your neck, leaving a trail of purple bruises in his wake. “Bedroom is-”

“I know.” He cut you off. You realized two things at that moment. 1.Sukuna had been to your house before, no doubt with Gojo. and 2. That he had been leading you to the bedroom the whole time. He fumbled for all of two seconds with the door before getting it open, ushering you in and all but pushing you onto the bed. It was in that moment that it hit you just how much bigger than you Sukuna was. 6’4 and made out of pure muscle, he could have truly hurt you if he wanted. 

You would think this would kill the mood a bit but quite the opposite actually. You pressed your thighs together to try and distract yourself from the almost uncomfortable amount of arousal pooling between them. Ryomen notably did not like this, moving to cage you onto the bed. “Come on Y/n, Don’t get shy on me now,” He purred as his hand moved down your body, “We just started having fun.”

You bit your lip as you began to melt under his electric touch. You watched as his hand disappeared under your dress. You bit your lip as you felt his fingers brush against the translucent spot on your panties. Your breath hitched and his smirk only grew.

“Is all of this for me, Doll?” He asked, teasing you through the fabric. You felt your hips unintentionally buck, trying desperately to make more friction. You nodded, maybe a little bit too aggressively for your taste, but it just seemed to encourage him. He chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “Thought so.” He muttered, moving your panties to the side and running one of his thick fingers up your folds, gathering the natural slick forming.

His eyes seemed to glow in the dim moonlight filling the room, taking in even your smallest reaction as he teased you. You whimpered softly at his touch. His gaze held yours firm as his fingers finally made contact with your clit. It was slow at first, sending soft pulses of pleasure through you. He built up a steady pace, applying more pressure and speed as your reactions demanded it. You whined needily, digging your freshly manicured claws into his shoulder blades.

“Ryomen..” You moaned. His name sounded so much prettier falling from your lips than he ever imagined. And he had imagined it.

“Say it again.” He encouraged, applying more pressure to your clit to make you squirm. His free hand found your hips, firmly pressing you into the mattress to keep you still.

“Ryomen, please..” You whimpered, “I need more, please..”

“What’s your rush?” He asked, a finger slipping down to tease at your weeping cunt. “We’ve got all night princess, and I’ve waited for this for too long to rush it.” He chuckled darkly, though he did grant your wish, slipping one of his fingers into you. He curled the long thick digit up, gracing your ever elusive (to Satoru) g-spot. You saw white hot, waves of fiery pleasure coursing through your core. You dug your claws even deeper into his back. He hoped the crescent moons of your nails would still be there in the morning. 

“Fuck, fuck! Ryo..” You moaned, losing yourself in the endorphins. He was persistent in the massaging of the soft part inside of you, and tension was quickly mounting. 

“Ryo?” He all but laughed, “That's new. I think I like it from you though.” He muttered, adding another finger into the mix. Your body tensed, both not ready for and more than excited to accept the intrusion. Your cunt clenched around his fingers as the tensions built inside of you. The string that had been tangling itself in your stomach was ready to snap, as were you. 

Your eyes screwed shut as you braced for your release, only to feel his hand move from your hip to your jaw, his nails digging into your skin just enough to get your attention. “Don’t close your eyes.” Ryomen growled, and you obeyed. “You fucking look at me. I want you to know who made you feel this good.” you whined at his words, but maintained eye contact with him. His blood red gaze was intense, molting hot even. If the inferno in your veins didn’t burn you alive, the incinerator behind his eyes surely would.

“Ryo, I’m so close.” You whined out. You were hit with wave after wave of bliss. Your body reacted to every stroke of his fingers inside of you, and the whirlwind was picking up. 

“Oh yea?” He muttered, with an intense focus that could almost be mistaken for disinterest. “Then cum for me Princess.” It didn’t take long after that. Three more passes from his expert fingers at most before you were overcome with euphoria. Fireworks pulsed through your core, making you far too hot and very sensitive all at once. All the while, Sukuna was finger fucking you through your high, watching as your face contorted with bliss. 

As you came down, you watched him slowly slip his fingers out of your sobbing cunt and into his mouth. He made the most obscene show of sucking his fingers clean, removing them after with a loud pop. 

“You taste so fucking sweet,” He praised, taking your hand and helping you stand up, “Come on, you’re too pretty to be in this ugly dress.”

“Hey!” You protested, “The dress isn’t that bad!” 

“Yes it is.” He said, annoyance quickly mounting as he saw it was a button up back. “It hides you more than it compliments you.”

“Well that doesn’t-Ryomen!” You snapped at him as he ripped the back open, deciding that the buttons weren’t worth the time. “This dress is Fucking Expensive!” 

“Invoice me for it then,” he scoffed, turning you around to face him. He dropped the dress from your shoulders. “There you are,” He hummed, smiling as he pulled you into a fierce kiss. The anger that you held for him ruining the dress quickly dissipated as you melted into his warmth. Fuck it, he was right. It was an ugly fucking dress. 

He slipped his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss and pulling you impossibly close. Your hands started to wander. You thought back to his tattoos, wondering about just where exactly they stopped. You found your way to the noticeable tent in his dress pants, grinding your palm against it and earning a deep groan from him. The sound went straight to your core, and suddenly it was the only thing you wanted to hear.

You fumbled with his belt, trying to get it undone while also focusing on your kiss. You didn’t get very far though before Ryomen brushed your hands away. He mumbled a soft ‘Fucks sake,’ before just undoing it himself, taking care of his button and zipper while he was at it. You were on your knees before he was finished, earning a smile and nod of approval.

“Well look at you Doll, pretty and smart.” He praised. You swallowed the air in your throat before reaching up to take him out. He sighed in relief once his cock wasn’t constrained anymore, and you bit your lip hard. If you were being honest, You had imagined Sukuna before. Late at night when your fiance was surly out with another woman, you found solace in daydreaming about what his rival's dick would be like. You had not imagined this. 

He was long and thick, almost intimidatingly so. Even at your most generous, you hadn’t imagined this. The tattoos also admittedly caught you off guard, the two black bands around his base standing out against his pale skin. But it worked for you. 

“Like what you see?” Ryomen smirked, never one to be shy. You felt embarrassment set a fire in your chest, despite the face you just looked him in the eyes while he finger fucked you into oblivion. Still, you nodded.

“Pretty cock.” Why was that what you thought to say!?

“Thanks, grew it myself.” He chuckled, his fingers falling to the back of your head, “I think it would look even prettier in your mouth though.” You didn’t need to be told twice. You licked your lips, wrapping your fingers around his base. You gave him a few experiential strokes, before taking the head into your mouth. Your tongue swirled around him, eliciting a growl.

“Don’t fucking tease me Y/n.” He warned darkly. You decided to ignore his very clear warning, licking along one of his more prominent veins. You kissed the tip again, opening your mouth to try and suck on just the head again. That didn’t slide this time though, as Sukuna sunk his nails into your scalp and pushed you the rest of the way down his length. You gagged around him, drawing a satisfied moan from him as he fucked your throat.

You scrambled for a few seconds before finding your rhythm. Breathe through your nose, relax your throat, and in no time you were taking him like a champ. You looked up and felt your cunt clench at the sight before you. Ryomens head was thrown back, strands of hair sweat stuck to his forehead, and his eyes twisted shut in bliss. The dim lunar light casted an angelic halo on the sinful scene, and you wondered why you had’t fucked him sooner. 

“God, you feel so good.” He breathed out, “Satorus’ a goddamn moron for giving this up.” You weren’t sure if that was directed at you or not, but he was right, and you hummed your approval of the statement. You watched his jaw tighten as the vibrations ripped through him, followed by him pulling you off of his dick. He pulled you up and pushed you onto the bed, quickly crawling on top of you. He didn’t go to even part of that reception just to cum down your throat. He wanted everything you had to offer. You spread your legs for him as his fingers made their way back to your still dripping pussy. He started to work you open again, catching you in yet another passionate kiss. Satoru never kissed you like this.

“You’re fucking soaked still.” Ryomen noted, easily working you open for him. “Think you’re ready for me Doll?” You hummed your response, mentally preparing for this. He tsked at you. “With your words.” He said, the edge in his voice cutting through your brain fog.

“Yes.” You nodded, licking your dry lips. 

“Yes what?” His annoyance was getting more evident.

“Yes, I’m ready for you.” You whimpered. He finally nodded his approval.

