mew?ig?

last time it was rose petals. the time before that, champagne on ice. this time it’s cherries. purple and cold and split in half like he knew you’d complain about the seeds. there’s a gold tray floating nearby, embossed with little star motifs that glow faintly when the steam rolls over them.

“open,” he says, and of course you fucking do.

the bath is hot enough to sting. the steam’s curling your hair at the edges. your face is tight with that honey-clay-fancy-shit mask he special ordered from the capital, some absurd royal apothecary with a logo shaped like a mushroom crown, and there are cucumbers on your eyes that you didn’t ask for but now can’t remove without effort, so here you are.

dripping wet. blind. mouth open. being hand-fed by the most dangerous man in the empire. again.

this isn’t a rescue mission. it’s a spa day.

there’s a small brass bell by the tub, too. he told you it was decorative. you rang it once. servants appeared instantly. you’ve never touched it again.

and yet—if satoru gojo kicks down the castle door one more time while you’re soaking in a three-foot-deep lavender salt bath, you are going to commit an act of treason yourself.

“chew princess,” sukuna says lazily, and you chew, because arguing while topless in cucumber-blindness never works out in your favor. his fingers graze your lips. cold and wet. it doesn’t feel like a fruit offering. it feels like a game. a game you’re pretty sure he keeps winning on purpose.

“i should lock the door this time,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “fucking idiot’s probably already scaling the south wall.”

you snort. inelegant. a sound unbecoming of a captive princess. “you say that every time.”

“and every time, you let him ruin our date.”

you flick one cucumber slice off. barely crack an eye. he’s sprawled by the edge of the bath, arm balanced on the porcelain, hair up, chest bare, tattoos coiling, like this is his personal brothel and you’re the treat he summoned.

there’s a throne in the corner of the room you’ve never seen him sit on. he prefers this instead. he pops a cherry into his own mouth and chews like he invented the concept of pleasure. he probably thinks he did.

“i wouldn’t call it a date,” you mutter, and he tilts his head.

“you’re naked. i’m feeding you. he’s jealous. feels like a date.”

somewhere far below, a pipe groans as magic reroutes through the castle, like it’s bracing for impact.

you roll your eyes and sink deeper, the water sloshing over your collarbones. the tub is too big. the room is too warm. the air smells like fruit and whatever spell he always sneaks in when he thinks you’re not paying attention—the one that makes your legs feel floaty and your mouth dry. the one that makes you stay.

“he’s not jealous,” you lie.

sukuna laughs like you’re adorable. or pathetic. you’re not sure which one is worse.

you hear the splash before you realize he’s serious.

one thick leg, then the other. the water sloshes violently like the bath itself is trying to escape, and you almost lose one of the cucumbers off your eye again, but you don’t move—won’t give him the satisfaction. you lay there, blank-faced, toes wrinkling, cucumber-blind and bath-drunk while the warlord of five provinces and serial homewrecker of your peace slides into the tub like he fucking owns it.

because he does. because this castle was built to keep people out, and redesigned to keep you in.

“you have no boundaries,” you mumble, voice thick from heat and honey-mask goo and emotional exhaustion.

he hums. does not disagree. doesn’t say anything at all, actually—just settles in at the foot of the tub, lounging like it’s a throne, arms spread along the rim like he’s posing for a painting, and stares at you like he’s about to ruin something again.

you’re pretty sure this is how he waits between boss fights.

"this was supposed to be me time,” you mutter. more for yourself than him.

“it is,” he says, “i’m here.”

like that helps.

somewhere, a distant alarm chimes once. not loud. not urgent. just enough to say someone has entered the level.

you feel him hook one finger under your ankle and drag your leg toward him slow, indulgent, like he’s hauling in a catch, like your foot is a prize he won. the water parts, slick against your skin, and suddenly it’s his lap your heel’s resting in. he starts. thumb to arch. palm to sole. pressure applied just shy of pain. and you hate him for how good it is immediately.

"relax," he says, all fake-softness and amused mockery, "you act like i’ve never touched you before."

“you’ve never touched my feet before.”

he squeezes the ball of your foot just right and makes you groan through gritted teeth. “maybe that’s your problem. ungrateful. high-strung. too busy pretending you don’t love it here to let yourself enjoy anything.”

"i enjoy silence."

"never met a brat who didn’t lie for sport."

you hate that he's good at this. hate that you didn't know he could be good at this. hate that you’re not stopping him. that the bath is still hot, that his hands are still rough, that your other foot is already twitching in anticipation and he hasn't even touched it yet.

“yeah,” he mutters, low and satisfied, “there it is.”

"if you're gonna rub my feet like this every time, you should just kidnap me more often," you mutter, trying to sound bored and failing spectacularly.

"princess," he says, digging his thumbs in deeper, "you say that like you're not the one who keeps showing up."

his hands drift.

not immediately. he massages your other foot like he’s not planning anything—like he’s just being generous, like the ache melting from your calves isn’t calculated, like the bath isn’t a trap he set and walked straight into with a hard-on and a god complex.

but then his thumbs start creeping up. past your ankles. into your shins. up the backs of your calves where your skin’s the most sensitive. and you're still laid out, stretched and floaty, letting it happen. he's rubbing slow, like he has all night, like no one's coming to save you.

which they aren’t.

not yet.

you’ve been here enough to know the stages: the soak. the rubdown. the corruption. the bonus round.

his hands slide higher. up to your knees. your thighs. a palm braces against the bend of one leg and eases it open under the water, like that’s normal, like this is a trust exercise and not the prelude to filth. your cunt clenches like it knows what’s coming and wants to pregame the panic.

"i don't think this is in the massage manual," you say, voice dry, throat hotter than the bathwater.

he doesn’t answer. just leans forward. plants one lazy kiss on the inside of your knee like you’re something worshipped. like you’re a feast. like he’s already decided how you’ll taste.

and you—god help you—you don’t stop him.

you should. you know that. you should sit up and slap him and demand to be returned to your kingdom of overpriced skincare and mediocre royal suitors. but instead you let your legs fall a little wider. let him shift forward in the water. let him hook your knees over his shoulders like he’s done this before—has done this before—and let him drag you down the sloped edge of the bath until your ass is half out of the water and his mouth is hovering right there.

"say please,” he says, because of course he does. “go on. be cute for me.”

he grins, and then—boom.

the door slams open with enough force to shake steam off the walls.

the lock was enchanted. doesn’t matter. the hero always finds a way.

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—!”

you don’t even lift your head. just sigh, high and long and put-upon, like your favorite face mask just got interrupted by a meteor. again.

“hello, satoru,” you say flatly. “nice of you to warp in after the cherries this time.”

there’s a faint squelch behind him as the castle seals the pipe he must’ve dropped out of. the scent of ash and ozone lingers in the air.

sukuna laughs. satoru is already halfway into the bath chamber with his stupid sword glowing and his white hair damp from rain and his eyes wide and horrified like he just walked in on a war crime.

and to be fair, he kind of did.

your legs are still over sukuna’s shoulders. your throat is still tight. your cunt is still pulsing like a fire alarm. and sukuna doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t retreat. just flicks his tongue out once, once, against the softest, most humiliating spot of you—as punctuation.

“oh,” he says, lazily. “you’re early.”

“you kidnapped her again,” satoru snaps, storming fully into the room like he pays the rent here, like he didn’t just walk in on you spread open in a royal bath.

“i invited her,” sukuna says.

“you never asked—”

“she never says no.”

“he’s got you under a spell,” satoru gasps, like this isn’t the eighth fucking time. “he’s—he’s doing something to you. you would never stay here willingly—”

“she asked for a refill,” sukuna says, not even glancing up from your inner thigh. “and a massage.”

“that’s not what this looks like.”

you bolt upright, peel the other cucumber slice off your face, dripping and humiliated and pissed off in five different directions now.

“oh my god,” you mutter, voice raw from heat and water and the whiplash of almost getting your pussy eaten into the astral plane. “both of you—shut the fuck up.”

sukuna doesn’t move. still lounging. big and broad like a final boss screen, steam curling around his tattooed chest like smoke from a fire-breath trigger, gold rings glinting at his fingers like coins from a chest you weren’t supposed to open. his shoulders are sharp. his jaw sharper. there’s something beast-shaped about the way he takes up space—even wet and lazy in the bath, he looks like he could wreck half the kingdom if you gave him a reason.

you shove sukuna off and stand. the bathwater crashes back into place. you step out, dripping, glistening, glowing with leftover soap and fresh vengeance, and snatch your robe off the heated hook like you’re the only adult in this cursed castle.

“you’re not rescuing me,” you snap at gojo, tying the sash. “you’re not corrupting me,” you shoot at sukuna. “you’re both just horny and dramatic and in love with the sound of your own arguments.”

satoru sputters. “i—i care about you—”

“you want to win me,” you correct. “like a sword duel or a fucking cake contest.”

“not everything is about your pussy,” sukuna drawls from the water, licking your taste off his lips like a challenge.

his tongue is sharp when it flicks out, forked at the tip like some kind of demon king parody of affection. his eyes glow just slightly—red and cruel—like he’s gearing up for his next form. like if you say the wrong thing, he’ll shift. claws, maybe. a shell. something ancient that drags you into him no matter how many times you run.

the castle hums again, and for a second, you swear the tub jets pulse in sync with your heartbeat.

“but you always make it about that,” you bite back. “so what’s the truth, huh? one of you wants to save me. the other wants to ruin me. but both of you are stuck in this dumb, pathetic tug-of-war and i’m the only one smart enough to say it.”

they’re both quiet now. dripping. wet. steaming in different ways.

you cross your arms.

“you don’t want to fight over me.”

you pause. drop your voice.

“you want to share.”

the silence is heavy.

you step forward, slow. drip across the floor. eyes locked on satoru first, then sukuna. neither of them flinch. neither of them breathe.

“and maybe if you two would stop acting like enemies and admit what you really want,” you murmur, “you’d both get to cum.”

sukuna stands.

and god, it’s a final boss animation.

he rises from the bath like he was spawned, not born—huge and horned at the shoulders with muscle and menace, black tattoos flaring like molten paths across his chest, glowing faintly gold under the water like lava veins. his aura crackles. the air bends. if he roared, you’d flinch. if he laughed, you’d cum. his dick is out like it belongs on a pedestal, and you’re not entirely convinced it doesn’t breathe fire.

you stare. satoru stares harder.

"what the fuck are you doing," satoru blurts, instinctively taking a step back like the sheer audacity is contagious.

“what’s it look like?” sukuna shrugs, climbing out completely, no towel, no shame, not even a flicker of modesty. he walks across the marble like he was born to stalk enemies and lovers barefoot and naked in his own castle. “i’m giving the lady what she asked for.”

he even leaves scorch marks in the water where he stood. not literal ones. just hot enough that your skin remembers them.

“she said kiss,” satoru says, face full panic, eyes full don’t make this real. “not—whatever this is.”

“you scared?” sukuna smirks. “it’s not gay if it’s for her.”

“that’s literally the most gay justification I’ve ever—”

“do you want to fuck her or not?” sukuna snaps, suddenly louder, stepping into his space, wet and steaming and mean. “because if we’re gonna fuck her, we’re doing it my way.”

he’s close enough now to smell like fire. not smoke. fire. heat from the source. it clings to him like sweat, like magic, like a dragon-shaped threat that decided it wanted you instead of treasure.

satoru's mouth opens. closes. twitches at the corners like he’s trying to glitch out of the conversation entirely. like if he blinks fast enough, he’ll wake up in a normal situation where he hasn’t just been pressured into gay chicken by the demon lord of wet arrogance.

"this is coercion," satoru mutters.

"this is teamwork," sukuna corrects.

you lean against the wall. robe loose. "tick-tock," you sing, "someone kiss someone or i’m going back in the bath, alone."

sukuna doesn’t break eye contact.

he steps in closer.

his hand curls around the back of satoru's neck, slow and tight like a threat dressed in silk. satoru flinches. exhales. and stares at sukuna’s mouth like it’s a moving target.

