maddie's ⋆.˚🪐⋆

The bass didn't just rattle the windows; it vibrated straight through the sticky soles of your sneakers and settled somewhere deep in your ribs. The main floor of the Sigma Kappa Phi house was a neon-drenched riot. Strobe lights sliced through the haze of cheap smoke and spilled beer, illuminating a sea of bodies moving out of sync to a remix that was entirely too loud.

You were three cups deep into something dangerously sweet from a cooler in the kitchen, and the alcohol had just started to smooth out the jagged edges of the night. The room felt warm, the lights trailing slightly when you turned your head. You were leaning against a relatively safe stretch of wall near the hallway, letting the chaos wash over you, when the crowd shifted.

That was when you saw him.

Eren Jaeger was holding court in the center of the living room, exactly where he wanted to be. He looked like the patron saint of bad decisions—a dark green unbuttoned flannel slipping off one shoulder, a white tank top underneath, his hair a messy, sweaty halo around his face. He was laughing at something a guy in a backward cap was shouting over the music, a red solo cup swinging loosely in his grip. He was in his element. He fed off the noise, the energy, the reckless momentum of the party.

But then, he turned his head.

Through the strobe lights and the shifting maze of dancing bodies, his eyes locked onto yours.

The laugh died on his lips. You watched the exact second the party stopped existing for him. The shift was so visceral, so sudden, it made the breath catch in your throat. He stood perfectly still in the middle of a dancing crowd, staring at you like you were the only solid object in a room full of ghosts.

You didn't know him. You had never spoken a word to him. But the way he looked at you—heavy, dark, and utterly consumed—felt like a physical touch.

Someone bumped into him, spilling a splash of beer on his arm. He didn't even flinch. He just handed his cup to whoever was standing next to him, never breaking eye contact with you, and started walking forward.

The crowd parted for him effortlessly, like they didn't know he was walking by, only felt the aura radiating off of him. You pressed your back a little harder against the wall, a sudden, intoxicating spike of adrenaline cutting through the warm fuzz of the alcohol. He moved with a predatory kind of grace, his gaze tracking you with a raw, undisguised yearning that made your pulse hammer in your ears, drowning out the music.

When he finally stopped in front of you, he was far too close. He brought with him the scent of expensive cologne, tequila, and the sharp, electric heat of his skin.

He didn't say a word at first. He just looked at you, his eyes dropping to your mouth and then slowly tracing back up to your eyes. Up close, you could see the flush of the alcohol high on his cheekbones, the slight parting of his lips as he caught his breath.

He raised a hand and placed it flat against the wall, right beside your head. He leaned in, caging you in, shielding you from the crush of the party behind him.

"I know everyone in this house," he said. His voice was a low, rough rasp, forced to dip directly by your ear to be heard over the thumping bass. The heat of his breath sent a shiver straight down your spine. "So why the fuck don't I know you?"

"I don't usually come to these things," you managed to say. Your voice felt entirely too breathless. You tilted your chin up to look at him. "And you look like you're usually busy."

"I was," he murmured. His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering there, completely uninhibited by the alcohol. You look past him, and he moves to block your vision with his broad shoulders. "I don't care about any of them right now."

He shifted his weight, closing the remaining fraction of an inch between you until the fabric of his flannel brushed against your shirt. The chaotic energy he had been projecting to the room just moments ago had condensed into a singular, overwhelming focus. He wanted to be at this party, yes—but suddenly, he only wanted to be at it with you.

His free hand moved, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your waist. It was a hesitant touch, completely at odds with the bold, arrogant way he had crossed the room, as if he was afraid you might disappear if he held on too tight.

"I was having a great time," Eren confessed, his voice dropping into a dark, hypnotic vibration against your ear. "And then I saw you against this wall. And it felt like someone knocked all the air out of my lungs."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression completely stripped of the frat-boy bravado. It was replaced by something desperate and hungry.

"Tell me your name," he demanded softly, his thumb tracing a slow, burning line against the fabric of your shirt at your waist. "Before I lose my mind in here."

The pulse of the house didn't just stay in the floorboards; it climbed up through your legs, settling in your chest until your own heartbeat felt like it was being dictated by the DJ downstairs. Eren didn't wait for an answer to his question. He didn't even wait for you to agree.

He reached out, his hand sliding down from the wall to catch your wrist. His grip was firm, warm, and slightly calloused—the hand of someone who spent as much time in the gym or on the field as he did holding a drink. He didn't tug you aggressively, but there was a gravitational pull to him that made following feel like the only logical conclusion.

"The wall is boring," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to back away, drawing you into the thick of the crowd. "Come here."

The transition from the periphery to the center of the room was a blur of neon sweat and vibrating air. As you moved deeper into the mass of bodies, hand in Eren's, the world outside this specific house—classes, the future, the cold rain hitting the windows—simply ceased to exist.

Eren navigated the crowd with a practiced ease, his body a shield that carved a path for you. When he finally stopped, you were in the very center of the living room, directly under the strobe lights. The music was so loud it felt like a physical weight, a rhythmic crushing of the senses.

He turned to face you, and for a moment, the strobe light caught him in a series of frozen, jagged frames: Eren laughing, Eren looking at you with a hunger that was almost painful to witness, Eren leaning down to bridge the gap.

He didn't dance like the other guys in the room—there was no performative bravado, no irony. He moved with a raw, restless energy, his hands finding your waist and drawing you flush against him. The heat radiating off him was staggering. Through the thin fabric of your clothes, you could feel the hard lines of his legs and the frantic rhythm of his breathing.

In the narrative of the night, this was supposed to be just a party. But for Eren, everything was high stakes. Even here, surrounded by the "empty noise" he claimed to despise, he was searching for something absolute. In his mind, this wasn't just a dance; it was a temporary liberation from the walls he felt closing in on him every day. To him, the sweat and the loud music were the only things that felt honest enough to drown out the silence of a life he felt was already decided for him.

"You're too quiet," he breathed, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. He had to shout to be heard, but his voice still carried that low, gravelly vibration. "I can't tell what you're thinking."

He shifted his grip, his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tangling slightly in the hair at the base of your neck. He pulled you closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to look at him. The green of his eyes was electric under the blue and purple lights, dilated and dark with a yearning that felt like it could swallow the room whole.

"I'm thinking you're a lot more intense than a guy at a frat party should be," you yelled back, a dizzying mix of alcohol and adrenaline making you bolder than usual.

Eren’s response was a sharp, sudden grin that didn't reach his eyes—it was the look of someone who had finally been caught in a lie. He leaned down, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. The world around you—the screaming, the spilling drinks, the chaotic joy of a hundred strangers—melted into a smear of irrelevant color.

"Maybe," he whispered, the word lost to everyone but you. "Or maybe everyone else just isn't intense enough."

He moved his hands down to your hips again, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of your jeans, pulling you so tight against him that you could feel the hitch in his breath every time the beat dropped. He wasn't just dancing with you; he was anchoring himself to you. He looked at you with a terrifying sort of clarity, as if he were trying to memorize every line of your face before the lights came up and the illusion shattered.

The air between you was thick, charged with the kind of friction that precedes a lightning strike. The music reached a crescendo, a wall of sound that felt like it was about to burst the room at the seams.

The heavy, humid air of the living room was suddenly replaced by a sharp, biting draft as Eren pulled you toward the back of the house. He didn't say where you were going, but his grip on your hand was possessive, a silent promise that the noise was over.

He kicked open a heavy fire door at the end of a service hallway, and the transition was violent. One second, you were submerged in the rhythmic, artificial throb of a bassline; the next, the world was vast, cold, and eerily still.

The metal grating of the landing clattered under his boots as he led you up a short flight of stairs to a secluded balcony overlooking the darkened campus woods. The rain had slowed to a fine, misty drizzle that clung to the air like woodsmoke.

Eren leaned back against the brick wall, the orange glow of a streetlamp in the distance catching the sharp, exhausted lines of his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack, his fingers steady despite the alcohol. He didn't offer a polite "do you want one?" He simply held the pack open toward you, an unspoken acknowledgment that you were both looking for the same thing—a way to ground yourselves.

He struck a lighter, the small flame momentarily illuminating the green of his eyes. It wasn't the triumphant green you’d seen on the dance floor. It was a darker, more turbulent shade. He took a slow, deep drag, leaning his head back against the cold brick and exhaling a long, thin plume of smoke into the damp night air.

"Better," he rasped, his voice sounding raw now that it didn't have to compete with the speakers. "I was starting to feel like the walls were moving in."

You stood beside him, the cold air seeping through your clothes, a sobering shock to your system. You watched the smoke curl and vanish into the mist. Downstairs, people were losing themselves in the crowd, desperate to forget they had anywhere else to be. Up here, under the vast, uncaring sky, the weight of the "college experience" felt like a cheap costume.

"You're good at it," you said quietly, leaning your elbows on the railing. "The party. The acting. Everyone down there thinks you’re the sun they’re supposed to orbit."

Eren let out a short, mirthless huff of air. He looked out at the treeline, his expression hardening. "That’s the problem. They orbit the sun because they’re afraid of the dark. They think if they stay loud enough, the 'real' world—the one where we’re all just drifting toward an ending we didn't choose—won't catch up to them."

He turned his head to look at you, his gaze heavy and analytical. "But you... you looked like you were already standing in the dark. Even in the middle of that room."

The philosophical distance between you—the stranger and the frat-boy icon—evaporated. He reached out, his hand sliding across the cold metal railing until his fingers brushed yours. His skin was still hot from the dance floor, a stark contrast to the freezing iron.

"Is it freedom?" he asked, his voice dropping into that low, vibrating register that made your heart skip. "To know the party is a lie? Or is it just another kind of prison?"

He didn't wait for you to answer. He stepped closer, invading your space until the scent of rain and tobacco was all you could breathe. He looked down at you, his eyes searching yours for a spark of recognition, for someone who finally understood that his intensity wasn't a choice—it was a survival tactic.

"I don't know your name," he whispered, his face inches from yours, "and I don't know where you came from. But I think you're the first person I've seen in four years who isn't just a shadow."

He reached up, his thumb slowly wiping a stray drop of mist from your cheek. The touch was agonizingly slow, a deliberate pause in the chaos of the night. The silence between you was heavy, thick with the things people only admit to strangers when they're halfway to nowhere.

The name left your lips like a secret, barely audible over the distant, muffled thump of the music vibrating through the brick wall behind you. It felt small out here, dwarfed by the expansive dark of the campus and the intensity of the man standing inches away.

Eren repeated it, his voice a low, gravelly roll that seemed to taste the syllables. He didn't just hear it; he appeared to weigh it, as if trying to decide if the person standing before him matched the label the world had given you.

"It sounds too quiet for a place like this," he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a newfound, singular focus. He took another drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing a fierce, fleeting orange before he exhaled, the smoke swirling between you like a physical barrier. "Most people here... their names are just titles. President. Legacy. Star athlete. They’re just placeholders for a life someone else designed."

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. The cold mist on his flannel felt damp against your skin, but the heat of his body was a constant, radiating force.

"Do you ever feel like you’re just wearing it?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Like your name is just a costume you put on every morning so people don't realize there's nothing solid underneath?"

You looked out at the rain-slicked quad, the orange streetlamps reflecting in the puddles like fallen stars. "Maybe. Or maybe we’re just afraid that if we take the costume off, we won’t like what’s left."

Eren let out a short, sharp breath—a ghost of a laugh. He dropped the cigarette, crushing it under the heel of his boot with a slow, deliberate pressure that felt oddly symbolic. He turned fully toward you, trapping you against the iron railing. His hands came up to rest on the metal on either side of your hips, his large frame effectively cutting off the rest of the world.

"I like what's left," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there. The alcohol-induced haze had sharpened into a piercing, desperate clarity. "I liked it the second I saw you standing against that wall. You weren't performing. You were just... there. And I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by people who are never just 'there.'"

The air between you felt pressurized, as if the storm was finally moving inside the house. The dampness of the night, the smell of tobacco, and the sheer gravity of his presence made the balcony feel like the only square foot of reality left in the world.

The heavy fire door groaned on its hinges, the sound of metal scraping against stone cutting through the damp silence like a blade. The muffled roar of the party surged outward for a split second—a chaotic burst of synthesizers and cheering—before the door clicked shut again, leaving a new figure standing in the shadows of the landing.

Zeke Jaeger didn't look like he belonged at a frat party, yet he occupied the space with the effortless, terrifying confidence of a man who owned the building. He was older, his blonde hair pulled back neatly, his glasses catching the dim amber light of the streetlamps below. He looked polished, surgical, and entirely unimpressed by the raw, bleeding intensity Eren had been radiating.

"There you are, little brother," Zeke said. His voice was smooth, a cultured baritone that lacked Eren’s jagged edge. He didn't look at you first; his eyes were fixed on Eren, watching him with a patronizing kind of affection that made Eren’s jaw tighten instantly.

The shift in Eren was instantaneous. The vulnerability you had glimpsed—the man who felt like he was drowning in the "empty noise"—was vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced indifference. He didn't move his hands from the railing where he had you pinned, but the heat in his gaze had turned to ice.

"We’re busy, Zeke," Eren muttered, not turning around.

