Bae

The world has been different ever since the existence of vampires became widespread knowledge. It’s something you find yourself not feeling any particular way towards, you probably should but your life is mostly unchanged. You go to work, you see your friends, you go home. Everything is how things were beforehand but now people fear the night more, a sense of unease in the air as soon as the sun has lowered.

From what you’ve gathered, vampires outed themselves because they want to be able to live without having to hide. You suppose if you were a vampire, the threat of humans discovering your supernatural existence every time you walked amongst them would be exhausting. The wider population is obviously a bit more frightened by all of this, worried that vampires are going to start feeding and killing people more freely.

The anxiety is warranted, considering vampires have been feeding on people in secret for who knows how long. But, as you’ve mentioned, there isn’t much of a change aside from the fear and the knowledge. It’s not like there’s much worrying about it will do for you and as far as you’re aware, you’ve never even run into one.

Which was true, until you met him. It wasn’t even a special night; you were stargazing in your local park after drinking with friends. A little too tipsy to recognise the kind of danger you could be in, the stars pretty and the night air refreshing. Humming your favourite song to yourself lazily as you think about a more idyllic life.

Too immersed in your own little world to hear the sound of someone approaching you, though thinking back you probably wouldn’t have been able to hear him anyways. Not realising someone’s there until he’s hovering over you and blocking your view.

Your words slur slightly at him, “Heyyy, I was looking at those…” Words trailing off as you look him over in your drunken state, he’s pretty too. Almost as bright as the stars, eyes shining despite the low light.

He’s amused, if his smile is anything to go off, “Should you be out here this late?”

“Yes.” You answer pointedly, and then because you’re drunk, you roll over a couple times to the side so you can keep looking up at the sky.

The chuckle he lets out is light, “Aren’t you concerned about vampires?”

“I don’t think I’d be all that tasty,” is your immediate reply.

He walks a few steps closer and squats beside you, “I’m not sure they’d agree.”

Your gaze meets his and even in your inebriated state you can tell he’s not human, “Does that mean you’re gonna bite me?”

His eyes widen only slightly, seemingly surprised you’re able to tell what he is. Whether it’s because you’re drunk or just in general, you’re not sure. And then his head is tilting at yours, almost like he finds you endearing, “I wouldn’t take advantage of a drunk woman.”

The absurdity has you giggling because you’re pretty sure you’re the perfect prey, “You… are a bad predator then.”

“Maybe, or maybe I think you wouldn’t taste that good,” he jokes.

Nodding like he’s serious, “Mhm, what’d I tell ya.”

A scoff comes from him and then he joins you on the ground, looking up into the night, “Why are you out here?”

“I was going home but the sky was so pretty.” It was almost like it was calling to you.

“Do you think that’s safe?”

“I think… there are less people to bug me out at night these days because they’re all worried about the vampires.”

Your logic isn’t sound but you’re not exactly of sound mind right now anyways. Eyes getting lazier as you get sleepy, far too comfortable with not only a stranger but vampire. The reality of your situation not setting in whatsoever, everything had already been too surreal lately.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep, you should go home.”

“Mm,” you blink your eyes and see a shooting star, suddenly excited, “Did you see that?” hand tapping at his shoulder, “make a wish,” squinting your eyes closed and wishing for something good to happen.

The stranger beside you stands on his feet, offering you his hands and helping you up. Clearly feeling curious, “What did you wish for?”

“Like I’d fall for that,” you frown, not willing to risk your wish not coming true.

“My bad,” he apologises, like you’re being so reasonable.

Nodding your head at him solemnly, “Yes, it is.”

He plucks a leaf off your shoulder for you and asks, “Are you gonna let me take you home?”

“I can get back on my own,” answer matter of fact.

Able to read you a little too well, he chooses to goad you into letting him, “Why don’t you prove it to me then?”

It only takes you a second to consider it before deciding, “Fine.” Huffing at him as you stomp off in the direction of your apartment. Walking a good few steps before suddenly stopping.

He leans in over your shoulder, “Something wrong?”

“Nope,” answer confident – despite the fact you’re quickly facing the opposite direction and walking that way instead. Having realised a little too late that you were going the wrong way, he only laughs at you.

The whole way back to your place, he stalks behind you, watching you stumble your way home. Sense of direction a little skewed, taking a longer route than usual by accident but you eventually do make it home. A little clumsy in your practice but getting the right result anyways, turning around to face him as soon as you make it to your door.

Pointing at him victoriously, “See?”

“Very good,” he pats your head once, “now put yourself to bed.”

“Whatever, old man,” you grumble, fumbling with your keys slightly before finally making it in. “Nice meeting ya, thanks for not eating me,” cheesing at him before kicking the door closed.

You had no idea then just how important that meeting would be.

 ׅ ׁ ໒꒱

After that first interaction, you’ve been dreaming about him. At least you think you have been, not able to recall any of your dreams properly when you wake but left with the familiar feeling of him. It’d freak you out if you were certain but you’re not, that and you have too much going on to care about what you may or may not be dreaming about.

You’ve recalled that specific night many times and feel stupid each time, you don’t understand what about him had you lulled into a sense of security but it happened and you can’t take it back. If he were human you’d kick yourself more about letting him follow you home but he would’ve been able to find your apartment even without trailing after you. That’s what you keep telling yourself so you don’t feel so bad anyways.

There’s a lingering sense of meeting him again that keeps you on edge, you have no reason to feel that way and you can’t explain it but you’re drawn to him. He was pretty… in your foggy memories of that night he’s aglow. Bright and smiling easily, not like how you pictured vampires to be… or how they’re portrayed in media.

Normally – when you’re feeling this restless – you’d leave the house for a stroll but with the idea of meeting him again, you’re hesitating. Confused by your excitement at the prospect of seeing him because you should be more worried than anything else. Ruminating on everything for a few moments more before getting frustrated with yourself and finding your coat. Leaving your apartment with a huff and heading in the direction of that park you frequent.

Sitting on one of the swings, arms folded and a little grumpy because you feel stupid. You don’t leave though, using your feet on the ground to swing you back and forth lightly. This is ridiculous of you and you’re aware of it, which is making it more embarrassing, waiting for a vampire you met one time while drunk. Maybe you should leave…

And just as you’re considering going home, a voice sounds from behind you, “It’s a bit silly to look so angry while swinging.”

Your head falls back to look up at him, heartbeat picking up, “I’m not angry.”

“Oh?” he smiles, walking to the swing beside you and sitting down, “you could’ve fooled me.”

Your eyes track him as he moves, finding him interesting, “Do you like this park or something?”

“Yeah, I like the swings,” he’s being sarcastic but his tone doesn’t reflect that well. “What about you? Or do you only enjoy this park when you’re drunk?”

Bristling slightly at that, “I’m not drunk.”

“Not this time,” he shoots back playfully.

Replying abruptly, “Okay.”

It causes him to chuckle, enjoying riling you up. It quiets down and then he speaks again, “I thought I told you last time it’s not safe out this late.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you asked me if I thought it was safe,” you correct.

He hums, amused, “And is your answer different now that you’re sober?”

Shrugging, “It’s much the same.”

He pushes, “Even knowing I’m a vampire?”

“You said you don’t think I would taste good,” you sigh, “plus, you’ve already seen where I live.”

At your answer, he points out, “Your thinking is roundabout and not infallible.”

“Whatever,” you grumble, changing the subject, “what’s your name?”

“And why do you wanna know that?”

Pouting slightly at not immediately getting it, “I just feel like it’s something I should know at this point.”

He leans in a little closer and grins, “I don’t typically share my name with the people I eat.”

You think it’s supposed to be threatening and you don’t know why, but you don’t believe him. That odd sense of security blanketing you whenever you’re near him, like he’d never do anything to hurt you, not purposely. “Are all vampires as annoying to talk to as you are?”

“Absolutely,” he smiles like he’s thinking of someone in particular.

“I’m not gonna talk to you anymore then,” you nod resolutely, refusing to even look at him now, “I’m not talking to a stranger.”

“Only now you decide that?” he asks but you don’t reply, staying true to your word. He waits a few moments and then scoffs, “you’re serious?” Still, you don’t reply, stubborn when you want something. And then, a little too easily, he answers, “Satoru.”

Looking at him again, “And surname?”

“Satoru,” he singsongs, cheerful.

A brow raises at him, “You’re seriously gonna make me call you by your first name?”

“I’ll give you my surname when you get used to calling me by my first.”

“I thought you were gonna eat me.”

Tone light, “I’m still planning on doing that.”

You roll your eyes, “Fine, Satoru. Have it your way.”

He seems pleased with how you refer to him, “And your name?”

“A secret,” you smile.

Satoru groans at that, finding it unfair. “You were nicer when you were drunk.”

“You were also nicer when I was drunk,” eyes sparkling at him, having fun. You’re not serious about keeping it a secret though, giving him your name easier than he gave you his.

“No surname?” He teases.

“I thought it only fair.”

A breathy laugh leaves him as he stands up and stretches, “Alright, now that we’re introduced, time to go home.”

You can’t help but feel disappointed, “But I’m not done basking in the fresh air.”

“Yeah, you are,” he moves to stand in front of you, hands reaching out in an offer to pull you up off the swing, “I’m serious about it being dangerous around here at night.”

Taking his hands, you let him he pull you up, “Oh? Does that mean you’re concerned for my safety?”

A knowing smile on his face, index finger reaching up to boop your nose softly, “Who knows.”

“You’re weird.”

“So are you,” he takes a step back, “Are you gonna let me walk you home tonight?”

Sighing at him, “If you insist.”

Satoru seems pleased, “I do.”

You let him walk you home, and just like last time, you don’t invite him in and he doesn’t ask. Parting ways as essentially strangers, only closer by knowing each other’s names. It’s bittersweet because you want to know more about him, you want to spend more time with him. You’ll settle for what you’ve been given for now though, despite the uncharacteristic yearning you’re feeling for this man.

 ׅ ׁ ໒꒱

The next couple weeks are busy for you, work picks up, friends have birthdays, parties, so on. You don’t get to go to the park and as if respecting an invisible boundary, Satoru doesn’t come to your home. It’s not just that though, whenever you find a moment where you could go out, you refrain, his warning playing in your mind about danger. He could’ve been lying but at the moment, he’s not given you a reason to believe he’s a liar.

And while you feel that way, it doesn’t stop you from pausing when walking past that park. Similar situation as your first meeting, tipsy and on your way home from a night out. Unlike last time, you don’t lay on the ground, only faltering for a moment and reminiscing.

Jumping and letting out a subdued shriek when you feel hands on you from behind, heart pounding in your chest. A hand over your eyes and another on your hip, holding you still and rendering you blind. Not sure what you’re supposed to do in this situation, not when you can’t see any cues from the perpetrator.

Words spoken low into your ear, “How many times I gotta tell you it’s dangerous around here, sweetheart?”

You can feel yourself physically relax at the sound of Satoru’s familiar voice, going a little limp in his hold. “You’re so mean,” you whinge, not at all happy with how he’s frightened you but thanking your lucky stars it’s just him.

“I’m just trying to make my point,” He releases you and pats your head soothingly.

Spinning to glare at him, “You’re stupid and mean and also bad at being a vampire,” you’re ranting at him now, he truly scared you out of your wits, “you’re also not even that pretty and I bet you’re like a billion years old and that’s super embarrassing.”

He’s trying his best to not be amused but he definitely is and you can tell, his hand reaching up to cover his mouth and hide his smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Shut up,” frowning at him, “I wasn’t even gonna stay! I was just passing through on my way home, I’ve been listening to your stupid vampiric warning.”

“Okay, okay,” he tries to placate you, “I’m sorry, that’s my bad.”

“Yeah, it is.”

It’s quiet for a few moments and then he asks, “You think I’m a bad vampire?”

“Maybe,” you look to the floor before looking back at him, “I mean… you’re weirdly calming to be around and I don’t feel threatened by you and also you’ve had plenty of chances to attack me.”

“Ah, so I’m not a good vampire by your criteria… based on fiction,” he’s pretending to be offended, like you’re being so rude to him.

Squinting in response, “I’m going home.”

He only smiles sweetly, “I’ll walk you.”

“Do as you please,” you huff.

The two of you don’t say anything for a while, only walking in silence. Satoru breaks it first by asking, “Are you still mad at me?”

Not hesitating to say, “Yes.”

“How can I make it up to you?”

Humming curiously, “Do you care about being kept in the good books of people you intend on eating?”

He whinges, “C’mon, Don’t be like that.”

At your front door, you turn to him, “Show me your fangs and I will maybe forgive you.”

He bows his head to you, grinning, “Pretty intimate for a maybe.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s not,” his hand reaches out and caresses the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheek, “but if I do, I’m gonna need you to promise me something.”

Your mind races at what he could possibly ask you for, finding yourself pulled in by all those possibilities. Tipsy mind not considering any of the repercussions when you agree, “Fine.”

Satoru grins at you again but this time, his fangs are shown in it. Sharp and intimidating and somehow completely well suited to him. Both your hands grasp his face to get a closer look, eyeing him in your own time, finding it fascinating. Moving your thumb to his lower lip and lightly pulling. Oddly, you find his smile more attractive when his fangs are showing.

Humming curiously, “…Pointy.”

“You’ve had your look,” He averts his gaze away from you almost bashfully, hands on your wrists pulling you back. “Now you gotta promise me.”

“Mhm,” you wait for his term.

He looks at you completely seriously, the aura around him almost menacing, “Stop walking home alone drunk.”

You groan at him, having expected something way more exciting. Rolling your head back at the letdown, “Ugh, what a waste of a perfectly good promise.”

“You gotta keep it though.”

“You’re boring.” Satoru says your name almost in warning, prompting you to say, “Yeah, okay. I promise.”

He perks up at that, smiling again, “Good girl.” Leaving after his last words.

It’s becoming more and more obvious that you have no idea how to handle him and you should probably stop looking forward to these interactions but it’s exhilarating. Somehow, he’s mysterious while seeming open. Taking you off guard with how easily he can swap between threatening and soothing.

 ׅ ׁ ໒꒱

A couple days after you make that promise, you’re outside your front door where you’d spoken to him. You don’t go anywhere though, walking over to the railing and looking down at the few passerby’s still out in the night. Elbow on the railing and chin resting on your palm, wondering what you should do with yourself when all you really want is to walk around like them.

You’d never considered yourself much of a night wanderer and you suppose you probably weren’t a huge one before but that infrequent urge has gotten so much harder to ignore after meeting Satoru. Always hoping, that if you go on an evening walk, you’ll run into him.

That night, when you saw his fangs, you felt a lot of things. Head pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol, remembering the way you felt butterflies in your stomach at how attractive he looked. His lip was soft under the pad of your thumb, you wondered how it’d feel to kiss him. If he’d asked you to, you wouldn’t even hesitate.

You’re too far gone, head dropping into both your hands as you audibly groan at your state. Lusting after a vampire you’ve met all of three times, what if he’s doing or planning something nefarious. Get it together, you can’t be losing yourself because of a hot guy… He was warmer than you’d have expected him to be.

All of your internal dialogue stutters to a halt when he’s beside you, humming as if amused by your distressed mental state. “What happened between now and two days ago to have you so stressed out?”

Not needing to pull your head from your hands to know what expression he’s wearing or that it’s undeniably him, “Nothing.”

He knows you’re lying but doesn’t pry, not yet anyways, “Glad to see you’re not wandering the streets alone anymore.”

You mumble into your skin, “You asked me not to.”

“You are cutting it a little close though.”

Finally pulling your head up to glare at him, “I’m right in front of my apartment.”

His tone is playful, animated gesture following, “Wouldn’t take long for a vampire to get ya.”

Commenting, “You worry a lot.”

“You cause me a lot of worry.”

“You treat all your meals like this?”

Eyes twinkling with mirth, “Only the real special ones.”

Sighing at his stupid joke, your arms fold over the railing and you lean down with it, head resting there and facing Satoru. He still looks good, wearing all black tonight, a shirt that looks like it’s too tight for him. His coat is long and would drag on the floor if you were to wear it but that has more to do with how tall he is; the coat looks warm.

“What’s plaguing your thoughts, pretty?”

You can’t help the way your heart skips a beat at the pet name, frowning because he probably heard it and that’s embarrassing. It’s unfair for him to have heightened senses, it has you overthinking everything that you wouldn’t normally have to worry about with anyone else.

“Nothing.”

“I’ve been around long enough to know even when a good liar is lying,” he smirks at you, “you’re not a good liar.”

“That’s not fair,” you mope, “you have vampire senses, you’re like a personified lie detector.”

“I don’t need vampire senses to tell when someone is lying badly.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m a great liar.”

His eyes scrutinise you at that statement, not believing you for a single second but he smiles appeasingly, “Okay.”

Huffing at him, “What would you even know.”

“I know something’s bothering you.”

You side eye him, “Yeah, you.”

He’s sulking, “That’s hardly fair.”

