sparklesofreatsu

the stadium lights are blinding, a neon haze that turns the pitch into a stage, but you don’t care about the roar of the crowd or the tactical formation. you’re here for one reason: jude.

you’ve spent the last year perfecting the art of the chase—flickering between hotel lobbies and vip lounges, catching the eyes of men who think they hold the world in their boots. for you, these high-profile encounters are just stories waiting to be written in the dark, a collection of fleeting moments with the famous and the untouchable. but jude is different. he isn't just another name on a guest list; he’s the obsession that keeps you up at 3 a.m.

the air is thick with the scent of damp grass and expensive cologne as you lean against the railing of the player’s tunnel. you look impeccable—a calculated, effortless display of allure that usually leaves athletes stumbling over their words. when he finally trots onto the pitch for the warm-up, the sound of thousands of voices vanishes for you. he looks lethal in that england kit, his focus absolute, his movements sharp enough to cut through the tension in your chest.

as he turns toward your side of the pitch, you catch that brief, intense flicker of recognition in his eyes before he turns back to the ball. the game hasn't even started yet, but you can feel it—the thrill of the hunt, the promise of a dangerous night, and the silent realization that tonight, you are the only thing that matters in his peripheral vision.

the game is a blur of motion and color, but for you, the world has narrowed down to a single frame: the way he commands the pitch. every time the ball finds his feet, the stadium seems to hold its breath. you watch the muscles in his legs coil and release, his grace under pressure nothing short of mesmerizing. he isn’t just playing football; he’s performing, every touch calculated, every turn a display of raw, magnetic power.

he is devastatingly beautiful, his presence radiating a confidence that makes the thousands watching feel like he’s playing for them alone. you track the sheen of sweat on his skin, the intense, hooded look in his eyes as he scans the field, and the way he brushes his hair back with a quick, impatient flick of his hand. it’s an effortless kind of attraction—the way he holds himself, the authority in his gestures, the way he celebrates a goal with that familiar, iconic stance that stops your heart in your throat.

you find yourself ignoring the rest of the match entirely. you don’t care about the score or the opposing team; you are feeding on the sight of him. his talent is intoxicating, but it’s his sheer, unapologetic allure that has you completely hooked. he’s lethal, elegant, and impossibly desirable, and with every passing minute of the game, the desire to have that focus—that intensity—turned entirely on you becomes a physical ache. you aren't just watching him; you are studying him, cataloging every detail, waiting for the moment when the final whistle blows and you can finally make your move.

you know the rhythm of this game better than anyone. as the final minutes tick away, you don't stay to watch the celebration on the pitch; you’re already moving, slipping away from your seat before the crowd can even think about surging toward the exits.

your heels click softly against the cold concrete of the stadium’s bowels, a sound drowned out by the muffled roar above. you aren't just another fan; you move with the kind of practiced, unbothered confidence that makes security guards look the other way. a knowing nod, a strategic flash of a pass you didn't technically earn, and you’re weaving through the labyrinthine corridors. you navigate the maze of staff, photographers, and media personnel, your presence so seamless it’s practically invisible.

you find your spot—that golden, restricted passage where the players have to pass before they can retreat to the sanctuary of the dressing room. it’s a tight, industrial space, smelling of stale air and adrenaline. there’s a small group of journalists nearby, clutching their microphones like weapons, but you’re positioned just perfectly, tucked into the shadows of a reinforced door frame.

your heart is drumming a chaotic rhythm against your ribs, not from nerves, but from the thrill of the maneuver. you’ve played this scene out a dozen times before, but this time feels heavy, electric. you adjust your jacket, catching your reflection in a darkened glass panel—you look cool, collected, and entirely intentional. the stadium is echoing with the final whistle now, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching sends a jolt of static through the air. he’s coming. you lean back, crossing your arms, waiting for the exact moment the tunnel lights reveal him, knowing that when he walks past, you won't be just another face in the crowd. you’ll be the only thing he stops for.

the tunnel erupts in a cacophony of echoes—cheers, footsteps, and the relentless flash of cameras. when he emerges, he’s still buzzing with the adrenaline of the win, his england jersey damp against his skin. he handles the journalists with a practiced, charming ease, answering questions with that low, melodic drawl you’ve replayed in your head a thousand times.

then, the chaos shifts. he starts moving down the line, signing shirts and posing for quick snaps. your pulse is a frantic drumbeat, but your exterior is a masterpiece of cool. as he gets closer, the air around him feels charged, almost heavy.

when he finally reaches you, the world seems to sharpen into high definition. you extend your hand, offering the photo and a pen, your movements slow and deliberate. he stops. his eyes dart from the paper to your face, and then back again—a flicker of genuine, unguarded surprise crossing his features. it’s as if he didn't expect to find someone quite like you tucked away in this sterile, industrial corridor.

you tilt your head just slightly, leaning into his space, and deliver your line with a voice that is honey-smooth and perfectly measured. "you were incredible tonight, jude," you say, your smile soft and knowing. "i’ve been waiting all match for this."

the effect is immediate. the effortless, public-facing composure he’s maintained all night wavers. his eyebrows knit together for a split second, a look of fleeting disorientation, as if he’s trying to place why you feel so familiar, or perhaps, why you don't feel like the rest of the fans at all.

but then, the tension breaks. he lets out a short, surprised laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks at you properly, really seeing you. he doesn't just scribble his name; he takes a moment, his gaze lingering, his smile turning warm and unmistakably curious.

"thank you," he says, his voice a little lower, a little more intimate than it was for the others. he’s clearly a bit thrown off, off-balance in the best possible way, but he holds your gaze, completely disarmed by your presence. "i appreciate that. truly."

he hands the photo back, his fingers brushing against yours, and for a fleeting, delicious second, he doesn't pull away. the game is over, but the real show is just beginning.

you hold his gaze just a second longer than necessary, your expression shifting from simple admiration to something far more intimate, far more dangerous. you let your eyes trace the line of his jaw before locking back onto his, a slow, deliberate play of power.

"i'm a huge fan," you murmur, your voice dropping into that sweet, velvety register that makes him instinctively lean in, even if just by a fraction of an inch. "but i think we both know that goes without saying, don't we?"

the air between you hums with the unspoken. you watch the flicker of realization cross his face—that you aren't playing by the rules of a normal fan interaction. you aren't asking for a selfie, you aren't begging for attention; you are setting a trap, and he’s realized, a second too late, that he’s already halfway inside it.

"thank you, jude," you say, your voice barely a whisper, soft and lingering.

without waiting for him to find his footing, you pull your hand back and pivot, turning your back to him with the grace of a predator who knows exactly when to walk away. you walk down the concrete corridor with a measured, rhythmic stride, your hips swaying just enough to hold his attention, your posture perfectly arched.

you can feel his eyes on you—heavy, intense, and utterly bewildered. he’s standing there, frozen for a heartbeat, his hand still lingering in the air where he had just signed your photo. he’s not used to being the one left behind, and he’s certainly not used to someone leaving him speechless in a tunnel full of people.

as you reach the turn of the hallway, you pause. you don't stop walking, but you tilt your head back over your shoulder, offering him one final, knowing smile—the kind that promises everything and gives away nothing. you see his lips part, a silent question forming on his tongue, but you’re already rounding the corner, leaving him anchored to the spot, completely unsettled by your sudden, intoxicating disappearance.

the silence in the corridor after you disappear feels heavier than the noise that preceded it. jude stands frozen for a beat too long, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where you just were, his mind rewinding the last thirty seconds.

"who was that?"

the voice of a teammate—sharp, amused, and laced with curiosity—cuts through his daze. jude blinks, his focus snapping back to the reality of the stadium tunnel. he looks toward the other player, a faint, perplexed frown creasing his brow as he shakes his head, his fingers subconsciously rubbing against the spot on his palm where they’d brushed against yours.

"i have absolutely no idea," jude replies, his voice steady but betraying a trace of lingering disbelief. there’s a strange, kinetic energy still prickling his skin, a lingering sense of being completely caught off guard by someone he didn't even know existed a minute ago.

the reality of his situation hits him then. he’s surrounded by a throng of waiting fans, cameras are still clicking, and the line behind him is growing restless. he takes a deep, grounding breath, forcing his composure back into place. he has to finish this—the jerseys, the pens, the relentless parade of faces—but every name he signs and every handshake he offers feels mechanical, forced, and hollow compared to the electricity of that brief, strange encounter.

he keeps glancing toward the corner you rounded, his eyes searching the shadows, his mind busy trying to reconcile the professional footballer he’s expected to be with the man who just had his world momentarily tilted off its axis by a girl who didn't even leave her name.

the satisfaction is a slow burn in your chest as you settle into the designated area near the training pitch. a few days have passed, but the look on his face in that corridor hasn't faded from your mind. you know how this game is played—persistence is just another form of seduction. you’ve secured your spot among the media crew, dressed with an effortless, casual chic that screams 'off-duty' while still demanding every ounce of focus from anyone who happens to look your way.

the air is crisp, filled with the sharp sound of cleats hitting the turf and the rhythmic thud of footballs being kicked across the field. you aren't trying to hide; in fact, you’re positioned exactly where he’s bound to see you.

as the players emerge from the facility, spilling onto the green in a wave of motion and chatter, you don't track them. you don't even scan the group. you just watch the pitch, your posture relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips.

the recognition is instantaneous.

as jude jogs toward the center of the pitch, his conversation with a teammate abruptly dies in his throat. his head snaps toward the sidelines, his stride faltering for a split second before he regains his rhythm. his eyes lock onto yours, and you can practically see the jolt of surprise—and something deeper, something far more intense—hit him. he doesn't break eye contact. even as he starts his light warm-up drills, he’s constantly checking back to your position, his movements suddenly carrying a different kind of energy. he’s not just practicing anymore; he’s performing, and the stage is now small enough that he knows you’re the only audience member that actually counts.

he doesn't wave, and he doesn't smile—not yet. he just stares, his gaze dark and unreadable, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re a hallucination or the most dangerous thing to happen to his training routine. you lean back, enjoying the way his focus has completely shattered, knowing exactly why he can't look away.

the training session is a masterclass in unintentional chaos, and you are the reason for it. it’s amusing—delightfully so—to watch a man who usually operates with such clinical, machine-like focus on the pitch turn into someone who can barely track the ball.

every time the ball rolls near his feet, his eyes flick toward the sidelines, checking to see if you’re still there, if you’re still watching. he’s lost his rhythm, overthinking his touches, and stumbling over his own feet in ways that would usually earn him a stern look from his teammates. his coach is already starting to notice, barking out orders to "stay focused" and "get your head in the game," but jude just wipes the sweat from his forehead with his jersey, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and pure, helpless fascination.

you sit there, perfectly still, enjoying the quiet power of it. you aren't shouting his name or waving like the other fans who are hovering in the distance. you just watch him with that same calm, enigmatic smile you gave him in the tunnel. the more you ignore his attempts to catch your attention, the more desperate his efforts become. he tries to show off, launching a long-range pass that misses its mark because his focus is pinned on you, not the teammate he’s supposed to be hitting.

it’s intoxicating to hold that kind of sway over someone so iconic. he’s essentially fighting a losing battle against his own distraction. he’s clearly agitated, running a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with exertion, and every few minutes, he glances over—searching for a reaction, a sign, anything.

you see the exact moment he gives up on pretending. he stops mid-drill, hands on his hips, his gaze locking onto yours with a intensity that burns through the distance between you. he isn't even trying to hide it anymore. he looks tired, frustrated, and completely under your spell. you tilt your head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes, letting him know that you see him seeing you. he doesn't look away, and for a moment, the entire training ground seems to fade into nothing but the two of you, leaving him exposed, unraveling, and absolutely hooked.

as you stand up, brushing off your clothes with deliberate, languid movements, you can see the exact moment his composure snaps. he’s supposed to be listening to a tactical instruction, but his eyes track your every movement—the way you stand, the way you adjust your bag, the way you turn to walk away. he doesn't even wait for the whistle.

he mutters something hasty to his teammate, a vague excuse about the facilities, and peels away from the drill. he isn't walking; he’s hunting.

you’ve already calculated your path. you head toward the quiet, sterile hallway that leads back toward the players' lounge, knowing exactly where the acoustics are best for an encounter. you aren't running, but you aren't lingering, either. you want him to have to work for it.

you hear the sharp, rhythmic slap of his boots against the floor behind you—he’s moving fast, his breathing heavy from the training intensity. just as you reach the corner, his hand catches the frame of the door, his frame blocking the path. he’s flushed, his hair damp and chaotic, his chest rising and falling with a tempo that has nothing to do with fitness.

he stops when he sees you, leaning slightly against the wall, trying to catch his breath. his eyes are wide, searching yours, his professional veneer completely stripped away.

"you," he breathes, the word a mix of accusation and awe. he looks back toward the pitch, then back to you, clearly aware of the risk he’s taking by being here. "you were watching. all of it."

you don’t give him the satisfaction of a direct admission. instead, you lean back against the wall, crossing your arms, and let a slow, mischievous smile curl your lips. you look him up and down—the grass stains on his kit, the raw, unpolished energy of a man who just risked his coach’s wrath for a glimpse of you.

"you seem distracted, jude," you say, your voice soft, honeyed, and dripping with playfulness. "if you’re going to be this bad at your job, maybe you should have stayed on the pitch."

he lets out a low, breathless laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. he steps a fraction closer, invading your space, the heat radiating off his body almost overwhelming. "i think we both know that wasn't my choice," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. "you’re playing a dangerous game, you know that?"

you tilt your head, feigning innocence. "am i? i was just watching the best player on the field. is that a crime?"

he brushes a hand through his hair, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and hunger. he knows he’s trapped, and the way his pupils dilate tells you he wouldn't have it any other way. he’s completely yours to toy with now.

"what do you want?" he asks, his voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.

you take a slow step toward him, closing the remaining distance until you're inches away. "i think you already know the answer to that, don't you?"

a low, raspy chuckle escapes his throat, but it lacks any real conviction. he shifts his weight, leaning one arm against the wall right beside your head, effectively boxing you into the corner. he’s trying to hold onto his defenses, but the way his gaze sweeps over your face—searching for any sign that you’re bluffing—gives him away.

"i have a girlfriend," he says, the words clipped and defensive. he says it like a shield, but his eyes tell a different story.

you don't even flinch. instead, you let out a light, melodic laugh that echoes against the tiled walls, a sound that clearly unmoors him even further. you reach out, your fingers tracing the edge of his training jersey, letting your hand rest lightly on his chest, right over his racing heart. you can feel the frantic rhythm beneath the fabric—it’s the fastest it’s been all day.

you look up at him through your lashes, your expression dripping with amused confidence. "do you really think i’m naive, jude?" you whisper, your voice a soft, challenging taunt. "because if that were true—if you were truly as settled and content as you want me to believe—you wouldn't be standing here in a deserted hallway, hiding from your coaches, completely out of breath, just to find a girl you barely even know."

you take a deliberate step forward, forcing him to lean back further against the wall. you’re so close now that you can smell the faint, clean scent of his shower gel and the musky reality of his sweat.

"men like you don't chase things they aren't hungry for," you continue, your voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous low. "you didn't come here because you're happy. you came here because you were desperate to see if i was as real as you thought i was."

the amusement drains from his face, replaced by a raw, intense focus. he doesn't pull away; he doesn't even try to lie again. he just watches your lips, his own mouth slightly parted, his breathing hitching as the weight of your words settles between you. the air in the narrow space is suffocatingly thick, and for the first time, he looks absolutely terrified of how easily you’ve dismantled him.

the distance between you vanishes until you are merely a heartbeat away. you can see the precise moment his resolve shatters; his eyes drift from yours to your lips, and he leans in, an instinctive, magnetic pull he no longer has the strength to fight. his posture softens, his hand inches toward your waist, and his breath hitches—he is fully prepared to cross that line, to let the world outside this hallway cease to exist for the sake of one kiss.

you let the anticipation stretch, thick and intoxicating. you can see the pulse at the base of his throat thumping in time with your own. he’s leaning into you, his eyes closing, fully surrendered to the inevitable.

and then, you move.

with a fluidity that feels almost cruel, you slide out of his space just as his lips are about to find their target. the air feels suddenly cold where your warmth had been. he stumbles slightly, his hand grasping at empty air, his eyes flying open in a mixture of confusion and raw, electric shock. he’s left leaning against the wall, chest heaving, looking as though he’s just been jolted awake from a dream.

you don't run; you walk away with that same slow, rhythmic elegance that has been haunting him all afternoon. you don’t look back until you’re ten paces down the hall, your footsteps echoing sharply against the concrete.

when you finally pause, you turn just enough to glance over your shoulder. your expression is cool, composed, and utterly triumphant. his eyes are still locked on you, burning with a frantic, desperate intensity that says he’s completely hooked.

you tilt your head, a soft, parting smile touching your lips—the kind that promises you’re both the prize and the problem.

"bye, jude," you murmur, your voice lingering in the quiet corridor, light as a feather but heavy with consequence.

before he can find his voice, before he can move or call out to stop you, you turn the corner and vanish once more, leaving him standing there in the silence, utterly dismantled.

for the next few days, the training ground becomes a theater of his internal war. jude is no longer the clinical, effortless phenom the team relies on; he is erratic, his mind a thousand miles away from the tactical drills and the coach's whistle.

every time a ball rolls out of bounds, his eyes immediately scan the sidelines, searching the crowd for a flash of your silhouette, a familiar tilt of your head, or the memory of your perfume lingering in the air. he is haunted by the phantom of that touch, the way you dismantled his excuses, and that final, lingering "bye" that seems to echo in his ears during the dead silence of his hotel room at night.

he finds himself asking, without really asking, questions that reveal too much to his teammates. he’ll pause mid-pass, frowning at the turf, wondering: who is she? is she just another face that drifts through the VIP lounge, or is she something else, something intentional? he replays every word you said, analyzing your tone, trying to decipher if you were playing a game or if you were testing him—or worse, if you were right about him all along.

the mystery of you has become his newest obsession. he starts to over-analyze his own life, looking at the life he’s built—the media obligations, the relationship, the relentless expectations—and seeing it through the lens of your dismissive, amused smile. he is a man who is used to being the one in control, the one who dictates the pace of the game, but now, he feels like the one being marked, shadowed, and systematically picked apart.

he catches himself staring off into the distance during team meetings, the coach's voice fading into white noise as he tries to piece together the puzzle of you. he isn't just distracted; he is unraveling. he’s burning with a need to find you again, not because he’s looking for a signature or a photo, but because he needs to know if the power you hold over him is real—or if he’s finally lost his grip on the only world he’s ever known.

every time he closes his eyes, he sees that hallway. he feels the phantom heat of your proximity. and as he laces up his boots for the next session, he knows with a sinking, exhilarating certainty that he’s not looking for a ball anymore; he’s looking for the next time you decide to show up and break his composure all over again.

few days after,

the press room is a buzz of low-frequency chatter, the glare of stage lights reflecting off the water bottles on the table. jude is slouched slightly in his chair, his usual professional mask firmly in place, answering standard questions about the team’s form with practiced, mechanical efficiency. he looks tired, the weight of the last few days of internal conflict showing in the slight tension around his eyes.

then, the moderator points to your section. "next question, front row."

you lean into the microphone, the metallic click of the equipment echoing through the room. "jude," you begin, your voice smooth, melodic, and instantly unmistakable. "considering the pressure of this season, how do you manage to keep your focus when the game takes an unexpected turn?"

at the first syllable, jude freezes. the pen he was fidgeting with drops onto the desk with a sharp clack. he goes rigid, his head snapping toward the audience. for a fleeting, desperate second, he convinces himself it’s just a trick of his mind—a cruel auditory hallucination born from days of obsession. he tells himself there are thousands of people in this city, and it’s impossible for you to be sitting in a room full of accredited press.

but then, the cameras shift, and the view clears. he locks eyes with you.

the air leaves his lungs in a sharp, audible exhale. he is visibly rattled, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable crimson. he doesn't just look surprised; he looks completely blindsided, his composure disintegrating in front of a dozen live cameras. he grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, his gaze locked onto your face as if he’s trying to confirm you’re solid, real, and actually standing there.

the room falls into a sudden, heavy silence, the other journalists glancing between the two of you, sensing the strange, electric shift in the atmosphere. jude’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. he’s struggling to reconcile the professional reality of the press conference with the chaotic, intimate reality you’ve built between you.

he stares at you, paralyzed, his heart hammering against his ribs in a way that the entire room—and the thousands watching online—can almost feel. you hold his gaze, unblinking and perfectly serene, while the man who is supposed to be the most composed player on the pitch looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or the one person he’s been terrified to face.

he clears his throat, the sound rough and forced. he forces his shoulders to drop, dragging his eyes away from yours to stare blankly at the microphones, his fingers gripping his water bottle so tightly his knuckles are white.

"it’s... it’s about perspective," he manages to say, his voice a fraction deeper than usual, straining to keep the tremor out of it. "sometimes the things you least expect are the ones that test your discipline the most. you just have to find a way to... to stay grounded."

it’s a generic, safe answer, but his eyes keep darting back to you, betraying every word. he’s sweating now, a thin sheen on his forehead that the stage lights catch. he’s failing, and he knows it.

you offer him one last, slow smile—the one that sits right on the edge of a secret—and then, without waiting for the follow-up, you tuck your notebook under your arm. you rise with that same fluid, predatory grace, your heels clicking against the floor. you turn your back on him, walking toward the exit of the press room with an air of complete indifference, leaving him mid-sentence as he tries to finish a thought that has already completely evaporated from his mind.

he watches you go, his head tracking your movement until you’re forced out of his line of sight by the heavy double doors. the moderator tries to move to the next question, but jude isn't there anymore. he’s staring at the door, his jaw tight, his leg bouncing nervously under the table.

the moment the moderator utters the words, "that concludes the conference," jude doesn't wait for his pr team to gather the equipment. he stands up with a sudden, sharp motion, muttering a frantic apology to his teammates and the staff.

"gotta go," he says, already moving, his strides long and urgent as he pushes past the photographers and security personnel.

he bursts out of the press room, his eyes scanning the corridor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. he ignores the calls of the staff behind him, his only focus the sound of those retreating heels. he doesn't know what he's going to say when he catches you, he doesn't know why he’s chasing you again, but he knows one thing for certain: he’s done playing the game by your rules. he’s finally going to corner you.

you’re walking down a dimly lit service hallway when the sharp, heavy rhythm of his gait catches up to you. he’s fast, his chest heaving as he rounds the corner, and before you can even register the sound, he’s blocked your path, his hands bracing against the wall on either side of you. he looks frantic—the kind of look he never wears on the pitch.

"what is this?" he demands, his voice low, sharp, and laced with pure, unadulterated confusion. "how are you here? why are you here? why are you... everywhere?"

the questions spill out of him, tumbling over one another. he’s looking at you like you’re a riddle he’s terrified he won't be able to solve, and for the first time, his professional armor is stripped completely bare. he isn't just asking; he’s pleading for an explanation, for some sense of order in the chaos you’ve introduced to his life.

you don't look intimidated. in fact, you look amused. you watch him with an unhurried, languid gaze, leaning back against the cool tiles until your shoulders brush his arms. you let the silence stretch for a moment, enjoying the way his breathing hitches as he waits for an answer you have no intention of giving him—at least, not yet.

you reach up, your fingers grazing the collar of his jacket, and you smooth it down with a slow, deliberate touch. he flinches at the contact, his eyes tracking your hand with hungry, desperate focus.

"jude," you purr, your voice like liquid velvet, cutting through his frantic energy. you look up at him through your lashes, a teasing, lopsided smile playing on your lips. "breathe."

you let your hand trail down to his chest, feeling the wild, irregular thrum of his heart—a rhythmic betrayal of his composure. you run your thumb over the fabric of his shirt, a small, circular motion that seems to snap his focus entirely to your touch.

"you’re spiraling," you whisper, the sweetness of your tone dripping with a mock-sympathy that only pushes him further toward the edge. "why are you so desperate to understand me? maybe you should spend less time asking questions and more time enjoying the view."

you lean in close, just enough for him to smell the scent of you, your breath feathering against his jawline. he’s frozen, trapped between the urge to back away and the impossible gravity that keeps him locked in your orbit. you tilt your head, a glint of triumph dancing in your eyes as you watch him struggle to regain his footing, completely at the mercy of your game.

"you're so tense, darling," you tease, your voice barely a breath. "do you always get this worked up when you don't know the final score?"

he lets out a sharp, incredulous huff, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that’s almost painful. "is this it?" he asks, his voice dropping into a low, strained register. "is this just your thing? you show up, you haunt the corridors, you get into the press rooms... do you do this with everyone? is every athlete, every celebrity just a target for your little games?"

you don't pull away. instead, you let a soft, melodic laugh escape your throat—a sound that is light, dismissive, and utterly infuriating. you reach up and trace the line of his jaw with a single finger, your touch light as a feather but heavy with implication. you feel him shudder under your contact, the rigid line of his shoulders slackening despite himself.

"you're overthinking it again, jude," you murmur, your eyes sparkling with playful mischief. "why does it matter if i've done it before? does it make what's happening between us right now any less real?"

he stiffens, his grip on the wall tightening. you’ve hit a nerve—he hates that he wants to know, hates that he’s jealous of the idea of you playing this game with anyone else, but more than anything, he hates how little he knows about you. he’s completely paralyzed by the desire to keep standing here, to keep hearing your voice, to keep deciphering the mystery that is you.

"you're impossible," he breathes, his gaze dropping to your mouth and staying there, his frustration warring with a magnetic pull he can no longer deny.

you tilt your head, a triumphant, secretive smile playing on your lips. you can see the conflict raging behind his eyes—he wants to walk away, to go back to his life and the safety of his routine, but he’s rooted to the spot, entirely addicted to the chaos you bring.

"i'm not impossible, jude," you whisper, stepping just a hair closer, letting your chest brush against his. "i'm just the first person who hasn't played by your rules. it’s quite a thrill, isn't it?"

he doesn't answer, he can't. he just stares at you, his breathing shallow, looking like a man who knows he’s walking into a fire but has lost the will to turn back.

your hand drifts down, your palm pressing firmly against the center of his chest. you can feel the frantic, irregular thudding of his heart—a physical manifestation of the complete power you hold over him. you lean in, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, and you let your breath hitch as you speak, your voice a low, honeyed secret that sends a visible shiver down his spine.