“Good girl.” He said, before slowly pushing in. No matter how wet you were, you couldn’t have prepared yourself for this. You felt yourself being ripped apart at the seams, your cunt molding itself to him to accommodate. You took in a sharp breath as he let out a jagged one, hips faltering for just a second as he paused to let you adjust. 

“Jesus fucking christ you’re tight.” He groaned, getting lost in the way your velvety walls clenched around him and tried to pull him in further. You whined out in response.

“Ryo, I don’t think I can fit it all..” You admitted almost shamefully. 

“You can.” He assured you, pushing even further in, “You’re doing so good Princess.” You bit back a squeal, suddenly wanting nothing more than to make him proud. You let out an embarrassing moan as he finally pushed all the way in, but that's ok because he did too. For all the nights that he spent fucking his hand to the thought of you, nothing could have prepared him for how good you actually felt. 

He stilled for a minute, giving you time to fully adjust to his size. You took a deep breath, then nodded. “Ok, I’m ready..” You muttered. He chuckled darkly.

“Ready for what Doll?” He asked. You groaned, tired of his bullshit.

“Come on Ryo, please. You know what I want!” you whined.

“I do.” He confirmed, “And I want you to beg for it.” 

“Ryomen please!” you begged him, “Please, I need you to move. I need you to fuck me until I can’t think anymore, I want to feel you ruin me. Make me your whore, please, I want to be destroyed.” GOD Ryomen was lucky he didn’t cum right then and there. That was so much hotter than he thought it would be, and you could feel his dick twitch inside you. 

“If you insist.” He said, setting a brutal pace right off the bat and making you scream. “I’m going to mold this cunt to me, and me alone.” He growled into your ear, “When I’m done with you, I’m going to be the only man you’ll ever want again. No one will make you feel this good again.” He was probably right. The curve of his dick put it at the perfect angle to continuously massage your g-spot, overriding the slight discomfort of him fucking your cervix. He stretched you out so beautifully, you couldn’t imagine anyone else ever making you feel this full ever again.

“Tell me, Does he fuck you like this?” he asked, tangling his fingers into your hair to force you to look at him again. “Like the dirty whore you are?” you tried to shake your head no, but his grip was too tight.

“No, not nearly as good.” You whimpered, getting lost in the inferno of desire and pleasure that was overtaking you. Every thrust sent another shock wave of euphoria through you, the waves of bliss threatening to over take you with every roll of his hips.

“Fuck, do you know how long I’ve wanted to wreck this pussy?” You growled into your ear, “Ever since that motherfucker first brought you round us. Showing you off in that tight little skirt, flaunting you around like a brand new toy. I’ve thought of you every night since.” He said, folding you in half and wrapping your legs around his shoulders. The new angle let him sink even deeper into you, sending a new intense wave of ecstasy coursing through your veins and making you see stars.

“Four years is a long time to wait for something,” He mumbled, “But fuck me you’re so worth it. So much fucking better than my hand, or those bitches I’d pretend were you. Never been more thankful for that idiots' mistakes.” He laughed. You weren’t listening. You were driving at 140 miles per hour straight off a cliff and into a grave of dopamine and bliss. Your cunt clenched and wept around him, your orgasm coming faster than you wanted it to. 

“Ryomen, I’m so fucking close.” You whined, nearing the edge of the cliff.

“I know,” He huffed. He could feel it in the way you trembled around him, “Want you to come all over my cock. Come on, make a mess, pretty girl.” He purred, fingers finding your clit and massaging expert circles into it. That was it, the extra pleasure sending you over the edge. You felt like your soul left your body as stars exploded over your eyes. Your blood filled with euphoria, dopamine, and oxytocin. You felt your body stiffen and convulse around him as you were hit with wave after wave of pleasure. 

The way your cunt grabbed him like a vice, pulling him impossibly deeper, coupled with the intoxicating look on your face as you came brought him to his climax. He couldn't have pulled out if he wanted to (Is what he told himself) as he came deep inside you, overflowing your cunt and dripping onto the sheets. Everything stilled for the seconds that followed, both of you desperately trying to catch your breath.

He pulled out finally. He managed to roll to the side before he crumbled, collapsing next to you instead of on top of you. “Holy fuck,” He breathed out, basking in the afterglow with you.

“Holy fuck indeed.” You nodded, not knowing what else to really say. Gojos' sheets were definitely ruined. 

“And you mean to tell me he left you at the fucking altar?” Ryomen laughed in disbelief. “Talk about a fumble.”

“Well, to be fair, it’s never that good with him.” You admitted. You looked over to see Ryomens victorious grin.

“I believe that.” He muttered. Habit overtook you as you moved into the arms of your lover, resting your head on his chest to listen to his racing heart slowly return to normal. He didn’t move away, wrapping his arm around you instead. He kissed the top of your head. It was by far the most gentle act of the night. 

💒💒💒

Ryomen was gone when you woke up. You weren’t surprised, but you did find yourself disappointed, much to your further dismay. You weren’t expecting breakfast in bed or anything, but you were hoping he’d at least stick around long enough for a goodbye. Oh well, you knew what you were getting into when you decided to fuck him. And honestly, the last thing you needed right now was another playboy to fuck around with your heart.

You checked your phone and actually laughed. 12 missed calls and far too many texts, all from Gojo. It must have gotten back to him that you went home with Ryomen last night, and he was running himself ragged trying to “fix” his mistake. As if he could fix it. You deleted the voicemails along with the messages without reading them. You were about to put down your phone when a specific notification caught your eye. New Message, Sukuna. Never one to learn, you opened it immediately. 

Good morning beautiful. Sorry I left so early, work called. I’ll see you soon though ;) 

The sound that left you was truly embarrassing, but you didn’t care. You were ready to make a New Mistake.

Honestly I felt like I was walking on eggshells everytime there was an interaction with Childe. He was charming yet unsettling all at once. I liked this

Dissimulation

>Yan! Mafia! Childe x Fem! Student! Reader (Modern au)

>Word Count: 11.6k words (slow burn)

>a/n: my offering for best boy's birthday

Warnings: coercion, Childe doesn’t know how to flirt, blood is finger licking good, panic attack

An unwelcome customer turned into an unwelcome acquaintance has been terrorising your life starting from your minimum wage job. Perhaps your flight back home is your only way out.

Patience is a sign of virtue. Or at least that’s what your mother taught you when you were growing up. No, it’s all just some elaborate scheme for the notorious members of society to make others more docile and submissive to them.

Regardless, you don’t say anything, tired already as it is and just wait for the month to be over so that you can get your pay and go back home.

Even if he seems to like you, you would rather not push your luck. Despite only being in this city as a student, you’ve picked up that it’s best not to engage with the local mafia members, even if they seem friendly. Just keep your head down and return the greeting if given one. If one of them comes to your shop, treat them as a regular patron, and if a fight breaks out somewhere with one of them, do not take sides. Simply leave as quietly as you can.

Unfortunately, you have no such choice or opportunity to keep contact to a minimum. That is why you opted to bide your time and sneak out as quickly as you can and never opt for minimum wage jobs again. Maybe you could get a paid internship next time. You’ll probably meet the course requirements.

The dreaded convenience store you are currently walking to is situated a ten minute walk away from your campus dorms. Having to stay there and beep items all day was its own form of punishment as it was, but with the crowd that had recently started to come in these last few months, it started to seem more like a form of purgatory.

You still remember the lecture your friend had given you on how to act normal around the mafia community. The fact that they recently got active in this neighbourhood is simply an added bonus. Honestly, you’ve been counting the days when your incarceration will end with your flight. You just want to go home and hug your cats first, family members second. 

The bell chimes as you walk inside, and you sigh when you see the mess of ginger hair and a dangling red earring already waiting for you. At least this time his back is turned while he scrolls his phone even if he is sitting near the register.

About that, where’s the manager? He should be at the register right now since your shift just started.

“You’re late,” the dreaded man scrolling his phone points out, eyes not leaving the phone screen.

Keeping your friend’s advice in mind, you decide to reply before twisting the knob to the employee room. “Sorry. I was doing laundry.” A lie but you aren’t going to tell him that you got distracted watching cat videos.

No greetings were exchanged and he didn’t even look up at you. Strange, but it’s best to only reply when talked to. Getting too friendly might backfire.

Still, you decide to say something just for good measure.

“Is the manager in today?” you ask, eyes on him while your hand remains on the knob.

All you receive in response is a shrug.

Thus, you enter the employee room, and there you have it! Mister manager sits on the desk in all his white polo shirt glory.