Should you find this vampire cute? Probably not but it’s not like that’ll change how you feel. “Satoru…”

When you don’t continue talking, he prompts, “Mm?”

“Do you miss me when we don’t see each other for a few days?”

“Sweetheart,” he tilts his head at you, “I miss you as soon as you’re out of my sight.”

“Smooth talker,” he’s flustered you and it has you turning your head to face away from him.

He laughs at your words, finding your reaction cute.

Able to feel his eyes on you even though you’re not looking at him, suddenly feeling so shy because you weren’t expecting him to say something you wanted to hear. Not wanting him to see that look on your face because there’s a chance he could be lying and he doesn’t deserve to see how happy you are if he is.

He turns the question on you, “How about you? Do you miss me?”

“I’m not answering that,” you grumble.

“That’s fine,” his tone seems pleased, “I’ve already got my answer anyways.”

A cool breeze flows in and causes a shiver to run down your spin, standing up straight just as Satoru is putting his heavy coat on your shoulders. He’s closer to you than you were expecting, eyes unintentionally dropping to his lips before catching yourself.

“Thank you…”

He doesn’t step back from you, “You should go inside,” are his words but he makes no move to encourage that.

“I’ll go inside for something in return,” you bargain, not moving away from him.

“Oh?” You’ve piqued his interest, “And what would you like.”

You slip into the arms of his coat so when you lift them it won’t fall from your shoulders, doing grabby hands at him, “A hug.”

At first, he’s a little dumbfounded but not offput by your request, “You can ask for so much more,” he says easily, leaning down to wrap his arms around you.

His hold is firm and gentle at the same time, it’s comforting. Your arms are looping around his neck and you’re pulling yourself up to snuggle into him. You like how sturdy he is and how he makes you feel. Like you’re incredibly important and you’re not quite sure you’ve ever experienced that before.  

When Satoru pulls back he doesn’t let you go, still holding each other as your eyes meet. You’re not sure who moves first, all you know is that his lips are incredibly soft on yours. Imploring as he kisses you full, almost as if he’s revering you. Fumbling backwards with his heavy steps until you’re in front of your door.

Your hands are sliding into his hair and his are grabbing at you anywhere he can, growing dizzy at how good it feels to finally kiss him. Even more so when his tongue is in your mouth licking against yours, keening at his touch and the almost whine he lets out against you. Getting completely lost in how he’s making you feel, gasping a soft moan when he sucks on your lower lip.

And then he’s pulling back, forehead against yours as he stares at your glossy lips. A shudder goes down your spine at the look in his eyes, asking, “Do you wanna come inside?”

His eyes immediately flick to yours and he seems to consider it for a moment before reluctantly pulling back, “I shouldn’t.”

“Okay…” Your disappointment can’t be hidden, dejection written all over your face.

“Don’t pout,” his hand cradles your face, “If I come in right now…” he bends down again, lips on yours like he can’t help himself, “I’ll devour you.”

You have to put active effort into stifling down the sound you want to make at his words, at the small growl behind them. “Fine,” trying so hard to hide the way he excites you, going to shrug his coat off.

His hands come up to hold it in place, “Give it back to me next time,” he smiles, lingering for a moment.

“Until next time then,” you answer, turning to walk inside your apartment. Fighting the urge to turn and look at him a final time, knowing that he’s probably gone before the door is even fully shut.

That night, you sleep wrapped in his coat. It’s warm and smells like him.

 ׅ ׁ ໒꒱

Work has been busy the past few days, draining you completely. You barely made it to the shower tonight when getting home, wanting to wash off the day more than anything. Grateful that you managed it though because you truly do feel so much better after having the warm water pour down on you.

Diving into your bed as soon as you’re out, almost drifting to sleep prematurely before remembering you have to do your dishes and laundry. Looking to Satoru’s coat beside you in the bed, you also wanted to try washing it before giving it back to him but you’re a little worried there’s specific instructions for it that you don’t have.

Laying still for a few more moments before groaning and dragging yourself up into the main living area. Walking past your couch before pausing and taking a few steps back, having seen something out of the corner of your eye. Suddenly nervous about what could be there… not any less so when you realise what – or rather who it is.

“Your place is small,” Satoru comments.

If you had anything nearby, you’d throw it at him, “Why are you in my home?”

“You invited me in,” he seems happy.

Are invitations into your home like long standing or something instead of situational to vampires? Pinching the bridge of your nose because you probably should’ve guessed that. Wait… wasn’t your door locked?

Glancing at him, “How did you even get in?”

“Window.”

“You’re joking.”

He blinks at you a few times before shaking his head, “No, I came in through your bedroom window while you were in the shower.”

“You can’t just go into my bedroom!”

“I didn’t know it was your bedroom,” he shrugs, “it was the easiest to get into, which by the way you really shouldn’t leave that open.”

“I’m on the third floor, who else but you could get in?” Your foot taps impatiently, “Why are you even here?”

“I thought you’d be happier to see me,” he eyes you up and down and it’s in that moment you remember you’re not wearing pants, “I’m sure happy to see you.”

“I’m… gonna go put on pants,” you grumble embarrassed. As you’re going back into your room to do so you can hear Satoru’s boos coming from the living room.

Quickly changing into the first pair of pyjama bottoms you can find, realising as you’re stepping into them that if he was in your room then he definitely saw your bed. Rushing back out to him to ask, “You didn’t… stay in my room for long did you?”

“Maybe I did,” his eyes twinkle with mischief and now you’re also worried that he went snooping.

Hesitant as you ask, “Did you happen… to notice…”

“My coat on your bed?” he grins, answering your question before you finished asking it.

You look away from him, not sure how to react. “I was gonna wash it.”

“You don’t have to,” he dismisses, not even worried by it. If anything, he finds it cute. “Come over here,” he coaxes, patting the couch cushion beside him.

Humming at him in thought, wondering if you really should sit next to him.

He complains, “Don’t make me beg, pretty.”

But that sounds so tempting, staying put on the spot to see if he really will beg. Looking in his eyes, they’re already pleading with you. Waiting almost impatiently for you to comply, which you do. Completely weak for him in a way you’ve never been for a man before, pretending to be bothered by his request as you sit down beside him.

“Did you break into my apartment for a reason or…?”

“Well, I didn’t break anything,” he corrects, “and I just wanted to see you.”

He’s got your insides feeling fuzzy with his sentiment, you don’t let on though, “You’ve seen me.”

“You’re being so mean to the man you kissed so passionately just a few nights ago.”

“You mean the man who rejected me?”

He’s looking at you like he’s the offended one, “I did not reject you!”

Looking up in faux thought, “I must be remembering incorrectly then.”

“You are,” he’s moving in closer with his words, “I wouldn’t have been able to control myself that night.” His hands are guiding you back onto the couch, his form following after you, lips hovering just over yours.

Refusing to kiss him first, not after last time, “And tonight is different?”

“Yeah.”

Just about to close the gap when you dodge him by moving your head slightly to the side, his lips missing yours. “Oh, how so?”

His hand grabs your face between his thumb and index finger, squishing your cheeks together with it. Making you look at him straight on, “Because tonight I don’t care about being polite.”

Pressing sloppy kisses to your lips he’s forced into a pout, loosening his grip so he can kiss you properly. Though he was thoroughly enjoying kissing you like that too. Tongue slithering into your mouth and taking your breath away, he’s so much more impatient and messy than last time. Desperate to have his mouth on you, like he’ll die if he doesn’t keep kissing you.

His kisses have you hot, like you’re about to start melting. Moaning against him when he lowers more of his weight onto you, able to feel his erection against your thigh. Suddenly itching for him to do so much more than just kiss you, the idea he might leave again after only kissing you almost causes you physical pain.

Mouths parting, his tongue licking your lips before taking your lower one and sucking on it. Eyes pitiful as you whine at him, cunt fluttering.

“You can’t– hnn– you can’t leave again,”  fumbling over your words, holding onto him tightly.

Satoru’s chest squeezes at your desperation, finding you adorable like this. He wouldn’t dream of leaving you, he’s not that evil. Breathless laugh leaving him at your state, hand shoving into your pants, “You should’ve just kept your pants off.”

So grateful for his touch, fingers playing with your pussy over your underwear. It’s nowhere near enough but still it has you shuddering under him. Hips shaking and grinding down into him, hoping he just touches you properly. The stimulation leaves you wanting, greedy for him to give you so much more.

Panties so wet the squelching of your cunt can be heard, completely obscene how you’re leaking for him. It’d embarrass you if Satoru didn’t seem to love it as much as he does, “God, listen to her,” he groans, finger prodding at your hole through the material, “so wet.”

His words getting to you, “Don’t– hah– don’t talk like that– hnn”

“But you are,” digits sliding all over the soaked fabric of your panties and flicking at your clit. It’s getting to him, salivating at just how creamy your pussy is getting, “Fuck this,” he moans.

Confused on what he’s cursing over until he’s flipping you onto your stomach and tugging your pants and underwear off in one go. Shuffling further down the couch and grabbing your hips, lifting them how he pleases just to put his whole mouth on your cunt, tongue first. Fervently licking and sucking at you, honeyed juices trailing all down his chin as he eats you messily.

Your face is forced into the cushion, your whimpers and moans yelled into it. Damn near kicking your feet with how intense it feels, to go from minimal stimulation over your panties to his tongue in your dripping cunt has your head spinning and brain melting. How is it this good? You feel fucking insane, gasping for breath when he groans against you. Vibrations going straight to your core, creaming right into his mouth.

He's obsessed, slurping lewdly at you, drinking you down. His own hips rutting down into the couch, grinding his erection against it. So horny he could cum in his pants from this alone, hands moving to your ass, thumbs on your pussy lips pulling you obscenely open. He’s not sure he’s ever felt this fucking infatuated before, something so primally insatiable inside him begging for more.

Every time he’d met with you, he held back and now being able to touch you, suck on your pretty pussy. He’s going to die all over again. Your ruined moans muffled against the couch like music to his ears, cock twitching every time you do literally anything. Every single thing you’re doing is driving him further and further up a wall. Your cunt clenching around his tongue making his eyes roll to the back of his head, unashamed in how he’s devouring you.

You’re so close to cumming, hole twitching and fluttering around his insistent tongue. Hands gripping at the couch as you fight against how good it feels, “Wait– wait– Satoru~” voice soaked in pleasure, “I’m gonna– hah!– I’m gonna cum.”

“Uh huh,” he hums, “I want you to.” Thumb reaching up to press on your clit, “Cum all over my face, please,” sounding almost broken as he pleads.

Oh God, you can’t even reply about how he’s embarrassing and needs to shut up, thighs shaking with how euphoric it feels. Mewling in a way that moves Satoru’s cold heart, your back arching meanly into him, giving him more access.

You’re a mess for him and he’s fucking loving it, about as pathetic for you as you are for him. You’re cumming in his mouth just like how he wanted and he’s gulping it down gratefully, whining into your cunt as you finish. His hand itching to reach into his pants and fuck his own fist, out of his mind turned on.

Not stopping how he’s lapping at you until you’re going limp and even then still sucking on your pussy until you whimper in adorable distress – oversensitive. Stamping a soft kiss on your lower lips before pulling back and speaking against your soft thighs, “I told you I’d eat you.”

His words barely register in your hazy mind, taking a few moments for you to catch up. “You’re insane,” speech slightly slurred.

“Mm,” his nose brushes along your skin, you smell overwhelmingly good, “Insane for you.” Asking desperately, begging, “Can I please bite you, pretty?”

Mind flashing back to how his fangs looked when he smiled at you that time, cunt pulsing at the thought. Mumbling out, “I thought I wouldn’t taste good.”

He laughs, lips on your skin, “I lied.”

Words spoken low and shooting straight through you. You must be delirious because you’re agreeing, nodding your head, “Okay”

Not even waiting for you to really finish your confirmation before biting into your soft skin. His head immediately getting dizzy from how good you taste, delicious on his tongue as he drinks you down again in a different way. He’s growing addicted to you, in every sense of the word. Completely drunk on the taste of you.

You’re confused on why it feels so good, pussy crying for him. Lightheaded in a way that has you feeling pleasant, lips tightly shut because you think it’ll be embarrassing for him to know. “Satoru,” you whinge.

He pulls back, lathing over where he’d sunk his teeth into. Careful not to take too much blood despite how he’s aching for more. Crawling up your body until he can kiss your lips, erection resting against your ass, “You called, sweetheart?”

Rolling underneath him until you’re facing him properly, arms around his neck. A teasing smile on your lips, “How’d I taste?”

He grins, “Divine,” hands sliding below your shirt, adding, “your blood wasn’t too bad either.”

“Perv,” you mutter bashfully.

He can only chuckle, pulling your shirt off swiftly. Groping at your tits with an obscenely happy smile on his face, “Me? I’m an innocent man.”

Surprised sound leaving you when he pinches at your nipples, he has to know his words are directly contradicting his actions. Eyes never leaving yours as he lowers himself, tongue hanging from his mouth already. Enveloping almost your whole tit in his warm mouth, tongue flicking at it.

“You’re– hnn– you’re far from innocent,” he’s killing you; you’ve never wanted anyone this badly.

It’s like he’s endlessly amused by you, eyes glinting in the light as he drags his tongue between the valley of your breasts to take your other nipple into his mouth.

Hand tugging at the shirt on his back, “Please.”

“Hm?” he lets go of your nipple with a pop, “What’s wrong?”

Glaring at him playing dumb, “Women don’t like men that are too wicked.”

“I must be the right amount then…” his hand lowers to stroke your pussy, hole to your clit, “since you seem to like me so much.”

Shivering under him, clenching around nothing, “I never said– ah!”

Two of his fingers fuck inside your gooey cunt while you’re talking, gasping for breath. It feels so good to have something inside you, even if it’s not exactly what you’re on the verge of begging for.

“You didn’t have to, sweetie,” he purrs at you, “your pussy did all the talking for you,” thrusting inside you so that the lewd sounds of your sloppy cunt getting fingered can be heard loud, “and she’s telling me she’s real fond of me.”

Satoru’s fingers are so long and slender, practiced in how they touch you. Having memorised your sweet spots when he was tongue deep in your loving walls earlier. A borderline snarl on his face at how you’re gripping his digits so tight, desperately clinging to him. He can tell exactly how needy you are and it’s astonishing to him that you haven’t just broke and asked him to fuck you properly.

His sadism is showing because he has no intent of doing any more than this until he hears you specifically ask for it. The idea of you asking so nicely to get fucked by him making his erection throb, it’s enough to get off on alone. He wants you so bad and maybe that’s why he wants to hear you beg a little.

“C’mon, pretty,” he inhales your scent, nose dragging along your neck, “beg Satoru nice and he’ll give you what you want.”

Garbled moans are your response, struggling to say much of anything with how his palm is grinding into your clit. Pulsing hot and ready around him, so close to cumming again.

“I can’t understand you with all that moaning,” fangs nicking at your neck but he doesn’t bite you, just giving you a little thrill. What you were going to say doesn’t matter much, he knows you wouldn’t beg yet anyways.

Deviously waiting until you’re right on the edge of your orgasm before pulling his fingers out and leaving you high and dry. The distress on your face has his eyes lighting up, pleased and turned on as he watches you almost cry. Your hands grab onto him, trying to pull him in closer.

“Wait!– hng– no– Satoru,” you feel cheated, so close that you felt like you were vibrating only for it to all be taken at the last second. It’s cruel of him and it’s even crueller that he looks so hot while endlessly amused by your reaction.

His head tilts at you like he’s so fucking innocent, “Did something happen?” he pouts in faux concern, scooping you up in his arms and moving you both so he’s cuddling you on the couch while you’re straddling him. Hands soothing up and down your back and shushing you, pretending to not be the cause of your agony.

Head tucked into his shoulder, muttering, “You shouldn’t be so delighted by my pain.” Jolting a little in his hold from how the dying pleasure thrums through you.

“What a baseless accusation,” he scoffs, though finding your genuine pouting endearing.

Satoru rocks his hips up just slightly, his clothed erection rubbing against your sensitive core. Your lungs seize in your chest, choked moan sounding from you as you realise exactly where you’re sitting. Not wasting any time in meeting his grinds, eager for any kind of stimulation at this point.

Again though, he stops you. Not even letting you get close before his hands are on your hips keeping you incredibly still. Forced to sit on his throbbing erection, cunt hot and leaking for him. Horny out of your mind as you’re made to sit in place and feel just how hard and big he is.

Eyes rounded and pitiful as you pull back to look at him, “Satoru?”

“Mm?” he smiles sweet at you, practicing patience you wouldn’t have entirely expected of someone with his personality.

You know exactly what he wants and is waiting for, annoyed but not nearly as annoyed if you weren’t drunk on your own lust. “Please?”

As if in a reward, he leans in and kisses you heavy. Though to him that was just step one, “Please what?”

Using your fingers to trail down his front, undoing the buttons on his shirt one by one. Looking at him through your lashes, “Please can you fuck me?”

