#irritaties | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nanamineedstherapy · 2 days ago

Text

Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader X Gojo Satoru X Nanami Kento

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage.

Trigger Warnings: (May contain spoilers for the chapter) ⚠️ Severe Dumbassery – Gojo and Haibara exist. That’s the warning. ⚠️Gojo & Nanami Acting Like High School Boys With a Crush – Secondhand embarrassment included. ⚠️ #UnpaidInternMegumi – Babysitting his parents...Again. ⚠️ Haibara & Aviation Crimes ⚠️ Food-Related Manipulation – If a man makes you pancakes, it’s a trap. ⚠️ #LizardmanMegumiConfirmed – Identity Crisis Megumi™ – Is he an alien? A lizardman? A cult leader? No one knows. ⚠️ #NPCGojo – Bugged out of the simulation years ago. ⚠️ #BaguetteDuels – Haibara vs. Reporters – One man. One moustache. One unnecessary conspiracy. ⚠️ #GroceryShoppingWars – Megumi vs. The Snack Hoarders™. ⚠️ #BabyRaccoonAdoptionArc ⚠️ #RiotForNoReason – Why are men��? ⚠️ Public Outrage & Violence – People really need hobbies ⚠️ Trauma Flashbacks – When life insists on being a horror movie. ⚠️ Attempted Assault – Some people can’t handle a woman being successful. ⚠️ #VillainOriginStoryUnlocked – Severe Ass-Kicking Incoming – They poked the wrong bear.

Previous Chapter 12 (alt ending 2.3) - Not Heroes (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 13 (alt ending 2.4) - Burn the Mother of Three

The next morning, you emerged from the guest bedroom dressed to kill—figuratively, of course. Your fitted blazer and low heels screamed, “CEO, who could destroy your entire lineage before lunch.” Your stomach growled loudly, reminding you that, despite your intimidating aura, you were still a mere mortal.

The kitchen counter caught your eye.

Japanese soufflé pancakes.

Did they go and buy it early in the morning?

No Nanami was OCD about them, so he probably made them.

Golden brown, fluffy stacks of heaven sat neatly on two plates. The aroma wafted through the air, warm and inviting—a siren call to your empty stomach. Your feet betrayed you, carrying you closer despite every ounce of willpower screaming at you to walk away.

Damn your pregnancy cravings for Nanami’s cooking.

You eyed the plates suspiciously. Nanami’s meticulous plating was unmistakable—syrup poured in an even spiral, berries arranged like a Renaissance painting. Beside it was Gojo’s plate, chaotic but still oddly charming. His pancakes had a mountain of whipped cream that defied physics, chocolate chips spilling like they’d staged a rebellion.

Your stomach growled again, this time loud enough to echo.

“Fine,” you muttered, glancing around to ensure the coast was clear. The penthouse was eerily quiet.

You picked up a fork, hesitating only for a second before cutting into Nanami’s plate. The first bite melted in your mouth—the perfect balance of sweet and savoury. A tiny moan escaped before you could stop it.

“Goddammit, why does he have to be good at this too?” You grumbled, shoving another piece into your mouth.

One bite turned into two, then three. By the time you came up for air, Nanami’s plate was clean. You stared at the empty dish, mildly horrified. “Well, it’s not like I meant to...”

Your gaze drifted to Gojo’s plate.

“...No.”

Your stomach growled again, louder this time.

“...Maybe just a taste,” you reasoned, reaching for the second fork.

Gojo’s pancakes were equally sinful, though in a completely different way. The chocolate chips and whipped cream shouldn’t have worked together, but they did. A mix of chaos and comfort that made you groan in betrayal.

You demolished his plate, too, wiping your mouth with a napkin like the villain you were.

“Not a word,” you muttered to the babies, who kicked softly in response. Setting the plates back down, you turned toward the door.

Before you could take two steps, your phone rang.

“Where the hell are you?” Megumi’s voice barked through the speaker, a mix of irritation and concern.

“I’m leaving now,” you replied, irritation creeping into your tone. “What happened? Why is there so much wind?”

“What happened?” Megumi repeated mockingly. “Because Haibara and I have been waiting on the rooftop for fifteen minutes. With the helicopter. Which is burning fuel. Because you’re late. Again.”

“Helicopter?” You echoed, already moving toward the elevator. “I didn’t ask for—”

“You never ask for it, but we know you’ll end up needing it,” Megumi interrupted, his tone exasperated. “Otherwise, Haibara and I will be happy to commit reporter manslaughter. Now move before I bill you for the fuel.”

“I’ll be there in five.” You rolled your eyes, disconnected the call, and pocketed your phone as you waddled your human-suitcase self out.

Nanami and Gojo peeked out from behind the pantry door, watching as you disappeared into the elevator.

“She ate it,” Gojo whispered, barely able to contain his excitement.

“She ate both plates,” Nanami confirmed, his voice low but triumphant.

They clinked their coffee mugs together in silent celebration—though Gojo’s was filled with strawberry soda.

Gojo grinning, cheered. “Told you the ‘indulgent pregnancy-friendly’ soufflé pancakes would work. Admit it, I’m THE daddy!”

Nanami rolled his eyes, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. This doesn’t mean she’s forgiven us.”

“But it’s a start,” Gojo cheered, his grin widening. “She couldn’t resist our cooking. That’s progress!”

“MY COOKING,” Nanami deadpanned, “because all you did was annoy me and make it look terrible.”

Gojo looked at Nanami with a pout, resembling a wet kitten. Nanami sighed and handed him another plate of pancakes to ruin with his “artistic endeavours.”

“We’ll win her back,” Nanami said, his tone resolute, determination shining in his eyes.

“And until then, how about more pancake flavours?” Gojo suggested, already brainstorming the next flavour combination.

“Oh, definitely. But let’s not forget about regular food too.”

Unbeknownst to you, Gojo had woken Nanami up at six a.m. for this—not that Nanami was complaining; he had barely slept because he was so excited.

As you approached the rooftop, you spotted Megumi and Haibara near the helicopter. Haibara was casually leaning against the fuselage, while Megumi paced back and forth, arms crossed tightly over his chest, a frown etched on his face. The moment you appeared, Megumi pointed at his watch, mouthing, “Five minutes means five.”

Megumi was dressed like he’d stepped out of a billionaire’s fashion spread: a perfectly tailored charcoal suit with a subtle pinstripe, his tie slightly loosened but still pristine. His hair was slicked back, but the wind from the rotors sent stray strands tumbling over his sharp jawline. He looked like he was ready to murder someone—probably you—if not for the way he immediately extended a hand to help you climb into the helicopter.

“Take your time,” he muttered sarcastically, though his grip would be firm, steadying you with an ease that betrayed his annoyance.

You handed him your handbag smugly, climbing into the helicopter with Haibara’s help, of course. Megumi scowled but followed you in.

Haibara, on the other hand, was the picture of relaxed confidence. He wore a black leather jacket over a white silk shirt, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that probably had their own fan club. His sunglasses hung loosely from the neckline of his shirt, and his messy hair looked intentional, like he’d just rolled out of bed looking that good.

“Good morning to you too,” Haibara quipped, smirking.

You rolled your eyes at him as you settled into your seat.

Haibara had a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he slid into the pilot’s seat. “Bet you didn’t think I could fly this thing.”

“I hope that’s something you’ve at least learned as a spy,” you shot back.

“You’re not even supposed to be flying this thing,” Megumi snapped, securing your seatbelt with more care than his tone suggested. “This is my helicopter.”

“And yet, here I am,” Haibara replied smoothly, flipping switches like he was born to do it.

You blinked, still trying to process how your day had gone from pancake to riding in a private helicopter piloted by an ex-MI6 agent. “I’m sorry, you really know how to fly a helicopter, or is this going to be like the time you said you learned how to ride a bike and Megumi and I ended up with bruises all over? Only this time, we won’t be left to tell the tale.”

Haibara glanced back at you, smirking. “A. We don’t talk about that! And B, what, you think I spent my MI6 years just filing paperwork? Sit back, cookie. I’ve got this.”

His nickname whisked you back to your teenage years when Haibara had just been introduced to you and Megumi. At first, he barely spoke, spending most of his time in bed, suffering from pain and trying to remember his old, forgotten life—like a confused cat trying to figure out how to use a can opener.

During Haibara’s recovery, when he was stuck in bed with casts on his arm and leg, you and Megumi took it upon yourselves to “help.” This mostly involved drawing ridiculous things on his casts—cats, smiley faces, and once, a poorly done caricature of Megumi’s mom.

The nickname “cookie” wasn’t something Haibara came up with randomly. It started during one of those rare moments when he wasn’t drowning in pain or confusion. You’d snuck into his room with Megumi, carrying a tray of burnt cookies you’d tried baking for the first time. Megumi had grumbled the whole way, muttering about how pointless it was since Haibara probably wouldn’t even eat them.

But Haibara did eat them, wincing at every bite yet finishing the entire tray without complaint. “Best cookies I’ve ever had,” he’d said with a small smile that oddly reminded you of Nanami now—even though his voice was strained, and you could tell he was lying. From then on, he called you “cookie” whenever you brought him food or cheered him up during rehab.

Soon enough, he started to mess with you two. Being around Nanami’s age, he was a few years older than you, while Megumi was the baby of the group. Before long, the three of you were like the court jesters to the three musketeers—well, except for Megumi, who was more like the reluctant royal guard you dragged along everywhere.

Before you knew it, he was scouted for MI6. Little did they realize, he had simply wanted to be a spy all along and had cleverly maneuvered his way into that position.

But things weren’t always lighthearted. Haibara’s transition to MI6 came out of the blue, and you and Megumi went from teasing him daily to watching him pack his life into a suitcase. The night before he left, the three of you sat on the roof of Megumi’s family home, sharing cookies and gazing at the stars. Haibara promised he’d come back, and while you believed him, it didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

After he left, you and Megumi were heartbroken when his communication was cut off during his training. It felt like a bad joke when you realized Megumi, despite his stoicism, had been sneaking messages into Haibara’s mailbox for months just to feel connected. You always wondered what he wrote in those letters.

Soon, Megumi grew quieter, becoming more focused on his work. You threw yourself into your own company, but there was always an unspoken understanding between you and Megumi that something essential was missing.