“just a kiss,” sukuna murmurs, voice low. “then you can pretend you hated it.”

his fangs flash. not cute little vampire points. canine. beast. prehistoric.

you’ve seen him bite before. once, during a sparring match, a rival ended up with puncture marks through enchanted armor. that rival never came back.

satoru doesn’t mean to do it. that’s what he’ll tell himself later. he didn’t want to. didn’t plan to. didn’t lean in.

sukuna did. sukuna always does.

but his mouth is right there—wet and hot from the bath, and his hand’s already on satoru’s neck like he owns it, like he could snap it or kiss it or both—and there’s something about the way he says just a kiss that makes it feel like a dare.

so satoru folds.

he doesn’t tilt his head, doesn’t breathe, just stands there frozen while sukuna leans in—and kisses him like he’s trying to win something.

and fuck, does he.

it’s not sweet. not gentle. not curious.

it’s filthy.

it’s tongues first, lips second. teeth clacking, spit everywhere, heat rolling off both of them like a second bath was summoned just from the sheer friction of hate-fucking a kiss into place. satoru grunts, shocked and breathless and already grabbing at sukuna’s arm like he’s going to shove him off, like he should, but his hand stays. fingers digging into wet muscle, other hand on sukuna’s hip like maybe he needs to keep him steady, like maybe he wants more leverage.

sukuna groans into it. obscene. hands everywhere—cupping satoru’s jaw, dragging down his ribs, gripping his waist and pulling like he wants to fuse them. he kisses like it’s combat. like he’s breaking satoru’s mouth in. like he wants you to watch.

and you do.

robe open. chest heaving. eyes wide and wet and locked on the way satoru’s knees are buckling slightly, the way he breathes like he forgot how to, the way he moans when sukuna sucks his tongue just to be mean.

satoru gasps. sukuna doesn’t let him go.

hand in his hair now. tongue deep in his mouth. hips angled forward like if this keeps up he’s going to grind on him, and maybe he is, maybe that’s the point, maybe he wants to be rutting up against his rival’s thigh while you stand there wet and smug and choosing which one of them you’re gonna ride first.

when sukuna finally pulls back—strings of spit between them, both of them flushed and panting and glassy-eyed like they just got head in a thunderstorm—he laughs.

"see?" he pants, mouth red. “teamwork.”

satoru stares at him. you stare at them. no one says anything for a second.

“again,” you say, eyes bright, mouth sticky-sweet with command. “this time—on my bed. chop chop.”

you clap your hands once, like they’re stable boys and you’re the duchess of debauchery, and then turn on your heel like you expect to be followed.

they do. of course they do.

sukuna grabs a towel off the bath hook like it’s a weapon and slings it low over his hips, still smirking, still red in the mouth like he just fed on something divine. the towel looks absurdly small on him. more like a concession than coverage. like if he flexed wrong it’d be gone.

sukuna follows last. heavy footsteps that make the stone beneath the rugs shift like the castle’s recalibrating for his weight. every torch along the corridor flares brighter as he passes, flames bending inward like they recognize their source. the air stays warmer behind him, heat lingering like a warning sign you ignore on purpose.

you lead them barefoot through the hallway, robe swinging open, dripping water on the tile floors of the castle like a trail of sins you dare someone to mop up. the room you step into is ridiculous. all blush pink and soft textures and filigree mirrors. a bed so fluffy it looks like it would absorb a body whole. silk pillows with lace trim. a plush throw with your initials embroidered in gold thread.

sukuna scoffs. satoru blinks. you climb up onto the mattress like a throne.

“both of you,” you say, voice light, like you’re calling dogs to heel. “on your knees.”

they hesitate. for half a second. then obey.

sukuna throws the towel. satoru swallows like his soul’s leaving his body. and then they’re there—crawling up the edge of the bed, one on each side, eyes locked on your legs like they’re being drawn in by gravity.

you spread them.

you don’t even have to say it. they both move at the same time.

sukuna’s mouth goes to your inner thigh, tongue dragging slow and cruel up the softest skin, teeth brushing just enough to make you jolt. satoru kisses the other side, open-mouthed and reverent, like he’s trying to cancel out every filthy thing sukuna’s ever done to you with sweetness.

but it’s not about balance. it’s about devastation.

their mouths meet in the middle.

tongues brushing. lips sticky. spit mixing against your cunt like you’re the altar and they’re fighting for prayer rights. one sucks your clit. the other fucks you with his tongue. and then they switch. again and again. passing you back and forth like a dare, like a game, like if one of them makes you cum first it means something bigger than it should.

sukuna groans when you grab his hair. satoru moans when your thighs twitch around his ears. neither of them can breathe and neither of them care. they’re loud. messy. competitive. syncing up without meaning to.

you whimper. they grunt. you twitch. they dig in deeper.

you are dripping. soaking the sheets. arching into both of them like a spoiled royal, and they like it. they want it. they want to make you cum while staring at each other across your cunt just to prove they can do it better.

and you? you let them.

of course you do.

they’re exactly where they belong.

it hits you all at once, the way you’re being devoured, the way their tongues never stop, the way sukuna grips your thighs like he’s trying to carve his name into the bones underneath while satoru makes these fucking noises like he’s praying into your cunt. they don’t stop. they don’t breathe. they act like this is the final round of a competition neither of them wants to lose.

and you let them go until your hips stutter, until your fingers clutch the sheets, until your voice breaks in that perfect little way that makes them both glance up like they just heard the bell ring.

“switch,” you gasp.

they blink.

“want both of you,” you breathe, dragging one arm behind you, looking over your shoulder, “in me. now.”

it’s not a request. it’s a fact.

and god, do they scramble.

sukuna grabs your hips first. of course he does. palms you like he’s measuring the curve for fit, like he’s already imagining the drag of his cock inside you. satoru moves to the front, eyes wide and stunned and already hard like he knew this was coming and still wasn’t ready.

“on your knees,” you murmur, breath shallow, voice fucked-out and full of authority you didn’t earn but own anyway. “both of you.”

you turn over. press your face into the pillows. arch your back like an offering.

you feel sukuna’s cock drag through your folds first—slow, like he wants you to remember every inch. and satoru’s in front of you now, hand in your hair, cock flushed and leaking and twitching under your breath.

"open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just before you do. and then his cock is pushing past your lips, warm and salty and soaked, like he’s been ready to fuck your throat since the moment you told them to kiss.

sukuna sinks in at the same time.

you choke around satoru’s cock the moment sukuna bottoms out.

both of them groan. like your body was built for this. like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to ruin you together.

you can’t breathe.

you don’t want to.

there’s no rhythm, just need. sukuna’s hips slap against your ass, unforgiving, relentless, fucking you deep like he owns you. satoru holds your head like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go, fucking your mouth with this desperate, whimpering pace like he’s sorry but also not stopping.

it’s spit. and heat. and suction. it’s tears down your face and drool down your chin and the brutal, gorgeous fullness of being used by both of them at once. your hands grip the sheets. sukuna’s fingers dig into your waist. satoru moans when you gag, tells you you’re doing so good, so fucking good, fuck—just like that.

you are choking. soaking.

and you never want it to end.

you can feel them in stereo.

sukuna buried in your cunt, hips snapping like a weapon, groaning every time you clench down like your pussy’s trying to keep him. satoru fucking your throat in short, desperate thrusts, hand curled tight in your hair, saying your name like a prayer he’s breaking on.

you’re dripping. crying. choking. perfect.

you don’t even have to look up to know they’re watching each other. you can feel it—the tension, the breathless, biting rivalry still simmering under all the moaning. they’re trying to pretend this isn’t what it is.

you ruin it.

you pull your mouth off satoru’s cock with a wet gasp, drool stringing from your lip to the head of him, your voice wrecked and raw and still smug when you gasp:

“kiss again.”

satoru blinks. panting. flushed to his ears.

sukuna doesn’t stop fucking you.

“she likes it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “go on. be a good boy. give her a show.”

satoru groans. confused. humiliated. hard as fuck.

“what, you don’t want to kiss me when your dick’s in her throat?”

you swallow him again on instinct, just to watch him twitch. he gasps.

“you’re such an asshole,” satoru pants.

“then kiss me like you mean it.”

and he does. god, he does.

it’s brutal. hot. confusing and primal and way too much spit, but their mouths crash together over your body like it’s a battlefield, like they’re using each other’s tongues to claim you without saying it out loud.

you’re drooling around satoru’s cock again, the moan in your throat vibrating against him as sukuna fucks into you harder, deeper, one hand tangled in satoru’s white hair now, pulling him in to keep the kiss going.

they’re kissing over you while you’re getting fucked within an inch of your life.

spit and teeth and groans, tongues sliding, lips parted, their bodies rutting into yours at perfect opposite angles and still finding the time to moan into each other’s mouths like it’s a contest.

your cunt is clenching so tight it makes sukuna swear, low and hot, like he’s about to break.

and you? you’re soaking the sheets.

you wanted this. all of it.

and now you’re watching them fall apart for you. together.

you pull off satoru’s cock again with a gasp—spit trailing down your chin, your cunt dripping down your thighs, breathless and soaked and ready to be worshipped—and you look up at him like you’re about to give him his final test.

but before you can say a word, sukuna speaks behind you.

“lay down.”

and satoru does.

no hesitation. no backtalk. just drops back onto the mattress like his bones dissolved, like the command short-circuited something in his brain. his cock bounces against his stomach, red and wet and aching, and he looks up at you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.

sukuna catches your wrist. leans in close.

“sit on his face.”

he says it like it’s nothing. like it’s inevitable.

and you move like you were waiting to be told.

satoru blinks up at you, already sprawled on the mattress, already halfway gone, cock flushed and twitching, lips wet from the last time he kissed sukuna like he forgot how to hate him.

“wait,” he breathes. “what are you—”

you crawl up. your knees land on either side of his head, and you hover—just long enough for him to look right at your pussy, glistening and dripping and open for him, so close he could lick it without moving.

“what are you…” he tries again, voice cracking now. “what are you doing—”

and then you sit.

his tongue doesn’t even wait.

it lunges.

like he can’t help it. like you just landed on a pressure point and released something primal. he groans—loud—mouth already open, tongue licking up your slit like he’s parched, like he’s sorry, like he’ll make up for every mistake he’s ever made if you just keep grinding down like that.

you moan. roll your hips. grab the headboard for balance.

and in front of you—you hear sukuna laugh.

a hand wraps around your waist. the other grabs satoru by the hip.

“don’t stop licking,” sukuna mutters again. “or i stop fucking.”

“wait—what—” satoru tries, voice muffled under your pussy, tongue still twitching, mouth still moving, breath already shaking.

sukuna doesn’t wait.

he never does.

sukuna grabs a fistful of satoru’s ass like he owns it. spreads him open. wide. rough. mean. just enough to make satoru twitch under you like he knows what’s coming and it’s already too much.

“you wanna eat her out so bad?” sukuna growls, breath hot across your spine. “do it with my cock in you.”

you hear it more than you see it.

the spit.

wet. thick. dragged right from the back of his throat and hawked down directly onto satoru’s hole like it’s a claim. loud and disrespectful, like he’s not even trying to be subtle about it, like this hole was made for him, and he’s just taking back what was already his.

it lands with a wet splat, stringy and hot.

satoru moans into your pussy. like it turned him on. like he hates that it did.

“fucking tight,” sukuna mutters, spreading his cheeks wider with both hands now, spit glistening on that perfect pink ring, watching it flex like it’s trying to run and take at the same time.

you don’t stop grinding. your thighs are shaking. your cunt’s soaked. satoru’s tongue keeps twitching under you like he can’t focus, like he’s trying to eat you out while processing the spit sliding down his crack, pooling where he’s already so sensitive it hurts.

sukuna spits again. harder.

watches it drip down. watches it stick.

then he lines himself up.

no warning.

just one filthy, stretched-out second of silence—then the slick, press of the head of his cock right against that spit-slick hole.

satoru gasps. tries to lift his hips. can’t. you’re on his face. sukuna’s got his ass spread wide like a fucking offering plate.

then sukuna starts to push.

you feel the way satoru shakes beneath you. feel the tremble in his hands on your thighs. feel the moan rip out of his chest and into your cunt, his tongue fluttering against your clit like he doesn’t know if he’s overwhelmed or about to cum untouched or both.

sukuna hisses through his teeth. forces himself deeper. grabs satoru’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock like he’s shoving the last piece of something perfect into place.

“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you feel that, princess? this tight little bitch clenching around me while he eats you out?”

you moan. it’s not a word anymore. not even a sound with meaning. just a shudder dragged from your ribs because satoru won’t stop licking, won’t stop moaning into your pussy while sukuna ruins him from behind like he was made for it.

sukuna leans in.

his hand comes up your spine, slow and steady, and then across your chest, fingers rough and wet from satoru’s skin, trailing up to your jaw to pull your mouth to his. he’s panting. flushed. still thrusting into satoru in long, brutal strokes. and then he kisses you.

wet. loud. hungry.

he kisses you like he owns the air between your teeth. like he wants to eat the sounds right out of your throat. you kiss him back with your whole body—mouth sticky, tongue filthy, your hips grinding harder on satoru’s face because you want him to feel it while sukuna devours your mouth.

“look at him,” sukuna growls, breaking the kiss, voice wrecked. “fuck, look.”

he grabs your chin. turns your head down.

and you do.

satoru’s face is soaked in your slick. lips swollen. nose shiny. tongue still out. his eyes are wet, desperate, fluttering like he’s already on the edge. you can feel his moans inside you, against you, vibrating straight up your spine.