Looking like the cat that got the canary when he grins, fangs shown in it. “Of course I can… that is…” looking down to his pants, signalling for you to undo them as well, “if you think you can take it.”

Thinking that he’s just cocky until you’re pulling him from his pants and boxers, faced with the sheer size of him. Veins pulsing on his shaft, tip flushed deep pink and leaking so much precum that you’re almost salivating over it.

Blinking at his cock in surprise, wanting so bad to sit on it but not even confident in your ability to, “There’s no way.”

He bites his lip, finding joy in the expression on your face, “You’re the one who did this to me.”

“I didn’t– I mean… how am I meant to…?”

“You can take it, pretty,” he promises, adding, “that perfect cunt of yours was made for me.”

With how you’re sat in Satoru’s lap, his eyes are able to catch a glimpse of the bite mark he’s left on your inner thigh, dick growing impossibly larger at it.

Your eyes widen, taken aback by the fact he could get any larger, “Why? Why is it bigger?”

“You’re sat in my lap talking about how big my dick is, am I supposed to be calm?” He leaves out the bite mark, not wanting you to think he’s a bigger pervert than you already think he is.

Ignoring his comment, you lick your hand and he huffs at it. Gripping the base of his cock, trying to get a feel for how much of him you’re really going to be taking. That and you want to touch him, gauging his reaction as you slowly slide your hand up to his tip, rubbing the underside of the head with your thumb.

His precum is dripping into your hand, making a mess already. You weren’t going to drag this out but when you look at him, his eyes are low and his teeth are digging into his lower lip. Dick twitching into your hold, you begin stroking him and he curses. Unable to help the way your pussy reacts to him.

“Fuck!– sweetie– you– hah–” his head rolls onto the back of the couch and he’s looking down at you through lowered lids.

He’s so aroused and it’s only making you hornier, other hand reaching for his tip. Palming over it as you stroke the base of him. His abs clench and twist as he fights the urge to fold and fuck your hand obscenely.

“You– fuck– you begged for it and now– hnn,” now you’re just playing with him. You’re going to kill him… again. “Sit– hnn– please– sit on it,” he would be almost pitiful if he didn’t look so hungry.

“Hnn I dunno if it’ll fit, Satoru,” you’re teasing now even if you feel it to be true.

“Ohh,” he huffs, pelvis thrusting up into your hand, “you think you’re funny?”

Squeezing the base of his shaft just to make him squirm, “I know I am.”

Finally finding it within himself to grip your wrists and pull your hands off him, able to see now just how much wetter your cunt has gotten while touching him. Smirking at you, “Stroking my cock turn you on that much?”

You’re blowing right past his obscene comment, “Why’d you stop me?”

“Didn’t think you were into premature ejaculators,” his hands are groping at your thighs and tugging you forward, coaxing you to hover directly over his dick.

Throwing back at him, “Didn’t think you were one.”

“I am for you, pretty,” he winks.

You pretend to swoon, “How romantic.”

“I’m a lover what can I say,” he grins devilishly, “let my dick show you.”

Taking his cock in your hand, you line it up with your hole. Still, you’re not completely confident about this, “You have to be gentle.”

Satoru feels his heart prick, “Of course.”

Slowly sitting down on him, trying your best to relax as you take it in. He’s so large that as soon as he’s stretching you open your lungs are seizing, hole fluttering around the tip of him. He’s losing his damn mind holding back, your cunt placing butterfly kisses on his sensitive dick driving him wild.

Whinging as your breaths come heavier, pausing yourself as you successfully take in his head. “Hnf– this is impossible.”

All Satoru can focus on is how your insanely tight pussy is drooling around him, cock getting slicker as your loving juices flow down the sides of his shaft. Eyes fixated on how he’s opening you up, delighting in the shaking of your thighs. He so badly wishes he could stuff you full in one go but he knows better, doing his best to be patient even though the veins on his cock are throbbing.

Already looking so ruined as you stare blankly at where he’s penetrating you, “You doing okay, sweetie?”

Nodding quickly in response, “Mhm– hmm– it’s just… so big.”

Groaning, “Don’t,” he doesn’t need you telling him that right now. Liable to either blow a load or shove it all in. “You need to relax.”

“It’s– hah– not that,” you deny, it’s not you that’s the problem. He literally has a monster cock.

He takes some of the strain off your thighs by holding your hips, supporting your weight without pulling you off his aching dick. “You’ll give a guy a complex.”

“A– hnf– a complex about having a massive cock?”

“Yup,” resolute in his answer.

“I think you’ll be fine.”

He smiles politely but drops you a little, your pussy sucking him in a bit more. Your hands fall forward onto his chest, a wrecked whimper leaving you. “Not– not nice– hng,” your words slur a little.

Trying his best to ignore how good it feels so he can playfully guilt trip you, “You’re not being nice to me,” pouting, “making me feel all insecure.”

Shamefully, you might cum. Already feeling so pornographically stuffed full, the opposite of earlier when you felt achingly empty. You could fuck yourself on this much of his dick and feel satisfied, embarrassed at how you’re able to stay this horny despite how annoying he’s being.

Forgetting to reply to him for a moment, already drunk on his cock, “I want it,” you mumble to him, eyes dazed from your lust.

Intaking another deep breath to sink down further, pussy absolutely creaming around him. Trembling around his thick cock, able to feel the thump! thump! of his throbbing veins. Brushing up against your sweetest spots so accurately that you’re on the verge of cumming. Not stopping yourself though, taking in as much of him as you can manage in one go.

Frustrated from sitting on edge for so long, wanting all of him inside you as deep as he can go. You want to feel his tip rubbing against your womb, want his precum leaking inside your gooey hole as far as he can reach.

“Slow– hah!– slow down,” Satoru warns, wanting you to pace yourself more.

But you’re desperate for it now, having come this far and unwilling to stop yourself. Grabbing his hands and interlacing your fingers together so you’re holding hands, you don’t want him supporting your weight anymore. You want to take his dick in uninhibited, breathing deep as you try to relax enough to keep swallowing him down.

Satoru’s seeing stars, your greedy cunt sucking him in devotedly and making his brain short circuit. Maybe he underestimated just how turned on you were earlier because he wasn’t expecting this from you. Your boldness knocking him off his game as he just sits and lets you use his fat cock how you desire. He’s completely yours for the taking.

His heart feels warm at your hands holding his, finding it endearing despite how debauched this whole scene is. Panting out soft moans that you clearly enjoy if your twitching hole is anything to go off of.  Astonished by just how much you’ve soaked his cock, not sure he’s ever been with someone as wet and creamy as you are. He’s obsessed with it and if he weren’t so committed to seeing what you do next, he’d pull you off him and stuff his tongue back inside you again.

A delicate and shaky thing on top of him, huffing out one last breath as you force yourself down the rest of his length. Twitching and writing in his lap, mouth dropping open as you suddenly cum all over his dick. Your grip on his hands is tightening as you nearly knock forward into his chest.

Whining pitifully as tears brim your waterline, puffed out as you feel like you’re cumming endlessly. Too good that it has you grinding down into him, clit rubbing against his pelvis and causing you to jolt. It’s so good and you’ve already cum and it’s somehow not nearly enough.

“You like it that much, pretty?” He hums, not letting on just how crazed he feels at you cumming from just taking him all.

Too focused on the pleasure to be bothered to deny it, “Uh huh.” Speech garbled, “Mm– more.”

“Such a greedy little thing,” he laughs, “go on then, take it.”

You want to, you want to ride him until you black out but there’s so much of him and it was hard enough to sit on it. Thighs weak and trembling from the descent, not able to properly pull yourself off. Barely fucking yourself on the last inch of his cock, still enjoying it nonetheless. Truly, there must be something wrong with you because you feel insatiable.

His amusement is palpable and you don’t even give a fuck, doing your best to satisfy your voracious appetite. The wet squelching of your sloppy cunt is lewd and completely delectable to Satoru, his eyes fluttering with how good it feels to be wrapped up inside your soft walls.

Untangling your hands, you collapse into him, holding him close. You’d climb him like a tree given the chance. Spreading your thighs wider has him slipping that tiny bit deeper into your cunt and you’re panting against his chest. Not even able to lift yourself much at all anymore, resorting to rutting desperately into him.

“Satoru~” words spoken against his skin, lips supple and weak and sending shivers down his spine, “is– hnn– ah!– not enough.”  

“Fuck–” his cock jerks at how neglected and whingey you sound.

Eyes wet and tearful when you glance up, face smushed against him, “Kiss me?”

How could he ever possibly deny such a sweet and inviting request. Leaning down to kiss you deep, getting dizzy himself off the taste of you. Your need practically bleeding into it, he’s never felt more ravenous than in this moment. Able to feel just how much you’re getting off on his hot and heavy kiss, your pussy giving away just how good you feel.

He can’t help himself either, reaching his high out of nowhere. Cumming from kissing you and sitting balls deep in your honeyed cunt. His load reaching your depths, filling you completely with how much he’s cumming. Knowing he’s just dumped so much seed inside you that it’ll definitely be dribbling from your stretched hole later. He needs to make sure he witnesses it or he’ll never forgive himself.

Moving his mouth from yours to your neck, kissing and sucking at your soft skin. Everything about you is so delicate and pliant, smooth. It’s overwhelming him, insane over everything about you. Before he knows it his fangs are in your neck and he’s lapping at your blood, whimpering into you when he tastes you on his tongue.

Pleasure rocking through him not from his orgasm or even from the taste of your blood but from just how tightly your pretty, little cunt is gripping him suddenly. Pulling his mouth off you to pant, shocked by the fact you got off on him biting you.

“Sweetheart…” he feels deranged, “you got something to tell me?”

The look in his eyes shoots through you, almost unhinged. Ravenous as he stares you down, waiting impatiently for you to answer him but you’re not really sure what he’s asking about. Too far gone in your own pleasure to really understand why he’s looking at you like that or what exactly has set him off.

Able to feel his cum inside you, the feeling arousing. Something you’ve never experienced before, knowing he’s filled your needy hole with all of his spend making your heart race in your chest. Dazed as you try to think of something other than the sensations he’s giving you, wondering if he’s going to bite you again.

Remembering he’s still waiting for something from you, lower lip wobbling, “Hnf– I need your help.”

He’s still achingly hard inside you despite his orgasm and it’s got you dizzy. Wanting him so bad, you want him to fuck you stupid. You’d do it yourself but he’s too big and your thighs are too weak.

Satoru resigns himself to not getting the answer he wants from you right now. Far too cock drunk to even recognise how turned on you got from his bite. Instead smiling in an almost threatening manner, “Do you still want it gentle?”

Nearly shy when you answer, as if you’re capable of being embarrassed at this point. “…No.”

“That’s my girl,” he praises.

You don’t even have time to process how that statement makes you feel before he’s suddenly standing up. Holding you tight to him, moving so your legs are in the crook of his arms, hands tightly gripping your hips to hold you in place. Bent over you slightly so his cock doesn’t slip from your sweet pussy, though you’re doing most of the work with how he’s damn near folded you in half to hold you like this.

Your arms are looped around his neck, holding on for dear life. Grateful for the fact that he’s so sturdy because otherwise this position would ruin the moment and not add to it. Waiting for him to start thrusting because you’re dying from the anticipation of actually getting fucked.

He catches sight of blood dribbling from the bite he left before and he can’t help himself but lean in and lick it up. Your whine doesn’t completely catch him off guard but he can’t even begin to adequately explain how much it turns him on to know you’re getting off on him biting you. Sucking over the mark before kissing it gently, he’ll cherish you later he swears.

But for now, he’s lost his mind and he’s about to fuck you like it too. Hands on your ass hoisting you up his hard cock, pulling you all the way to the tip and then forcing you back down the whole thing. Slamming you to the base of him, loud slap! resounding in the room. It nearly has your ears ringing.

Head spinning as you feel like the wind is knocked from you, not even able to recover in time before he’s setting that devastating pace. Fingernails digging into his skin as your breaths stutter through how he’s completely ruining you.

Shedding tears, trailing cold down your hot cheeks from the overwhelming pleasure. The room sounds sickening, your cunt sucking him back in every time he pulls out. Filthy, drenched slapping sounds filling your ears as he stuffs you full over and over again. Pussy shivering around him, trembling at how he’s demolishing you.

“You’re– hnn– you’re killing me, sweetie,” Satoru’s genuinely thinking if he’d been human your cunt would be enough to kill him and send him to heaven, “Fuck– everything about you is so damn sweet.” He’s groaning, ruined, “You’re never getting rid of me now, and never is a real long time for me.”

“Too– hnn– too much– hah–” puffing against him, “too good– I can’t– ah!– right there– hnn–”

He’s… giggling. He’s giggling at you in delight, “You’re perfect,” eyes bright, “hey,” he’s calling for you to look at him, “you wanna come home with me? I’ll take real good care of you.”

What the hell is he talking about, even through your tears he looks crazed. Unhinged smile still on his face as he fucks you hard, his skin is flushed and his pupils are so dilated you can barely see the ring of blue around them.

“Hng– You’re crazy,” and yet you’re snuggling into him as he ruins your pussy, all too happy for this crazy vampire to fuck you stupid.

“I’d pamper you,” he promises, like he’s really serious about it and not just saying whatever comes to mind while pussy whipped. “Let me take you home.”

One particular thrust is angled just right and hits so deep that it has your world shattering, moaned whines stuttered from your lips as you’re shocked by the euphoria that runs through you, “There!– hnn– right there­– hah– Satoru, please~”

“You’re too cute,” he moans, head thrown back for a moment, working to hold off his second orgasm.

Thrusting hard where you said, tip giving kisses to your womb every time he re-enters. Using his grip on you to slam you down every time he fucks into you, throwing you around like you’re weightless and perhaps to him, you are. Happy to let yourself get absolutely ravaged by this pervert, eyes rolling as your high fast approaches.

Mixed fluids leaking onto your apartment floor, leaving behind a debauched mess, evidence of your entanglement. White creamy ring around the base of his cock from you, from your cloying pussy. You must be out of your mind because everything is only arousing you more and more.

Sensitive and worked up, stimulation too much and not enough. Wondering if you really are greedy because you’re not sure you could give up these sensations any time soon. Cumming hard around Satoru again, his tight grip on you making you shudder. Hands in his hair and tugging as you moan into his skin, his grunt he lets out only prolongs the ecstasy.

He slows to a stop to give you a break but you don’t want one, glancing up at him. Eyes foggy and wet, “More– hnn– ‘Toru I wan more.”

The accidental nickname you’ve given him has him twitching, any last bit of sanity he had flying away. Pulling his dick from you, the loss has you whining pitifully, confused on what he’s doing when you just begged for more. He drops you back onto the couch facing it, your knees digging into the cushions and hands grasping the back of it. Satoru’s hand pushes into the arch of your back, forcing you to present yourself to him.

He doesn’t immediately re-enter, too busy eyeing your sopping wet cunt. Taking his time to delight in how you tremble, mouth watering at the view. Just about dropping to his own knees to get an even closer look when his cum drools from your hole. Oh, he can’t have it leaving you so soon, positioning his tip at your hole and pistoning his hips forward.

Your pussy welcomes him lovingly, shaking and shivering around him as he fucks all his cum back into the deepest part of you. Bending down so his front can be felt against your back, his breath by your ear.

“You enjoying yourself, sweetheart?”

“Mhm,” humming lazily, too involved in how good it feels to reply properly. Probably not even capable of anything coherent enough in this moment anyways.

“Hey, sweetie,” he talks low, “since you seem to like it so much,” he licks against the shell of your ear, “I’m gonna bite you more.”

He gets exactly the reaction he’s looking for, your cunt dripping lewd and enthusiastically around him. Broken little whimpers leaving you as you shake under him, the idea alone enough to have you on the verge of cumming again. He’s not sure how he’s lived this long without you because you’ve permanently altered his brain.

“Ah, you’re too cute,” he kisses your shoulder, “I’m obsessed.”

And then he digs his fangs into your flesh, delighting in the visceral effect it has on you. He’s not even biting to drink from you anymore, only biting at you to then lathe over the mark he’s left. Wanting your reaction more than anything else, that and deeply enjoying the act of marking you. The thought of you being covered in evidence of his obsession for you, it triggers something primal in him.

You want to tell him how good you feel, how much you like it but anything you try and say is so garbled it doesn’t even make sense to your own ears. Sticking to whining and fucking yourself back onto his cock instead, hoping he picks up the pace because you can’t stand that he’s slowed down.

He’s gotten distracted with biting you, not realising his slowed pace until you’re desperately rutting back and mumbling cute but nonsensical words. Taking pity on you and also himself, giving you both what you need by raising himself upright again and doubling his efforts into fucking the whole length of his throbbing cock in and out of you.

Like this, he’s getting a good view of all the bites he’s left over your shoulders, back, even your upper arms. Literally biting everywhere he could possibly reach, giggling a little manically again. You’re just too precious, malleable and compliant to his whims. Usually giving more push back, he enjoys both sides of you so much. Finding you so interesting, loving every interaction he has with you. Especially this one right now.