When Haibara finally returned, he was sharp-eyed, confident, and carrying the kind of secrets that could get anyone killed. Sure, he was a different man, but still the same guy who’d steal your food and roll his eyes at Megumi’s overprotective nature. You had thought the reunion would be awkward at first, filled with sarcastic remarks and side-eyes, but in reality, it didn’t take long for the three of you to fall back into your old rhythm.

“Cookie,” Haibara said again, glancing back at you with a grin. “Don’t fall asleep back there. I need someone to back me up when Megumi starts lecturing me about fuel costs.”

Megumi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t lecture. I state facts.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Haibara teased. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, baby sorcerer.”

You couldn’t help but laugh.

Megumi muttered something under his breath, probably a prayer for patience. His gaze lingered on your swollen belly for a moment, his frown softening just enough for only Haibara to notice.

“We should’ve left earlier,” he said quietly, avoiding your eyes.

“And missed this grand display of alpha male energy?” you teased, though your voice wavered slightly. “Not a chance.”

Haibara chuckled, the sound low and rich. “She’s got a point, Fushiguro. Lighten up. We’re just taking her back to her little HQ, not a war zone.”

Megumi’s glare could’ve frozen lava, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest.

As the city shrank beneath you, Haibara kept up a steady stream of casual chatter, pointing out landmarks and cracking jokes that had you laughing despite yourself. Megumi stayed mostly silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon, though his occasional sharp remarks reminded you he was still paying attention.

“Hey,” Haibara called back, his tone suddenly softer. “You doing okay back there?”

You glanced at him, surprised by the genuine concern in his voice.

“Yeah,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’m okay.”

Now, in the helicopter, you couldn’t help but think of how far you’d all come. Haibara was effortlessly piloting, like he wasn’t the same guy who used to complain about your burnt food. Megumi, even in his tailored suit, still had that same frown he wore when you’d dragged him into one of your schemes as kids.

“Do you ever think about the old days?” You asked, leaning back in your seat.

“Only when I want to feel old,” Haibara replied, his grin widening. “But yeah, sometimes. Like when Fushiguro kept tripping over himself during Hanetsuki.”

“I never tripped,” Megumi snapped, though the faint blush on his ears betrayed him.

“And you?” Haibara glanced at you in the rearview mirror.

“All the time,” you admitted softly, your gaze shifting to the city below. “We were a bane for Megumi’s mom.”

Haibara’s smirk faded slightly, replaced by something gentler. “Still are cookie. Just in a different way.”

Megumi didn’t say anything, but the way he reached out to adjust your seatbelt, his touch careful and deliberate, said enough.

Even now, with everything that had changed, the core of your little group remained the same. A chaotic mix of loyalty, sarcasm, and love that didn’t need words to be understood.

---

The Great Haibara Conspiracy

It was a crisp eleven a.m., the kind of Tokyo morning that looked like a postcard, and Haibara was living his best life while doing what he did best: causing problems with unflappable confidence.

Clad in a jacket, half-unbuttoned shirt—highly inappropriate for work—and Givenchy trousers. He'd accessorized the ensemble with the pièce de résistance: a thin, twirlable fake moustache. For reasons known only to him, he stood outside your building swarming with reporters, clutching a stack of questionably sourced documents in one hand and a baguette in the other.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Haibara announced, flipping his jacket collar up as if he were revealing the plot twist of the century. His fake moustache wobbled dangerously, but he didn’t seem to notice. “I have uncovered the truth. And it’s not what you think.”

The reporters collectively leaned in, pens poised, like they were about to witness history—or a train wreck.

“First off,” Haibara began, slapping a tinfoil-covered clipboard, “Fushiguro Megumi is not human. He’s an alien.”

“Do you have evidence?” a brave soul asked.

“Do I have evidence?” Haibara echoed, scoffing like the question was beneath him. “Do you have evidence that he isn’t?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Exhibit A: He communicates with his dogs through telepathy. Normal humans? We have to yell, ‘Sit!’ five times before they even think about it. Megumi? One glare and his guard dogs are out here doing synchronized stealth assassinations. That’s not training—it’s alien mind control.”

The reporters murmured, equal parts confused and intrigued.

“Exhibit B!” Haibara shouted, pulling out a crumpled receipt from a convenience store. “I caught him buying three cans of tuna and nothing else. Tuna! What kind of human subsists solely on canned fish? That’s astronaut food, people. Connect the dots.”

He slapped the stack of documents for emphasis, sending a few papers fluttering to the ground. “Exhibit C: He’s a loner. Socially allergic. Most humans crave interaction, but Megumi acts like smiling in public is a punishable offence. Textbook alien behaviour.

Exhibit D: He doesn’t use his phone like a normal person. While the rest of us are doom-scrolling at 2 a.m., he’s probably communicating with the mothership via telepathy or something.

Exhibit E: His hobbies are too niche. Who spends their free time researching ancient texts about interdimensional travel? I’ll tell you who—aliens trying to get back home.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, and Haibara smirked, twirling his baguette like a mic drop.

“Exhibit F: His emotional responses are completely out of whack. Laughs at a life-or-death situation but overreacts when you don’t text back quickly enough? That’s not a human. That’s a poorly mimicking lizardman.”

“What about Gojo?” another reporter interjected.

Haibara froze, his eyes narrowing. Slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a laser pointer, aiming it at a hastily drawn diagram of a stick figure wearing sunglasses. “I was getting to him,” he hissed.

The reporters perked up.

He took a deep breath—the kind you take—before delivering devastating news. “Gojo Satoru isn’t real. He’s an NPC.”

The crowd collectively gasped.

Haibara straightened his moustache with the gravitas of someone delivering breaking news. “He’s too perfect. His hair? Flawless. His sunglass collection? Always on point. His vibes? Unbeatable. No human has vibes that good. He’s a program.

Exhibit A: He grins and stands still in crowds, staring into the void like he’s waiting for a quest to start.

Exhibit B: He knows everything. Like he’s reading from a cheat sheet.

And Exhibit C: His uncanny ability to dodge responsibility is like a bullet in The Matrix.

Exhibit D: His total lack of emotional depth—have you ever seen that man cry? No, because NPCs don’t have emotions.

And Exhibit E: The memes. He responded to a national crisis with a meme. Who does that? I’ll tell you who—someone who’s coded to be entertaining, not real.”

The crowd of reporters was now equal parts sceptical and furiously scribbling in their notebooks.

“Mark my words,” Haibara said, raising the baguette high like a sword of truth. “This is the story of the century. Aliens. NPCs. A secret conspiracy to infiltrate humanity. And I’ve got the receipts.”

Haibara leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He doesn’t blink.”

The space went silent.

“That’s right,” Haibara said, triumphantly twirling his fake moustache. “I’ve been watching. He doesn’t blink because he’s coded to save CPU power. Wake up, sheeple!”

“But he’s a corporate hero going against the system,” someone protested.

“And so was Clippy from Microsoft Word,” Haibara snapped. “Doesn’t mean he was real!”

He stepped back, holding up his clipboard like it was the Ark of the Covenant. “Aliens. NPCs. It’s all connected. The conspiracy runs deep, and I am the only one brave enough to expose it.”

With that, he turned and strutted away, his fake moustache dangling precariously, leaving behind a bunch of reporters who exchanged bewildered glances, some already drafting headlines, others wondering if they’d just been part of a fever dream.

Later that afternoon, Haibara lounged in a corner booth at a minimalist café, his laptop open and his moustache and sunglasses perched unnecessarily on his face. He looked like a hacker in a spy thriller—or someone pretending to be one for aesthetic purposes.

The screen reflected a cascade of code, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a precision that was equal parts skill and audacity.

“Perfect,” he muttered, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk that would make even Gojo’s grin look modest.

Hacking into Gojo’s phone was almost insultingly easy. The man could dodge attacks at the speed of light but fell for a phishing link offering a free pastry in under three seconds. Haibara almost felt bad about how predictable it was.

Almost.

Within moments, Gojo’s phone was compromised. His contact list now read like a dystopian NPC roster: Nanami had become “Budget Stranger #47,” Dr. Shoko—whoever she was—was now “Generic Medic Character,” and your name had been replaced with “Main Quest Giver.”

The icing on top? Every incoming call triggered a robotic voice saying, “Loading... Please wait for the script to initiate.”

Pleased with his handiwork, Haibara closed his laptop and took a sip of his overpriced matcha latte, as if he hadn’t just committed cybercrime against the most powerful sorcerer in existence. He then got up, picked up some pastries for you and Megumi, and headed out.

By late afternoon, Haibara was at your office building, slipping through the glass doors with the confidence of a man who had never once been questioned in his life.

A few well-placed whispers and an overheard “accidental” phone call were all it took to set the stage for his next move.

“Did you hear?” he said, leaning conspiratorially toward the receptionist, his voice just loud enough to carry. “She’s dating Alexandr Wang—you know, the billionaire? Youngest self-made only after her, of course. They’ve been secretly meeting in Osaka.”

The receptionist froze, his eyes wide as saucers. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious,” Haibara replied, his expression grave despite the sparkle of mischief in his eyes. “I overheard her talking about their next meeting. Match made in heaven, don’t you think?”

Within minutes, the office was buzzing. Whispers travelled faster than cursed energy, and by the time you arrived for your meeting, the air was viscous with speculation. People kept whispering about your “secret romance” instead of anything work-related.

That evening, Haibara reappeared outside your building—where the reporters camped 24*7 now—his moustache shadow stretching under the glow of a street lamp. He paced back and forth, the energy of a Shakespearean villain radiating from his every movement.

“I challenge you to a duel!” he bellowed, pointing a baguette at the confused group of journalists loitering near the entrance.

One of them stepped forward, visibly done with his nonsense. “What are you even talking about?”

“At sunrise!” Haibara declared, ignoring the question entirely. “Meet me at the park. Bring your sharpest lens and your strongest pens. Only the worthy will leave unscathed.”

The reporters exchanged long, exhausted glances. One of them muttered, “I need a drink,” while another took out their phone, already Googling job openings in less chaotic industries.

Haibara, undeterred, twirled the baguette like a sword and turned on his heel, disappearing into the night with the histrionic flair of a man who believed he was the protagonist in every story.

The reporters watched him go, the silence broken only by the faint sound of someone asking, “Was that guy real, or did we collectively hallucinate him?”

After Haibara turned the corner, safely out of sight from the reporters, Megumi grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking a pleasant evening stroll,” Haibara replied, nonchalantly biting into his baguette.