“he’s gonna fucking cry,” sukuna mutters, grinning. “and he’s still hard.”

you slide off his mouth slowly. his lips chase you for a second—instinct—but you’re already shifting down, dragging your cunt over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his face. sukuna keeps fucking him, cock slamming in deeper, rhythm rougher now that you’re watching.

you lean in.

satoru gasps, eyes wide, and you kiss him.

you kiss him like he’s already lost, like the only thing left is how thoroughly. your mouth is still wet from him, from sukuna, from everything, and when your tongue slides in he makes this broken little sound in his throat like he didn’t expect you to want him after all that.

you do.

your hand slips down between your bodies. wraps around his length. he’s hot and slick and so hard it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s been holding himself together on sheer adrenaline and your approval alone. you jerk him slow at first, thumb brushing the slit just to feel him twitch.

he moans into your mouth.

and that’s when his hands come up—hesitant for half a second, like he’s checking if he’s allowed—and then he pinches your nipples between his fingers, not mean. not gentle. just enough to make you gasp against his lips and grind your hips down without realizing you did it.

“fuck,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at him.

he looks wrecked. pupils blown. mouth open. chest heaving. still being fucked, sukuna’s hips snapping in a rhythm that never stops, never slows, like a reminder that satoru doesn’t get to forget where he is or what he’s being used for.

you jerk him harder now. faster. wrist flexing. spit-slick sounds filling the room. he whines—actually whines—and pinches you again, thumbs rolling like he’s trying to hold onto something, like the sensation is the only thing anchoring him.

“don’t stop,” he says, voice cracked, stupid, desperate.

you smile.

“i wasn’t planning to.”

you kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth bumping, tongues sliding, your hand working him steadily while sukuna fucks him deep enough to make his whole body rock. he’s trapped between it all—your mouth, your hand, sukuna’s cock—and it shows. his breathing is wrecked. his hips keep trying to thrust up into your grip even though he can’t go anywhere.

you pull back just enough to look at him again.

then you shift.

not fully. not yet. just enough to line yourself up, to let the head of him brush against you, to feel that hot, stupid pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers dig in harder.

“look at you,” you murmur. “so fucked out already.”

his eyes flutter.

and you start to climb.

you do it like it’s yours to take. like his cock belongs to you, and you’re just coming back for it. you slide up and over him, knees planted firm on either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other still slick and wrapped around his shaft. you line him up. tease. not because he needs it—but because he can’t do anything about it.

you’re dripping.

you’re still open from earlier, still twitching, still needy, and the second the head of his cock catches on your entrance, you feel him twitch under you.

“fuck—” satoru pants, voice high. “please—i—”

you cut him off with a moan of your own.

and then you sink.

slow. tight. wet.

you feel every inch. you make him feel it. the way you clench down just to see his jaw lock. the way his breath stops in his throat halfway through. he tries to lift his hips—instinct—but he’s still full of sukuna, still being fucked, still being used, and he can’t do shit except take it.

you bottom out.

his eyes roll back.

you sit fully on him, hands planted on his chest, the weight of your body and the stretch of his cock and sukuna’s cock inside him making him shake like he’s about to cum untouched.

and sukuna—he grunts behind you, still buried in his ass, pace faltering just slightly.

“fuck, look at him,” he growls. “he’s gonna cum just from this.”

you roll your hips. slow.

satoru chokes on a moan.

“you like that, huh?” you murmur, leaning in close, your cunt pulsing around him. “being split open, used like a toy.”

he nods. once. quick. like he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. like it’ll make it worse if he says yes and you believe him.

his mouth opens. nothing comes out.

sukuna fucks into him harder.

your whole body jolts from the force of it, your hips sliding down, satoru’s cock pressing deeper inside you just as he lets out this little choked-off gasp against your mouth, like he doesn’t know how to hold it anymore. his hands are trembling where they cling to your waist, his chest rising too fast under yours, his eyes wide and wet and full of it—heat and pressure and disbelief. he’s shaking. so are you.

you kiss him again. open-mouthed and soaking in it, tongue messy, noses bumping, the two of you completely unraveling against each other while sukuna ruins him from behind.

“he’s gonna cum,” sukuna grits out from somewhere close, the sound of skin on skin louder now, sharper, his hand gripping your waist again, fucking into satoru like he can’t stop even if he wanted to. “he’s gonna fucking cum like this. you feel him?”

you do.

you feel everything. the way satoru’s cock kicks inside you, leaking and twitching, every muscle in his stomach flexing like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. the way his moans have gone quiet now—small, desperate, breathless little exhalations against your cheek like he can’t catch a full one anymore. he’s crying a little. you think. or sweating. or just overwhelmed. it doesn’t matter. he’s close. you can feel it in your spine.

you grind down on him harder. not even bouncing anymore—just moving in slow, tight circles, keeping him deep, dragging out the friction, letting the rhythm build slow and cruel and perfect while sukuna keeps fucking into his ass like he owns it.

your voice breaks before you mean it to.

“cum,” you whisper. not loud. not sweet. just necessary. like a spell you know will work.

and he does.

so hard it punches a sound out of him that he’s never made before. his whole body spasms under you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. his cock throbs inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep while you’re still pulsing around him, still grinding down, still clenching like you need it to keep going just a second longer.

it’s enough.

your orgasm hits like a wave slamming into concrete.

you shake. full-body. your mouth open but no sound coming out now, not really, not when you’re gushing around him, cunt fluttering, thighs locking up around his waist like you’re trying to drown him in it. your head drops to his shoulder. you don’t even know if you’re breathing.

behind you, sukuna groans. it’s low. fucked-out. the sound of a man hitting the edge with no brakes.

he grabs your hips—hard—and drives into satoru one last time, deep enough to shove satoru back up into you, your body jolting on top of him as sukuna growls and spills inside him with a hiss.

you can feel it. the way satoru flinches. the heat. the mess. the way he groans through it, lips brushing your jaw, body still twitching.

nobody moves.

sukuna stays there, cock still buried in satoru’s ass, chest pressed against your back, breath ragged. satoru is wrecked beneath you, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, lips wet and open. your body’s still twitching. your cunt still fluttering every time he shifts under you, too sensitive now, too full.

you don’t say anything.

you just stay like that.

you roll your hips once more. slow. indulgent. squeeze him just to feel him twitch. sukuna hasn’t pulled out yet. satoru’s cock is soft inside you now, slick with his own cum and sweat and whatever’s still leaking out of him from behind. everyone’s breathing hard. everyone’s quiet.

you blink down at him. stretch your spine. adjust your hips like you’re just getting comfortable.

“you’re both so easy it’s disgusting.”

satoru twitches. sukuna snorts.

“the fuck does that mean,” satoru wheezes, voice cracked, hands still shaking on your thighs. “i just got spitroasted for like an hour—”

“and you liked it,” you mutter, already reaching for the nearest towel. “you fucking loved it.”

“she’s not wrong,” sukuna grins, pulling out of him slow, messy, mean, one hand dragging down your spine like he knows he’s about to say something that’ll start another fight. “you were moaning like a little bitch the whole time.”

“you kissed me first,” satoru snaps.

“you came while i kissed you,” sukuna snaps back.

satoru’s whole body jerks like someone slapped him with a wet cloth. “i came because she was riding me—”

“with my cock inside you,” sukuna interrupts, smug. “say it slower.”

“that’s not—no—that’s not what happened, you manipulated the timing—”

“oh my god,” you groan, flopping back against the mattress. “are you seriously arguing about whether or not that was gay now?”

“it wasn’t,” satoru insists immediately. “it was about her.”

“you tongue-fucked me.”

“you grabbed my face.”

you blink at the ceiling. “you literally moaned into each other’s mouths while i came. like.”

“okay but that’s not gay, that’s—” satoru starts, voice a little too high.

“—collaborative,” sukuna finishes, grinning. “a shared project.”

you roll off him.

“oh my god,” you mutter, flat on your back now, towel draped over your stomach, one hand over your eyes. “can you both shut the fuck up.”

they don’t.

you know they won’t.

satoru’s already gesturing with one limp arm, trying to make a point about tongue placement and emotional sabotage. sukuna’s flexing like he didn’t almost fall over two minutes ago. you’re pretty sure there’s still cum drying on the sheets. no one’s moving.

“guess we have to go through this again.”

the room goes quiet.

you peek through your fingers.

they’re both staring at you.

satoru’s mouth is open like he forgot how to argue. sukuna tilts his head, eyes already darkening again.

“totally kidding guys.”

you’re not.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard. 

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)

☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)

☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)

☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)

☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Sylus - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ BY NAME, ON PAPER - by ryusjwks (link here)

☆ OUT OF BOUNDS - by novthirty - (masterlist)

☆ unspoken - by vellihor (link here)

☆ Ikigai - by lighting-and-shadow (masterlist)

☆ ever, ever after - by kannady (link here)

Zayne

☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)

☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Heart of Glass - by szarina (masterlist)

☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)

☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ evermore - by shaiyasstuff (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Zayne - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You Will Never Be Her - by mischivousvoid (link here)

☆ Imagine being Zayne's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two, part three)

☆ Evermore - by orphicmeliora (link here)

☆ THIRD PLACE TO A TWO-PERSON HOME - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three)

Caleb

☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)

☆ The Terminator's Curse (spinoff of The Colonel Series) - by saintobio (link here)

☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Caleb - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Caleb - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ even when there was rain, sunshine came - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ seven years - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ eighth year (part two of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ a decade (part three of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ LETTERS UNSENT - by orphicmeliora (link here)

☆ Backburner - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three, last part)

Xavier

☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)

☆ Duty's Cruel Embrace - rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Xavier - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ Realizing Something You Shouldn't Have - by authorssmc (link here)

Rafayel

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ You Were Meant For The Ocean - by sapphirexsolarium (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Rafayel - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You're losing Me - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three, last part)

☆ Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two, part three)

Multi

☆ to you - by calebsluvr (link here)

☆ Bitter - by whosashan (part one)

☆ Sour - by whosashan (part two)

◇ Hello, I won't be updating this list anymore BUT there's a second list already posted!

◇ You can also check this Reblogs!

◇ Made this list to keep track on the fics that I am reading and to find these fics easier.

◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗

◇ All links are up to date!

Last Edited April 19, 2026 01:46 pm

ᥫ᭡———————————————————————

Movie night is almost religious between the three of you. Gojo never let you miss it, insisting that every Saturday you go over to Geto’s place and put on whatever the former wanted to watch. You managed to get a couple movie recommendations in, but the majority wound up being whatever trashy ‘bonding’ movie the white-haired man got his hands on. Suguru getting an ask in was out of the question. However, on the incredibly rare occasion he did offer his input, things were a lot more interesting. That held up no differently tonight when you went to Suguru’s place yet again; tonight the dark haired man had picked the movie, much to Satoru’s dissatisfaction. You sat between the two, leaning back into the couch cushions and sighing as the video loaded. For once both men were silent, eyes glued to the screen as the opening scene began to roll, utterly deadpan. You wondered absently what was going on; perhaps they found the movie uninteresting or perhaps they’d argued before you got there. Either way it was unnatural for the two to be so still. Bickering, joking, inhaling snacks: all of these were the norm for your movie nights and the absence of them made you grow anxious. You looked to Geto. His eyes flickered down to meet yours questioningly. He raised a brow. You looked away from him and went back to watching the movie, though Geto’s steady gaze had flustered you a little. What you didn’t see was the way Geto glanced across to where Satoru was sitting, as though silently goading him. Do it. I thought you said you’d do it, Satoru.

Gojo swallowed. He stuck his tongue out at Geto above your head, scrunching up his nose childishly. Then he very slowly made his move. “Y/n!” Gojo whined, pawing at you and putting on a clingy act, “you’re too far away. Come here.”

You squeaked in surprise as he lifted you without effort and dumped you on his lap. His head rested atop yours, arms wrapped around your waist, thigh pressed right up between your legs. You were frozen in place. Geto tried to subdue his amusement and keep up his casual stare. “‘Toru! Let go of me.”

“I don’t think I will. Why’re you so mad, hm? I’m just holding you…” His voice lowered as he spoke, leaning down until his hot breath hit your ear and made you shiver. You squirmed once, and then promptly stopped when you felt his thigh between your legs. You needed to stay still. Very still.

“Satoru you brute. Poor girl can’t breathe.” Geto gave you a mock sympathetic look, and gave Gojo an unimpressed one. His eyes, however, sparkled with amusement. The movie went on, chattering voices overlapping eachother and occasional bouts of cinematic music. You stayed stiff as a board on the blue-eyed man’s lap. The action of sitting you down on him had seemed to bring life back to Satoru, the way he kept shifting below you to exclaim how terrible the movie was or snag a snack away from Geto was making you feel warm. Heat snaked across your skin and staying still became infinitely harder; a hot rush of shame shot up your spine when you realised you were getting worked up by the perpetual flexing of his thigh and the heat of his chest against your back. Satoru’s hands were constantly readjusting and his palms bushed against your tits every time he went to wrap his arms back around you. When he leaned forward your clothed cunt rubbed against the thick muscle of his thigh and you had to suppress the urge to continue rocking your hips by yourself to chase the satisfying friction. Your panties were getting damper. Geto’s eyes were on you. You could feel his dark eyes boring into the side of your skull and you determinedly kept your gaze forward and on the actors on the screen. You had no clue what the plot of this useless ass film was. Satoru put his chin on your shoulder.