He muses aloud, “I should’ve let you invite me in so much sooner.”

“Uh huh.” You agree, not just cause you wanted him to fuck you earlier but because he was so weirdly stubborn about it that it confused you. Maybe you’d know more about him if he let himself overstay his welcome more.

“My, you’re agreeable like this,” he chuckles, “such a pretty, little thing.”

His hands pull at your ass, opening you up to his ruthless cock even more. It’s too much, he’s completely wrecked you, you can’t ever date normally again – not that you could before he fucked you but especially now.

“You’re close~” He uses a singsong tone on you.  “C’mon, sweetie. Cum for ‘Toru.”

His hand reaches around your front and presses into your stomach, his dick hitting different at the pressure. Your knees buckle and you almost fold into the couch, only held up by the very hand causing your ruining.

“Wait– ah!– wait that– hngg–” writhing at the weight of his heavy cock, “feels weird– ‘Toru it feels– hnn– ah!”

“It feels good,” he corrects, not changing anything about what he’s doing to you.

He’s right, it feels good, too good. It’s scaring your how good it feels, everything oversensitive and hot. Like electricity is running through your veins, crying as your grip the couch hard. Cumming harder than you have all night, whole body shaking as you’re completely shattered by your orgasm.

Satoru chokes on a groan, hips stalling as he struggles to fuck you through your tight grip. His high hitting him all at once when he realises what’s just happened. Feeling so warm and snug inside you, his moans debauched, “Oh!– hah– shit,” his teeth dig into his lower lip, “who knew a sweet girl like you could squirt like this.”

You’ve made a mess out of not just him but the material of his pants and your own sofa, it’s satisfying to him though. Fucking you through your high properly, delighting in how your cunt is just such a sopping wet mess for him, even more so with his cum leaking out around his pulsing dick.

So badly, you want to collapse into the couch and curl up but Satoru hold you steady. Pulling out carefully and because he really can’t help himself, he’s pulling back to see just what he’s done to you.

“Ohh wow,” Satoru hums happily, “you’re a fucking mess.”

He tucks himself back into his boxers lazily but doesn’t bother doing up his pants. You’re a shuddering thing on the couch, soaked and completely debauched. Covered in cum and blood and bite marks, it’s enough to get him all bothered again but he holds back.

Instead taking you into his arms, soothing, “Let’s get you all cleaned up,”  and carrying you to the bathroom, he’s seating you on the cool countertop while he runs a bath for you.

You think he may be talking but you’re a little out of it, ears ringing still from how all the blood rushed to your head. Dazed and limp as you watch him move around and open your cabinets, rooting through your belongings like it’s his house.

When he picks you up again to put you in the tub, you cling to him, not wanting to let go in fear that he’ll run off like how you’re used to him doing.

His heart squeezes at your clinginess, “Want me to join you, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you murmur against him.

He immediately does, undressing completely and getting in behind you. Holding you tight to him and pressing kisses over all the marks he’s left in your skin. Gentle in how he washes you, tentative and caring as he gives you aftercare. Glad he stayed because you might’ve just passed out on the couch until morning if he hadn’t.

Out of nowhere he says, “I was serious earlier.”

You’re not sure on what he’s referring to, “About?”

“You living with me.”

Turning to him in shock only to see he’s completely unfazed. Honestly, you’d think someone who lives so long would move a bit slower. “Normally a confession comes first, Satoru.”

“Have I not done that yet?” He looks genuinely surprised.

Confirming for him that, “No,” he hasn’t.

He leans in to leave smooches on your cheek, “I like you.”

Seriously… what are you supposed to do with him?

ᥫ᭡. loveli note 2 : thanks for reading !! i hope you guys enjoyed hehe :3

Having a sex dream about your best friend – Gojo Satoru – was not on your bingo card for this year but it happened and the result of it is you avoiding any and all eye contact with him. This would be significantly easier if he wasn’t always hanging around you, it would also be easier if his favourite pastime wasn’t invading your personal space.

Your odd behaviour must’ve reached a breaking point for him because he’s sat next to you on your couch, pouting out, “Why are you being so weird?”

“I’m not,” you deny despite your very obvious weird behaviour, still not properly looking at him.

Suddenly, his head is on your lap, eyes analysing your reaction to him, “You’re a bad liar.”

“Wha– What are you doing?” He has you fumbling and it only embarrasses you further. “Get off me.”

“Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me or I’ll literally never get off you, in fact… I will only get closer,” one of his hands moves to grab at your waist but you slap him away.

His head weighted on your thighs has you remembering your explicit dream of him and you can’t help but grow a few degrees warmer in temperature. “I can’t tell you.”

Gojo frowns at that and you hate how you’re noticing just how attractive he is even though he’s growing annoyed, “It involves me directly but you can’t tell me?”

“That’s right,” you cement, like it shouldn’t even be an issue.

He sits up again and stares at you dead on, “Tell me or I’ll tell all our friends about… the incident.”

A small breath of disbelief leaving you, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” his eyes stern, he’s completely serious.

You try bargaining, “It’s not that deep, Satoru… give me another week or two and I’ll be completely over it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“So, you’re blackmailing me?!”

“I wouldn’t call it that, that’s such an ugly word,” he shakes his head.

Your brow raises at him, “What would you call it then?”

“I don’t know but not that,” he shrugs easily.

“You’re so annoying, I can’t believe I even–” you cut yourself off, realising you were about to freely give away that you couldn’t believe you had a sex dream about him. It’s annoying that it was such a good dream too because he’s so annoying in real life.

Despite you stopping yourself, he clings to your words, “‘You can’t believe you even’ what?”

Playing dumb is your only defence but to be fair, you aren’t entirely convinced you’re playing anymore, “I don’t know.”

He stares at you for a moment before speaking again, “Okay, well, I’m calling it blackmail now, I’m officially blackmailing you.”

“Evil, evil man,” you accuse.

He motions at himself with his hands, dismissing your words, “Mhm, now tell ‘Toru all your problems.”

“Ew,” you grimace at him, “that was almost as bad as when you referred to yourself as ‘daddy’.”

Smirk on his face at your response, “Would you prefer that? I didn’t know you were into–”

“–I said almost as bad!”

“Sure, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “now tell me what’s going on, I won’t let you wiggle your way out of the main issue at hand.”

“Fine,” you groan, giving in, “but you have to promise to not be weird or make it a big deal.”

His head tilts at you, “What? Like you mean how you’ve been doing?”

“Just promise, stupid,” you grumble at him.

“I promise,” he pauses, “sort of.”

“Seriously?”

“I said I promise, now come on,” he leans in, ready to listen, “lay it on me.”

Ignoring his giddy attitude, you take in a deep breath before carefully letting it out, “Well… the other night, I was sleeping–”

“–Truly groundbreaking stuff.”

“Don’t interrupt me or I will never tell you,” you glare at him.

“My bad,” he raises his hands in surrender.

“Anyways,” your heart is hammering in your chest because it’s so embarrassing to be looking at him as you try to confess. It feels like you’re being crushed under his intense gaze, it’s making you even more nervous.

He must be able to tell you’re working yourself up, “Geez, calm down, sweetheart, whatever it is it’s not that big of a deal.” He moves to pat your head as a means to comfort you but you flinch away.

And before you can control it you’re suddenly blurting out, “I had a sex dream about you the other night and now I feel really funny around you.”

The reaction from him isn’t immediate, only blinking back at you for a moment before suddenly turning his head to the side as he tries to hide his laugh but the snort he lets out gives it away. Your lips are downturned as you suffer through the agonising moments of mostly silence, the embarrassment you’d already been feeling growing tenfold at his reaction.

Wordlessly, you rise from the couch and go to walk away, to go away to anywhere but here in this moment. Gojo stops you though, his hand on your wrist pulling you back to the sofa. Now closer to him than you had been before, something you’re overly conscious over. Keeping your head turned from him, annoyed at his reaction and also your lack of tact.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologises, “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

“You need to get out of my apartment.”

“Don’t be so harsh,” he whines, “I have follow up questions.”

You pull your wrist from his grasp, still refusing to look at him, “I don’t wanna answer them, you only want to torture me.”

“Not true!”

He tries to get back in your line of sight but you keep turning your head away. Your arms cross over your chest, almost like you’re trying to shrink in on yourself.

“I’m curious about a few things now though,” he hums at you, “since your reaction to having sex with me has been so cute.”

His phrasing is so poor that it has your head whipping to look at him and his overly pleased expression, “I did not have sex with you.”

“Right, right,” he waves off, “you dreamt about having sex with me.”

“I dislike you so deeply right now.”

“If you agree to answer my questions I will literally never bring up the fact that you had a wet dream about me ever again.”

You point at him angrily, “It was not a wet dream! What the hell is wrong with your phrasing of things?!”

He smiles sweetly as he grabs your finger, using the hold he has on you to unfurl your hand and loop your fingers together to hold hands, “Are you gonna answer my questions or not?”

“If I do… you’ll never speak about this again, right?” You try pulling your hand from his but his hold on you is firm.

“Sure,” he agrees all too easily.

You glance down and away from him, “Fine.”

“Perfect!”

And at his incredibly joyful tone, you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a misstep somewhere along the way. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him… or maybe you should’ve concealed your reactions more effectively… or better yet, your stupid brain shouldn’t have conjured the image of you and him having sex to begin with.

Glancing at your interlocked fingers, you ask, “Can you let go of my hand now?”

“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?” His tone isn’t upset or accusatory, only curious.

Sighing at him in response, “I’m embarrassed to even look at you right now, of course it’s making me uncomfortable.”

He, thankfully, releases his grip on you. Choosing not to taunt you any further but you have a feeling it’s only a small reprieve. Just as your heartrate is finally calming, he asks, “Was I good?”

You’re completely taken aback, knowing what he’s asking but still confused by his bluntness, “What?”

“Was I good?” He repeats shamelessly. “I’d be a little offended if I weren’t.”

If you have to answer his ridiculous questions then you’re going to be purposefully vague, “You were… fine.”

He hums thoughtfully, “You won’t even look me in my eyes and you said you’re feeling funny around me so I was either horrendously bad or really great, which is it?”

“I don’t like your questions,” you grumble at him.

“I wanna know though,” he whines at you, “It’s your fault for being so weird about it.”

Your body droops into the couch, head resting against the back of it, “A normal person and good friend would take this information at face value and let me live quietly with my shame.”

“I disagree,” you can feel his eyes on you but you still won’t look at him, your own eyes closed. He continues on, “I’ll let you live quietly after you tell me everything I want to know… probably.”

You squint your eyes open at him, “There is literally nothing in this for me, you’re blackmailing this information out of me.”

He grins at you, “Are you saying you respond better to positive reinforcement?”

“I’m saying I’m still reluctant to answer your embarrassing questions and it’s starting to feel like if I do, I’m only giving you future blackmail material.”

“This is untrue, I’m blackmailing you, yes but I also agreed to never bring it up again if you answer my questions.”

“Oh my god!” this is getting annoying, steeling your nerves, you decide you’re just going to answer everything so you can end this quickly, “You were good, it was a good dream.”

A stupid and happy smile takes over his face, you don’t bother reading too far into it. “You said you were feeling ‘funny’, what do you mean by that?”

“Huh?”

“Funny could mean any number of things, I’m asking for specifics here,” he’s still too happy and it’s annoying you because you don’t really understand why.

“Hmm, like…” you look at him intently to better think about how you feel, your heart fluttering as you do, causing you to close your eyes as if you’re in thought, “…I feel embarrassed to have had a dream like that about you.”

He pushes back on your answer, “That’s all?”

Cracking an eye open at him as you chirp, “Yep.”

His gaze is already trained on you, apparently never having stopped looking at you, “You’re such a bad liar.”

You deflate at your failed deception, “I think we’ve just known each other too long…”

“You’ve always been a bad liar though?” He claps his hands together suddenly and it makes your heart skip a beat, “Now, out with it.”

Quiet as you start your explanation, “Every time I look at you…” he nods his head as if to encourage you, “…I think about the dream and it makes me feel funny, that’s all, can you leave me alone now?”

His lips purse as he mulls over what you’ve just said, “You sure you’re not just horny?”

“Satoru!” you chastise him, shocked and also frustrated that he’s pretty much hit the nail on the head. Ever since your dream you can’t help but look at him differently, mind feeding you images of what having sex with him might be like.

“I’m being genuine.”

“That makes it worse,” kicking your legs a little about it all.

He starts giggling, “You had a dream about getting fucked by me so good that just being around me turns you on.”

“Stop!” you move to sit in front of him properly, face clearly unhappy, “I did not say that.”

“You basically did,” he dismisses, “So… what did I do to you?”

It’s a bit ridiculous that he’s going in this direction but you should’ve known he was going to do this. You need to shut him down because just his words alone are effecting you more than you care to admit, “I’m done answering your questions.”

It’s his turn to groan and grumble, “Aww, but it was just getting good.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you say with the intention of ending this interaction, “Satoru… It doesn’t matter what you did in my dream because there’s no way you’d be that good in real life.”

The smile on his face drops, “I can’t help but take that personally.”

“Take it how you will,” you shrug, “there’s no way you could live up to the dream version of you, it’s not logical.”

“Wanna find out?”

“Don’t be childish,” you brush him off, overlooking the way those words send a shock through you.

He pushes, “Treat it like an experiment, I wanna know what’s better.”

Blinking back at him, “You’re so weird.”

Quickly pointing out, “Maybe, but you’re the one who dreamt about fucking this weirdo.”

“Yeah, dreamt, it was a dream.” You shake your head in disbelief at him, “Why are you acting like you’re jealous of dream you?”

“Maybe I am jealous of dream me.”

“That’d be stupid.”

“You’re always telling me I’m stupid.”

Gojo’s eyes keep flitting to your lips every time you speak, the look in them suddenly much darker than the glee that was held in them when he was teasing you earlier. Trying to be stern but not entirely convincing when you state, “I’m not going to have sex with you for a reason as stupid as that, grow up.”

“But you’ll have sex with me for a good reason?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you tilt your head at him in exasperation, “why are you even acting like this?”

Ignoring your question and instead posing his own, “You sure you’re not curious, not even a little bit?” His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb pulling down on your lower lip, “I know I am.”

That simple touch has your heart leaping bounds, suddenly so hyper aware of how deep the effect he has on you is. It scares you, how much you want him, how much you want to say yes. You shouldn’t get carried away, he’s being ridiculous, this is all so ridiculous. Your years long and best friendship could be ruined because of this moment.

All things you’re worried about, all valid concerns, all thoughts that slip from you so quickly when he leans in and licks teasingly at your lower lip. The gasp you let out his entrance into your mouth, his lips plush and demanding against yours. Eyes falling shut as you let yourself get lost in his kiss, full and delightful and something you’ve never felt before.  

It’s messy and uncoordinated, like he’s not really focusing on how to kiss you and more on the fact that he gets to kiss you. You’re getting dizzy, body buzzing pleasantly at how he sucks on your tongue. String of saliva keeping your lips connected when he pulls back, snapping as he wipes his lower lip with his thumb, only to then push it into your mouth. Your immediate response to suck, feeling depraved but enjoying the look on his face you get when you do.

He speaks under his breath, eyes a little dazed, “Fuck.”

As soon as your tongue licks against the tip of his thumb, he’s pulling it from your mouth and hurriedly slotting his mouth over yours again. Barely giving you a moment to think before he’s kissing you so completely, consumed by his need and the delicious way he partakes in your lips.

It’s so overwhelming, to be desired like this is foreign and has your thighs clenching together. Gaining confidence when you finally wrap your arms around his neck, a move he appreciates if his groan and grabby hands are anything to go off of.

The way he parts from you is full of huffed and short breaths that only ends in him kissing you again, like he’s fighting with himself to say something, to do something more but ending up not strong enough to move on from your lips.

A pathetic moan that you don’t even recognise as your own leaving you, the sound only spurring Gojo on. Using his body to push against yours until your back is on the couch, not bothering to explain what he’s doing, far too busy and far too fixated on how you taste.

Filled to the brim with thoughts about how good his kiss is, how kissing can’t possibly be this good, how you’d let him do more. Fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that pulls a shudder from him.

What feels like far too soon he’s properly pulling back, quickly putting distance between you both so he’s not immediately gravitating back. Arms holding himself up, hovering over you, taking his sweet time to appreciate the look on your face. Pride exuding from him at what he’s reduced you to with a few kisses.

“Stop staring, Satoru,” your voice comes out more whinged and unfortunate than you were hoping.

“No.”

It’s a simple response, one that’s weighted with meaning and intention. Maybe if you weren’t only concerned with how good of a kisser he is, of how you want more, of how he looks indescribably good over you, you’d ask him why he’s acting this way. Maybe you’d even ask what this means for your friendship but when you’re in this deep and enjoying it this much, thinking that deep slips from you all too easily.

“I’m gonna touch you,” his gaze wanders over your body before looking back to you, “okay?”