"I can see that," Zeke replied, finally casting a brief, analytical glance your way. It wasn't a look of interest, but of assessment—as if he were measuring your value in a game you didn't know you were playing. "But the house is waiting. Tradition dictates the President leads the midnight toast, and since you’re currently wearing the letters, it would be poor form to keep the sheep waiting for their shepherd."

The weight of Zeke’s presence was suffocating. He represented the very "costume" Eren had just been lamenting—the preordained path, the legacy, the cycle of expectations that turned people into hollow vessels for a family name. To Zeke, the party wasn't a distraction or a means to escape; it was a tool.

Eren let out a breath that was almost a growl, his fingers tightening on the iron railing. He was caught between the rare, honest connection he had just found with you and the crushing momentum of the life his brother was constantly forcing him to lead.

"Go tell them I'll be there in five minutes," Eren said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low vibration.

"You've been saying 'five minutes' since you were ten years old, Eren," Zeke sighed, stepping closer. The smell of expensive tobacco and sterilized air followed him. "The problem with trying to be 'real' in a world built on performances is that eventually, you just end up being the only one not playing the music. And that makes you a target, not a hero." It's suddenly very clear to you that the two brothers have had this conversation before.

Zeke reached out, patting Eren’s shoulder with a heavy, possessive hand. "Finish your conversation. But don't forget who’s waiting downstairs. The Jaeger name doesn't belong to just you."

Zeke turned and retreated back into the house, the door shutting with a final, heavy thud. The silence that returned was different—it was no longer intimate. It was poisoned by the reminder that Eren wasn't just a guy at a party; he was a piece in a much larger, much older machine.

Eren stayed silent for a long moment, his forehead dropping to rest against the cool metal of the railing near your hand. The fire in him seemed to have dimmed, replaced by a weary, resentful exhaustion.

"You see?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "The noise always finds a way back in."

He looked up at you, his green eyes searching yours with a desperate, silent plea. He was still the frat boy, still the star, still the legend—but in the shadow of his brother, he looked like a man who was realized he was just another line in someone else’s script.

The sound of the fire door clicking shut behind Zeke felt like a gavel hitting a sounding block. The muffled "thump-thump-thump" of the bass through the brick walls started up again, a persistent reminder of the life waiting to swallow Eren whole.

Eren remained paralyzed, his forehead still pressed against the cold iron of the railing. His knuckles were white where he gripped the metal, his shoulders tense enough to snap. He looked like a man standing on a ledge, deciding whether to jump or crawl back through the window.

You looked at the back of his head, at the messy knot of dark hair and the damp fabric of his shirt. The "Jaeger" name Zeke mentioned sounded like a lead weight.

"You know," you said, your voice cutting through the damp chill, "the back stairs lead straight to the gravel lot. My car is parked three blocks away."

Eren didn't move at first. "Zeke will notice. The whole house will notice. If the President isn't there for the midnight toast, it’s a 'statement.'"

"Let them make a statement, then," you countered, stepping closer until you were standing right behind him. "You just spent ten minutes telling me how much you hate the noise."

Eren finally lifted his head. He turned slowly, his green eyes bloodshot and searching. The rain-mist had settled on his skin, making him look pale and ghostly under the amber streetlights. He looked at you—not as a conquest or a distraction, but as a literal exit sign in a room with no doors.

"You'd really just leave?" he asked, his voice rough. "You don't even know me. For all you know, I’m exactly the jerk my brother thinks I am."

"I know you're miserable," you said simply. "And I know I’d rather be anywhere else but this balcony. If you stay, you're just proving him right. You're just a part of his machine."

That did it. The mention of being a "part" of something else—of lacking his own agency—flickered in his eyes like a match. The nihilistic exhaustion vanished, replaced by a sudden, jagged spark of rebellion. It was the same intensity that made him the king of the frat house, but this time, it was aimed at the exit.

"The gravel lot," he repeated, a dark, sudden grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Key is under the wheel well?"

"I'm not a cliché, Eren. I have the fob in my pocket."

He didn't wait. He grabbed your hand, his grip hot and desperate, and led you down the narrow, rusted metal stairs of the fire escape. Each step clanged in the quiet alleyway, a loud, metallic rhythm that felt like a countdown.

We ducked behind a row of overflowing dumpsters, moving through the shadows of the Greek Row houses. We could see the silhouettes of people silhouetted in the windows of the neighboring houses—Sigma Kaps, Delta Nus—all of them playing their parts, oblivious to the fact that the "main character" was currently sprinting toward a beat-up sedan three blocks away.

When we reached the car, the silence of the residential street felt heavy and holy. Eren slumped into the passenger seat, his long legs cramped in the small space, his head hitting the headrest with a dull thud. He looked out the window as you pulled away from the curb, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

The neon lights of the frat house faded in the rearview mirror, shrinking until they were nothing more than a dull, pulsing bruise on the horizon.

You ended up at a 24-hour diner on the edge of town, the kind of place with cracked vinyl booths and the smell of burnt coffee. The fluorescent lights were unforgiving, stripping away the glamour of the party and leaving only the reality of the night.

Eren sat across from you, his damp flannel shirt draped over the back of the booth. He was staring into a white ceramic mug, the steam rising to meet his tired eyes.

"Zeke is going to lose his mind," he said quietly. There was no fear in his voice, only a strange, hollow satisfaction. "He thinks he can script every second of my life because he did it first. He thinks 'freedom' is just a word we use to feel better about our cages."

"And what do you think?" you asked, leaning back.

Eren looked up, his gaze settling on you with a terrifyingly focused clarity. The "frat boy" was gone. The "legacy" was gone.

"I think," he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration, "that I’ve spent my whole life waiting for someone to offer me a way out. And I think I’m not going back to that house tomorrow."

He reached across the table, his hand covering yours. His skin was still warm, but the frantic energy from the dance floor had settled into something steadier, something more dangerous.

"So," he murmured, "where are we going when the sun comes up?"

The drive back to campus was a blur of streetlamps and silence, a stark contrast to the thumping pressure of the Sigma Kappa Phi house. By the time you reached your dorm, the rain had settled into a heavy, rhythmic pulse against the glass of the hallway windows.

Eren didn't look like a campus king anymore. In the harsh, flickering LED light of the dorm hallway, he looked like a man who had just survived a wreck. He was still damp, his hair falling into his eyes, his knuckles red from gripping the iron railing earlier. But as you swiped your keycard and the door clicked open, the tension in his shoulders didn't leave—it shifted.

Your room was small, a sanctuary of ordered books and quiet air that smelled of vanilla and old paper. It was everything the Jaeger name wasn't. Eren stepped inside, and the space felt instantly crowded. He looked out of place—too big, too intense, too loud even when he was silent.

He didn't sit down. He stood in the center of the room, his eyes scanning your things with a haunting, quiet curiosity. He lingered on a photo, a stack of notes, a half-finished cup of tea. It was as if he were trying to understand how a person could exist so peacefully while he felt like he was constantly at war.

"It’s so quiet in here," he whispered, turning to face you. The orange glow of your desk lamp caught the sharp angle of his jaw. "I forgot what it’s like to just... be."

"You’re allowed to just be here, Eren," you said, closing the door. The sound of the lock sliding into place was the final severance from the night's chaos. "No Zeke. No house toast. No noise."

He didn't wait for another word. He crossed the small distance between you in two strides, his hands coming up to cup your face with a desperate, shaky urgency. His skin was still hot, a feverish contrast to the rain-cooled air of the room.

When his lips met yours, it wasn't a gentle start. It was a collision—the culmination of the yearning he’d been wearing like a shroud all night. It tasted like the diner’s coffee and the lingering ghost of a cigarette, but mostly it felt like an anchor. He kissed you with a starving intensity, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you flush against him as if he were trying to merge your heartbeats.

He backed you up against the door, his weight pinning you there, his breath hitching every time you responded. This wasn't the performative "frat boy" charm; this was the raw, jagged reality underneath. Every touch was an admission, a silent scream of someone who had finally found a way to feel real amidst a life of artifice.

"I didn't think..." he muttered against your lips, his voice a broken rasp. He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dilated and dark. "I didn't think tonight was going to end like this. I thought I was just going to go back to being a ghost."

"You're not a ghost," you breathed, your hands sliding up his chest to the damp fabric of his shirt. "Why would you think that?"

He let out a low, ragged sound, his grip on your waist tightening as he dove back in. The makeout session grew heavier, fueled by the adrenaline of the escape and the sheer magnetic pull that had been building since he first saw you against that wall. His hands moved with a restless, searching energy—across your shoulders, down your back—anchoring him to the here and now.

In the quiet of the dorm, with the rain hammering the world outside, the only thing that mattered was the heat of his skin and the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him from drifting away.

The air in the small dorm room felt thick, charged with the kind of static that only follows a narrow escape. Eren’s hands, still warm from the adrenaline of the night, slid from your face to your shoulders, his grip grounding and heavy. He kissed you with a desperate sort of hunger, as if he were trying to anchor himself to the present moment before the reality of his brother’s expectations could pull him back under.

Backed against the door, you could feel the rhythmic thud of the bass from the party still echoing in the ghost-memory of your muscles, but here, the only rhythm was his breathing—jagged and shallow against your skin. He pulled back for a fraction of a second, his green eyes dark and unfocused in the dim light of your desk lamp.

"I don't want to go back," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that felt more like a confession than a statement. "Not to that house. Not to any of it."

He didn't wait for an answer before leaning back in, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your neck. The scruff of his jaw was a sharp, tactile reminder of the chaotic night he’d just fled. Every touch was an assertion of his own will, a way of proving to himself that he wasn't just a piece on Zeke’s chessboard.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you so close that the damp fabric of his shirt bled its chill into your skin, yet the heat radiating from him was overwhelming. It was an intense, silent conversation held in the dark—a shared rebellion against the "noise" he hated so much. For the first time all night, the frantic energy that usually drove him seemed to settle into something singular and focused.

He lifted you slightly, urging you toward the bed, never breaking the contact. The world outside the room—the Jaeger name, the frat, the impending sunrise—felt a million miles away, dampened by the quiet walls of your sanctuary.

The room felt like it was shrinking, the walls of your dorm closing in not to cage you, but to insulate the two of you from the rest of the world. Eren’s kiss was no longer just an escape; it was an anchor. He moved with a restless, magnetic energy, his hands sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against the heat of his chest.

He tasted of the rain and the sharp, lingering salt of the night. Every time his breath hitched against your lips, it felt like a crack in the "Jaeger" armor he’d been forced to wear for years. He wasn't the star of the party here. He wasn't Zeke's shadow. He was just a man, desperate and raw, searching for something real in the dark.

"I’ve spent so much time shouting just to hear my own voice," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours as he paused for a ragged breath. His eyes were blown wide, dark with an intensity that had moved past simple adrenaline into something much deeper. "But with you... the silence doesn't feel like a threat."

His hands trailed upward, his thumbs brushing the line of your jaw before his fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back. The kiss that followed was slower, more deliberate, a silent claim. It wasn't the practiced charm of a frat boy; it was the heavy, crushing weight of a man who had finally found the one place where he didn't have to perform.

He urged you toward the bed, the mattress dipping under your combined weight. The small space of the dorm room was charged with a heavy, electric friction. As he leaned over you, his hair falling forward to shield the two of you from the dim glow of the lamp, the world outside—the fraternity, the expectations, the inevitable sunrise—simply ceased to matter. There was only the heat of his skin, the rhythm of his heart against yours, and the shared, quiet rebellion of the moment.

The rhythm of the rain against the windowpane became the only metronome that mattered, a soft, percussive counterpoint to the heat rising between you. Eren’s weight was a solid, grounding presence, his hands sliding under the hem of your shirt to find the bare skin of your waist. His palms were calloused and hot, searing a path that made the lingering chill of the night vanish instantly.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his green eyes luminous and predatory in the low amber glow of the desk lamp. The messy halo of his hair was damp against your pillow, and for a heartbeat, the frantic, jagged energy of the "Patron Saint of Bad Decisions" smoothed out into something devastatingly vulnerable.

"I’m not going back," he whispered again, his voice cracking slightly, less a statement of fact and more a prayer. "I’m staying right here. In this room. In this air."

He didn't wait for you to agree; he knew you were already there with him. He leaned down, his lips trailing a path from your jaw to the sensitive pulse point at the base of your throat. You felt the vibration of his low groan against your skin as your fingers tangled in the dark silk of his hair, pulling him closer. The space between you wasn't just physical anymore; it was a vacuum that the rest of the world was trying to fill, but he was holding the door shut with every touch.

His hands traveled higher, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your ribs, tracing the frantic thrum of your heart. He was mapping you out, memorizing the terrain of someone who didn't want anything from him but his presence.

"You have no idea," he breathed against your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe in a way that sent a fresh spike of lightning down your spine. "How long I've been looking for a place where I didn't have to be 'Eren Jaeger.'"

He shifted, his knee sliding between yours as he pinned you deeper into the mattress. The world of Sigma Kappa Phi, the "midnight toast," and Zeke’s cold, calculating eyes felt like a fever dream you’d both woken up from. Here, in the dim sanctuary of your room, the only "tradition" was the way your breath hitched when he moved, and the only "legacy" was the heat blooming where his skin met yours.

As he captured your lips again, slower this time, deeper, the intensity shifted from a desperate escape into a deliberate, burning focus. The night was far from over, and for the first time in his life, Eren wasn't running toward a goal or away from a ghost. He was just here. With you.