“What do you think?”

What did you think? You hadn’t been listening to the conversation at all, too busy focusing on not getting wet at the constant touchiness Satoru was prone to. And now you were faced with a question. You stammered. “I uhm- I’m sorry, repeat?”

Geto almost laughed from the other end of the tiny couch. Gojo sighed and shook his head with a subtle smirk. “Oh, don’t worry. Just watch. Suguru’s crappy movie looks like it’s actually getting interesting.” You turned your face to the screen again, completely clueless. You were squirming imperceptibly, tiny little twitches that pressed his thigh up into your steadily pulsing pussy and pushed his arms up to brush the undersides of your breasts. Your nipples were hardening from the maddening feel of hands touching you, but not quite there. You shifted and held your breath like it was gonna do anything about your current position. Suguru was still watching you.

“Satoru, she doesn’t look too good.” He hummed sympathetically. He cooed at you. “Satoru’s squishing you, huh. You wanna come here?”

You paused, not wanting to offend Satoru by sliding off his lap but not entirely trusting Geto’s honey-sweet tone either. You bit your lip. Fuck it. The lesser of the two evils it was! You turned your head to try to give Gojo an apologetic look, before detaching yourself from his arms. “I wasn’t even doing anything Sugu!” He whined. You shared a look with Geto and the two of you huffed in amusement. Gojo was ridiculously clingy when it came down to it. Gojo rolled his eyes at the two of you. You sat back down in the middle, but it looked like Suguru had other plans when he asked you if you wanted to get off of his best friend’s lap. This time it was Geto’s arms around you and his- you daresay- thicker thigh between yours. “Sugu-”

“Shh. Watch the movie. I’m gonna quiz you on it, so pay attention. I’m sure you can focus better without Satoru holding you so tight, am I right?”

This evil, evil man. He had no intention of letting you focus any better at all. You begrudgingly relented and leaned back into his chest with confusion all over your face. And then it started.

If you thought Satoru’s touchiness had been bad, Geto didn’t even try to hide his. His large hands cupped your tits, giving you ten times more friction than Gojo had and bouncing his knee idly beneath you in a way that bumped your clit and got you even wetter. You were fully squirming now, trying not to enjoy being practically fondled and struggling to do so. That officiated it. They were doing this on purpose, or at least Suguru was. You weren’t sure about Gojo. Little by little you began to roll your hips to match his flexing thigh, inhaling sharply when he squeezed your tits without a word and continuously brushed your nipples where they pebbled through your shirt. You felt hot and overwhelmed and needy, the touches were working you up and yet they just weren’t enough. In all your lustful haze you’d forgotten about Satoru, who, when you looked over guiltily, was watching you with a hungry expression on his face. He was hard. Your eyes widened at the unmistakeable swell in his sweatpants over his crotch, it was so hard you could practically see the veins of his cock through the soft material of his sweats. His best friend’s hands on your body somehow got him even harder; the sight of you worked up and confused and unable to do anything about it sent blood right down to his head and he was growing twitchy and impatient. Suguru had agreed to share you before you came around, but it looked like you were being hogged. Gojo reached a hand out to your face. “You’re still having trouble focusing, hm?”

Your breathing stuttered. Geto laughed behind you, and the vibration ran through his chest to your back. “Focus on me instead, sweets.”

Satoru squished your cheeks in a warm hand. His face inched closer and closer to yours until you gasped and screwed your eyes shut and scrunched your nose in anticipation. Cute. Gojo took a second to look at you, chuckled, and pressed his lips to yours. Your eyes damn near flickered open when he shoved his tongue in your mouth immediately; his other hand came down to squeeze the soft skin of your thigh. Those long, deft fingers of his inched upwards as he kissed you stupid, and you moaned helplessly into his mouth when he reached the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You broke apart with a sharp inhale; eyes half lidded, spit glistening on your lips and stringing between both of your mouths.

“So pretty. Look at you. Look at her, Suguru.”

“I’m looking.”

You turned to face the dark-haired man, and Geto’s unmistakable heady expression made you falter. Oh. You were in trouble.

▹▹▹

“Say ahh-” Gojo patted your cheek, trying desperately to keep up his cocky composure, but your plush, pretty, spit soaked lips had him knitting his eyebrows together in the most gorgeous of focused expressions. You were facing Satoru on the couch, movie long forgotten, entirely zoned in on pressing chaste little kisses to his throbbing cock. His tip was an angry flushed red and it oozed sticky strings of pre that slipped down to his balls every time you pressed those kisses to the underside of his veiny shaft; the milky substance coated your lips with every fervent smooch to his balls, his base, his glossy, twitching head. Behind you, Geto was working on your drooling pussy. He had his hands on the soft, round fat of your ass, spreading you open unabashedly to take a good long look at his work. Your pussy glistened and your back arched in anticipation as you felt him rub his thumb lovingly along your slit. You directed your focus with great effort back to Satoru and did as he instructed. Gojo tapped his glazed ruby tip on your tongue, breathing out in long, low moans that matched each pat of his dick to your face. He whimpered, rubbing his cock over your pretty cheeks and staring at the glistening sheen of pre that left a trail wherever he slapped the heavy length of his dick. You whined.

“Lemme suuck. Wanna suck it ‘Toru.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuckkk. Gojo almost came right there. His head entered the hot confines of your mouth and the two of you let out twin moans; Gojo, because your mouth felt divine, and you, because Geto had just sunk his long, dextrous fingers into your syrupy cunt. Suguru fucked his middle and index fingers into your pussy from behind as though attempting to gouge out your insides; his movements were almost clinical in the way he rolled your clit under his thumb every time the base of his fingers met your sopping hole. You squealed at the sensation around Gojo’s dick and Satoru jerked his hips forward violently, fucking his cock down your slippery throat. Tears pricked your eyes from the simultaneous stimulation of Geto fingering your pussy and Gojo stroking your face as he pushed his cock into it.

“Mmh oh, you’re such a good girl.” Satoru slurred, grinding his cock into your hot mouth as you gagged and choked, desperately trying to take it all. Suguru groaned low and hard behind you, the hand stabilising him on your ass moved away and you were left with the cold ghost of where it had been; quiet little ‘shlllck, squelch, schlick’s emerged from somewhere behind you that told you Geto was jerking himself off as he fingered you.

“Be good. Stay righttt there, baby, be good.” Geto replaced the loss of his other hand with his mouth, dipping his head into the dripping mess between your thighs and licking a sloppy, saliva filled stripe from your clit to your slick-soaked, fluttering hole. You could only whine around Satoru’s cock.

“Just f-fuck her, Suguru. Wan’- ohhhh yeah- feel you fuck her onto my dick.” Gojo whimpered, uncontrollably shoving his length down your throat; his heavy balls hit your bottom lip in his feverish, horny stupor and dripped milky strings of saliva and pre down your chin to your neck. 

“You’re so fuckin’ impatient, Satoru.” Geto shuffled forward, retracting his fingers from your pussy with an obscene squelch. His brow furrowed. He rubbed his dick up against the swathes of slick between your legs. You wiggled your hips in an attempt to get him to push in. The filthy sound of you sucking Satoru off overran the audio from the movie, and Suguru at last sank the head of his weeping cock into your heat. You pulled off of Gojo’s dick to gasp, mewling at the incredible stretch from just the head; Geto was immeasurably big. He was huge. He groaned and his hips stuttered, he pushed himself all the way in and plugged your pulsing cunt full with him. He moved his hips back. The noise from where the two of you were connected was the nastiest, loudest slurrrrp. You babbled mindlessly, collapsing onto Satoru’s lap with his spit-soaked dick resting on your cheek, “’s sooo big!! Too much!”

Geto gathered what little composure he could and with a focused grunt, started up a slow rhythm that quickly tuned into him pistoning his cock into your poor, gooey pussy. Satoru stroked your face. He eased himself back into your mouth with a mumbled ‘you okay?’ You just suckled on the fat tip, unable to do much more than let Geto’s thrusts push you forward and get you to throat Satoru’s cock deeper. Tears pricked your eyes. “Oh- fuck- Suguru, look at her, she’s cryin’! Soooo good, aren’t you? Fuck, I wish I could’ve eaten you out.”

You let out a choked sob of pleasure around Gojo’s dick in response. Geto huffed with the effort of trying to shove his dribbling cock into you; your walls were so tight and sucking him in so adamantly he could barely listen to what Satoru was talking about.

“S-Satoru,” the dark haired man stammered- a rare phenomenon, “shut up. You wanna taste her so bad, suck on my fingers.”

Before Satoru could respond, Geto pushed the fingers that had been inside you into Gojo’s mouth, and the latter moaned at the taste of your wet pussy on his best friend’s fingers.

You were fucked out of your mind. You couldn’t register anything beyond the blinding pleasure you were feeling, and the gradual buildup of your orgasm. Shit. You were going to cum. You squealed around Satoru’s cock and creamed all over Geto’s. Tears slipped down your squished, puffy cheeks. Suguru groaned at the spasming of your pussy around his length.

“C-cumming! Shitshitshit, ’m cumming!” Satoru soaked the inside of your mouth with his pearly seed, groaning deeply as he jerked his hips up, once, twice, three times into your welcoming throat, not minding how it overflowed and sloshed out. You gulped it down, sliding your lips off with an audible ‘pop’ and panting heavily as Gojo turned to mush before your eyes. Geto whimpered- actually whimpered at the vulgar noises and snapped his hips flush to yours, his balls hit your clit and he nutted right inside you with a pained moan.

“Come here.”

What was with these guys’ stamina? Suguru pulled you so your sweaty back was flush with his chest. You heaved out breaths as his cock slipped out of you and his cum leaked out. Satoru stared at the image in front of him. His eyes were wide as he gazed at the creamy mess Suguru had made of your pussy. He shuffled closer to kiss you.

“So pretty. You can take me too, can’t you?”

You regretted nodding your head.

Satoru fucked his hips into you; he stretched your tight hole out on top of the already overwhelming stretch of Suguru’s dick. Both. Balls deep in your cunt. You were convulsing; your hole fluttered helplessly trying to accommodate the both of them. Suguru reached up from behind you to roll your nipples between his fingers. You were about to burst, whining incoherent words into Gojo’s mouth.

“You’re doing hah- so well.” Geto groaned beneath you and it resonated into your back through his chest. Gojo’s hand shoved itself between your bodies to rub your clit and you moaned obscenely, lavishing in the praise. Plap, plap, plap.

“Fuck, Sugu, I can feel your dick moving inside her,” Gojo broke away from your mouth to whimper into your shoulder; both of them fucked into you- when Geto pulled out, Gojo pushed in.

“She’s close, Satoru, don’t fucki- don’t stop.” You twitched, feeling something snap and a gush as you squirted all over Satoru’s lower half. Gojo creamed inside you two seconds into feeling you cumming around both of their dicks. His swollen tip swabbed inside you. His cum sploshed out and trickled down Suguru’s balls. The dark-haired man groaned, bucking his hips up to squirt his seed into you for the second time. Creamy rings adorned the bases of their dicks. The three of you panted hard. Gojo crushed you onto Geto’s chest, completely boneless as the aftershocks of his orgasm ran through him. Slowly, the two pulled out, leaving your wrecked pussy to gape around nothing.

“Shit… 'can’t move,” you mumbled, rolling over to nuzzle your face into Geto’s neck tiredly. Gojo squashed himself behind you and the three of you lay there, fucked out.

▹▹▹

“Why won’t that asshole answer his phone?” Toji sighed and opened the unlocked door to Suguru’s place. Good thing the door was open, or he might’ve had to break it in and interrogate the tall bastard as to where exactly his stuff was.

“Oi! Geto!” Toji called out. “Where’s-” Toji abruptly cut himself off at the sight of you, naked, between the very man he was looking for and a familiar mess of white hair. He stared. Then his scarred lip curled into a smirk.

“Oh. No wonder you didn’t answer your phone.... Room for one more?”

Rain pitter patters against the windows of Satoru’s oversized screaming-old-money apartment, the pattering sound of it blending into the background, the voices and music coming from the TV too loud for an atmosphere that is anything but, some trashy reality show running no one pays any mind to anymore. 

You’re sitting in between Satoru and Suguru, your best friends ever since your high school days, and both of them have their red wine stained lips somewhere on the overheated skin of your neck. You can’t say how you ended up in this position – not the sitting in between them thing, but the kissing thing. Because it’s absolutely not what you normally do on saturday nights. 

Usually, your ‘fine dining’ - nights as Satoru likes to call them, are spent on the couch while watching TV, drinking wine and smoking too many cigarettes, a ritual you started at the beginning of your thirties because all three of you can’t be bothered with going out anymore, the thought of eating overpriced food or, god forbid, sweaty bodies of strangers rubbing against your own in some stuffy club, sending shivers down your spines. 