Already nodding back at him, “Okay.”

And only when you verbally affirm him does he let his greedy hands travel your body, sitting back on his knees so he can grope at your thighs and hips. You can tell he’s enjoying your squirming immensely, eyes simultaneously lidded low and lit up.

Quickly glancing to meet your eyes when he asks, “What did I do to you?”

It takes your brain a second to catch up to his words, stuck on his big hands resting against your hips, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “You mean…”

“In your dream,” he slips into your waistband and starts to slowly pull your pants off, “what did I do to you in your dream, sweetheart?”

You feel your skin heat, his fingers tickling against your thighs. “I’m not answering that.”

A low hum sounds from him as your pants are finally removed and tossed to the side, “Why not?”

Keeping your legs together, self-conscious of the fact you’re in your underwear below him. Though he’s not bothered at all, groping and massaging at your thighs, “What happened in that dream is private.”

“That hardly seems fair,” his eyes bore into your own, “since I was there and all.” Paying no mind to your small protests as he manoeuvres one of your legs to rest against his side, feeling much more exposed now that he’s spread your legs.

“Satoru, you can’t just!– mmph–”

Further protesting cut off abruptly when he places his palm on your lower stomach, thumb drawing over your covered slit. His touch there was unexpected but not unwelcome, small shocks of pleasure thrumming through you.

“Did I use my fingers?” he keeps stroking your cunt, touch light and nowhere near enough to satisfy. “How about my mouth?” pausing to blatantly stare at your pussy, not even really addressing you when he adds, “please tell me I used my mouth,” his last words come out pitchy, almost like he’s begging for it to be true.

“I don’t know,” you’re feeling overwhelmed, head foggy, “I can’t remember.”

“I don’t know why you keep bothering to lie to me,” he murmurs low, using both thumbs to pull apart your folds, pressing into your hole only to be stopped by the material of your panties.

His action has you shooting up, face to his chest, your hands grab onto his shirt and all he does is chuckle at you. “Stop playing with me,” you huff at him.

Leaning down, he drags his lips over your skin gently. Leaving behind soft kisses all over your neck and chest, blowing air by your ear just to make you twitch. Voice almost a whisper when he asks again, “What did I do to you?”

“You’re embarrassing me,” you look through your lashes at him.

His smile is pleased, “Yeah, well, you’re turning me on.” Grabbing you by your hips and pulling you into his lap, your cunt pressing right into his erection, “Feel that?” He can’t help the way he gives small grinds into you, your warmth too enticing, “All your fault, so tell me what I did to you.”

The way he grinds into you feels too good, he’s big and so hard and couldn’t he just, “Can’t you just put it in?”

He laughs airily, surprised by your need, “I think you can feel enough to know that I can’t.”

“You were nicer to me in my dream,” you pout at him.

“Somehow, I doubt that–” his head drops back and a soft groan leaves him, getting lost in how you’ve started to rut down into him.

Thinking back to your dream, you decide to mention, “You did.”

Distracted reply coming from him, “Hmm?”

“Use your mouth, I mean–”

Just as you’d gotten the words out, he’s pushing you flat on your back again, not even pausing to think as he pulls your panties off in one movement. Settling between your thighs impatiently, eyeing up your cunt, “You been holding out on me.”

Your legs thrown haphazardly over his broad shoulders, “Wait just a sec–”

“–Why?” Tongue already hanging from his mouth and hovering over your pussy, just about drooling onto it.

The sight of him has your brain rebooting, “No– nothing.”

Keeping his eyes intently on you when he licks your whole pussy, smiling at how your mouth drops opens and hips squirm, “You’re cute.”

“You– you’re– hnn–” you don’t get to retort properly, his tongue flicking at your clit each time you try to say something.

“Mhm,” he’s enjoying this, you can tell, his tone too amused. “You’re so wet, practically begging for me to put my mouth on you.”

And then he shoves his tongue inside you, holding your hips down so he can fuck you with it. Delighting in the moans tumbling from your lips, cunt syrupy sweet and begging for him to stuff it full. Swallowing down all you have to give him, shudders running down his spine as his cock jerks in his pants. He’s been horny ever since you admitted to having had a sex dream about him.

It feels a little cruel that you kept it from him for so long, he would’ve gotten on his knees for you the second you asked him to. Groaning into your pussy when your hole tightens around his tongue, pressing his face closer to you. Nose stimulating your clit with how desperate he is to taste your cunt.

He’s messy in how he’s devouring you, sloppily making out with your pussy. Small groans leaving him as he relishes in it, like he’s getting just as much out of this as you are. It’s too good, back arching and thighs fighting to close, held open by his wide frame between your legs. This is the first time someone has gotten you so close so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing how easily he’s about to make you cum.

Gojo knows you’re close, it excites him, he wants your cum in his mouth, he wants to feel how you shake underneath him. But there’s something wicked inside him that wants to tease you a little more, waiting until you’re just about to finish before pulling back.

You whine at him, eyes wet when you look at him in confusion. He only smiles back at you, tongue licking his lower lip before he asks innocently, “I forgot to ask, did you cum like this?”

Brain taking a moment to catch up before realising he’s still asking about that damn dream, “I don’t– I think so?”

Pressing open mouthed and wet kisses over your inner thighs, remarking, “Not very memorable, was it?”

Somehow, it feels like he’s trying to compete with his dream counterpart and the thought is just ridiculous. “It was very memorable,” you’re only hoping to be a little teasing but by the look in his eyes he takes it personally. Opening his mouth wide and chomping down onto your thigh, biting you enough to nearly break skin. You jump at the shock, “Hey!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, licking over the impression of his teeth before pressing a kiss to it, “try remembering this instead, yeah?”

It’s a little bit cute of him to be so jealous of your dream, “You’re stupid.”

He knows he’s stupid, he’s all too aware of it but that changes nothing to him, “I’d be more careful with your words if you wanna cum,” blowing air onto your clit, reminding you of how close you were.

“Satoru…” you don’t really like how he’s got you backed into a corner right now.

He hums in acknowledgement at you, “Need something?” Head leaning against your thigh as he smiles smugly up at you.

How frustrating of him, to know exactly what you want but choosing not to give it to you for his own enjoyment. “You’re a tease,” you huff at him.

“Hmm… not usually,” his hand slides up your inner thigh, single digit slipping inside your hole, “I think that’s something you bring out of me,” pleased with the small sounds you let out at his finger stuffing you.

Gasped moan leaving your lungs, trying to tell him how unbearable he is, “You’re– hnn!–”

A sound of awe leaving him as he drags his finger out, “How obscene, you really are so fucking wet.” He says it like you should be ashamed of yourself but he’s smiling too big, eyes full of loving obsession. Clearly incredibly happy with how dripping and soaked your cunt is, “Basically drooling for it, sweetie. How embarrassing~”

You might have to kill him because he really is embarrassing you. Hell, it was already embarrassing doing this with your best friend and now he’s teasing you, “Stop…” not able to help the completely pathetic look on your face, “…stop being so mean to me.”

Gojo feels his heart drop and then start beating a million miles an hour, you’re so cute that he can’t help but breathlessly laugh, “My bad, will making you cum make up for it?”

“Yes,” you assert.

Ah, his head is spinning, you might be too much for his poor heart to handle. He can’t bear having you upset with him though, pressing soft kisses to your pussy lovingly. It’s as if he’s apologising for being so cruel to you, deepening his kiss to your cunt by stuffing you full of his tongue again.

The way you twitch and moan under him really does drive him wild, how he’s going to stay sane while fucking you is beyond him. Lapping at your sopping cunt so devotedly, eyes dazed and pussy drunk as he watches how your eyes roll and brows pinch. Giggling to himself at how surreal it is to be tongue deep inside you, to have you this needy for him.

When he suddenly pushes your legs back, you squeak. Damn near folded in half and bent for him, “Satoru, you can’t just– mmph!–”

He doesn’t grace you with listening properly, simply going back to eating your pussy like it’s his last meal. The way he’s holding you is pornographic in nature, a position you’ve never even thought to be in and he’s easily manhandled you into it. Lower back no longer even touching the couch, held up by Gojo.

With how he’s positioned you now, all your dewy slick and his saliva slides from your cunt and drips crudely onto your poor couch. Head dizzied as he gets you closer and closer to finishing, building you up so much faster after the loss of your last orgasm.

“I– ah!– so close– mmph–” you don’t want him to stop, hand holding onto one of his on your hip tightly, begging that he doesn’t pull away again.

Lucky for you, he desperately wants you cumming for him. He barely brought himself to deny you the first time, there’s no way he could do it a second. Completely and whole heartedly dedicated to making your pussy cream for him, salivating at the thought alone.

Moans you don’t even register pulling from your lungs as he finally pushes you over the edge, hips shaking as you try to ride out your own high with little success. The position you’re folded in keeping you at his mercy. Orgasm feeling oh so sweet after he denied you, lashes fluttering as it washes over you.

Gojo hums happily into your pussy, drinking down all you have to give him and then still not parting from you. Too addicted to your scent, to your taste, ignoring all rationality as he keeps licking and sucking at your cunt. Whining when your weak fingers dig into his hair and pull him back by force, shaking underneath him from how he’s nearly forced you into overstimulation.

“Too much,” your voice trembles with your words.

His lower face is a complete mess of you and you’d feel bad but the stupid smile and dazed look he’s wearing tells you that you don’t have to. “You got a great pussy,” he compliments, moving his thumbs so he can lewdly pull your cunt wider for his greedy eyes.

“Ah!– stop staring, have you no shame?”

Eyes flicking to yours when he states seriously, “None.”

You’re feeling far too exposed in this position, “Can you let me move–”

Ignoring you and instead musing aloud, “–How many fingers do you think you could take?”

“What?”

“Your hole was tight around my tongue so maybe only one?” Slipping a single finger inside you and stroking against your walls. Your back fights to arch and a soft mewl sounds from you, “ahh, that’s a nice reaction. Let’s stretch you out yeah?”

“You’re so– hnn!–” barely biting out, “You’re such a pervert.”

His head tilts at you, “Did you expect anything else?”

Managing to babble out, “Weren’t so– hah– perverted– hnn– in my dream– mmph–”

“I take pride in that,” his chest vibrates with his words. Of course he takes pride in it, why wouldn’t he? Stuffing another finger inside your snug cunt and scissoring them, trying to open you up enough to be able take him, “This sweet pussy might fucking kill me, I don’t know how you’re gonna take me.”

Could he have a bigger ego? “Don’t be ridiculous– hah!–”

“I’m not just being cocky, sweetie.” Fingers brushing up against so many spots you can never quite reach on your own, “You might actually struggle to take it all.”

Eventually giving you a third finger, spread wide around his digits and leaking into the palm of his hand. He’s got you a squirming and moaning mess under him, mind melting from the mouth-wateringly sinful way he’s playing with you.

“Satoru– hnn!–”

“Something wrong?”

Now he knows damn well… “Please, just– hah–”

He laughs at your whimpered neediness, completely aware of how bad you want him inside of you. “Being real cute right now.”

“Don’t–”

“–Don’t what?” Using his fingers to tease your most intimate spots.

“‘Toru– hnn– please,” lower lip wobbling as you pout at him, “I want you…”

That’s not fair, you’re not playing fair at all. “You’re evil,” he mumbles at you, cheeks and tips of his ears flushing red with how turned on he is, “but I’ll give you what you want, since you’re so adorable.”

Thick fingers drawing from your cunt, the loss of him pulling a whine from you; it makes him smile. You’re genuinely so pathetic right now and aside from how horny it’s got him; it’s also got his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Take your shirt off,” he points at you, letting you finally lower your bottom half to the couch.

Grumpily following his instruction, feeling especially docile right now, “You’re being too bossy.”

His words come out a little muffled as he pulls his own shirt off, “Your pouting would have more effect if you weren’t also listening so well.”

“Maybe I’ll stop listening then.”

He stands from the couch to tug down his pants and boxers, brows drawn together and head tilting, “When you’re this close to finally taking it all?” Holding the base of his hard cock, tone smug.

Embarrassed for yourself at how your cunt throbs for him, desperate in a pitiful way that you’ve never imagined yourself being over him or anyone. “Are you in any position to be this big of a tease?”

“For you? Always,” he taps your thigh and leans onto the couch again, “now spread your legs for me.”

Already opening your legs to give him room before really thinking twice on it, hating that you’re this willing to follow his instruction. His hands on you are gentle, almost reverent in how they trail along your inner thighs.

Gojo can’t help himself, touching you as much as he can, wanting to prolong this whole experience. Your skin so soft and delicate under his touch, fingers digging into your flesh just to see proof of him touching you. Completely bare and willing under him, heart hammering in his chest at this fact.

Dragging his cock through your sopping wet pussy, shivering at just how gooey your cunt is. Not intentionally trying to torture you but doing so anyways, squirming and impatient under him the more he plays with you.

“Satoru,” voice pitchy, “please.”

Not moving immediately, only cursing as he gazes at you all lost.

You wrap a single leg around his waist and pull him forward, encouraging, “C’mon.”

Smug expression suddenly back on his face, “Alright, here we go,” tapping at your entrance a few times first. “Ohh, biiig stretch,” word drawn out and provocative as his cock head slowly slips inside you.

Big stretch is fucking right, chest squeezing as you struggle to adjust. Hands gripping onto his biceps for dear life, needing to be grounded.

One of his hands reach out and strokes against your head, you keen into his touch and he chuckles. Leaning down to whisper, “You need to breathe, sweetheart.”

His hips have stopped moving forward but it hardly seems like it, already feeling obscenely full. “H-how much– hnn– more?”

Gojo dips his head down to look at where your cunt is bulging around him, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stifles a strained laugh, “Not much at all.”

“Are you lying?” Unable to help the way your lip wobbles a bit with your question.

“Yeah,” he thrusts just a little bit more into you, “but you’re doing so well, feel fffucking fantastic.”

You’re clawing at his shoulders, feeling like you’re being stretched to your limits, “Why– ah!– why is it so big?” Somehow, you feel annoyed at him for it.

“I’m God’s favourite,” is how he chooses to reply, ego growing tenfold at how you’re falling apart just from the shallow thrusts he’s delivering.

How the hell are you meant to take all of him, “How– hah– how much?”

He can’t take his eyes off how you’re sucking him in, hands gripping your hips and thumbs drawing circles into your skin soothingly, “Why don’t you just watch for yourself?”

You shake your head at him, eyes scrunched shut, “No.”

“And why not?” Still, he’s feeding you more of his cock, your pussy pulsing around him making him dizzy, “It’s a good fuckin view.”

“Don’t– hnn– don’t torment me.”

Blinking your eyes open to give your best glare, it only comes across half hearted. Completely taken with the look on Gojo’s face, flushed pink with his pupils blown wide, teeth digging into his lower lip again to stop from whining. Eyes flicking to yours and he’s completely melting when seeing just how pathetic you are under him, moan stumbling from his lips so suddenly that it takes him by surprise.

He's just as big of a mess as you and it has your cunt positively creaming around him, turned on by the fucked out horny look on your best friends face. Gojo shudders at your pussy getting slicker around him, his dick jerking inside you.

“Getting this– hah– wet over your best friend…” fucking his hips quickly, pelvis now flush to yours, “…how shameless of you.”

You’re quivering around him and writhing under him, the feeling of being completely stuffed full overwhelming on its own. His taunting cruel and mocking and unfortunately turning you on that much more, upset that you’re letting him get away with it.

Lips downturned when you fire back, “You’re more shameless– hnn– pervert.”

Gojo can only be charmed by your weak insult, especially since he’s pretty sure you’re unaware of how your hips are twitching under the weight of his hold. Fighting upwards for the hope of getting fucked but kept frustratingly still by him. Your neediness has piqued his interest, now wondering how long he can stay still until you’re shedding tears out of frustration. Quickly growing addicted to the idea of teasing you like this.

He's so still it’s driving you crazy, able to feel his dick twitching inside you, veins throbbing against your sensitive walls. Obviously wanting it just as bad as you but still not moving, shifting one of your hands to tap at his on your hip, gaining his attention.

Eyes on his, “What are you waiting– mmph– for?”

God, the look on your face is killing him, so sweet under him. It’s almost like you’re falling apart already, his hands dig into your thighs and it has you keening under him. Pathetic whine leaving you as your hips start grinding into him quickly, trying to alleviate some of the desire you’re feeling.

“Now why on earth…” he straightens his back up more, pulling your lower half up with him, not giving the chance for his cock to slip from you, “…are you this touch starved?”

“Huh?” it’s the only response you’re capable of giving, having finally seen just how he’s shoved inside you. Cunt stretched obscene around his fat dick, dripping happily and syrupy sweet around him. Chest fluttering at the shock and excitement.

“I’m so sorry for not noticing, sweetie,” he coos at you, “I would’ve helped you if you’d told me.”

Complaining back at him, “I am not touch starved.”

“You definitely are,” he trails his hand from your hip, up your side, just to show you how you twitch into it, “it’s okay though, I’ll take good care of you.”