Megumi’s glare hardened. “You know I hate media attention. Why the hell would you start spouting conspiracies about me?”

“Relax,” Haibara said, waving a hand dismissively as crumbs tumbled from his mouth. “I made it so outlandish that no self-respecting journalist would touch it if they valued their credibility.”

“You called me a lizardman!” Megumi’s anger flared.

Haibara grinned like an unrepentant idiot. “Hehe, my bad.” Then his gaze shifted past Megumi, and his expression brightened. "Oh, hey, what are you doing out of your office?”

Megumi instinctively turned to look, finding nothing but empty space.

When he spun back, Haibara was gone.

He stomped away, muttering angrily to himself. “Lizardman… Unbelievable. I should’ve let the reporters eat him alive. So much money wasted to shush the cretins.”

Haibara did not show up for the duel—not out of fear, but because his snores were louder than his alarm. Not that it mattered much; the reporters didn’t show up either.

Soon after, Haibara was perched on a park bench, tossing pieces of what appeared to be homemade food to a group of pigeons. His fake moustache was now slightly peeling at one edge, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Eat up, my feathered brethren,” he said softly, scattering crumbs of Nanami’s homemade food with the flourish of a 19th-century gentleman hosting a soirée. “Tonight, we plot the downfall of our enemies. For the empire, of course.”

The pigeons cooed, pecking at the ground like they understood.

From the rooftop across the street, Gojo adjusted his binoculars unnecessarily, squinting as if the distance somehow distorted the insanity he was witnessing. Not sure why the beholder of the ‘six eyes’ was using binoculars.

“Kento,” Gojo said slowly, “I think we’ve lost him.”

Nanami, still staring through his own binoculars, didn’t reply immediately. His jaw was tight, and his left hand gripped the railing like it was the only thing keeping him from jumping down and strangling Haibara.

“Is he... talking to the pigeons?” Gojo continued, voice a mix of disbelief and morbid fascination.

“Yes,” Nanami replied, tone flat. “And he’s feeding them the food we made for her.”

Gojo lowered the binoculars. “Why are we even using these? We’re right across the street!”

Nanami sighed heavily, lowering his own. “I honestly don’t know.”

The two men descended from their rooftop perch, striding toward Haibara with the determination of men on a mission. Haibara, for his part, continued tossing crumbs to the pigeons, who now seemed oddly attentive.

“My friends,” he said, addressing the birds in a tone dripping with theatrical flair, “these uncultured brutes approach us with their barbaric accusations. But fear not—I shall defend our honour.”

Gojo stopped in his tracks, staring at Haibara like he’d grown a second head. “Did he just call us uncultured brutes?”

“Haibara!” Nanami yelled at him, his voice cold enough to freeze the pigeons mid-coo, “What are you doing?”

Haibara looked up, tilting his head in feigned confusion. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. Do I... know you?”

Gojo’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?!”

“Quite,” Haibara replied, his expression deadpan. He turned to the pigeons, gesturing toward Gojo and Nanami like a Victorian man introducing guests at a ball. “Allow me to present... these strangers. Who are not invited to our gathering.”

“You saw us yesterday!” Gojo wailed.

Haibara twirled his fake moustache between his fingers, smirking. “Must’ve been my evil twin. Or mayhaps... a Mole person?”

“Haibara,” Nanami said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache, “you’re wearing a fake moustache.”

Haibara gasped, clutching his chest as if Nanami had just insulted his entire lineage. “How dare you! You knaves and Nincompoops wouldn’t know a statement of style and sophistication if it smacked you with a whip!!”

Gojo chimed in, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Where’d you get the ‘stash? Do they sell them in white?”

Nanami smacked the back of his half-wit husband’s head. “Focus!”

Startled, Gojo let out an accidental mewling sound that could only be described as a cat in distress. Nanami's eyes widened in horror.

Haibara couldn’t resist mocking him. “Pray tell, are you about to embark on a whimsical chase after yon magical red dots, like a jester pursuing a wayward firefly?”

Shaking off the distraction, Nanami’s gaze returned to the pigeons pecking at the food scattered on the ground. His eyebrow twitched in incredulity. “You were feeding pigeons the food we made for her?! The food she didn’t even get to eat?!”

Haibara was offended. “Lies and slander! My feathered companions can vouch for me. Isn’t that right, Lord Fluffington?”

A particularly fat pigeon pecked at a crumb near Haibara’s shoe.

“Lord Fluffington?” Gojo echoed, his voice cracking. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

Haibara ignored him, leaning down to address the pigeon directly. “Do not listen to these villains, my Lord. They wish to divide us. But our bond—our bond is unbreakable.”

Gojo groaned, pulling out his phone. “That’s it. I’m calling her. You’re done.”

Haibara’s grin widened. “Oh, don’t bother. I already replaced your contacts with NPC names.”

Gojo froze mid-dial, his eyes narrowing. “You did what?”

Haibara stood abruptly, brushing off his pants with a flourish. “Gentlemen, I bid you good day. I must away—Lord Fluffington and I have matters to discuss.”

“Sit down,” Nanami growled, stepping forward.

But when they looked down at Gojo’s phone and then back up, Haibara was gone.

Gojo and Nanami stood in stunned silence, scanning the park for any sign of their wayward companion.

“Did he just...?" Gojo started, gesturing vaguely at the empty bench.

“Yes,” Nanami said, his voice heavy with resignation. “He did.”

On a nearby rooftop, Megumi stood, watching the entire spectacle unfold through binoculars of his own. He sighed, muttering to himself, “This overgrown fool.”

Meanwhile, Haibara crouched behind a hedge, his fake moustache now in his pocket. He glanced at the pigeons that had followed him, nodding solemnly.

“Well done, my friends,” he said. “The mission was a success.”

The pigeons cooed in agreement.

“Now,” Haibara continued, pulling out his phone and typing furiously, “let’s see how they like finding rumours about me being her secret boyfriend on the office bulletin board.”

---

Sometime later, on the other side of town, the room buzzed with anticipation as reporters adjusted their microphones, cameras clicked incessantly, and the collective hum of whispered speculation filled the air. At the centre of it all stood Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento, flanked by their begrudging legal counsel, Higuruma Hiromi, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Gojo adjusted his sunglasses, his signature smirk notably absent. Nanami’s tie was slightly askew—a rare sign of unease. Higuruma stepped to the mic first, clearing his throat.

“This press conference is to address recent events and provide clarity. Please keep your questions professional,” he said, his tone clipped, though he seemed to know that was a futile request.

Nanami stepped forward, his voice steady but heavy. “We deeply regret the events that transpired. Our actions were reckless and caused harm to innocent people. For that, we are truly sorry.”

Gojo leaned in, his voice softer than expected. “We messed up. No excuses. We’re here to take responsibility and make things right.”

The reporters pounced, and the room erupted into a flurry of questions.

“We will address your questions, but keep them relevant and within legal bounds,” Higuruma added sharply, already preparing for the mess. “Anything outside these parameters will not be entertained.”

A reporter wasted no time. “Why did you storm the headquarters? Was it premeditated, or a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

Before either man could answer, Higuruma cut in, his voice icy. “No comment. Addressing this could complicate ongoing legal proceedings.”

“Were your movements during the incident influenced by your involvement with organized crime? Some have compared them to Yakuza or even terrorist operations.”

Higuruma visibly pinched the bridge of his nose, ready to intervene again, but Nanami cut in. “We are neither. Our actions were not criminally motivated, and any insinuation otherwise is baseless.”

“What about the school you’re affiliated with? Jujutsu Tech is shrouded in mystery. Some are speculating it’s a cult. Care to comment?”

Gojo’s grin widened. “A cult? I mean, we’re cool enough to be one. But no, we’re just a very exclusive, very niche educational institution. Sorry, no brochures.”

Nanami added dryly, “We don’t recruit. We save lives.”

Someone from the back yelled, voice muffled. “Mr. Nanami, why do you always wear the same tie? Are you a lazily-drawn Squidward?”

Nanami’s tone was as dry as ever. “It’s called consistency. You should try it.”

“Mr. Gojo! Mr. Nanami! How does your wife feel about your actions?”

“Will she divorce you?”

“Are the rumours true that she’s the one pulling the strings behind your release?”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “Our wife has no involvement in legal proceedings regarding us. Any insinuation otherwise is baseless.”

A reporter shouted over the others, “Is it true she’s pregnant? How does she feel about raising children with men who stormed her own corporate building?”

Gojo’s smile turned razor-sharp. “I think you should consider what it says about you that you’re asking invasive questions about a pregnant woman’s private life. Next.”

From the back, a muffled voice piped up, “Is your hair real, Mr. Gojo? Or do you bleach it so much because you’re going bald?”

The room burst with stifled laughter. Nanami’s brow twitched, but Gojo’s grin didn’t falter.

“Real hair, real charm, real skills,” Gojo quipped. “And no, not bald. I’ll give you a follicle count if it helps you sleep at night.”

Another question cut through the chaos. “Many are calling you both dangerous and unfit as husbands and fathers. What’s your response?”

Nanami’s expression hardened. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion. But baseless accusations and vile harassment against our wife will not be tolerated. We are pursuing legal action against anyone spreading misinformation or threats.”

Gojo chimed in, his tone laced with menace. “Keep it up, and you’ll hear from our lawyers.” He added to himself, “—or worse.”

The tension shifted as some reporters openly fawned over the two men.

“Mr. Gojo, Mr. Nanami, how does it feel knowing you’ve become global heartthrobs? Many are calling you the most attractive men alive!”

“So are serial killers.” Nanami deadpanned.

Gojo’s grin returned, cocky and unapologetic. “Flattered, honestly. But, uh, taken. Very taken.”

Nanami sighed, adjusting his mic. “Next question.”

The room descended into bedlam again as a voice rose above the din. “What about the rumours of your wife’s affair with Yu Haibara, the ex-MI6 agent? They’ve been spotted together frequently.”

Silence fell. Gojo and Nanami exchanged a quick glance, their surprise poorly concealed. Hiromi smirked behind the bottle of water he was drinking from.

Nanami was the first to speak, his voice calm but firm. “Haibara is a trusted friend and our wife’s bodyguard. Any insinuation beyond that is baseless and disrespectful.”

Gojo followed up, his tone lighter but no less cutting. “If you think a guy who calls her ‘boss’ is her secret lover, you’ve been reading too much fanfiction.”