"next time, jude," you whisper, the words heavy with promise, "i won't be in a crowd. i’ll be waiting. just for you. and if you’re brave enough to come find me, i’ll finally show you exactly who i am."

the air in the hallway seems to vanish. you pull back just enough to catch his gaze, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on your lips. he’s completely paralyzed, his mouth slightly parted, his breathing ragged. the sheer audacity of your invitation, combined with the way you’re dismantling his defenses, leaves him reeling. he’s trapped in a labyrinth of his own desire, and you’ve just handed him the map to the center.

you don't wait for a reply. you give his chest one final, lingering caress before slipping out from beneath his arm. your exit is swift and silent, your heels clicking against the floor with a rhythmic finality that echoes in the cramped space.

you don't look back this time. you round the corner, leaving him alone in the dim light of the corridor.

behind you, jude doesn't move. he stays pressed against the wall, his hands falling to his sides, his chest still heaving with the ghost of your presence. he’s utterly spellbound, a man who knows he has just been marked. the weight of your words hangs in the air, a siren song that has already decided his future. he is standing in the silence, his heart racing, realizing with a terrifying clarity that he isn't just hooked—he is completely and irrevocably yours.

the shift in jude is visceral, and it doesn't go unnoticed by the people around him. his life, once carefully curated and balanced between high-stakes football and his public relationship, has begun to fracture under the weight of the unknown. that anchor he used to hold onto—his girlfriend—has become nothing more than a blurred background noise, a static frequency he’s tuned out entirely. his thoughts are no longer occupied by tactical maneuvers or his future career; they are exclusively yours.

he spends his nights staring at the ceiling of his hotel room, the silence amplified by the maddening loops of your voice in his head. why are you everywhere? who are you really?

the confusion is a physical ache. every time he sees a shadow in a corner, or hears the faint click of heels in a lobby, his entire posture shifts. he’s constantly on edge, his eyes scanning every room he enters with a frantic, desperate intensity. his teammates have stopped joking about his mood; there’s a new, sharp irritability to him that makes even the coaching staff tread carefully. he’s lost his rhythm, and for a player who prides himself on total command, this lack of control is terrifying.

he is obsessed. he finds himself scrolling through social media, searching for any trace of you, any photo that might have caught your face in the background of a stadium event. he’s hunting for a name, a history, a clue—anything to make you tangible instead of this ethereal, dangerous force that has dismantled his reality.

during training, he’s a ghost of his former self. he’ll go for minutes at a time without touching the ball, his focus shattered by the mere possibility that you might be watching from the sidelines again. he’s no longer looking for his teammates’ runs; he’s looking for you.

the realization that he is "condemned" settles into his marrow. he knows he’s setting himself up for disaster, that seeking you out is a path that could jeopardize everything he’s worked for. but the pull is too strong. you’ve become the only thing that makes his pulse race, the only thing that makes the world feel real. he’s not just waiting for the next match; he’s waiting for the next move in a game he knows he’s already lost.

he’s no longer playing football for the fans or the trophies. he’s playing, waiting, and breathing entirely for the moment you decide to reappear and finally unveil the secret you’ve been keeping from him.

the match had been exhilarating, the kind of night where every pass clicked and the stadium’s roar still hummed in his bones. jude slumped into the back of his waiting car, the interior dark and quiet, a sanctuary after the blinding lights of the pitch. he leaned his head back, closing his eyes, letting out a long, shaky breath of pure, adrenaline-fueled relief. he wasn't thinking about you—not for the first time in hours. he was just a man enjoying the aftermath of victory.

"home, please," he murmured to the driver, his voice thick with exhaustion.

the engine purred to life, and as the car began to glide away from the stadium, a subtle shift in the air caught his attention. it wasn't just the scent of leather anymore; there was something else—a faint, intoxicating trace of your perfume that hit him like a physical blow. his eyes snapped open.

he turned his head to the left, his gaze cutting through the dim cabin light.

you were there.

you were draped against the seat with an effortless, feline grace, the shadows playing over the curve of your collarbone and the soft fabric of your dress. you looked even more breathtaking than usual, your makeup flawless, your hair falling in loose, artful waves. you didn't look like a fan, or a journalist, or a stalker; you looked like a predator who had finally cornered her prize.

jude froze, his entire body going rigid. his heart, which had been slowing down to a calm, post-match rhythm, instantly spiked into a violent, erratic thud against his ribs. he couldn't speak; the breath had been stolen from his lungs. he just stared at you, his pupils dilating in the dark, his professional composure shattering into a thousand pieces.

the irony of his thought process—the fact that he’d finally managed to push you out of his mind for just a few hours—vanished as he realized you hadn't been playing a game of hide-and-seek anymore. you were playing for keeps.

"how..." he started, his voice cracking, barely a whisper. he didn't even know what he was asking. he just knew that seeing you there, in the private, confined space of his car, felt more dangerous and more exhilarating than anything he’d ever experienced on a pitch.

you didn't move, you just watched him, that same enigmatic, seductive smile playing on your lips—the one that had haunted his dreams for days. you held his gaze, unblinking, the silence in the car growing heavier and more charged with every passing second. you had found your way into his inner sanctum, and the look in your eyes told him exactly what you intended to do with him.

the darkness inside the car becomes absolute the moment you reach over and hit the switch to raise the privacy partition. the soft hum of the city outside is instantly muffled, replaced by the heavy, suffocating silence of your own private space. jude is trapped, pinned between the back door and the invisible line you’ve drawn in the air.

he’s staring at you, his eyes dark and dilated, reflecting the faint ambient light from the streetlamps passing by. his breath is coming in short, uneven hitches, and his hands are gripping the edges of his seat so hard his knuckles are stark white. he looks completely undone, the man who commands thousands of screaming fans now reduced to a state of absolute, paralyzed anticipation.

you lean into his space, your movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. you lock eyes with him, your gaze no longer playful—it’s fierce, possessive, and daring him to break. you don't say a word. you just hold that look, letting the tension coil between you like a wire pulled to its breaking point.

then, with agonizing slowness, you shift your gaze to his lips, then back up to his eyes, before biting down softly on your own lower lip. you hold it there, a teasing, mocking smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. you aren't just playing with him anymore; you’re dismantling him, piece by piece, savoring the way his jaw tightens and his resolve crumbles.

you lean even closer, until the space between you is electric. you can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest rises and falls in rhythm with your own heartbeat. you let out a soft, low chuckle—a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph—and tilt your head to the side, your eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure hunger.

"you thought you were done with me after the match, didn't you, jude?" you whisper, your voice a low, raspy challenge. "you really have no idea how this ends, do you?"

you watch him swallow hard, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. he looks like he’s caught in a waking dream, terrified that if he moves, he’ll wake up and find you gone. he’s completely at your mercy, and he knows it—he’s just waiting to see how far you’re going to take this tonight.

he opens his mouth to speak, likely to demand an answer or perhaps to protest—but the words die on his tongue the moment your hand settles against his thigh.

your touch is slow, deliberate, and maddeningly light. you let your fingertips trace the firm muscle beneath his tailored trousers, your hand moving with a possessive, rhythmic heat that sends a visible tremor through his frame. he gasps, his head falling back against the headrest, his eyes squeezing shut for a brief second as his entire body reacts to the sensation.

when he opens his eyes again, the confusion is entirely gone, replaced by a raw, dark hunger that has finally overridden his last shred of hesitation. the professional footballer, the public figure, the man with a girlfriend—they all vanish. in this enclosed, dimly lit space, there is only the man who is becoming utterly, irrevocably addicted to your touch.

he leans into your hand, his own fingers coming up to hover near your waist, trembling as he fights the urge to grab you. he’s completely anchored to you now, his pulse visible in the frantic, rhythmic throb at the base of his throat. he tries to lean away, but the movement only brings him closer to your gravity, and he lets out a broken, ragged sound that’s half-protest, half-surrender.

"you have no idea what you're doing to me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and strained. he reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly before he finally grips your wrist, his fingers firm but not pulling you away. instead, he keeps your hand exactly where it is, pressing your palm harder against his leg, grounding himself through you.

he’s breathing so heavily the glass partition is starting to fog. he looks at you not with suspicion, but with a terrifying, desperate need for you to continue. he’s no longer fighting the current; he’s drowning in it, and he’s realized that he doesn't want to be saved—he wants you to keep pushing him further until there’s nothing left of his old life at all.

"you're not just playing anymore, are you?" he whispers, his gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. "tell me you're not just playing."

you lean into his personal space, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the sterile air of the car. your voice is a low, deliberate purr as you look him dead in the eye and murmur the lines, letting the weight of the words strip away the last of his resistance:

"that’s okay baby…, do what you please. i have the stuff that you want. i am the thing that you need."

the effect is immediate and devastating. as the words leave your lips, jude’s entire posture collapses inward, all remnants of his public life and his existing relationship incinerated by the sheer intensity of the moment. he lets out a ragged, desperate sound, his hand tightening over yours on his thigh as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. he’s no longer thinking about consequences, about the paparazzi, or about the life he’s supposed to be returning to; he’s entirely consumed by the intoxicating, dangerous reality you’ve built for him.

he looks at you with a hunger that’s borderline frantic, his gaze darting from your eyes to your lips as he leans into your touch. he’s lost—fully, completely, and willingly lost—and he doesn't even try to fight it anymore. he presses your hand further against his skin, his breathing shallow and erratic, clearly signaling that he has abandoned any last-ditch attempt to uphold his moral defenses. you have pushed him over the edge, and he has finally stopped trying to climb back up.

jude freezes, his breath hitching, his eyes snapping shut as the cold realization hits him with brutal clarity: it is already far too late. he is trapped, not by the walls of the car, but by the undeniable fact that he is completely ensnared in your heart, and there is no longer any path back to the man he was before you.

as you lean in, the space between you vanishing, you begin to press slow, searing kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck. the sensation is instant and all-consuming, an electric shock that bypasses his mind and speaks directly to his nerves.

his resolve evaporates completely. he tilts his head back, surrendering to the overwhelming wave of heat, his hands trembling as he grips the leather of the seat to stay tethered to the earth. he is entirely possessed by the feeling of your lips against his skin, utterly powerless to resist, and desperate for nothing more than to lose himself in the beautiful, dangerous trap you have set for him.

he doesn't hesitate; his hands slide to your waist, his grip firm and desperate as he pulls you onto his lap, positioning you squarely over his hips. the power shift is complete. he bows his head, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps against your skin as he pleads with you, his voice barely a whisper against your throat.

"don't stop," he begs, the words muffled and thick with need, his face pressed into the crook of your neck as he urges you to keep going. "please, keep going."

you pull back just enough to look down at him, a soft, mocking laugh escaping your lips as you run your fingers through his hair. you trace the line of his jaw, enjoying the sight of him—so undone, so utterly at your mercy.

"does it feel that good, jude?" you tease, your voice dripping with playful cruelty. you lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "you know, you’re almost a little pathetic like this."

you watch his reaction, seeing the way his eyes darken with a mix of shame and even deeper, more frantic hunger. he doesn't pull away; instead, he clings to you tighter, as if you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart entirely.

you continue trailing slow, burning kisses along the column of his throat, feeling the erratic, desperate pulse beneath his skin. as you settle closer against him, the friction of your dress against his trousers shifts, and the lack of a barrier between you becomes instantly, unmistakably clear.

jude freezes, his hands splaying against your back, his eyes widening in the dim light. he lets out a sharp, choked intake of breath, his entire body going rigid as he registers the unfiltered heat radiating from you, pressed directly against him.

"you're not wearing..." he stammers, his voice barely audible, raw with a mix of shock and pure, sensory overload. he looks at you, his gaze searching your face, stunned by the realization that you’ve come to him like this—completely unshielded and ready.

you pull back just a fraction, arching an eyebrow as you meet his blown-out pupils with a look of cool, triumphant amusement. you let a low, throaty laugh escape your chest, the sound vibrating between you.

"is that a problem, darling?" you murmur, your voice dripping with honeyed malice. you lean in closer, pressing yourself fully against him, making the reality of the situation impossible for him to ignore. "does it feel good to feel me, jude? tell me, how does it feel to know exactly what’s waiting for you?"

you begin to move against him, slow, deliberate shifts of your hips that send shockwaves of sensation straight through him. the friction is intense, and as you rock against him, he feels the undeniable, unmistakable heat and dampness of you soaking through the fabric of his trousers. it’s an exquisite, maddening sensation that strips away his final reserves.

jude’s head falls back against the upholstery, a low, guttural moan escaping his throat that he can no longer suppress. his hands grip your waist so tightly his knuckles turn white, his body betraying him as he loses the battle for composure. he can’t hold back the pleasure, the sheer intensity of the contact leaving him breathless, his hips instinctively mirroring your rhythm in a desperate, frantic search for more. he’s completely undone, entirely surrendered to the exquisite torture of feeling you against him, his mind blanking out until there is nothing left but the raw, electric pulse of the moment.

"i need you," he gasps, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate hunger as he pulls you closer, his hands shaking as they move to the waistband of his trousers. "i need to feel you—everything."

you lean back, watching him with a predatory, triumphant smile. you reach down, your movements slow and deliberate, and begin to undo the fastening of his trousers. his breath hitches, his entire body arching as he waits for you to continue. you lean into his ear, your voice a dark, low whisper that pushes him over the edge. you murmur things so illicit, so deliciously wicked, that he loses the last shred of his restraint.

he is completely undone, his eyes unfocused and drowning in want, his body trembling with the intensity of his desire. he is yearning for you with a frantic, uncontainable ache, his pleas becoming incoherent as he realizes there is no version of this night where he doesn't give you exactly what you want. he is utterly subjugated, a captive to your touch, and as you continue, he stops trying to stay anchored to reality—he only wants to sink deeper into the beautiful, dangerous trap you've set for him.

you don't waste another second. you take him, guiding him directly into your heat, the sudden, overwhelming sensation causing him to let out a broken, guttural sound that vibrates through the entire interior of the car. he is completely stunned, his eyes wide and blown-out, paralyzed by the sheer intensity of the friction and the way you’ve claimed him.

he looks down at you, his breathing turning into sharp, desperate gasps, his hands clenching into the leather of your dress as his entire world narrows down to this single point of contact. he looks utterly overwhelmed, his composure completely shredded by the reality of how perfectly he fits.

you hold his gaze, the atmosphere in the car thick and suffocating. you bite your lip, a mocking, triumphant smirk playing on your features as you savor his reaction. you lean in, your voice a low, teasing taunt against his ear.

"you’re so big," you whisper, the words dripping with a mix of cruelty and pleasure. "it feels so good to have all of you, doesn't it?"

the look on his face is one of pure, raw subjugation. he’s completely caught, his hips twitching instinctively, unable to pull away and unwilling to stop. he is utterly at your mercy, yearning for the movement, his entire body trembling under the weight of the sensation you’re forcing him to feel.

the air in the car is heavy, charged with the scent of his arousal and your own. jude is completely shattered, his head thrown back against the headrest, his eyes squeezed shut as he lets out a series of broken, desperate moans. the friction is all-consuming, and he can feel every inch of his length buried deep inside you, the sensation so intense it leaves him shuddering.

"god, it feels so good," he gasps, his voice trembling and raw, his hands clutching your hips to keep you pressed firmly against him. "it’s insane... please, just don't stop."

you maintain the rhythm, slow and torturous, enjoying the way he writhes under your control. you lean down, your voice a dark, velvet whisper against the shell of his ear, punctuating your movements with stinging, suggestive remarks. you tease him about his lack of resistance, about how easily he’s fallen, and about exactly what he’s become since you entered his life.

every word is a lash that drives him further into his own pleasure. he’s completely addicted to the dynamic, his body arching into yours with a frantic, primitive need. he is so far gone that the concept of consequence has been obliterated; there is only the heat, the rhythm, and the terrifying realization that he has become nothing more than a plaything for your amusement. he begs you, over and over, his voice a frantic prayer of desperation and lust, pleading for you to continue until there is nothing left of him but the sensation you’re providing.

the moment you groan his name—a low, melodic sound that vibrates against his chest—the world around him seems to tilt on its axis. hearing his own name on your lips sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system, shattering whatever tiny barrier of restraint he had left. he is no longer just overwhelmed; he is completely and utterly undone.

he feels the absolute, suffocating intensity of you settled on his lap, your weight perfectly distributed, and the sensation of being buried deep within you becomes his entire reality. he looks at you, his eyes dark with an intoxicating blend of worship and ruin, completely captivated by the power you hold over him. he realizes, with a dazed, frantic clarity, that he is completely at your mercy—he is subjugated by the physical friction, by the way you look at him, and by the sheer, electric vulnerability of being this connected to you.

"my god," he breathes, his voice barely a coherent sound as he leans into you, his movements becoming more desperate, more demanding. he is drowning in the sensation of you, his hands trembling as he holds you close, his entire body responding to your rhythm with an almost violent need. he’s lost to the pleasure, fully aware that he has surrendered his control to you, and he is terrified, yet thrilled, by how much he craves the sensation of being trapped in this exact, agonizingly perfect moment with you.

you continue to ride him with a slow, deliberate cadence, the friction between you becoming an agonizingly beautiful torture. you lean down, your hair brushing against his jaw, and as you grind against him, you whisper into his ear with a voice thick with playful, dark intent.

"it’s just so incredibly large, jude," you murmur, your tone dripping with a mixture of praise and mockery, "i can barely take all of you."

hearing you acknowledge his size while you’re this deep inside him is the final catalyst; he gasps, his head falling back as the sensation rips through him. he’s completely subjugated, his muscles locking, his breath hitching in his chest. he feels the tension coiling tight in his core, the pressure mounting with every movement you make. he’s on the very precipice, his body trembling, his hands digging into your skin as he clings to you, desperate to hold onto the sensation even as he feels himself beginning to unravel.

every time you whisper those words, the intensity surges, the friction between you feeling like a live wire. you keep teasing him, trailing your hands over his shoulders and down his chest, your voice a constant, taunting melody in his ear about his size, about his need, and about exactly how good it feels to have him trapped like this.

the constant reinforcement of his own desire, paired with the overwhelming, tight sensation of being inside you, pushes him to the very edge. he’s completely subjugated, his back arching, his breath hitching into jagged, shallow gasps. he’s losing his grip on reality, his internal rhythm spiraling out of control because of how much he wants you.

"you’re killing me," he manages to choke out, his voice thick and desperate, his pupils dilated to the point where his eyes are nothing but black pools. he feels the familiar, building pressure in his core—the unmistakable surge of his release drawing near—and he knows he can’t hold it back much longer. he’s entirely at your mercy, his body betraying every last defensive thought he had left, as he clings to you, waiting for that final, shattering moment of surrender.

jude’s control finally shatters completely. his hips begin to buck against yours in a frantic, losing battle, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure. "i can't... i'm going to—i'm coming," he gasps out, his voice cracking with the strain of holding on for as long as he possibly could.

you don't pull away; instead, you press yourself harder against him, pinning him down and locking your gaze with his. "don't you dare stop," you command, your voice a sharp, commanding whisper against his ear. "do it inside me. i want to feel every bit of it."

the words are the final trigger. he lets out a ragged, desperate cry as he finally surrenders, his body going rigid as he explodes within you. the sensation of his release is electric, and it pushes you over the edge as well; you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as you shatter right along with him. you hold onto him tightly, both of you lost in the blinding, heavy heat of the moment, anchored only by the intense, rhythmic pulsing that binds you together. for those few seconds, nothing else exists—no reality, no consequences—only the raw, shared aftermath of what you have just done to him.

you disentangle yourself from his lap in one swift, fluid movement, your dress sliding back into place as if the scene you just created never happened. you reach into the neckline of your dress, pulling out a small, folded scrap of paper. with perfect timing, the car rolls to a smooth stop—you have reached your destination.

you slide out of the car, the cool air hitting your skin, and you turn back to face him through the open door. he is still entirely undone, his hair disheveled, his trousers still unfastened, his chest heaving as he stares at you, completely unable to process the transition from the intensity of the moment back to the quiet of the street.

you lean into the car, your voice cool and sharp, slicing through his daze. "you should leave your girlfriend, jude," you say, a faint, mocking smile touching your lips. "she’s not half the freak i am, and we both know it." you hold his gaze for a second, watching the realization dawn on him, before adding, "if you make the right choice and call me, you’ll know where to find me."

with that, you drop the paper onto his seat and walk away, leaving him behind in the stillness. as he finally manages to lower his gaze, his hands still trembling, he looks down at the scrap of paper. there, written in your handwriting, is your number.

the silence in the car feels deafening as the engine cuts out, leaving him in a state of sensory shock. he stares at the empty space where you were just sitting, the scent of you still clinging to the leather and to his own skin. the gravity of what just happened begins to settle in: he has just betrayed his girlfriend—someone he was supposed to be committed to—with a total stranger. he doesn’t even know your name.

yet, as he looks down at the slip of paper with your number, a cold, startling truth washes over him: he doesn't care.

the guilt that should be crushing him is nowhere to be found, drowned out by the lingering electric pulse of what you did to him. he runs a hand through his messy hair, his heart hammering against his ribs, not with regret, but with a terrifying, addictive longing. he realizes with a jolt of clarity that he hasn't just been physically overwhelmed; he has been completely dismantled. he is entirely under your spell, and the idea of going back to his normal life, to his girlfriend, feels like a pale imitation of the reality he just tasted with you.

he clutches the paper in his fist, his knuckles white, his breath hitching as he stares at the number again. he is no longer just a guy who made a mistake; he is a man who has found something dangerous, something he knows will ruin him, and yet he knows, with absolute, hollowed-out certainty, that he is already entirely yours.

Mark let's out a snort of laughter, perching up and resting his weight in his elbows, the edge of his sweater raising the tiniest bit and you catch a peek of a neat, dark little happy trail that disappears beneath the fabric of his clothing.

"I can guarantee an orgasm." Mark boasts. "I'll bet anything."

"If I don't cum, I want you to grow a full bush and then, wear cycling shorts for a week."

Your wager has Mark's lips pursing, chocolate pools moving towards the ceiling as he weighs his options. "Oddly specific but okay." Mark shrugs. "And if you cum, anytime I learn a sex trick, I get to try it on you. Unless you get into a relationship but," he snorts, "let's be realistic."

The insult has you flinging the magazine across the bedroom, hitting Mark in the face with the spine and he winces, although, you know it's more out of habit than from actual feeling.

"It's so weird." He mumbles. "I don't feel your abuse anymore."

Mark's grin is cocky.

"Oh, Marky," you coo, lifting yourself from his desk chair and you cradle his face in your hands, an action that's so familiarly condescending but Mark can't help but lean into your warm palms, "you're only unaffected by the physical abuse. I can still hurt you self-esteem."

Mark's eyes narrow at you. "Try it." There's a challenge in his voice that you just can't ignore. Especially when he's looking at you like that. Brown eyes trained intensely on you, black strands tousled ever so slightly from the long day he's had.

"You have feminine hands." And you swear, the way his expression falls is an aphrodisiac in of itself before you straighten up.

"It's easy to hurt your ego, Marky." You hum. "Heroes get a lot of hate if they do something wrong. But lucky for you, you have years of experience."

"Yeah," Mark hums, "no one's a bigger dick than you."

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨💛💙୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"It's so weird that you're losing your virginity on your parents' anniversary." You hum quietly, carefully traveling along the sides of Mark's bedroom, attaching the LED light strips along the cornish.

"Don't make it weird." Mark grumbles, stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fuzzy robe as he towel dries his hair, messy strands poking in every direction and he watches you with amusement. "Their anniversary is like, the only time when they travel far enough that I can't hear them. So.... It's the only night I can do it."

"They probably don't want you to hear them fucking." You hum, almost absentmindedly and when Mark gags, you let out a laugh and your foot slips from the backrest of his desk chair, and you slip.

But instead of meeting the carpeted floor in an unceremonious crash, you instead crash into Mark's chest, his arms wrapped around your midsection and your knees tucked up. And he dips his head low, head tilted.

"You okay?"

And if your pussy didn't have a heartbeat before, it does now. The way he looks down at you, his expression so soft, brows creased in concern and his lips. So soft and inviting, the scent of mint lingering in the air and you nod your head.

"Mhm," you mutter quietly, "I'm okay."

Mark sets you on your feet, before examining where you had stuck the lights and he nods his head, a grin cocking at his lips.

"Yeah, this is a mood setter."

"Can I open my eyes now?" Mark grumbles, arms folded over his chest but his eyes are closed, lashes fluttering against his cheekbones and you let out a hum.

"Go ahead." You mumble and he allows his eyes to open and drink in the sight of you.

Freshly showered, steam still rising from your skin and in his T-shirt. The faded Batman shirt ends just below your crotch, your ankle socks aren't even matching and your hair's tied into a bun that looks so half-assed.

You look nervous. Eyes lowered to the carpet and Mark reaches forward, large hands bracketing your hips and his thumbs brush over the trimming of your panties. And he pulls you to stand between his thighs, his head tips back and his chin comes up to rest on your sternum as he stares up at you.

"We don't have—" "I want to." You interrupt him, your hands raising to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing along his jawline. "I want to." You repeat quietly, looking down at Mark.

The plan is to lose your virginities before the gap year is over. Because you'd both much rather make a mistake with each other than with strangers.

"Move your hand."

Mark lets out a snicker of laughter, your thighs tossed over his and his tip notched at your entrance, and he can barely think.

Not when he knows how tightly you felt around his fingers, sucking him in with such a neediness, not when he saw the way your brows knitted into the prettiest little pinched expression when his tongue lapped against your clit just right.

"I looked at the logistics of it and it's not gonna fit."

You state, and those pretty brown eyes roll at your words, before Mark slaps your hand away, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he taps it against your clit. Just to watch the way your stomach caves in with an unsteady breath.

"It'll fit." Mark reassures. "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

And you let out a laugh, your body slumped against the mattress and you snort.

"No you're n—nahh..."

Mark watches the way your head tips back when he pushes his tip past the ring of muscle, and he watches the way your eyes shut, brows knitting into a pinch.

"You little... Fuck.."

You breathe out, your expression a little pouty frown and Mark moves a strand of hair out of your face, leaning forward and as he presses a kiss to your forehead, he pushes another inch inside.

And as you gasp, his lips press against yours, and Mark swallows each moan and groan of pain, his forearm supporting his weight while his other hand grips your hip, thumb brushing over the protruding bone of your hip and he tilts his head to deepen the kiss.

"You're so warm..." Mark murmurs into the kiss, but he keeps his hips still, slotted between your thighs and he feels your gummy walls pulsing around him, trying to get used to the intrusion. And Mark lifts his head, kissing the apples of your cheeks.

"So I'm big, huh?"

He teases and watching as your pained expression gives way to an annoyed expression, eyes bored and brows furrowed.

"Just fuck me already."

You grumble.

And Mark pulls out, until just the rosy tip of his cock is poked into your sopping cunt, before he slowly pushes back into you.

The stretch burns, and you can feel the way your nails dig into your palms and you take a deep breath. His hips are pressed against yours, and you can feel that painful pinch behind your navel.

"Are you inside yet?" You question, peeking up at Mark through your lashes, enough to watch the way that dorkish grin spread across his face as he readjusts his position, leaning forward and shifting himself to rest more comfortably.

"Ha-ha, very funny." He rolls his eyes, his voice just a tad breathy and his hands move, thumbs moving your pussy lips out of the way, spreading them so he can see the pinkish flesh that swallows him whole.

"Mark!" You hiss, swatting away his hands, and covering your folds from his view. "What are you doing?"

"They do it in porn!" He defends, moving his hands to rest on your hips instead as his hips slowly begin to roll against you, the soft strands of his happy trail tickles your neglected and swollen clit, and you take a shaky breath.