The door hinges squeak loudly behind you when you close the door. Stepping to the desk, his head slowly rises to look at you when you greet him, but he doesn’t respond. After you’ve slipped on the employee uniform jacket and pinned your nametag, he speaks.

“I may have made a mistake.”

That causes you to frown. “What happened?”

“The guy outside… I… I didn’t realise he’s a high ranking member. I may have asked him to leave because he’s been here for half an hour already and… well…”

“Well, what?”

He shakes his head. “Well, he sort of jokingly said that the building belongs to his division and that the store could close if he wanted it to.”

“...”

“Look. I know you’re a student, so I promise I’ll pay you somehow, but please! He listens to you, right? Try to appease him!”                         

You groan. “I’m sure he meant it as a joke.”

“Please!”

“Alright alright. I’ll… try.”

Honestly, you don’t know what you’re going to do. He’s a higher ranking member, you know that much, but why he even bothers to be so friendly and chatty with you is out of your scope of understanding. At least now those tough looking ones that drop by in the evening don’t test your patience anymore.

Cautiously, you open the employees room door and head back outside. There’s still no one in the store, but you know that afternoon rush hour is about to start. With you on the register seat, the dreaded man who will stay with you on another shift turns his body to face you, phone immediately slipping into his pocket.

“So,” he drawls, “was the manager inside?”

You put your phone on the little shelf underneath the cash drawer. “Yes. He was inside.”

“Was he mad?”

“Um no.” You look at him questioningly, brow raising when he just smiles. “Should he be?”

“Who knows?”

“Right…”

Silence ensues and you briefly ask yourself why he’s less chatty today. You can’t believe that it’s concerning you. Sure, he’s a very dangerous person if he’s so young and in the mafia of all things, but dangerous people are downright terrifying if pissed. At least you’re not the one at fault. Besides, three more weeks and it will be time for your flight.

You just hope you make it.

“Something on your mind?”

He’s looking at you now, cheek resting in his palm. He’s even gotten closer, next to you to be precise. You don’t think you heard him get closer.

Nervously, you give a little laugh. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?” Dull blue eyes bore into yours, gently forcing you to answer truthfully. The lack of vitality in them unnerves you but that is precisely what compels you to answer.

“Well… the manager said that you might get the store to close…”

“That? I didn’t think he’d tell you. Anyway, I was messing around,” he smiles. “You’re a student, so it would be unfair to you to suffer in consequence to him.”

The statement doesn’t make you feel any better. “Ah, you’re too kind sir Tartaglia.”

Like before, the way you addressed him makes him frown. “Just call me Childe. Tartaglia is only for my men. Though… if you would prefer…” he leans in, hand that was previously holding his face now gripping the edge of the table as he whispers dangerously close to your ear, “I’d gladly tell you my birth name.”

He backed away again, a smile on his face. “And I know you wouldn’t tell anyone haha.”

How do you even reply to that?

Scratch that, should you even reply to that?

He’s looking at you again, that smile that doesn’t reach his eyes gracing his lips and impatience oozing from his face. You sense that he’s waiting for an answer so you try your best to comply.

“Understood... Childe.”

The name feels foreign on your tongue, and you blame the unfamiliarity on the nervousness that comes with being near him. Thankfully your answer seemed to appease him and he happily nodded.

Okay, one problem solved. You’ll get your minimum wage salary. Another problem. You’ll have to endure the awkwardness because you don’t have it in you to call him out.

As if on cue, your employer exits the employee room and heads for the exit without even looking at you. The fast walking didn’t make his exit any graceful, but it did make it seem important with how Childe eyed his movements.

Silence settles again as you blankly stare at the empty store in front of you. Regrettably, you’re a little worried about what might happen when you’ll be back after summer vacation. You never told him that you’re leaving for home and the white polo dunce of a manager has been sworn to secrecy about it after he flat out told Childe which institution you study at right in front of you.

Protecting your personal details is your job, so you’ve taken it into your own hands. It isn’t wise to tell a mafia member who obviously pines to be more than just acquaintances about your personal life and details. Thus, you will slip away to home on a weekend flight.

What happens after you’re back is something you didn’t consider.

Well, almost two months would have passed by then. Surely he wouldn’t care anymore… right?

You hope he doesn’t. Perhaps it would be best to avoid this neighbourhood. Maybe even look into school transfers to be safe.

“Something’s on your mind again.”

His voice cuts through the air like a dart and lodges into your head. Is it so wrong to simply want some peace? No wait. Peace is bad. If he's quiet then that’s bad. You’ll have to humour him.

Thus, you take a deep breath. Act normal, you tell yourself. You aren’t the criminal here. You’re a humble student trying to earn some money. Relax. 

“Well,” you drawl, “I’m just spacing out.”

You don’t even look at him, eyes still fixed on the empty store.

“You must be thinking about something.”

Grumbling, you internally curse your luck. Patience is running out and you don’t know how long you can remain civil with him breathing down your neck like this. Maybe he had a bad day and that’s why he’s more inquisitive than chatty.

“Nothing,” you sigh. “I’m not thinking about anything. Just waiting for rush hour to start so that my shift can go by quickly and I can go home and sleep.”

“Hm.” He’s closer now, and you can see him in the corner of your eye. “So you’re tired of this job?”

“Tired of the people that come here actually. Most of them are so shady it’s unreal.” Now that that’s said, you hope he doesn’t realise that the jab is actually at him.

“I realise that. I saw what kind of crooks used to come here. They mostly thought they could intimidate the people working here, but all that’s in the past now.”

Well, you do owe him the credit of straightening them out. If it wasn’t for Childe, you’d still have to endure taunts from those weirdos about how they can take anything from the store and you can’t do anything about it. Regardless, you can’t be certain whether his presence is actually good or bad.

“Anyway,” he’s behind you now, hands suddenly on your shoulders, “you’re not from here, right? Any plans to visit home for the summer?”

Well… shit.

How do you go about this… 

You never told him that you’re not from this city, so that can only mean that white shirt dunce did. Great. 

“I’m not sure,” you reply. Would it be wise to ask him how much he knows? Childe does seem to be friendly in all the weeks you’ve known him. Ah. You’ll take that chance. Slowly turning around in your chair, his hands remove themselves from your shoulders when you face him. “Did my manager tell you anything?”

Now you’re looking into his eyes, but he doesn’t seem affected at all.

“I asked him about it. He told me that you might go home for the summer if you can afford the ticket.”

Okay so maybe the manager saved you a little there, but you still need to answer him. So, you settle with going with what he said. 

Nodding, you look at Childe standing in front of you again. “I'm planning to decide by the end of this month. If I do go home, I'll put in a one week notice. Hopefully it isn't a problem."

He smiles. "Don't worry. It won't be."

You can't tell if he's comforting you or making notes to assist you. Either way, he doesn't know about your flight. Figuring out how to get him off your back when you come back for the next semester will be for when you're home.

"Anyway," Childe says, breaking the silence, "are you doing anything after your shift?"

Where did that come from?

Tilting your head a little, you act innocent in hopes he gets the hint. "Depends on what I'm asked. I do have some pending work. Why? Do you need me for something?"

"No. Just asking. What about tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure about tomorrow yet…"

Childe chuckles. "Then how about you make a reservation for the evening, with me?"

"W-why?"

"I just wanted to take you out for dinner. Is that alright?"

Did… did you just get asked out on a date?

Seeing your confusion, Childe chuckles again. “I promise I’m not going to kidnap you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll just take you out, treat you to dinner, and drop you home. No shady stuff.” He raises his hands in mock surrender, tongue teasingly peeking out.

You suppose there’s no way out of this, but still try nonetheless. “What if something important comes up? Would it be okay to… cancel…?”

His hands go back to his hips. “Important? What could be more important?”

“Um, my summer courses? I still get assignments for those…” You hope that doesn’t offend him, but judging from his face he looks more confused than angry.

Childe clicks his tongue, a scolding look on his face. “You can’t get an assignment with a same day submission date, so that’s out of the question. But hearing your response, it’s alright if you’d rather not go.” He sits back down, arms crossed. “I would prefer it if you'd be honest with me. Prevaricating with lies is more than just annoying, you know.”

In the silence of the store, you can feel your heart beating loudly in your ears, the thump a scolding sound for your stupidity. If he’s angry with you, who knows what could happen. “No! Not at all. That’s not what I meant.” Your patience is still being tested but at this very moment you’re more fearful. “I’m just worried because those courses are counted in my cumulative GPA, and I can’t afford to let it drop!”