And that’s how tonight started too, normal, with you arriving at Satoru’s at eight on the dot, a shopping bag filled with cheap wine and an excuse of cheese and grapes hanging over your shoulder. You found them already sprawled out on the ridiculously expensive and much too large couch, joints clinging to their fingers, the whole flat smelling sweet and bitter from smoke. You took your place in between them, feet sliding under Suguru’s blanket, head resting on Satoru’s shoulder. 

And at some point between re-runs of too hot to handle and perfect match, your wine glasses ended up on the couch table, warm hands sliding over your thighs, up your body and under your oversized hoodie. It surprised you, made you freeze and wonder if you maybe fell asleep and are now having one of your frequent wet dreams, but – 

It feels too real, the grazing of Suguru’s teeth over the shell of your ear a little too sharp, Satoru’s fingertips digging into the soft flesh of your waist a little too harshly and in a way that’s sure to leave small blooming bruises. In your dreams both of them are always soft, tender and careful, you always begging for more. 

And now you’re getting more, and it’s really happening here and right now and you can’t help but ask yourself if you’re really ready for this or if you’re, maybe, a little in over your head. Satoru’s hands wrap around your waist and he’s pulling you closer, up his legs so you’re straddling his lap, lips hovering against your own, warmth spreading between you. 

There’s a pause, a heavy silence in the air, something lazy in the movement of limbs, something sweet gathering in the space between dry lips. Your own hands have settled on Satoru’s shoulders, palms resting and fingers holding on, the cotton of his sweater soft to the touch. You meet his sky-blue gaze, watch how they darken and blend into the blue of an endless ocean. 

“You two gettin’ the show on the road anytime soon?” 

Suguru’s deep voice breaks the silence that blanketed Satoru and you, an annoyed kind of amusement swinging in the syllables. 

“I was tryin’ to until you so rudely interrupted,” Satoru quips back, cutting the red string that connected your eyes in two, turning his head and looking at his oldest friend with a roll of his shoulders, with his fingers squeezing you one, two, three times. 

“Yeah, didn’t look like it,” Suguru chuckles, and there’s the clicking sound of a lighter, a cigarette being lit, smoke curling over the couch. Satoru’s already opening his mouth, probably with the intent of starting a verbal sparring match, and you use that moment to plant your lips on the side of his neck, on sensitive pale skin. No word comes over his lips, just the softest huff of breath, fingers tightening around your waist for a fraction of a moment. Your lips follow an invisible path up over the column of his throat, ghosting along his marble-sharp jawline until you end your journey with a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth. 

Satoru’s white lashes flutter, a peach-rose blush painted on his cheekbones, and you always knew he’d be pretty caught up in something intimate, but the reality of it catches you off-guard, heart skipping a few beats. You lean forward again and your lips finally meet in something chaste, something gentle that doesn’t really fit into the dynamic of your friendship you build up over decades of spending time with each other. 

Satoru seems to share that sentiment – the kiss growing more forceful, a strain in your neck from pushing back against the pressure of Satoru’s mouth. His fingers dig into your waist almost painfully, nails scratching over skin and you gasp against his lips, your own grip on his shoulders tightening. 

Of course Satoru uses that moment to overwhelm you with his sheer presence – 

His warm tongue invades your mouth, sliding against your own, flicking over teeth, pushing in, in and in until he’s all but thrusting it into your throat. You moan as much as you’re able to with Satoru’s tongue taking up all the space in your mouth, spit dripping out the corner of your mouth. 

Satoru pulls you closer, against him, against his hard dick hidden behind the grey cotton of his sweats. Another single hand joins Satoru’s on your skin, the palm of it rough with callouses, the touch of it more raw, the feeling of it overwhelming in its roughness – it’s the opposite to the silky smooth glide of Satoru’s hands and it sends you reeling, makes your head fuzzy around the edges. 

Satoru’s still busy kissing the living daylights out of you, so you can only feel and listen to Suguru moving, changing positions, straddling Satoru’s legs in the same way you are, his broad chest now a steady wall of heat behind you. Suguru hums non-chalantly, the rumble vibrating out of his chest and right into your bones, his hand moving further up your left side, over sensitive skin and ribs, up until he’s – holding your tit, cupping it in a way too tender for a man like him. 

“What’s this?” He breathes right against your ear, the deep timbre of his voice carving itself a home in your soul. “No bra? You always this cheap and easy or is it just because it’s us?” He ghosts his lips along the length of your neck, stopping at the junction where it meets your shoulder, leaving the slightest threat of a bite, just enough to tease. As if it wasn’t enough that his words alone made your pussy pulse, your walls clenching in time with every beat of your heart. 

Suguru takes another hit of his cigarette, smoke clouds making everything hazy and foggy. Satoru stops kissing you, retreats with kiss-swollen lips and the chaos of an upcoming storm shimmering in the depth of his eyes. 

“Gods, you’re so pretty,” he says, gaze roaming over your face, the blue of it so intense that it’d be easy enough to drown in it. He takes the cigarette Suguru offers, and a shaky breath leaves your mouth, your lungs, when you watch him take a drag, slender fingers holding on to it in a way that makes it look almost elegant, the slightest hollow to his cheeks, the orange burning glow highlighting every sharp edge of his face, shadows darting over pale skin in a playful dance. 

“And you’re beautiful,” you whisper, Suguru hooking his chin over your shoulder, both hands now holding on to your tits under the hoodie you’re wearing, making you yearn for something else, always more. 

“You didn’t answer my question, sweetie,” Suguru hums, something dangerous underlining the endearment. Satoru leans back further, watching both of you with rapt attention. 

“Am not easy,” you mutter after the few seconds you needed to remember the question he’s referring to. 

“Well, sweetie,” Suguru continues, hands sliding down the planes of your stomach, grabbing the hem of the hoodie and pulling it up. You lift your arms on autopilot, Suguru throwing the hoodie next to Satoru on the couch. Heat floods your cheeks when Satoru’s eyes focus on your tits now exposed for both men to see. “I’d beg to differ,” Suguru tells you, “This is what I’d call easy access.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” you moan, Suguru’s hands having travelled back up, forefingers brushing over your nipples. You arch into the hint of a touch, fingers gripping on to Satoru’s sweater, eyes closing. 

“Is that an invitation?” 

“Maybe,” you say around another moan, nipples hardening under the fleeting touches. 

“Yes or no,” Suguru says, teeth coming to rest on your naked shoulder, digging in, leaving indents, just shy of breaking skin. You try to gather your thoughts, Suguru thankfully not continuing with his teasing for the moment. 

You open your eyes again, taking a deep breath to ground yourself, to not lose your mind over the fact that this could be a moment that changes the dynamic between all three of you irrevocably. And fuck it – you want this, wanted it for years.

You always kind of longed to see lust flickering like fire in their eyes, to feel the flames sitting at the tip of their fingers all over your skin, to let them ignite every nerve ending in your body, to let them burn you to ashes. 

“Yes.”

The single word tumbles over your lips easily enough, rolls into the intimate bubble of space the three of you share. A grin spreads on Satoru’s face, dimples showing up on his cheeks, Suguru pressing a kiss against the skin on your shoulder where his teeth left a mark. 

Before you can even blink, Suguru’s warmth is gone from your back, the cigarette vanishing from between Satoru’s fingers. You can only hold on to Satoru’s shoulders when he suddenly gets up from the couch, his biceps bulging when he carries you with an ease that shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. All three of you make your way to Satoru’s bedroom, Suguru being the first sitting down on the bed, back leaning against the headrest, legs spread wide, creating a space intended for you and Satoru to share. 

Satoru puts you down gently, your back once again resting against Suguru’s warm chest, while Satoru kneels down in front of you, crashing ocean waves raging in his eyes. The rough palms of Suguru’s hands start sliding up your stomach, holding on to the curve of your tits, thumbs drawing circles around your nipples. 

You moan, the touch sending sparks all over your skin, Satoru’s eyes, the way he looks at you, how he licks his lips mindlessly, sending another pulsing beat right into your pussy, slick dampening the cotton of your underwear. 

“Take off her pants,” Suguru says, commands, and you expect Satoru to be difficult just for the hell of it, because it’s his favorite thing to do especially in regards to everything Suguru says, but tonight he obeys immediately, seems not to even think about it. His fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants, pulling them down your legs, throwing them over his shoulder carelessly. 

And thank fucking god you shaved your legs this week. 

The thought almost makes you chuckle to yourself, but you’re distracted by Satoru shuffling closer, your legs now resting on either side of him. Suguru’s back to playing with your nipples, his touch either too harsh or too soft and slowly driving you absolutely insane. 

The worst thing is that he definitely knows what he’s doing to you – the deep rumble of his chuckle brushing over the skin on your neck, the twitch to the corners of Satoru’s lips when he meets Suguru’s gaze over the curve of your shoulder. Satoru comes even closer, hands wrapping around your thighs, lifting you until your ass is placed on his bent legs again. 

He leans down, meets your lips in a kiss that’s all teeth and spit and sucking on lips until they tingle, the soft cotton of his sweater brushing over your skin, the feeling once again a contrast to the roughness Suguru treats you with. 

You get kind of lost in it, in your kiss with Satoru, in the depth of it, a whole universe that wants to get explored, that wants to swallow you whole. You moan when he bites into your bottom lip, pulling it taut, letting it snap back just to claim your mouth again. One of Suguru’s hands travels down your stomach, reaching the cotton of your black thong, sliding down right between your legs. 

He huffs a laugh against the shell of your ear, brushes two of his fingers up and down over your folds, featherlight, the nothingness of it making you tremble. 

“Told you, you’re easy,” Suguru says, a little mean, and with a lot of sexiness sitting in his words. Satoru separates his lips from yours at Suguru’s words, a cute frown appearing on his face, a little crease showing up between his eyebrows you want to wipe away. 

Satoru comes close again, hovering only inches away from your face, his nose ghosting along the line of your jaw, up until he’s right next to your other ear, syrupy sweetness clinging to his next words. 

“You’re not easy,” he tells you, voice tinged with fondness, with something like reverence and worship you wouldn't have thought him capable of. “You’re doing so good, moaning all prettily, gettin’ all wet and sticky for us like a good girl.” 

You can’t help it – you moan loudly, his praise sliding smoothly down your throat like honey, your hips bucking up, searching for friction against Suguru’s fingers who, of course, promptly takes his hand away. 

“A good girl?” Suguru laughs again, licking a stripe up the side of your neck. “Nah, she’s just a greedy little thing.” Another moan, Suguru’s words hitting a place deep in your pussy like Satoru’s did just seconds before. It’s like an angel and devil sittin’ on your shoulders, whispering promises in your ear, tempting you with kisses tasting like sweet red wine, both tryin’ to be your undoing. 

It gives you whiplash, overwhelms you in the best of ways and needless to say, your thong is soaked at this point.

“Can I eat you out, sweetheart?” Satoru’s still sweet about it, his voice calm, the storm of rolling ocean waves in the blue of his eyes mellowed out to a calm sea luring you in. His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking back and forth in a soothing motion, pace slow, almost lazy. 

“Please,” you say and Satoru smiles, blinds you with a prettiness that always seems effortless. 

Satoru shuffles down the bed again, lies down on his stomach between your legs, and you realise that both him and Suguru are still wearing all their clothes, that you’re the only one as good as naked and it sends another burst of heat through your body. Satoru hums, nose brushing over your inner thighs, ghosting over the cotton of your panties while he inhales deeply, a shaky moan slipping out of his mouth. 

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he whispers, and you don’t know if you and Suguru were meant to even hear it, Satoru’s attention solely fixed on the space between your legs. As always, Suguru and Satoru move in absolute sync with each other without needing to exchange any words, without meeting gazes or any kinds of signs. It’s as if they’re two parts fitting together as one, and where it sometimes left you feeling like an outsider in the past, right now, it feels like ascending into heaven. 

Satoru flattens his tongue, paints a spit soaked path up your pussy, starting at your hole and going up, wet cotton warm against your folds, his short journey ending with a flick against your clit. At the same time, Suguru starts kneading your tits, pinching your nipples until they’re hard and aching, until your back arches away from his chest. His lips are harsh against your neck, sucking blooming bruises on the sensitive skin there, a field of red and purple flowers getting painted on his chosen canvas that’s your body. 

Between your legs, Satoru’s kneeling again, pulling your panties down unceremoniously and then he’s – 

He’s burying his face in your pussy, tongue thrusting into you and nose bumping against your clit, his eyes rolling before they flutter shut in obvious bliss. He’s relentless, with a primal wildness to how he eats you out, your pussy leaking sticky slick, sliding down the crack of your ass, mixing up with Satoru’s spit and leaving a mess on black silky sheets. 

Your tits hurt, pleasure bordering on mindnumbing pain under Suguru’s fingers, and you turn your head, trying to get away from his sharp teeth, trying to distract him with a kiss, and fuck, you want a kiss, want to taste him and memorize the feeling of his tongue against your own in the same way Satoru’s kisses are now ingrained somewhere deep in your soul. 

Suguru laughs straight in your face though, your cheeks burning, a moan spilling over your lips when Satoru starts sucking on your clit, just to lick over it like it’s his favorite lollipop, back to sucking again and almost making you squeal. 