"Those people are ass naked." You deadpan. "You've never even seen my feet."

With one hand, Mark shifts the covers and lets out a bark of laughter at the sight of your socks, still on your feet. And he reaches back for your ankle, lifting your leg and he places a soft kiss on the inside of your foot, causing your walls to flutter around him.

His kiss is warm through the cotton, a lingering show of affection as his hips thrust, cock nudging your insides to his shape. And he lowers your foot.

"Put your foot on my chest. I wanna try something." Mark hums quietly, resting your sock covered foot on his chest. And you let out a snort.

"My pussy isn't a skate park. You can't try things you've never done." You huff, but you comply, keeping your foot against his brawny chest, even as Mark shifts you into position, straddling your one thigh and resting your foot on his chest.

And when he moves, your foot slides off his chest, instead, resting beside him. And a snicker slips past your lips at the frustrated expression on his face.

"Please participate." Mark grumbles, moving your foot, and resting your leg over his shoulder, ignoring the way a laugh ruptures from your lips.

Kiss-swollen and pouty lips curling into a wicked grin.

"Bro said 'please par—'... Shit..."

Your eyes roll back in your head when the divot of Mark's tip presses against your cervix, pressing a sloppy, slick kiss against the plug as he grinds into you, leaning forward and pressing his lips against the curve of your jaw.

Mark isn't even fucking you anymore.

He's slowly rutting into you, pressing adorning kisses to the side of your face, sucking marks into the supple skin of your neck while he slowly fucks an orgasm out of you.

Kissing you deeply, his hand grasping the fat of your hip while the other massages the plumpness of your thigh, pressing a warm kiss against your calf before going back to swallowing your honeyed moans.

"... shit, you're gonna make me come..." You breathe out, your nails dragging lines down the expanse of his muscular and slightly damp back, the pain and pleasure mixing into a delicious concoction that has Mark burying his face into your neck.

Inhaling the scent of you.

"Mhm.... 's okay, baby, come for me..."

His voice is husky, a low timbre that makes your stomach knot and you whine when you feel that wave of ecstasy crash over you, waves breaking on the jagged rocks of your being and you're lashes flutter, tears brimming on your lower lashline because you're just so... Full.

Mark perches up, wiping the teardrops from your cheeks and he looks down at your hazy and flushed expression. His gaze lingering on your lips, wet and rosy, and before he even registers, your hand is on his face.

"Stop making such heavy eye contact." You whine. "You're gonna make me catch feelings."

And a laugh tumbles from his lips.

"You know, I have your entire future in my hands right now." Mark states quietly and when you hum, quietly mumbling a 'how do you mean', he simply presses a kiss against your pulse.

"I could fuck a baby into you right now." Mark breathes out.

"And you'd thank me for it."

It starts simple. Just the two of you, killing time on a hot-ass day.

Mark's stretched out on his bed in a plain white tee and sweatpants, bare feet dangling off the edge, a comic held above his face. You're lying on your stomach beside him, scrolling through your phone with one hand and popping grapes into your mouth from the bowl on the nightstand with the other. The fan hums overhead, blades lazily spinning, sending a soft breeze that flutters the edge of your shirt.

It's been one of those quiet days--easy, comfortable, familiar. The kind of day that slips by without effort. You've been friends forever. Close enough to joke about everything, to touch without flinching, to share a bed or a bite of food without thinking twice.

But lately?

Something's been simmering beneath the surface. Something unspoken. Lingering glances. That low, fluttery buzz in your stomach when your shoulders brush. When his thigh bumps yours. When he looks over at you with sleep-wrecked hair and that heavy-lidded stare.

You should be used to it by now. This closeness. This... everything. But it's getting harder to ignore how good his arms look when he stretches, or how your stomach does that dumb little flip every time he laughs in that sleepy, raspy voice.

And today?

Today, he looks too good for his own damn safety.

You glance up from your phone--not really meaning to--and find yourself looking at his mouth. He's chewing the corner of his lip, eyes flicking across the comic like he's actually reading, but his fingers haven't turned the page in a while. His shirt's riding up just a bit, teasing a strip of his stomach.

And God help you, you notice.

You stare. Look back at your phone. Pop a grape in your mouth like that'll fix anything.

It doesn't.

When you glance up again, he's smiling. Not at you--at something in the comic--but the way the corner of his mouth lifts first? The way it makes that damn dimple show?

That should be illegal. Like, arrest-worthy--because of that dimple? Way too hot.

(As if he wasn't already criminally attractive.)

His arm is resting near yours, casual and close, and for some reason... it's his hand that catches your attention this time. The veins. The tendons. The long, twitchy fingers. You watch them turn a page, and something flutters in your chest--sharp and sudden.

"...Hey," you murmur, nudging his arm. "Lemme see your hand."

Mark glances over, confused but obliging. "Uh... okay?"

He lowers the comic, and you immediately take his hand in yours--palm to palm.

And holy shit.

"I knew it," you mutter. "You've got big hands."

Mark furrows his brow. "I mean... you've got tiny hands. That's not really a surprise."

"No, no. This is different." You scoot closer, studying the way your fingertips don't even reach the last knuckle of his. "They're longer. Like, spider-leg long."

He snorts. "Gee, thanks."

But his voice cracks slightly, trying to be casual. He thinks he's being casual. But inside? His brain is already short-circuiting.

Why are you looking at his hand like that?

Why are you holding it like that?

You glide your fingers slowly to his, tracing the length with teasing precision. "I mean it as a compliment. Kinda."

"'Kinda,'" he echoes, already scrambling, because your voice just dropped half an octave and his heart's pounding.

You shoot him a look. "Don't get cocky just 'cause your mutant fingers are hot."

He chokes. "My what?!"

But you're not letting it go. Not now. Not after your brain catches up to the possibilities.

Those fingers... long, nimble, warm. Strong when they grip things. And you've seen the way they wrap around water bottles, seen how they flex when he's clenching a fist or holding a pencil or absentmindedly drumming on his thigh while thinking.

God, what could those fingers do to you?

You stare down at your hands against his, thoughts spiraling rapidly from innocent observation to filthy, spiraling fantasy.

His long fingers wrapped around your throat. Curling inside you just right, hitting that perfect spot that makes you see stars. Holding your hips down while you squirm beneath him, breathless, begging him to stop because it's too much, it's too good--and you don't know if you can take it.

You feel a rush of heat crawl up to your neck, something throbbing deep and low, causing you to press your thighs together without thinking--tight, needy, like your body's already begging for his hands.

And Mark feels it too. Feels the shift. Sees the look in your eyes and he's panicking.

"Okay, weird inspection's over--" he tries to pull away.

But you catch his wrist and give him that look.

The one that says: you're not leaving this moment unscathed.

His stomach flips.

Then your lips curl into a devilish grin, slow and deliberate, causing Mark's breath to hitch. He watches your lips part, feeling his mouth go dry until--

"...You ever put those fingers to good use, Grayson?"

Your voice is silk and heat. And Mark?

Mark's brain lags like a bad Wi-Fi connection.

"I--wha--what does that even mean?" he stammers, eyes wide, cheeks already tinting red as your grip on his wrist tightens just slightly. His fingers twitch against yours, and you swear you feel a spark shoot up your arm.

You lean in closer, like you're about to share a secret.

"It means," you purr, tracing one of his long fingers with your nail, from base to tip in a deliberate, slow drag. "you've got tools, Mark. Real potential. And now I'm wondering what they'd feel like... y'know..."

You let your voice drop, eyes lidded. "Inside someone."

Mark makes a choked sound in his throat, like his soul just left his body. "You're messing with me," he says, voice shaky, trying hard to sound firm. "You--this is just another one of your dumb jokes."

You tilt your head, that same grin playing at the corner of your mouth as your fingers slide down his palm, lightly tickling the veins there. "Am I joking?" you ask inocently. "Or are you just scared?"

"Scared?!" he repeats, voice cracking.

"Oh yeah," you hum. "You're redder than a tomato right now. What, is it too much? Can't handle a little finger talk?"

"I can handle--" Mark's voice pitches, indignant and flustered all at once. "It's not like I haven't--done stuff before!"

"Yeah?" you lean forward, so close now that your lips are barely a few inches from his, eyes locked. "Then prove it."

Mark's breath hitches. "W-What?"

You keep going, teasing, relentless, your voice practically wrapping around him. "Show me how good they are. Those hands of yours. Or was all that talk just for show?"

And then--click.

His jaw clenches, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up, shoulders stiffen like he's bracing himself.

And you see it.

The moment Mark Grayson breaks.

"You're playing with fire," he says, voice low and dangerous.

Your smirk deepens. "Good. I like the burn."

And suddenly, his hand that had been under yours moves. Firm and sure, sliding up, fingers brushing your wrist, your forearm, until he's gripping just below your elbow.

"You want me to use my fingers?" he asks, voice husky now, a dark undercurrent that wasn't there before. "On you?"

You pause for a breath, caught by the tension snapping in the air.

"...I mean," you whisper, "unless you're too scared."

His smile curves--crooked and dangerous. "I already told you. I can handle it."

Then his hand slides up to your jaw, tilting your chin--slow, deliberate, commanding. Your breath catches as you watch the way his eyes darken, eyes lidded as he stares you down.

"And I will," he adds. "But if I do, you better be ready to take all of it. No running away when it gets too much. No teasing halfway."

Your heart pounds. His fingers--god, those fingers--are cradling your jaw now, brushing over your lips, your cheek, slow and maddening.

"I don't run," you whisper.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, "Then lie back."

And you do.

You don't break eye contact when you shift, body thrumming with heat as you lie back on his bed, sinking into his sheets. There's a moment--just one--where you feel almost too exposed, nerves prickling under your skin. You hadn't expected him to rise to the challenge. Not like this. Not with that look in his eye.

Mark settles beside you, bracing one hand next to your head, the other skimming down your side.

"You sure?" he murmurs, voice a low rasp, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. "You're not gonna tap out if I go too far?"

You grin, but your voice wavers with need. "Try me."

And that's all it take for Mark to snap.

His mouth crashes into yours--hot, messy, hungry. It's not your first kiss, but it feels like the first time he's really kissing you, like he's been waiting to unleash it. His tongue tangles with yours as his hand slides down to your waistband, pushing your shirt up just enough to expose your stomach.

"You looked so smug earlier," he growls, teeth catching your bottom lip. "Talking shit about my fingers like you weren't desperate for me to use them on you."

You gasp into the kiss. "I wasn't--!"

"You were," he says, cutting you off as his fingers trail beneath your waistband, over your panties. "And now I get to hear how cocky you sound when you're soaked."

He drags two fingers between your legs, slow, and you jerk beneath him with a soft moan.

"God, you're already wet?"

"Shut up," you pant, trying to squirm, but he presses his hand down--just enough to hold you still.

"Oh, now you wanna be shy?" His smirk is wicked. "Nah. I want all that attitude. I want you to look me in the eye when I make you fall apart."

He hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs. You kick them off, already impatient, legs shifting restlessly.

Then his hand is back.

Two fingers sliding through your folds, dragging through slick heat. He watches every reaction--how your breath catches, how your hips jerk, how your thighs twitch open wider for him.

"Fuck," he murmurs. "You feel good."

Then--pressure.

His middle finger sinks in first, slow but firm, filling you with a stretch that makes your toes curl.

You gasp. "Shit--Mark!"

"Too much already?" he teases, even as he pumps it in and out, curling slightly on each thrust. "That's just one, babe."

You throw your arm over your eyes, breath coming faster. "Don't you fucking dare--"

"Oh, I'm gonna."

And without warning--

He adds a second finger.

The stretch is intense--but it's not painful. It's deep. Long. And his fingers--god, they reach so much further than yours ever could. He starts working them with slow, deep thrusts, curling them just right.

"Fuck--right there," you gasp, hips stuttering against the bed.

Mark freezes, grinning. "There?"

You glare at him through hazy lashes. "If you stop now I swear to god--"

But he doesn't stop.

He grinds the heel of his palm against your clit and starts really fucking you with his fingers--deep, fast, curling perfectly with every thrust. The squelch of slick heat fills the room, obscene and loud. Your thighs are shaking, hips bucking helplessly against him.

"Listen to you," he groans, pupils blown wide. "Dripping all over my hand. You like these long fingers, huh? You were practically begging for it without even saying it."

You can't even argue--not with your head thrown back, jaw slack, moaning with every snap of his wrist. The way his long fingers curl perfectly to hit that spot over and over again that makes you scream, pumping slowly just to tease you.

"Mark--oh fuck! Don't stop--!"

"That's it, baby," he growls. "You gonna cum for me? Just from my fingers?"

You nod frantically, too far gone to speak. And he knows it--he fucks you faster now. Deeper. Grinning when you babble his name between whimpers and gasps.

And when you cum?

It's messy--loud, full-body shudders, thighs clamping around his wrist as you cry out and clamp down around his fingers, your back arching clean off the bed.

"Fuck," Mark mutters, watching you like he's starving. "God, that was--"

You don't even hear him.

Your brain feels like it's turned to liquid. Your body's still shaking and clenching weakly around his fingers.

He pulls them out slowly, dragging them through your folds one more time before lifting them to his mouth. His lips part, and he sucks them clean, eyes fixed on yours the entire time.

"Guess my fingers aren't so freakish after all, huh?" he murmurs, voice husky.

You blink at him, dazed.

"...They're worse," you whisper. "They're a fucking problem."

He smirks.

"Good. I hope you suffer."

You huff, rolling your eyes playfully as you try to catch your breath--still panting, legs slack, thighs twitching with the aftershocks. Your body feels like it's been melted into the sheets, your skin hot and humming.

But despite the high, despite your racing heart... something heavier, hotter, and needier is pulsing between your legs now:

Greed.

He had the audacity to smirk at you while tasting you from his fingers. The gall to look you in the eye, lips glistening, and say he hopes you suffer.

Like, what the actual fuck?

He thinks he's in control no--acting all smug and high just by making you cum with those long fingers of his.

But the truth is--he's not.

You stare up at him, eyes hooded, lips parted. Mark's still leaning over you, licking his fingers clean with that cocky-ass smirk that makes your stomach clench all over again.

And that's when you see it.

The shape of him. His sweatpants are tented with zero shame--his hard-on straining against the thin fabric, leaking just from touching you. He's rock hard, flushed all the way to his ears, but he hasn't even touched himself yet.

You grin, breathless.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "You're fucking dripping."

Mark freezes. "I--shut up."

You sit up slowly, your strength returning in wicked waves. "All that from just fingering me?"

His mouth opens, then closes. His confidence falters. "I mean, you--you were hot--"

You crawl toward him on your hands and knees--half-naked, eyes locked on his. "You came in cocky, Mark," you murmur. "But you didn't think about what happens after, did you?"

He sits back a little, swallowing hard. "After...?"

You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging it down a bit to reveal more of that delicious faint trail of hair that disappears under his boxers.

You glance up at him, mock-innocent as a wicked smile spreads across your face.

"My turn."

Mark hisses through his teeth when you yank them down. His cock springs free--thick, flushed, the tip wet with precum, twitching like it's been dying for attention. And you just smile at the sight of it, all flushed and twitching against his stomach.

You wrap your hand around the base, deliberately slow, and his entire body goes rigid.

"Oh, baby," you coo, grinning like you didn't just almost trip on the sheets. "You were so good for me just now. You deserve a little treat, right?"

"I--fuck--fuck," Mark pants as your fist glides up the length, thumb swiping over the head, smearing the slickness there. "Jesus--your hands feel--"

"Not freakish?" you tease, lips brushing his throat as you pump him in slow, tight strokes. "Mine might be smaller, but I know exactly how to use them."

His head drops back, neck straining.

Your thumb presses under the head, circling the ridge, and his hips thrust into your grip with a gasp.

"Shit--you're gonna make me cum--!"

"Already?" You pout. "But I was just getting started..."

And you are. You bend down, lips parting over the tip, and when your tongue flicks across that sensitive slit, Mark whimpers.

Loudly.

You flatten your tongue against the underside and drag it slowly to the head, then suck him into your mouth until your cheeks hollow around him.

You moan around him, causing Mark to cry out loud from the sudden vibration shooting throughout his body.

"Fuckfuckfuck--" His hands claw at the sheets. "That's not fair--you can't--Jesus--"

But you're not stopping.

You keep going.

Your hand stays tight around the base while your mouth takes the rest--sucking, swirling, teasing until his thighs are shaking and he's leaking even more, gasping your name like it's the only word he remembers.

He lifts his head to watch you, wide-eyed and wrecked, eyes glassy.

"You're--you're evil," he chokes. "You're so--fucking perfect--I'm not gonna last--"

You need a breath. A break. But the way he's looking at you, like he'd worship the ground you walk on just for sucking him dry? You're not done yet. You pull off him with a pop, strings of spit connecting from your lips to his tip as you grin up at him, spit-slick lips shining.

"That's the point."

Then your fist tightens, your mouth drops back down, and you suck him deep this time--fast, wet, filthy, until his thighs are shaking and he's panting and begging under his breath:

"Please, baby--please let me cum--fuck, I need it--I need it so bad--"

You hum low around him.

And that's all it takes.

He explodes with a groan so guttural it doesn't sound real--his body locking up, his hand gripping your hair, his cock twitching hard as he spills into your mouth in thick, hot spurts.

You swallow everything.

Everything.

Not a single drop was wasted. Even after he cums, you keep going. Sucking slow, dragging it out. His hips twitch helplessly, his breath ragged and choked.

"Too much," he whines, trying to push your head back. "I-I can't--"

You finally pull off, eyes gleaming, lips shiny.

"You lasted longer than I thought," you murmur sweetly. "Guess those long fingers aren't the only impressive thing on you."

He collapses backward onto the bed, totally fucked out, arm thrown over his eyes. "Holt shit," he rasps. "I'm gonna die."

You crawl up beside him, curling against his chest. "You're not dying," you whisper against his neck. "You're just getting started."

Mark groans. "You're gonna kill me."

"And you're gonna thank me for it," you tease.

He chuckles breathlessly, still trying to catch his breath as you tangle your legs with his--one hand lazily tracing the lines on his stomach, your breath warm against his skin.

You hear it before you feel it: the hitch in his breath, the subtle twitch of his hips, the way his fingers shift to grip your waist just a little tighter.

You grin.

"...Mark," you murmur, chin resting on his chest. "Are you getting hard again?"

He groans and throws an arm over his face. "Don't judge me--"

You shift up and straddle his hips, grinding down slightly--and there it is. Hard. Thick. Already twitching.

"Oh my god." You laugh, breathless. "You're actually insane."

Mark peeks out from under his arm, flushed and panting. "You sucked the soul out of me. What do you expect?"

You lean in, dragging your nails slightly across his chest. "You really wanna go again?"

He locks eyes with you.

Then--his voice drops.

"Not just go again," he murmurs. "I wanna taste you now."

Your breath catches. "What--"

"I've been thinking about it since you got on top of me." His hands slide to your ass, squeezing hard. "Since I watched your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, swallowing every drop I had. You made me cum so much... and now I think it's my turn to return the favor back."

You gasp as he sits up, flipping you easily until you're underneath him, and then back again until you're straddling his face.

"Mark--" your voice cracks. "This is--this is so unfair."

"You teased me, sucked me dry, smirked through it like you won," he growls, kissing the inside of your thigh. "So now? I'm eating you until you cry."

Then--his mouth.

Oh, god--his mouth.

He grabs your thighs and pulls you down onto his face, tongue instantly diving between your folds, lapping at you like he's starving.

Your scream tears out of you before you can stop it--leaving no time to be embarrassed.

His lips seal around your clit and suck hard, sending a shockwave through your core that makes your legs buckle. His tongue flicks, circles, teases--then plunges deep inside you, fucking you with his mouth like he's trying to wring another orgasm out of you right now.

"Mark--fuck, I--" You can't even breathe.

He groans under you, gripping your thighs tighter, pulling you in closer, not letting you up. Every movement is greedy, possessive--he eats you like it's his, like this is the only thing that matters in the word right now.

You grab the headboard for balance, hips rocking against his face uncontrollably.

His nose nudges your clit just right. His tongue? Fucking ruthless. And those long fingers?

Oh--they're back, baby.

One slips inside again, already soaked, curling just right--then another, his mouth and fingers working together in tandem.

You cry out, thighs trembling violently. "Mark--I'm--I'm gonna cum again--I can't--"

But he doesn't stop.

His voice is muffled against your cunt, but you hear it:

"Cum on my face."

You shatter.

You scream his name, hips grinding down as your orgasm slams into you--so much harder than the first. Your vision goes white, your body convulsing as you ride his mouth, dripping all over him.

He moans through it. Drinks through it.

Even as your thighs tremble, even as you whimper and twitch, he doesn't let up. He licks you through it, into it--until your entire body goes limp, slumping forward against the wall behind his bed, breathing like you ran a marathon.

He finally pulls back, chin soaked, eyes blown out and obsessed as he stares up at you.

"You good?" he pants, voice hoarse.

You shake your head, dazed and breathless. "No. I'm dead. You ruined me."

He grins, flipping you back underneath him again, kissing down your throat. "Good," he growls. "Because I'm not done yet until I make you scream my name again."

You whine, your body trembling--eyes dazed, thighs slick, lips parted as you try to catch your breath. Your body's spent, slick between your legs, twitching with every brush of air. Mark's leaning over you, breath warm on your neck, and the look in his eyes is feral.

"You said I ruined you," he rasps, his hand slipping between your thighs, spreading you wide again, and he groans when he feels how soaked you still are. "Then let me finish the job."

You barely manage a nod--your body is too needy, too raw and desperate to even protest. And when he grabs his cock--hard again, thick and flushed--you nearly whimper at the sight of it.

He runs the head through your folds, gathering every bit of slick he pulled out of you, then lines himself up.

"You still want this?" he growls, voice low, teeth gritted as he teases your entrance. "Still want me to fuck you, even like this?"

You nod frantically, fingers curling into the sheets. "Please, Mark--I need it, I need you--inside me--"

He snaps.

In one deep, smooth thrust, he sinks all the way in--bottoming out with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl.

"F-Fuck--" he gasps, forehead dropping to yours. "You're so tight, fuck--you feel so--shit."

You cry out, body jolting as you stretch around him. It's too much--he's thick and hot and deep, and your cunt is still aching from earlier.

But god, it's perfect.

"You're dripping," he grits, thrusting in slowly, deliberately deep. "Still fucking leaking from my fingers and my mouth--and now this pussy's clenching like it never wants me to leave."

You whimper. "I don't. Don't pull out."

He growls like an animal, grabbing your thighs and pinning them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him as he fucks deeper.

"Yeah?" he snarls. "You want me to fill you up? Get you so full of me you're leaking for days?"

You moan, nails digging into this back. "Wanna feel you everywhere--"

"You will," he promises, voice harsh and breathless. "I'm gonna fuck you so deep, you'll still feel me when you walk tomorrow."

His hips start snapping forward faster--harder. His cock slams into your sweet spot, dragging wet, obscene sounds out of you with every thrust. You can barely breathe--his pace is brutal now, deep and punishing, hips slamming into yours.

"Mark--fuckfuck, you're so deep--!" you sob, legs wrapped around his waist.

He snarls into your neck, biting down gently. "You take it so fucking good. Look at you. Fucked out. Crying for me."

Your eyes are rolling. You're drooling. His cock hits that spit so perfectly, your vision's going white again.

"Cum again," he demands. "Now."

You wail--your orgasm crashes over you with no warning, your body seizing as you scream his name. You tighten around him so hard it nearly rips a groan out of him.

"Fuck--! Shit, baby," Mark shudders, barely hanging on. "You're--fuck, you're milking me--I can't--"

His rhythm falters, slamming in once--twice--then freezes.

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

You feel it--pulse after pulse of him spilling inside, thick and warm, coating your insides until it's leaking back out around his cock. His whole body shakes above you, every muscle straining as he rides out his orgasm with a ragged, animalistic moan.

"Shit--oh my god--" he pants, hips still twitching.

You're both shaking, your bodies stuck together by sweat and heat and slick, breaths ragged and broken.

"...Holy shit," you whisper, voice cracking.

Mark lets out a breathless laugh into your neck.

"So... round five?"

You smack his chest.

"Let me live first, you goddamn Viltrumite freak."

He just grins against your skin. "You love it."

You do.

God help you--you do.

You breathe out a shaky laugh, not sure if you're recovering... or relapsing.

You love it when he holds you like this after. When all the teasing and tension fades into something quieter. When he doesn't let go. When his forehead rests against yours like he might be just as afraid of what this means. When the jokes stop and it's just breath and heartbeat and skin--and it feels like that neither of you really knows how to walk away anymore.

Your heart's still pounding. Every nerve in your body still sings from where he touched you, where he held you down, where he pulled you apart with maddening precision. His fingers--those fingers--are still ghosting idle circles into your thigh, like they don't know they've already ruined you.

Mark's body is half-draped over yours, his weight is grounding, his breath brushing your collarbone in slow, satisfied exhales. There's a smear of your lip gloss near his jaw. A bite mark on his shoulder. Your nails carved down his back like proof.

Neither of you speaks.

The air is thick with sweat, heat, and sex. The fan buzzes lazily overhead. Your lungs are still catching up. Your thighs are still twitching.

But the thing is--Mark is still inside you, yes.

But he's also brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face like you're something precious. Like the way he held your jaw earlier was just the start of something dangerous and tender.

You feel him twitch once, lazily, and you both groan at the oversensitive drag of it.

"...You didn't pull out," you mumble, voice cracked and hoarse.

He lets out a dazed, cocky little laugh into the crook of your neck. "Yeah," he exhales, "No shit."

You can't help the soft, worn-out giggle that escapes you. There's a lot of him still leaking out of you. You can feel it. And the worst part?

You love it.

You love the way he claimed you. The mess. The stretch. The soreness. The heat still blooming in your stomach like something dangerous took root there.

His arm slides under your shoulders, cradling you against him, and you feel the press of his lips at your temple.

"You okay?" he whispers. "Did I go too hard?"

You turn your head slightly and stare at him. Your voice is flat. "You ate me like i was your final meal and then ruined my soul."

Mark snorts.

You swat his side. "That's a yes, in case you were wondering"

He groans dramatically and buries his face in your neck. "I blacked out somewhere around round three. I'm not even sure what happened."

"You talked dirty. Like, filthy filthy."

"Did I?" he says, voice muffled against your skin. "That doesn't sound like me."

You shift under him and immediately regret it.

A sharp gasp escapes you.

"Oh my god," you whimper. "I'm gonna feel you for a week."

"...Still inside you, by the way," Mark adds, so helpfully. "Which means if I twitch just a little--"

"Don't you dare."

He grins against your collarbone. "You'd let me."

You don't answer.

Because he's right.

Instead, you run your fingers through his sweaty hair and rest your cheek against his head. The silence settles again--quiet and warm, his heart beating against yours. His fingers draw slow, lazy circles on your side.

After a moment, he murmurs, "Hey."

You hum in response.

"...I really like you, y'know."

That makes your eyes open.