“So you’re only worried about your grades?”

“Yes!”

“And you’re not opposed to getting dinner with me?”

“Yes! Wait…”

He smiles. “Go on~”

You narrow your eyes at him, fear all gone and annoyance taking its place. “I sense I’ve made a mistake here.”

The teasing smile turns into an encouraging one and with a sigh, you surrender. “Fine. I’ll go with you.”

He gives a little celebratory ‘yes’ but you cut him short. “But I need to be back home by ten max.”

“Wait… your shift ends at seven…”

You cross your arms, finally getting back at him. “And what about it?” Seriously. Was he planning to hog your entire evening?

“That’s way too short!”

“I have a curfew placed on me by my mother back home. If I phone her any later than ten pm local time, she loses it. I would rather not be screamed at.”

“Alright. That’s fair.”

Now that that’s done, you still can’t believe you just agreed to a date with him.

However, Childe looks more than just ecstatic. He’s practically jumping in his seat, leg bouncing up and down and a wide smile on his face. When you raise a brow at that, he just smiles at you, practically oozing happiness.

He stays the same way, quiet and happy and fidgety as customers start to come in. As usual, he doesn’t say anything while you’re ringing them up and just stares. It’s when the rush dies down a little and only one guy is in the store that he speaks.

“Don’t you ever get tired of working so hard?”

You look at him from the corner of your eye. With his face in his palm, he’s staring directly at you. “I’m beeping items with a barcode scanner. I don’t see why it’s hard.”

“It is actually,” Childe says, firm in his statement. “I think you’re just used to the extra work so you don’t find it bothersome.”

“Maybe,” you shrug.

“Hm. You deserve better. Perhaps… someone who would take care of you, no questions asked. Someone… who would treat you as you deserve, cherish you, and make you happy.”

The way he speaks makes you uncomfortable, but you don’t let it show. Patience, you remind yourself. A few more weeks and you’ll be gone.

“There’s no need for others to look at you like this.” He sighs, “I hope that changes soon.”

You have no idea what he’s talking about, so you’re grateful the guy who was browsing the drinks for the last five minutes finally came to the counter. You busy yourself with billing him, but Childe just… stares. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you for a second.

Now, the regret of agreeing to dinner seeps in.

The customer leaves, and as soon as the door closes, you hear a phone buzzing. Before you even look at your phone, Childe has already pulled his out of his pocket and answers. He doesn’t give a response to whatever was said on the other side, brows furrowing as he cuts the call.

The chairlegs drag against the floor when he stands. “Sorry but I have to go.”

You don’t dare question the oddity despite your surprise to him leaving before your shift ends. “Alright.”

“I’ll pick you up outside your dorm. Is that okay?”

“Okay but what time-”

“I have your number. I’ll text you, don’t worry.”

With that, he’s out, leaving you confused inside the store. Considering the lack of smile and the fact that this is the first time he left before seven pm, it must have been something work related.

You just hope nothing advances after the dinner tomorrow.

-

He really does have your number. You don’t remember ever giving it to him, so you don’t dare question how he got his hands on it. At exactly 8: 06 pm he texted you that he would pick you up at 7: 30 pm outside your dorm tomorrow. That means that you would have around ten minutes to get ready. 

Ten minutes are too much. You’re only going to change, maybe put on some lip gloss if you look too dead. No makeup and no accessories that could possibly make you look more attractive. Simple and plain is the goal.

Speaking of dinner, you’re going to have dinner with a mafioso. Perhaps you really should look into school transfers during the summer.

This sort of vicissitude was not welcome in the slightest, but you’ll have to work around it. If nothing else, you’re thankful that Childe is respectful of most basic boundaries and hasn’t attempted anything yet. Maybe if he wasn’t working where he was, you would’ve given him the time of day.

At 8: 19 pm, he texts you again. ‘Make sure to dress well :) I’d like to see you in a dress if you have any.’

Dress? Does he mean a fancy one? You send back a message asking for clarification, but he only replies with, ‘Anything casual and cute would work.’

Casual and cute… is he really bluntly asking you that?

- 

7: 17 pm. You kick off your shoes and head inside, dashing straight to the bathroom to wash your face. You’re less tired than usual because of Childe’s absence at the store today, something that made the manager anxious, but you didn’t dare tell him about the date.

7: 23 pm. You change into the baby blue Gingham maxi dress you bought a week before finals. It flows just fine, and you grace the look only with pearl studs. Wallet and phone are shoved into the pockets of the dress, and to not look soulless, you apply some lip gloss. The gloss is also stuffed into your pocket in case you want to reapply it later, which you would rather not but you never know. 

7: 28 pm. You set your hair again and slip on your sandals. One last look in the mirror and you give yourself a thumbs up. The look is something you would wear to a casual hangout with friends. Doesn’t look very try-hard or date-like. Perfect.

7: 30 pm. You open the door and head out. Pushing the elevator button, you check your phone for any messages while the elevator reaches your floor. Sudden nervousness makes you a little nauseous, but you breathe in slowly, telling yourself it’s no big deal.

The elevator door opens and as you step in, you collide with a very firm body. One look to the face of this body, and you’re frozen.

“Going somewhere?”

You nervously chuckle. “Childe. What’re you doing here?”

He ushers you both inside the elevator, pushing the ground floor button. “I’m here to pick you up? Did you forget about dinner?”

“Ah, no… it’s just… they don’t allow outsiders without a resident escorting them. I was going to wait in the lobby.”

“Really? The watchman let me in pretty easily.”

You don’t even want to know what that means.

“Anyway,” Childe says, voice louder than the gentle elevator music, “you look lovely.”

You glance at his maroon button down and roman silver dress pants, eyes resting on his earring. “Thanks. You look… fine as well.”

“Fine? I only look fine?” He’s leaning towards you now, and the elevator suddenly feels too small. Before you can be pressured into a reply, the doors open and you hastily step out into the lobby.

A chuckle comes from behind you, and soon you’re following him outside to a black car parked a little farther from the dorm entrance. With every step you take, you pray that no one left in your building for the summer catches you.

The car is unlocked with a beep, and though you’re a borderline broke student with no knowledge of expensive things because you can’t afford them so why bother, you can tell that the car is expensive. Or maybe it’s just polished to perfection, but it looks expensive.

Regardless, this is the hard part. Do you sit in the front seat or the back seat? The back seat would be rude but the front seat would be too straightforward. The front seat is too intimate and close but the back seat is too alienating. Shit. What do you do?

You leave your choice to luck and close your eyes, reaching for a door handle. Whichever you grab will be where you sit. Upon grabbing one, you open the door just to hear another one open as well. You open your eyes and a car speeds by at the same time.

Childe stands next to the open front seat door, a brow raised as he looks at you incredulously. You look at him, then to the door you just opened, then to him again. The door you opened is graced with your gaze once again before it’s Childe’s turn.

It’s silent, awkward, and you can’t shake the feeling that you messed up before the date even started.

“Would you… prefer the back seat?”

You blink at him, courage all gone when you reply. “Ah, no! It’s not that. I-I just wasn’t thinking. Sorry…”

Childe’s brow is still raised. “Okay. I’m not your driver. I’m your date. So, I’d like it if you sat in the front.”

Shit. Everything has gone to shit. You agreed to the dinner just to appease him and leave things on a good note instead of a sour one, yet you’ve already made things bad. Great job, [Name]. Aren’t you just wonderful?

Awkwardly, you close the door you opened and get in, allowing Childe to shut the door next to you before slipping into the driver’s seat. He starts the car, puts on his seatbelt, cracks his fingers, and folds his sleeves to the elbow before exiting the parking and going onto the road.

Your seatbelt feels uncomfortable in the heavy silence. Thoughts of what Childe might do if displeased swirl inside your mind but you frankly don’t know what. He seems to like you. He has never mistreated you besides being creepy a few times. Perhaps he’d forgive you. He always says your airheadedness is cute.

The pounding heart inside your chest gets more aggressive when Childe clears his throat, lips parting to give you another mini heart attack. “Aren’t you going to ask where we’re going?”

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret.”

The pounding heart quiets down a little, confusion kicking away some of the anxiety. “Then it’s good I didn’t ask out of my own accord.”

A secret? What does he mean by that? Scratch that, is the location being a secret a good thing or a bad thing? Should you text your live location to someone? But all your friends are gone for the summer. That one girl you’re acquainted with on one of the upper floors might help if you disappear. At the very least, your jokes in the conversations you’ve had might at least let her sympathise enough to report your status to the police.