“Kiss me, please,” you gasp out, back arching. 

“Why should I?” Suguru asks, one eyebrow raised when he’s catching your gaze, the corners of his lips twitching. “You didn’t do anything to deserve that, yet.” 

You whine, holy shit you’ll never live this down, another sound coming out of your mouth, one so fucking embarrassing it sends heat into your cheeks, all of it followed by a half-sob getting ripped from your lungs when Satoru slides two of his fingers inside you with ease, when he starts a loose rhythm of fucking you, lips wrapped around your clit, tongue flicking, and he’s hitting deep, adds a third finger to stretch you, squelching sounds filling up the air. 

“You’re already losing it, huh?” Suguru gives you a reprieve, or well, what he thinks is a reprieve, his fingers sliding up and down over your nipples, paced fast and in time with the thrusts of Satoru’s fingers pumping in and out of you. “Sweetie, we haven’t even really started and I can see you gettin’ dumber by the second.” 

And that gets to you, his words making you turn your head to the side again, your teeth sharp on Suguru’s jaw, the sudden action of biting down catching him by surprise. He grabs your face harshly, fingers pushing into your cheeks while he holds you still. Something dark creeps into the brown of his eyes, the sight of it sending shivers down your spine, toes curling.

“You’ll regret that, baby,” there’s a mocking tone to his voice, and for a few seconds fear flickers up inside you, but it’s quickly getting replaced by sheer excitement. He’s hooking his legs over your thighs, feet sliding under your calves so he can spread you even wider and you have no chance of closing your legs until he allows you to close them. 

Meanwhile, Satoru’s kind of ignorant to it all, eyes still shut, tongue lapping all over your pussy. 

“Tch, already pussy-drunk,” Suguru sighs, a hand leaving your body to slide into Satoru’s messy hair, grabbing it, pulling his head off of you and making Satoru whimper in the process. There’s slick all over his face, the curve of his mouth and cheeks, his chin, glistening with your juices, lips still swollen and strawberry pink. 

Suguru waits until Satoru’s eyes flutter open, ocean blue eyes foggy. 

“Make her come,” Suguru tells him and Satoru blinks, tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy and it’s sweet, and cute and makes you want to pepper his face with thousands’ of kisses. There’s a question in his eyes, and you know that you’re both asking yourselves the same thing – why is Suguru suddenly nice and wants you to come? What’s his plan? 

1, 2, 3 seconds and Satoru shrugs to himself, leans down again and licks sloppily all over your folds, licks inside of you, groaning at the taste of your slick coating his tongue. His eyes close again, the ocean setting you free and you desperately try getting to the surface, gasping for some much needed air. It’s a losing battle. Satoru’s too focused on making you lose your mind, his fingers joining his tongue in pushing in and out, in and out of your pussy, tongue lapping at your swollen folds, going higher and higher until he reaches his goal. 

Suguru’s arms are like a vice around you, holding you down and open when Satoru sucks on your clit again, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves repeatedly, his fingers hitting deep and at the perfect angle. You squirm in Suguru’s hold, not really knowing if it’s to push your hips up to get your clit even deeper in Satoru’s mouth, or if it’s to get away from the overwhelming touch, from the tingles and sparks racing over your skin, from the greedy flames setting your blood on fire, white static filling your ears. 

There’s a pressure building between your legs, everything too much and not enough, and Satoru curls his fingers inside you just so, times it perfectly with a harsh suck and a flick of his tongue. You shatter into a thousand pieces, Suguru’s arms the only thing holding, anchoring you to earth, on this plane of existence, your hips bucking wildly. If it weren’t for Suguru’s legs hooked around yours, you’re sure you’d have crushed Satoru’s head with your thighs, your own head pushing back against Suguru’s shoulder when your back arches in a way you’ll definitely feel tomorrow. 

Satoru caresses your pussy with sweet kitten licks, a rosy blush on his cheeks, his face a mess. Both your eyes go wide when Suguru pushes Satoru’s face to the side, when thick fingers come down on your pussy, drawing circles around your oversensitive clit, the nub already swollen, cherry-red, and you squeal, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. 

Suguru’s merciless, is still holding you against him with one arm, while Satoru just stares, his fingers still shoved deeply in your pussy, walls clenching around them, again and again and again. 

“Told ya, you’d regret it,” Suguru hums casually, as if he’s talking about the fucking weather with a stranger, and then he’s snapping his forefinger against your clit, pleasure melting into sharp pain, a cry spilling over your lips, tears now freely sliding down your cheeks. 

The pressure’s back in an instant, this time even more intense. There are no waves for you to ride on, only water pushing you down, down, down and Satoru moves his fingers again, thrusts them slowly at first, his cheek resting against your thigh, his gaze not leaving your face once. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so pretty like this,” he says, eyes shining, voice tinged with something you refuse to name, something you don’t want to name because you’re afraid of the meaning behind it. Suguru chuckles, nose pressed against your ear while he’s looking over your shoulder, fingers still abusing your clit. 

“She is, isn’t she?” The ghost of a kiss brushes over your heated skin, the slightest flick of his tongue to taste the salt of your sweat sliding down your neck. “Bet you five bucks I can make her look even prettier.” 

“Deal,” Satoru answers immediately and they’re fucking idiots, and fuck, you haven’t the slightest clue how to survive this. Satoru thrusts his fingers faster, adds a fourth finger because you’re so fucking wet, a waterfall of slick and stickiness, Suguru’s teeth nibbling on your skin while he goes from drawing circles around your clit to harshly rubbing back and forth. 

There’s no air left in your lungs, no thoughts racing through your mind. You’re reduced to a crying mess, to the most basic of instincts, greed and need, fight or flight trying to get the upper hand in the movements of your limbs, want sitting heavy in every cell of your body. 

“She’s so fucking wet,” Satoru hums, lips pressing a kiss against the skin on your inner thigh. “So good, sweetheart, takin’ everything so well, am proud of you.” 

Satoru babbles on, praises you again and again, but you can’t hear him over the static rush in your ears, over the squelching sounds of your soaked pussy, over the rumbling growl vibrating in Suguru’s chest. 

You have no idea if it’s one of their ‘we’re two parts of a whole’ thing again or if they communicated in any way this time but – 

Satoru slips his fifth finger inside you, his hand pushing in and in and in, and Suguru lifts his hand, lifts his fingers away from your clit and letting you hope for mercy, for a much needed break, but your hopes and dreams get ignored, get swiped away to the side carelessly, when he slaps your pussy, when his fingers hit your clit hard. 

Something inside you snaps in two. You don’t know what exactly happens, but the pressure in your pussy intensifies until you feel like tearing apart at the seams, and Satoru’s curling his fingers into a fist, pushes it in and out of you, stretches you to the absolute limit and your eyes squeeze shut, snot and tears mixing up, drool clinging to the corners of your mouth. 

Suguru slaps you again, and you burst into a thousand pieces for the second time that night.

You’re a supernova in the endless darkness of the universe, your pussy pulsing and pulsing, slick and sticky juices gushing right out of you and you’re twitching in Suguru’s hold, limbs moving uncontrollably, a scream ripped out of your chest, the broken sound going silent when Suguru doesn’t stop abusing your swollen clit, the small nub chafed raw and much too sensitive. 

When the whirlpool of pleasure slows down to rippling waves, your back sinking against Suguru’s chest you can hear Satoru moaning in between your legs, his warm tongue sticking out and lapping at you, Suguru humming into your neck, the stubble on his cheeks scratching against your skin in a grounding way. 

You open your eyes, your body limp, exhaustion carved into your bones, a deep seated satisfaction spreading in your chest. When you look down at Satoru you freeze, eyes going wide – there’s your slick dripping down his face, the front of his sweater absolutely soaked, expensive cotton absolutely ruined. 

He meets your gaze from between your legs, ocean blue holding you hostage, the dimples on his cheeks, his smile chaining you to the bed, to him, his body and soul. 

“Seems like I owe you five bucks,” he grins, Suguru laughing behind you, rattling your frame while he’s slowly stroking his fingers back and forth over your stomach. His nose brushes up your neck, lips pressing a gentle kiss right under your ear. 

“Turn around, sweetie,” he murmurs, loosening his hold. He’s patient, waits until you gain some control back over your limbs, and you shuffle around, sit down between his legs again, legs wrapped around his waist, Satoru holding you upright from behind. 

Suguru’s gaze is still dark, shadows dancing in the brown of his eyes. A few strands of hair slipped out of his messy bun, framing his face, clinging to flushed skin. It’s good to see that he’s affected too, that he isn’t as non-chalant about all of this as his words make it seem. 

There’s the rustling sound of clothes getting taken off behind you, a few seconds passing until Satoru’s chest is pressed against your back, skin on skin, his body heat seeping into you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, hugging you, holding you. 

The three of you never shied away from physical contact – there was always a hand holding another, legs intertwined under blankets, fingers carding through hair and nails scratching over a scalp. But nothing compares to this, to how close you are now, chest to chest and back to chest, all of your limbs tangled in a knot so tight you have no idea where one of you begins and the other ends. 

It almost makes you tear up, your nerves already frayed raw from two earth-shattering orgasms, heart cracked open for Suguru and Satoru to see, to take what they want and hopefully handle it with care. 

The brown of Suguru’s eyes gets lighter while he holds your gaze, the expression on his face melting into something much softer. One of his hands cups your cheek, thumb swiping away remnants of tears. Satoru has his chin hooked over your shoulder, hums in pleasure and half-moans when Suguru pushes the thumb damp with your tears in his mouth, letting him suck off the taste of salt. 

Your breath hitches and Suguru smiles, fondness clinging to his lips. 

You have no idea who moves first, but you’re meeting each other in the middle, the first kiss shared between you igniting flames in your blood again. Where Satoru’s wild and overwhelming, Suguru is anything but. He takes, takes all of you in a way that demands of you to give him everything you have, everything you own, to obey, to let him control you completely. 

Every flick of his tongue against your own, every hum, every teasing graze of teeth is something calculated, intent underlining his actions, playing you like a fiddle, as if you’re nothing more than a puppet clinging to strings that are connected to his every move. 

It’s maddening, pushes you in the direction of insanity, your body reacting exactly like he wants it to. Satoru’s peppering the skin on your shoulder with kisses, his hold on you loosening, fingers brushing over your thighs, massaging soft flesh. Suguru ends the kiss with a lick over your lips, leaves you breathless and dizzy, hands grabbing you by the waist, pulling you against him even further, the outline of his bulge pushing, grinding against your pussy, making you moan. 

He rolls his hips slowly, and you sigh, your own teeth digging into your bottom lip when he’s meeting Satoru’s mouth with his own over your shoulder. You’re a bit mad about the fact that you can’t watch, but it’s forgotten with another roll of Suguru’s hips, the cotton of his sweats smooth against your hurting pussy, the grey color of it darkening with your slick. 

You decide then and there that he’s wearing too much, grabbing the hem of his shirt, a needy noise spilling over your lips when he isn’t lifting his arms. He leans back, looks at you in amusement, his lips kiss swollen and glistening with Satoru’s spit.

“You want somethin’?” 

“Yes,” you pout, and you’d be embarrassed about your own actions if the urge to touch his skin everywhere wouldn’t be so overwhelming. “Take that off.” 

The grin on his face grows into a smirk that’s sharp at the edges, threatening to cut right into you and leave you open, need flowing, oozing out of you like blood from an open wound. 

“I don’t know sweetie,” he hums. “Why should I give you what you want?” 

The next words leave your mouth faster than you can think about them and you know that you’ll regret them as soon as they’re hanging in the space between you. 

“Because I’d do anything.” 

The laugh bubbling out of Suguru’s mouth is mean, harsh and dangerous, and it has your pussy leaking slick again. Gods, but you’re a lost cause.

“Anything, huh?” He cups your cheeks, places a tender, gentle kiss on your lips. He lingers there, almost making you forget about the threat looming over your head. You follow the warmth of his mouth when he breaks the kiss, watch him when he takes off his shirt and exposes miles of smooth, tanned skin. 

The silver of his nipple piercing glints under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and Satoru lets out some kind of whine that sounds as needy as you feel. You want to touch Suguru, want to explore and map out every inch of his skin, every curve of his muscles, fingertips tingling. 

Before you can make a single move, Suguru pulls you into a kiss again, his tongue thrusting deep, licking over your own. He’s gone as fast as he came, you’re breathing heavily again, and one of his hands takes your chin, tips it up and into your neck, eyes dark when he keeps you in place. 

“Open up,” he tells you, the command clear, heavy with meaning and leaving no room for objection. You do as told, sticking your tongue out for him because you want to catch him by surprise, or maybe you want him to praise you in the same way Satoru does. 

Of course he doesn’t. He spits on your tongue, lips curling into a mean smirk when you moan and swallow, sticking your tongue out again. 

“Didn’t tell you to swallow yet, did I?” 