Pussy shivering involuntarily around him, giving away that you’re lying. How he managed to know you were deprived, you have no idea but the fact he did is embarrassing to you. He doesn’t need to be aware of how long it’s been since you were last touched so intimately.

“I–”

“–Don’t bother lying again,” he keeps caressing you where he can reach, “I’d much rather hear about how much you like when I touch you.”

Maybe he’ll start moving if you’re honest, “I like when– hah– you touch me,” pouting slightly and barely fighting off the shudder running down your spine at his touch.

“Good,” he smiles at you, all glib, “‘Cause I’m gonna touch you. Lots.”

Eyes sparkling at him, hoping, “Does that mean you’re– ah– hnn– actually going to fuck me now?”

“Why?” his head tilts at you, “Do you want it?”

Giving your best glare back at him, he’s proven to you sufficiently by now that he can read you incredibly well, much to your dismay. Muttering out, “Dream you was– hah– much more indulgent of me.”

“Ouch,” though he says that, he doesn’t seem hurt at all, “Dream me was a fool then ‘cause you’re much more fun to play with like this.”

He’s being so annoying, “Can’t you just give me what I want?”

“I might,” his gaze is lecherous as his eyes rake over your body, “if you ask for it properly.”

“Satoru…” you try to call out to him as sweetly as possible, “…please fuck me?” lip quivering slightly as your neediness bleeds through your façade of togetherness, “please?”

Gojo’s heart squeezes in his chest, he’d planned on tormenting you a little more but he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his sanity any longer. Already he feels like he’s falling apart for you, caught between wanting to give you everything you want and teasing you until you cry. He guesses he’ll just have to settle for fucking you until you cry this time, next time, he promises himself he’ll tease you properly next time.  

“Satoru?”

Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, grin back on his face, “I heard you, pretty. I’ll give you what you want.”

Dragging his cock from you slowly, so slowly, the heavy weight of him pulling out driving you up a wall, insides shuddering. Broken and gasped moans leaving you, rushing out quick, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh–”

The laugh that leaves him is too attractive, amused by your gratitude for something like this. It’s cute how the thank-yous just keep tumbling from your lips over and over as he keeps pulling back to the tip of him.

“Don’t thank me for that…” his hands dig into your hips more, “…thank me for this,” slamming into you all at once with his last word.

The wind is completely knocked from your lungs, shocked whine louder than you’d want it to be. Desperately clawing at any part of him you can reach, struggling to take it and keep it together. Feeling like you’re completely melting, head spinning as pleasure thumps through your veins.

“Mmph– I– ahh–” barely coherent as your eyes fight to not roll to the back of your head, “thank hnn– you.”

Small giggle leaving him at just how adorable you’re being, heart hammering in his chest as he sets a consistently mind ruining pace. He can’t wipe the fucked out smile off his face as he keeps pounding into you, giddy with how he gets to have you under him like this.

Babbling varied compliments, “You’re so adorable,” he huffs out a whimper, “hnn– and you’re so fucking tight around me,” less coherent as he carries on, “God, and so fffucking wet– hah– what the– so hot– I–”

He feels insane, how you’re this warm and perfect around him has him at a loss. Almost like you were made just for his cock, something he’ll let himself believe because the idea of you being with anyone but him breaks his heart a little bit.

Hypnotised by how you’re sucking him back in, clinging onto his dick desperately. It’s almost like every time he pulls out, you’re begging him to fuck right back in, and of course he’ll comply. The idea of pulling out before he’s finished with you a painful thought, not willing to give up this moment even if someone walked in on the two of you.

All you can do is take it, take all of the jaw slacking and toe-curling pleasure he’s delivering you. Your pussy making obscene sounds as he fucks into you, skin hot from how depraved it all feels. Gojo looks so completely wrecked, eyes glazed over, lips still moving as he continues to mutter out sweet praise. Praise that would probably have your insides flipping and body growing hotter but you can’t hear anything but your heart thumping in your own ears.

Delirious grin making its way onto his face as he’s struck with a wicked realisation, large hand sliding its way from your thigh to your stomach. Pressing down the littlest bit and watching how you squirm and shudder under him, gasping for breath and hands slapping at him, trying to speak.

“Don’t– hnn– don’t do that– ah!– too much– it feels too–”

“What? Good?” He hisses out, still managing to be taunting.

“It’s too much– hah– mmph– I’m too sensitive,” your eyelashes feel wet, like you might’ve started crying but you can’t even be sure of that right now.

His hand presses down more into your tummy, “I know you are~” he giggles a little, “it’s turning me on.”

“Seriously– hnn– don’t– I’m gonna– ah!–”

He’d completely ignored your pleas causing you to cut yourself off with a moan, orgasm suddenly washing over you. Spasming hot and snug around him, so sinful that he’s shocked by his own high, cumming deep inside you as you shake and shiver around him.

“Ohh, you’re– haah– you’re killing me sweetly,” Gojo’s head feels like it’s spinning, swimming in so much pleasure as he grinds into you.

You’ve slumped under him, trusting him to keep a hold of you, not even thinking to chew him out for making a mess of both your cunt and sofa. Brain feeling all fuzzy and melted in your skull, blissed out from how good you’re currently feeling.

Busy basking in the afterglow when your world is suddenly spinning, Gojo’s taken advantage of your rag-dolled state and flipped you over onto your stomach. Quickly realising that he’s still hard when your hips are being pulled up and his cock is sliding through your folds.

“You gotta stay with me, pretty,” he groans, positioning his tip at your hole, “we’re– hnn– not done yet.”

“Satoru– ah!–”

Both your moans are debauched and loud as he stuffs you so fucking full all at once, lungs seizing in your chest. If he weren’t holding your hips so tight, you would’ve collapsed to the couch. Your fingers dig into the cushions below you, biting back pitiful sounds that so desperately want to leave you.

“Don’t– don’t do that,” he shoves inside you somehow that little bit more, “let me hear you, sweetie.”

Sulking back, “Noo– hah– it’s embarrassing–”

“–It’s arousing,” he counters, skin on fire with how badly he wants to hear you moan for him.

He supposes it’s fine though, he’ll just have to drag those sweet sounds from you himself. Giving sharp and angled thrusts, purposefully driving right into all those delicious spots he found earlier while playing with you. Grinning wide, overly pleased with himself when you squeak out the cutest moan he’s ever heard.

He’s falling apart inside you, wrapped around your little finger and you don’t even realise it. He didn’t even intend to cum earlier, you just felt too good. All sticky cum and clingy walls, he couldn’t help himself.

Able to feel how his cum leaks out around him, hear how your pussy gushes with his cock inside you. He feels borderline feral, something possessive dancing around in his heart at how your cunt squelches around him, stuffed full of his hot semen.

The desire to see his face hits you, remembering just how good he looked as he got lost in how pleasurable everything felt. Whining pitifully below him into the couch, feeling far too shy to tell him how much you enjoy looking at him while he fucks you stupid.

“Satoru– hnn– it’s–” drooling onto the couch as you moan out to him, “it’s good– hah– it’s too good– it’s good~” nearly sobbing with just how damn good it feels.

“I bet,” he chuckles, loving your reaction.

Biting at him, “Hnn– shuddup–”

Easily ignoring you, “Now be honest… what’s better?”

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, you can’t focus on whatever the hell he’s saying when he’s fucking your gooey sweet spot so perfectly that you’re in bliss.

“Focus,” he fills you completely and stills his hips, refusing to move, “what’s better? This or your dream.”

Cunt so creamy and cock drunk for him, throbbing and pulsing so lovingly on him. He’s a little bit annoyed that he has to stop but he needs your answer. Hips twitching back into him, small noises of frustrated and deprived pleasure slipping from your lips.

He purrs low at you, “If you want me to move then you gotta answer me,” hand smoothing down your back, “you know I will torment you until you do.”

If you weren’t so turned on and delirious you’d recognise it as the bluff it is, he may have been able to torment you earlier but his patience is barely hanging on by a fucking thread at this point. But you are that turned on and delirious, so instead you answer earnestly, “This, this is better. It’s lots better, now please. Move.”

“There ya go,” he pats your ass a couple times, “such a sweet little thing when you’re fucked full of my fat dick.”

Words meant as a warning but failing to hold any weight, “‘Toru– don’t–”

“–Don’t stress, pretty,” giving you a single thrust, “I’ll give you what you and your pussy are begging me for.”

Your response is smothered into the couch cushions, “Please.”

Groaning a giggle at how you reply, finding it cute that you’re displaying manners you don’t usually bother to with him. You must have it bad for him right now because otherwise you would not be so docile under him.

Fucking into you so you can feel it, really feel it. Intending to pull you apart so perfectly, wanting you to feel this just as much he is. Pelvis smacking into your ass obscenely, admiring the way your back arches for him, damn near presenting yourself to him.

“More– hah–” you stutter out at him, trying to explain what you need, “I want– hnn– I want you to touch me more.”

His eyes close and he intakes a deep breath, controlling himself as he registers your words. Arm reaching around you to pull you up, his chest to your back. He’s pressed so close to you, warm and comforting. You’re keening into him again, relishing how close he is to you, how much of him you can feel. Butterflies dancing in your stomach at how intimate it is and how it’s so much better because of it.

His hands grope at you, your hips, stomach, tits, anywhere he can grab, “Someone’s being greedy.”

Huffing back at him, “Hah– I am not.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” amused with himself as he breathes into your ear, thrusting desperately into your dripping cunt.

You grab hold of his hands and tug, encouraging him to wrap his arms around you properly. All too easily, he gives into your will, holding you tight. His face tucked into your neck and breathing in your scent, lips delicate as they trace your skin.

Brain hazy and muddled as you babble out your feelings to him, “It’s good– I like your dick– hnn– I like– hah– I like you.” Head turning to the side to press a small kiss to his head.

He’s quick to move so he can capture your lips with his, groaning into it. His dick grows impossibly larger inside you at your small confession, throbbing and leaking inside your tight heat.

Pulling back with a last suck to your lower lip, “Don’t say such sweet things to me, pretty,” tongue licking your ear, teeth nipping you, “or I’ll never leave you alone.”

“You– hah– you– hnn– do that anyways– ah!–”

“I’m about to become much worse,” it’s more of a promise than anything else, you thought of him as clingy before but he’s about to become so so much more worse.

The idea of that alone should probably be less appealing but while stuffed full of his aching cock, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than pathetically whipped for him. Pussy weeping around him, begging for more, for it to never stop.

His dick so deep it feels like he’s in your lungs, spasming around him as your high gets closer and closer. Pleasure climbing up your spine as you melt around him, loving his touch on your body, his breath by your ear.

Gojo moans, head tipping back before he leans forwards again, “You’ve got me obsessed with you, sweetheart,” voice cracking with a whine, “both you– hnn– and this sopping wet pussy of yours.”

Sobbing out your warning, “‘Toru– hah– ah!– I’m gonna cum–”

“Hmm?” his chest vibrates against your back, “Gonna cum because I told you I’m obsessed with you? That’s pretty lewd of you.”

Cheeks wet with your shed tears, “Don’t– hng– don’t tease.”

“Just let yourself enjoy it,” hand pressing into your stomach like he had earlier, “your cunt sure does.”

Long and pitchy moan leaving you, orgasm knocking into you like a tonne of bricks. Trying to curl forward but unable to, Gojo’s arms are firm around you, not letting you go anywhere as he keeps fucking into you. His pace suddenly much quicker as he doubles his efforts from behind, chasing his own high.

It doesn’t take him long at all to follow behind you, face burying into your neck, teeth biting into you as he shudders. Muffled whimpers vibrating against your skin, his hips jerking shallowly, he can’t bring himself to stop fucking into you. You’re too stupid to think about telling him off, not even sure you’re able to process thoughts let alone talk coherently.

Eventually he stills to a complete stop, planting kisses over his bite mark. He doesn’t want to let you go, content to hold you up like this but you’re on the verge of passing out. Gentle in how he lowers you down onto the couch, the pair of you groaning when his cock slips from you. Shared cum connecting his dick to your stuffed hole obscenely, he has to bite his lip to stifle the most pathetic sound at the sight.

While you gather yourself, he kneads your back, his large hands digging into the knots there. The massage nice and calming, helping to soothe your aching muscles after the way he manhandled you to his hearts content. Almost feeling like you could fall asleep like this, feeling so safe and warm under his ministrations.

He leans over to check you, “Stay awake,” fingers brushing against your cheek, “you’re gonna need a shower.”

“No moving,” you protest.

“Yes moving, I know if you fall asleep like this you will be pissed when you wake up,” he brushes down your spine delicately, “and you’ll be pissed at me… which I’d personally like to prevent.”

“Can’t do it.”

“I’ll help you,” he hops off the couch, “Come on.”

Groaning dramatically the whole time as you sit up, standing in front of him with the help of his hands on you. Legs wobbling under you, balance precarious. As soon as you’re on your feet, his cum leaks from your cunt and down your inner thighs. It catches Gojo’s attention who crouches down to get a better look.

“Wooow,” he comments.

Shy at his reaction, “Wh– what?”

He glances up at you and looks deep into your eyes, “I came a lot inside you,” eyes dropping to stare at your pussy obviously, “sorry but this is really turning me on…”

Barely finishing his sentence before his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, head tipping forward to lick up the mess. Mouth swapping sides to travel up each of your thighs, eyes locked onto yours as he does. It’s overwhelming you, feeling beyond embarrassed at the lewd display. His grip the only thing keeping your wobbly legs from completely giving out from under you.

Gojo’s actions are ravenous and simultaneously dazed, somehow both feral and on autopilot. Moaning into your pussy as he licks and sucks your cunt clean, tongue hitting so many over-sensitive places. Your hands dig into his hair to pull him back only to see the completely pussy drunk look in his eyes. If it had been possible, he’d probably have hearts in his eyes, so far gone.

“Stop– hnn– you need to stop,” legs shaking much more now, “too sensitive,” grip more forceful with your last tug.

He pouts back at you, “But you’re so cute when you’re overstimulated.”

Pulling back from you to stand to his full height, smirking down at you. All self-satisfied and also blissed out on the taste of your shared cum. Your tummy is full of butterflies from how he’s been treating you today, legs still weak under you as your knees cave. Thankfully, he’s quick and catches you, effortlessly picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom to wash the both of you up.

Letting yourself be wiped down by him in the bathroom, sitting on the sink as he uses a warm cloth to clean you up better than his tongue could. “I was serious you know,” he says unprompted.

Head fuzzy and a little lost on what he means, “About?”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

𝒂.𝒏. hope you guys liked !! i'm still working on my neighbour toji fic,, i just got carried away with this one (it was meant to be a drabble but i got too into it and posted a different drabble so i could write this instead >_>) also i was meant to finish this quickly at the beginning of the month but i fell into anime hole MY BAD

Having a roommate is great! You pay less on rent, split utility bills, there’s usually someone home if you get locked out or have to go away for a couple days. There’s many benefits, which is why you wanted one in the first place but when it comes to your reality… it’s a different story. Especially when your roommate is some guy from one of your classes that suddenly needed a roommate when you started looking.

Okay, some guy is a little harsh, you’ve known each other since you were kids, you just grew apart as you got older and have only really gotten back in touch during university. It was surprising to see him on campus but not unpleasant. He was a familiar face on a day where you had no friends in a new environment. It’s embarrassing to think back on it now, with how you practically clung to him the whole day.

Your childhood with him was nice, there’s a lot of memories there. Thinking hard, there wasn’t even an inciting incident to your growing apart. It was natural and happened slowly. Still neighbours but he’d gone to a different high school, and you’d stayed where you were. You don’t really know or remember what happened that you stopped hanging out all together and you were too shy and nervous to just walk those few steps next door.

He was the boy that walked home with you after school, who held his hand out to you when you fell over, who told kids off for picking on you. He was a good friend and always made you smile, losing a friend like him hurt. It hurts more that there isn’t any obvious blame to be put anywhere, it’s not like you guys had a fight or anything.

The fact that your paths had diverged and met again feels bizarre and puts you on edge. Easily falling into step with him before realising you’ve not seen each other in years, a familiarity you feel like you shouldn’t have but is there regardless. Often talking like you’re close before correcting yourself because despite being the same people, you’re completely different.

“Your thinking is disturbing me,” his voice comes from behind you.

The sudden sound gives you a start and you jump, “Geez Gojo,” you turn to look at him, his head tilted and smile lopsided as he leans on the back of the couch you’re seated on, “How long have you been there for?”

He shrugs before throwing his leg over the couch and stepping onto it from behind, flopping onto his ass and jostling you with his movements, “I dunno, a few minutes or more?”

You only hum noncommittally at him, your train of thought completely gone. It doesn’t matter, you have a feeling you’d gotten distracted from the point you were trying to make to yourself anyways.

“You’re gone again,” he pokes at your cheek and you slap his hand away.

“Stop it, I was thinking about something and now all my thoughts are muddled and useless.”