You turn your head again and find him staring at you--soft-eyed, messy-haired, completely wrecked and somehow still beautiful. There's no teasing in his voice this time. Just bare, honest reaction.

And just like that--

You're ruined all over again.

You smile.

"Yeah," you whisper. "I really like you too, Grayson."

Then, he kisses you slow. No pressure. No rush. Just lips pressed to lips, fingers curled around your waist, two bodies tangled under the weight of everything you just shared.

Eventually, when your legs stop trembling and your brain returns to your body, he finally pulls out with a hiss and a curse--and you both watch the mess drip out of you with tired fascination.

"...That's disgusting," you mumble.

Mark beams. "That's mine."

You groan and bury your face in the pillow.

"Round five in the morning?" he adds sweetly.

You lift one hand and flip him off.

Mark just laughs, too proud of himself to care. He ducks down to press a kiss to your shoulder--mocking, smug, sweet.

"I'll take that as a yes."

You groan again, rolling to the side and dragging the sheet up with you, your legs still too shaky to trust. Your body's wrecked. Mark's still watching you like he hasn't had enough--like he's already plotting round five.

"It's a fuck you, actually."

"That's what I said."

You shoot him a look over your shoulder--flat, unimpressed, exhausted. "Mark."

He blinks. "Yeah?"

You sigh, voice softer this time. "Let's just sleep."

That quiets him.

For a second, he studies you--really looks. The sweat still drying on your skin. The twitch of your thighs. The way your brows pinch just barely, even now, like you're so close to your limit. Not just physically, but emotionally too.

And he nods.

"Yeah. Okay," he says, voice low and sincere.

He shifts behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as you tuck into the pillow. No teasing. No pushing. Just his hand smoothing down your side in slow, grounding strokes. His breath brushes the nape of your neck.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs.

You hum, already half-asleep. "Didn't ask you to."

But still--you relax a little more.

And just before sleep claims you, with his breath warm against your skin, you wonder if maybe you never really stood a chance.

Not against this. Not against him.

-----

You don't remember falling asleep.

Just the weight of him behind you, his hand warm over your stomach, his breath steady at the nape of your neck.

And now--

Now the sun is leaking through the blinds, gold and heavy. The fan hums above in slow, lazy spins. You blink, throat dry, body screaming at you with every little twitch.

But your body doesn't hurt in a bad way. No, this is the type of pain you wake up smiling through--sore thighs, a faint ache between your legs, the ghost of deep pressure low in your stomach. You're covered in dried sweat, bite marks, and hickeys that are definitely going to show. And the worst part?

You'd do it all over again.

You will do it all over again--if the way Mark's arm is slung across your waist, his hand curled possessively against your stomach, is any indication. He's still behind you, breathing slow and even, clinging to you even in his sleep like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go, like you're his.

You blink at the ceiling. Still in Mark's bed. Naked. Under a single thin sheet.

Then you try to move.

Instant regret.

"Ow," you whisper sharply, gripping your thigh.

Behind you, Mark groans and shifts. "Told you I'd ruin you," he murmurs, still half-asleep and smug.

You elbow him in the ribs.

"I hate you," you mumble into his pillow.

He kisses your shoulder. "No you don't."

You grumble something incoherent and try to sit up again. Your legs wobble. You glare at him over your shoulder.

"I swear to god, Mark Grayson--if I can't walk straight today--"

He grins, looking away too pleased with himself.

"Then my job here is done."

You lunge for a pillow and whack him across the face with it, which only makes him laugh harder, arms wrapping around your waist to drag you back down.

"C'mon," he murmurs, voice gravelly. "Five more minutes. You're warm."

"I'm sticky," you shoot back, squirming.

"Still warm."

He shifts behind you again and you feel the unmistakable twitch of something hard pressing against your ass.

"Mark."

"...Ignore it."

"MARK."

He laughs, breath puffing against your skin. "It's not my fault you were making those sounds last night," he grins, shameless. "My body remembers."

You groan and cover your face with both hands. "We were so loud."

"I told you not to scream my name."

"You told me to look you in the eye and cum on your cock!"

"Oh yeah." He grins, eyes dreamy. "That was a good moment--"

Knock knock.

You both freeze.

Your soul leaves your body.

"Mark?"

It's Debbie's voice.

"You up? I brought breakfast--"

"NO--NO, I'M GOOD--WE'RE GOOD!" he yells suddenly, leaping halfway out of bed while fumbling for a shirt to cover your both. One leg gets caught in the sheets, and he slams straight into the nightstand. "Shit--!"

The lamp crashes to the floor, and you cackle behind your hand, trying to stay silent.

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO COME IN--!"

Too late.

The door opens.

And behold--

Debbie stands in the doorway holding a tray of toast, eggs, and orange juice.

And guess what she sees?

You. Naked. In Mark's bed.

Mark. Shirtless, sweaty, the room reeked of sex.

The sheet is halfway off your body. Hickeys. Hair a mess. Her son's very obvious boner.

You want to die.

You want the ground to swallow you whole.

Debbie blinks once--twice--and looks at Mark. Then at you. And then at the tray. "...Well," she says calmly. "I guess breakfast can wait."

A pause.

"Next time, lock the door. And maybe crack a window."

She turns around, leaves, and gently closes the door behind her. You lie there, face hot, hands gripping the sheets and Mark just flops face-first onto the bed and screams into the pillow.

"You're never getting laid in this house again," you mutter.

"She's gonna tell my dad," Mark groans.

"Oh, she's definitely gonna tell your dad."

You both dissolve into mortified, hysterical laughter.

It's the kind of laughter that feels like crying. Like maybe if you don't laugh, your brain will melt into a puddle of shame and your soul will astral project off the planet.

You collapse back into the sheets, hiding your face.

Mark is still screaming into the pillow.

"She saw everything," you whisper, like saying it out loud will exorcise the horror. "Everything. Your dick. My hickeys. My ass--oh my god--"

"She's gonna bleach the house," he groans, muffled.

"She's gonna sage the room."

"She's gonna send us a Google doc titled 'Safe Sex and Boundaries.'"

You wheeze.

There's a long beat of silence.

"...I have to go out there," you whisper, frozen with dread.

Mark lifts his head just enough to squint at you. "You don't have to."

"I can't just stay in your room like a cryptid and hide."

"You could. Cryptids are cool."

You give him a look.

He flops back onto the bed with a groan. "Fine. Let me find you some clothes."

He rolls off the mattress with all the grace of someone who got rail-gunned by orgasmic bliss, limping dramatically toward his dresser, still stark naked, still half-hard.

You blink. "You're seriously walking around like that?"

He waves you off. "She already saw the worst. The damage is done."

He opens the drawer and tosses an oversized hoodie and boxers onto the bed beside you. "There. Cover that pretty ass before I get ideas."

You raise a brow. "You already had ideas. Several times."

Mark shoots you a crooked grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. Can you blame me?"

You roll your eyes--but your smile gives you away.

Then you sit up, groaning again, gripping your sore thigh. "I can't go out there like this. I feel disgusting. My thighs are stuck together, Mark."

"You're welcome," he says, proud.

You grab a pillow and throw it at his head.

He dodges easily, laughing. "Okay, okay--how about a shower?"

Your eyes narrow. "A solo shower."

Mark places a hand on his chest, mock-offended. "What do you take me for?"

"A menace."

"A helpful menace. I'll even wash your hair."

You stare at him.

He smirks. "I'll behave."

"...You said that last night."

"Yeah, and look how that turned out."

You groan. "Fine. But no funny business."

Mark salutes. "Scout's honor."

You slide out of bed, wincing a little as your feet touch the floor. Everything between your thighs aches in that used, sore, completely-fucked-out way. You grab the shirt he tossed and slip it over your head--it drowns you instantly, falling halfway to your knees.

Mark makes a sound behind you.

You turn. "What?"

He's watching you like he wants to sin all over again. His lip tugs into a grin. "Nothing. Just--you look good in my clothes."

You roll your eyes, padding toward the bathroom. "Shut up and turn on the water."

He follows, grabbing a towel on the way, and by the time you step into the shower, steam is already starting to curl around the curtain rod. The room's small, a little too warm, and Mark is definitely not giving you space.

"You said you'd behave," you remind him, raising a brow as he steps in behind you.

He shrugs, lips twitching. "This is me behaving."

The water runs hot over your skin, rinsing away dried sweat and whatever dignity you had left. You sigh, letting it wash over your face, your neck, your chest.

Behind you, Mark is quiet.

Too quiet.

Then his hands gently find your waist.

You tense--but he doesn't move. Doesn't grab/ Doesn't grope. He just holds you there, thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin.

"I meant it, by the way," he murmurs into your ear, voice low, soft. "Last night."

You blink.

"The part where I said I really like you."

You exhale, leaning your back against his chest, water running over both of you. "Yeah," you whisper. "I meant it too."

His arms wrap around you fully this time, pulling you closer under the spray. "I know we joke a lot," he says, "but I'm not just in this for the sex. Even if the sex is--like--holy shit."

You snort. "Wow. So romantic."

He kisses your temple. "You know what I mean."

You nod, letting yourself lean into him for a moment longer--just the water, the heat, and the steady thrum of his heart pressed to your spine.

Eventually, Mark reaches for the shampoo and works it into your hair with surprising gentleness, fingers massaging your scalp while you hum in contentment.

"This is dangerously domestic," you murmur.

He grins. "Too late to run now."

You close your eyes.

Let him rinse you clean.

Let the moment stretch--quiet and warm and real.

His fingers are gentle now. No teasing. No games. Just slow movements over your skin, like he's memorizing every inch of you in silence.

The water slips down your shoulders in lazy streams. His palm drags across your back, your hips, smoothing soap into the curve of your spine like you'll break if he pushes too hard. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades.

You exhale, soft. Melting under the steady rhythm of him.

"I meant what I said," Mark murmurs.

You open your eyes halfway. "Which part?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just reaches for your hand under the spray and laces your fingers together. His thumb brushes the side of yours.

"All of it," he says finally. "I don't regret any of this."

The silence that follows is heavier than it should be. It hangs between your bodies, slick with more than water. You want to believe it. You do. But it scares you how much you want to stay like this--how much you want this to mean something.

You turn around slowly, water cascading down your skin, and meet his eyes.

He looks serious. Like he's searching for something in your expression. Like he's bracing himself for you to run.

But you don't.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your noses brushing. His breath hitches.

"I don't regret it either," you whisper.

Mark lets out a breath like he's been holding it since last night. His grip tightens on your hand. You stay like that for a moment--close, bare, hearts thudding in sync under the hot spray--until he finally lets out a quiet lopsided laugh.

"You're still not walking straight, are you?"

You smack his chest without looking up. "Shut up."

He laughs harder and pulls you close, arms wrapping around your waist under the water. "You love me."

"You're lucky I'm too sore to punch you."

"Still counts."

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

And just like that--beneath the running water, tangled in each other, soaked and tired and vulnerable--you realize this isn't just a fling. This is real. Something's shifted. And neither of you wants to go back.

Not anymore.

He holds you there, chest to chest, the steam curling around your shoulders and the sound of the water muffling the outside world.

Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, slow, deliberate. You tilt your head just enough to brush your mouth against his--barely there, a ghost of a kiss.

But he chases it.

Soft.

Patient.

His lips press into yours with none of the urgency from last night. This isn't about heat. This isn't about need. This is something else.

He kisses you like he means it. Like he's choosing to mean it. Like he's never going to let himself forget what this feels like--your mouth wet and warm against his, your hand slipping up to cup his jaw, your thumb tracing the damp corner of his mouth.

He sighs into the kiss, like the weight he's been carrying finally loosens.

"You taste like my chapstick," you murmur against his lips.

"You taste like trouble," he murmurs back.

Your brows lift. "Seriously?"

"I'm trying to be romantic. Shut up."

You smile. It's soft and real and completely wrecks him.

And then he kisses you again--deeper, slower, until the water beating down your shoulders feels far away, until your fingers are tangled in his damp hair, until your breath catches like it's the first time all over again.

When you finally break apart, forehead still touching, his voice is barely a whisper. "You're it for me, you know."

You don't speak right away. You just nod once, because the words would come out too fast, too raw, if you tried.

Instead, you press one more kiss to the corner of his mouth, rest your head against his chest, and let him hold you there.

Let the water rinse away everything else.

Just you and him.

Warm. Real. Yours.

Eventually, the water starts to cool. Goosebumps rise on your skin, and you shiver against him.

Mark notices immediately.

"Alright," he murmurs, reluctantly reaching behind you to turn off the tap. "Come on. Before you freeze."

You nod, stepping carefully out of the tub with his hands steadying your waist the whole way. He grabs a towel and warps it around your shoulders, then reaches for another to dry your hair, ruffling it gently.

You glare. "If I walk out looking like a wet sheepdog, I'm blaming you."

He grins, unapologetic. "You'll still be the hottest sheepdog I've ever seen."

You deadpan. "Do you often see sexy sheepdogs?"

"I try not to judge beauty by species."

You smack his bare chest with the towel. He just laughs and leans in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to your forehead--almost like muscle memory now.

"Okay, smartass," you mutter. "Where's that hoodie you promised?"

Mark grabs it off the counter where he folded it earlier, then holds it open for you to slip into. It's huge on you. The sleeves fall past your hands, and the hem hits your thighs like a dress. Still warm from the dryer.

You breathe it in.

It smells like him.

You almost don't want to give it back.

Mark pulls on a fresh t-shirt and sweats, towel-drying his hair as you both glance at your reflection in the fogged mirror. You grimace. Your hair's wild. There's a faint red mark on your neck that's definitely not a bug bite. And your eyes?

Soft. Tired. But happy.

You catch Mark watching you in the mirror and raise an eyebrow.

"What?"

He just shakes his head a little. "Nothing. You just look really..." he trails off.

"Wrecked?"

"I was gonna say beautiful," he says softly. "But, yeah. That too."

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing. "Shut up."

"Never."

You shove his shoulder on your way out the door, but you're smiling. Quietly. Like you forgot how to stop.

-----

Now you're sitting at the kitchen table in one of Mark's old oversized hoodies--because you didn't bring clothes, because you weren't supposed to sleep over, and because your real outfit is still somewhere on the floor of his bedroom, probably stuck to a wall.

The hoodie hangs halfway down your thighs. Your legs are bare. Two faint hickeys peek out just beneath the collar. And despite Mark's best attempt to brush your hair into something vaguely socially acceptable, you still look like you got steamrolled by the entire Guardians of the Globe.

Mark sits beside you, hunched over, t-shirt pulled halfway up to cover his face. His hand had been in yours in the shower not long ago, rinsing suds from your shoulders like you meant more than a one-time mistake. Now he won't even look up from under his shirt, as if meeting your eyes might make this moment real. You're honestly not sure if he's still alive.

And across the kitchen table...

Debbie Grayson sits.

Calm. Composed.

Drinking her coffee like she didn't just walk in on you mid-sex hangover.

And you want to know someone worse is here?

Nolan Grayson.

Viltrumite. Husband. Father of the man who turned you into jello just hours ago.

He's drinking coffee.

Coffee.

Sitting next to his lovely wife, staring you down with his piercing blue eyes like he's trying to solve the mystery of what exactly his Viltrumite ears heard last night.

Like he didn't hear every moan, whimper, and "Harder, Mark--oh my god don't stop--" echo through the house with his enhanced alien hearing.

You stab your eggs like they personally betrayed you, trying your best to keep your racing heart calm.

Do Viltrumites believe in mercy? Please let it be mercy, you thought, watching Nolan sip his coffee like he wasn't planning your execution with every blink.

The air is thick with shame, tension, and Debbie's fluffy pancakes.

Nolan clears his throat.

"So," he says casually. "Did you both... sleep well?"

Mark lets out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a death rattle.

You try to disappear into your mug of orange juice.

"Oh, they slept great," Debbie chimes, cheerful as hell. "Eventually."

Mark chokes.

You drop your fork.

Nolan's eye twitches.

"You know," Debbie adds, stirring her coffee, "I had no idea the bed frame could withstand that kind of--"

"MOM."

Nolan raises an eyebrow. "Is that what I heard shaking the house at 3 AM?"

You wish for death.

You wish for death immediately.

"W-We were--uh--playing--" Mark gulps. "Scrabble."

You blink at him.

Nolan stares.

"Scrabble," he repeats, slowly.

Mark nods vigorously. "Yeah. It got... competitive."

"Oh yes," Debbie says smoothly. "Lots of screaming. Very vocal game, apparently."

Nolan sets down his mug. "Son... was that you yelling 'I'm gonna fuck you so deep you'll be feeling me for days?'"

Your soul leaves your body.

Mark turns bone white.

"That was taken widely out of context," he whispers.

"Was it before or after she begged you not to stop?"

You audibly wheeze.

Nolan pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, pained sigh.

"This is... so much worse than I imagined."

Debbie sips her coffee. "At least he's not a virgin anymore."

"MOM--"

You want to implode, but you just reach for your toast, hands shaking, trying to find comfort in carbs.

Then Debbie slides a bottle of orange juice in front of you.

"Oh, sweetie? Drink up. Gotta stay hydrated after a long night."

You blink. She winks.

Nolan groans.

And Mark, pale and dead inside, lays his forehead on the table with a soft, broken:

"Please just kill me."

You stare at him for a second, fork hovering mid-air.

"Would you prefer slow and painful," you say dryly, "or fast and dramatic?"

He groans. "Whatever ends this faster."

You pat his head dramatically. "You know she's gonna tell your dad everything."

"She already did," he mumbles into the wood grain. "We're probably gonna get a family group chat notification about it later."

You snort. "With diagrams."

"And bullet points," Mark whispers, eyes wide. "With bolded text."

You both stare at your plates in silence, haunted by the same shared vision of his mom's Google Docs and his dad's silent judgement.

"...I'm not hungry anymore," you say faintly.

"Same."

Mark lifts his head just enough to look at you.

You meet his gaze.

Then both of you slowly, silently, reach for the orange juice.

Not because you want it.

But because Debbie told you to.

And somehow... that's worse.

Debbie hums as she flips a pancake behind you, calm as ever. "You know," she says casually, "I once told your father I wanted grandkids before menopause. Thought it was a joke. Now? Not so sure."

You choke on your orange juice.

Mark makes a sound like a dying animal. "Mom--please."

Nolan rises silently from his chair, grabs his coffee, and mutters under his breath, "I'm going to space," before walking out of the kitchen like he's heading to war.

Silence.

Then Debbie pipes up again, chipper, "Want more eggs, sweetheart?"

You and Mark speak in unison. "NO."

You sit there in the aftermath, toast cold, dignity dead, but... somehow still breathing. Mark nudges your hand under the table--quietly, like he needs to know you're real and still here. You glance at him, and his eyes meet yours.

Still wide. Still traumatized in those big, beautiful brown eyes of his. But there's something softer underneath the mortification. Something honest. Warm. Like even if the earth cracked open and swallowed you whole, he'd reach for you first.

You smile, just a little.

And Mark leans closer, muttering out of the corner of his mouth. "We need to leave this house."

"Like, today," you whisper. "Fake our deaths. Move to Idaho."

"Start over. New names. New lives. No parents."

You both stifle a laugh.

Debbie hums behind you.

Mark leans in even closer. "Or... we sneak back upstairs, lock the door, and finish what we started."

You arch a brow. "You mean Scrabble?"

He smirks, that damn dimple popping out. "Exactly."

And despite everything, despite the trauma, the humiliation, and the pancakes--you want to kiss him again.

You don't.

But you think about it.

And the next time his hand brushes yours?

You don't pull away.

Instead, you lace your fingers with his under the table--quiet, hidden, just for the two of you.

Mark squeezes your hand once before he stands, clearing his throat. "We're, uh--gonna go... lie down."

Debbie doesn't even glance up from her newspaper. "Just don't break anything this time."

Mark grabs your wrist. You don't resist as he pulls you along like a man on a mission--away from the kitchen, up the stairs, and back into the safety of his room, where the door shuts with a merciful click.

Silence.

You both just stand there, staring at each other.

"...That was the worst morning of my life," he mumbles.

You nod slowly. "Easily top three for me. And I've seen a man explode."

Mark lets out a low groan and falls face-first onto the bed. "She winked at you."

"She offered me more eggs."

"She brought orange juice."

You flop down beside him, face-to-face on the mattress, hair still slightly damp from your earlier shower, your legs brushing his under the sheets. "We're gonna have to burn the kitchen down."

"And the bed."

You hum. "I like the bed."

Mark glances at you, mouth twitching into a smirk. "Me too."

Silence settles again, warm and safe this time. No parents. No judgement. Just the two of you, tucked away like the world doesn't exist.

Mark shifts onto his side to face you more directly, eyes tracing your features--your lashes, your lips, the fading flush in your cheeks.

"You still good?" he asks softly, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

You nod. "Yeah. Just... recovering."

His smirk softens. "From the sex or the trauma?"

You pause. "Yes."

Mark laughs, low and quiet. Then his hand moves--slowly, deliberately--to rest against your waist. You feel the pressure of his fingers through the hoodie. Warm. Solid.

Then he murmurs, quiet now:

"Remember what I said in the shower?"

You blink slowly, your heart skipping at the weight in his voice.

"Still true," he says, eyes meeting yours. "All of it."

You don't say anything at first. Just let the words settle between you.

Then you shift closer, tucking your forehead against his chest. "Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

Mark holds you like that, arms curling around your back, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles over your spine.

"Do you think," you murmur, "your mom would notice if we never came back out?"

"She'd probably bring us snacks."

"...That's the worst idea."

You both laugh again, soft and breathless, the tension finally starting to lift. His breath fans your temple. You feel the slow beat of his heart under your cheek.

And for the first time all morning--maybe longer--you feel okay. Not mortified. Not exposed. Just... okay.

Maybe even a little happy.

Marks kisses your forehead. "We'll survive this."

You lift your head, nose brushing his. "Promise?"

He smiles, really smiles, and dips down to kiss you--soft, slow, a quiet yes pressed against your mouth.

But suddenly, the kiss starts to deepen.

From lips brushing lips, breaths mingling... to eating each others face off. His hands slide up your sides, dragging the hoodie with them, while yours fist in his hair like you're trying to keep him exactly where you want him. The air between you turns hot, greedy--every soft kiss turning sharper, hungrier, until you're both a mess of teeth, tongue, and muffled sounds that have no business being this desperate... not after surviving that awkward breakfast with his parents.

"You're seriously gonna kill me," he murmurs against your mouth, voice low, rough with sleep and leftover embarrassment. "We just survived breakfast."

You grin. "Survived is a strong word."

He chuckles... but it stutters when you shift, thigh nudging between his legs. Your hand slides under his shirt, skimming the ridges of his abs, feeling them tighten under your touch. Higher, higher--you drag the fabric up with you until he lets you peel it off entirely, baring him to the cool air.

Mark shudders.

"I thought we were recovering," he whispers, breathless now, lashes fluttering as you press your mouth to his jaw.

"We are recovering," you say sweetly, biting down on his earlobe before whispering: "This is my fifth form of therapy."

He groans. "I think I just got hard again."

"Think?"

Your hand finds proof in the way his sweatpants tent against your thigh. You palm him slowly through the fabric, watching his jaw go slack.

"Okay," he gasps. "Not think. Definitely hard. Very hard. Dangerously hard. We should do something about that."

"Should we?"

You climb onto his lap.

Mark stares up at you like you're religious experience--bare legs, wild hair, his oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder. His hands find your thighs instantly, squeezing hard, like he doesn't trust himself not to black out.

"Fuck," he whispers. "You're not real."

You roll your hips once--just enough to drag a groan from him--and lean forward, lips brushing his.

"Feel real to you?"

He doesn't answer.

He just yanks you down and kisses you like he needs to.

You moan into it, rocking against the growing bulge beneath you. The friction is slow, addictive, maddening. He pulls the hoodie up to your ribs, palms gliding along your waist before sliding around to grab your ass, hard.

"You're gonna fuckin' kill me," he gasps again, voice already wrecked.

You grind down harder. "I told you I wasn't done with you."

Mark flips you over before you can get another word in.

One second you're on top, smug and teasing--smirk curling on your lips. The next, you're flat on your back, legs spread, breath knocked out of you as the mattress dips under his weight. His hands are already at your hips, yanking your boxer--his--down with a low, muttered curse.

"You're insane," he mutters, voice rasping like he's already drunk on you. "You're so fucking lucky I love this."

"You do love this," you breathe, squirming under him as he pushes your thighs apart. "Admit it."

"I'm obsessed with it."

And then his mouth is on you--tongue licking into you with no warning, no hesitation, no mercy. You gasp, fists curling in the sheets as he pins your hips down and devours you like a man on a mission. Like he needs this round to prove something. Maybe that he's still in control. Maybe that you're his. Maybe that this--you--is worth every embarrassing second of breakfast.

You cry out his name, louder than you mean to, and he growls into you like that was exactly what he wanted.

"You're so loud," he says, voice muffled against your cunt. "My dad's gonna hear you again."

Your hips jolt, breath catching on a broken moan. "Fuck your dad."

He lifts his head just enough to smirk, lips slick and shiny. "That's what you were doing last night."

You slap his shoulder, breathless.

Then he sinks two long fingers in without warning--and you arch off the bed with a cry.

"Round five," Mark murmurs, dark and reverent as he curls his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your vision blur. "Let's make it count."

Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as his fingers curl again--perfect, practiced, hitting that spot that makes your thighs tremble.

"Mark--" you gasp, chest arching into the air. "We just showered--"

"Mm." His lips kiss the inside of your thigh, hot breath skimming your skin before his teeth graze lightly. Eyes half-lidded, dark with want, he murmurs, "Guess we're gonna need another one."

You try to push at his shoulder, but he doesn't budge. Just presses his tongue flat against your clit and sucks.

Your entire body jerks.

"Oh my--f-fuck--!"

He groans into you, like the sound of your voice gets him off. His fingers keep moving--slow, deliberate pumps that stretch you open, wet and hot and obscene.

You're already clenching around him, body tightening with dangerous speed. "M-Mark, baby--I can't--"

"Yes, you can." His voice is low, husky. "You're taking it. Like you always do."

And you do.

You cum hard.

Your back arches off the mattress, thighs clamping around his head, hands fisting the sheets as you cry out. The world blurs into white heat. He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He tongue keeps fucking you, greedy and relentless, until your voice breaks, your nails scrape helplessly at his shoulders, and your legs finally give out.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are glossy and smug.

"Still warm," he teases, licking his lips. "Still sweet."

You collapse flat against the bed, trying to catch your breath. "I hate you."

"No, you don't."

He slides up your body, one hand stroking your side as he kisses his way up to your neck.

"I should hate you," you mumble.

He grins against your jaw. "But you don't."

And Mark's right.

You don't.

You're soaked, twitching, still gasping--and when he grinds his hips down--when you feel the heavy press of his cock against your thigh--

You whimper.

Mark growls softly. "That's what I thought."

He pushes his sweats down enough to free himself, one hand gripping the base of his cock to line himself up, the other resting on your hip.