You freeze, Satoru’s breath audibly catching in his throat next to your ear, his fingers digging into your thighs almost painfully, nails leaving half-moon creases all over your skin. 

“I’m –” 

“Sorry?” Suguru chuckles, leans back against the headrest, creating a space between you that is crackling with something, with anticipation maybe, the heat of a blazing fire hanging heavy in the air, flames lapping at the borders of your body. “I’m sure you are,” he continues, petting one of your cheeks in a way that feels condescending and turns you on way too much. “The tragic thing for you is though, that I absolutely don’t care if you’re sorry.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Your pussy pulses, slick dripping on the soiled sheets, and Suguru’s eyes glint, looking right past you and meeting Satoru’s gaze instead. There’s a whole conversation happening silently next to you, and suddenly you’re being moved, the world tilting on its axis. You’re left kneeling in between Suguru’s spread legs, one of his hands at the back of your head, pushing you right against his crotch, the scent of his musk filling your nostrils, making you moan and lick a stripe over grey damp cotton. 

“Tch,” Suguru hums, fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you off him until you look up at him. “And again, you’re an impatient, greedy little thing.” He’s clicking his tongue, shaking his head as if he’s seriously disappointed. You try listening to him, but you can’t focus on him for long – 

Something heavy and warm, something thick and long stretches your pussy and you need a few seconds to realise that Satoru just shoved his dick inside you, that he isn’t stopping once to let you get used to his girth. He pushes in, balls slapping against your skin and he’s immediately starting to thrust, to fuck you in a way that rattles your whole body, teeth clacking together, tears shooting into your eyes because you’re still sensitive as fuck. 

“Ngh –” you moan, mouth opened wide, two of Suguru’s fingers finding a place on your tongue, pushing down, sliding deeper, halfway down your throat and you gag, eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

You can’t say if Suguru says something else, if he commands you to do something, your brain melting with every roll of Satoru’s hips, your walls clinging to his dick desperately. Satoru’s hands are sliding over your back, grabbing you by the waist, digging into your hips. 

“Fuck,” he moans, a rasp to his voice, hands travelling up your sides again until he leans over you, his body resting over yours like a weighted blanket, his fingers intertwining with your own. You’re both in Suguru’s space now, his presence, the spice of his perfume everywhere, all consuming, Satoru panting into your ear. 

In front of you, Suguru shoves down his sweats, his hard dick slapping against his abs, leaking at the tip. You want to make some witty comment about the fact that he’s not wearing any underwear but dared mocking you for your missin’ bra, but it’s wiped from your mind when Satoru changes his angle slightly, somehow fucking even deeper. 

Suguru chooses that moment to pry your mouth open and push you down on his dick. He’s giving you no time to adjust, just bullies his way right down your throat and starts sliding you up and down his dick like a human fleshlight with a hand still buried in your hair. 

Eons could have passed for all you know, the world continuing to spin and travel on its orbit without you taking any notice, head empty, kind of floaty in a way that reminds you of smokin’ too much weed and every thought entering your mind feeling like cotton candy clouds. 

There’s the telltale tingle of an approaching orgasm spreading in your body again, spit drooling out your mouth around Suguru’s dick, slick dripping out your pussy and coating Satoru’s where he’s fucking in and out of you. The wave of pleasure crashes down on you without further notice, your pussy spasming, trying to milk Satoru dry who moans loudly at the feeling, your own whimpers kind of muffled, tears running down your cheeks.

Neither man slows down. They simply continue to fuck you, to use you to their heart’s content and it’s doing things to your own heart, would have done things to your pussy too if you’d still be able to feel anyting else than a tickling tingle in your puffy folds. They shift again, without words but in sync anyway, Satoru pulling you further down the bed, Suguru lying down, shoving his legs under you until you’re straddling him. 

You immediately miss the weight of his dick on your tongue, whiny sounds spilling over your lips while you continue to cry. 

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers in your ear, against your skin, the touch of his hands fleeting and sweet. “Takin’ us so well, your pussy feels like heaven, baby, fuck –”

He’s pushing inside you again, the slide as smooth as the words continuing to drip from his mouth like sugary syrup. 

“Can’t believe you’re lettin’ us do what we want,” Suguru joins in, his words bitter like ginger, cloying on your tongue, prickling over your skin. 

“It’s –” you moan, forehead resting against Suguru’s chest, tongue flicking against the cool silver of his piercing. He twitches at that and you do it again, kind of fascinated when goosebumps erupt on his skin. “Let you do it because it’s you two –” Satoru’s dick punches another moan out of you and slick drools out of your pussy, makes a mess between your thighs and everything’s just so fucking wet. 

“Is that so?” Suguru hums, a little amused, a hand slipping in between your bodies, rough fingers finding your clit, a deep groan filling the air when he finds you dripping, when his fingers slip all over your mound and in between your folds. “Gods, you’re gushing,” he says.

“Feels good,” you gasp, and Satoru presses a kiss on your sweaty neck, the rhythm of his snapping hips steady, even. You aren’t ready for Suguru to focus on your clit again, but he’s back to playing, drawing smooth circles until you beg him to stop. 

He doesn’t. 

“Please,” you cry. “Can’t – I can’t come again, it hurts.” 

“I know you can do it, sweetheart,” Satoru tells you, his own breathing ragged. “You’re doing perfectly, just a little more, just –” Satoru moans deeply when Suguru’s fingers slip down and bump against his dick. You sob when Suguru slides his fingers inside you, right next to Satoru’s dick, stretching you further than you thought yourself capable of. 

“No, please,” you sob and Suguru tips your head up with his free hand, catches your gaze that’s blurry from tears. “Say kfc if you really want us to stop.” 

Behind you Satoru snorts and you can’t help but laugh around a sob, Suguru’s own lips twitching with amusement. They both wait for you to say something, Satoru slowing down his thrusts and giving you time to listen to your own body. 

Your pussy beats in harmony with the fast pacing of your heart, your clit feeling numb but there’s no longer sharp pain zipping against every small nerve. You take a deep breath, forcefully relaxing your body and meeting Suguru’s gaze again. Your mouth stays shut and Suguru grins widely, a little manic and with too many teeth. It’s an expression usually belonging to Satoru but it suits him just as well, your pussy clenching almost painfully around Satoru’s dick and Suguru’s fingers. 

They push you further up Suguru’s body and he pulls you into a deep kiss. You detect it as a method of distraction one small moment too late. Suguru’s dick slips into your pussy alongside Satoru’s, both men moaning at the more than tight fit. Suguru rolls his hips as much as he’s able to with you lying on top of him, sliding deeper and you’re back to crying, your body not knowing what it’s supposed to feel anymore. 

You’re limp on Suguru’s chest, your hips held up by Satoru’s hands while your legs tremble. This time they actually give you some time to adjust, and even if you’re thankful for it, it’s not doing anything, isn’t helping in the slightest. You’re stretched too wide, pain blending into pleasure and back into pain, an endless loop of too much, too much, too much, and you squeal when they start moving, when Suguru grinds deeper and Satoru slides halfway out. They pick up a sloppy rhythm, both of them apparently (finally) reaching their own limits. Suguru’s kissing you again, licks over your cheek, gathering your tears on his tongue. 

Satoru’s back to leaning over you, leaves marks all over your shoulder and neck, meets Suguru in his own kiss, hips pumping faster. The moment they both dig their teeth into your overwhelmed skin is the moment everything ends. 

You come again, black nothingness creeping into your mind while you’re pussy tries to clench around the dicks fucking in and out of you. They both moan at the feeling of your walls clinging to them, and warmth spreads inside you, leaks out of you and drips down your thighs. 

You know that time continues to pass but you can’t grasp it, eyes unseeing while your mind floats next to your body. You only come back to yourself when someone carefully cleans you up between the legs, the cotton of the washcloth soft and warm, every caress tender, gentle. 

Another set of hands is buried in your hair, carding through damp strands. You hum, the rumble of it almost sounding like a purr. Someone puts you down on the mattress, arms still wrapped around you, a thick blanket being pulled over your sweaty body. You’re surrounded by heat and familiar smells, the spice of Suguru’s cologne prickling in your nose, the feeling soothed by the scent of coconut from Satoru’s favorite shampoo. 

A deep sigh and you let yourself sink deeper into their embrace, into the care they give you without you having to ask for it.  

you’re in the hospital, the very place you’ve been avoiding like the plague. the place caleb has been begging to take you for weeks now. 

which means if you’re here, caleb must’ve brought you after what happened at the cafe. and if caleb was the one who admitted you unconscious in his arms, the staff would have presumably ran tests. taken scans. 

they would have found something. 

and if they told him, then–

a quiet drop settles in your stomach as you suddenly become aware of something warm and heavy in your left hand. it feels foreign at first, so unfamiliar it startles you.  

your thoughts scatter as you realize the heaviness you feel is not something, but rather someone.

another presence shares the room, and their hand is laced tightly around yours, enough to make you think they were too afraid to let go. 

you follow the line of your arm, see the way the tubes were inserted into the dorsum of your hand, and you can’t help but wince at the freshly formed bruise surrounding the needle. 

when you finally let your gaze travel lower, you see it. 

see the way this hand holds yours, fingers interlocked, and a shaky breath is ripped from your lungs. 

because seated in the large chair beside you, head resting awkwardly against his bent arm, slumped at the hospital bed’s  edge, is caleb. 

his brows are drawn together, his mouth set into a faint frown, and you can distinctly make out the dark circles beneath his eyes. 

he looks terrible, like he hasn’t slept for days. 

how long were you out? 

a small part of you feels guilty, as if this was somehow your fault. 

it is, that voice reminds you. 

you shake the thought away, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath to steady yourself. 

except it falters at the slightest shuffle, one you realize that is caleb adjusting himself without fully waking, as if even unconscious, he’s aware of you. it reminds you that even in the position he’s in, it couldn’t have been comfortable. there’s no way it was. 

the guilt claws its way up your throat again. 

your caleb—selfless, loving caleb—stayed. 

he was here by your side, laying there like you needed him.

and maybe some selfish part of you did. 

you keep staring at him. soaking in his presence the same way a sunflower leans towards the sun. 

you admire him as the monitor continues its steady beeping, as the nurses in the hallway pass by with their shift beyond the door.  

he will never know how much he means to you. how his actions speak so much louder than words ever could. 

if he did, then he would never begin to think that just by being here, seated at your side, he is progressing the very illness killing you. 

still, you allow yourself to take full advantage of this moment, savoring how close he is to you—closer than he will probably ever be. 

you shift slowly, carefully enough to sit upright, making sure not to not disturb him. 

fortunately, he doesn’t wake. 

and that’s how you know he was truly exhausted, because caleb was never a heavy sleeper; it’s not like him. normally, the smallest movement, the faintest sound, would pull him back into consciousness in an instant.  

but nothing happens, not when he remains in his deep slumber. so you take advantage, taking this small fissure in time to admire the long lashes resting against his cheeks, to count the freckles scattered across his boyish face. 

this time, the vines tighten—almost like a warning. yet, you ignore it. 

with your free hand—the one that’s not being held captive by his—you gently thread your fingers through the soft strands of his dark, sable hair. 

you let your selfish touch linger. 

your fingertips drift to his face, tracing the faint lines that will one day deepen into wrinkles when he grows old. you glide the back of your palm down his cheek and bite back a soft chuckle when he mumbles incoherently about apple juice and coffee. 

because even in his sleep, he’s still thinking about his favorite fruit.

the thorns dig deeper into your lungs and your heart, sharp enough to coax that familiar twinge of pain, and you slowly guide your hand back to your lap, remembering your place. 

you watch him, indulging in his graceful warmth, imagining the nostalgic scent of blossoming cherry trees in spring rather than the sterile hospital air surrounding you. 

you imagine the taste of delicious apple pie—the kind he made just for you on special occasions. and his smile, tender and brimming with fondness, directed just for you as he says, “happy birthday, sweet girl.” 

you take it all in. savor how intimate this moment feels. 