“Are you scared?”

Childe’s question makes you look at him, your heart going back to pounding crazily upon seeing his smile. “S-should I be?”

“No. You should never be scared when you’re with me.” His eyes are still on the road. “I realise you have a negative impression of me, but there’s no reason for you to be scared. Well, not you but others should be, but that’s besides the point.”

“Ah. I see.” No. You don’t see, but just go along.

“Mhm. That dress looks amazing on you.”

He takes a right turn at the green traffic light, and you briefly glance at his flexing arms as the steering wheel turns. “Thanks,” you reply. “The dress has pockets.”

As a demonstration, you pull out your phone and show it to him. Childe chuckles at that, calling it cute and you find your heartbeat growing tamer. The phone is shoved back inside and pleasant conversation fills the car on the way.

Childe asks about how university is, how your finals went, and how you’ve come to find the city. You answer the last question truthfully, hands fidgeting as you tell him about your reservations with the ‘law and order’ situation and how you’ve been begged to steer clear of the mafia. The statement is followed by a joke of you doing a horrible job at that, and Childe laughs, saying that you don’t have to be afraid of anyone in the city anymore.

The comforting sentence doesn’t comfort you at all.

The car stops in front of a restaurant and Childe opens the door to allow you to step out. Keys are given for valet parking, and Childe takes your hand as he leads you inside. Thankfully, it’s not as fancy as you thought. It’s not even as expensive, the kind of restaurant where you could arrange a fancy friend get-together. 

The not so high end restaurant doesn’t make you uncomfortable, but sitting across Childe does. He apparently made a reservation for the rooftop, so here you are, wind gently blowing in your hair as he unbuttons another button of his shirt.

“Do you like it?” He’s looking at you now, eyes briefly going to your phone when you place it on the table.

“It’s… nice.”

“I didn’t choose somewhere any fancier because I figured you might get uncomfortable. Next time though.”

Next time? Good God what is he planning?

Your face may have given it away because he's tilting his head at you, earring dangling in tandem as he acts coy. "Is something wrong? Do you not like the idea?"

"N-no. That's not it…"

"Hm?"

You gulp. "Ah it was just a little sudden. That's all."

"I'm glad." He's back to smiling now, face resting on his palm. "I'll make sure to treat you like how you should be next time."

Again, next time? Not happening.

Childe grabs the menu, requesting that you let him order for you both. He says something about the taste of home and this restaurant being the only one able to recreate that, but you don't bother. You simply brush him off, telling him he can go ahead.

It's when a few minutes have passed since ordering that he speaks again. Luckily, the clanking of plates and chatter helps tone down your nervousness.

"I come here whenever I miss home. This restaurant actually originated from my homeland, so I thought I'd bring you here. It's not high end as well, so that's an added bonus."

You nod. "Interesting."

Elbow on the table, he rests his chin on the back of his hand, blue eyes studying you carefully. The observant gaze makes you feel small, and you end up clearing your throat when his gaze drops to your collarbone.

You look him in the eye as you speak. "It's a little awkward, isn't it?" 

He tilts his head like earlier again. "What is?"

"The silence."

"Ah. Sorry. I just couldn't help myself. You look stunning."

Unlike the previous times, the compliment makes your cheeks heat up. It's probably because this time he's looking right at you with the faint hint of red on his cheekbones. Seriously. He's so human. You wonder how he ended up being in the mafia.

Childe doesn't allow silence to settle again, chatting away about his homeland and how he misses the snow. He says it's easier to go outside in this city's climate, but the memories and people back home make living there worth it. During his rambling, you simply nod along, only adding in a comment wherever you deem necessary.

Patience, you tell yourself. This'll pass. At least you're fortunate in the sense that Childe is accommodating and nice. 

He continues rambling, telling you about his younger siblings. Fulgent expression and energetic voice, you lean forward to give him your attention, content that he's making good conversation. As you listen to him, your fingers start fidgeting with the cutlery set in front of you.

Your eyes remain on him as he recounts a story where his youngest brother Teucer refused to acknowledge his sister Tonia after she got a haircut. Hearing about the young child's inability to recognise his sister makes you chuckle which in turn makes Childe pause to look at you with widened eyes.

A smile stretches on his lips, and you trace the edges of the knife when he resumes. 

"Mama was pretty concerned about that. It took Teucer a few days to accept that his sister looks different now. Ah. I miss them. They're a lively bunch and I miss being with them."

Your thumb runs up and down the edge of the knife while it's clutched in your hand, face resting in the palm of your free hand. "You can visit them if you miss them that much."

Childe gently shakes his head, hair swaying with the movement. "It's not possible at the moment." At your confused expression, he clarifies, "I can't tell you why. It's confidential information."

"That's fair."

"But I am glad I still get to be here. I got to meet you, after all."

"Oh. That's… nice."

"Mhm." He's leaning towards you as well now, both arms resting on the table. "Any development in your plan to visit home? You should go. If you're having any problems with the plane ticket or something then-"

"Ouch!"

The knife drops from your hand, clattering dully on the table. Blood oozes from the pad of your thumb as your hands shake from the startle. It doesn't take Childe even a second to be on his guard.

"You cut your thumb?" He gets up, drags his chair beside you and sits, knees brushing against yours. "You were fidgeting with the knife… well, no matter."

Instead of grabbing a tissue, he takes a hold of your hand and stares at the bleeding cut. More blood oozes out of it the longer he stares and one drop even reaches your palm. However, that isn't what's bothering you. It's the fact that he just licked that blood trail. 

He licked it. And now he's sucking on where the cut should be.

The feeling of his tongue is what brings you back to your senses, confusion and panic overtaking your senses and overwhelming you. Pulling your hand away does nothing because his grip is too strong. Goodness, at least the few tables around you are empty and no one else seems to be looking.

"Childe."

He doesn't let go, pressing your thumb down against his tongue instead.

"Childe. Let go-"

A trail of saliva joins your thumb and his mouth. The two of you make eye contact and you notice a slight blush on his face. Childe then manoeuvres your hand, his lips on your palm as he tenderly kisses the skin messily. 

The action gives you goosebumps but you remain quiet, still confused about what's going on. It's when he finally lets go and presses a tissue to the cut that he speaks.

"Be careful."

You remain frozen, hand in his while the tissue remains pressed over your thumb. You can no longer hear the faint background chatter or feel the gentle breeze in your hair. In your senses are dull blue eyes, freckles dusted across cheekbones and nose, and warm breath fanning over your ear when he leans in.

Childe's voice is a whisper, the edges of his hair tickling your cheek as the chair quietly croaks. "You shouldn't be playing with dangerous things."

He leans back again. With a smile, Childe gets up, drags his chair back to where it was, and seats himself. The air surrounding you both is casual, light, like something completely out of the blue didn't occur. This gives you the hint that it's best to not talk about it.

Elbows on the table, both his palms hold his face as he looks at you with a smile. The skin under his eyes crinkles slightly, freckled cheeks squished, and long auburn eyelashes framing the deep blues. You sit there puzzled and feeling slightly violated while Childe continues staring.

It's honestly a little funny.

Right when you concluded that Childe was nice, he does something completely uncalled for. You remove the tissue that was pressed to your thumb, pleased to see that your blood cells have done their job and the platelets coagulated. It'll probably turn into a scab by the time you get home.

Dammit, now you're nervous all over again. Curse you mass of neurons floating in cerebral fluid! Be useful! Sure, he just sucked on your thumb, but keep it together.

When you look at him again, he's still staring. With a sigh, you ask him about his job, what kind of work he does, but Childe only shakes his head, refusing to answer.

His excuse smoothly exits via soft, pink lips. You didn't know you were looking at them until you heard him speak.

"I don't think you'd enjoy hearing about my job. Plus, it's all confidential."

You will yourself to look back into his eyes no matter how difficult eye contact may seem. "Shady? Is that what you're implying?"

"Hm." He hums. "Let's just leave it at that."

So he admits it? Great. You can't wait for the evening to be over. The bag of chips sitting at home sounds very comforting and appetising right now.

When he continues talking again, you start fidgeting with the edges of your sleeves under the table. You need a distraction. Using your phone would be rude, so you figure abusing the fabric of your sleeves is a better option. It takes a little while for your food to be here, but when it is, you compliment his order and ask him about his choice.