Laughter filled the room, yet the tension remained palpable.

The mood shifted when a reporter’s voice rose, trembling with outrage. “What about the threats against your wife? The internet trolls commenting about raping her, calling her a sex addict for being married to two men, and those posting pornography of her? Are those real? What’s your response?”

The room fell silent. Nanami’s jaw clenched. Gojo’s smirk vanished, replaced by a chilling calm.

“No, they are not! And to the trolls hiding behind screens,” Gojo began, his voice dangerously soft, “if you think we’ll sit back while you spew your filth, you’re sorely mistaken. We’re tracking every one of you. Every threat, every disgusting comment, every vile video. You’ll hear from our lawyers soon.”

Nanami’s voice was a low growl. “And if you think that’s the worst you’ll face, you’re even more foolish than I thought. Leave her out of this.”

Another reporter hesitated before asking, “What about those saying to burn her and your children alive?”

Higuruma stepped forward, his expression icy. “Any threats against their wife and children will be met with the full extent of the law. Consider this your only warning.”

Gojo leaned into the mic, his grin returning but lacking warmth. “You think you’re untouchable because you’re anonymous? Funny. You have no idea what untouchable really looks like.”

Nanami’s tone was final. “If you value your lives, stop. Now.”

From the back, the same muffled voice chimed in, again. “Are you compensating for something with all these threats?”

Nanami squinted to look through the flashing lights at the reporter who had the audacity.

Higuruma sighed audibly. “Who let them in?”

“What do you say to those who still think you’re unfit to be with her?”

Gojo’s grin was wide and dangerous. “Good thing, it’s not your job to decide.”

Nanami’s words were cold, final. “We protect what matters. That’s all you need to know.”

One asked Higuruma how he felt about his sudden “thirst-trap status” online. Another demanded Nanami share his skincare routine.

Higuruma’s eye twitched, and he stepped forward, effectively ending the conference. “That’s all for today. Any further inquiries can be directed to our legal team.”

As the trio exited, Gojo’s parting words rang out, laced with menace. “Remember, we’re always watching.”

Nanami’s gaze swept over the room, cold and calculating. “Make better choices.”

With that, they left, leaving behind a room full of reporters scrambling to dissect every word and a world more divided than ever. As they walked away, Haibara strolled back to your office in a trench coat, the source of all those ridiculous questions now clear. Yes, all the stupid inquiries directed at the husbands’ insecurities had come from him.

---

“Are you going to divorce us for Haibara?” After work, came an absurd email to your work ID from the Dumb and Dumber Association.

This time, you replied, “I’m not a cheater like you." And blocked them there too.

The automatic doors to the in-HQ supermarket slid open with a cheerful chime. You walked in flanked by your two overly dramatic bodyguards—Megumi, looking like a disgruntled celebrity in his baseball cap and sunglasses, and Haibara, who had pulled his hoodie so low he looked like a Sith Lord shopping for Death Star snacks.

You adjusted your own cap and mask, trying to channel “incognito trillionaire” vibes. Not that it helped. Everyone in this building already knew who you were.

This wasn’t your usual scene. Trillionaire CEOs didn’t typically go grocery shopping. But after this morning’s helicopter fuel argument—where you’d learned that jet-grade kerosene was somehow not a justifyable expense for a snack run—you needed to stretch your legs. And, frankly, the craving for chocolate-dipped pretzels was not something you could ignore.

The brightly lit aisles stretched before you like a sugar-coated playground. Your eyes lit up the moment you spotted the snack aisle.

“Oh my god, look!” you whispered excitedly, clutching Haibara’s arm like you’d just found buried treasure. You pointed at a shelf stacked with chocolate-dipped pretzels. “They’re calling to me.”

Haibara, the chaos enabler, grabbed three bags without hesitation and dumped them into the cart. “We’ll take them all, just in case.”

Megumi, the self-designated killjoy, intercepted like a referee. “Absolutely not.” He plucked one bag out of the cart, flipping it over to scrutinize the label like it contained state secrets. “Artificial colouring, processed sugar, and—wait—is this aspartame? Are you trying to poison her?”

“It’s chocolate, not crystal meth,” Haibara replied, deadpan. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Megumi snapped, tossing the bag back onto the shelf with enough force to make it bounce. “But if she eats this and it harms the babies, you will be held responsible.”

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the pretzels again. “Megumi, it’s one bag. I’m not eating an entire factory.”

“Not on my watch,” he muttered, grabbing the cart and steering it toward the produce section like an overzealous soccer mom.

“Traitor!” you called after him, snatching a smaller basket and turning to Haibara, who was already eyeing the next aisle like you and him shared the same brain cell.

“Alright,” Haibara said, his grin audible despite the hood. “What’s next?”

You scanned the shelves, your eyes landing on a box of brightly coloured fruit chews. “These.”

“Excellent choice,” Haibara declared, tossing two boxes into your basket without hesitation.

Megumi appeared from nowhere, like the ghost of responsible decisions. He plucked the boxes back out with a sigh so heavy it could’ve powered the entire building. “You’re both children. Do you even read the labels?”

“They’re fruit chews, not nuclear waste,” Haibara shot back, grabbing the boxes again and chucking them into your basket with an air of defiance.

“Haibara, if you keep enabling her, I will ban you from this grocery trip,” Megumi warned, his tone colder than a Siberian winter.

“You can try,” Haibara said smugly, tossing a bag of caramel popcorn into the basket for good measure. “But unlike you, I’m an actual employee in this HQ. You? You’re just an honorary guest with no snack-related jurisdiction.”

Megumi groaned, rubbing his temples like a man on the brink of a breakdown. “Why am I even here?”

“To make sure I don’t die from eating a candy bar,” you deadpanned, grabbing a box of frosted cookies from a nearby shelf and tossing it into the basket.

“Put that back,” Megumi said immediately.

“No,” you replied, already scanning the shelves for your next target.

“Put it back,” he repeated, his voice teetering on the edge of despair.

“Make me,” you shot back, grinning under your mask.

Haibara leaned casually against the cart, arms crossed, watching the two of you like it was the best show he’d seen all week. “This is better than TV,” he said, grabbing a bag of sour gummies just to see what Megumi would do.

Megumi stared at him, visibly debating whether it was worth it to keep arguing or just let the bedlam unfold. Ultimately, he chose the latter, as he trailed behind you and Haibara, who were now gleefully raiding the snack aisle like it was Black Friday.

Somewhere, a cashier sighed.

Five minutes later in the dairy section. “Can I have this?” you asked, holding up a tub of cookie dough ice cream.

“No,” Megumi said.

“Yes,” Haibara countered, grabbing the tub and dropping it into the cart.

“Do you know how much saturated fat is in this?” Megumi groaned again, pulling the tub back out and glaring at the ingredients.

“Do you know how much serotonin is in it?” You shot back, snatching the tub and cradling it protectively.

Megumi sighed deeply, muttering something about “ungrateful trillionaires” and “irresponsible enablers” as he stalked off toward the bakery section.

By the time you reached the checkout, your cart was a cluttered mix of fruit, veggies, and an absurd amount of snacks. Megumi was furiously double-checking every item, arguing with the cashier over the preservatives in the granola bars.

“These are organic,” the cashier said patiently.

“They’re fake organic,” Megumi replied, narrowing his eyes at the label.

“Sir, that’s not a thing,” the cashier deadpanned.

Meanwhile, Haibara was busy adding a family-size pack of lollipops to the conveyor belt. “This is for stress. Specifically, mine,” he declared, as if he were stocking up for an impending candy apocalypse.

You leaned against the cart, nibbling on an open bag of trail mix. “Are we done yet?”

Megumi turned to you, exasperated. “Not until I’m sure you’re not eating something that’ll turn your children into glowing aliens.”

“Honestly, glowing aliens sound cooler than those two’s bloodline,” Haibara quipped, earning a glare from Megumi that could have melted steel.

“Are we done yet?” You asked again, already eyeing Haibara’s lollipops.

“No! I will put my foot down here! Get your own!” Haibara looked ready to sprint away with the carton, clutching it like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

“Are we done yet?” You asked Megumi again, your patience wearing thinner than the bag of chips Haibara was eyeing.

“Let me pay,” Megumi sighed, resigned to his fate.

“Oh, it’s within Madam’s monthly credit. So it’s on the house,” the cashier chimed in, clearly amused.

“That much?” Megumi asked, his confusion evident as he stared at the total and the pickup truck-worthy amount of food you’d bought, like a math problem he couldn’t solve.

“Yes, the grocery or snack amount for employees is quite generous here,” the cashier explained, trying to keep a straight face.

“Are we done yet?” You asked yet again.

Megumi was officially done with you.

By the time you left the store, your arms were loaded with snacks, Megumi looked ready to collapse under the weight of your choices, and Haibara was already tearing into a bag of chips like he was preparing for a competitive eating contest.

---

The night was your accomplice, and Tokyo was your playground. Mask? Check. Scarf? Check. Cap? Angled so perfectly you could pass as an undercover K-drama celeb—or at least someone who really didn’t want to run into their ex. The streets hummed with the quiet energy of late-night Tokyo, neon lights casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the wet pavement. For once, you were gloriously, blissfully alone. No Megumi’s guards lurking in the shadows, no overly attentive husbands tracking your every move, and not even the pigeons—Haibara had probably trained to keep an eye on you, presumably on union-mandated breaks.

Your disguise was impeccable. Unassailable. The kind of look that screamed, I am absolutely not suspicious, but also, please don’t notice me, Senpei. You strode with the confidence of a Fortune 500 CEO and the finesse of someone who had absolutely Googled "how to sneak out without looking like you’re sneaking out." Tonight, you weren’t the trillionaire tech mogul, the powerhouse boss, or the supernatural anomaly. Tonight, you were a woman on a singular, sacred mission: KitKats.

The convenience store loomed ahead, glowing like the gates of paradise. Its fluorescent lights bathed the sidewalk in an otherworldly hue, promising flavours you didn’t need but unequivocally deserved. As you crossed the threshold, the automatic doors whooshed open.

The sweet, cloying aroma of sugar hit you like a warm hug. Shelves upon shelves of KitKat stretched out before you in a glorious display of indulgence. Matcha. Yuzu. Sweet potato. Melon. Cheesecake. Even wasabi. Wasabi?! You paused, eyeing the green and white package. Who buys these? Psychopaths, probably. Naturally, you grabbed a box—strictly for research purposes.