He pushes in slow--too slow--like he's teasing you on purpose.

You both groan.

He stretches you open inch by inch, the burn delicious, your pussy already swollen and sore from everything he's done yesterday and today. But you still want it. Still need it.

"Shit," Mark breathes. "You're still so tight. How are you this tight after four rounds?"

Your nails drag down the slope of his spine, lips parting on a needy gasp. "Move, Mark--please--"

He slams in the rest of the way, bottoming out in one sharp, brutal thrust..

You scream.

He doesn't move at first. Just stays there, fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, making you feel every thick, aching inch of him.

His breath shudders against your neck. "Fuck," he pants. "You feel that?"

You nod shakily, too breathless to speak.

"That's where I belong. Right there."

His hand slides to your lower stomach, forcing you to feel exactly where he's buried inside you. The blunt pressure makes you gasp, a sharp moan tearing out as your walls flutter around him. His breath stutters--like he can feel every single pulse.

"Yeah...," he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, "you see how deep I am? How far I'm filling you in?"

Your eyes flicker down, catching the faint bulge under his palm, and your breath stutters violently. Heat floods your body in a dizzy rush, and before you can think, you grind down on him, desperate for more. He groans low, the sound vibrating against your skin.

"That's it," he rasps, eyes dark and locked on yours. "Feel me there. Every inch. Right where you need it."

His hips rolls once--slow, deliberate, mercilessly deep--and the pressure under his hand shifts, punching a broken cry out of you.

"Fuck, Mark--!"

He pulls out halfway--slow enough to make you feel every dragging inch--then slams back, sharp and deep.

You sob. "Oh my god--"

"That's it," he pants, setting a brutal rhythm. His grin is sharp, hungry, a wild look burning in his eyes. "That's my pretty girl. Can't get enough, can you?"

You shake your head, babbling something that isn't even words anymore. He shifts his weight, pressing harder into your lower stomach while his hips snap forward, relentless, every thrust grinding into that exact spot that makes your toes curl. The sound that leaves you is closer to a cry than a moan.

"Louder," he demands, grabbing your leg and throwing it over his shoulder. "I want my parents to hear it this time."

You wail, spine bowing off the bed as the new angle makes him hit--perfect, sharp, devastating--again and again. He groans at the way you tighten around him, watching your body quake under him like he's addicted to it.

"Yeah? Right there?" His voice drops, rough and smug. "Is that your spot? Can't take me without shaking, huh?"

Your nails rake down his back, trying to anchor yourself against the overwhelming rhythm. Every thrust knocks the air out of your lungs, making your vision go white. He's so deep you can feel him in places you didn't know existed--just heat, stretch, and the ruthless tempo of him owning every part of you over and over that makes your brain turn into mush.

"I--Mark, I can't--!"

"Yes you can," His tone is all command, no mercy. "You're gonna take it. You're gonna cum with my cock this deep and you're gonna feel it for days."

"Mark--Mark, it's too much--!"

"It's not too much. You wanted this. You begged for this. Said it was therapy, right?"

You scream again.

"You wanted round five," he growls, slamming in even harder. "Now fucking take it."

You're crying. Literally crying.

Tears in your eyes, voice broken, nails digging into his back that would leave ugly, red marks. You can feel the pressure inside of you building up--fast. Unbearable. You try to tell him you're already close but the words dissolve into helpless moans.

"Don't you dare hold back," he snarls. "Cum for me. Right on it. Right there."

And then he gives you one, two, three deep, punishing thrusts, holding you in place so you can't run from it, his palm still pressing down like he's making sure you know exactly where he is inside you.

The orgasm rips through you so hard your body locks up, every muscle trembling. Your scream echoes between you, raw and broken, and he fucks you through it, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours like he's watching you fall apart just for him.

"That's it," he rasps, slowing just enough to draw it out, milking every last aftershock. "That's mine."

Your body collapses back onto the mattress, limp, shaking, every nerve still sparking from the force of it. You can barely breathe, can barely think--and he's still there, still buried deep, still pulsing inside you.

Mark's right behind you--balls tightening, abs clenching, groaning as his forehead drops to yours. "Fuck--gonna cum--where do you want it, baby--?"

Mustering up enough strength, you grab his face, voice a wreck: "Inside."

His pupils blow wide. "Fuck, fuck--!"

His thrusts gets frantic. Sloppy. Desperate. Rhythm faltering as he chases his high.

You feel him twitch, feel his cock swell--then he slams in one last time and spills inside you with a deep, wrecked moan that sounds like your name was the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

His cum fills your insides, warmth spilling deep in hot, thick ropes.

It must be a lot, because the heat just keeps coming, spilling past the tight seal of your body until you feel it dripping down your ass to the sheets.

Mark groans low in his throat, hips grinding like he's trying to push it even deeper, making sure not a drop escapes. "God... look at you," he pants, eyes flicking down between your bodies. "You're full. So full of me."

He groans again, holding you so tight it hurts. His cock is still thick inside you,twitching with the aftershocks, and you can feel the slow, obscene drip of him leaking out around the seal of his length. His breath is ragged against your neck, hot and uneven, like he's not ready to let you go--not ready to let you close up without him there.

"Holy shit," he breathes into your neck.

You can't talk.

You're not even sure if you can talk from how much he made you scream his name out despite the thin walls of his house--loud enough for his mom and dad to hear every filthy word, the headboard slamming against the wall, and the mattress creaking again.

God bless his parents' souls (and their ears).

The hoodie Mark lets you borrow is covered with sweat, so much sweat that it makes your body feel even hotter and disgusting.

With a tired groan, you weakly strip the hoodie off, dropping it on the floor.

Mark doesn't move for a while.

Just lies there on top of you, panting, one arm curled tight around your waist while the other braces himself on the bed. His forehead rests against yours, sticky and damp with sweat, and his breath comes out in warm, ragged exhales across your lips.

You can still feel him pulsing inside you.

Still feel his cum slowly dripping, spreading warmth and ache through your lower belly.

You blink at the ceiling, eyes unfocused. "I think I just met God."

Mark lets out a soft, breathless laugh. "Pretty sure you screamed my name instead."

You snort, weakly smacking his back. "Same difference."

He smiles and kisses you--soft this time. No urgency. No teasing. Just the press of lips, slow and tired, like he's saying I'm still here. We're okay.

He then pulls out with a low groan--the loss making you shiver, and you can feel him leak out immediately, hot and slick against your thigh. Mark just watches it for a moment--almost proud--before he flops onto his back beside you, arms dragging you against his chest.

Your arms come up to wrap around his shoulders, fingers trailing gently through his hair, damped with sweat. He's still catching his breath, but the heat between you has finally eased into something warmer. Softer.

Real.

He kisses your cheek. Then your temple. Then the side of your neck where a fading bite mark throbs beneath his lips.

"You okay?" he murmurs, voice so hoarse it almost sounds like a rasp.

You nod, barely, because your brain is still somewhere back at the moment he pressed down on your stomach and made you see stars.

Your body feels like it's been wrecked. But not in a bad way. There's a faint sting when you shift, a slow throb between your legs, and your thighs still twitch when his fingers graze too close. But you feel... good. Calm. Full.

He brushes your hair back, looking at you with sleepy eyes and a small, crooked smile.

"I meant it, you know," he says quietly. "When I said I'm not done. Not just with this. With you."

You stare up at him, throat tightening.

"...You're getting sappy on me," you murmur.

"Yeah," he says, unbothered. "Deal with it."

You do.

You reach up, press a kiss to his lips slow. Grateful.

And for a long moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Wrapped around each other in sweat and warmth and something dangerously close to love.

Then, from somewhere outside the door--

Knock knock.

"Kids?" Debbie's voice.

Mark freezes. Your soul leaves your body.

"...We're alive," Mark calls weakly.

"Barely," you mumble.

Debbie hums. "Good. Don't forget to hydrate. I left water bottles by the door. Also--please open a window. This hallway smells like sex and regret."

You groan into your pillow, embarrassment already gnawing at your spine.

Mark throws a sheet over both your heads and mutters, "We're moving out."

You laugh. "For sure."

Under the blanket, you feel him grin against your temple, his arm tightening around you. And even with your face burning and your dignity in shambles, you realize you wouldn't trade this morning--or this mess of a boy pressed up against you--for anything.

standing just outside the white chalk lines. shaggy raven hair that never looks styled, stubble he clearly forgot—or chose not—to shave that morning. his infamous scar pulling at his lips as he shouts. he wears the same black team jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. when he folds his arms or gestures sharply toward the field, you always catch his muscles shifting beneath the fabric, veins flexing making it so impossible to ignore.

it’s just a photographer’s eye for striking subjects. for sure….

he beautifully contrasts against the chaos of the game…even if he’s shouting, or breaking his clipboard…. still, you capture him mid-shout, mid-thought, jaw clenched as he’s holding the entire team together.

and then later, when the photos run, and his photos dominate the highlights more than the actual goal, well, you pretend not to notice how often your name sits beneath them in a small, neat printed font.

he doesn’t know you. you’re just another person with a camera on the sidelines. you’re just another face in a sea of professional press badges, not just one of the universities many photographers. but you know him. you know the way his brows pinch when one of his players gets injured, the way his mouth twitches when his team scores, and the way he exhales with relief when the game ends.

and you keep clicking the shutter button—

“again?!” the head editor exclaims. “you didn’t get the goal?”

“I did!” you huff, glaring at the senior grad student who basically runs the entire school newspaper.

“not the first one, the final goal! the one scored by the universities ace! sukuna—“

“god forbid i missed a shot, I basically got everything else, plus I’m not the only one taking photos on the pitch. don’t you have other photographers?” you tsk, arms crossed.

he glares at you behind his desk, clicking through the photos you’d uploaded. “you got every single expression of the damn coach,” he mutters under his breath, clicking through one of toji shouting, then another of him spitting on the grass, then another of him scratching his jaw—

you nibble on your cheek, slouching slightly in the seat.

“you hate when we use someone else’s photos,” he adds, licking his teeth as he finally gets to your photos of the actual players. and they were spectacular. the action shots were perfect, you can see the sweat dribbling down their foreheads.

“because it’s my job,” you mutter, glancing at your editor who frowns when the photos return back to the head coach.

“unbelievable,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly as he sits back in his seat. “you’re killing me.”

your heel kicks the floor. this wasn’t a first. this happens almost every time. your lens just happens to drift away from the ball and fall on the head coach.

even with fans shouting in the stands, and the other cameras flashing in the other direction. your camera can’t help but find coach toji in the chaos. he was just as important as the team. he’s acting like toji isn’t mentioned a million times in the articles! god forbid you want him getting his flowers. but your editor wasn’t very appreciative of your sympathies.

“we’re going with these three, and taking one from the other photographers for the final goal you didn’t get,” he sighs, showing you your three photos, one of the team celebrating, another of satoru gojo sprinting across the field with the ball, and of course, the final — and in your opinion the best — of head coach toji standing with his muscular arms crossed at the start of the second half.

your editor rolls his eyes turning his screen back to him. “if you bring another folder and it’s seventy percent of this damn coach, I’ll drop you and pull noah up.”

the threat has you lowering your head and muttering a hesitate okay, because at the end of the day, you were the only photographer that worked full time for the paper, and you go to every single match. the rest are focused on other stories, or working their way to become editors.

while you liked photo-journalism more. it helped, that on weekends, you got someone to admire. and your editor was not the only one that’s noticed.

“what the hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” geto huffs, snatching the paper from gojo as he sits on the pitch. “why am I never in these damn fucking articles??” he huffs with anger

“score more goals,” gojo sticks his tongue out, just to get kicked harshly by his friend.

“I fucking scored this game,” geto snaps, grumbling even more as he flips through the paper, seeing the team celebrating.

sukuna chugs his water behind them, “my picture sucks ass,” he grumbles, spitting the water right beside their goalie making him jerk back in annoyance. “you didn’t score, but I get the shit picture?” he snaps lowly at gojo.

geto frowns, “I scored, and at least you get a picture.”

gojo chuckles, pointing at the next photo, making the entire team roll their eyes simultaneously.

“some things never change,” one teammate, yuno, mutters. his hands are on his hips as him and the rest of the team glare at the immaculate, pristine, jaw-dropping photo captured of their strict, grumpy, nicotine addicted head coach, toji.

sukuna snarls as geto looks like he’s going to fucking tear out his luscious black hair. “fucking unbelievable.”

gojo snorts even louder, snatching the paper just to wave it from his place on the ground towards toji, who’d just gotten off the phone. “coach! you’re mogging the cameras again!”

toji’s brows pinch until he notices the photo. and it’s always the same reaction from the head coach. his eyes scan over the photo, then they fall down to the same printed name underneath. “not bad,” he casually says, handing back the newspaper like it’s nothing.

but the entire team is seething, with the exception of gojo laughing his ass off.

“I finally figured out who your secret admirer is,” gojo announces, “it’s definitely the cutie with the charm on her camera and stickers on her flashlight.”

geto raises a brow “how d’ya know that?” the rest of the team immediately huddle in.

gojo clears his throat.

“for the last few games I’ve been purposely fixing my shoes or drinking water on the sidelines where they’re all huddled up. obviously I ruled out all the old farts, then I narrowed it down to the ladies. then i crossed out the outside press, but it’s hard since I can’t see all their press badges—but then i noticed,” gojo holds up the newspaper, slapping his index finger on your name beneath the photo. the entire team have basically memorized your full name by now. “she was the only one still photographing the field, BUT it was pointed at coach,” gojo points to toji.

“AND,” gojo continues, “she had this cute little charm on her camera, and this sticker. and it’s definitely your secret admirer,” gojo confidently smiles.

however, geto scratches his jaw, glancing at gojo then the newspaper. “so which one was her instagram?”

oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.

your name under a majority of the game’s photos started catching the teams attention a couple months ago. your credentials at the bottom of the article was always signed with your first and last name. however, when the team caught on to your not-so secret admiration for their coach, and neglect of the rest of team, they tried stalking you.

yet, they couldn’t find a single social media handle. not your instagram, twitter, tiktok — even your linkedIn was just the default linkedIn pfp. and the school paper website didn’t have a photo for you. either way, the team was on a mission.

“I don’t think her socials are even under her name,” gojo admits, making the team groan.

toji, silently watching the ordeal transpire, claps his hands, breaking the gossip. “enough, continue your drills unless ya wanna stay till sunset!”

once the team finally finishes practice and began packing their gear. neither one of them notices the students enjoying the nice weather on campus, or the girl that take a detours to walk past the field.

your eyes easily fall on your perfect subject. his hand cracks his neck as he stifles a yawn, kicking the soccer ball towards one of the players as they kick it up, tucking it under their arm.

it was a routine….one that you found yourself subconsciously doing on practice days. you would follow the path down from the quad, until you reach the second soccer field on campus, mainly used for practice and training.

your bag hangs off your shoulder along with your camera — the lens was downsized to your fixed 24mm and the flash wasn’t on — that’s usually how your camera is when you aren’t at events, or games.

it isn’t uncommon to watch the schools infamous soccer team practice. especially when half of them are also part of a fraternity. hell, on the other side of the field were a few girls fawning over the sweaty players.

in other words, you don’t stand out. and you’re unbothered by the hot players that glance your way as they pack their bags. well, until a certain white haired player is squinting across the field, before muttering a quiet “no way…”

geto gives his friend a look, lifting his duffle over his shoulder as sukuna wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, “what?” he grumbles.

gojo’s bag hit the grass. he locks eyes with you. then he does the worst thing imaginable. he shouts your name.

the entire team snap their necks in your direction. gojo suddenly leads the pack of six foot whatever college men across the field — their bags drop, cleats half untied, some bare foot. but all on one mission.

you.

the color immediately drains from your face. your body freezes like a deer in headlights. and when the entire team of sweaty, built, hot men crowd the waist-high fence that separate them from you. you’re ultimately stuck.

“you’re-you’re—“ slightly out of breath and pumped full of adrenaline, gojo heaves out your name. not just a first name, no—your full government name. “right!?”

you eyes lazily drag between the men, fixing the strap of your bag, your camera clinking against the side, drawing every man’s attention to the little charm gojo had just described less than an hour ago.

“yeah,” you manage to exhale, shifting your balance. “did you need something?”

“yeah,” the low voice of the hot headed team captain interrupts. he hadn’t ran with rest of the players, instead he walked up, casual and full of loud confidence. finally making his way across the field, energy drink in hand, glaring right through you as he continues. “why the fuck was my picture the only one not taken by you? it looks like shit.”

you exhale, about to answer when another one cuts in.

“why haven’t you taken one of me? the game last month was my debut and you didn’t get me going on the pitch—“

“I liked that shot you got of me when—“

“can you get my good side next time—“

“why did you—“

“can you—“

“you didn’t get my goal!” geto manages to dogpile. all the men yell complaints and compliments, overwhelming you with critiques. until you’re frowning, glaring harshly at the group of men you’d watched from a distance since your freshman year.

“I don’t work for you guys,” you finally snap. your words are cold making the men frown. “I work for the schools paper, and they choose the photos, not me.”

“and yet coach is in every single one of em?” geto bites back, and that’s when they all catch the slight surprise that crosses your face.

gojo smirks, leaning over the fence, getting close as he tilts his head. “seems like a majority of your photos have our coach. it’s like your editor can’t help but be forced to put him in.”

you feel your stomach churn, glancing between the sharp sapphire eyes. “that’s not how it works,” you mutter.

you did not expect your first interaction with the soccer team to be this. accusing you of favoritism. you can practically feel all their eyes on you, like they knew exactly who you are, even if this is your first time speaking to them.

“sure looks like it,” sukuna drawls, smirking wide when he sees you shift uncomfortably. “you like our coach or somethin?”

“of course she does,” geto’s smooth voice cuts in. “do you get all hot lookin at coach toji?”

you swallow thickly, pushing down the heat crawling up your neck to glare at the men. “you guys are disgusting,” you spit, but the men don’t falter, instead they continue gloating and poking.

“we just wanna get to know you. you’ve been takin’ our pics for months, we can’t have a chat now?” geto cuts.

they were quietly impressed with your composure. your poker face would’ve been perfect if not for the slight fidgeting you’re doing with your bag and camera strap. either way, your glare was mean, unwavering until—

“cut it out.”

the sharp voice slices through the team. then, one strong palm shoves gojo into geto, and the rest of the team topple on each other like dominos. the head coach plants himself between the fence, his team, and you.

“i forget you’re all a couple children,” toji tsks, his arms are crossed standing like a lone knight keeping a pack a wolves from a poor princess.

your heart slams against your rib cage. all your composure evaporates into thin air, struggling to catch your breath. this was the closest you’ve gotten to the head coach. you can practically smell the mixture of his cologne and natural musk. your cheeks grow hotter by the second, completely dazed and loosing all other senses, unaware that practically half the team noticed your sudden shift.

gojo elbows geto eyeing the way your pupils basically turn into bright pink hearts. even your lips look more glossy from the drool collecting in your mouth.

they’d never seen anything like it, and for their coach of all people?!

you’re caught up in gawking at the huge man, eyeing his wide shoulders, the veins straining from his compression shirt, his shirt clinging to every muscle that could break you in a blink of an eye — that you miss his short lecture towards his boys to quit scaring off a young woman, all to end with him shouting—

“ten more laps!”

the team’s eyes bulge, jaws dropping in shock, and quickly follow up with a spew of complaints.

“ya heard coach!” sukuna, the hot-headed captain, interrupts. and if the team wasn’t scared of their coach, they definitely had a reason to be with their captain. they ultimately drop their things and start their laps. however, sukuna hangs back at bit, “I didn’t even say sh—“

“you were late to practice, so you were gonna do the laps anyways,” toji cuts, earning a loud tsk from the tattooed captain. his duffle drops on the floor dramatically, eyes flicking towards yours, which — no surprise — haven’t left the coach’s profile, and with his own groan, his cleats hit the grass starting his lap.

with the entire team running laps….you’re left alone.

coach toji doesn’t move.

instead, he leans against the fence, strong arms crossing. you’re barely a foot behind him, close enough that the scent of grass and dizzy cologne reaches you when he shifts his weight. close enough that your brain short-circuits again.

then he looks over his shoulder.

it’s not rushed or sharp. it was an easy turn of his head, his dark emerald eyes flick to you with calm, assessing. and up close, he’s worse. he’s broader than he looks from the sidelines, his stubble shadowing his jaw feels unfair for a sunday morning. sunlight catches the edge of his cheekbone, and the curve of his mouth makes you stare shamelessly especially when it lifts just slightly. he’s amused by something you’re not aware of yet and you don’t even notice.

your heart stutters.

you practically forget how to stand or how to function like a grown ass adult, instead you feel like someone who’s just had their fantasy materialize directly in front of them.

heat rushes to your face, your chest tightens, and you pray, desperately, that your expression isn’t as transparent as it feels. you focus on keeping your hands still, even as your pulse flutters wildly under your skin.

and toji’s gaze lingers. he takes you in like the way someone experienced does, without staring, without shame, just a brief glance that drifts. from your fidgeting fingers, to your necklace trapped between your pretty cleavage, to the tank top that hugs your chest, to the zip up hoodie falling off your soft shoulder. to your lips, wet from the amount of times you’d lick and bit them.

and you still don’t notice it! you’re too busy trying not to melt into the grass beneath your feet. all you register is how hot the space suddenly feels, how solid he seems standing there.

from the field, a player snickers mid-lap. a majority watching the entire interaction, waiting for someone to make a move. gojo snickers as geto analyzes.

you don’t hear any of it, all you know is that the knights are real, and he’s right in front of you, and your carefully maintained composure never stood a chance. especially when his eyes meet yours and his deep, husky, voice sinks into your bones.

“been wondering who was seein’ me like that, sweetheart.”

you were gone.

s-s-s-sweetheart!?

your heart bursts, veins burning through your skin as your lips part, words falling into the void as your brain struggles to reply.

and he finds it adorable.

college girls are cute, but you, you’re a little pervert. how many photos have you taken of him? and for the past year too? he’s wondered just like his team had, who was behind all those photos. who was oogling him while the best team in the nation was playing right before their eyes?

at first, he was bothered, confused even, how big of a stalker did you have to be to take his photos for months and not introduce yourself?

but now he sees it. the way you’re struggling to find words. the way your eyes flick between his — surprised even that you’re not shying away from eye contact, but instead, struggling to just respond. like the words are right there, but your dumb brain is getting fried just by his presence. cute.

“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”

he just hammers the nail straight into your heart. your face bursts into flames as you let out a strangled hum like whine, face burning even more. unfortunately, your audience isn’t as silent. instead a few had caught your reaction and were bursting with laughter. a few whistling at their coach.

“she’s too young for ya, coach!”

“get someone y’er own age!”

“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”

the last one — somehow — snapped you back to reality. your glare cut through the field, immediately hitting one of the players making him burst out laughing along with the others around him. your face pulls into a scowl, heart hammering at the teasing you’re receiving from the team. who even are they? they don’t know anything about you!

shy?! you?!!! you scowl in annoyance, eyes rollin—

“ignore em, sweetheart. they’re just being dicks.”

fuck.

your face burns hot again, heart hammering against your ribs as you stutter out another nod, fingers gripping your bag as you glance at the head coach again. his green eyes were unbelievably dark, just staring at them, you felt like you were getting dizzy.

the scar on his lip twitches up, leaning an elbow on the fence, his eyes flick down to your camera. “what kinda camera is that?”

your eyes widen, looking down like you’re surprised it’s there. but it seems like he flicks a switch in your brain with that question, because now you’re fumbling to hold the delicate thing in your hands. then you hold it out for him.

a small puff of air leaves his nose in amusement. you’re cute. he turns, reaching his hand out, just for your small ones to place the expensive camera in his. the same one you’d deny your friends from even holding, afraid they’ll drop it.

b-but if coach toji holds it…if he wants to hold it…who…who are you to stop him!!!

your blush only breaks out across your body once you feel your hands brush his, eyes so bright and big even he can see the hearts explode from your irises, fuzzy pink flowers glowing around your head like a cartoon.

“looks expensive,” he finally takes his eyes away from you to momentarily examine the camera. it was nice, sony. “bought it yourself?”

you nod, smiling as you rock on your heels. “it was…” oh first words, toji’s eyes flick to you, eyeing your glossy lips as they part. “my first big purchase,” you glance at the camera then back up at toji as you point with your manicured index finger, towards the camera. “it’s nice…right?”

well fuck me.

toji chuckles internally. he really can’t read you. from rude (to the team), to shy, to snappy (to the team), to demure, to charming—all while looking up at him like he’s some shinning knight and not a coach, albeit for the best team in the nation, but still.

his lips curl up, his internal switch already flipped when he shooed the team away, and the smooth voice of his poured out like second nature. “very nice, sweetheart.”

you nod, enthusiastically.

god, you were a cutie.

“and you take such good pictures with it too, you’re a natural,” the sweet words just keep pouring from his mouth like honey, and you’re eating up every drop. your feet manage to carry you closer to the fence…closer to him.

you wet your glossy lips, leaning close to point at the camera, “it also takes video here…I initially wanted to do more videography, but I stuck with photos. but it’s a nice perk with the camera…and I can shoot in raw and jpeg, so I can edit them afterwards if I want, and uh and I have other lenses too. this one is a fixed one, so it can’t zoom, but I have two other ones that zoom, I usually use those ones for work…like during your….games.”

your rambling was one of, if not, the most attractively adorable things you could’ve done at this moment. especially when you’re oblivious to the light flush that settles in the coach’s stomach as he eyes you down.

his gaze flicks between your fingers on the camera, and your profile from his height. your hair lightly brush’s back from the wind exposing your neck, your perfume reaching his nose.

“can I try takin’ a pic?”

your face bursts hot, you feel like it’ll melt off as you gawk up at the head coach, before nodding your head frantically, a wide smile pulling at your lips. you try to clear your throat as you turn the camera on for him and take the lens cap off.

“good?” he asks.

you just nod again, biting your cheek feeling how wide you’re smiling it almost hurts, but you can’t take your eyes off the way his big hands handle your camera. your biggest crush ever is using your camera!

you contain a squeal as he stands straight. he brings the camera to his eye, before lowering it again, confused. your eyes widen momentarily before realizing he’s struggling and quickly stepping up again.

you lean over the fence. and toji purposely avoids coming down to your height. instead, he watches you hold the fence to stand on your tippy toes, the other gently holds his wrist to ask him to lower the camera just a bit from his eye so you can instruct him. fuck, the confidence to touch him when you were just a jittery mess a second ago.

“the shutter button is here. if you half press it, it’ll auto-focus for you—“ you move to the front of the camera flipping some switch, “jus’ turned it on. but just press down all the way and it’ll take the picture,” you say, mistakenly glancing up from where you are, just to realize that coach toji’s face is inches from yours. his warm breath fans against your cheek, his scar so close, his lips right there and his eyes….

you were beyond gone. the steam immediately comes off your face as your eyes turn into big giant hearts. you’re so easy to read it should be illegal.

you fall back on your heels, allowing toji to attempt again. what you weren’t expecting was for him to point the camera at you.

well considering the wider lens, I guess he wants to shoot something closer for more satisfaction. but it caught you slightly off guard, your cheeks flame once more, heart stuttering, but your face immediately lights up.

his lips curve up behind the camera, watching you give him a cute smile, angling your head to tip to the side a bit. people that automatically smile when a camera is pointed at them is definitely a cute trait.

he takes a few quick photos, before pulling the camera back. “how do I see ‘em?”

this time he lowers the camera for you, but keeps it close to his body so you’re still leaning over and up beside him, albeit with the fence between you both.