The transition from the door to the bed felt like a slow-motion descent into a world where only the two of you existed. Eren didn't let go of you for a single second; it was as if the physical connection was the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor. When you finally reached the edge of the mattress, the shift from standing to lying back felt like a release of a tension you hadn't realized you were carrying since the moment your eyes first locked in that crowded living room.

Eren hovered over you, his arms braced on either side of your head, his dark hair falling forward like a curtain that shut out the rest of your room. The only light came from the soft, amber glow of the desk lamp, casting long, flickering shadows against the wall. He looked down at you with a gaze that was almost painful in its honesty—no smirks, no bravado, just the raw, unvarnished need of a man who had finally found a place to land.

His hands, still slightly damp from the mist outside, moved with a newfound, trembling deliberation. He reached for the hem of his green flannel, the fabric heavy and smelling of woodsmoke and the cold night air. With a fluid, restless motion, he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it pool on the floor like a discarded skin. The white tank top underneath followed, tossed aside with a focused impatience that made his chest heave as he caught his breath.

In the dim light, the lean, hard lines of his torso were a map of every mile he’d run and every weight he’d lifted to meet someone else’s expectations of what a "Jaeger" should be. But as his fingers moved to the buttons of your shirt, his touch was surprisingly hesitant, his eyes searching yours for permission with every millimeter of progress.

"Is this okay?" he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, magnetic vibration that seemed to settle directly in your chest. "I don't want to rush this. I want to remember every second of it."

You reached up, your fingers brushing against the hot skin of his collarbone, and the contact seemed to electrify him. As the layers of the night—the party, the noise, the damp clothes—were shed and left on the hardwood floor, the vulnerability between you became absolute. Without the armor of his "President" persona or the costume of the frat-boy icon, he looked younger, softer, and infinitely more dangerous to your heart.

He sank down against you, the heat of his skin finally meeting yours without any barriers. The contact was a shock to the system, a grounding force that made the rest of the world feel like a distant, fading radio signal. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, taking a deep, shuddering breath of the vanilla and soap scent of your skin.

"Finally," he whispered against your pulse, his hands sliding up to cradle your head as he pulled you into a kiss that was no longer a frantic escape, but a slow, burning promise. "It’s just us."

The air in the room seemed to thin, leaving only the heat radiating between your bodies as the last of the damp, party-stained clothes hit the floor. Eren moved with a reverent sort of intensity, his hands tracing the curve of your waist and the line of your hip as if he were trying to memorize you through touch alone.

When he finally pulled you against him, skin to skin, the contact was a physical jolt. He was all hard angles and feverish warmth, a stark contrast to the cool sheets beneath you. He let out a long, shuddering exhale against your collarbone as you joined at your core, his muscles finally losing that hair-trigger tension he’d been carrying since the balcony.

"You have no idea," he murmured, his voice vibrating deep in his chest, "how loud it usually is in my head. But right now... it's just your heart."

He shifted, rising over you on his elbows, his dark hair falling forward to frame your face. In the amber glow of the lamp, his eyes were a stormy, brilliant green, focused entirely on you with a hunger that wasn't just physical—it was a craving for the reality you represented. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that started slow and syrupy before igniting into something deep and all-consuming.

His hands slid up to cradle your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, anchoring you to him as the world outside the dorm room door ceased to exist. Every brush of his skin against yours, every ragged breath he drew, felt like a deliberate choice to stay in this moment, far away from the "Jaeger" legacy and the expectations of the crowd.

For Eren, this wasn't just a night at a party; it was the first time he felt like he was breathing air that belonged only to him. He pulled you closer, his legs intertwining with yours, closing every remaining inch of space until there was no beginning or end to the heat between you.

The rain continued its relentless assault on the window, the sound now a rhythmic, soothing backdrop to the quiet intensity inside the room. Eren’s focus remained entirely on you, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every second spent in this small, quiet space was a victory against the life he’d left behind at the Sigma Kappa Phi house.

The heat between you was no longer just a byproduct of the dance floor or the adrenaline of the escape; it had settled into a steady, pulsing glow. He traced the line of your shoulder with his thumb, his gaze following the movement with a heavy, quiet reverence. The silence of the dorm was profound, broken only by the catch of his breath and the soft rustle of the sheets as he shifted closer, pulling the duvet over both of you to shut out the lingering chill of the night.

"I don't want the sun to come up," he admitted afterward, his voice a low, rough murmur against your temple. He wrapped an arm around your waist, drawing you into the curve of his body, his skin still radiating a feverish warmth. "I just want to stay right here, where the world can't find us."

In the dim amber light, the sharp, defensive lines of his face had finally softened. He looked at you not as a stranger he’d plucked from a crowd, but as a person who had seen the cracks in his armor and offered him a place to breathe anyway. He pressed a final, lingering kiss to your forehead, his eyes drifting shut as the exhaustion of the night—and the weight of the Jaeger name—finally began to give way to a restless, honest sleep.

When you get to Armin's dorm, you can tell he's high.

"Eren again?" you ask, humming in fascination as you watch his pretty red eyes follow you around the room.

He pushes up his glasses and nods. "He likes when I smoke with him."

"I'm sure he does." You pause, turning to look at Armin. You're busily folding his already—folded clothes, nervous under his pale stare. "Do you like it?"

He grins, leaning back into his pillow. His shirt rides up a little bit, revealing his toned stomach, and he stretches. "It makes me feel good. Like, I don't care that I haven't done my Calculus yet. I'd much rather"—at this he pauses and blushes—"have you here on my lap."

You turn to meet his gaze, running your tongue over your teeth. "Yeah? Well who am I to deny a man of his Earthly desires?" You move across the room to him, sliding onto his lap in one fluid motion.

He grins eerily-Eren-like and presses a long kiss to your neck. "Missed you. Was thinking about you all during class. Couldn't concentrate."

You thread your fingers through his hair, playing with it as he mumbles. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." He pulls back to look at you. You pause, head tilting to the side. He looks so pretty right now, eyes all red and lidded, lips parted. The side of his chin catches in the light, and you pause. "Armin? You're drooling, baby."

He closes his mouth. "Am I?"

"Mhmmm." You swipe your thumb slowly up the string of saliva, collecting it on the pad of your finger before laying it on your tongue. "Tastes like you."

Armin blinks up at you. He scrambles to push you off, tugging you down into the sheets with him. "Want s'more?" He doesn't wait before he presses down onto you, grinding gently against your thigh. His lips meet yours, his tongue entering your mouth quickly. The kiss is messy and had it been anyone else, you might have pulled away and gagged. But this is Armin.

When he finally lifts his head, a small string of saliva is connecting your lips. You break into a little giggle, and he buries his head in the crook of your neck. "Don't laugh at me."

"'M not laughing. You're just cute."

He huffs quietly against your skin, his arms tightening around you like he doesn’t want to let go. You can feel the warmth of him, the slight unsteadiness in the way he holds you, like he’s floating somewhere just above reality.

You smooth a hand through his hair again, slower this time. “You’re clingy when you’re like this.”

“Only with you,” he murmurs, voice muffled. “Everyone else is . . . too loud. You’re not.”

Your chest softens at that. “Yeah? I’m your calm?”

He nods against you, then tilts his head up just enough to look at your face again. His eyes are still hazy, but there’s something more grounded in them now—something real beneath the fog.

“Stay a little?” he asks.

You pretend to think about it, even though you’re already settling more comfortably against him. “I guess I could. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t forget about that Calculus.”

He groans, dropping his head back dramatically. “Don’t ruin it.”

You laugh softly, poking his side. “C’mon. I’ll sit with you while you try at least.”

He peeks at you through half-lidded eyes, then sighs like it’s the biggest burden in the world. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to leave.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you admit.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, late afternoon light stretching in thin golden lines across the floor and up the side of his bed. You can hear faint noise from the hallway—someone laughing, a door slamming—but it all feels far away, like it belongs to another world.

Armin shifts under you, adjusting until you’re both more comfortable, one of his hands absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along your arm. It’s not rushed, not needy—just… there. Like he’s grounding himself.

“You smell nice,” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “That’s random.”

“M’serious,” he insists softly, nuzzling closer for emphasis. “Like . . . clean. And warm.”

You let out a quiet laugh, resting your chin lightly against the top of his head. “You’re fried, Armin.”

“Not that fried,” he says, though the way he drags the words out proves otherwise. After a second, he adds, more quietly, “Just . . . everything feels slower. Easier.”

Your fingers keep moving through his hair, combing gently, untangling strands that don’t need untangling. “Easier sounds nice.”

“It is.” He tilts his head just enough to look up at you again. “You should try it sometime.”

“Maybe,” you say, though your tone makes it clear you’re not convinced. “I think I like you like this more.”

His lips twitch into a small, lazy smile. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You’re . . . softer.” You tap his cheek lightly. “Less in your head. Not that I mind when you're in your head. You just seem a little more peaceful. It's nice to see you so relaxed.”

He goes quiet at that, his gaze drifting for a moment like he’s actually thinking about it. Then he exhales, long and slow, and pulls you just a little closer again.

“I think too much,” he admits. “All the time. Even when I don’t want to.”

“I know,” you say gently.

There’s no teasing in your voice now, just something steady. Familiar.

He studies your face, like he’s trying to memorize it. “You make it quieter.”

Your breath catches a little, but you play it off, nudging him lightly. “Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

“I’m serious,” he mumbles, though he lets out a soft huff of amusement. “Like . . . when you’re here, it’s just you. Not everything else.”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you shift slightly, easing off his lap just enough to reach over to the small desk nearby. A notebook sits there, half-open, along with a pen he clearly hasn’t touched in hours.

You grab it and bring it back with you, settling against his side this time instead of on top of him.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging the notebook into his chest. “You promised.”

He groans immediately, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re evil.”

“Mm, maybe. But I’m right.” You tap the page. “Just one problem. That’s it.”

He squints at the notebook like it personally offended him, then looks at you again, clearly debating whether he can get away with ignoring it. When you just stare back, unimpressed, he sighs.

“Fine,” he mutters.

It takes him a second to sit up properly. He leans back against the headboard, pulling you with him so you’re tucked into his side, your shoulder pressed against his chest. His arm drapes loosely around you, still absentminded, still warm.

He clicks the pen open.

For a while, it’s quiet again—but a different kind of quiet now. The kind filled with small sounds: the scratch of pen on paper, his occasional muttering under his breath, the soft shift of fabric when either of you moves.

Every now and then, he pauses, staring at the problem like it might rearrange itself if he waits long enough.

“Okay,” he says slowly at one point, “if I just—no, that’s not right.”

You glance over. “Let me see.”

He tilts the notebook toward you, and you lean in, your shoulder brushing his more fully. You point at a line he wrote. “You skipped a step.”

“I didn’t skip—” He stops, squints, then groans. “I skipped a step.”

“Told you.”

“Don’t get smug about it,” he mumbles, though there’s no bite to it.

You smile anyway.

Another stretch of time passes like that—quiet, easy, shared. He actually finishes the problem, eventually, and when he does, he drops the pen dramatically onto the page.

“Done,” he declares, like he just climbed a mountain.

You give him a small clap. “Proud of you.”

“Barely survived,” he replies, though he’s smiling.

He lets the notebook slide off to the side, forgotten again, and turns his attention fully back to you. There’s that same soft look in his eyes, a little clearer now, but still warm, still heavy-lidded.

“Stay longer?” he asks again, quieter this time.

You don’t pretend to think about it now.

“Yeah,” you say.

He relaxes almost immediately at the answer, like something in him unclenches. His head tilts until it rests lightly against yours, his fingers finding your hand and threading through it without much thought.

Outside, the light shifts slowly toward evening, the gold fading into something softer, dimmer.

Inside, everything stays still.

He sees you before you see him.

You're dressed up as Indiana Jones, with a white button up and tiny little army green shorts that hardly cover your ass. Your legs are long, giving way to a pair of tall brown boots, one of which is crossed over your lap at the moment. You're talking to Yuji and Sukuna, the twins, asking about Sukuna's tattoos. He's raucous and loud, but you stay polite, shying away a little as he tries to throw a drunken arm around your shoulder.

Megumi has been planted in the same spot for almost three hours. Nobara's cart was fully charged, which—paired with one zyn on each side and the BORG someone had given him at some point—had him spinning. Presently, he's glaring around the room, trying to figure out who looks most likely to have real weed.

Choso? Definitely, but I don't wanna talk to him. Kuna? Same. Yuji? Probably not. I wonder if Inumaki smokes? Who am I kidding?

He doesn't register that you've sat down next to him until you gently tap his shoulder. His vision is swimming as he looks you up and down, furrowing his brows. "Yeah?"

"Oh, um—" you blush, shy "—Kuna said you would roll for me if I asked. I'm not good at it, and he said he didn't want to. If you don't want to, it's fine, I'll find someone else—"

"No!" Megumi says quickly. "It's cool, I can roll for you. Do you have papers?"

You nod. "Wanna go outside?"

He follows you out, surprised that you know where you're going. "Have we met before?"

"I've seen you, but I don't think we've met. I used to go out with Kuna."

Oh. That explains a lot. "Oh. Used to?"

You shrug, brushing it off. "We had differences. Broke up. Nothing messy, we're still friends. He still wants to fuck occasionally, though, which I don't really like but—sorry." You catch yourself rambling.