Gojo sinks further into the couch, spreading his limbs out far too wide, “Must not have been all that important then.”

A sound of disagreement from you, “I was thinking about my childhood…”

“Ah…” he sighs, “Must’ve been thinking about me then,” his lashes flutter at you.

And just like that, you remembered what you were initially thinking of. Having a roommate is good in theory and not practice because now you’re living with the single most annoying person on the planet. Only he manages to press all your buttons and you can’t tell if he’s just like that or if it’s because you knew each other as kids.

You choose not to answer him, he bugs you and a part of why he bugs you so much is because he doesn’t even seem a little bit bothered by your past friendship. He’s comfortable around you and is quick to bring up the past, you’d wondered at first if he felt the same sting over your lost past together but his attitude towards you had that line of thinking dropping quick.

Maybe moving in with him was stupid but you needed a roommate and you knew him, it was the better choice but you’re questioning that logic a little bit now. “Do you feel uncomfortable that I’m living with you?”

His head shoots to look at you and his brows pinch, “No.” When you don’t say anything more, he asks, “Are you uncomfortable living here… with me?”

Your eyes meet and you can tell he’s concerned which wasn’t your intention, “No, don’t worry about it… I was just thinking out loud.”

“Wanna know what your problem is?”

Whatever he’s about to tell you is going to be stupid, “No. Not really.”

He gives his answer despite yours, “You think too much, always in thought worrying about things that don’t matter nearly as much as you think they do.”

“Maybe you just don’t think enough,” your retort is quick, not enjoying captain state the obvious over here.

He exhales while shaking his head, like he’s showing you pity, “I suppose you can’t help it; you’ve always been an overthinker.”

And it’s true… you’ve always had a tendency to overthink and for some reason the fact he still remembers that about you makes you feel funny. It’s like you’d half expected him to forget everything about you but time and time again he reminds you that he remembers a lot. More than you’d think he’d have noticed about you as kids.

“Hey, you okay?” His tone isn’t the same from before, no longer teasing, “You seem down lately.”

You brush him off with a smile, “I’m fine, we just have a weird friendship.”

He pouts, “I think our friendship is normal.”

“Of course you’d think that,” you roll your eyes lightly, “What I mean is, it feels weird to go from being so close to strangers back to friends again.”

“Maybe but I personally feel pretty good about it,” he smiles big, “Seeing you on campus was crazy luck and then you were so nervous you wouldn’t leave my side the whole day, it was cute. Reminded me of when we were kids.”

A groan leaves you, starting to feel warmed by your embarrassment, “Shut up.”

“I’m glad we’re getting close again,” his hand rests on top of your head and pats a few times, “Stop thinking so much about the past.”

You don’t have any problems with the past, it already happened, it’s what’s coming that has you feeling so unsettled. Gojo’s hand on the top of your head slides down to the side of your face, his hand caressing you. He grabs you and pulls you closer as he leans in, always so quick to invade your personal space like it’s also his.

He simply utters, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?” You nearly sputter at him, the proximity and intensity of his eyes making you nervous.  

Those eyes narrow at you in response, “Worrying.”

You change the topic, “You need to stop getting in my personal space.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he exaggerates, “Am I in your personal space?” He moves in closer, his cheek pressing to yours, the hand on your other cheek holding you still.

You’re laughing before you have a chance to stop, struggling against him and breathlessly telling him to stop, “You’re so annoying! You’re no better now than when we were kids!”

A gasp pulls from you when you both slip in your struggle, your back meeting the couch seats. You’re expecting the heavy weight of Gojo falling on top of you and wince in preparation but when it doesn’t come you squint your eyes open. He’d caught himself with a single arm, hovering over the top of you with a large grin on his face.

The position is suggestive and has you flustered; your eyes wide as you search your brain for the right thing to say. Gojo isn’t bothered in the slightest, smile unfaltering, “It’s adorable how easily flustered you get.” He bops the tip of your nose with his free index finger.

Quickly, your expression drops, brows furrowing, “Get off me.”

Gojo can’t seem to help himself when it comes to you though, faking deep thought at your command. Eyes scanning up and down your body, “Hmm, and if I don’t?”

“I’m gonna hurt you,” threatening through clenched teeth.

It’s almost like he lights up, always enjoying going back and forth with you like this, “Promise?”

“Gojo,” you warn.

He whines at you, “Why do you still call me Gojo, use my name… like you used to.”

You’re a little taken aback by his request, you’d been trying to be polite. Your brain shuffles through the things you could say right now, something smart or funny or just giving into his request. His eyes on yours are imploring, waiting impatiently for you to call to him.

“I’m not gonna do that,” your head turns from him to avoid his gaze, having decided on defiance.  

Dropping to his forearm, his head follows yours so he can stay in your line of sight. He’s pressed too close to you now; you’re getting embarrassed by his shamelessness. Your palms move to his shoulders to push him back but he’s holding steady.

“Come on,” he draws out his words, “Please, just once. Please. Please. Please. Please.”

He’s so annoying, he repeats his pleas over and over while you shake your head at him.

He changes his methods, seeing he’s not getting far with begging, “I’m not getting off you until you do.” Hand reaching for your face again, manoeuvring you so he can pull you to look at him better.

The way he’s looking at you makes your heart flutter, a pleasant feeling that upsets you. If he keeps looking at you like this, you might go insane. Against your will, your eyes flit to his lips before quickly snapping back to his eyes that are now crinkled with his too big grin.

You pout at him, “I feel like giving into you here doesn’t bode well for me.”

So obvious in how he looks to your lips, slowly tracing your features before locking with your gaze again, “That could be true but not giving in here might not bode well for you either.”

Maybe letting him win will be easier in the long run, you don’t want him becoming more difficult than he already is, “Just once…”

His eyes light up at your acquiescence, suddenly waiting so patiently for you to continue. Just as you’re about to open your mouth to hesitantly utter out his name, your apartment door swings open. Ieiri and Geto kick off their shoes and stumble into your living room. Gojo only groans and drops his head to your shoulder. Disappointed by how close he was to hearing you call to him.

You stutter and fumble over yourself at how he’s dropped onto you, your hands pushing at him, “Gojo get off me!”

“If you’re gonna invite people over maybe don’t try fucking right before,” Ieiri sighs at Gojo like his disappointment is his own fault.

Quick to dispute the accusation, “W–we weren’t doing that! He’s just all in my personal space like usual.”

“Satoru, get off the poor girl,” Geto rounds the couch and pulls Gojo up by the back of his shirt, “Don’t you put her through enough already?”

“You guys have the worst timing,” he grumbles back at him.

Geto lets him go and shrugs, “You’re the one who invited us over, maybe don’t give us a key next time or plan your flirting better.”

“I think you guys have great timing,” you smile at them both, grateful for the save. Especially since the situation was quickly slipping from you. You can’t believe you almost gave into Gojo; he’d absolutely only get worse if you had.

As you sit up properly, Ieiri comes up behind you and strokes the top of your head soothingly, “Would you like us to kill him?”

You laugh at her suggestion, “Thanks but I still need him for his half of the rent.”

Geto and Ieiri are kind and you like them, you’re still a little uncomfortable around them since they’re not your friends. They’re Gojo’s friends that he made in high school and he tends to have them around plenty enough that you’re friendly with them but not much more than that.

As you get off the couch to leave them, Gojo’s hand grabs your wrist, “Where are you going?”

“What? I…” You’re confused, “I was just gonna go to my room and leave you guys to hang out?” He pulls you back to the couch and you collapse into it. Pulling your wrist free, you slap at him, “What the hell?”

He’s unphased by your slaps of admonishment, “You’re gonna watch a movie with us.”

“Do I get a choice?”

He beams at you, “Nope.”

The other two just sigh at Gojo and his antics, moving to get comfortable on the couch themselves. You try to get up again but Gojo is quick to pull you down by the back of your shirt. “I just wanna get a blanket,” you pout at him.

The expression he makes is sheepish and cute, “I’ll get it… sorry.”

Without him in the room you feel nervous and uncomfortable, the silence between the three of you unbearable, “Uhm… sorry about earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it, living with him must test your patience daily,” Geto smiles in a way that eases your nerves slightly.

Ieiri looks around him to look at you, “What the hell was he even doing to you?”

“Ah…” you falter slightly, not sure how to tell them he was tormenting you into saying his name in a position that had suggestive undertones. Maybe overtones is more appropriate here.

“I didn’t do anything to her,” Gojo defends as he comes back into the room, “I just wanted her to say my name instead of always calling me ‘Gojo.’” He flicks the blanket out and places it down over top of you gently, “You guys ruined it though.” Grumbles coming from him as he sits down beside you again.

“You harass her too much, you don’t deserve to be rewarded for that,” Geto rolls his eyes before looking at you, “Don’t reward him for his bad behaviour.”

“I try not to,” you pointedly ignore Gojo’s sounds of offence from beside you.

Geto’s eyes sparkle with something devious as he calls you closer as if to tell you a secret. He whispers into your ear and it sends an involuntary shiver down your spine as you try to focus on his words. As you take in what he’s saying, an evil smile breaks out across your face. Gojo’s quick to get nosy, a hand on your shoulder pulling you back.

“What did he say?”

Chirping back at him, “Not telling.”

Gojo continues to hound you for a bit before Ieiri speaks up, “Can we pick a movie? I have other plans tonight you know?”

Geto agrees with her, “What genre?”

And just when you thought you’d have the upper hand for a bit, Gojo slaps you back down, “How about horror?”

The other two go along with it easily, fine with watching something scary. Apparently a newer film has just come to streaming and they’re all interested in it but while they talk about how good it seems, you’re semi spiralling. You look to Gojo, wondering if he remembers how much you can’t stand horror movies and by the shit eating grin on his face, you’re guessing that yes, he does remember this about you.

Ieiri must pick up on your hesitance, calling your name softly, “If you don’t wanna watch something scary we can watch something else.”

Geto turns to look at you, noticing your apparently obvious anxiety, “I’m cool with whatever.”

You feel awful, they came over to hang out with Gojo and they all want to watch this movie. Even though evil man next to you swayed it this way you don’t doubt they’d probably have watched it anyways if you weren’t here.

“No, it’s okay! We should watch it,” you give your best smile and they both seem placated by it, relaxing back into the couch.

A tug on your sleeve draws your attention back to Gojo, his joking expression gone. His voice lowered so the others can’t hear, “If you really don’t want to, we can watch something else… I was just teasing you.”

“I wanna watch it, I’m not a kid anymore,” you brush him off. They’re his friends and it’s his time with them, you don’t want to take that away from them.

He squints at you sceptically but jokes, “If you get scared you can always sleep with me tonight,” he winks and you dislike the way it makes you feel.

Scowling, you turn away from him but he only chuckles, pleased with your reaction. Then he’s starting the film, looking over to you a few more times before seemingly settling in his spot.

Scary movies themselves aren’t so awful, you can get through them, it’s the going to bed at night that’s less pleasant. It’s not like you think any of the monsters are real, it’s just that some small, irrational part of you has you feeling an awful dread. Laying in your bed at night and not opening your eyes for fear that something will be there looking back at you.

It's silly and something you wish you could say you grew out of but irrational fears aren’t known for being rational, the opposite in fact. It’ll be okay though, for a bit you’ll be a little scared of the emptiness of your room during the long hours of the night but that will pass.

The further into the film you get, the more antsy you become. It’s doing a good job of building tension and unsettling you and every moment that’s meant to frighten you, does. And while this is true for you, everyone else seems completely fine as they watch.

You’re actively fighting against yourself to not jump at the parts you’re meant to jump at, sufficiently scared and embarrassed over it. Nibbling at your lower lip as your eyes squint shut at a particularly loud part.

Something brushing against your hand has your eyes popping open, startling you. Looking down, you can see Gojo has slipped his hand under your blanket and blindly reached for yours. Once he’s found it, he takes your hand in his and squeezes once, his larger hand giving you a small amount of comfort.

The action doesn’t go unappreciated by you, relaxing slightly as he covertly holds your hand, hidden away from the two sitting by your side. Now every time you’re frightened, you grab at him and he simply brushes his thumb over your skin soothingly. It’s intimate and makes your heart flutter like it did earlier when he was on top of you. The movie is easier to get through like this but you can’t help but feel like your relationship with Gojo is on a precarious ledge.

When the movie is finished, your hand slips from his and you can’t help but notice his hesitance in letting you go. After that the night doesn’t go on for much longer, the four of you ordering dinner and eating before Ieiri and Geto are being walked to the door by both you and Gojo. Ieiri is ready to leave, eager for her other plans.

The way Geto looks at you reminds you of what he’d whispered to you before the film, a look of realisation crossing your features as you smile at him and Ieiri, “I had fun, bye Ieiri… S–” you hesitate before pushing through, “Suguru.”

Geto’s smile is huge as he returns your name, “Have a good night.”

Ieiri’s chuckle is quiet but doesn’t slip your notice and when you look to her, you see she’s looking at Gojo whose expression is dumbfounded. It’s like he’s an old computer slowly booting up, “Hey! Hey, what the hell!” He points between you and Geto.

Geto acts like he has no idea what’s set him off, “What?”

“We’ve known each other way longer!” Gojo whines at you.

You’re staring blankly at him, “Gojo, you’re being weird…”

“No! No, you’re being weird,” his hand clasps your shoulder, pulling you to face him instead of Geto. His other hand points to himself, “My name, say my name.”

You blink at him, “Gojo.”

He groans back at you, his shoulders slumping as he falls into you. His head sagged on your other shoulder as he laments this turn of events.

Ieiri adds fuel to the fire, “Call me Shoko.”

“Shoko,” you smile bright back at her, whether she offered just to further Gojo’s torment or not doesn’t change how happy you are to get a little closer to her.

“Oh!” She smirks at you, “My heart just skipped a beat,” she pinches your cheek, “You’re cute but I gotta go, bye.”

You wave awkwardly at her as she shuffles out the door, still being clung to by Gojo. He’s wallowing, “You have to call me by my name now, you have to.”

Geto pats Gojo’s back, you can’t tell if he actually feels bad about what he’s done or if he’s mocking him. He smiles politely at you, “Have fun with this!”

“Right… bye Suguru,” you wave him out too, now alone with a depressed Gojo who won’t let go.

Maybe you should’ve thought this through… the blowout feels like Gojo is about to get much more annoying and you’re the only one who has to live with him. “Would you get off me?”

“You’re so awful to me,” he fake sniffles.

“It wasn’t my idea, blame Suguru.”

“You’re even still calling him Suguru,” he collapses further into you, maybe he should’ve majored in theatre… since he’s so dramatic.

You sigh and stroke his hair soothingly a few times, hoping to calm him. “I’m sorry.”

He pulls back slightly to look at you through his lashes, “So you’ll call me Satoru?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He stands to his full height again, looming over you, “Why not?”

“Because you want it so bad,” a half truth, the other half is that it feels so intimate, especially now, especially with him.

“So, if I say I don’t mind, you’ll say it sooner?”

“Would you mean it?”

Thinking on it for a second before he decides, “No.”

“Then no,” you shrug and walk away from him, going to get ready for bed.

⁀ ⊹ ₊ “

The room is so silent and the dark is all consuming, you’re staring at your plain bedroom wall trying to work up the courage to roll over. The irrational fear that someone is behind you nagging in your brain, you thought since you were in such a good mood earlier that you’d forgotten about the movie but the unease is still deep in your bones.

Taking in a breath, you move quickly and roll over, flinging your legs over the side of the bed as fast as you can. Scuttling out the room, you find yourself at Gojo’s bedroom door. His offer earlier had definitely been a joke, you’re certain of that much but your room is scary and it’s worse because you’d only moved here a little while ago. It’s not like your familiar childhood home, this place still feels weird, specifically during the night.

Everything feels different at night and less recognisable and it’s made worse by how alone you feel. When something like this happened as a kid you’d at least feel soothed by the sound of someone up late watching television or the rattling of someone searching the fridge for food. This is unfamiliar and lonely and you wish you didn’t feel like this but since you do, you’re going to wake Gojo up and force him to hang out with you until you’re too sleepy to be scared.

Quietly you slip into his room, approaching his bed with light steps. His form is all spread out, making full use of his bed with his whole body, much like how he spreads out wherever he’s sat. It shouldn’t be an endearing quality but you can’t bring yourself to hate this about him, especially since he’s a fairly big guy.

He looks cute, you wouldn’t say it’s a peaceful sleep since he keeps pinching his brows as his lips move just slightly, like he’s speaking in his dream. But he looks cute, distinctly him. Staring at him like this is becoming creepy so you reach your hand to him, trying to wake him as carefully as you can.

Your touch is gentle but it wakes him easily, he’s always been a light sleeper. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, making sleepy noises of confusion at you.

“I need you to wake up,” is all you say, like it explains why you’re in his room this late.

Gojo grunts at you, “What for?”

His voice is deeper than usual, words lazy with sleep. It makes your head fuzzy, enjoying how he sounds too much. Pushing aside your stupid feelings, you murmur, “I can’t sleep…”

A noise of unsurprise leaves him, eyes squinting up at you, “You should’ve just said you wanted to watch something else.”