“ah the sun was behind me,” you realize now looking at the photos. toji hums like he knows what that means (he doesn’t) but he clicks the button to go to the next picture and same thing.

“let’s do it again,” he says, already pulling the camera back, but your finger quickly reaches out, easily flipping it back to view mode before moving back. toji watches you glance up at the sky, before moving yourself in front of the sun. “smile f’er me, sweetheart.”

you were smiling, but now—toji chuckles through his nose at your reaction. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he takes one photo, than another.

your smile turns more pose worthy, not so big, but just as beautiful. “you’re a natural,” he comments, with full honesty.

your cheeks flush, waving your hand in front of you, “don’t glaze me.”

toji snorts, “jus’ saying what I see, not my fault you pose like a model.”

a model?!

toji notices the way you bite your cheek and the way your hands fidget with your bag. “put the bag down, sweetheart.”

your heart skips again, the nickname electing a response from you every time. but you oblige, setting your bag on the ground. now without anything to fidget with, your hands carefully clasp behind your back, your navy hoodie completely off your shoulder, exposing the casual white tank top. his eyes glance at the swell of your tits that your bra pushes up. and the sliver of skin that peaks at the bottom.

the wind was like a perfect accessory, blowing a warm spring breeze in your direction brushing your hair again.

you do your best to pose casually, smiling at the camera, eyes low as you stare into the lens, heart beating erratically as you wait for coach toji to finish.

your breath catches momentarily. cheeks stinging and lips parting like a deer in headlights, because you notice it. just briefly, the way toji lowers the camera from his eye, gaze tracking down your figure, eyeing your thighs, then your hips, then your tits.

he’s definitely checking you out.

you glance away, flustered, unaware that toji was now clicking the library to view the photos he’d just taken.

“I think I’m a pretty good shot,” he compliments his nonexistent skills, but the light hits you so well.

you smile watching him look at the photos. eyes glued to his lazy smirk, stomach hot and heart fluttering at his short comments. he’s so handsome, you glance at the curve of his nose, the stubble on his cheek. he’s so so pretty.

your mind was getting dizzy, all because coach toji is in front of you, but it made you completely forgetful that if he keeps clicking next, it’ll eventually reach—

“oh.”

you first notice the slight raise of his brows, then the scar on his lip twitching wider, then the greens of his eyes darkening.

“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”

your brows furrow for half a second, then it clicks. you lunge forward.

this can’t be happening!

you immediately cover the screen and take the camera as you hear the coach chuckle. of course you’d forgotten that you had these on your sd card.

staring back at you is a photo of toji’s fat bulge from the game. you managed to catch the moment he reached down to itch himself, grabbing it. if he saw this one he definitely saw the three before this of the closeups of his lips, his big biceps, his ass when he was fixing his shoes.

your heart is beating in your ears, skin sizzling with embarrassment as your vision starts to narrow. your eyes flick up to the coach in horror, flustered beyond speech. “it’s not—“ you struggle to explain, “you weren’t supposed to see that. I was just taking one—then I someone bumped so like, the camera went down—“

the rambling was unlike the one before, this one was much more uncoordinated, fueled by your humiliation, anxiety, and desperate attempt at defending yourself to him, so that he doesn’t think you’re some creep.

“I wore that shirt from the match two weeks ago. not this one….” his head tilts, arms folded across his beefy chest. “why do you still have ‘em?”

the older man is quite unbothered. instead, his chest grew hot, and his mind wandered off imagining this hot college girl laying in her bed, staring at pictures of his crotch with her small fingers playing with her wet little pussy. his eyes flick to your chest again.

your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.

“I just forgot to format the card,” you quickly reply, pretty chest rising and falling. “I always forget, and I realize after when I’m exporting the photos or run out of storage—I delete them, i-i swear!”

he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”

you nod frantically.

his emerald eyes narrow, tongue poking out to wet his lips, touching his scar. his eyes flick to the camera in your hands. you’re quite the actor…

“okay, I’ll take your word then. you wouldn’t lie to me…?” his gaze was intimidating, the darkness of his pupils felt like a black hole pulling you in. but somehow you manage to shake your head.

“no, sir.”

toji holds eye contact, before tearing it away to reach for his phone, “good girl.”

your heart beats in your throat, threatening to tear out, but you step forward, eyes big and sad. “sorry, coach.” there’s a slight waver in your voice, the man’s eyes widen briefly, chuckling under his breath as he brings a hand up to the crown of your head.

“don’t worry about it, keep taking photos of me. ya’ make me feel important,” his comment is punctuated with a flirtatious wink, shooting another arrow straight into your heart.

you were lovestruck the entire trip home. and so unbelievably grateful.

you talked your way out of such incriminating evidence. because how could coach toji know that in truth, you have an entire album of photos just like the ones he saw, that you pull out almost every night to help you cum.

you really should be an actor, you think, blushing at the way he called you good girl. the way he looked at you, the way his fingers brushed yours on the camera —ahhhh, you bury your hot face in your hands.

you were in shock for days, heart slamming against your chest and face heating up every time you thought back to the moment.

you were so in your head that you hadn’t even noticed the two athletes walking up behind you on your way out of class, crossing the quad.

it’s like that thing that happens. when you’re finally introduced to someone for the first time, then you’re suddenly seeing them everywhere. that’s how geto and gojo felt. you’d been under their noses the entire time.

with a lecture of over two hundred students, of course they’d spot you when you entered today. gojo elbowed his friend, nodding in your direction. geto’s eyes nearly popped.

“what the hell?” geto leans forward, the two men closely watch you enter the lecture hall, walking a few rows down before slipping in. geto’s eyes narrow at the camera you carefully place in your lap as you take out your ipad.

it was like the cards were being dealt out for him perfectly.

“wait, I don’t get it,” gojo huffs catching up to his friend as the lecture hall empties.

geto tsks, “what’s not to get? I’m gonna bribe her into taking photos of me next game. I’m fucking tired of being some fucking blur—“

“you’ve gotten some photos man—“

“well i want more. ones where I’m actually scoring,” geto huffs, brushing his bang back in frustration.

once the two men hit the pavement outside, they spot you. gojo is tagging along for the fun, while geto is set on a mission. one he conjured up mid-lecture the second he saw you. it was perfect. genius—

“what?” your face scrunches in mild disgust. the two men baffle at your reaction, especially at the way you’re looking up at them with narrow, and irritated eyes. your expression isn’t hard to decipher, it’s basically screaming, why tf are you talking to me?

geto licks his teeth, exhaling through his nose, “you heard me fine, sweetheart—“

“don’t call me that.”

his jaw clenches, repeating his line without the pet name. “the next two games are the semifinals and then the finals, so I’ll give you access through our manager to join press during the media window two days before the matches—“

“I already have access to that through the school paper,” you give him a look, immediately ticking him off.

“let me fucking finish will you—“

“you’re taking forever and I’m being cornered,” you snap back, rolling your eyes at the pretentious athlete. geto bites his tongue, as gojo gasps.

“you’re not being cornered!” he states, just to exchange a look with geto as they both see that they’ve steered you off the pavement and against a tree. “no—we’re just talking.”

you exhale, glancing back at geto, “whatever, just finish.”

geto licks his lips, continuing, “you’ll also get access to our locker room strategy meeting or whatever, and behind the scenes access — you only do photos, no video or interviews?”

you shake your head, heart beating just a little quicker because now you’re starting to see the perks. bts access is the one thing university teams can deny since they don’t like any outsiders butting into their strategies or taking them out of “the zone.”

that also means you can see….coach toji.

gojo and geto both notice the realization crossing your face, especially when your lips part, much more glossy than before. unbelievable.

“but,” geto snaps you back, your eyes darting up to meet his, “you better take some good fucking shots of me during the game. if I’m not in the fucking paper and insta page, then no deal.”

you gasp, “dude, you’re literally acting like I’m the one in charge of that?? it’s my editor that picks the photos to put in the articles.”

geto tsks, “yet somehow coach is in every single one.” your jaw clenches, stomach heating up. “take more photos of me so it’s inevitable. got it?”

your lip curls in annoyance, eyeing geto, just for gojo to suddenly but in—

“but also take some of me, i look so hot in them and i like reposting them on my insta,” gojo flashes you a smile.

your frown deepens, “there’s other photographers. you guys know that right?”

“yours are the only ones they choose and they look better than whoever took sukuna’s,” gojo snorts, remembering their captains complaints.

nevertheless, geto and gojo wait for you to agree, both men standing with their arms crossed, blocking the spring sun from hitting you.

then a certain captain happens to pass by, noticing his two teammates, and frat brothers.

“the fuck are you guys doing?”

the men whip their heads as sukuna steps up, bag slung over his shoulder wearing a backwards baseball cap. and with a quick explanation from his friends, sukuna tsks glancing at you and adding.

“coach always showers before or after our games.”

and it was that one bit of information that automatically has you saying: “deal.”

—

you don’t rush setting up. you check your flash, bouncing it once off the ceiling to make sure it won’t wash anyone out. your fingers move with muscle memory, standing in these rooms plenty of times for the school paper, along with other journalists from the school paper especially for media days, post-game scrums, pre-season press.

so this isn’t new territory.

the room is packed, though. there’s national outlets mingling with campus press, and clusters of journalists already talking. you hear familiar phrases float past as you move, many talking about the teams unbeaten streak, their goal differentials, their historic season.

familiar names are easily getting tossed around. captain sukuna coming up first, always, and his leadership, and the way he commands the field. gojo’s speed follows after, and his natural talent and eye for goals, then geto’s consistency, his intelligence and composure. someone mentions scouts again, plural this time, and how a few clubs have been hovering around those three all season.

you barely react because you’ve heard all of this before, and it was impressive of course, you enjoy it. however, what does get you, embarrassingly, is his name.

every time coach toji is mentioned—his tactics, his discipline, the way he rebuilt the program and incorporated new strategies —you feel heat creep up your neck. it’s a soft and traitorous blush that you’re grateful no one’s looking closely enough to notice you smiling.

you keep your eyes on your camera, pretending to fiddle with a setting you don’t actually need to adjust, reminding yourself that he’s just part of the team. a very effective, very respected part of it.

then finally, the noise dips and the conversations fade into an expectant quiet as the side door opens.

the players file in first, with sukuna at the front, expression unreadable, gojo already grinning, geto calm and observant as ever. everyone’s cameras lift, and recorders click on. and then he steps in behind them.

coach toji, in a suit.

your face breaks into a hot mess, heart skipping a beat as you eye him through your lens. it fits him too well. dark, sharp, shoulders filling it out like it was tailored perfectly. no team jacket today, no morning stumble. no, he looked clean, with polished shoes, and authority. he guides the team forward eyes sweeping the room calmly.

your flash fires once, professionalism wavering again. how can it not when your knight is walking into the room and reminding you exactly how out of reach he is.

the entire team easily spots you in the front row for the first time. your charm hangs from your camera strap, along with the little sticker on your godox flash. they all know who you are now, so their wasn’t any hiding the way they’d purposely glance at your camera lens, giving you their best shots.

many of the questions are being directed towards the coach, your eyes focus on his reaction, lens zooming close as he rolls his dress shirt over his forearms. your camera flashes and your cheeks warm. you do this every time. acting like it’s your first time seeing the coach in a suit even though he wears one every semifinals press. but you can’t help it!

journalists throw questions without breath, firing rounds until the set time is up.

“photographers only, please.”

the room clears out fast. chairs scrape back, and laptops snap shut. you step forward instinctively, already lifting your camera. the players shift back into place. sukuna straightens, his expression resetting into something stoic. gojo cracks a joke under his breath that earns him a look. geto adjusts his sleeves, calm as ever.

toji moves standing just off to the side at first, arms crossed, smooth dress shirt crinkling over his taut muscles, and unforgiving across his shoulders.

the manager gestures. “let’s get the team all together first.”

cameras flash as the team pose, all in their uniform. you move easily getting their shots, unaware of the emerald eyes watching your every move.

coach toji noticed you the minute he stepped into the room. however, he remained composed, knowing how many eyes were on him. but now, his eyes sweep over your figure.

your grey dress pants hugging that right ass, and those hips. the tight dress shirt hugged your frame, with the top buttons undone allowing some of your cleavage to be revealed along with your necklace stack. business casual, but he’s sure half the team is looking at your tits. your pretty anklet catching the light as you move in your kitten heels.

“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.

toji steps forward.

you track him without thinking, framing the shot as he places a hand lightly at sukuna’s back, guiding him a half-step to the left. your shutter clicks, noticing how easily he steps into your frame, how naturally he fills it. his height just a hair taller than the hot headed captain, at least in your eyes.

“alright, another group photo,” the manager says.

toji turns, motioning the players in with two fingers. his eyes briefly catch yours making your eyes widen. the team clusters around their coach, heads bowed slightly, listening even though there’s nothing to hear. he speaks low anyway. you circle to the side, careful, capturing the curve of his shoulder, the way his jaw tightens when he focuses.

toji’s gaze lifts again, slow and deliberate, landing on you.

why does he keep doing that?!

it’s brief. just a glance that lingers a fraction longer, his eyes flick from your face to the camera in your hands and back again, like he’s remembering the photos he saw on your camera.

you feel heat blooming under your skin, pulse kicking hard enough to throw you off guard. you steady your hands, inhaling subtly, pretending you don’t feel the way the air shifts when he turns slightly…when he ends up closer than before, just at the edge of your frame.

“okay, we’re good,” the manager calls.

the team breaks, the players disperse, but toji stays put for a beat longer, adjusting his sleeve, posture relaxed again, unreadable.

you lower your camera only when it’s over, breath leaving you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding. you don’t see him glance at you when you step back to check your photos. you also don’t notice the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.

not until you’re feeling a gentle, firm, hand on your waist, and a low voice right against your ear, “say hi next time. you’re not a stranger anymore.”

your body immediately catches on fire, eyes snapping to the man like a magnet, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch him pull back, emerald eyes meeting yours.

“right, sweetheart?”

your face stings, as you nod quickly, heat pooling deep in your stomach, feeling his thumb caress your hip over your shirt. your lips part, mind dizzy as you glance as his strong forearms, he’s towering over you, slightly leaning down to speak to you in quiet whispers.

“I’ll see c’ya tomorrow, yeah,” he gives your waist a squeeze as he greets you with a kiss to your cheek like some gentleman. then he walks away. and if you weren’t a mess before, the casual glance he shoots over his shoulder has a third arrow piercing your heart.

you couldn’t contain it anymore. you were consumed by this man. every waking thought was spent daydreaming about him— his voice, his eyes, his hands, his demeanor. it was intoxicating.

all for you to show up in the lockerroom, the next day, hours before the match. the team is either dressed in their uniforms, or still shirtless, huddling around the white board as they prep for the game.

geto was the second to notice you, after gojo. both their eyes twinkling as they walk up to you. “they gave you the pass,” geto nods to the press badge around your neck.

you nod, glancing around the lockerroom. it felt tense, the aura suspenseful as the time ticks closer to when they walk onto the pitch.

“get your vip shots, but you better get my photo,” geto hushes in your ear.

“and mine!” gojo blurts, just as a certain coach is stepping out of the steam.

and you feel it. the towel wrapped low around his waist, skin still slick with water that traces unhurried paths down his sculpted torso. his hair is darker when it’s wet, heavier, droplets slide from it and disappear along the hard lines of his shoulders.

your eyes catch his muscles moving when he walks, hard mass, that shifts beneath skin without effort. you swallow thickly, body heating up, stomach fluttering as you catch the trail of dark coarse hair leading down from his navel, and disappearing beneath the towel. your eyes follow it to the bulge you know is under there. your cheeks sting at the thought of it.

you were utterly shameless. as if the two men standing beside aren’t still talking to you. but they immediately recognize the shift in your attitude and notice the steam leaving your face. gojo stifles a laugh, as geto sighs. you’re hopeless.

your eyes follow the scars you’ve never seen before. the old pale marks catch the light, etched across his side, his pecs, and back, proof of some life before this one. then he turns just enough and your heart stutters, and your panties soak.

ink blooms along his ribs where the towel dips. the tattoos are sharp and intimate, black against his skin that’s still flushed from the heat. you’ve photographed him dozens of times, from every angle, but you’ve never seen a peak of a tattoo.

“how wet are you right now?”

the comment snaps you back, glaring straight at the crystal ocean eyes narrowed in amusement.

“don’t talk to me like that,” you huff, “I’m working.” your attitude really is night and day when it comes to anyone else and toji.

gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”

you roll your eyes.

“what’re you two doing? get the fuck over here,” sukuna snaps.

the team huddles as the fifteen minute timer starts. and that’s what you should be photographing, but instead you glance back. toji is now pulling up his pants, wet hair still dripping down the expanse of his back. his eyes catch yours for a second, gaze flicking to your camera, taunting…

his hand subtly cups his crotch, squeezing his girth just to present you with a size, one that has your lips parting with a shaky exhale, heart pounding as you glance between his emerald eyes and the way his forearms flex when he fixes the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down just a bit that you catch more of the thick patch of hair at his base seeing a peak of it, before he’s fixing himself again.

and once he zips his pants up, glancing at the team as they huddle for some words from the captain before coach steps in, toji walks to you. just a few feet away, your eyes widen in surprise, heart stuttering as you watch him lean down to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, again!

he’s acting like you’re familiar even though this is just your third interaction with him…but maybe you are…

“thought I told you to say hi next time,” he says against your ear, pulling away.

your face heats up, “you were….changing.”

“so?”

you gulp, eyes flicking between his, heart pounding. he’s so close. your breath catches when his scent hits your nose, sandalwood, oak and something deeper under it. his stubble is darker than yesterday, rougher along his jaw, and you realize you’ve been staring for too long when the heat creeps up your neck.

he doesn’t move away though, he stands beside you, attention forward on sukuna as he speaks. focused, and so aware of you’re attention he has to hold back a smirk. and maybe he doesn’t mind messing with you, so his hand remains at your lower back, light, almost absent, but there.

your stomach flips, attention gone. you try to listen, you do. sukuna is talking about positioning, about discipline, about not getting sloppy or something and the room is locking in around you, everyone leaning in. these would be great photos—but all you can think about is how close he is.

how his hand hasn’t moved, every small shift makes your pulse jump. you keep your eyes forward. you don’t trust yourself to look at him again.

and that gives toji the opportunity to take you in. his pupils dilate just a fraction as his gaze travels down your body. his eyes zero in on the multiple open buttons of your tight dress shirt. you’re not even hiding yourself, and the sliver of skin that peaks between your pants and shirt doesn’t help.

his hand remains over your clothes, heat settling in his stomach when you take a deeper breath and your tits push up, and his eyes shamelessly look down your shirt from his towering height. fuck, he wants a look at that pretty ass too—

“coach! you’re up!” sukuna’s voice cuts through everything, snapping toji back. your gaze whips with it, catching him off guard as you wait for his next move like anything he touches is gold.

he controls himself, giving your waist that same squeeze before his hand leaves you just like that.

you push down the feeling that hits immediately, sharp and cold. but now you can finally breathe properly when he steps away. he moves past the players without rushing — a few of the boys let their eyes roam over you— toji adjusts his sleeve ignoring the feeling bubbling up when he notices them. and then he’s at the front.

he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to now, but he usually gets to that point around the halfway mark. but this was the first time you’re seeing him speak in private…and when he speaks, they all listen—every single one of them.

gojo notices, gossip second nature to him. but the quick glance your way already has a grin tugging at his mouth before he nudges geto. geto follows his gaze, then sukuna does too, just briefly—and it’s obvious. painfully obvious. the way your expression softens, the way your attention doesn’t wavers. it’s written all over you.

“she’s actually really hot,” gojo comments.

though you wish you could stand there forever, the time finally comes for the team to head to the pitch, and that’s when the chaos begins.

not just on the field…but off it.

the press box is packed, bodies press against you shoulder to shoulder. the field below is relentless. everything fast, and aggressive, and loud enough that the noise bleeds through everything. you always forget how overstimulating and exhilarating semifinal matches are. but you remember the deal you made with the three stars.

your camera moves with them, tracking their plays, snapping multiple shots of them without hesitation, and then catching the moment when things go wrong...

sukuna gets taken down hard during a penalty shot—and there’s no whistle. no call.

you’re already shooting when the other team pushes, then scores, and the stadium erupts, but sukuna is on his feet, shouting. the goal should be discounted. the captain was known to be a hot head, but even you could see that the tackle he received was completely brushed off by the ref and he was right.

everyone watches as the team moves forward in defense of sukuna, but also holding him back. the other side meets them just as hard. the crowd shouts as they watch the players shove, yell, and slam into each other—and through it all you keep shooting. you catch toji too, voice cutting through the chaos as he orders his players to pull sukuna back.

the press talk amongst themselves as halftime quickly breaks up the argument. your feet quickly carry you out of the press box, towards the locker room.

“no locker room access.”

your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.

“I have a different badge,” you show the security guard your press ID. the one geto gave you.

“no press allowed, do i need to repeat myself?” the man snaps.

your irritation ticks at your side. fine. whatever. the second you step back, your mind is already running, already circling back to geto. you scoff under your breath, shaking your head as you pace along the corridor, camera swinging lightly at your side.

seriously? all that talk, all that stupid ass convincing, and for what? you were supposed to be there. that was the whole point! you roll your eyes, heat building the longer you think about it, every step feeding into this petty irritation instead of cooling it. were you overreacting —yes, but whatever—if he’s not holding up his end, then why should you?

by the time you make it back up, you’re done. done thinking about it, done entertaining it, done with their stupid deal.

the second half starts and you fall back into rhythm. camera up, focus sharp, and attention on only one thing now, the ball….

gojo and geto drift near the press box occasionally, clearly expecting something, acknowledgment, a photo, but you don’t even bat an eye. not a look, not a flicker, hell, they might as well not exist.

it’s almost satisfying. almost.

the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts, the first leg ended in a draw, preparing for next game to see who’ll continue. cameras around you go wild, capturing every second of it. the quiet annoyance of both teams, the noise in the crowd. but you don’t. you lower yours, expression flat, already turning away. it’s petty. a little unfair, but still, you walk.

“you’re not coming to the locker room?” gojo’s voice follows you, footsteps quick behind yours as you head in the opposite direction.

“why would i?” you snap, sharp, not even slowing. “am i even allowed,” there’s an obvious clip in your tone that has gojo confused.

“what’re you talking about?”

“deal’s off.”

huh?!????

gojo barely has time to react, before you’re walking away.

baffled and utterly confused, gojo makes his way back to the locker rooms. the energy is stiff, sukuna is grumbling under his breath about how embarrassing it was to end their first leg in a draw, geto is lounged beside his bag scrolling on his phone, and toji is in the corner talking to the managers. ugh, does no one care that their personal photographer isn’t taking photos of them???

they do care.

especially when the next paper comes out and the article is filled with photos taken by other people, not you!

“WHY THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE THAT!??” sukuna shouts, entire body fumming as they all sit outside during practice. sukuna is not the only one pissed, geto is practically seething because there isn’t even a single photo of him or gojo.

“what is this girl’s problem?! i thought you idiots made a deal with her?!” sukuna snaps, already in a foul mood, but now it’s worse.

geto licks his teeth, jaw ticking, “we did.”

“I told you guys she was pissed that she didn’t come in during halftime,” gojo throws, as if anyone was listening to him after their shitty match.

“so she throws a tantrum because she didn’t see coach’s dick during halftime?” sukuna clips.

“she looked super hot when she was all pissed though,” gojo throws, “she’d definitely go for me after she realizes how old coach is.”

“what’s wrong with you?” geto rolls his eyes, confused how gojo can talk about your looks when you screwed them over. even if he maybe also finds you attractive, it doesn’t negate your shitty attitude.

gojo throws his hands up in defensive, “I’m just calling dibs now.”

toji, just a few feet away, strides over after noticing the group no longer doing drills. “what’s the hold up!” he grunts, also in a shit mood because of the embarrassing match and then overheating what gojo had said.

“your stalker fucked us over,” geto snaps, eyes burning into the school paper. “she didn’t even get a pic of you.”

gojo’s eyes light up, “oh shit, yeah—she’s definitely over you!”

the paper then hits toji’s chest, his brows furrowing as he holds it up. his eyes glance over the sports section, and just as geto had stated, there wasn’t a single photo of him, unless you’re counting the wide shot of the field and you see him standing in the corner, but it definitely was a starch contrast from the streak you’d created.

“so?” toji tosses the paper like it’s nothing, “you guys playing for the cameras or because you want to win?!”

the men baffled, gasp and scoff. “we want to win!”

“then get off your fucking asses! I don’t have time to be doing this shit with you all!” he snaps aggressively, uncharacteristically pissed off, whether it’s because of the teams misdirected frustrations, or something else. either way, the school paper is long forgotten beside their bags and the team is splitting into practice teams.

it doesn’t matter…

it doesn’t matter that you made a deal with suguru geto and satoru gojo. and the captain pushed you to seal that deal with the information about coach — and they broke it. none of it matters! you still should’ve taken those photos, especially when you’re receiving an earful from your editor, and then sulking through the week of classes.

“what’s your problem,” your friend, shoko, cuts in, snapping you back to the campus day festival. you were once again sulking on the picnic bench, ice cream melting in the cup as you stare off.

“you’re gonna get annoyed…” you mutter, brows pinched in agony.

for most passing by, they immediately steered clear of you, not only did you carry a lethal rbf, your words of “agony” really translates to, you’ll rip someone’s head off and if looks could kill, everyone would be dead. it was quite funny, considering how you’re pretty sweet when you want to be, shoko quietly thinks. still, most would rather avoid you, thanking the heavens that you stay behind the camera so you don’t interact directly with people.

“don’t start,” shoko groans, piecing together the not so subtle mystery.

you frown, “i didn’t even say anything!” you whine even more, glaring at your ice cream. your pretty camera sits on the table beside you, collecting dust when you should be photographing this event. “I just screwed myself over,” your tongue laps at the dripping ice cream.

“agreed.”

your glare snaps to your friend, to which she brushes off with a shrug.

“you should’ve taken those photos,” she starts.

“I know…”

“then you would’ve made your editor happy,”

“I know…”

“and then you wouldn’t have to do this event.”

“I know.”

“and you’d have more weird pictures of coach toji.”

your heart drops. eyes snapping to shoko. “what?!”

shoko goes mute. suddenly realizing what she said. “nothing.”