"It's cool. I didn't know Sukuna dated at all."

"I mean, barely. It's more like having sex a lot, smoking pot, and maybe having a real conversation or two." You laugh. "Here." From your little bag you retrieve the biggest bag of weed that Megumi has seen in his life. A full Ziploc sandwich bag full of green.

"Holy shit." He laughs. "Where the fuck did you get all that?"

You laugh too, realizing how ridiculous it looks. "Kuna. He's a fucking dick but this makes it worth while."

Megumi looks up, catching your pale eyes with his own. "You two still fuck around?"

You shrug. "Here and there. Not really. He just sort of gives me stuff still." You look down. "Sometimes I wonder if he still thinks we're dating. Sometimes I wish we were."

Megumi thinks back to the week before, when he had overheard Sukuna and two girls who were most certainly not you having a rather loud intimate moment. "You do? He's kind of a dick."

"Yeah. He is."

Silence. Megumi starts rolling, arranging the green in a little line on the paper, rolling it, and licking it closed.

"Can you do two?"

He nods. "For Kuna?"

You look up. "For you, dummy. You want some, right?"

He grins. "I mean, if you're offering."

Hours later, one way or another, you end up in Megumi's room. The party is long since over, and Megumi is bidding goodnight to the frat members while you wait. Your friends left hours ago, leaving you driverless and stranded, and Megumi, the gentleman he is, offered for you to stay over.

With no ulterior motives, obviously.

Obviously.

You can hear the brothers talking quietly in the hallway. You know a few of them—Kuna's friends. Choso, Geto, Yuji, of course. You're surprised that you'd never actually met Megumi. It made sense, because he and Sukuna were near opposites. Sun and moon. Where Sukuna was bright, hot days, Megumi was rainy and cold. Where Megumi was dark hair and pale skin and piercings, Sukuna countered him with tanned skin and pink hair and tattoos.

"Why the fuck is she staying with you? I'm so much sexier." You know Sukuna's voice from anywhere.

"Cause I won't fuck her in her sleep," comes Megumi's monotonous reply, hushed. Shadows cross the bottom of the door, and a second later, it opens to Megumi entering.

"Night, sweetheart," Sukuna calls, poking his head in. "You know where my room is if Mr. Moon gets too boring." Megumi shuts the door on him.

"Sorry. You can go stay with him if you want. I just sorta figured—"

You shrug, cutting him off. "I'm good in here. If that's okay."

"Course it is. I just wanted to ask." He grins. His eyes are red as fuck, and you giggle.

"What?" he demands.

"Y'look really fucking high."

"I'm literally time skipping right now." At this, you laugh harder, familiar with the idea of reality speeding up and slowing down while you're high.

"Do you do shrooms?"

"Once. Why? Do you have them?"

"Nah. Just curious. Cho grows 'em so I was wondering if Sukuna had given you any. Did you like them?"

"They were . . . enlightening, I think."

He grins. "You're pretty."

"Huh?"

"You're pretty." He drags his hand down your face.

"Pass me the fucking joint, I need to get on your level."

Not long after, you are. You lie beside each other, giggling and whispering and gesturing at the fake constellations of the glow-in-the-dark stars on Megumi's ceiling.

"You're cool," you hum, turning to him.

"You think so?"

You nod. "'Cept for that you're in a frat, but I'll let it slide."

He grins, sitting up. "Fuckin' hated this frat anyway."

You smile back.

"Did you really like Ryo all that much?" He's looking down at you now.

"Thought he was handsome. No, hot. Not handsome. He was fine. Nice. Shitty aftercare but great dick. Didn't like eating pussy, but never made me suck his dick."

Megumi blinks. "That is so much to unpack. Did all you guys do was fuck?"

"Pretty much."

"Shitty aftercare?"

You laugh. "One time he got us a hotel—two beds, you know? We had sex, and immediately after he went over to the other bed. No kiss, no hug, no "good game". Said he needed space. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't . . . good."

"And he didn't eat pussy? At all?"

"S'what he told me."

"He's fucking missing out." Megumi sits in contemplation. "The fuck, man? What guy wouldn't wanna eat you—" He pauses. You almost laugh when you catch the blush on his cheeks. "Nevermind. Point is, that's pussy shit."

You sit up on your elbows. "Pussy shit?"

"I mean, you can't just roll over and leave like you're clocking out of a shift."

"I've never had anyone mad on my behalf before."

He rolls his eyes. "I'm not mad. I'm annoyed. Pussy shit annoys me."

You laugh. Soft at first, then harder. "Yeah, me too."

The room settles after that—your laughter tapering off into something quieter, warmer. The air feels thick, hazy with smoke and whatever weird gravity has formed between you.

Megumi lies back down, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars above him. “You deserve better than that.”

You turn your head toward him. “Better than what?”

“Than some guy who treats you like a scheduled activity.” His voice is softer now, less sharp. “You’re not a fucking calendar reminder.”

You snort. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I’m serious.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and he pushes it back impatiently. “Aftercare’s not even hard. It’s literally just… caring. Water. A kiss. Don’t make the girl feel like you regret her.”

There’s something in his expression—earnest, almost irritated on your behalf—that makes your chest tighten.

“You’d be good at it?” you tease.

He huffs. “Yeah.”

“Confident.”

“I just have common sense.”

You roll onto your side, facing him fully now. The space between you is smaller than it was before. Not touching. Not quite. Your knee brushes his thigh accidentally—or maybe not—and neither of you moves away.

“You talk big for someone who’s been glaring at walls all night trying to find weed,” you murmur.

He groans. “Don’t remind me.”

“You were cute.”

His eyes flick to yours. “Cute?”

“Like a grumpy little detective.”

“I am not little.”

You grin. “You’re right. Big, scary frat boy.”

“Shut up.” But he’s smiling now.

Silence again. Not awkward—just heavy. Your fingers drift to the chain at his neck, tracing it absentmindedly. He freezes for half a second, then relaxes.

“You still wish you were dating him?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate. The honesty comes easier when you’re high. “I think I liked the idea of him. He’s loud. Confident. Everyone looks at him. Being chosen by someone like that feels…” You trail off, shrugging. “Validating.”

Megumi’s jaw tightens faintly. “You don’t need that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“No.” His voice drops. “It’s not.”

Your eyes search his face. For all his sarcasm and bluntness, there’s something fragile under it. Something careful.

“He’s sun and I’m—” he gestures vaguely upward at the dark ceiling. “Whatever this is.”

“The moon,” you say softly.

He scoffs. “Moon’s just reflecting someone else’s light.”

You don’t like that.

You reach up, cupping his cheek without really thinking about it. His breath catches—just barely.

“The moon controls the tide,” you murmur. “It doesn’t need to be loud to matter.”

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then his hand comes up, hesitant at first, settling at your waist. Not possessive. Just there. Warm.

“You’re gonna regret staying in here instead of going with him,” he says, though it sounds more like a question.

You shake your head. “No. I don’t think I will.”

His thumb brushes against the fabric at your hip, slow, testing. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

He leans in slightly, close enough that you can feel his breath mix with yours. Not kissing you. Not yet. Giving you space to pull back.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the gap yourself.

The kiss is softer than you expected. Slower. Nothing like the rushed, heated ones you’re used to. He kisses you like he’s trying to learn something, like he’s paying attention.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“Good game,” he murmurs.

You laugh under your breath.

It's past midnight when your husband gets home. You've fallen asleep on the couch (again). The TV is quiet, playing something you don't remember turning on, and you jolt awake when it's suddenly turned off. The silence fills the room uncomfortably, and you open one eye to see Toji in front of you, setting the remote back down.

He's wordless as he turns back to you, and silent still when he picks you up. You wrap your legs around his waist and bury your face into his neck, and you feel his hands on your butt, holding you.

"You shouldn't be waitin' up for me. Gotta sleep," he says roughly.

"I can't sleep without you," you mumble back. He's too tired to retort, so he just continues climbing the stairs. As you pass your son's bedroom, he pauses.

"Gumi asleep?"

You nod. He continues walking. He opens the door to your bedroom quietly, and sets you gently on the bed. Only then do you finally get a good look at him. He's got dried blood on both forearms and a little on his face. More noticeably, however, are the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion in his face. "S' not mine," he mutters, watching you give him a mental once over. He turns around, starts stripping his clothes off. "Gonna shower."

You want to go with him—to hold him and wash his hair and clean the blood off of him—but you know he'd rather decompress by himself. If he wants your touch (and you know he does), he'll find it when he's clean.

Not long after Toji disappears into the bathroom, your door creaks open. Megumi is standing in the doorway, clutching a stuffed dog and rubbing his eyes sleepily in the dim light of Toji's bedside lamp. "Mama?"

"Hi, baby," you hum, opening your arms to welcome him into your embrace. He crawls up the bed toward you, climbing onto your lap.

"Is Daddy home?"

Your heart melts a little. He loves his dad so much. "Mhm. He's showering now. Want to stay here until he's done so you can say goodnight?"

Megumi nods sleepily.

Soon after, Toji emerges. He's shirtless, wearing only black pajama pants and drying his hair with a towel. He pauses when he sees you and Megumi waiting for him in bed. His face softens—a rare flicker of a smile crosses his scarred lips. He climbs into bed and pulls you close. He shuts his eyes, and you can see his defenses going down.

"Say night night, Gumi. Daddy is tired," you hum.

Megumi hugs his father and kisses his cheek. "Night night, Daddy."

"I love you, Gumi," Toji says softly, squeezing him.

"Love you too, Daddy."

You take Megumi and put him back to bed. When you return to your bedroom, Toji is half asleep. He lifts one arm for you without opening his eyes, and you crawl into his embrace, settling with your face in his neck and your legs tangled with his. He wraps his arm tight around you and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I love coming home to you."

You hum softly, and for a moment, you're certain of something. For all of Toji's grumpiness and flaws and extreme family issues, you love him more than you've ever loved anything before. And that's how you know:

You're crying again.

God, Enjin loves when you do that. You're so pretty when you cry, bottom lip trembling between your teeth, eyes shimmering, the tips of your ears turning pink.

Something about it turns him on. A lot. He loves when you come to him crying, when you collapse in his arms and bury your face in his neck and let him hold you. Something about feeling needed is incredibly erotic.

This time, it's because of that friend of yours. What was his name? Jabber? Enjin remembers meeting him once, in the back room of a party with a needle in his arm.

"I don't know what to do!" you're saying. You're a blubbering mess. Enjin tries to pull his eyes away from your tits as you speak. Holy shit, lock in. She's upset here, dude. "He won't stop! Every time I see him, he's all jittery and shaking. I don't think I've seen him once this week where he hasn't been high off his ass!" At this, you erupt into another sobbing spell. "I just want to help him!"

Enjin pulls your trembling form against him. "I know, doll. You're too good for this world." His hands slither up your sides, one hand rubbing circles over your shoulder blade. "There's nothin' you can do unless he wants to be helped, y'know? He doesn't realize he has a problem—he doesn't realize how good of a friend yer bein'."

"I just want to help him," you repeat, softer. You're drained—he can feel it in the way you slump against him.

"You wanna get some sleep, baby?" he asks quietly, lifting your chin to examine your face. "You tired? Let me take care of you, yeah?"

You sniffle, giving him a small nod. Without another word, Enjin tugs you to your feet, helping you out of your clothes. You sway on your feet, overwhelmed by exhaustion. As he slips off your outfit, Enjin slowly peppers kisses along your body. Your torso, your collarbone, your hips, your calves. He lays you back down on his bed and pulls a soft blanket over you.

You're asleep within seconds of your head hitting the pillow. He smiles down at you, then lets his eyes drag up and down your sleeping form. Fuck. You trust him so much. He's been half hard the whole time you were crying, but now, seeing you so trusting, so innocent—in his bed, in his blanket, after crying on his shoulder—it turns him on even more.

The tip of his cock throbs against his boxers, and he frees the tip, running his index finger over the slit. His balls tighten, and he lets his head fall back, suppressing a deep groan. He looks back down at your sleeping form, eyes lidded.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, one finger coming down to play with a strand of your hair. Your lips are parted as you sleep, and all he can do is imagine slipping his cock between them.

But no. That would be cruel. But looking certainly won't hurt. He strokes himself slowly at first, eyes glued to your peaceful face. His cock twitches in his hand, heavy with the guilt and immense lechery filling his being. "Fuck . . ."

It's almost too much. Almost. He plays with himself, rubbing his palm over his cock head and dipping his finger into his slit, playing with the pre spilling from it. He's fucking crazy for you, just watching you sleep is enough to have him about to cum buckets. But he withholds.

Until he doesn't. Without any warning, he cums. Hard. All over your face. He gasps, gripping the bedside table until his knuckles turn white, using all of his might to not moan out load. His head falls back, and when he returns to reality, you're blinking up at him, having sat up in bed.

"Jin?" you ask softly, touching your face. Oh shit. He came there. Right.

"Hi, baby." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly before sitting down next to you. "I-I'm sorry, you just looked so pretty, and I couldn't—"

You never would have thought cute, nerdy Armin's scene would be a frat party.

Nevermind this exact frat party—that of Sigma Rho.

You spot him as soon as you walked in, flanked by Mikasa, your best friend.