“Alright, twins,” you whispered conspiratorially, your hand brushing over your bump. “What are we thinking?”

A soft, decisive kick answered, guiding your gaze to a box of roasted chestnut-flavored KitKats. “Excellent choice,” you murmured, tossing it into your basket.

The strawberry milk Kitkats caught your eye next. “I know, I know,” you said, feeling another gentle nudge. “You’re just like your dad. Sweet tooth for days.”

You wandered deeper, basket filled quickly—Peach parfait? A must. Deep Matcha? Classic. Cookies and cream? Iconic. The Sakura Sake-flavored ones? Let’s be honest, the twins didn’t need to know everything. “Don’t worry,” you assured your unborn audience. “We’ll pace ourselves. Moderation is key.” A nudge from your left side suggested they didn’t believe you.

By the time you reached the counter, your basket looked like the aftermath of a chocoholic apocalypse. The cashier, a sleepy-eyed teenager with purple-streaked hair, scanned your items with the kind of speed that said they were mentally counting down the minutes to their break.

“That’s a lot of KitKats,” they said, raising an eyebrow.

You tilted your head, considering your response. “Fuel for world domination,” you said finally, handing over the cash with an air of practiced nonchalance.

The cashier paused, blinked, and then wisely decided not to engage further.

Bag in hand, you stepped back into the cool night air, your spoils swinging triumphantly at your side. The city had quieted, its hum softened to a gentle murmur of distant cars and occasional footsteps. For the first time in weeks, you felt almost... normal. Just a person in the stillness of Tokyo, chatting with their unborn kids about the finer points of yuzu-flavored chocolate.

As you walked, a thought struck you. You glanced down at your bag and sighed. “We forgot the white chocolate ones,” you muttered. Another nudge, sharper this time. “Fine, fine,” you relented, turning back toward the store. “But this is the last stop. Seriously.”

Once you got them, you wasted no time tearing one open. The wrapper crinkled loudly as you shoved the bar into your mouth, savoring the sweet relief.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” You murmured, patting your growing belly. “Just us. No guards. No drama. No—”

A soft, plaintive cry interrupted your monologue.

You froze, ears straining to locate the source. The sound came again, faint and wavering, from the shadowy alley to your left. Your eyes narrowed as you peered into the darkness, the dim streetlights doing little to illuminate the narrow passage.

“Hello?” You called softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

The cry repeated, a high-pitched whimper that tugged at your heartstrings. Against your better judgment—because let’s face it, this could very well be how horror movies started—you edged closer. Your hand instinctively rested on your bump as you moved, a silent reassurance to your unborn twins that you had this under control. Probably.

As you neared the source of the sound, your gaze landed on a small, trembling shape. A baby raccoon, its fur matted and dull, was hunched over with a plastic bag twisted tightly around its neck. The poor thing was struggling to breathe, its tiny chest heaving with effort.

“Oh no,” you breathed, your heart clenching.

You knelt as best you could, which was no small feat given that you were nearly six months pregnant with twins. The maneuver was awkward, and your knees protested loudly, but you managed to get low enough to see the little creature more clearly. The raccoon hissed weakly as you reached out, its small body trembling with fear.

“It’s okay, little baby,” you cooed, lowering your mask and smiling softly to show you meant no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you. Where’s your mom?”

The raccoon’s dark, glassy eyes stared back at you, unblinking and filled with an innocence that broke your heart. As you scanned the area, your stomach sank when your eyes landed on a larger shape nearby. The raccoon’s mother lay lifeless a few feet away, her body curled against the cold, unmoving. She hadn’t made it through the night.

The baby whimpered again, unmoving but clearly struggling. Every instinct screamed at you to help, despite the little voice in your head reminding you that interacting with wild animals wasn’t exactly advised. But you couldn’t leave it here. It wouldn’t survive the night alone, and calling an NGO would take too long.

“It’s okay,” you murmured again, keeping your voice soft and steady. You reached into your bag and pulled out the least harmful KitKat flavor you could find—probably the roasted hazelnut one. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Tearing off the wrapper and breaking off a piece, you held it out to the baby, keeping your movements slow and careful.

The raccoon sniffed the air hesitantly, its tiny nose twitching. After what felt like an eternity, it inched closer, snatching the chocolate from your hand and nibbling cautiously. You took the opportunity to edge closer, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for the plastic bag around its neck.

At home, Gojo was sprawled on the couch, eyes more like six were trained on your location via his limitless technique. He grinned to himself, watching your progress with unrestrained amusement.

“Stop doing that,” Nanami snapped, his tone clipped. “You look creepy.”

“She’s saving an animal,” Gojo replied, conveniently omitting the part where said animal was a raccoon. Nanami didn’t need that stress tonight—he’d probably hyperventilate and insist on dragging Gojo to retrieve you, which would only result in you getting pissed off again.

“Come eat dinner,” Nanami said after a long sigh, giving Gojo a pointed look. Reluctantly, Gojo let his technique fade and followed him to the table, his stomach reminding him he hadn’t eaten in hours.

Back in the alley, you finally managed to untangle the plastic bag from the baby raccoon’s neck. It stared at you for a moment before surprising you by burrowing into your hand, seeking warmth. Your heart melted on the spot.

“It’s okay, little one,” you whispered, gently scooping it up and tucking it into your inner coat pocket. The raccoon relaxed against you, its tiny body curling into the soft fabric. You stroked its head lightly, murmuring reassurances as you stood—slowly, carefully, because crouching was one thing, but getting up while pregnant with twins was another battle entirely.

Before leaving, you glanced at the raccoon’s mother. A lump formed in your throat as you absently ran a hand over your belly. Pulling out your phone, you quickly texted the local authorities, requesting a burial and, if permitted, some flowers. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the right thing to do.

As you stepped out of the alley, the city lights seemed a little brighter, the night air a little less cold. The baby raccoon purred against your heart, letting out a soft sound of contentment.

“How are you this friendly?” You wondered aloud, smiling down at the little creature. It didn’t answer, of course, but its trust felt like a small miracle in itself.

Then it started subtly—a few glances, hushed murmurs. You didn’t think much of it at first. After all, you were well disguised. But as you quickened your pace, the whispers followed, multiplying, growing sharper.

Behind you, hurried footsteps echoed. A man’s voice broke through the growing din:

“Is that her?!”

Your heart plunged, freezing your steps.

Before you could process what was happening, a hand yanked at your scarf, pulling it loose. Panic surged through you as the cold air hit your exposed face like a slap. Your mask—you’d forgotten to put it back on after dealing with the raccoon.

“Oh my god, it’s her!”

Then came the noise. Shouting. Jeering. The kind of unfiltered rage that burrowed deep into your bones.

You stumbled backwards, instinctively clutching the squirming raccoon baby inside and your own belly. The twins inside you kicked like they used to before, mirroring your panic as if they, too, wanted to escape.

A crowd was forming. Phones appeared like weapons, their flashes blinding you. The whispers turned to accusations.

“Hey, isn’t she the one whoring for those terrorists?”

“What’s she doing out here? Slumming it with us peasants?”

“She’s buying KitKats? Seriously?”

Your breath came in shallow bursts. You tried to pull your scarf back up, trembling fingers betraying you. The voices sharpened, venom dripping from every word.

“She thinks she’s untouchable.”

“Bet her coward husbands send her out for this crap.”

“She’s carrying their freak kids! Like we need more of them in the world.”

The words struck like stones. Your legs felt like lead, every step an agonizing effort.

“Maybe she needs to learn her place,” someone snarled.

Panic flared in your chest, clawing at your lungs, making it impossible to breathe.

The shouts blurred together, a cacophony of rage. You clutched your bag of KitKats tighter to your chest, shielding your belly. Your trembling fingers dialed Haibara’s number.

He picked up on the first ring. “What’s up, cookie?”

You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. Your breathing was erratic, panic suffocating you.

“Hey! What happened?” Haibara’s tone sharpened; all business now.

“P…” Your voice trembled, each breath a struggle as your lungs fought against the tightening grip of panic.

“Where are you? Are those morons with you? Never mind—I’ve got your location. I’m coming,” he said, voice steely.

In the background, you heard Megumi’s voice. “Guards can’t find her, but the idiots are at home. We need to crack some skulls.”

“I know,” Haibara replied, already on the move. “She’s on call with me.”

“Do I need to bring a doctor? Just make a sound if you can’t talk,” Haibara urged, concern lacing his voice.

“Pl… Please come, Hai. They… they’re goin… hurt. I’m… scared. I can’t… be..breathe. P-Panic… attack,” you gasped, each word a battle against the suffocating anxiety.

Haibara’s jaw tightened audibly through the line. “Don’t exert yourself. Try to get to a less crowded area. Stay on the call. We’re coming, and whoever’s there won’t live to see another hour.”

You heard Megumi barking orders to the guards to follow as his own car engine roared to life.

Haibara’s voice softened, but the resolve beneath it was unyielding. “Just hang on, cookie. I’ve got you.”

“Please… I’m scared…” you whispered, struggling to keep your voice steady.

Hope flickered faintly through the suffocating dread as you clung to the sound of Haibara’s voice, each word pulling you closer to safety.

Just then, someone snatched your phone from your hand and hurled it across the street. It hit the asphalt with a sharp crack, shattering as a passing car crushed it beneath its wheels.

Your heart sank. Haibara couldn’t track you now. You were on your own.

Panic threatened to overtake you, but you straightened, clutching your stomach protectively and tucking the squirming raccoon baby deeper into the warmth of your coat pocket.

Three lives depended on you. You had to stay strong.

Lifting your chin, you spoke firmly, your voice steady despite the terror clawing at your throat. “Please…, I… I’m not… distur…bing anyone. Just let me… go home. I’m pregnant…this isn’t good...”

“Pregnant?” A man sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “You’re ruining our children’s minds and expect us to care about your worms?”

Another voice chimed in, shrill and hateful. “Why is she even out here? Spreading her unnatural ways in a well-cultured society?”

The first blow wasn’t physical. A half-full can of soda hurtled through the air, slamming into your back. The sticky liquid soaked through your coat, its coldness jolting you. You flinched but kept moving, one hand cradling your stomach, the other gripping your coat where the raccoon baby squirmed, sensing your distress.

“Go back to your country and take your disgusting ways with you!”

“Whore!”