The question serves to keep the conversation easy and light while allowing you to only answer, not speak. This in turn allows nothing uncomfortable to occur during dinner. It’s thankfully uneventful until it's time to pay.

You had no qualms about paying for yourself, but being Childe, he told you he’d take care of it. You had no problem with that either. What you did have a problem with was what he said.

“Let me treat my girl.”

My girl. That’s what he called you. If that’s not a red flag, you don’t know what is. Despite that, you suck it in and let him take you home. Patience. You’ll leave soon and never show your face in his active districts again. Maybe you’ll even transfer schools if you’re lucky.

You’re really hoping you can transfer. He might come find you himself after you come back from summer break. Even with all those troublesome thoughts in mind, you act as casual as you could while sitting in his car as he drives you home. Conversation was nice, the thumb incident was borderline violating, but the meal was tasty.

The car stops near your dorm’s entrance, but before you could make any move to exit the car - hand hovering over the handle - Childe locks the doors. You turn to look at him but he’s already looking at you.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, voice unsure and eyes not meeting yours.

Tentatively nodding, you signal him to continue.

“Did you… enjoy yourself?”

“Huh?” You scold yourself mentally for the confused expression. Clearing your throat, you compose yourself. “Yeah. As far as enjoying dinner goes.”

His eyes finally meet yours, and the eye contact is intense. “I take it that you’d like to do this again?”

“...”

“I don’t mean immediately but maybe sometime in the future?”

Sighing, you slump in your seat. “I can’t be sure.” It’s better to make things clear and not lead him on, even if it’s harsh. “I’m not… looking for something right now. It would be unfair to say yes to you when I don’t mean it.”

Childe’s grip on the edge of his seat tightens, the leather squeaking as it gets abused. “I understand. But that doesn’t mean that you don’t like me, right?”

“Um, yeah.” You can’t pull your eyes away from his. “You’re… nice.”

He blinks. “I’m nice?”

“Yes.”

Childe’s mouth opens in disbelief before he goes back to his senses with a shake of his head. He leans towards you, hand grabbing the back of your seat and eyes widened. “So that means I have a chance?”

“Well,” you laugh awkwardly, “I never said you didn’t. I just said that-”

“I know I know. You’re not looking for something right now, but that doesn’t mean you won’t change your mind later. I’m not going to do something weird, don’t worry. I just… won’t give up.” He’s smiling as he speaks, happy at the prospect of not being rejected. “I’ll keep trying!”

Honestly, the determination he has is cute but it’s almost 10 pm. “That’s great and all, but could you unlock the door? I really need to go.”

“Oh, of course.” The doors unlock with a soft click and Childe bids you goodbye with another concerning statement. “I’ll make sure you change your mind. It’s a promise.”

The chips in your room lived to see another day.

-

The events of last night’s dinner keep replaying in your mind. It’s like a curse, the moment when Childe grabbed your wrist and gently shoved your thumb inside his mouth. Even with the bandage over it, you can still feel the ghost of his tongue, wet and warm, licking it.

You stop in your tracks to shiver.

It’s infuriating how even on your way to your shift you can only think of him and how he promised to change your mind. So much for leaving without any trouble. Can’t he take a hint? Maybe he’s too dense. It does seem characteristic of him.

The bell chimes when you open the door and head inside. A few customers are browsing the store, one middle aged woman and two office workers to be precise, while the manager sits by the cash register. His white polo shirt greets you before he does and by the time you come back from the employee room changed into your uniform jacket and nametag, the customers are gone.

Beloved and totally not airheaded manager moves away from the register, handing you a little list of work to do and announces that he’s leaving to meet up with someone.

Not even ten minutes of him being gone and the dreaded blue eyed mafioso walks in.

The bell chimes to signal his arrival, and unfortunately you meet his eyes as he stands at the entrance. He’s dressed too casually today, a white T-shirt with some band name on it, blue jeans and white sneakers. If you weren’t aware of his lifestyle, you would’ve thought that he was just another young adult on the street.

“Hi!”

You return his greeting with a simple nod, and he comes in. The only sound is his footsteps till he stops on the other side of the register. You meet his dead eyes again, regret instantly seeping into your bones. Childe’s gaze is affectionate, soft. Being on the receiving end of such a look is overwhelmingly foreign and uncomfortable. 

The freckles dusted across his cheekbones and nose catch your attention, but they fail to be graced with your eyes for long. You immediately look away when you realise you started to stare.

Regardless, Childe acts as though he didn’t notice and rounds the register to sit on the chair next to you like always. He doesn’t speak of the date. Typical conversation plays out, much to your surprise, and you mentally curse yourself for expecting him to bring up yesterday evening.

However, it’s not his casual physiognomy that bothers you. It’s his friendliness and the fact that he has started messaging you like one would a friend. Just yesterday he had texted you for the first time in his life and now he’s spamming you funny videos and memes?

Should… should you be worried?

It might prove to be more difficult to shrug him off. You didn’t want to be harsh and outright reject him for him after how he had seemingly tried to be kind and took you out for dinner, but now it seems like that would have been the correct course of action. It’s not that you’re rejecting him solely on the basis of being a part of the mafia. It’s simply your desire to not be in a relationship right now.

Perhaps he’ll respect your wishes like he did last night, even if he did claim that he will keep trying.

-

You should not push your luck. Really. You shouldn’t. You shan’t do so.

First, you leave his meme spams on read. Then, you have the gall to address him as ‘sir Tartaglia’ again by mistake. The instant fall of his smile had sent a shiver down your spine and reminded you of why you told yourself to be careful. Just because he likes you doesn’t mean you’re safe.

Maybe you are, but that change of expression has creeped you out to no end. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

It has been two weeks since the dinner and Childe has settled with chatting with you over text during the late night hours. Tonight, however, you’ve put your phone away in favour of watching something on your laptop. The screen illuminates your face in the darkness of your room, and your phone’s buzzing briefly catches your attention.

You ignore it, obviously. You’re leaving in one week. This little ‘friendship’ or whatever one could call it is pointless. You’ve already planned on blocking Childe on all the socials he’s invaded as soon as you reach home, a step towards never seeing him again. The less you let him get attached, the easier it’ll be for him to forget you and move on.

-

Childe is… a little annoyed. You didn’t reply to any of his texts for a few days, leaving it on read since he sends some random videos after the texts. He let it slide at first, but now he’s bothered. It’s evident in the way he isn’t smiling or even talking to you for that matter. 

Not wanting to end up on his bad side permanently, you capitulate your ego. “Childe? Is something wrong?” You’re restocking the potato chips as you speak, head peeking over the short aisle to look at him while he sits at the register. “You seem off.”

He makes eye contact with a face devoid of any emotion as if that were the most natural thing to do in the situation. “Why do you ask?”

“I just said so. You seem off.”

“It’s nothing.” Childe looks away, opting to stare at his shoes. He’s wearing casual clothes today as well, something you noted he started doing more often after the date.

Seeing that he won’t budge, you go back to restocking but perk up again when you hear him speak, albeit very softly.

“You’re ignoring me,” he mumbles to himself.

So, you do what comes to mind. Leaving the chip packets on the floor of the empty store, you walk up to him, hands on your hips. “I’m ignoring you?”

He doesn’t look at you, his shoes the most interesting sight in the world. “Yeah.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You don’t talk to me. It’s always me who initiates the conversation.” He looks up, making eye contact. “Is it because I’m in the mafia and you don’t want anything to do with me?”

The subtle accusation makes you defensive immediately, and you stammer. “N-not at all-”

“It is, isn’t it?” The earring hanging from his ear briefly catches your attention when he tilts his head. “That’s why you lied and said that you weren’t looking for a relationship right now.”

“But I’m really not.”

“Relationships aren’t ‘looked for’. They just happen.” Childe leans back in his seat, making you grow more nervous. “And you don’t want one to happen with me just because of where I work.”

Your hands start fidgeting with each other on their own, tongue pushing against your mouth’s hard palate. It takes strength to reply to his imputation. “That’s not true…” Heart beating wildly in your chest, you push the words out. “It’s just… I don’t want a relationship right now.” Think brain, think! “It’s not you, it’s me.” Curse you mass of neurons and amygdala for thinking of this ginger as a serious threat. “So please, don’t think of reasons that aren’t true.”

“But they are true,” he states, like he’s telling you that the moon also exerts gravity on the earth, voice boring and flat. “You just refuse to admit it because you’re scared of me.” Childe’s eyes bore into yours again, seeing through your casual lies and crafted confidence.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You can’t fool me, [Name]. I’d prefer you to be truthful. Lies just get on my nerves.”