“pictures?” you repeat, “I have weird pictures of the coach?? I don’t—why would you even say that??“ you’re not subtle at all. and shoko feels guilty at your horrible lying skills, but still…she confesses…

“you uploaded photos to your drive, when we’d study together,” she tries to hold in her laugh as heat crawls up your neck, “like more than once.”

you glance away, eyes flicking over your camera, “that’s it?”

shoko raises a brow. “yeah…what do you mean?”

you look back, “like that’s how you know, it’s not like you heard from someone else or anything?”

shoko shakes her head, “no, who else would know?”

your cheeks are burning at this point, and it was written all over your face now. the realization hit shoko in seconds. “no…” you’re silent. “does the coach know about your photos?”

you don’t want to make eye contact.

“how?!!”

even though it happened days ago, why is it now starting to feel even more embarrassing. maybe because of your cool headed friends reaction— “it was an accident.”

“how did he find out though?” shoko pushes.

you cringe, “well…” you swallow, “when I first spoke to him, remember…” shoko nods, “I let him use my camera because he was interested.” you pause, reliving the humiliation all over again. “then he kept swiping to see the pics, and just found them…” your hands slap your face, “that’s not bad!”

shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”

“STOP IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!” you cry out, humiliation seeping from your pores.

shoko is trying not to laugh, but it’s quite hard not too, especially when you’re groaning like that. “what was his reaction?”

“I obviously said it was an accident, and he was like whatever and seemed fine,” you explain quickly, trying to cool the situation. “It’s not bad!”

“okay okay!!” shoko laughs, trying to calm your reaction. however, shoko knows about your huge crush, what she didn’t know is about a deal her two friends made with you. heck, she didn’t even know that you interacted with them. not until those two men are standing directly behind you, sweaty and pissed. “what the hell—“

“I guess you don’t know how to keep your word,” geto spits, bag dropping aggressively on the bench beside you.

you jump, then, your eyes flick over your shoulder, immediately rolling them when you see them. you turn back to shoko.

geto snaps. “there wasn’t a single photo of us!”

“not my problem,” you scoff, attitude returning in seconds, shoko completely used to it. but she’s shocked that you know gojo and geto. “not like you guys even played well.”

gojo’s vein bulges, “we played fucking good, we didn’t lose!”

“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.

that’s when gojo and geto both glance up at shoko. shock crossing their expressions. “you know her?!” they both point down at you.

shoko raises a brow, “she’s my friend.”

“she’s a bitch—“ geto spits, just to receive the worst glare of his life from you, but he just rolls his eyes. “how the fuck do you know each other?”

“I just told you she’s my friend. you’re the ones that screwed her over.” shoko takes your side.

gojo gasps, “we didn’t screw her over! she screwed us over! you saw the paper this week—not a single highlight!”

you glance at shoko, ignoring the men behind you, “how do you know them?”

“we went to high school together,” shoko throws with a bored wave.

frustrated, geto straddles the bench facing you, his hand falls on top of your camera, immediately making you snap your attention to him.

“hey—“

“listen. our deal was that you get access and then we get photos, you didn’t finish your job,” he keeps a grip on your camera. shoko frowns.

“you guys didn’t give me access—i got like ten minutes before the match, then I couldn’t even go in during halftime where everyone was pissed, so what’s the point?” you snap, getting in his face.

“the point is that has nothing to do with me!” geto shouts, your eyes pierce his in two, but neither of you back down.

“it literally does though!”

“guys,” shoko and gojo attempt at intervening, but neither of you will back down. especially when geto won’t let go of your camera.

“let go,” you seethe, hand on the camera as geto flexes, grip strengthening around it.

your heart pounds against your chest, the hot spring sun beats over the four of you, sweat building on your neck while geto scoffs. “you better take those photos of us this week—“

“or what?” you glare, “are you seriously threatening me?” you were dripping with ego and confidence, except for the fact that your eyes kept darting to your camera, your poor, expensive, beautiful camera—

“is this your first time being threatened—“

“the fuck.”

the deep, intimidating voice breaks the argument in seconds. geto’s eyes widen as he feels the gravity taken away from him and being lifted off the seat. the collar of his jersey tightens around none other than toji’s brutal grip.

your eyes break into hearts, grasping your camera before it clatters back on the table, glancing up to see geto gripping his coach’s forearm.

“since when do you fucking shout at girls. you?!” toji barks, baffled. sukuna sure, gojo maybe, but geto?!

“I wasn’t fucking shouting, we were talking,” geto tsks, neck red from embarrassment.

toji shoves him back. geto slams on the bench. you hadn’t realized it but they all looked like they just finished practice, geto and gojo both still in practice uniforms and duffle bags, and coach toji wearing his usual black cargos, and that compression shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.

“you were shouting, that’s why i came over—“

“she was shouting at me!”

“so what!?”

the table is quiet. a few passerby’s glance over before quickly walking away. it isn’t a shock to know how unbelievably hot your face is right now. especially when coach toji continues his stern lecture to geto.

“you’re defending some girl that can’t keep her word, mind you,” geto mutters, flashing you a glare—his breath catches. you’re not even looking at him!! shoko stifles another laugh along with gojo, because you really were, truly, unbelievable.

how can you look at someone like that?!? like he’s some idol?! him! a musty ass college coach?!

but none of it mattered, not when toji’s attention shifts to you!!! a warm heat floods between your legs, as your lips part. then suddenly, you glance away…

“I actually did shout too…” you confess, taking accountability. “and kinda screwed them over.”

gojo, geto, and shoko, stare at you in shock.

toji sighs, like some grown ass man (which he is), his hand settles on his hip as the other scratches his hair like he’s surrounded by immature children and figuring out what the fuck to do with you all. so he decides to confess too…

“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”

your heart drops.

“including you.”

oh shit.

the three audience members immediately glance at you, and what none of them, not a single one, expected, is to suddenly see the your eyes tear up.

toji felt a sharp twist in his gut, eyes widening for a moment, before sighing. “it wasn’t personal.”

your throat feels dry, unable to look away until now. a tear hits your camera. “how is that not personal,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling.

shoko’s brows pinch in hurt, at least out of everyone, she knows how much and how long you’ve liked this man. and then sulking and now— she knows you’re absolutely shattered.

“I needed the team to focus, and you’re press,” he states like some cold fact, and that hurt even more.

your grip tightens on the camera. “but…” your not a stranger anymore…. but you can’t get the words out…your heart pounds loudly in your ears, the heat surrounding you felt suffocating, and your head was growing dizzier by the second. and the only thing spinning in your mind was how fucking embarrassing this is.

“don’t be upset.”

you manage a small nod, though another tear falls on the camera, and your body freezes. “how can i not be upset?” your small voice catches toji off guard.

you’re standing up, eyes hot with tears, walking past the esteemed coach.

“wait,” he catches your wrist, “if you have something to say don’t just run away.”

you’re fuming, your pretty chest rises and falls, the disappointment turning into built up anger, “I don’t have anything to say right now, and it’s stupid—“ your hand twists in his grip. “let go.”

he does.

you’re practically heaving, tempted to turn away, especially when the dryness in your throat gets worse. the stinging behind your eyes burns like hell as you try to rip your gaze away from the towering man. you really are stupid…

toji wets his lip, head tilting as if disinterested, but the cooling in his chest says otherwise. why does he have a weak spot for women?

“we can talk.”

his words hang in the air. a silent, open invitation for her. it’s a clear sign of his guilt for making this cute college girl cry. he was too blunt, forgetting she isn’t one of his boys.

your hand comes up to the bridge of your nose, quietly recentering yourself as this older coach watches. your shoulders rise with a deep exhale, then inhale.

pull yourself together…

you nod. cute.

you swallow the embarrassing lump in your throat, clearing your throat. “can we talk while walking…I have to work,” your usual clipped tone used for everyone except him, comes out, but he can hear the slight shakiness.

“sure.”

gojo, geto, and shoko are left in utter shock. it’s not until you and toji completely disappear into the crowd, do they slowly exchange looks.

“what…”

“the fuck,” geto finishes shoko’s sentence.

gojo stares baffled, “did we just set them up?!”

geto’s brow jumps up, “why is he always saving her like some knight?? and he was the one that screwed us all over!!”

gojo shakes his head in agreement, “nah for real, what the hell, blaming us but it’s all him.”

geto slouches back in the picnic table, rolling his eyes. “still,” he tsks, “she didn’t have to be so bitchy and not take our pictures. isn’t it her fucking job—“

“hey!”

“ow!” geto feels a slap upside the head from brunette, her eyes harsh. “what the hell!”

“don’t call girls bitches what’s wrong with you?!” shoko huffs, baffled by geto’s attitude.

gojo snickers beside the man, “he’s been like this since he met her.”

“I haven’t,” he grits, rolling his eyes at the thought of you. “she’s just a—she just gets on my nerves.”

“really because she reminds me of you,” shoko cuts him off. geto’s eyes widen, as gojo breaks into a loud laugh.

“WHAT?!”

“oh god BAHAHA she does!” gojo’s obnoxious laugh sounds like knives stabbing his ears.

shoko hums, “she has that rbf look, intimidating, very blunt, but also so cute with her friends.”

“cute?” geto frowns.

gojo smiles, “it comes out when you’re hanging out with ussss.” gojo and shoko dramatically strike a cute pose. geto tsks.

the campus was packed with students and faculty roaming to booths and small events. it was the university’s 102nd anniversary, and as memorable as it is for the students to enjoy the activities during this nice spring day, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.

not only did your editor scream at you all week, still pissed about the shit photos you took during the match, he also threatened removal if you didn’t take good photos during this event. and now, after sulking with shoko, then procrastinating some more, you decided you’d be able to take such fanatic pictures while your idol and crush trails beside you….sure.

toji lets out another sigh, hands in his pockets as he stands to your left watching you snap some shots of laughing students beside a booth.

“it’s not a big deal,” you mutter, behind the camera. toji notices the twitch in your fingers. “I overreacted, so it’s whatever.”

toji wets his lip, “sukuna and a couple others jus’ get jumpy with cameras.”

you hum, looking at the photos you just took. “I understand.”

“I didn’t know about this deal you did with geto,” toji admits, hand instinctively coming to your waist and guiding you away from some unaware boys shouting and laughing. your cheeks flush, stepping away from his hand. toji notices. “we didn’t have a good game anyways.”

“I know, so it whatever. not a big deal,” you sigh, heat crawling up your neck. this is so embarrassing, so embarrassing! ugh you really don’t know how to keep a cool head at all when it comes to this coach. you overreacted during the match, then blamed geto for screwing you over, then almost cried because the coach locked you out on purpose, and now—

“I feel bad.”

your heart stops.

toji glances at your manicured nails holding your camera, your cute necklaces dangling on your exposed chest, cleavage glistening from the heat. but then his eyes flick up, and you’re staring at him like he’s holding the entire world.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” his voice is softer, gentler, nothing like how you’ve heard him for months, shouting, harsh. your stomach heats up, face stinging.

his hand, unexpectedly, comes up, feeling your hair between his fingers. “you work hard, and all your pictures come out so nice…” the compliment hits your heart. “but I couldn’t risk the boys getting distracted.”

your face suddenly twists, lips pursing and jutting out just a bit, your brows pinch. your dewy makeup makes you look like a fucking doll, he thinks. “I was jus’ gonna take photos in the corner, not interview them,” you reply harshly.

“you saw how they are when they talk to you,” he cuts in. your brow quirks, noticing his sharp inhale. “sweetheart, you’re hot.”

your face bursts into flames, pupils turning to literal swirls, and brain getting fried in seconds.

what?!

your reaction was priceless. toji controls his smirk, thumb brushing your adorable cheek, glancing at your glossy lips then your eyes. “I know you’re a professional, but most of those boys aren’t, y’ understand?”

you nod, cheeks sizzling, you’re surprised his thumb isn’t burning.

“so you see why I couldn’t allow you in the locker room then, and i won’t next time,” he watches you nod again. god, you’re fucking precious.

then, your tongue wets your bottom lip before speaking… “are they the only ones that would’ve been distracted?”

shit. can a grown man really pop a boner that fast?

toji’s chest heats up, glancing between your pretty eyes filled with hope. this isn’t the first time a younger girl has crushed on him, and it also isn’t the first time he’s nice to one. but what really got him, is the way you’re maintaining eye contact, almost afraid to look away, and you’re holding your ground against him.

“no,” he admits, “they’re not the only ones.”

oh. your lips curve into a smile toji hasn’t seen before, and his hand flexes in response. you look like you’re going to eat him alive right there, and he’d let you, no questions asked—

“that’s good to hear,” you pull away. you touch your heated cheek with the back of your hand, wetting your lip as you glance over the coach’s flushed face. “your cheeks are red.”

what?! his eyes bulge, catching you off guard as you break into a loud laugh.

“tch,” he looks away, his own hand rubbing down his face. it really is burning out here. but even so, his emerald eyes look through his fingers at this pretty college girl laughing at him and he doesn’t know why his chest warms at the sight.

“I can buy you ice cream. I feel bad now that you had to explain yourself when I was just being the unprofessional one,” you start, already leading him to the nearest ice cream booth.

your camera hangs over your shoulder as you point to your favorite flavor than glance up at him, he points at the cookies n cream. “oh! I love cookies n cream,” you say, reaching for your phone to pay.

ding.

your eyes widen as toji pays instead.

“wha—it was supposed to be my treat, man,” you huff, accepting the cone he gives you, hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the booth. neither of you batting an eye to the multiple people gawking at the renowned coach of their soccer team, walking around with the hot, rude, student photographer.

“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.

your brows pinch as you take a lick of your ice cream, the cool sensation leveling your body temperature. your eyes narrow at him as he enjoys his ice cream, grateful to have something that cools the heat building up under his skin. “so not fair,” you mutter.

“how come?”

the two of you walk across the quad, sun still beating down.

“I wanted to use it as an apology,” you say, “I said that.”

“you don’t need to apologize,” he shrugs, casual, unbothered. you huff again. this time toji smiles, scar twitching up. “you can pay next time.”

your heart skips a beat, stomach doing a stupid flip.

“….next time.”

toji catches the smile behind your cone, his eyes trailing over the ice cream coating your tongue, your pretty hand wrapped around the waffle as your bracelets clank around your wrists.

“there’s other things you need to apologize for,” he coolly says, finding a bench and dropping his weight, eyeing you as you sit close beside him. unashamed.

your brow quirks, eyes narrowing, full body facing him, “what other things?”

toji shrugs, “we can talk about it next time.”

“but I can’t just be left in suspense, that’ll give me anxiety?!”

toji snorts, loud. his big tongue is finishing the ice cream so quick he’s already eating the cone. “don’t be anxious,” he says with his mouth full.

you tsk, rolling your eyes, and you don’t notice the twinkle in the older coach’s eyes. he can definitely see geto’s point about your attitude, but if he leans over—

your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.

he takes a bold bite of your ice cream, emerald eyes shut, and thick lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. your heart feels like it’ll break from your ribs, then, he opens his eyes. he doesn’t pull away yet, instead his tongue cleans his lips, humming in low delight. the heat around you wasn’t helping your own body temperature as it skyrockets.

“taste’s sweeter than mine,” his voice his huskier than before, catching you by surprise, and the heat pools between your legs.

“i—“ you can’t even form words! your eyes won’t tear away from his lips, and your chest is moving erratically because he’s so close.

“do you want a taste of mine. I took a bite without asking yo—“

his words cut the minute your lips press against his.

shock prevents him from reacting, eyes going wide. you gave in so quick, sure he was teasing, but still. he could feel the certainty in your kiss, along with the warmth, and anxiety. after a long ten seconds you pull away—

you pant against his lips, chest rising and falling, brain scrambled. “i jus’…” your heart is beating loudly in your ears. mind trying to keep up with what your body just did. you kissed him. you kissed the coach. the one you’ve been idolizing and photographing for months—

“we can do it again.” his free hand tilts your chin up, lips hovering over yours again. his breath is warm. “kiss me.”

you do.

this time you’re a little bolder. your lips connect with his, soft again, sucking his bottom lip, skillfully. slowly. he brushes your jaw with his thumb, humming in delight just like he did with the ice cream. but the sound goes straight to your core. completely unbothered by the rowdiness of the uni day activities around you. your free hand rests on his thigh, leaning more into the kiss.

“open,” you murmur against his lips. you can feel the the shit-eating smirk that breaks his face, groaning just low enough to make the heat furiously spread under your skin.

then, his lips part.

his tongue immediately connects with yours. caressing the wet muscle. he tastes the ice cream, delving a little more. it was just so easy taking control, and your little whines are too sweet for him to stop. his jaw opens wider, taking the lead as you follow. his hand cups the side of your face, unexpectedly possessive, ignoring the alarms sounding off in his head.

you had a crush, you’re fucking adorable, and you kissed him. plus, you make these cute sounds when he shoves his tongue against yours, thumb pressing into your cheek. how could he resist?

your grip against his thigh tightens, his back is pressed fully against the bench, while you were practically leaning over him, trying to swallow him whole.

“breathe,” he mutters, lips hovering close, waiting for you to inhale. his scar quirks up, you’re so cute. his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, eyes glancing between your fluttering lashes. “if we keep kissing, I’ll have a problem.”

your face burns, eyes darting down to the tent pressing up near your hand. and unlike toji, you let your second ice cream of the day melt and fall to the ground. you were a mess. you carefully lean back in your seat, the sudden space between you allowing you to take another deep breath. being near coach toji is intoxicating. it’s not that you didn’t feel like yourself, but you definitely throw all common sense out the door when he’s in front of you.

“are you staying to see the booths and stuff?” you clear your throat, trying to ease your erratic heartbeat.

toji finds it cute. his hand once cupping your face, slides down to brush the hair off your shoulder, fingers brushing the multiple earrings that dangle from your piercings. you’re much more stylish than he is…your accessories, the cute tank top that hugs your breasts, and embroidered low rise flared jeans.

“nah, gotta drive back home so i can take my son to practice.”

toji eases, not a single thing can bother him. it was a routine, the subtle throw away line about having a son that scared off many young women, or had them wanting a one night stand with the older dilf. so his eyes flick over you, the second he finishes his sentence.

your freeze.

your blood runs cold, eyes flicking down to his ring finger.

even if you’re looking, you know he isn’t married. you know. you’ve been photographing him for months, and not a single time have you ever seen him daunt a ring on his finger.

“there’s no one waiting for him at home?” you question, wetting your lip.

toji’s fingers slide from your earrings to the dried ice cream on your chin. “nah, if I’m late he’ll go to his friends house.”

you nod, anxiety slowly dissipating. “how old is he?”

“ten.”

your eyes light up, “my nephew is just a year older, that’s when they get really fun to hang out with,” your voice is so light and sweet, toji has to shove down the weird somersault his stomach does.

“really?” toji is not convinced. “all my son does is give me attitude and bully everything i do.”

you laugh, waving your hand, “yeah they get super opinionated, but it’s funny—trust trust he’s just doing it because you’re an easy target.”

“I’m an easy target.”

you nod, waving a hand again, “your his dad, my brothers and i were the same to our parents.”

brothers? toji doesn’t comment how that peaks his interest, but he naturally asks, “how many siblings do you have?”

“three older brothers,” you nod.

damn….toji hums, that explains your attitude and how you can handle geto’s bitchy moods. what also quietly settles in his mind is how your oldest brother would probably be around his age, considering your nephew is a year older than megumi. is that why you’re easily holding a conversation this long…maybe the age gap isn’t that big then…

“they were so freakin bossy, definitely why i pushed to dorm away from them,” you huff, toji zoning back into your rambling. it was cute watching you talk mindlessly, hands waving making your bracelets clank against each other. the sweat glistened across your skin, making you look eternal, which is amusing since you’re just talking.

but still, toji is the one to lean up this time. his hand settling on your waist as a anchor and he presses a firm kiss to your warm cheek.

your glossy lips part in shock, heart stuttering again. unbothered, toji casually stands up, towering over you as his hand gently settles atop your head. “i have’ta get going, but I’ll see you next week for the match. I’ll also let em know you can come in before and after the game, but not during halftime. okay?”

you nod.

“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”

and with a wink, he solidifies the fourth arrow straight through your heart.

—

it was very likely that your entire week looked like sunshine and rainbows, all because you had a full on make out session with your idol on a park bench. you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about anything else—well except for your job. you had to scramble to get photos after toji left, afraid of staying on your editor’s bad side.

luckily you pulled through, and convinced him to keep you on for the semi final match this coming weekend.

which leads you to your current blissful state. watching toji speak to the team in the locker rooms. unlike last time, you grabbed different shots, smiling every time toji glanced at the camera, but frowning any time any of the other boys looked.

“surprise surprise, couldn’t stay away too long,” gojo coo’s after the team breaks to finish changing.

“don’t bother me or I won’t take photos of you,” you throw, eyes flicking up at the tall man.

gojo pouts, “but I’m just talking to you,” his words drag.

geto is scowling a few feet away, jaw tightening and relaxing, until he finally comes up to you. your attitude shifts, eyes narrowing up. geto holds eye contact, chest rising with a subtle inhale. but once he exhales, his shoulders ease, and his eyes close, the fakest smile you’ve ever seen graces his naturally attractive features.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your photos after the game.”

your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”

geto leaves. shortly after, the team gets called out. gojo utters the same line geto had just said, but much more cheerfully, all while toji walks up to you. brow furrowing at the two athletes as they walk towards the exit.

“they still bothering you?”

your eyes light up the moment you see him. “s’ fine,” your pretty lips pull into an easy smile, unexpectedly warming the coach’s heart. is it that easy to smile because of him?

“I’ll tell them to fuck off again,” his voice is naturally deep, hand subconsciously roaming up to the strap of your camera.

you smile, “okay.”

god, you’re really cute. his hand cups your cheek, leaning down and easily locking lips with you.

you’re immediately caught off guard, but his hand is so firm on your cheek, you just melt. your lashes flutter shut, leaning in more. he’s so big and tall. your cheeks sting, humming against his lips, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. but it’s worse when he pulls away, and your heart leaps into your throat as he brushes his rough thumb against your lip, dragging the spit across the plumpness.

“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.

you barely feel your feet when you step back out onto the field. your camera in hand, strap tight around your neck, everything exactly where it should be, and still, your entire body is giddy.

toji….toji toji toji—

you press your lips together, trying to fight it down, but it’s useless. your mouth keeps twitching, threatening to break into a smile and you can’t help it! he kissed you. twice now! like it was nothing—

you snap a shot.

sukuna’s first goal. the team and stadium erupts, and you’re already capturing it, body moving before your thoughts can catch up. you don’t need your editor screaming at you this time, so you shift angles, crouch lower, shoot through. geto lines up for a penalty shot, and you catch that too. the strike, the follow-through, and the way the net snaps back as the ball hits. you don’t miss a second of it.

but…inevitably…your lens drifts…to him. you can’t help it!

toji’s on the sidelines, where he always is. his sleeves are pushed up again, pacing, shouting, running a hand through his hair. you catch the flex of his arm, his biceps bulge and you feel heat pooling between your legs. you catch the drag of his palm across his broad huge chest, the set of his jaw when gojo almost tackles into another player.

you shouldn’t be taking this many photos of him. you know that, but you take them anyway. your chest feels tight with every picture, cheeks still burning, and your smile impossible to get rid of.

halftime comes and goes, and you don’t even try to get into the locker room this time. instead, you linger with the rest of the press, nodding along to conversations, camera hanging loose in your hands. you don’t care. not really. not when your mind keeps replaying it—his hand on your face, the way he looked at you after, the wink.

the second half starts and you’re back in position immediately. getting more action shots of the players—ugh but you keep stealing other moments too…small unnecessary ones. his biceps when he folds his arms. the scratch of his chest. the tilt of his head as he watches the field.

your thoughts don’t stop. why did he kiss you? why did he kiss you again? what is that supposed to mean? is he going to kiss you again??

the spiral doesn’t fully come to an end until the pitch breaks out into celebration. the team is off to the finals!

managers and the rest of the team flood the pitch as the stadium breaks out. you do your best to get the best shots of the team together, and you stay after to capture them talking to journalists, and press. unaware of the coach that slips away.

you follow the team and a couple managers back to the locker room as they continue celebrating. you can’t help the smile about how happy they are, they played well.

“how was the match?” geto corners you quickly.

“good,” you nod casually, fixing your flash. “you guys played really well.”

geto’s brow quirks. that’s nice….his lips purse. “I scored.” he mutters, glancing at the multiple piercings on your ear as you tuck a hair behind it.

“yeah, it was a nice shot,” your eyes flick over your camera before glancing up to meet his eyes, testing, “you wanna see?”

his eyes narrow again, “no.”

he’s quick to ignore your eye roll, as he points over his shoulder. “coach is calling for you.”

you can’t control the way your head whips to geto, then following the direction he’s pointing at. you don’t hesitate, your legs carry you across the locker room, and into the steamed shower room.

your heart hammers against your chest, putting the lens cap back on your camera and carefully sliding it off your shoulder, afraid to step further in until you put it back in your bag.

a single curtain is closed. shower running.

“coach toji?” your voice echos.

there a beat of silence, then…

“that you, sweetheart?”

you flush. controlling the smile that breaks your face as you hum, “yeah.”

the shower is still running, steam collecting in the room. your heart is beating erratically, you barely register anything aside from the fact that coach toji is definitely one hundred percent fully nude just a few feet away. his clothes are laid on his duffle on the bench beside the door.

“sweetheart?”

you jump. “yeah?”

“you gonna come in?”

you blink. again, then once more. then— “WHAT?”

your screech bounces off the tile floors, making you shrink at how loud you are. but it was a normal reaction. he just asked you if you wanted to come in? how else would you react—

“leave your things by my bag,” he doesn’t even react, like what he’s saying is the most casual kind of flirting. the kissing was one thing, but this…

your camera is zipped back in your bag, and in seconds, you’re peeling your panties off standing completely naked in the middle of a shower room. goosebumps break out, necklace and bracelets still on as your nipples harden.

what’re you doing, seriously?

one, this is highly unprofessional (whatever). two, you haven’t even gone a date with this man. and three, w-why would he even ask you to come in?!?! does he like you?! he does—he has too—

your bare feet pad against the steamed tiles until you reach the curtains. your hands won’t stop shaking, face burning hot, and lips parting as you let out a shaky exhale. then, you slowly pull back the curtains—

“come in before someone sees you,” is what you hear just as you’re being dragged into the steaming water, curtain pulled closed behind you.

the steam wraps around your skin instantly, thick and suffocating. your pretty nipples perk up in seconds. and standing right in front of you is the 6’5 two hundred pound man. water cascading down his body in slow, steady streams. you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and your hands hover close to his forearm.

you’re so close.

your gaze is eye level with his broad solid chest, rising and falling slow and controlled like none of this affects him. like you standing in front of him naked is something he expected. but your too dazed to care. especially when you follow the droplets sliding over his muscles, catching the shallow lines as you continue going lower, and lower. the heat pools more obviously between your legs as you see the thick patch of dark coarse hair…then you see it.

your face burns hotter, stomach flipping hard making you even dizzier.

his cock twitches under your gaze. your knees almost buckle just at the sight. it’s huge. you have to suppress a whine, lashes fluttering as you feel a strong hand cup your chin.