You turn to her, pulling her closer as you mumble, "I need a drink." She glances up at you and nods.

"I'm gonna find Eren!" It takes her all of three seconds to bound away, her usually independent personality marred by the pregame joint you had shared on the walk over.

You spot Armin again when you rejoin her, this time at the pong table. Violet lights dance around you, and strobes flicker in and out of your face. Mikasa is blasted now, and you wonder how much she had to drink between leaving your side and rejoining you now. Eren, the ever-gorgeous President of Sig Rho and her boyfriend, is behind her, hair put up in a loose ponytail, muscular arms tight around her waist. She's playing pong against Armin while Eren watches, enamored by his pretty girlfriend.

You sneak in beside Mikasa, elbowing her. "Hey! I didn't know you guys hung out with Armin."

She turns to you, blinking, then recognizes you. "Oh, yeah! You didn't? He's Eren's best friend."

"Really?" You glance across the table at him. Rectangular glasses reflect the strobe lights. He looks cute, a little like a cat, tongue swiping his lips.

"Go be on his team!" Eren turns to yell in your ear. "Girls don't talk to him, he needs some company!"

Mikasa just nods along, eyes blank as she stares at you. You give in, making your way to the other side of the table.

"Hey," Armin says, flashing you a small grin. "Gonna help me win?"

"I'm a fucking pong champ, just you wait."

Safe to say, with Eren's pro frat pong skills, you lost. And in the process, you took a lot of shots. One way or another, you've ended up on the couch with Sasha Braus on one side and Armin on the other.

You don't realize you're lying on Armin until he offers you water, and you hurriedly sit up. "Oh my god, I'm sorry." You blush, holding up your hands.

He doesn't say anything, a little blush creeping up his cheeks as one hand slides around your face, cupping your jaw and tugging you back down to lie on him again. He leans further back against the couch, letting you shut your eyes on his chest.

At some point while you drift in and out of consciousness in the middle of the party, Eren approaches Armin. He sits down beside you, leaning over you to speak to his friend. "Is she okay?"

You feel Armin nod. "Guess she smoked a lot before she got here. I'm pretty fucked too. Gonna head off soon."

"Gonna see if she wants to go too?"

Another movement. Maybe a shrug? You feel his hand cup your face to get your attention. You take a moment before opening your eyes. "Want some water, pretty girl?"

"I just want a cigarette," you whine. "Or a zyn. Or both."

He blinks. "I can make that happen. C'mon, up you go." Surprisingly strong, he tugs you up off the couch. You turn back to look at Eren, the frame rate of your vision slowing by the second.

"Bye, Eren!"

He grins. "Bye, have fun." He shoots Armin a not-so-discreet wink. Plastered, you don't even notice.

You don't remember getting outside, or Armin finding you a cigarette (though he must have), or lighting it, or making your way to his dorm across campus.

When you enter his room, it feels like it’s breathing with you. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol finally catching up, softening the edges of everything, turning sharp thoughts into rounded ones. The lamp is too bright and not bright enough at the same time. The floor feels farther away than it should.

Armin is sitting way too close. Or maybe he’s always been that close and you’re only noticing now.

You squint at him, head tipped slightly. “You know,” you say slowly, “people talk about you like you’re… very serious.”

He hums. “That tracks.”

“But I think,” you continue, waving a hand vaguely between you, “they underestimate how weird you are.”

That earns a quiet laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is. I think.” You pause, then lean closer, lowering your voice like you’re sharing a secret even though there’s no one else around. “Okay. I have a question.”

Armin smiles, already bracing himself. “I’m afraid.”

“You should be.” You peer at his mouth with exaggerated concentration. “Do you actually have a tongue piercing? Or did someone make that up because they couldn’t reconcile you with the idea of doing something impulsive?”

He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he laughs—really laughs, shoulders shaking slightly. “Wow. That’s… impressively specific.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“It is,” he admits. “Yes. I do.”

Your eyes widen. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“No way.”

“Yes way.”

“Why?” you ask, genuinely baffled now. “You plan for everything. You probably planned for planning.”

He leans back, a little unsteady, then shrugs. “That’s exactly why.” He squints at the ceiling like it’s personally responsible for his thoughts. “I wanted one decision that didn’t lead anywhere. No ripple effects. No strategy.”

“That’s impossible,” you say solemnly. “Everything has ripple effects.”

He smiles at you, slow and thoughtful. “Exactly.”

You sit with that for a moment, then snort. “That’s such an Armin answer.”

“I know.” He sighs. “I’m exhausting.”

“Yeah,” you say fondly. “But in, like, a comforting way.”

There’s a pause. A warm, unbalanced one.

“…Can I see it?” you ask, suddenly shy again.

He tilts his head. “You’re very curious.”

“I’m drunk,” you reply. “This is my truth.”

He laughs, then leans in closer, lowering his voice. “Okay. But you can’t make a big deal out of it.”

“I absolutely will,” you promise.

He shakes his head, smiling, then slowly parts his lips. He tilts his head just right, tongue slipping out just enough for the light to catch the small glint of metal before he pulls it back again.

Your brain short-circuits. “Oh.”

“That was exactly the reaction you promised not to have,” he says.

“I didn’t scream,” you argue. “That’s restraint.”

He’s still close. Too close. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, faint but unmistakable, mixed with something warm and familiar. You’re suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.

“You’re staring again,” he murmurs.

“You showed me a forbidden artifact,” you say. “What did you expect?”

His smile softens, then fades into something quieter. “You know,” he says, voice low and slightly slurred, “I forget sometimes that I’m allowed to just… exist. Not be useful. Not be right.”

“That’s tragic,” you say. Then, more gently, “You’re very bad at being normal.”

“I’m excellent at it,” he counters. “I’m doing it right now.”

You laugh—and that’s when it happens. The laughter dissolves into closeness, into the space between you collapsing without either of you really deciding. His hand comes up, tentative, resting at your waist like he’s checking whether this is real.

The kiss is messy at first. Slightly off-angle. Too much feeling, not enough coordination. Then it deepens, turns hungry and warm and unfiltered, like neither of you is sober enough to hide anymore. Armin kisses like he’s been holding back thoughts for years—intense, searching, almost desperate.

When the piercing brushes against you, cool against heat, you gasp without meaning to. He pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead pressing against yours.

“Oh,” he whispers. “That did something.”

“Don’t get smug,” you say breathlessly, then kiss him again.

This one is slower. Deeper. His hands are steadier now, like he’s anchoring himself through touch. The world tilts, pleasantly unmoored, conversation dissolving into murmurs and half-formed thoughts about choice and meaning and how strange it is to be alive at the same time as someone else.

Eventually, you pull back, laughing softly, foreheads touching.

“We’re going to regret this in the morning,” you say.

“Probably,” he agrees.

Neither of you moves away.

The light feels dimmer. The room warmer. Words give up their hold, replaced by shared breath and the quiet understanding that not everything needs to be decided tonight.

The room has officially stopped obeying gravity. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol, loosening time until minutes stretch and fold in on themselves. The lamp is dimmer now—someone must have touched it at some point, though neither of you remembers doing it. Everything feels softer. Warmer. Less defined.

You’re still close. Too close to pretend it was an accident.

Armin’s forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing a little too hard, like you’ve just run somewhere without quite deciding to. He laughs quietly, the sound low and unguarded.

“This is… not how I usually make decisions,” he admits.

You smile, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. You’re very bad at this version of chaos.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes your side, absentminded, grounding. “And yet.”

“And yet,” you echo.

Another kiss finds you—not rushed, not careful either. It’s slower now, deeper, like neither of you is in a hurry anymore. The world has narrowed to warmth and closeness and the strange comfort of being a little unsteady together. When his mouth curves into a faint smile against yours, you laugh softly, kissing him again just because you can.

Somewhere between one kiss and the next, conversation dissolves into murmurs—unfinished thoughts about choice, about freedom, about how strange it is that bodies remember things minds try to organize away. Armin says something about intention. You respond with something about how intention is overrated. Neither of you is sure how much sense it makes, but it feels true anyway.

His hand slides to your shoulder, tentative, checking in without asking. When you don’t pull away, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“I’m still here,” he says quietly. Not a question.

“So am I,” you reply.

The space between kisses grows shorter, the pauses filled with soft laughter and whispered comments you’ll only half remember later. At some point, you notice his jacket is gone—when did that happen? He notices your shoes kicked off across the room, like they gave up on formality entirely.

Fingers fumble a little. Buttons prove more complicated than expected. There’s a shared laugh when someone gets caught on a sleeve, the moment disarming rather than awkward. Nothing feels rushed—just unplanned, unfolding naturally, like the night has decided for you.

The room grows darker, quieter. The world outside might as well not exist. There’s warmth, closeness, the steady reassurance of another presence right there with you. Whatever comes next feels less like a decision and more like a gentle drift.

Eventually, words stop altogether.

The night doesn’t close in. It stretches.

The room is still there—lamp glowing low, shadows soft but visible, the quiet hum of something outside the walls reminding you that the world hasn’t ended just because you stopped paying attention to it. You’re aware of the couch beneath you now, the way its fabric scratches faintly against skin where there used to be layers.

Armin shifts, unsteady but careful, like he’s constantly recalibrating where you are in relation to him. His shirt is gone, folded in a way that suggests muscle memory more than intention. Yours is half-forgotten, slipping from one shoulder, catching at your elbow.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You’re . . . losing a battle with gravity,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You snort softly. “It’s very persuasive tonight.”

He helps, fingers brushing your arm as he eases the fabric away properly, slow enough that it feels deliberate even if it isn’t planned. His touch lingers—not possessive, not rushed. Curious. Present.

That seems to be the theme.

You’re close enough now that you can see the tiny changes in his expression when he thinks he’s said too much, or when he realizes he doesn’t actually want to stop talking. His eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused in that honest, alcohol-softened way.

“I don’t usually let things get this far without . . . rules,” he admits quietly.

You tilt your head. “And right now?”

He exhales, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. “I can’t remember the rules.”

“That sounds terrifying for you.”

“It is,” he says. Then, softer, “But it’s also kind of a relief.”

You sit with that. Literally and figuratively.

Your legs tangle—accidentally at first, then not. The contact is grounding, warm, unmistakably real. When you lean in again, the kiss is different this time: slower, deeper, less about momentum and more about staying. He tastes faintly of whatever you were drinking, and when his tongue brushes yours, the cool flicker of the piercing is impossible to ignore.

You pull back just enough to breathe. “You definitely did that on purpose.”

He looks genuinely startled. “I—maybe. A little.”

“Philosophical about it?”

“Unfortunately,” he says, laughing quietly. “I was thinking about how sensation is one of the only things that forces honesty.”

You blink at him. “You’re saying that now?”

“I told you I’m bad at chaos.”

Your laughter dissolves into another kiss, and this one is heavier, unbalanced in the best way. His hands rest at your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent arcs like he’s memorizing where you are. Yours settle at his shoulders, then his back, warmth under your palms grounding you both.

Clothes don’t vanish all at once. They shift. Slide. Get tugged and adjusted and forgotten. Skin meets skin in places that feel intimate simply because they’re unguarded.

His hands wander your body, fingertips tracing delicate curves. "Hey."

"Hey."

"I want to kiss you."

You start to lean in to kiss him, and pause when he shrinks back.

"The other you, pretty."

"O-oh. You want to?"

He nods. "So fucking bad." He's already dragging his piercing down your torso, hazel eyes glued to yours, waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You don't.

One hand presses you back against his sheets, while the other runs over your panties. You don't remember how you ended up in such a state of undress, but now that he's leaning down, mouthing at you through pink lace, you don't much mind.

He pulls your panties down teasingly slow, kissing your inner thighs. He doesn't say anything, only smirking up at you before slowly kissing your pussy. You hardly know what's happening, his piercing stimulating you in the best way, your drunk mind blank and on fire at the same time.

All you can think is: do I love Armin? You may.

At some point, you end up leaned back, Armin hovering just enough to keep from putting his weight on you, studying your face like he’s afraid it might change if he blinks.

“You’re very real,” he says suddenly.

“So are you,” you reply.

He swallows. “That’s… good.”

There’s a pause—not tense, not uncertain. Just full.

He settles beside you instead of over you, an intentional choice, one arm draped loosely around your shoulders. You fit there easily, like this configuration has always existed and you’re only just discovering it. His thumb traces idle patterns against your arm, grounding, repetitive.

The conversation drifts back in—not structured, not heavy. Bits of memory. Half-formed theories. Laughter that comes too easily. His mouth on your neck while you ramble. Silence that doesn’t demand filling.