“She thinks she’s better than us because she’s rich. Let’s see how far her money gets her now.”

The words hit like stones, each one stripping away your resolve. Someone threw a half-empty beer bottle. It shattered inches from your head, shards of glass raining down. Another stepped closer, leering, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“Ple..ase,” you said again, voice trembling but determined. “I’m… not here to bother… anyone. I just want… t…home.”

“Home?” A woman spat at your feet. “You don’t have a home here, whore.”

The crowd surged forward, a wall of hostility closing in. A hand grabbed your bag and yanked it violently, the strap digging into your shoulder before snapping. The contents spilled onto the ground, KitKats scattering like fragile little lifelines, crushed under trampling feet.

Panic clawed at your throat. The circle around you tightened, the air thick with anger and cruelty. Someone yanked your scarf again, exposing more of your face. Another shoved you hard enough to stumble, your balance precarious as you tried to shield your stomach.

“She thinks she’s better than men because she has money,” a man sneered, his breath reeking of stale beer. His grin was wolfish, predatory. “Maybe she needs to learn her place.”

Terror coursed through you as a hand latched onto your wrist, squeezing hard enough to bruise. You twisted, trying to pull away, but fear rooted you in place.

“D…Don’t touch… me,” you said, lungs not cooperating.

Your plea only seemed to embolden them.

“Burn her!” someone screamed. “She’s a disease, a stain on this city!”

Hands reached for you from all directions. One grabbed your scarf and yanked it free, sending your hair tumbling loose. Another tangled in your coat, tugging it open, the raccoon baby letting out a panicked squeak.

The world blurred as you stumbled backward, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“She thinks she’s untouchable,” a voice growled, so close you felt the heat of their breath.

“She needs to learn her place,” another hissed.

Then came the first slap. It landed across your cheek with a crack, your head snapping to the side. Pain bloomed hot and sharp, tears springing to your eyes.

Your knees buckled, but before you could fall, another hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. You were forced to meet their eyes—faces twisted with hatred, lips curling into sneers.

“Beg,” someone demanded, their voice dripping with venom. “Beg for forgiveness for corrupting our children.”

You shook your head weakly, lips trembling. “Please,” you whispered, barely audible.

The crowd erupted into jeers, their rage boiling over. Another hand grabbed at your arm, another at your coat, exposing your vulnerable, shaking frame. You tried to shield your stomach, your precious twins, the raccoon baby pressed tightly against your ribs, but the blows were coming now—sharp jabs to your back, your arms.

Tears blurred your vision as the mob surged closer, their intentions unmistakable. The world spun, collapsing into chaos. Somewhere in the distance, Haibara’s voice echoed in your memory, a lifeline you couldn’t reach.

And yet, through the fear and the pain, you clung to one thought: You had to survive. For them. For all of them.

The world had dissolved into a blur of clawing hands, jeering voices, and sharp, biting pain. All you could do was clutch your stomach, your arms wrapped tightly around the fragile lives within you as if your trembling body alone could shield them from the onslaught.

They didn’t care.

Hands tore at your coat, nails raking your skin like talons. Someone yanked at your hair, the sharp pain barely registering through the sheer terror flooding your senses.

Then came the first kick.

It landed square in your side—a brutal, calculated blow that drove the air from your lungs. You fell to the ground, instinctively curling around your belly as the mob closed in like vultures.

“Don’t ruin the face. She must be good in bed if she managed to grab two husbands.”

The jeers turned darker, uglier.

“Maybe we can do a favor by helping you lose those bastard children,” someone sneered, their voice dripping with venom. “Do the world a favor.”

Another kick followed, then another. The pain radiated through your body, sharp and unforgiving, but it was nothing compared to the icy terror gripping your soul.

You couldn’t scream. You couldn’t fight.

You were back to being that scared six-year-old again. Frozen.

All you could do was lie there, trembling, as their laughter blurred into a cacophony of hate.

A/N: Alright, so what should we name the baby raccoon? Because apparently, PussyKiller9000 was already taken (tragedy of the century). Accepting all suggestions, but if you say "Bandit," I will personally haunt your dreams. Also, this chapter was a meme goldmine, & if anyone wants to bless the world with fanart, memes, or even a cursed stick figure, I will reblog, worship, and possibly frame it IRL. Bonus points if it captures: The Great Pancake Heist™ Haibara’s baguette duel with the media Megumi fighting for his life in the snack aisle Gojo glitching out of reality mid-sentence Nanami realizing he married into chaos

Next chapter will be out on idk :P

All Works Masterlist

Tag-list = @lady-of-blossoms @stargirl-mayaa @dark-agate @tqd4455 @roscpctals99 @sxlfcxst @se-phi-roth @austisticfreak @helloxkittylo @itoshi-r @kodzukensworld @revolvinggeto @luringfantasy @xx-tazzdevil-xx @unaaasz @thebumbqueen

Taglist Open.

37 notes · View notes

smutcraft · 3 months ago

Text

Daemon Targaryen AI Script Reading of “The Wager” (Daemon x Fem! Reader Smutfic)

Original story on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60466729

AI reading inspired by the ingenious @em-writes-stuff-sometimes.

Enjoy!

This certainly isn’t the Lord of Fleabottom’s first visit to your brothel. The Magic Pillow is as good an establishment as any, with excellent dancers and musicians -- not that your clientele are there for music or dancing. No, what’s unusual about Daemon’s visit on this particular evening is the fact that he’s come calling while Mysaria is away.

Say what you will about the Targaryen prince, but he’s a creature of habit like any other man, and he rarely passes a night at the Magic Pillow without Mysaria. If not Mysaria, he tends to favor your pillow sisters with pale hair and skin like his -- like a Targaryen’s. You’ve grown accustomed to seeing the same three or four women with the prince in his finely tailored doublets, or in his armor as the Commander of the City Watch.

This evening you’re wearing a sheer gown that ripples along your body like a fountain of gold, the color coaxing another layer of warmth from your flat brown eyes. You’ve worn your hair in a simple plait that’s bound to come unraveled by morning, looking every bit the unruly Dornish woman you are. Amara Sunstar is your fitting name around the pillow house, inspired by the spiky scar on one of your hips.

As you adjust your jewelry and eye your prospects for the evening, you catch Daemon eyeing you with a curious look. Not long after, he saunters over to the brothel owner and leans in to speak privately into the man’s ear. Is it just your imagination, or does Daemon gesture in your direction with the slightest jerk of his chin before disappearing up the stairs? Moments later, the brothel owner hustles over to you with eyes wide as saucers.

“He’s sent for me?” you ask, confused.

Lord Egen is equally perplexed. “Requested you specifically by name, Amara. And said there was ‘a "dragon's den of gold" in it for the Dornish woman, if she’s lucky.’"

You snort, making a show of being unimpressed, though the mention of so much gold has you thinking wistfully of all the things you could buy. Passage on a ship, for example…

"I'll see to the prince," you say, averting your eyes, as if the brothel owner could read your thoughts in them. "Where is he?"

"The round room," he replies, nodding upstairs. "Best get to it."

You smooth your hair and stop in your chambers to apply a light coating of powder and blush before making your way to the large turreted chamber that is the round room. Just before you enter to greet Prince Daemon, you take a deep breath and lift your shoulders back.

Daemon is lounging on the plush red cushions of the round room, idly toying with a tankard of ale as you enter the room. Never one for subtlety, tonight he wears a fine black doublet tailored closely to show off his arms. A dark cloak with fur trim lies discarded on the floor already. As you approach, his eyes rake over your body from the ground up, lingering on your toned arms and calves in particular. The pleased curve of his mouth suggests he has special plans for you as he gestures for you to join him, patting an empty cushion beside him.

"Amara Sunscar," he says, his voice low and rich. “Thank you for joining me.”

"At your leisure, my prince," you say, settling herself beside him. You lean forward to pour yourself a small measure of wine, hoping to settle your nerves, but Daemon places a hand over the top of her cup to stop you. He lifts the cup away without a word of explanation, and you stifle a burst of irritation at his presumptuousness.

"I would like to know," he says smoothly, still offering no explanation for your forced sobriety, "what brings a Dornish beauty such as yourself to King's Landing. I hear you were banished from the brothels in your motherland?"

You swallow another gust of irritation. "I was," you say between grit teeth.

Daemon's eyes dance with keen interest. "Care to explain?”

You sigh, wary of spreading the tale any farther than it already has. "A useless drunk with no coin forced me to defend myself. Unfortunately, I defended myself...too well." Though this was years ago, when you were just learning the skin trade, you can still picture the dead man's torrent of blood spilling from his neck.

Daemon, strange man that he is, doesn't look put off by your admission. Rather, he looks more keen than ever.

"Banished for ridding the world of another useless louse,” he muses. “I find that to be a rather backwards rule." He considers you more closely now. "And what would you do differently, given a second chance?”

You answer honestly, sensing Daemon will see through any attempt at subterfuge. "I would have slit his neck from the front, so I could see his expression."

Daemon grins, a feral expression that says he might just like you for your candor. "Ah, but I can think of a better weapon for a Dornish viper such as yourself."

He rises from his spot on the cushion and moves to the corner to retrieve his Valyrian longsword.

Of course the brothel owner has made an exception for Damon to bring a weapon into the inner chambers, you think to yourself as Daemon retrieves his longsword. The black metal glints under the candlelight as he presents it to you, hilt first.

"Dark Sister," you say, surprising even yourself by knowing the name.

"You know your history," Daemon comments with approval. "Yes, this is Dark Sister. A sword crafted for the likes of a legendary woman."

He gestures for you to take it, watching intently as you accept. You're no Queen Visenya, of course, but an undeniable thrill runs through you as you lift the sword by the hilt.

"Go on, then. Show me what you know," he encourages, leaning back against the wall to watch. Your admiration of this fine blade must be clear to Daemon; his look of pride is almost unbearable.

You grip the sword more firmly, lifting it as if in challenge. You move the blade through some simple movements, the cold metal slicing through the air in a way that's surprisingly... pleasant. All the while, Daemon observes you with mounting intensity. When you finish in a fighting stance, your arms sore from wielding the heavy blade, Daemon gives you a slow, showy round of applause.

"A formidable opponent," he says as you reluctantly return Dark Sister to him to sheathe and set aside. "Tell me, how does a common whore come to know her way around a longsword?"

The insult is nothing you haven't heard before, but it stings for being so unexpected.