You gulp. There’s no way out of this now. “Sorry…”

“It’s alright. Just keep that in mind for next time.”

“...”

“How can I change your mind?”

“What?” You blink at him, not understanding what he’s asking you. “What do you mean?”

“How can I change your fear of me into attraction? I don’t like knowing that you’re afraid of me.” Childe’s expression turns into a pleading one. Genuine helplessness is written all over his physiognomy which in turn makes you uncomfortable. You feel small under his watchful gaze. It’s as though he’s watching every single movement and breath you take.

“I… don’t know…” Your hands hang by your sides as you stand in front of him, lips pressed into a thin line.

Voice gentle, he tries to persuade you once again. “Please. Tell me how to win your heart.”

“I… I don’t know.” There’s a pitiful helplessness in your voice now, and you don’t know what makes you want to tell him what you are about to. But you do. And you have to watch the realisation appear on his face. “I never wanted your attention.” Admitting that somehow leaves a sour taste in your mouth. “I never wanted anyone’s attention. All I am is a student trying to make ends meet while cussing out the degree I chose for myself.”

Eyes wide, Childe tries negotiating. “I could make your life better.” Hands slam the desk in front of him as he stands, barcode scanner jumping and falling back with a thunk. “I just need one chance. That’s all I need.”

“I’m sorry, Childe, but-”

“No no. I’m not asking. You don’t have to give me one.”

You look into the lifeless blues of his eyes as he continues. “I’ll take that chance whenever I get the opportunity. You don’t have to worry your pretty head over it.”

Somehow his decision to take matters into his own hands unnerves you more than his blatant signs of attraction. It didn’t help that he wordlessly left the store after that.

-

Today is your last shift before you leave for home. Oddly enough, Childe didn’t swing by the store ever since he left the other day, and he isn’t here right now as well. It makes you uneasy. Something’s wrong. You can feel it in your gut.

He hadn’t even contacted you or sent any cat videos or memes, and being the coward that you are, you left things as they were. Hope that you won’t see him again keeps you going and stops you from poking at the obvious issue lest it bites you back.

But… you feel a little guilty. Even now as you stare at the floor on the other side of the cash register, you can’t help but recall how Childe tried his best to keep conversation flowing during dinner despite getting a very rude lack of input from your side. He’s been trying, and you’re the one not giving him the time of day.

Nonetheless, relationships aren’t built on pity. You hope he finds someone else, someone more suited for him. That’s the only wish you have for him even if the moral ramifications are eating you up on the inside.

Still, you can’t stop your mind from wandering to the question of what he meant by taking the chance when the opportunity presents itself. Does he somehow know about your flight? Well, if he did, he wouldn’t have disappeared. Best to end things on a good note rather than a bad one and stay in contact. But what if he doesn’t care anymore?

Though that outcome is the welcomed one, it still stings to think that. Someone losing interest in you isn’t exactly something that makes you feel good. Regardless, it’s welcome in this situation. You were never in favour of his attention being on you and you never will be.

At 7: 08 pm, the bell at the door chimes in goodbye as you step out. The evening rush hour greets you, and you go with the flow of the people rushing home after a long day or work. Well, it’s the weekend tomorrow. At least they have something to look forward to.

The building of your current residence comes into view and relief washes all over you. Just a bit more and you can get into bed. There’s still a few more hours till you leave, and all your luggage is packed. All you need to do is take a nap.

You practically skip to the entrance, the cool air of the lobby’s air conditioning hitting your face. No one is inside and you hurriedly make way to the elevator. 

The nap you took felt like an entire night of rest. With a stretch, you jump out of bed to gather the rest of your things. It’s when you’re locking the door to your room when you realise just how quiet it is. Your apprehension is understandable, if not relatable. You’ve never exited your room after coming back home for the day, so you have no idea what the building is like after a certain hour.

Dragging your suitcase with one hand, hand carry with the other, you haul them both and yourself - the backpack on your shoulders being an honourable mention - inside the elevator. The air is uncharacteristically cool and dry, something elevator music fails to get your mind off of. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you ignore it in favour of dragging your luggage outside the elevator and into the lobby. Who would be calling this late? Probably your mother. The video call would cut when you step out and the Wifi disconnects, so it doesn’t matter. Key left at the receptionist’s desk, you mentally thank yourself for checking out online in the evening but pray that the key is still here by morning.

Hesitation wins and you end up leaving it next to the pen holder. You were told to drop it off at the desk. It’s not your fault it’s unattended.

The bus stop is a five minute walk away, so with a deep breath, you step out of the lobby and to the outside, allowing the night’s cool breeze to caress your face as your luggage stays grasped in either hand. Your eyes land on the empty road, praying that you don’t get creeped out by the lack of people.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you take a step forward, then another, and another, till you’re a few metres away from the building’s entrance. The breeze is still blowing and the air is cool so you won’t be hot during your wait at the sto-

“[Name]?”

The breeze stops blowing.

“Where are you going at this hour? And… why… is your luggage with you?”

Your breathing is the next to stop, though only momentarily.

Almost on instinct, you let go of everything in your hands and reach for the phone in your pocket. You don’t even bother looking at the source of the voice, eyes glued to ‘Childe’ glowing on your screen as the contact of the missed call. Heart hammering in your chest, you slowly turn to look at him.

Regret and fear seep into your bones at the same time. He’s wearing something similar to what he usually did in the beginning, garnet dress shirt and dark grey dress pants. The gloves on his hands cover his palms but leave the majority of the back of his hands exposed, phone held in the leather grip.

What your eyes focus on first, however, is the earring. It catches the light from the lobby behind him like a beacon, but you’re quick to look away and into the blue irises of his empty gaze.

There’s no time for you to question why you didn’t hear him before he spoke up.

“Are you leaving?” He takes a step forward, phone slipping inside his pocket, and you take a step back. The reaction is all he needs from you to raise his hands in surrender, only coming closer when the wary look on your face softens into something more observant.

“Are you going back home?” Childe stands only one step away when he asks that and tilts his head waiting for an answer. He receives one in the form of a nod, and questions further. “When’s your flight?”

“Half past 3 am,” is your reply.

“So you have a little less than four hours,” he points out. “I actually came here to talk to you. I uh… I missed you and couldn’t help it. If I knew you were leaving, I would have come sooner.”

You’re still watching him attentively, the clothing he’s wearing sufficient to ring alarm bells in your head. “So you wanted to talk?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” you bite your lip, “I guess I’m not running late. The bus will be here in fifteen minutes anyway, so I have time to spare.”

“Perfect!” He grabs both of your luggages and drags them in the opposite direction of your intended destination: the bus stop. It takes a stern question from you for him to stop and look at you with that empty gaze again. “I’m just taking you to my car. I’ll drop you off. There’s no need to bother yourself with the bus.”

Any demurrance from your side is promptly shut down and smoothed over with reassurances that he’d get you to the airport safe and sound. As your packed belongings sit next to the car, Childe eases the backpack off your shoulder and leaves it on top of them.

It’s when he looks at you that the anxiety skyrockets, eating away your consciousness. Alone with Childe, a highly ranked member of the mafia, at near midnight with all your belongings and an assurance to be dropped off the airport safe and sound is an obvious problem.

You should have listened to the uneasy feeling in your gut back in the store.

“So,” he drawls, standing a foot away from you with his hands in his pockets, “I know I was brash and that I shouldn’t have made you uncomfortable and also should have apologised to you later, but I won’t.”

That causes you to perk up, anxiety dying down a little. “You… won’t?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “I won’t. It’s because I’m not going back on my words. I know you don’t view me as a potential partner, let alone friend, but that isn’t going to stop me.”

You don’t like where this is going.

Childe continues, eyes still boring into yours. “I don’t understand why you’re afraid of me. I’ve told and showed you countless times that I’m not going to do anything. It’s pointless to waste your energy. All I want is to exclusively be yours and call you mine. Why would I ever do anything to you if that’s what I wish for?”

The sir suddenly feels too suffocating, like not enough oxygen is filling your lungs. There’s a subtle darkness in your vision, one you deal with by walking to and leaning on the parked car, not that it helps. Not with the deeper breaths you’ve started taking. It doesn’t take any more indications for Childe to rush to your side, an unwelcome hand gently stroking your back.

The breeze flows again, caressing your face and blowing through your hair, but you’re still sweating.