You’re awake. The lights are still on. Nothing disappears.

ex! toji who is still so obsessed with you. stalking your social media, showing up at your door every few days, texting you all the little updates. he won't let you get anywhere near a new guy - not while he's around.

ex! toji who lets you sit on his lap while he rolls for you, big hands over yours, guiding them, showing you how. you always fail miserably, and he laughs and finishes it for you, lighting the blunt and taking a drag ("I have to make sure it's not poisoned, 'kay?") before passing it to you

ex! toji who shows up on your doorstep bloody and exhausted after a mission, and just collapses into your arms when you open the door. you argue pointlessly with his drained form for a little (you always do), but eventually give in and bring him inside. usually, this is followed by you helping to clean up his wounds, running a bath, and his cock "accidentally" slipping inside you when you move to sit on his lap in the tub

ex! toji who was actually the one who broke up with you. he claimed that his life was too dangerous for a sweet thing like you, told you to fuck off and never think of him again. then, a few hours later, you find yourself wondering how you're supposed to do that when you can feel his cock kissing your cervix

ex! toji who ragebaits for fun. he pisses you off just cause he likes to see you flustered and argue back. you like to have your moment before he takes control. brat taming is toji's ultimate ability in the bedroom, and you've been flipped under him in three seconds flat by the time you realize you've gone too far. "now where'd those pretty insults go, ma? y'sure seem real quiet now."

ex! toji whose back is like that of a greek god. how were you supposed to hate him when he came out of the bathroom in the morning, flexing for you to show off all of the scratches you left raking down his back from the night before. he grins like a little kid, claiming that they keep him safe on missions.

ex! toji who fucks you slow and deep, just so he can see the bulge of his cock pressing out of you. he likes to press down on it, making your eyes shut tight and tear up in that oh-so-delicious way that has him diving headfirst into an orgasm.

He didn't know a single one of their names.

That was the only thing Gojo could think about on his drive home to your apartment. All twelve of the non sorcerers that had been killed—every single one of them had names, families, lives. All of that, taken away and flushed down a toilet in the quarter of a second it had taken him to blink.

Satoru was no stranger to deaths of non sorcerers. In every mission, at least some element of sacrifice was necessary to prevail. This had seemed unnecessary, however. He had been right there. All he had done was blink, and they were dead. Sure, he had saved more than had been lost, but was that really worth it? Is it enough to say that you saved some, even though others perished?

He had sat to the side after, watching as a little girl cried over her father's decapitated body, watching as an elderly man searched for his wife. People's lives were not his to gamble with—he knew that better than anyone. Yet it seemed so often that they fell into his hands, trickling through like sand in an hourglass.

The sound of his own hand opening the door to your apartment brings him back to the real world, looking up into the dimly lit entryway.

"Is that you, Satoru?" you call from further inside.

He doesn't respond, dropping his bags and shrugging off his coat.

You emerge from the doorway opposite him, beaming. Your smile drops quickly as you see his face, brows knitting together in worry. "What's wrong?"

It takes him three steps before the tears start to fall. More and more, until the two of you have slowly gone to the floor and he lies in your arms, sobbing.

You've hardly ever seen your husband cry. On your wedding day, one tear. And once after the infamous Shibuya Incident (at which you were also present), where so many of his comrades had been lost.

Never before had you seen him like this. Overwhelmed and uncontrolled, letting his emotions take over.

You quickly pull him tighter against you, letting him wrap his arms around your waist and cry into your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair. "It's okay, whatever it is, it'll be okay . . ."

"I couldn't do it," he chokes out, voice muffled a little into your skin.

"Do what?"

"Save them all."

"Oh, Toru . . ." you say softly. You have no idea how to react—of course you don't. Satoru had never been one to be overly concerned with the aftermath of his battles. What had happened on this mission that led him to cry so hard, to care so much?

He pulls away a little, lip trembling. "I'm supposed to be the fucking strongest and all I can do is manage to exorcise one measly curse. Twelve people died today, and there's nothing I could do about it."

"Toru." You take one of his shaking hands and still it between yours. "Just because you're the strongest doesn't mean you can save everyone. You—"

"I know that! Of course I know that. No one could have saved those people. I just . . . fuck. I watched this one little girl find her dad's body, and his head was a little farther away. She had to drag"—his voice breaks—"his body to his head. And then I watched her sit there and cry. These people that I fight for . . . they all have real lives and love people. If I had to sit there and drag your body to your head . . ." He trails off, and you understand.

"It's not your fault, Toru."

He gives you a sad smile, running his thumb over your knuckles. "You're too kind for this world, Y/N."

You look down, pressing your lips together. "Sometimes I wonder that myself. I made yaki udon. You should come eat."

"Y/N?"

"Hmm?"

When you turn your head back to him, you're met with his lips on yours, his hands cupping your face. It's not really a sweet or gentle kiss, but the moment is raw and beautiful. "I love you."

rockstar!bf enjin would be the type to write songs about you, but not the ones you'd expect. you would hear songs he plays with sweet names like "the muse in my dreams" or something stupid and cringy, but in reality, his bandmates were the ones writing those songs. the ones he writes were always about you, and they describe you in such a raw way - both crude and beautiful. in his lyrics, he speaks of letting his lips trace your body, feeling around inside of you, searching for your heart. they were a poorly hid innuendos, but his fans loved it nonetheless

rockstar!bf enjin who was the perfect embodiment of a rockstar. always smoking. his favorite cigarettes have a sort of sweet smell to them, and he likes when you smoke with him. he does drugs, he parties, he drinks heavily. but he never cheats on you. even in the most tempting of situations, his loyalty always stays.

rockstar!bf enjin who takes photos of you, naked in your bed, looking up at him with those big, pretty eyes, crops it just enough so that you can't tell who it is, and smacks it on the cover of his band's next album

rockstar!bf enjin who's by far the most popular in the band. he's hot, he's tall, he's tatted up, and he plays guitar. what girl wouldn't fall for him? his band members tease him about it all the time, but you know he loves the attention. he can tell when you get jealous, however, and always moves to reassure you that he's only ever yours.

rockstar!bf enjin who started dating you before he was famous, back when he was a nobody moving to the big city with a pack of cigarettes and a guitar. he met you at a little dive bar where you were performing, singing a husky, jazzy tune, and fell deep in love with you before you had even walked off the stage.

rockstar!bf enjin who fucks like there's no tomorrow, holding you tight and bullying into you relentlessly. by the time he's finished with you, you've collapsed onto the bed, a trembling mess of whimpers and tears. he crawls over you, kissing your tears away, and rolls over beside you, pulling you tight into his arms. he plays with your fingers as you talk to each other in the dark, whispering about all sorts of everyday monotonies.

rockstar!bf enjin who wonders if he could ever have a real life with you. he sits beside you while you sleep, looking down at you, wondering what you would look like years from now, old and tired but just as beautiful. he decides then that he'll marry you, no matter what.

You were fucked from the start.

How could you not be?

With his light hair and piercing eyes, tanned skin dotted with tattoos.

You had your ways with each other. He cared for you in ways you'd never been cared for before. You had the innate ability to forgive him for anything.

Is that what that was? Forgiving him? Trembling beneath him as his cock slipped in and out of you? As he whispered apologies and "I love you"s against the column of your throat?

And is that why he's sitting across from you now? You can smell the smoke from his cigarette, pursing your lips and inhaling as he blows the concentrated smoke from his mouth to yours. His big hands cup your face, passing the smoke back and forth in a messy kiss.

"'M sorry, doll," he mumbles against your lips.

"You don't have to apologize any more, Enjin. It's okay," you assure him, one hand coming up to hold onto his wrist.

"But I want you t'know I mean it. Really."

"I know you do, Jin."

The moon is high and full and bright overhead. His hair is silver in this lighting, and you play with it gently as he lies his head in your lap. You trace the tattoos on his bare chest, walking your fingers up and down his arms and trailing them down his abs. "You're so handsome."

All he does is hum, eyes shut. He peaks one open to look up at you, corner of his mouth lifting in a little grin. "You're too cute, doll." A beat passes, and his smile fades a little as he bites the inside of his cheek. "I shouldn't have done it."

You shut your eyes tight, wishing the conversation incoming wouldn't happen. "Jin-"

"Shh. It's my fuckin' fault, the least I can do is man up and be real about it."

You open your eyes, meeting his, nodding slowly. You know he'll acknowledge it and you'll move on, and he'll do it again and the cycle will continue. That's just how it is.

His hands are shaking a little. "Controlling, right? That's what you said?"

You nod, looking away.

"Baby, I want you to tell me these things." He slips his thumb under your chin, tugging your face up. "I don't like when you go out with guys, I don't like seeing you with them, I don't like when you don't listen to me." He swallows. "That . . . that doesn't mean that's how you have to live your life. In fear that I'll be angry or somethin'. I want you to be happy. Both of us."

You nod. "I know. I understand."

His hand threads your hair and pulls your head back, and he drops his lips to yours, slowly mouthing at you. "You do?"

You nod, squeezing his hand.

You feel him smile against your lips, cradling you and switching so that he's on top of you, caging you in. "I gotta say, sweetheart, I've never meant anyone like you."

Your heart flutters in your chest. Suddenly, you worm your way out of his grasp, reminded of something. You go over to your desk drawer, producing something that made Enjin's eyes light up. "You wanna smoke it?" you ask giddily.

"A blunt? Where the fuck did you get that from?"

You giggle, hiding your face. "A magician never reveals her secrets." You sit back down next to Enjin, finding your lighter beneath your pillow and taking a long drag.

He wraps his arms around you, gently pulling you back against his chest. He slides the blunt from your fingers, and you can feel his chest rising as he inhales.

It's not long before you're both high, you draped lazily across his body, playing with his fingers. Enjin is running his fingers up and down your arms, watching goosebumps rise.

"What if we had a kid together, doll?"

Even in your foggy mind, the question shocks you. "A kid? Like a human child?"

"Yeah." You feel him pepper kisses down your neck. "You'd look so fuckin' pretty all stuffed full with my baby . . ."

You shake your head. "Jin, before anything like that can happen, you need to figure some stuff out."

"Like what?"

"Like not flipping out on me for going into town with Gris."

"Baby, I'm telling you, he's-"

You whirl around. "Are you fucking kidding? You're still trying to blame it on him?"

"Hey, listen-"

"No! I'm fucking sick of this shit. All you do is act like all of our problems are with me or with someone else, but it's you, Jin. You're controlling and possessive and I deserve better." You stare down at him.

His hands are trembling when he reaches up to you. He pulls you into a hug, tight against his body. "Y/N . . ."

You cry silently, shoulders shaking in tiny sobs as he holds you.

"I know you deserve better." You lift your head to look at him. "I'm a selfish man. I need you. I don't know what I'd do without you."

You know he's manipulating you. You know he's holding you close and telling you what you want to hear.

"I love you, doll. So fuckin' much. I . . . I need you to fix me. Make me a better man. For my sake, for yours-" he covers your stomach with his large hand "-and for the sake of our future baby."

"Fucking step on it, Ken!"

Cops are everywhere. You can see them in front of you, out of the corners of your eyes—can hear the click! of their guns as they draw them.

"Ken," you whisper. "If we don't move, we're going to die."

"I know that!"

"Then drive!"

You lurch forward as the motorcycle beneath you suddenly kicks into drive, sending you and your partner forward. You gasp, reaching forward and circling your arms around Draken's waist. Men jump out of the way, panicking in the path of his Zephyr.

"That was fucking close!" you say over the wind, leaning forward against Draken to say it in his ear.

"I know!" He glances back at you, and you catch the shit-eating grin on his face.

"Fuck you, you waited that long on purpose!"

"I like when hot chicks like you cling onto me."

You pinch him. He jerks out of your grasp, sending the bike teetering. You latch onto him again in a panic, and he laughs.

You bite back a smile as he speeds up.

By the time the two of you have returned to Toman's meeting place, the Musashi Shrine, the meeting has already begun. You silently take your places flanking Mikey, looking out over the sea of black and gold before you. You see lots of familiar faces—Mitsuya and Hakkai with the Second Division, Takemichi and Chifuyu with the First, Smiley and Angry, and so on.

Mikey is giving some motivational speech about their upcoming battle. As he finishes, he turns to you. "Our Captain of the Special Operations Squadron, Y/N, will now state her opinion on facing this new powerful rival."

You step forward. "Sir. Vice President Ryuguji and I were sent early this morning to collect intelligence on this up and coming gang known as 'the Lotus'. We gathered a wealth of valuable information on them, but the most important to you all is that they play dirty. They use guns and knives, and they don't follow the rules of ethics that we as the Tokyo Manji Gang follow. While this may be true, all of us here have to remember that to fight dirty back is to stoop to their level. We will continue to fight on an even playing ground, just as Toman always has, and we will prevail."

You see Draken eye you out of the corner of your eye. You're purposefully leaving out the details you acquired on the pure bloodlust the gang portrayed. You would leave that bit to Mikey.

As the meeting adjourns, the three of you come together, with Mitsuya and Takemichi jogging up the steps to meet you.

"Takemitchy!" Mikey calls, clapping the shorter blond's back. Takemichi splutters.

"So, what did you actually find out while you were out there?" Mitsuya asks you, down to business.

"They're dangerous," Draken says. "More dangerous than Black Dragon, than Tenjiku, than any other gang we've faced. They have over five hundred members, and they hold all of Kyoto, from what we heard."

"Kyoto's fucking huge, man," Mitsuya mumbles.

"Exactly. They have the strength and means to take over a city like Kyoto. We need to make sure they don't do the same to Tokyo. Toman protects Tokyo from gangs like this," you say fiercely. "We can't let them win."

"That goes without saying." Mikey nods. "L/N. Kenny. I have another task for you."

You see Takemichi look up.

"I want you two to find as much as you can on the leader."

"That's the thing—they don't have one. It's not a Headless Angel thing, it's a they-literally-don't-have-anyone-in-charge thing."

Draken nods. "This is what makes them so dangerous. They're huge, uncoordinated, chaotic, and their only goal is to dominate."