"I was borne into a family of blacksmiths before our village was set to the torch," you spit at him. "And how does the prince of the seven kingdoms come to shed his highborn manners so quickly?"

Daemon chuckles with an expression as sharp and calculating as a wolf's. He says nothing in reply to your retort, merely looking pleased with himself as his attention shifts to the tone of your upper arms. Slowly, lazily, he seats himself at a low table.

“I see you are not one to shy away from a challenge,” he says. "So let us have another. You say you would have enjoyed watching your target’s expression as you defeated him -- let us see if you can bring a Targaryen to wince in defeat." With that, his hand falls open in a clear invitation to arm-wrestle.

You consider Daemon with a slight frown. You've received your fair share of unusual requests from patrons, of course, but this is not one you've ever been presented with before. "If I win?" you demand.

"If you can best me, you will leave this room with a small fortune and my sincerest admiration, Amara Sunscar."

Your mind resolved, you take a seat and roll up the sheer sleeve of your golden robe. "I accept," you declare. "I will show the prince how Dornish steel is forged."

Daemon chuckles at that. "By all means," he says, rolling his own sleeve with mischief in his violet eyes.

Your hands grip one another tightly. Despite your bravado, the solid lock of Daemon's non-dominant hand does nothing to assure you of your chances of winning. Not to mention that his pale forearm outsizes your darker one by a healthy margin. You shake your head, focusing on keeping a steady grip as you count down aloud from three to one.

Daemon's smirk is unwavering, even as the countdown concludes and the game begins in earnest. To your fury, he eases back in his seat and allows his gaze to wander down the bodice of your gown. He looks wholly unconcerned with the outcome of your game, even as you throw all of the strength you can muster into your right arm with sweat beginning to bead your brow. Your wishful thinking of the prize money begins to chafe as the seconds wear on.

All the while Daemon’s arm is unwavering, statue-like, with a fire burning brightly behind his unusual violet eyes. The prince's expression, as always, remains a mask of composure. His eyes flick up to meet yours with an almost teasing gleam. "Do you tire, Amara?"

You do, and greatly, not that you'll give him the pleasure of admitting as much. You merely shake your head, unwilling to let him hear the strain in your voice.

As a full minute ticks by, Daemon seems to sense your determination. His grip tightens, and for a moment you wonder if you've bitten off more than you can chew. The prince's expression remains unreadable as his gaze returns to your face, drinking in the obvious strain on your brow. "You are a fierce little creature, aren't you,” he marvels.

You grit your teeth at his teasing. The longer the arm wrestle goes on, the more the muscles in your arm begin to twinge and ache.

"Perhaps we ought to renegotiate the stakes?" Daemon offers with a crooked smile, his eyes sparkling. "A small concession in return for an easier victory."

"What have you in mind?" you ask, fighting to keep from panting.

"A kiss.”

You snort but hesitate, knowing you can't possibly hold on much longer.

"One embrace," he says, leaning in, "And you will have your prize."

You almost roll your eyes, but the fact that the prince is letting you keep the 'small fortune' regardless of losing toes you in line.

"An agreeable compromise," you say between grit teeth. "I'll let you keep your dignity, my prince."

As soon as the mutual embrace of your hands slackens, Daemon’s hand lunges forward to grip your thick plait of hair.

The table topples as he rushes you forward, pinning you to the wall with his lips as much as his grip. It's such a far cry from the smug press of his lips you were anticipating that you squirm in panic, kicking at whatever parts of Daemon you can reach.

"Now, now, no need for such resistance," he chastises after breaking the kiss - if you can call such an ambush a kiss at all. Just as quickly, he releases you. "You have spirit, that much is clear." He leans closer, the heat from his body almost palpable as he whispers, "I can think of ways to use such spirit."

"I believe you owe me a prize already, my prince," you say hotly.

Daemon's lips twitch in amusement. "Very well." He reaches into a pouch at his side, tossing it to you with a regretful smile. "For you, my Dornish viper."

You force yourself not to gape as you count the generous sum. "I did not realize men would pay so handsomely to touch my hand alone," you jest.

"And what a lovely hand it is," Daemon says lightly, impatiently. "Tell me, Amara Sunscar, will you accept one final wager?"

You hesitate, unsure of what the prince could possibly challenge you to next. "I will hear your terms," you say at last.

Daemon smiles, pleased. "The terms are these. I shall leave this room and wait outside for one minute's time. When I open this door again, you will try to slip past me and escape this chamber by any means necessary. If you can manage that, you won't need to take another man to bed so long as you're alive. Should you fail, you shall be rewarded handsomely, but not extravagantly. Do you understand?"

You swallow, your throat tight. You can do this, you tell yourself - it's not an impossible task, considering that you are much lighter and faster on your feet. To Daemon, you repeat quizzically, "By any means necessary?"

Daemon smiles more deeply, seeing you puzzle out the possibilities in your head. "Any at all," he confirms. "I leave even Dark Sister at your disposal."

And with that, he strides from the room, the heavy door closing behind him. You're alone in the round chamber, the fire still crackling warmly on the hearth. And time is ticking.

Your first thought is to hide. The round room has few hiding places: under the bed, behind the door, and behind a floor-length tapestry. But something tells you that Daemon has not survived so many battles by being clueless enough to waltz right past his mark, and hiding under the bed would leave you precious little room to move. Quickly, you dart behind the tapestry, hoping Daemon will think to look under the bed first. As he does, you might be able to bound over the bed and reach the door in time…

While you consider your next move, the door flings wide. A delicious tension hangs in the air as Prince Daemon steps inside with lithe movements, moving as though he anticipates an immediate attack. Finding none, he grins, and you could swear he looks more pleased than ever.

His gaze sweeps the room with practiced precision. You can practically see his clever mind at work as he assesses your potential hiding spots, honing in on the bed as you brace yourself behind the tapestry.

"Dear Amara," he calls out playfully, "I fear you cannot hide for long."

You watch as Daemon turns a slow circle, looking completely unbothered at the prospect of losing enough coin to make your head spin. His careful steps about the room suggest that everything before this moment has been a prelude to what the prince really wants: this cat-and-mouse game between the two of you.

"Where are you, my Dornish viper?" he calls, his voice thick with lust. "I see you’ve not armed yourself with Dark Sister. Does this mean you plan to outfox me?"

You watch with your heart in your throat as the prince kneels to lift the bedskirt. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, you spring from behind the tapestry and attempt to leap over the bed and out the door to victory.

Unfortunately for you, Daemon is much faster than you'd anticipated. In an instant he's snagged you by the waist and lifted you, trapped, within his unyielding arms. "Not today," he says, his voice low and heavy with triumph.

Disappointment and rage courses through you at being restrained so easily. But it's the thought of that "dragon's den of gold" slipping between your fingers that drives your next desperate bid for escape: You seize upon a nearby candelabra and swing it forcefully into Daemon's chest.

Daemon's hold on you falters at the impact, and you tumble to the floor with a curse. But as you scramble back to your feet, ready to make another run for it, you freeze in place at his low laugh. "A dragon does not fear fire, foolish girl."

You ignore the prince's taunting to crouch low, mentally planning your escape, but Daemon mirrors you in every direction you look to, his hands outstretched, a lustful glint in his eyes.

Clearly, he's relishing the chase. And though you're faster on your feet, you can't seem to outmaneuver him.

"Come now, Amara," he purrs, "What will you try next?"

Your answer is to fake right and break left, toward Dark Sister. Not that you have any intention of maiming the prince, but if you can put the longsword between you and Daemon, you just might be able to -

But Daemon sweeps your feet out from under you, catching you yet again like a babe fallen from a tree, before his lips collide hungrily with yours. Despite the distraction, his hold on you never wavers as you attempt to squirm free.

"I have you now," Daemon whispers along your jaw. He seizes one of your hands in his and brings it to the front of his breeches, showing you how strained the fabric has become, how painfully erect he must be.

Inspiration strikes a second time as you reach lower, to make a squeeze at his more vulnerable parts.

Daemon drops you with a shout. You’ve barely hit the floor before you're scrambling upright, breaking for the door as though the room were on fire. But Daemon is already hot on your trail, and your stomach sinks as his arms seize you by the waist for a third time. Only now, instead of clutching you to him, he turns and throws you forcefully to the bed.

"Crafty little viper," Daemon snaps, the words rough with both anger and arousal. As you watch, Daemon tears away his doublet, leaving an expanse of bare-chested skin that you're suddenly dying to nip and bite at. Instead, you look to the door behind him, your nature not allowing you to give up even now.

Following your gaze, Daemon chuckles. "Still not giving up, are we? An admirable quality in a whore," he taunts, stoking your competitive nature all the more. "Let's have it, then. You may try as long as you like. I’ve nowhere I’d rather be.”

Soon enough you've lost count of how many flight attempts you've made, only to have the bare-chested prince seize you by the middle like some disobedient animal and return you to the bed. His fingers dig into your skin, his touch firm but not painful as he wrestles you into submission, over and over. Each time he returns you to the bed, he returns to the same stance in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind him and his eyes pointed to his feet.

As time bleeds together, your defiance starts to fade. Perhaps it's the way his eyes glint with a hunger that's become harder to resist with your every failed attempt to escape. Perhaps it's the way he looms over you like a stormcloud, and all you want is to be the lightning that cracks through him. Or maybe it's just the realization that you're sore and tired and still no closer to that dragon's den of gold.

Either way, you find yourself squirming beneath Daemon's grasp, no longer out of desperation to flee, but an entirely new source of heat building inside of you.

Daemon's lips quirk in satisfaction as he senses the shift of defeat in your body and spirit. He bends low, his breath hot on your ear as he murmurs, "Good girl. At last you understand."

He brings a hand to the edge of your bodice. With a swift tug, the laces are loosened enough that he can pull the gown off one shoulder to reveal a swath of creamy skin.

Teeth graze your neck, nipping gently. "You're mine," he repeats, as if claiming you. His lips trail down to the hollow of your throat, the stubble on his chin scratching pleasantly against the tender flesh.

As his hand drifts, his fingers brushing lines along your collarbones, he looks up at you like a lion on the brink of supping at last. "Are you going to deny that any longer?"

The stare he fixes you with in that moment is what does you in.

"No," you answer, almost too softly to be heard.

Daemon smiles, the wickedness in his eyes clear as day. He claims your lips in a savage kiss that leaves you gasping when he finally tears you away by a fistful of your hair.