“say hi first,” his voice is unbelievably deep, tearing your gaze away from the monster between his legs. his dark forest green eyes sink into you.

“hi.”

shit. he bites back a groan, eyes trailing down your naked body. nipples already perky and standing all pretty for him. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as he leans down, lips colliding with yours.

you whine immediately. your lips move together, tongues colliding as your hands slide up his muscular chest, feeling the deep ridges of his abs as he holds the side of your face, dominating the kiss.

it was overwhelming, the shower box, his body heat, his cock touching your thigh, it was all making you dizzy in the best ways possible. he pulls away, letting you catch your breath, but he stays close, brushing his lips over yours like it’s not enough. because it isn’t.

“did anyone see you come in?” he husks, hand still cradling your face as the other brushes your naked waist, pulling you closer. your skin is so soft under his palm.

“no,” you shake your head adorably, tongue poking out to wet your lip, “I don’t think so.”

the older coach hums, his hands freely roaming your side as he nudges your nose with his. “good,” is all he adds before he resumes the heated make out.

your tongues collide and caress, jaw falling slack as you moan a little louder when he grips your ass. groaning into your lip when your arms lock around his shoulders, wet chest pressing against his. you were such a sweet tasting girl.

his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”

you gasp when he easily picks you up, back already pressed against the tiled wall. the hot water cascades down his back as he continues kissing you. “were you mad at me?”

you pull away, breath hot as you glance at his features. he’s so handsome, your hand cups his face, pushing his drenched raven hair back. “why would I mad?”

“because I kept ya out during halftime.”

you shake your head, lips curving as you trace his wet eyebrows, chest rising and falling. “no,” you drawl, wetting your glossy lips again. “I was jus’ confused about how much you kiss me.”

his scar tugs up, biting back a smirk threatening to break free. “you kissed me first.”

“that one time.”

“you started it,” he leans close, lips brushing yours, “so you can’t blame me for getting hooked.” his eyes are lidded. “it’s really hard for me to break bad habits.”

this time you kiss me.

you’re so unbelievably hungry for this man’s affection, you can ignore all the blaring red light going off in your head. he’s so hot, he’s so big, and he’s so fucking sexy! your mind has been completely and utterly fried and you don’t care.

“fuck, you’re dripping,” toji husks, his finger collecting your juices from your pussy, groaning at how turned you are. “kissing me makes ya feel that good? your cunt always dripping like a fountain?”

“yeah-aah—“ your lips part as he shoves a finger inside. he groans against you, chuckling at the choked whines leaving your pretty lips, your nails dig crescents along his shoulder.

his lips trail down your neck, tongue flattening against the wet skin and licking until you squirm a cute whimper. his smirk is impossible to hold back. he sucks a dark bruise as another finger pushes in your fluttering hole.

“c-coach—“ you gasp, lips so wet from spit. you try to look down at his fingers pistoning inside you. every muscle on his body flexing, keeping you up like you weigh nothing, while fingering you against the little shower wall. “fu-fuck, I’m gonna—cu-uhm—“

it really is too much for your obsessed brain.

coach toji’s fingers are inside you. he’s kissing you like he’s hasn’t pleasured a woman in years. and his groans are going straight to your pussy—

“I wan’…coach—“ your whine drawls a little longer, thighs shaking, and arms locking around him, head falling to neck.

the older man chuckles close to your ear, voice deep and husky as you fall apart, in his arms. hugging him like he’s your savior. his fingers curl, slowly pumping you through your orgasm. “that was quick. my baby hasn’t cum in awhile?” he says as a matter of a fact, but you just hug him closer, lips pulling away to trail kisses up his neck. your fingers coarse through the back of his head, grasping them as you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“it’s b’cause of you, toji.” you kiss his scar, panting as he pulls his fingers out and lifts you up suddenly, hooking his arm under your knee.

“you want a good fucking princess?”

you nod frantically, cheeks dewy and stinging, as you glance over his face then his chest, then you feel his cock between your slick folds.

“it’s a big stretch,” he mutters against your lips. “you saw.”

you nod, nervous stirring at the way he’s preparing you. but you don’t break away. you doubt you physically can, when your mind is only screaming his name over and over.

“I can take it, coach,” you nod, determined.

“you’re so fucking cute,” he snorts, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he kisses your lips in quiet reassurance. “ever take a cock this big?”

you shake your head, water droplets falling from the tips of your hair. your pretty necklaces still wrapped around your neck, all wet and glistening between your perky breasts.

“it’ll hurt,” he strokes himself underneath you, thumb running over his tip multiple times before lining it with your pretty clit and teasing you. “then you’re gonna cry.” you gulp, nodding along. “then you’re gonna tell me to stop—“

“I won’t!”

he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”

you shake your head, “I won’t I’ll be okay. okay coach? I can take it, I wan’ you inside me. please.”

the tug to his heart is immediate. how can it not be when this cute hot girl is begging him to fuck her? but he can’t even formulate this emotional string that’s tying him to you. the only physical response coming out is this fucking erection that feels like the most painful shit he’s experienced, twitching after he first spoke to you and then again when you kissed him. surely it’s disgusting….an older man like him getting that quickly turned on…

but maybe it was the way he’s only felt this tug in his chest one other time in his life, and even if it didn’t end the way he wanted, he never regretted pursuing his baby mama.

so he’s all in right now.

“deep breath, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply, just as toji pushes his engorged tip past the tight rim of your pussy, and you suddenly clench—

“shit!—“

your eyes widen, “I don’t feel anything,” you mutter, glancing down to see his ears burning a deep shade of red.

“your cunt squeezed me too early and shoved me out,” he wets his lips, as he crashes his lips against you. “relax, baby,” he husks.

you whine against his dominating mouth, lower body relaxing as he lines up again and the moment you ease up, he snaps his hips in.

“angh!—“

your jaw slacks, and he continues kissing, groaning at the unbelievable tightness that’s squeezing every corner of his tip.

“Mmm so warm, took me in good,” he groans, rocking his hips and grabbing a handle of your ass. “you’re gonna make me feel good?”

you nod, lips connecting with his, it’s messy, teeth clashing, spit mixing.

toji’s guttural groan echos through the shower, bouncing off the tiles as he rocks his hips, going in inch by inch, until he’s finally shoving his entire length deep inside your cunt with one mean thrust.

“fhuck—“ he chokes, jaw slacking as you clamp around him again. “full?”

you nod, brain scrambled as you glance at your tummy, cheeks stinging at the obvious bulge. “keep going,” you pant, securing yourself better as he grunts, pulling out and snapping his hips back.

it was mind numbing, toji holding you up with his strong arms hooked under your knees, hands gripping each ass cheek as he ruts into you like a beast in heat. the squelch and clapping was deafening as it bounced off the walls, the steam enveloping you closer as your whines flow right into his ear.

“nghhh—gettin’ me worked up,” thrust. “when you squeeze me,” thrust. “with this tight.” thrust. “fucking.” thrust. “cunt!”

his massive cock is stretching you in ways you never could’ve imagined. his blunt tip slams into your cervix with every thrust. your thighs shake, eyes filling with unshed tears as your nails dig into his tough skin.

“m’ s-sorry—haah ah coa—ahh! it feels s’ fuhh—fuh’me ple-easee—ahh!” your pretty lips were so glossy, drool coming down as water droplets fall from your pretty breasts with each vicious slam of his hips.

he was unforgiving. and his laugh like groan didn’t help your pussy from fluttering and tightening around his chubby cock. you can feel every thick pulsing vein and ridge. it was numbing your brain to mush. your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as he gives your ass a mean, violent, spank!

“angh!” your eyes bulge, a wave of heat crashing into you.

toji laughs, gripping your ass as he quickens his pace. “admit it,” he husks, voice condensing, and eyes dark with lust. “this is what ya’ wanted.” you’re falling apart around his cock, and he’s not slowing down, even as the tears finally break, making you look even more irresistible. you’re gasping like you can’t breathe. “you always wanted the coach to fuck you. taking those dirty photos of my bulge—nghh!” thrust. “imagining how big my dick is.” thrust. “how big is it baby, tell me.” thrust!

you were fucked dumb.

your face is flushed, eyes glossed over, as you whine like a full blown slut. and even with your two orgasms in a matter of minutes. your mind was still screaming one thing: toji.

“c’mon baby, I know you’re still with me,” he snorts, ears red, and body flushed with sweat as he feels his climax edge closer. “tell me—fuck—how big is it?”

your stupid brain catches his words, and your fingers dig into his neck as you gasp and moan, the stimulation of his massive cock slamming into you was ruining you. mentally and physically. it was humiliating. but still…

“haah—fuh its’ it’s so big— i wan’ you to cum in me! please —wan’ your cum so bad, wanna feel your big fat cock cum inside my pussy toji—ahh!”

anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.

toji is at a loss.

his grunts grew louder and thrusts sloppier, until finally, he gave you one final thrust, and stilled. his ass tightens, body pressing you into the tiled walls, face buried in your neck, and teeth sinking into your shoulder. toji completely unravels in the shower, holding up a pretty college girl that whines so beautifully in his ear he thinks he’d never cum this hard again, but sure enough—

your adorable whine has him rutting shallow thrusts into your pussy, like a fucking dog. his cum pumping out as he continued stuffing you full, purposely milking out ever drop as his dark wet pubes rubbed against your puffy clit.

you both catch your breath. your lashes wet from tears, as the water from the shower head fills the silence. after a moment, toji pulls away from your neck, his lidded eyes, hypnotizing as he stares up at yours.

you don’t know why you suddenly feel shy. your cheeks burn as the emerald irises bore into your own. lips parting, and a gentle hand coming up to his cheek. you brush back the raven hair flattening against his features, smiling softly when his full face comes into view.

and he could’ve sworn you looked like an actual angel at this moment.

your eyes twinkled above, face illuminating in the dark shower, and body glistening like you’re an eternal being.

“toji…” the soft call has his heart doing something it hasn’t done in years. and that has his soft cock twitching inside you. “I’m,” you lean closer, arms wrapping around his shoulder, lips hovering near his, breasts smushed against his chest. your confidence comes back the moment you feel the man lean closer..but you continue. “I hope you don’t think…i wanted to have sex…just because i thought your dick was really big.”

toji blinks.

then he does the worst thing ever.

he laughs.

your cheeks sting, watching his head fall back in loud laughter. your hand flys to your face, embarrassed. “I’m being serious!” you yell.

toji laughs louder, body shaking as he lifts you up, his cock slipping out. he carefully sets your shaky feet down on the wet tile. the height difference returns, making you even more ticked off, your little attitude was oozing out, and his slick cock couldn’t help but twitch against his thigh at your pouting.

god, you’re fucking hot.

he brings your attention back to him. hands cupping your face, tilting your head to look up at him. your brows are pinched together, and lips pulled in a subtle scowl.

toji smirks. “don’t worry, I know you also took pictures of my face.”

you flush, rolling your eyes. “those were accidents.”

“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”

your eyes widen, “no! i told you they were all accidents.”

toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to your level, making your tummy flip “you’re fucking cute, but let’s not lie to adults.”

“I’m an adult though,” you raise a brow, pushing back, and god if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.

but still, toji’s easygoing smile remains on his playful lips, “it’s embarrassing. i understand,” he softens the blow as your face heats. it was humiliating when he found those pictures, “taking photos of the coach like that. but now’s the time to take some accountability.”

you lick your teeth, eyes boring into him, narrowing. but it’s toji. toji is asking. and you can’t hold back any longer…

you exhale, glancing away, even though he’s still cupping your face. “yeah, obviously I took those photos on purpose,” your eyes meet. “happy?”

water is still running down his shoulders as he keeps your face tucked carefully in his hands like you’re something precious despite the grin threatening to split across his face again.

but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”

your eyes narrow immediately, “you’re so annoying.”

he huffs another laugh under his breath, quieter this time, thumbs brushing over your heated cheeks. standing this close to him is ridiculous now that the adrenaline’s settling. he’s huge. his broad chest still damp against yours, muscles flexing every time he shifts, towering over you while you stand there completely naked except for the necklaces you’re wearing. the little gold chains glisten under the shower head, delicate against flushed skin, and toji’s eyes flick down to them for a second before returning to your face.

that look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten all over again. he knows he’s not trying to be mocking, or casual like before. it’s fondness.

“those shots were real creative, sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now. “nice and close too.”

you groan, immediately trying to shove his chest, but he barely moves. “oh my god, can you let it go already?”

“can’t,” he answers easily. “been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”

your face burns hotter. weeks?!

toji watches it happen in real time, watches the attitude crack just enough for embarrassment to slip through, again. and it does something terrible to him. you’re sharp with everyone else—cool, hard to impress. he’s seen it. seen the way you brush off gojo and geto without a second thought. but with him? you melt.

even now, glaring up at him with your brows pulled tight, lips still swollen from kissing, legs trembling from the multiple orgasms, trying so hard to stay irritated while your body keeps betraying you. it’s fucking adorable.

“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter weakly.

“like what?”

“like you know things.”

his grin widens instantly. “but i do know things now.”

what proceeded after was the thirty something year old coach, dropping to his knee and lifting your leg up, burying his face between your legs like a starving man. your lips part in shock.

but still, as toji works your pretty body to another orgasm, tongue shoved inside, cleaning this little pussy up, jaw slack as he gulps down his own cum. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging whenever he’d give your clit a mean rough suck, cheeks hollowing. his hand, grips your ass from behind, squeezing and slapping as he pleased, until you were falling apart.

afterwards, he cleaned you up. this time with some soap. his big hands roamed your body, every crevice and curve, hands massaging your breasts as he had your back pressed to his chest, chuckling when you’d whine. thumbs tugging playfully. hand rubbing between your legs, head tucked in your shoulder as he watches your smaller hands hold his forehead, face hot.

“toji,” you whine, embarrassed, as he teasing a finger against your hole again.

“what,” he smirks, watching your reactions, “I’m jus’ cleaning you up.”

he’s a fucking perv. but still, he teases you through the whole shower, keeping you close to his body and even letting you wash his back, admiring the muscles and ink that decorate his skin.

eventually, he steps out first, keeping you inside so he can grab an extra towel. his own wrapped around his waist.

that was the start of all of it.

three months later….

you and shoko are sitting out in the quad. table covered in assignments and forgotten laptops. all while you explained to shoko how your weekend went.

“no, we definitely got along. megumi is so cute!” you gush about the ten year old, describing how your first meeting went. toji had spoken about you enough to prepare megumi, waiting until the right time to introduce you both.

and now, you’re going to every single one of their soccer games, toji and megumi’s.

and eventually, after another hour passes by. a group of athletes comes walking down the path. covered in sweat, holding their duffles, and behind them is a very hot coach, already breaking into a smile when you jump up.

“toji!”

it was a routine. your arms thrown around his shoulders, as he lifts you up with one hand. zero regard for any pda, as he kisses you deeply. smiling as you hum, pecking him over and over.

“why do you guys look like that?” shoko grimaces, looking at gojo and geto who look far worse than the rest of the team that leave.

geto scowls, glaring at his best friend, “fucking coach overhead him again.”

shoko shakes her head, rolling her eyes, at the white haired idiot. “you need to stop—“

“it’s been three months and she’s not over that old man?!”

“he’s not even that old!” shoko defends.

but gojo scowls harder, glancing over his shoulder at you laughing and talking, hands animated, like the man in front of you was holding the world. “it’s always the mean girls.”

shoko frowns, “you’re messed up in the head.”

but even geto narrows his eyes when toji wraps a possessive arm around you, glaring up at the two players.

it was clear as day.

you’re his.

a/n: this was LOONG overdue, mb guys!!! but i hope you all enjoyed it!!! ahhhh i love coach toji sososososo much—like its a serious problem, i cant make reader behave normally when its toji, like she has to be obsessed with himmm

“You’re sure it can’t be anyone else?” You don’t want to be annoying but you can’t help it.

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

You realize that this is really happening and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. “No. No, I’ll do the photoshoot. Sorry.”

You turn and pretend to check your schedule, taking another sip of your drink. You can’t mask how upset you are, and you’re already embarrassed that you created a scene. You can feel your manager staring at you for another couple of seconds before she turns to do her own work.

What were you going to do?

—

“It can’t be that bad.” Yunah says, toying with one of your plushies.

“Imagine having to do a photoshoot with your ex-boyfriend.” Your voice is muffled because you’ve buried your face in your pillow, the only thing you’ve done since coming home.

“Okay, maybe it is that bad.” She lays back, holding one of your plushies close to her. She examines it, the pink teddy bear with heart shaped hands staring back at her. “Where did you get this heart teddy from?”

“Ryul gave it to me.” You mumble, kicking your feet.

“You never threw it out?” She asks, a little surprised.

“Couldn’t bring myself to.” You lift your head off your pillow and rest your cheek on it.

“Even after what happened?”

You sigh, the memory still painful for you to think about. You turn on your side, curling up and bringing the pillow with you. “Even after what happened.”

You remember the argument like it was yesterday.

You noticed that Ryul was getting more and more distant but you thought that was just the effect of being in a relationship with a growing idol. But you never expected him to drop this on you.

“Just because I said that you’ve prioritizing work over me doesn’t mean that we can’t continue this at all. I just wanted–”

“No, I think this is exactly what you wanted. You just don’t want to say it out loud.”

“What the heck? Stop putting words in my mouth!”

“Fine, fine. Maybe that’s not it. But my point still stands. I’m a rising star now. I have a group to focus on. Music to promote. That’s my priority right now.”

“When did I stop being a priority?” You ask, standing up from the couch. “When did you suddenly decide this was too much for you? I have done nothing but support you through your dreams and now apparently, you couldn’t care less about me?”

“I do care—” He begins.

“Sure as shit doesn’t feel like it. It feels like you just want to quit when things get hard.” You retort.

“Don’t even start.” Ryul laughs. “I’ve tried everything I could to save this, save us but it’s clear both of our hearts aren’t it.”

“Ryul, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying… we should break up.” He says, not even looking at you.

You groan and bury your head in your pillow. “I hate himmmm…”

“If you truly did, you would’ve thrown out these stuffed animals a while ago.” Yunah points out. “And blocked his number.”

You can’t deny that she’s right. You don’t want to admit that part to yourself. The part of yourself that still checks his stories on your burner account. The part of yourself that still checks his number to see if he texted you or if he hasn’t blocked you.

The part of yourself that still wants him.

But of course you’d never admit that out loud.

“How do you know he’s still but blocked?” You ask, perking up.

She turns on her side, facing you and putting an arm under her head. “You would’ve told me if you blocked him. Which you didn’t, so I assumed you haven’t.”

You turn on your side as well, facing Yunah. “What am I supposed to do?”

She sighs, contemplating her answer. “If this is something that really bothers you, I would suggest talking it out with him. Getting the closure you need and making sure you have to tools to move on.”

“And if I don’t wanna?”

“You’re going to have to eventually. You can’t keep waiting in the past for a future that’s never gonna come.” Yunah tells you. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“He rejects me and I spend the next 4 months crying.” You deadpan, lying on your back and staring at your ceiling.

“It’s better than crying for the next 4 years over false promises and overthinking everything you did.” Yunah persists. “Look, all you have to do is confront him and if he gives you a bullshit answer, you dump him. If he genuinely wants you back, that’s up to you to decide. I’m here for you either way.”

You groan and throw an arm over your face. “This shit is so complicated.”

Yunah laughs and throws one of your stuffies at you. “Only because you make it out to be. Now, c’mon. Let’s get you ready. You’ve still got to pack your suitcases.”

“Can’t you do it for me?”

“What am I, your maid? Get off your lazy ass and do it yourself!” She scolds you, playfully slapping your legs.

You laugh and get up quickly, pretending to be alert. “Yes, ma’am!”

Maybe this photoshoot wouldn’t be so bad.

—

You have no idea how you got here.

You were doing the photoshoot with Ryul and now you find yourself at an after party hosted by Prada.

The photoshoot itself wasn’t so bad. You tried to be civil and keep it professional with Ryul and you were glad that he didn’t bring up anything and just tried to do what he was told to do. But you felt like you were imagining it when sometimes his fingers lingered too long or when he pressed a little too close or when he whispered in your ear when the photographer wasn’t looking:

“You look stunning.”

It was a simple compliment, one that you would accept from anyone else. But he wasn’t anyone else; he was Ryul. Your Ryul. But could you even call him yours? The breakup was his idea and as much as it pained you, you weren’t keen just running back to him just because he talked sweetly. He had some explaining to do.

When the photoshoot had finished, you were rummaging through your bag for your phone when you were approached by your manager. “You know you’ve been invited to Prada’s afterparty?”

You snap your head up. “Huh? I was? I am?”

“It was in the email I sent. You never RSVP’d.” She holds her clipboard closer to her.

You were never the type to remember every little detail in emails. You curse yourself for not paying attention. “Uhh…oh, yeah! The after party! I RSVP’d already, did you not get the email?”

Your manager sighs and grumbles something about her “dinosaur computer”. Anyways, it starts at 7. I’ll text you the address later. See you.”

She leaves before you can utter another word. You don’t even like after parties, you have no idea why you even agreed to going in the first place. You grab your bag and are about to leave before you spot Ryul talking with someone, the person you assume to be his own manager.

Even though Yunah told you to confront him, you do not have the guts to do that right now. Instead, you grip your bag tighter and quietly rush out of the hallway hoping that he doesn’t see you.

When his manager leaves, he looks back to find you gone, nowhere to be found. Ryul can’t help the disappointment that washes over him, hoping to talk to you after the shoot so that he could explain himself. He could say he was sorry, he could—

Who was he kidding? You probably wouldn’t forgive him. It’s been months, you’ve probably moved on. It’s probably why you were so curt with him today, he was sure of it.

But he can’t dwell over that now. He has an afterparty to get to.

—

Prada’s after parties aren’t the worst thing in the world. There are a variety of famous people here, so you could at least mingle with some, or attempt to mingle with some.

There’s one person you’ve been keeping an eye out for.

You didn’t even know if he’d be here. You didn’t even ask, you had just bolted out of the studio but to be fair, even you didn’t know you were going.

You know how you look: your pointed stare on the door, watching and waiting for someone specific, so that you could act like he didn’t even matter. Like you weren’t even thinking of him.

And as if on cue, he walks through the door.

You end up locking eyes for 2 seconds before you quickly turn around and act like you hadn’t been waiting for him for the past half hour. You flag down the bartender and ask him to get you another drink.

You are definitely not doing this sober.

Ryul chuckles at your antics. Some part of him is pleased that he still has an affect on you, eve after all these months. It gives him reassurance that not everything will go to shit.

Ryul tries to figure out the best way to approach you—as he’s approaching you. If there’s one thing he’s always been good at, it’s improv. In both rapping and situations like these: trying to win your ex back.

“Careful, sweetheart. Don’t want you to choke.”

You turn your head and see Ryul leaning on the counter next to you. He’d probably seen the way you were chugging down your drink, and you feel slightly embarrassed.

“Ryul!” You feign nonchalance, like this was nothing new. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Me neither. I didn’t see you in the RSVP list.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a long story. But I’m here now, right?”

He chuckles and takes the seat next to you. “Let me get you the next drink.”

You don’t know what’s fueling you: the alcohol or the dopamine of not seeing your ex who you’re still in love with for a long time. But you almost pretend that this is normal, like nothing had ever happened between you too. Conversation flows easy, ranging from horrible model outfits and shoots to horror stories of debuting with 3 other guys.

Before you know it, he’s whisking you away from the after party, under the pretense of “getting air”. You find yourself in an empty parking lot, leaning against his car as he offers you a cigarette.

“Or we could share mine.” He suggests.

Ryul wants to slap himself silly. He has no idea where he got that idea from but he’s been making so much progress with you, he thinks he can start toeing the line of what he really wants from you.

To his surprise, you agree. After sharing the same cigarette, you put it out, crushing it under your feet.

Like how you were about to crush the carefully built atmosphere.

“What are we doing, Ryul?” You whisper, tentatively at first.

His face almost falls, the smile wiped off his face. He had been running around this conversation but he knew that it was bound to happen.

“I mean, this is all so confusing. It’s been months since we broke up but you still make me feel like nothing has ever changed. Like you didn’t just rip my heart in two and forgot all about me.” You continue.

“I didn’t forget about—”

“I spent weeks over analyzing our conversations, our strike spent together, just so I could pinpoint when exactly I stopped meaning something to you. I thought maybe it was the stress of debuting, of not being able to see each but I was so fucking wrong. You just quit when it started getting difficult.”

“I didn’t—”

“I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t eat or sleep. Yunah had to practically live on my couch just to make sure that I was still alive. All while you lived your best life. Making music, making a name for yourself. Well, guess what? I did that too. But even then, I don’t want any of that because it means nothing if I can’t share it with you.” You confess, stepping closer to him.

Ryul can see the tears brimming in your eyes. He underestimated how much he hurt you, how much his cowardice would actually have an effect on you. He hadn't meant for it to get this far. He thought–

“I thought I was doing you a favor.”

He doesn’t even wait for you to respond, he just continues rambling on, like he needs to say the words or else he’ll die.

“I was such a fucking idiot. Everything was coming to a head. I never saw you, I was preparing to debut, you had a career ahead of you. Everything was going so well and then shit happened and we were on the rocks. And when you talked about just wanting to be close, I panicked. I thought you didn’t deserve someone who wouldn't be half there for you. That would only show up sometimes or when his schedule allowed him. You needed someone present and I didn’t I was the one to give that to you but fuck. I fucked it up. I made things worse instead of better. Seeing you cry like that back then and even now fills me with pain because it’s my fault. It’s my fault you’re like this, it’s my fault you were a wreck, it’s my fault that I lost the most important person in my life and I just–I want you. I need you. I need you so badly that it hurts. I need you so bad that–”

He doesn’t even finish his sentence before you’re smashing your lips on his. He freezes for a second before reciprocating, wrapping his arms around your waist as you wrap your arms around his neck.

It’s everything Ryul dreamed of, a mix of passion and relief and love. All of it mashed into a wave of happiness that not even man itself can recreate. He doesn’t want to pull away. He wants to live like this forever.

You pull away, resting your forehead against his. “That’s one of the stupidest things I’ve ever heard.”

He laughs, agreeing with you. “Yeah.”

“You’re lucky I love you enough to forgive you.”

“I’d be a fool to waste it.”

“A bigger fool than you were in the past.”

You both laugh this time, Ryul leaning in to kiss you again. It’s perfect. Everything you wanted. Everything you’ve dreamed of. And you don’t want this moment to end. Your heart feels like it’s melded itself, like you no longer have to wish for a certain type of love that seemed too far away.

“By the way,” you begin, pulling away. “When are you gonna make a mixtape about me?”

“Already have.” He replies, chasing your lips. “You know, I almost released it when we debuted.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I figured you’d fall in love with the way I yearned and come running back.”

“That’s so stupid.” You laugh.

“Yeah, it was.” He kisses your lips again.

“But I fear it would’ve worked.”

“Yeah, it would’ve.”

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