You bite your lip, hiding your smile. "Gonna be one hell of a fight."

"Mmhm." Mikey turns away from the four of you, crossing his arms. "There's no head to take out. Each cell functions on its own." He looks up at the moon overhead, shutting his eyes. "We can't just break apart one bit and the rest will crumble. We have to destroy all of the Lotus."

You nod.

"Alright. I'll mull over strategies. For tonight, get some sleep. Meet here in the morning and we'll figure some shit out." Mikey turns back to you, eyes glittering.

The five of you say your goodbyes and start to move your separate ways. You follow Draken over to his bike, getting your bag off the back.

"I don't wanna walk all the way home," you whine, shuffling your feet.

"Stay at mine. It's not far. I can drive us."

"Won't your brothel sisters get mad?"

"Please." He rolls his eyes. "They love you. Every time you come they're talking about you pre—how nice you are."

You smile, catching his slip. "Yeah, if that's okay. Not like I have anyone waiting at home for me." You turn to get on his bike when Takemichi runs up.

"Y/N!" he calls.

You sigh. "What's up, Takemichi?"

"Can I talk to you one sec?"

You nod.

He waits a beat. "Alone?"

"Oh. Yeah. Ken, are you okay waiting one s—?"

"Yeah, take your time."

You follow Takemichi a little bit away, turning to face him. "What is it?"

He wrings his hands together, looking down.

"Spit it out, Hanagaki."

"It's Draken! I just thought you should know." He looks at you. "He's in love with you."

You choke. "What? How do you know?"

"I just know, okay? You don't date a girl like Hina and not know."

You scoff. "Be for real, Hanagaki."

"Haven't you noticed? How you always end up next to him in fights, how he lets you stay over all the time when he doesn't let anyone else go over, how you two always get paired together? Draken is in love with you, and Mikey is his wingman!"

You pause for a moment. "So what does that make you?"

"Your wingman . . . ?"

You laugh. "You're fuckin' funny, Hanagaki. Thanks for the laugh." You turn to walk away, waving as you climb onto Draken's bike. "See you tomorrow!"

As you ride on the back of Draken's motorcycle, you can't help but replay Takemichi's words in your mind over and over. He's in love with you. You shake it off. Like Draken could ever be in love with anyone. Besides, even if he was, it would be Emma . . . right?

The more you think about it, the more it makes sense. You're the only person—in or out of Toman—that has ever stayed the night at Draken's place, and one of three that he had ever brought there. He was always looking out for you, always making sure you were alright and helping bandage you up after fights. But that's what any good Vice Leader would do for his Commander of Special Operations.

Then why were you here? In his bed, watching him tug off his sweater and slip under the sheets beside you.

"Sorry we have to share," he says softly, voice gritty and low in the dark bedroom. He's looking up at the ceiling, and you mirror him.

"It's okay. I don't mind."

The two of you are silent for a little bit. You're acutely aware of your state of undress-only your panties and a spare lace slip on one of the women who worked at the brothel had lent you for the night so that you didn't have to sleep in your Toman uniform.

Then, you feel him roll over to look at you. "What did you and Takemitchy talk about?"

You swallow. "Nothing really. You know, one of his stupid conspiracies."

"About what? I heard him say my name."

You wince internally. Now you had to tell him. "He wanted to fuck with me, so he tried to convince me that you were in love with me."

A few seconds pass. "Well fuck, I wanted to tell you that myself."

You turn your head sharply to look at him. "Don't fuck around right now."

"Why would I fuck around?"

"Fuck you."

"Well fuck you too." His eyes soften a little. "Why do you think you're here, Y/N? Obviously I care about you. You'd have to be stupid not to know. I've felt it for a while now, I just . . . I mean, you know how I am about mushy stuff."

"Yeah, you suck at it."

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"I want you to get a tattoo like mine."

You blink at him slowly, the words landing in your chest like something heavy and warm.

“A tattoo… like yours?” you echo, eyes flickering over the dragon on the side of us head.

Draken’s eyes flick down to your shoulder, the one all but bare under the thin lace slip. His voice drops even lower, almost embarrassed, almost reverent.

“Yeah. Something that marks you. Matches me.”

A beat.

“That’s what people who matter to each other do.”

Your breath catches. You push yourself up on your elbow so you can actually see him in the dim light leaking through his curtains. His hair is loose around his face, shadows carving along his jawline, and suddenly he looks so much less like Vice President Ryuguji "Draken" Ken and so much more like just… Ken. The boy who always put himself between you and danger. The man who pretended he wasn’t watching over you in fights when he absolutely was. The idiot who let you steal his hoodies and never demanded them back.

“Ken,” you whisper, the name tasting different on your tongue now. “What does that even mean?”

He huffs a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “It means I want you with me. Not just as my partner in Toman.” His eyes search yours. “I want you.”

The room feels too small. The air too warm. Your pulse thunders against your skin.

You swallow hard. “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because,” he says, shifting closer, “you deserve someone who knows how to say this shit right. Someone who doesn’t scare you off.” Another inch closer. His fingers brush yours under the blanket—tentative, but deliberate. “But then Takemitchy opened his big mouth, and—”

You interrupt him with a shaky laugh. “Outed you?”

Ken’s lips curve, soft and unguarded. “So now you know.”

Silence settles, thick and electric. Your fingers turn, sliding against his until they hook between his knuckles. He watches that tiny movement like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Ken…” you murmur, “you’re not scaring me off.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, hunger, affection, all at once. He sits up a little, his hand rising hesitantly toward your cheek, waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His palm cups your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone. The touch is warm. Careful. A kind of intimacy he’s never shown, even after all the nights you’d crashed here after missions.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod once, slow, deliberate. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding that breath for months.

Then he leans in.

Not rushed. Not cocky. A gentle press of his forehead to yours, the heat of him seeping into your skin. You feel his breath mix with yours, the faint scent of smoke and soap and something uniquely him wrapping around you.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sheets. His other hand slides to the back of your neck, warm and steady, guiding you closer—

Your lips brush. Feather-light. Testing.

The second touch is firmer. More certain. His mouth moves against yours slowly at first, like he’s memorizing you. Then deeper, like he’s been starving for this. You breathe him in, your hand rising instinctively to his chest, feeling the heartbeat hammering beneath your palm.

He shifts, gently urging you beneath him, blankets rustling around your legs. The lace of your slip slides against his skin, and his breath hitches when he feels it.

“Y/N…” he whispers against your mouth, voice rough with emotion, “tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, pulling him down to you, feeling his weight, his warmth, everything you’d denied wanting until now. His lips trail along your jaw, down your throat, slow and reverent, leaving sparks along your skin.

His hand traces your side, stopping just at the curve of your waist—firm, but waiting for your permission.

You arch toward him in answer.

He lets out a low, restrained sound—one that tells you exactly how long he’s been holding back.

The night deepens around you. The curtains sway. The world outside disappears entirely as he presses another kiss to your collarbone, softer, slower, like a promise.

Ken's breath is warm against your throat, each exhale sending a shiver racing down your spine. His fingers tighten around your waist, not dragging you closer, but holding you there like he’s afraid you might disappear.

Your hand slips up the back of his neck, into his hair, tugging gently. He lets out a low sound—half a sigh, half something you’ve never heard from him before—and lifts his head just enough to look at you.

His forehead touches yours again. His lips are kiss-bruised, eyes dark and soft in the dim room.

“Y/N…” he murmurs. “You’re really sure?”

You nod, and your nose brushes his. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

That’s all it takes.

He kisses you again—slower than before, deeper than before. Like he’s savoring you, learning the shape of your mouth. One of his hands slips up your side, fingers skimming the thin strap of the lace slip, tracing the line where it meets your skin.

You feel his breath stutter when you tilt your hips slightly to meet him. The way it affects him makes heat bloom in your chest.

He leans over you more fully, weight sinking into one arm so he doesn’t crush you, but close enough that you can feel the steady, pounding rhythm of his heartbeat. It syncs with your own, loud in the quiet room.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says against your lips, voice rough.

You smile—small and breathless. “Maybe I do.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip, slow, almost reverent. “You’re dangerous.”

“Says the Vice President of Toman.”

His laugh is low and warm. He kisses you again—longer this time, lingering, stealing the air from your lungs. When he pulls back, his forehead rests in the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your collarbone like he’s memorizing every inch he’s allowed to touch.

Your hands slide down his back, pulling him closer by instinct alone. He inhales sharply, the muscles under your fingertips tightening.

“Y/N…” Your name comes out like a confession, like he’s letting it fall from somewhere deep.

He shifts, his nose brushing your shoulder, his lips following the path down the curve of it. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just… tender. Deliberate.

His fingers trace your hip, pausing at the edge of your slip as if asking a question without words.

You answer by guiding his hand up a little higher, your palm covering his to show him where you want him, letting him tug the slip up and over your head, leaving you in only your panties.

His breath shudders, and his mouth finds yours again, this time with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s been waiting too long for this and still can’t believe it’s real.

The room feels too warm. His body feels too good against yours. Every movement is slow, careful, charged—like the moment before a lightning strike.

And when he whispers—barely audible, lips brushing your ear—“Tell me what you want…”—you know you’ve crossed into something you can’t take back.

Something neither of you wants to take back.

"You," you whisper. "Need you."

One hand has come down to cup your breast, squeezing them together and watching in fascination. "Beautiful."

You lean up, pressing a featherlight kiss to his muscular shoulder. "Pants," you mumble against his skin.

"You want them off?"

"Mhm."

He pulls away, just enough to wriggle out of his pajama bottoms. You giggle, watching him squirm.

"Don't laugh at me!" he huffs, but he's smiling too. "I'm trying to be sexy."

"You're so fucking sexy," you laugh, hand wrapping around the back of his neck to tug him closer.

He presses you back into the sheets, humming contentedly. He sits up to look at you. "I can't believe you're here right now." His eyes rake down your body, taking in everything. "Can I take these off, sweetheart?" One index finger slips under the lace of your panties, eyes on yours. You nod, and he's tugging them down without a second thought.

He gives you a look, biting his lip to keep from smiling. "You shaved? Were you expecting this?"

"I like to be prepared."

"I'd love it either way, but you have the prettiest fucking cunt."

You feel a blush crawl over your cheeks at his crass language. "Now you."

You shift under him, leaning up to hook your fingers under the band of his Calvin Kleins. You can see the outline of his cock through the dark material, twitching and straining.

"Is your dick moving on its own?" You're half joking, half not.

"See what you do to me?" he asks, voice low and breathy.

You finally tug down his boxers, and he slides them off the rest of the way, gently pressing you back down against the pillows.

"You're warm," you whisper.

"You're cold." His hands run up and down your sides, and you shift your hips beneath him, shivering.

"Then warm me up."

He leans down, supporting his weight on either side of your head and covering your body with his. "I'm not gonna prep you baby. I want this to be real, and raw, and—"

"Will you just be gentle?"

You see him pause, looking at you. "I'll be gentle."

Slowly, he's entering you. A little at a time, stretching and filling you deliciously. You wince every time his hips stutter, and he apologizes softly. "Trying to control myself."

When he's finally bottomed out, you stay connected for a moment. You're already trembling, taking shaky breaths.

"You okay?" Ken asks quietly.

You nod. "You can move."

He does, slowly, mouth moving down to suck on your neck. You can feel him marking you, and he knows everyone will see the next day, but you don't care. All that you care about is Ken, and his mouth on you and the feeling of his tip dragging against your walls as he gently thrusts in and out.

He's reverent, one hand moving to the back of your head to tip you up, pulling you impossibly closer. He's moving faster and faster, and though he had self control, it was very quickly evaporating from his body as your cunt squeezes tighter and tighter.

You're both chasing your highs, moaning breathlessly. He holds you close in a bruising grip, and you let your nails drag down the muscles of his back.

"Ken—" you gasp.

"I know," he groans. "Me too. Cum with me. Please."

A few more thrusts and you're coming undone at the same time. You're shaking, clinging to Ken. He stays frozen, holding you tight and catching his breath.

"I love you." You say it before you know what you've said, the words falling from your mouth like you've said them thousands of times before.

He pulls away, looking down at you with lidded eyes. "I love you too." There's no hesitation in his words, only strong conviction.

"I'll get us a washcloth," he mumbles, pulling out carefully and rolling over to lie beside you, your naked bodies tangled together. "Just give me a minute."

He never did end up getting that wash cloth.

The sunlight is sharp against the Musashi Shrine as you and Ken ride in together. The early morning air is crisp, but neither of you speak much on the way—just the hum of the bike beneath you, and the quiet satisfaction of having inked something permanent onto your skin, marking the bond between you.

Ken notices your gaze flicking to your shoulder, tracing the new dragon tattoo as though confirming it’s real. His hand brushes yours absentmindedly, tight enough to remind you he’s there.

When you arrive, the courtyard is already buzzing with members. Mikey, flanked by Mitsuya and Takemichi, greets you with that same easy grin—but something in his eyes makes your stomach knot.

“Morning, L/N. Kenny.” Mikey’s tone is flat. Too flat.

“Morning, Mikey,” you reply cautiously, Ken standing slightly in front of you, protective yet relaxed.

Takemichi jogs up, bouncing on his heels like he’s trying to keep the nervous energy at bay. “Y/N! Draken! You guys . . . how’s it—uh . . . woah, your tattoo looks sick.”