You don’t know what happens next, just that you’re inside the car, the AC turned on, a light shining over your head, and a hand still running up and down your back while you take mouthfuls of breaths. They’re quicker now, you note, and a hand - your own hand - rises to cover your mouth as your sight and self-awareness is restored.

The confusion and vulnerability hits you like a truck and the tears simply fall harder.

Each and every time the hand moves over your back, you feel like more of your skin was peeled off, goosebumps still littering over your arms. It takes several minutes for you to somewhat calm down and become cognizant of your emotions and actions. It doesn’t come as a surprise when the first thing you decide to do in that state is cry harder.

What are you crying for? You don’t know. It’s hard enough as it is to just continue breathing. Processing your emotions is for later.

A hand, a foreign one, gently lifts your face, allowing the dashboard to come into view, and turns it to the source. Childe’s blurry image greets you as your chest heaves, warm thumbs swiping away the tears rapidly running down your cheeks. You don’t have time to dwell on where his gloves disappeared to, focusing on the feeling of his warm thumbs feeling cool over your tear stricken face.

Several minutes pass again, and you sit with your face in your hands while Childe puts your luggage inside the car trunk. Reddened, swollen eyes meet his blue ones in the silence of the car, your sniffling being the only sound. Whatever you just experienced was horrible. Had Childe not been… no. He is part of the cause. Him helping you through it is the least he could have done.

The driver’s seat is quickly occupied once again, and Childe breaks the silence, concern present all over his face. “Are you feeling better?”

You nod, too uncertain in your ability to speak. His question of whether or not you want some water is met with a shake of your head, and Childe settles with pressing his lips into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t think it would upset you that much.”

Voice slightly raspy, you reply after clearing your throat. “It’s alright. I… I didn’t see it coming as well.”

He slumps into his seat, head turned to look at you. Childe’s eyes glaze over your body, looking for potential signs of fear. It seems to him that you’re dazed, confused. It’s advantageous for him, if not relieving. Seeing you afraid or in pain doesn’t elicit any positive feelings.

After receiving your permission, Childe puts on his seatbelt - all the while making sure you fasten yours as well - and reverses the car, intending to drive you to the airport. You’re a bit late compared to what you originally planned, but you suppose he can get you there on time.

The car is eerily quiet with the lack of music. There’s no gentle humming from Childe, only the sound of either of you breathing. Unfortunately for you, the silence fails to last.

“So when are you coming back?” Childe’s voice is calm, flat. He’s completely casual in his question despite your concern that he wouldn’t take kindly to being lied to about such a thing.

“It’s one way,” you lie. Not being held accountable for your verbal deceit helps you gain some confidence. “I’m not sure when I’ll be back, but I’ll be back for class obviously.”

The car is silent again for a while and it fills you with hope for a quiet ride, one where you would get off, thank Childe profusely, and head home never to see him again. Alas hope is crushed, and you freeze in your seat, muscles tensing when Childe speaks again.

“How much more are you going to lie?”

Childe continues driving, acting unaffected with his demeanour and tone, but it wouldn’t take a genius to know that him gripping the steering wheel in a bone crushing grip is anything but him being casual. 

No. He’s certainly upset, and you’re afraid you’re too much at his mercy.

“I gave you another chance and you ruined it.” Childe’s fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel, voice even as he speaks. “Why don’t we try again? When’re you coming back?”

You bite your tongue when you feel the initial signs of panic bubbling up your throat. It takes a bit of force to make yourself speak, even if it’s in a more fearful way. “Seven weeks. I’ll be home for seven weeks.”

“You’re not going to block me on your socials when you get there, are you?”

With a shake of your head, you continue looking out the window. “No.” 

He hums, satisfied at your cooperation. “Good.” The car takes a turn, the empty roads seemingly omnipresent. “I’m not going to do anything. I just wanted to know the truth… er, more like hear it directly from you.”

A few minutes of silence pass, but it doesn’t last because you can’t stay quiet for longer. “You’re going the wrong way.”

“I am?” The smile in his voice is evident.

“Yes, you are.” You turn to look at him, nervously gulping at his grin. “Stop messing around.”

He doesn’t reply.

“Childe!”

Your panic fails to affect him in any way. With the fuzziness growing in your mind, there’s not much you can do except grab onto his sleeve. That causes him to look at you, even if just for a moment, but that’s all you get for a reaction. As a last resort, you reach for your phone in your pocket but freeze when you don’t feel the device.

You don’t need to say anything for Childe to provide the answer to your question. “Your phone isn’t there. It’s with me, I’m afraid.”

“Childe,” you say, voice low and pleading, “please stop screwing around.”

He sounds slightly offended when he replies. “You think I’m screwing around?”

“Yes!” Your exclamation doesn’t seem to affect him, so you opt for a more direct approach. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I came with you because I trusted you.” The words are spat out, but Childe only seems amused.

“Trusted me?” He chuckles. “Sweetheart, if you trusted me, you would’ve told me about your flight from the start instead of lying about putting in a one week notice. You’re scared of me, and despite the fact that it stings like salt on an open wound, I suppose there’s some merit to that as well.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean?”

You bite the inside of your cheek now. There’s no way you can tell what Childe means by what he said. Judging from your previous conversations as well, your fear of him is a sour spot, but maybe you could exploit that to your favour.

“I’m afraid of you, because of your unpredictability and that is exactly what you are demonstrating right now.” You grab onto his sleeve again, albeit more desperately this time. “You gave me more reasons to fear you than you did to like you.”

The car slows, as if synchronised with Childe’s thought process. “Is that… really what you think of me?”

“Yes,” you reply in an even voice. “I was already a little scared from what I heard from people and then you started doing all this stuff-”

“Stuff like what?”

“Stuff like this!”

He sighs, moving the steering wheel to stop the car at the side of the road. “I just told you that I can’t ever hurt you, and you’re still calling me scary?”

Your eyes focus on his expression, specially searching for any signs of him lying - hypocritical on your part - but fail to find anything other than sincerity. The grip on his sleeve loosens, your hand ultimately returning to your lap, when he turns to face you. It’s intimidating to look into his dead eyes but it still makes you wonder how such a beautiful colour can be so lifeless.

Childe’s lips move and despite your feelings you find yourself absolutely memorised by the plush pink as his voice leaves his mouth.

“I’m not changing my mind.”

His declaration forces you to focus on his words, any attraction be damned.

“Lying to me and saying that you haven’t decided on leaving for home did get on my nerves a little,” he says, “but I forgive you. You’re cute, so I can’t stay mad at you for long.”

You let his words sink in. He says that he forgives you for the lie, but what now?

“Alright,” you drawl, voice nervous, “now can we please go to the airport?”

Childe leans in, a smile on his face. “How about instead of the airport, we go home?”

The word ‘home’ catches your attention and dread settles in. If he’s implying what you think he is, then you don’t think you’ll be able to catch your flight, let alone get to the airport.

“Childe,” you croon, “I think we have some misunderstandings. Before either of us does something impulsive and hurtful, let’s just talk it over.”

He just looks amused. “Oh? Talk over what? You’re the one pushing me away.”

You try again to de-escalate. “I only told you that I don’t want a relationship.”

“Liar.” Childe’s hand reaches for the edge of your seat, the skin below his collarbones and a little bit of his chest visible as he leans in closer. “We’ve already had this discussion before. Since you’re cute and obviously not in very good mental shape at the moment, I’ll give you a little bit of advice. Let me do my thing. I’m not going to hurt you, just… change your scenery a little.”

You narrow your eyes at him upon saying the word ‘scenery’. Though consternation eats you up on the inside, you trust that Childe wouldn’t do anything to you, at least not physically. What he is currently planning to do is a different matter.

Patience, you remind yourself. That might just be the only thing you have left.

“Now that that’s settled,” he says, going back to the steering wheel, “why don’t I take you home? I’m sure you’ll like it. It’s more comfortable and spacious than where you were living.”

In the most calm and even voice you could muster, you try pleading with him again. “Childe, please. Don’t do something that would make me hate you.”

He doesn’t even look at you when he answers. The lack of smile and his eyes fixed on the road as he continues driving does not help ease your increasing dread. “It might be a small bump, but the end destination is what matters in this case, not the journey.”

You glance to the door handle in an act of desperation but bite your lip when all hope is lost at the sight of the lock. Month old words hit you like a truck, patience being some elaborate scheme for the notorious members of society to make others more docile and submissive to them. After all this time, would it be wise to believe you’ll be alright?