“you are so beautiful caleb xia.” your voice whispers quietly, unsure if the words even make it past your lips. “so, so beautiful.” 

completely and devastatingly mesmerized by him, you know you could never get enough. 

so you savor everything. you try to imprint his very being into your mind, because hopefully then, he’ll be the last thing you see when death finally claims you. 

but even that won’t be enough. 

because no time on earth with caleb will ever be enough for your greedy, traitorous heart. 

that’s when it hits. 

the pain swells without warning, rising in an instant. it’s so sudden, you rip the hand that was attached to caleb’s, bringing it to clutch your chest. 

your throat, lungs, chest, and heart are burning. familiar searing hot sensation sharpens, turning into excruciating pain, rendering it completely unbearable. 

your body flares in fever, and the monitor attached to you frantically beeps, announcing the agony you cannot voice.

your breath fractures, and once again, your vision blurs, eventually forcing everything to fade into black, and the last thing you can see before your world darkens is caleb’s violet eyes looking right back at you in fear. 

you awaken once more, in the same spot. in the same room. 

except this time, it’s the shuffle of movement and the hushed whispers of a voice you’ve come to recognize mixed in with one you’ve never heard before. a man and a woman. 

it stirs you awake out of necessity. 

you swallow, and the scorch in your throat returns, but it’s not like the first time you woke—dull and distant. now, it’s raw and burning. it hurts, and you feel the immediate urge to wash it away. 

water. you need water. 

rising up slowly, just enough to prop yourself at an incline, and your eyes fall upon the owners of the voices you heard mere seconds ago. 

standing near the foot of your bed is a raven haired man in a white coat, clipboard in hand. his glasses rested low on his nose before he pushed them back into place, casting a sidelong glance at the woman beside him. 

following his gaze, you see her. 

she stands stiffly, purse slung over her shoulder. her hair is worn differently today—in a ponytail—different from the last time you saw her, and she’s wearing a different set of clothes, which means time has passed, but you still don’t know how long. 

the room, once filled with their whispers, falls silent.   

no one speaks or moves. all three of you remain still, as if waiting for someone to break through the tense atmosphere first.  

you pull your attention from her and back to the doctor, only to meet a pair of unfamiliar hazel eyes studying you carefully. 

suddenly, he clears his throat. in an instant, it seems like mae takes it as her cue to leave. 

“i should probably check on caleb,” she says lightly, and he nods, gesturing towards the door and escorting her out.

but before leaving, she turns to you, a sad smile touching her lips, yet, she doesn’t say goodbye to you or the man. she simply steps out and closes the door behind her with quiet finality.  

once she’s gone, the doctor faces you fully.  

“i’m sure you have questions.” he begins, already walking toward the right where the monitor is stationed. 

you glance at him, hesitant to speak. 

“to start, you’re still in skyhaven.” he says, then after a brief pause, “i’m a close friend of caleb and mae. we grew up together and they’re the ones who called me here.” 

with a click of a pen, he’s recording the numbers displayed on the screen as they present themselves. you try to follow along as well, scanning the data for anything that stands out, to see if there are any abnormalities, but it’s foreign to you. 

“although they brought you here for, different reasons, you should know i’m a doctor who specializes in cardiology.” he turns to you slightly, “dr. zayne li.”

your eyes follow him, but you don’t move, just sitting in silence and watching, mind drifting back to a mere minute ago—trying to piece together the look in mae’s eyes. how secretive she became, the way she left, saying she had to check on caleb. 

“it’s nice to make your acquaintance,” he says professionally, extending a hand for you to shake. “though i wish we would’ve met under better circumstances.” 

his words enter one ear, and out the other. you’re too focused on the way your thoughts run rampant. 

what if caleb knows?

what if mae knows? 

what if their doctor friend was the one who ran the scans and tests on you, and he told them about your illness? 

your mind goes on a tangent with every possibility, every variable. but one thought remains constant. 

caleb knows you have hanahaki. caleb knows there are crabapple flowers growing in your heart. 

caleb knows you’re dying. 

caleb knows–

“not very talkative, are you?” his voice cuts cleanly through your panic, and the sound of him placing the items in his hands onto the counter breaks you away for a moment. 

he raises a cup from a tray towards the pitcher, filling it to the brim with water. 

“drink. it’ll make you feel better.” 

with your right hand, you reach for it, taking it from his hand and bringing the plastic to your lips. you try to steady yourself, try not to let the panic clawing at your chest show on your face. 

luckily, the water is cool, enough to soothe your throat, leaving you wanting more. 

and for a moment, it creates a distraction that only lasts momentarily. 

until he continues. 

“caleb has me understanding you’ve been suffering from a chronic cough for at least a month now. is that right?” 

you keep your eyes fixed on the water inside the cup. 

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you lie. 

you and your nasty habit of lying. you don’t know why you do it—why it’s so much easier for you to say anything but the truth. 

but you do know, and so does he.

“it’s common for patients to retreat into false realities when faced with a diagnosis,”he says evenly. “i’m no stranger to reactions like that.” 

he gently takes the cup from your hand, refilling it without asking. 

“i’m not concerned with everyday illnesses. flu, viruses, infections. they can be taken care of by a general practitioner,” he raises the cup back towards you, eyes locking onto yours. “but unless those matters directly affect the heart, then i become involved.” 

your eyes narrow. 

“and your cough is no ordinary cough.” he says, releasing a humorless exhale that almost resembles a laugh.  

it feels cruel. 

“you’re dying. and it’s your lungs and heart that are taking all the damage.” 

you lift the cup to your lips once more, using it as a shield of sorts, pretending his words don’t affect you.  

you pretend like his revelation doesn’t phase you in the slightest. like you haven’t been carrying this secret alone for three months now. 

“and from what i received from your primary physician, you already possess all the means necessary to cure the disease, yet he tells me-“

“do they know?” you interrupt. 

then, much quieter, you ask. “does he know?” 

the question catches him off guard, but only briefly. 

“no. it isn’t my place to disclose information to anyone that isn’t authorized to know about your condition.” his gaze lingers on you, sharp and assessing. “as far as they’re concerned, you’re here due to sleep deprivation and malnutrition.” 

“good” you let out a shaky breath before you can stop it. “i would like to keep it that way.” 

he doesn’t respond immediately, but his eyes linger on you. hypervigilant. 

the sudden sound of the door flying open pulls the both of you towards the entrance. 

caleb stands there, breath uneven, eyes frantically flickering between you and zayne before settling on you. 

“you’re awake.” he says, and you note how hoarse his voice sounds, as if he’d been speaking too much. or maybe not at all. 

“i am.” you reply, pretending to be unfazed. 

he’s beside your bed in seconds, and you’re taken by surprise at how fast his warm and trembling hands cup your cheeks. you barely have time to process the distance he closed between you. 

“are you okay?” 

“i am.” 

he doesn’t believe you, you can see it in the way his eyes hold apprehension—in the way they search your face longer than they should, waiting for you to crack, to falter, to reveal the truth. how many times had you told him you were fine, and every time it was a lie? 

if anything, every lie only made you worse.  

“zayne, is she okay?” his gaze never leaves you. 

the doctor—his childhood friend, you remind yourself—clears his throat, and he comes back into view. 

“it would be medical malpractice if i said she was.” 

you turn your head to face him and catch the faint glint in his hazel eyes. 

“like i mentioned earlier, she hasn’t been resting properly, and her nutritional intake is at an all time low. what she needs is rest for the next several days, and perhaps a prescription for vitamin d.” 

“and her cough?” 

“what about it?” 

caleb’s brows pinch together and his eyes narrow slightly in the direction where zayne stands, though he doesn’t step away from you. 

“before she fainted, she was spitting blood. that doesn’t occur from lack of sleep.” 

zayne clears his throat, expression carefully stoic. 

“there are many reasons why she could’ve coughed up blood, and all those possibilities have been tested. i assure both of you, aside from the fainting spell, there is no immediate cause for concern, as long as she remains consistent with rest and medication.” 

“caleb.” you say softly, attempting to redirect the conversation away before he could press any further, “you trusted dr. li to take care of me, and he is. you don’t need to worry, i’ll listen to his instruction, i promise.” 

in less than a second, those purple, nebulae-like eyes fall upon you, almost in disbelief—almost pleading to believe you. 

“there’s something you’re still not telling me,” he says quietly. “and i don’t know why, for the life of you, you don’t want me to know. and i’ll keep saying i’ll respect it, but don’t leave me in the dark. something is wrong with you, i just-” he cuts himself off as his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek, like a means to ground himself. “i just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

“i am, xia. i promise.” 

“swear it.” 

his hand drops from your cheek, but only to lift his pinkie between you. 

you stare at it, forcing down the gasp rising in your throat.  

“please…” his voice cracks, barely there. “swear it.” 

the room falls away, creating a little microuniverse where it’s just you and him. even dr. zayne becomes nothing but an afterthought. 

slowly, you lift your tube infested arm, pulling it away from your side and bring it toward him, twisting your wrist so your pinkie aligns with his. 

he doesn’t move because he’s the one waiting for you to promise. 

for a brief moment, you hesitate. you keep your eyes locked on your trembling hand, knowing what you’re about to do. 

you’re lying straight to his face. 

and caleb xia, of all people—your best friend—did not deserve that. 

but he also doesn’t need to know the depth of your love. the one that’s killing you, painfully. 

you hook your pinkie with his, tightening your hold as you mouth the words–

“i absolutely swear it.” 

before dr. zayne leaves the room—after announcing a nurse will return shortly with your discharge papers—caleb steps out to bring the car around. 

and just like that, it’s only you and the cardiologist in the room. alone. 

he doesn’t speak immediately. instead, he closes the door gently behind caleb, the soft click echoing louder than it should’ve in the sterile quiet. 

“i’ve received your chart from your primary physician.” he starts off, flipping through the stack of papers that are in his hands. “i’ve reviewed his notes. his findings. the medications he’s prescribed as well as the referrals and specialists he’s consulted.” 

he pauses, studying you in a way that feels less clinical now. 

“that is to say...i’d be more than willing to take over your case.” 

you swallow around the lump in your throat you hadn’t even realized formed. 

“if you reviewed my chart,” you reply carefully, “then you must know i don’t wish to proceed with the surgery, dr. li. i made my decision long before i ended up here. i know what awaits me if i don’t.” 

nervously, your fingers tighten against the hospital blanket. 

“and i’ve come to terms with it.” 

you pray he doesn’t hear the slight wavering in your voice, the fracture that could betray the very decision you made. because in the end, death still unsettles you, and you had convinced—were still convincing yourself—that you had accepted it.  

you hadn’t thought much of it beyond that. 

zayne exhales a bit harshly, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose, and for the first time since you met him earlier that morning, his composure falters, and he places your files on the bed, scattering them as if allowing you a glimpse for your own accord. 

“i’m not here to persuade you into surgery, nor am i here to lecture you about survival rates or ethical obligations,” he says at last, and his gaze lifts back to you. 

“but i had a patient once. years ago.” there’s a brief pause. “a friend before he became a patient. he made the same decision as you. believed that loving someone quietly was less selfish than forcing a confession that might burden them.” 

zayne’s jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. 

“by the time he reconsidered, his heart had already sustained irreversible damage.” 

there’s a change in the atmosphere, cold and unnatural. and you’re reminded that you’re still in a hospital, a place where death and suffering linger. 

“i won’t force your hand, i’ve already surmised you’re as stubborn as they come, but i won’t stand by and watch another person choose death simply because they believe they deserve it.” 

your throat tightens, and you redirect your gaze to fall upon your knuckles, turning white. 

“this isn’t about deserving,” you whisper. 

“no.” his voice shifts from serious to something lighter. “it rarely is.” 

the room falls silent, and you force yourself to focus on the nurses who hastily walk just outside your door, hear the conversation of a man across the hall, telling his wife about his day, raise your eyes to look out the window, finding the willow tree in the courtyard swaying from the breeze. 

“if you allow me to take over your care, i can manage it as a cardiopulmonary complication stemming from stress-induced deterioration as a front.” 

“and in reality?” your voice is so quiet, you’re surprised he could even make out your words. 

“i’ll monitor the progression of your hanahaki closely.” 

“why?” you ask, still barely audible. “you don’t even know me.” 

“it’s true i don’t. but i knew him.” 

and the weight of his answer lingers. 

“i couldn’t save my friend, but i can ensure you’re given every possible chance,” his tone is steady despite the grief you can hear woven in. 

the nurses are now giggling, and you hear his voice, loud and clear. 

you’re able to recognize it anywhere. 

“if i agree,” you say slowly, “you have to vow to never tell another living soul.” 

“you confidentiality stays intact, unless you authorize otherwise.” he replies without delay. 

“and you don’t push the surgery onto me.” 

you hear footsteps nearing. 

“i will present it as an option, but i will not coerce you.” 

you search his face, attempting to find any cracks in his mask that indicate even the slightest bit of hesitancy. 

when you find nothing, you let out a breath. 

“fine. take over my case.” 

there’s no relief, no triumph. just a nod and an understanding.

then there’s a knock at the door, and you already know who it is. knew it from the second the phone in your hand vibrated from his message. 

zayne reaches to pick up the papers he tossed earlier, arranging them into a neat stack. when he’s done, he sets his glasses back into place, his composure already sliding neatly into place like armor. 

but just as he’s about to  reach the handle, he pauses. 

“there is one more thing i must tell you.” he adds, keeping his body turned towards the door. 

“the progression in your scans suggests you have less time than dr. zavala estimated.” 

your breath stills and your heart jumps. 

“if you intend to continue lying to caleb,” he says in false calmness, “i suggest you make peace with how that ends.” 

he pushes the knob downwards, opening the door, and your eyes follow as he walks down the hallway until he disappears. 

he’s soon replaced by caleb’s figure, who now stands in front of you. his familiar grin and puppylike demeanor stare straight at you, but those eyes, they’re tired, and you’re once again racked with incredible guilt. 

“c’mon, my little troublemaker. let’s get you home.”

⏾