"Good girl. Then let's begin," he murmurs, and he pushes the bodice off your other shoulder, tossing it to the floor. He traces your curves with his fingertips, dipping beneath your chemise to cup one of your breasts.

You whimper under the long-awaited grip feel of him, a sound so raw and unguarded that it seems to spur Daemon on. His lips make an eager path down your torso, nibbling and sucking at your skin as he goes, until he reaches the juncture between your thighs.

Daemon wastes no time burying his face there, lapping at your folds. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets as you arch your back, offering yourself fully to his whims. His touch only intensifies from there.

You hiss and writhe with pleasure as Daemon works at your core, lapping at your wetness with an urgency that borders on madness.

The Prince of the seven kingdoms looks like a man possessed as he forces your thighs farther apart. His tongue lashes and lathes between your legs as Daemon learns how to coax his favorite sounds out of you, his hands brusquely forcing you flat against the bed each time your hips start to lift of their own accord.

You gasp as Daemon works at your clit next, alternating between a gentle suckling and a slow pattern with the tip of his tongue that quickly has you feeling light headed. He chuckles into you as you grip at his long silver hair, your need palpable and rising still higher every second.

You sense Daemon’s own need building, the scent of your arousal and the sound of your moans driving him onward. His tongue plunges deep inside you, flicking against your entrance as his fingers pinch at your clit with just enough pressure to send shocks through your body.

Soon enough you're quaking on the verge of orgasm, panting as if you’ve run a marathon.

Daemon smiles into the damp curls between your legs before he rises to his feet without granting your release. "Patience, Amara," he admonishes.

But patience is not a gift you possess, and the state Daemon’s left you in drives you to pounce instead, driving him back into the mattress as you snake your legs and arms around his. Daemon’s reaction is immediate but surprising: at first he obliges with a groan, his head lolling slightly backward, his gaze surprisingly tender. But this effect doesn’t last long. You soon find yourself grappling with Daemon, enjoying the battle of wills -- not to mention the opportunity to exercise your strength to the fullest, to exert yourself in this way you’d nearly forgotten.

Your exertions don’t last long, for Daemon pins you to the bed once again and lords over you like the smug highborn dragonrider that he is. "My little viper is insatiable. But I suppose that's why she’s irresistible, as well.”

With those words, Daemon settles himself between your legs. His thick shaft nudges against your entrance, and you can feel the heat radiating off him. He grinds against you, teasing the wet opening with just the tip of his cock. "Ready for me?" he asks lazily.

Through your haze of lust, another wicked idea occurs to you.

"Wait," you whisper, pushing your hands against his chest. Daemon obliges, easing his weight from you with a quizzical smile. As he does, you guide him into a new position, settling him behind you while you face the door on all fours.

Daemon's eyes flash as he understands what you want from him, seizing you by the hip with one hand and seeking your wet core with the other. He doesn’t wait for an invitation this time, but pushes inside you slowly, stretching you open to accommodate him.

Once he's buried to the hilt, Daemon seizes you by both hips and pulls you slowly back against him. He drives into you a second time, then a third, until he seems to forget the world around you both and begins to take you in earnest.

"Daemon," you groan as the prince bottoms out within you over and over. At the sound of his name in your mouth, he gives a beastly groan and drives into you with a primal greed that leaves you breathless. Delicious as it is, you are distracted…and with good cause.

You decide to help the prince along using your usual tricks. You arrange a pillow beneath you and grip the base of Daemon's cock with one hand, adding a pressure that has him groaning louder than ever before.

"Are you going to spend inside me, Daemon?" you croon. "Or spill your princely seed on my ass? I've not had a chance to ask Mysaria which you prefer..."

You're pleased to hear another feral grunt at your words.

"Keep talking like that and I'll forget every whore I’ve ever lain with," Daemon pants as you work him, your hand squeezing his cock in time with your hips rolling with each thrust. His own hand comes to rest on your lower back.

You wait for his grunts to pick up before forcing his hands to his sides, using the force of your own hips to impale yourself upon him over and over.

Daemon's breath hitches at your boldness. "Damn you, woman," he curses. "Are you trying to drive me mad?"

You answer by turning your head to fix him with a coy smile that you hope will urge him ever closer to the end.

"Cum now," you order. "Make a mess of my cunt or ass, I care not, only do it now."

Daemon's breathy chuckle at your insolence quickly becomes the sound you were hoping to hear: the faltering grunts of a man's pleasure about to reach its mark.

It's then that you spring into action, using your hands to springboard from the bed and onto the ground, adrenaline leaping along with you as you make for the door.

But as you scramble for the door, you make the fatal mistake of looking back.

Daemon's face is wild in the aftermath of his ruined orgasm, thanks to you. The shock of your flight -- your final, most clever escape attempt -- strikes him plainly, like a slap to the face. That quickly, his look of surprised irritation elapses into rage, and the snarl from Daemon’s chest is filled with rage as he comes charging after you.

You have the door open now, you can hear the sound of the musicians from below --

But Daemon comes up fast upon you, his fist forcing the heavy oak door closed again mere inches from your nose.

His other hand shoots out to grab your throat, an iron grip that keeps your back pinned against his chest.

"Silly slut. You think you can toy with your prince so shamelessly and get away with it?" he hisses in your ear. His hand around your throat squeezes even tighter as he speaks, digging tightly enough to steal your breath.

As the room spins, you register being forced back onto all fours, this time onto the chamber’s bearskin in the center of the room. And this time with Daemon in front of you, not behind.

He slaps the head of his swollen cock against your lips until you part them. After that, there is no tenderness as he claims your throat, his every thrust a punishing one. You hear Daemon’s anger in each seething breath through his nose. And yet, even with his hand still gripped tight around your throat, you can’t deny it - you like it this way. Daemon thrusting into you relentlessly, his pale hips pistoning into your face with the force of revenge as much as lust.

"You’ve lost, little viper,” he growls. “My sneaking Dornish whore.”

You can barely hear him through the whirling between your ears and the pain around your throat, and still you can't help moaning weakly. It's an odd combination: fear and pleasure, humiliation and ecstasy.

You never want it to stop.

With a triumphant smirk, he releases you, allowing you to fall back and draw breath.

“Daemon,” you sputter, air filling your lungs, the simple pleasure of it flooding through you.

Daemon watches your reaction with a mix of satisfaction and contempt. As you watch, he kneels to the ground to retrieve his belt, which he cinches around your naked waist like reins.

Your head falls back as he positions himself behind you once more.

He thrusts into you from behind again, this time without mercy, his movements brutal, as if each slam against your hips is another slap at your pride.

"Now," he breathes in your ear, "You will beg."

"I won't," you hiss. Even now, you can't resist stoking his anger further, curious to see how far you can push the Rogue Prince.

Daemon chuckles darkly at your defiance. He slams into you, his thrusts more forceful than before. Your body is a perfect fit for him, taking every inch without hesitation. He tightens his grip around the belt, making you feel more than ever like a vessel for his enjoyment and amusement.

“You will.”

Overcome with need, you press your eager fingers against your cunt and turn your head to beg Daemon with your eyes instead, hoping to maintain the last traces of your dignity.

"Beg, Amara," Daemon orders again, clearly losing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of desperation, of the most carnal need, he stops, pulling away in silence.

The longer he leaves you teetering, the more your desperation mounts. It's not until your voice cracks do you give in, and the words leave on a sob.

"Please, Daemon," you manage, your face flushed from need and shame. "Let me.”

“Let you what?”

“Let me cum,” you say without meeting his gaze.

He smirks at your submission, his eyes glittering with satisfaction as he slides back inside of you. Daemon's cock fills you again, the return like a promise made good. He grips your hair and starts to pump into you, the pace faster, the angle sharper, each thrust more intense than the last. His pace is relentless, driving into you without mercy, taking your body with the same ferocity that he's taken everything else in his life.

You can hear your own cries mingling with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, and it's only a matter of time before you approach your edge again, trembling under his unforgiving thrusts.

When you do, you can no longer contain yourself, your pleas for release tumbling out of your mouth. "Please, Daemon, please, let me come."

"With me,” he growls, the command unmistakable. He doesn't slow down, only continues to drive into you with a fervor that makes it clear he's determined to take you both over the edge at the same time.

As the wave of ecstasy builds within you, so does Daemon's own need. He thrusts more wildly than ever, his hand reaching out once more to seize you by the throat, that tight hold that both terrifies and delights you.

“I have you,” Daemon snarls again. “Did you truly think you could get away from me? That anything in the seven kingdoms could keep me from claiming this sweet, perfect cunt of yours?”

Sensing Daemon about to come undone, you look back to relish the prince's expression and see his face set in a grimace of wild pleasure that mirrors your own. Whereas Daemon looks more like a ferocious beast bearing down on its prey, however, you feel more like the prey on the brink of reaching safe haven.

The moment he reaches his release, a twin spark ignites inside of you as well. You cry out as your long awaited orgasm rips through you, and Daemon’s along with it. As your shuddering stops, he pulls out to spend along your back; you can feel the warm traces of it against your skin.

As he collapses next to you on the bed, Daemon's chest rises and falls in deep lungfuls. Sweat glistens on both of your skin. You're spent, utterly drained, but satisfaction hums through your veins in a way it rarely does with paying customers.

“Well played, my prince,” you say after a minute of blissfully exerted breathing.

“To you as well,” he replies with his eyes closed.

You might sulk if you weren’t so spent. You’ve lost the wager, after all; now the prince will pay you “handsomely but not extravagantly” for your troubles. You let your eyes fall closed as well, exhaustion threatening to overtake you, but you open your eyes again as Daemon runs a callused finger along your collarbone.

“You indulged my game admirably, little viper. And I do so love a challenge.”

You smile ruefully. “So long as this is your game, you’re unlikely to find a better challenge than I.”

He pauses at your words, as if considering. “Your fierceness is certainly unrivaled. Or your greed, perhaps…”

You say nothing.

“You may keep the whole of your prize money, then,” he murmurs. “Ten gold dragons, all yours. On one condition.”

You swallow nervously, wondering what else the prince could possibly ask of you. “Yes?”

He leaves you in suspense as he gathers his discarded breeches and doublet from the floor. Only when he’s fully dressed does he pause in the doorway to wink back at you. “That we play it again soon.”

12 notes · View notes