You smirk, running your fingers over the design on your shoulder, identical to Ken's. “Thanks.”

Ken rolls his eyes but grins. “Yeah, glad you approve, Takemitchy.”

Mitsuya clears his throat, stepping closer. “We need everyone in the meeting area. Mikey has something to announce.”

The murmurs die down as Toman members gather in the shrine courtyard. Mikey steps forward, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the group. There’s a sharpness to his posture that makes even the most seasoned members straighten instinctively.

“I have news,” Mikey begins. “The Lotus has officially declared war on the Tokyo Manji Gang.”

A collective intake of breath ripples through the crowd.

“What?” Mitsuya exclaims, voice sharp. “Already?”

“They’re serious,” Mikey says, eyes darkening. “We’ve intercepted multiple messages, and multiple attacks have already begun around the city. They’re not just testing us—they’re trying to take Tokyo. And they’re bringing everything they’ve got.”

Ken’s jaw tightens, and his hand brushes yours once before he clenches it into a fist. “Five hundred members,” he mutters under his breath. “They’ll come at us all at once if we don’t prepare.”

You step forward, heart hammering, not from fear—but from the sheer gravity of what you’ve uncovered yesterday with Ken. “Toman protects Tokyo,” you say, voice steady. “They might be chaotic, but we know their moves. They think they can intimidate us with numbers . . . but Toman fights with more than strength. We fight with trust, skill, and strategy. We’ll make sure they regret this.”

Mikey’s expression softens slightly, though the tension in his shoulders remains. “That’s why you two were sent ahead yesterday. Y/N, Kenny—you saw firsthand what they’re capable of.”

“We did,” Ken confirms. His tone is sharp, commanding. “They don’t follow rules. They use guns, knives, anything to win. But they also have weaknesses. Spread too thin. Disorganized cells. If we play smart, we can hit where it hurts and protect the city.”

Mikey nods grimly. “We have to dismantle the Lotus entirely—no mistakes.”

A hush falls over the crowd. You glance at Ken; his eyes are dark, determined. The dragon inked onto your shoulder feels like a talisman, a reminder of what you now share—not just with him, but the mission at hand.

Mikey steps closer, voice dropping slightly. “We’ll be mobilizing tonight. Everyone, stay alert. Make sure your squads are ready. Y/N, Ken—you’ll take the lead on scouting and striking first. We can’t afford hesitation. Lotus will test us at every turn.”

Ken nods, glancing down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before softening just enough. “We’ve got this,” he says quietly. “Together.”

You smile, feeling the same surge of resolve you always do when fighting alongside him. “Together,” you echo.

The meeting breaks, members scattering to prepare, but you linger just a moment longer, feeling Ken’s hand find yours again. The warmth is grounding in the chaos.

“Looks like our tattooed bond is going to get tested sooner than we thought,” you murmur, letting a small, defiant smile tug at your lips.

Ken grins, dark and sharp, eyes glinting with that dangerous, protective spark. “Good. I like a challenge.”

And as you both walk back toward the bikes, shoulder to shoulder, you realize that the war isn’t just about Tokyo—it’s about everything you’ve built together, everything you’ve marked into skin and memory.

The moment you see Oikawa step off the court, you can see that something is wrong. Something much deeper than just having lost to Karasuno.

Aoba Johsai waves to their fans in the crowd, thanks everyone for coming. His voice sounds cheerful, but you know him too well to believe the mask he's put on. Oh, Kawa, what's going on?

A little while after, you wait outside the locker room for him. Iwaizumi passes, a bunch of his other teammates . . . but no Oikawa. You're considering calling him when he finally steps out. He's showered, dressed casually, and his hair a little damp. His head hangs.

"Toru—" you start, but he silences you.

"Let's just go."

You don't argue, sensing the frustration and pain in his voice.

You drive together back to his house. His Dad is waiting up when you walk in, watching TV. You can already see the glint of the bottle of sake cradled in his lap. You sigh internally, reaching for your boyfriend's hand.

"How'd it go?" his Dad grumbles.

"Fine." Oikawa drops his bag, sitting to take his shoes off. You do the same, a little more hesitant. "Y/N is here. She's gonna stay the night."

You swallow as his father turns around from the couch, staring at his son. "Your girlfriend, huh? What makes you think she's allowed over? You lose the match and you think you have the right to bring people over, to act like you didn't just disappoint me in every way possible?" He's standing up, getting in Toru's face now. "You're a fucking disgrace, Toru. I wish I never had you as a son. You're a pathetic fucking excuse for a volleyball player, and a shitty son. I was right when I told your mother to abort you." His father shoots you a glare. "Go upstairs. Get out of my sight."

You grab Oikawa's hand, hurrying up the stairs. He slams the door behind him as you reach his bedroom. He paces, running a hand through his hair. He looks disheveled, angry. So different from the witty, unworried Oikawa you know. You stop him in his tracks, holding his face in your hands.

"Y/N, don't try to—" he stops when you hug him. He stands still for a moment, stunned, before reacting and hugging you back. Tighter and tighter, until his tears are falling and he's burying his face in your neck. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I failed you."

"Toru, what? You didn't fail me. So far from it. You fought till the very end. This may be your last tournament in high school, but you put your name out there. People know who you are. You're not done with your passion, or with volleyball. You did amazing today. Your dad is a piece of shit." You peel back to look him in the eye, wiping his tears with your thumbs. "I love you, Toru."

"Yeah, well, you shouldn't. All I do is fuck things up."

"You work harder than anyone I know. Everyone fucks up. It's the effort you put into coming back from that that makes you a good person. You are a good person, Toru. Regardless of what your father says. You're an amazing volleyball player."

"I couldn't beat him," he bites. "I couldn't beat Tobio Kageyama."

You shrug. "Tough luck. That doesn't mean you get to just feel sorry for yourself. Get stronger, Toru. You still have so far to go. But that also means taking care of yourself. Eating regularly, going to bed when you should, practicing a reasonable amount."

He looks down at you, eyes wide. You can see the cogs in his brain turning, trying to understand how to process what you've said. "I don't remember the last time someone actually stayed with me through something like this."

"I'll always stay, Toru. That's what girlfriends do. I'll stay even if you tell me not to."

His lip is trembling as he leans forward to press his forehead against yours. "I love you."

"I love you too."

A little while later, you both lay under the covers, naked and warm beside each other. You lie with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped around you, his heart beating beneath your ear. You wonder if it's synced up with yours.

"I wish you could see what you looked like in my eyes," you whisper.

Silence. For a moment, you think he's fallen asleep. Then, he says softly into the darkness, "Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't leave me. Please."

When you glance up, you see that he's looking at you.

You've been pissing him off all day.

First, at HQ this morning, when you walked into breakfast hanging off Zanka's arm and giggling. All fun and games, you said, brushing off his worries. He just sighed.

A little later, you walked into your mission briefing wearing the shorts you know he loves on you. They ride up your butt a little and hug your body tight, leaving just enough to the imagination.

Late afternoon, you lean over him in the common area to reach something. he glances up at you as your body reaches across him, grabbing a book or something to look at.

He huffs, blinking up at you. "Hey, princess, can ya get off?"

You glance down, feigning innocence. "Ooh, sorry."

His patience reaches its last string when you stumble into his room instead of your own right next door after the evening's excitement, and find him jerking off in his pants.

"Oh, fuck . . ." You try to cover your giggles when he quickly covers himself. "Sorry, Jin, I'll come back-"

"No, baby, don't come back, 'm right here." He's behind you in a flash, strong arms wrapping around you and drawing you back against him.

"Jin . . ." you whine. "Come on, it's just a joke."

"J's a joke, hmm? You've been pissin' me off all day, and it's just a joke? You in those little fuckin' shorts, reaching across me, rubbin' your tits all on me like I'm some random guy you're tryin' to seduce. Baby, you're mine. I'm gonna make sure you don't forget it."

Little does he know, this is exactly what you want. You smile to yourself, looking up at him. You need him to go just a little further, to break just a little more—for your own sake.

"I don't know what you mean."

The tension in the air snaps. You can almost see the thin strand in his brain go taught, and then break. His face lights up, and he grins at you. "I'll show you exactly who you belong to."

You love when he manhandles you. Reaching around your body to pick you up and toss you onto his bed like a rag doll. Before you've even landed, he's on top of you, flipping you over with one arm while the other catches both of your hands and pins them behind your back. You can feel his smug grin against your shoulder as he pushes your face into the pillows.

"How's this feel, huh? Feel like you wanna go piss me off even more?"

You start to say something, but gasp as one of his thick fingers slides into your mouth. You cry out, watching as his face leans down over you. "Suck."

He watches in fascination as you eagerly suck on his finger, twisting it in your mouth. "Mmm, so fuckin' good. Bein' sucha good girl after bein' such a brat all day." A few more seconds, and he takes his finger out of your mouth, putting it in his own. "Eyes up, baby, mouth open."

You look up at him, opening your mouth. He hums his approval, squeezing your cheeks between his thumb and other fingers, and he spits in your open mouth. "Fuck yeah. Swallow it, pretty girl."

You do as he says, sticking out your tongue afterwards so he can see. "Please, Jin . . . need you . . ."

"Hmm? What's that? My pretty girl needs me?"

You nod weakly.

"How about this? I wantchu to get me nice 'n hard baby girl." The next time you glance up, his cock is out of his pants, and he's gently hitting it on your cheek. "Look so pretty like this. I've hardly touched you and you're already so fuckin' cock drunk."

"Enjin, please—"

He's shoving his cock in your mouth the second you open it. You whimper around it, automatically sucking. The tip bobs in and out, and you close your lips tight so that it suctions him in. "So mouthy, baby. Thank goodness you've got my big cock between your pretty lips to shut you up."

He holds your face in his hand, watching. "So gorgeous. Now you'll really remember not to piss me off during the day. Yeah?"

You nod, tears welling in your eyes. You choke and gag on his cock, and he grins. "You cryin' for me, baby? Huh?"

You shake your head. He pulls his dick out of your mouth. "I think you are."

"'m not."

"Why're you cryin'? T'much already? No shot, we're not even close to done." He hoists you up, pick you up by your waist and sitting you up. "Haven't even gotten to fill this pretty cunt yet."

His lewd words combined with his fingers slipping up and down your clothed pussy make you moan softly. He pulls you back against him, using a thumb to wipe your tears. "Fuckin' love when you cry for me, I can't lie." He pulls your panties off you. You gasp when he rolls them up into a little ball and stuffs them in your mouth, silencing your noises. All you can do is make muffled gasps and whimpers.

"You ready, sweetheart?" He doesn't give you time to respond, giving you nothing to prep before slamming his cock fully into you. Your back is flush against his chest, and he's holding you in a headlock, thick bicep pressed against your jugular. You moan against the fabric of your panties, head falling forward.

"No, no, stay with me baby. Don't give up on me yet, we're not anywhere near done." He turns your head to face him, wiping more tears. "Fuck, this pussy is gonna remember the shape of my cock down to every vein by the time I'm done with you. Fuckin' walking in on me jerkin' off like that and brushing it off like it's nothing." He's rambling. His words aren't kind, but you know Enjin well enough to realize that he's pussydrunk off his mind. Your best guess is that he was looking at a photo of you when you walked in on him, and that he was close to finishing. Your cunt compared to his hand would feel a million times better.

You look up at him, eyes big and innocent, trying to signal your best, "Please take my panties out of my mouth." To your surprise, he understands.

"Nah, fuck this. Wanna hear you scream." He tugs the panties out.

In a quick tender moment, you flash him a pretty smile. "I love you, Jin." However, he ruts into you particularly deep that time, and you're both thrown over the edge of the cliff at the same time. His head drops to your shoulder, biting down to muffle his groans, and you cry out his name, feeling more tears coming.

street racer! oikawa who is convinced that you're his lucky charm. every race you're there, either strapped in tight to the passenger seat or waiting at the finish line with iwaizumi. if you're not there, his confidence decreases exponentially.

street racer! oikawa who loves that you're his passenger princess. when he drives outside of races, his hand is always on your thigh. on occasion, he'll glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk, sliding his fingers up under your skirt and rubbing your core through your panties.

street racer! oikawa whose car is his most precious possession (after you, of course). the two of you spend many late nights in the garage that he works at together, you sitting on the workbench and talking while he works under the car, occasionally popping his head out for a kiss.

street racer! oikawa who loves when you take care of him. after he's finished working, he'll let you wash the grease and soot from his hands and face with a washcloth. after races, he likes to shower with you, letting you wash his hair and massage his back. if he gets into a fight, his first instinct is to find you afterward. exasperated, you drag him to a bathroom and tenderly clean his cuts and kiss his bruises

street racer! oikawa who would never let another woman think they could have him. he's a handsome japanese man in buenos aires, and he knows that. sure, he'll talk with them, but he always makes sure they know he's taken. he'll slip something into the conversation about you, watching for their reactions. "oh, yeah, my girlfriend really likes that cologne too" or he'll call you over

street racer! oikawa who is literally the coolest guy ever. while his days are filled with volleyball practice and intense games, his nights are usually spent racing. even when he's not, he takes you out for drives. the more of the thrill it is, the more excited he (and you) gets. he laughs while you lean out the window, reaches over to grab one your tits. turns to kiss you while going 150 kph down an empty highway