“I was fine with watching it though.”

“And that’s why you’re waking me up? Because you’re fine?”

“I just need you to stay up with me until I’m too tired to be…” You trail off, not finishing your sentence.

Gojo finishes it for you, “Scared?”

“Will you just stay awake with me? Please?”

“No,” he slides over to the side of the bed furthest from you, “But my earlier offer stands,” he pats the empty side of the mattress.

He cannot be serious, “I’ve seen how you sleep; I think you’d suffocate me.”

Your name leaves him in an exasperated groan, “Just get in the bed, scaredy cat.”

It’s either this or go back to your empty room and as much as this feels like a bad idea, he’s making you feel better. “Stay on your side.”

“It’s my bed, the whole thing is my side,” he argues back.

Crawling onto his bed and getting under the covers you mutter, “Just don’t try to kill me with your stupid long limbs.”

“I promise nothing,” he stretches his arms up with a yawn.

A few moments of quiet pass and you assume he’s gone to sleep, his back now facing you. He’s so broad, looking at him like this makes him seem like a giant. Without really thinking it through your hand reaches for him, grabbing the material of his sleep shirt with your thumb and index finger.

Gojo mumbles, you can’t tell if you’ve woken him again or if he’d still been awake, “You good?”

Withdrawing your hand as you mutter, “Yeah… I’m just sorry… for waking you.”

He turns to face you, puff of breath leaving him when he flops onto his other side, “Don’t worry about it, I knew you didn’t handle scary movies well when I suggested one.”

“You knew I didn’t handle them well when we were kids, I’m an adult now,” you counter.

A low hum comes from him, “You’ve not changed very much.”

“You have,” he’s undeniably changed from when you were kids.

His interest is piqued, “How so?”

“You’re more annoying now,” you poke at his chest, “And meaner.”

He denies, “I am not mean.”

You look away in thought, “Hmm… maybe not mean but you’re cruel.”

“That’s worse.”

“You’re a tease,” you settle on.

He’s willing to concede, “I can’t deny that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You get it the worst though,” he reaches for your hand poking at him, fingers unfurling yours and taking them in his.

Ignoring the way his touch makes you feel you sigh, “I have a feeling I knew this already.”

“I can’t help it; I like teasing you.” He smiles, “Your reactions are cute.” He uses his hold on your hand to tug you in closer to him, your front nearly colliding with his.

Suddenly, you’re nervous, “What are you doing?”

“Teasing you,” he answers easily, like it’s obvious.

You’re avoiding his eyes, looking to his throat, his chest, anywhere but his face, “Could you not?”

“I could,” he pauses, “but that’s not as fun.”

You’re so close to him, you rest your forehead onto his chest, “Gojo… if you’re not careful, I’ll start mistaking your teasing for flirting.”

“You wouldn’t be mistaking anything,” he half laughs, “If anything… you’d finally be catching on.”

Did you suddenly drift off or something? You pull back to look up at his face, “What?”

“I’ve been flirting with you the whole time,” he blinks at you, “to be honest I’m really surprised by how long it took you to realise that.”

Can it even be said you realised that? All you did was warn him of possible consequences, “I…”

“I’ve been laying it on thick too you know, I’m a little embarrassed for you,” he’s looking at you with faux pity.

Is he still teasing you, he might still be teasing you. Squinting sceptically at him, “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Seriously?” He looks actually shocked; he leans down to level you with his gaze.

You frown back at him, “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I like looking at you.”

Okay, that one you could tell was flirting, “Gojo–”

He returns your name in the same tone, cutting you off. It’s tense, with your eyes locked and the now known fact that he’s been flirting with you for who knows how long. You should leave his bed but you don’t really want to. You’re so close now, not even having realised just how close you’d both moved to the other.

Gojo leans in as his hand leaves yours to instead hold your cheek, his lips pressing a soft peck to yours, once, twice, three times. When you’d caught on with his third kiss and kissed him back, he moves impossibly closer, his lips kissing you more. Feverous in how he pursues your mouth, becoming desperate in how he kisses you.

It’s making you dizzy and it’s hard to keep up with him, your hands reach for his shoulders and hold on. His hand moves for your hip, pulling at you, his lips insistent. Kiss messy and wet, his tongue licks into your mouth and you let it happen. Small noises leaving you at how good he’s making you feel from just this alone, he barely even parts to take a breath.

The hands you have on his shoulders push back; your breaths panted as you struggle to say what you want. “W–we should stop…”

He whines at you, disappointed, “Why?”

You stumble over your words, “Because it’s late and you’re sleepy and not thinking straight and–”

“–If you wanna stop that’s fine but don’t take this moment from me because of those reasons,” there’s something almost pathetic about him right now, “I’ve wanted to kiss you forever, don’t make me stop because you think I’ve not thought this through.”

His answer is surprising to you, taken aback by how needy he’s coming across. Instead of saying anything, you press a light kiss to his lips like he’d done to you. He’s quick to return it, lips demanding. His kisses are full and making you feel tingly all over, pulling a gasp from you with how he sucks your tongue into his mouth. This might make you crazy, you’re turned on and delirious.

Pressing your thighs together as slyly as possible, not wanting him to know just how worked up you are. The hand he has on your hip plays with the band of your pyjama pants, tugging them just slightly to dance his fingers along the exposed skin. Not moving any further than that, only gripping at you before sliding his hand back up.

The way he’s kissing you is breathtaking and yet also feels like he’s holding himself back, his fingers tapping against your skin as he refrains from exploring your body further. When he moves back, he nips at your lower lip and small moan slips from you. The sound pulls a visceral reaction from him, a soft groan leaving him as his head collapses onto your shoulder.

His breath tickles against your skin, “Please let me touch you.” He sounds so pitiful even to his own ears, words laced with desire.

For a moment you’re not even sure you heard him right, “What?”

He licks at your neck, shiver running down his spine, “You’ve gotta be so wet, just let me touch you, please.”

You stutter out, “I– I’m not having sex with you like this.”

Tone whinged back at you, “Fine. That’s fine, just– let me touch you.”

If you were surprised by his need before then you don’t know how you’re feeling right now, “Okay, you can–” your words are lost when he rolls you onto your back, his hands shoving your pants off. “Gojo, c– calm down.”

Eyes barely glancing at you, “Can’t.” He’s far too eager, skin buzzing with his excitement, Gojo could almost swear he’s still asleep and dreaming.

Reaching over clumsily to flick on his lamp atop the bedside table, he needs to be able to see this. Oh, and he feels breathless at the sight of you in your panties, like the wind has been knocked out of him. Lower half dressed in innocent white with a pastel little bow on the front. Almost feeling like it’s his birthday and this is his new favourite present he’s yet to unwrap.

“This what you’re always wearing under all those cute skirts?” He mutters out at you.

You’re not even sure you’re meant to have answered until his eyes flit to yours, clearly waiting for you to reply. “Uh, not– not always.”

“Gonna have to show me,” he smirks at the thought, wanting to see you in and out of every pair of panties you own.

Large hands trail up your thighs, landing at the edges of your underwear and just when you think he’s going to finally tug them off, he pulls up. Your panties moulding to your pussy obscenely, leaving nothing to the imagination with how he’d forced them up. Gasping indignantly at him, hands flying to grip his, your legs squirming. His lecherous gaze greedily eating up the view of you like this, delighting in how you’re wriggling. Beyond embarrassed at his actions, somehow feeling more exposed like this than if he’d just taken them off.

“Gojo!” You whine at him, hands clawing at his when he pulls just the littlest bit more on the material.

He bites his lip, not even gracing you with eye contact, too busy to, “What’s wrong?”

“You– you’re such a– a…”

He mocks your stumbling, “A– a– what?”

“A pervert,” you settle on.

Small, dazed giggles leave him, “Yeah, yeah I am,” a hand moves off your hip. Instead, slowly dragging an index finger through your wet slit over your panties, a low growl leaving him at just how slick you are. “Just for you though, sweetie. I’m your sick pervert.”

Your breath catches in your chest, not expecting him to be so depraved, “Could you please– hah– stop teasing.”

“I thought I made it clear that– oh fuck– I like teasing you,” in awe at just how much wetter you got when he started talking, “Hmm… I think you like it too.”

Pouting back at him, “I’d like it better if you touched me.”

“But I am touching you,” he singsongs back, barely there touch dancing around your clit.

“I was ri–right earlier,” your hips shuffle desperately to try and get him to touch where you so badly need it but he expertly avoids your movements.

Hand on your hip pushing you down flat into the mattress harshly, “About what?”

“Hm?” Your brain feels foggy and it takes you a second to remember what you’d started saying, “You are cruel.”

A breathless laugh leaves him, “Sweetheart, you got no idea.”

The devious smile he gives you has you believing him, no doubt in your mind that he could be worse than this. Regretfully, you use your trump card, “Hah– if you ma-make me cum– ah!– if you can make me–”

He takes your phrasing personally, “Oh, I can make you cum, don’t even–”

You cut him off but every time you try talking he taps lightly over your clit with two fingers, “If! Y-you can make– hng– mee~ cum, I’ll say your name.”

That gains his interest, offence gone at the promise of hearing your lovely voice murmur his name. He crawls over your body, face meeting yours, “Promise?”

Nodding your head lazily back at him, “Promise.”

“Gotta seal it with a kiss,” smile dopey as his eyes drop to your lips.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you press your mouth to his in a debauched kiss. Tongue pushing into his mouth to lick against his own, his chest vibrating with a sweet moan. Gojo feels fucked and stupid at how you’ve kissed him, not fully expecting you to press your lips to his like that. He doesn’t even want to part, mouth moving against yours effortlessly.

Realising his complete unwillingness to pull back, you do it for him, parting with a wet pop that makes his spine shudder. Gojo’s unable to help the small sound of yearning that leaves him, he would’ve been happy to die from suffocation if it meant you were kissing him like that the whole time.

“Gojo?”

Your voice shocks him back to his body, he’d been staring at you all dazed, “Now I just gotta make you cum, right?” His canines show in his grin, confident in himself.

Nodding at him, “Please.”

He snickers, “Such sweet manners, pretty,” Already shuffling back down your body, his new favourite place coming into his line of sight. Cruelly, he blows cool air on your heated core, enjoying the way you twitch at it.

Big hands pressing between your thighs and pushing them apart, making room for his large frame between them. Feeling indecent in how wide he spreads you open, even more so when he lets out a low whistle at the messy state of your panties. You’re about to admonish him for purposefully embarrassing you when he’s getting comfortable between your thighs and pressing his face into your covered cunt.

Large gasp pulling from your lungs at his shamelessness, skin growing so much hotter when you hear just how deeply he inhales. Deep groan reverberating from his chest, a sound so gutturally pleased that it makes you shy. Legs fighting against his palms, wanting to hide yourself from him and his salacious actions.

Your hands push at his head, “Oh my god, Gojo?! Could you be any more shameless?!”

He doesn’t pull back, speaking into your pussy, “Sure I could.”

Immediately following up with an example, tongue lolling out of his mouth to press up against you. Drooling onto your underwear, already wet material growing slicker. More moans tumble from his lips at the taste of you, enjoying this so much that you’re shocked by how aroused he’s making you.

“You– you’re embarrassing me.”

Only humming back at you happily, words muffled, “You’ll get over it.”

You’re not sure if you believe him, feeling so self-conscious by his brazen desire and not seeing that changing any time soon. Feeling twitchy by how turned on he’s got you from it, you shouldn’t be this into it, you shouldn’t be this into him but you are and you need him to do more to you.

Gojo feels insane, salivating over the taste of your cunt on his tongue through your panties. Poking his tongue into your hole, stopped by the material separating him from you. Simultaneously frustrated and so horny, enjoying this much more than he probably should.

Voice coming out pitchy and bitten back when you call to him, “Please– hng– take ‘em off.”

“Someone’s needy,” he accuses like he’s not about to start humping the mattress below him. Your hips wiggle down into him and he stifles an amused laugh, “let me savour this a bit longer.” And then he sucks on the material of your panties, saliva thoroughly drenching the already sopping wet garment.

Relishing in the shocked squeaks you let out at his action, finding something so addictive about all the sounds and faces you make when you’re flustered and embarrassed. All at once he grows far too impatient, the taste of you on his tongue nowhere near enough anymore, not when he knows you’re leaking divinely and honeyed sweet for him.

Hands rushed and frantic as he pulls your panties down, quickly realising that he’ll need to move to pull them off properly. He’s completely unwilling to move further than he has though so he simply tears them from your body, chucking them over his shoulder to let them fall in tatters.

“Gojo! Those were one of my fav– ah!–”

Not even bothering to listen to your full complaint, immediately diving in to slurp obscenely at your gooey cunt. His eyes roll to the back of his head when he finally tastes you directly, cock twitching in his pants as he moans. Tongue wasting no time slithering into your tight heat, feeling out of his mind as you throb and whine for him.

Why couldn’t you have realised he was flirting earlier? He could’ve been doing this so much sooner and the thought he’s been missing out makes him feel devastated. How many nights did you touch yourself while he was one door down and why is he suddenly jealous of your own hand? His tongue moves inside you and your back arches, a shaky hand reaching down for him which he takes in his own – he doesn’t want you moving him because he’s pretty sure he just found your sweet spot.

Repeating his movements just to get the same huffed moan and full body reaction he got the first time, a lazy smile on his face at the realisation. He has you wrapped around his finger now, sending you wave after wave of pleasure but never enough to make you cum. No, he’s having too much fun teasing you right now and he also knows that as soon as you cum this is over and he’s not ready to part with your gushing pussy just yet.

God, he’s like a fucking animal as he licks and sucks on your cunt, frenzied but lazy look in his eyes every time your gazes meet. He’s got you feeling like a real mess, head dizzied and heavy with the pleasure that’s soaking into your bones. Beyond turned on and so so ready to cum, at first your foggy brain thought maybe he didn’t know but now you know he’s just toying with you.

His deft tongue hitting all the right spots just until you’re about to finish only to start being evasive enough for the high to slip from you all too soon. It’s absolutely intentional and it’s hurting your feelings, why won’t he let you cum? Why does he like teasing you so bad?

Pleasured mind taking it all too personally, eyes wet and glazed when you whimper down to him, “Gojo– hah!– please– hng– please let me cum– mmph–” your voice hitches with your words, “I– I thought you wan– wanted to hear me– ah!– say your name?”

Gojo feels his dick leaking into his pants at the pitiful way you whine at him, finding it all too endearing that you’re this worked up over him. It makes him want to tease you a little more but he’s nothing if not pathetic for you and he’s all too quickly giving in to the cute sounds of you begging him to let you cum. He really could make out with your pretty pussy forever though.

Humming at your continued whimpers and pleads, trying to give reassurance that he’s about to be oh so nice to you but the vibrations have your thighs shaking so much more. Hips fighting to grind down into his face only to be steadied by his large hand on your hip, frustrated sounds leaving you at his continued resistance to help you get off.

Instead of trying to get you to understand, he’ll simply tongue fuck you until you climax. Focusing on that spot he found earlier, pressing his nose into your clit, loosening his grip a tiny bit so you’re able to grind down into him. Fuck, he might die if he lets you ride his face, to be used by you for pleasure could have him cumming untouched.

It’s perfect, it’s so perfect he just needs to not move. You try to tell him as much, “Don’t!– Don’t fffucking– I’m so– hnng!– ah!–”

You’re not even able to finish any of what you attempted to say, orgasm hitting you out of nowhere in the middle of trying to talk. Vision going dark as you shake and shiver through your climax, cunt pulsing around his tongue, desperate to be stuffed so full. You’re struggling to breathe through the best orgasm of your life, hand gripping onto Gojo’s tight as he keeps lapping at your achy pussy.

Gojo is in love with how creamy your delectable cunt is, he’s pussy drunk and feeling like he can’t stop. At least he wouldn’t be able to stop if it weren’t for the raging hard on he’s got, so hard it almost hurts. Reluctantly, he’s pulling back from your pussy and if you were just the tiniest bit more aware of your surroundings you’d feel bashful about how messy Gojo’s face is.

Not even bothering to wipe his face, tugging his shirt over his head quickly before slipping his hands under yours, not taking it off but pushing it up to expose your tits. Big hands groping at you, lightly pinching your nipples when he asks, “You still with me?”

“Uh huh,” nodding lazily back at him, limbs heavy and head buzzing. Watching him and the thinly veiled feral expression on his face as he palms your tits has you stifling down a moan.

There’s such an adorable look on your face, stupid and satisfied. Gojo’s barely holding onto his last thread of sanity, he wants to fuck you so bad but he said he wouldn’t, so he won’t. Resting a hand on the mattress he leans down closer to you, lips brushing the skin of your cheek before kissing your mouth sloppy.

You’re holding onto him, fingers digging into his shoulders. Unable to stop the small sounds he’s drawing from you, the effect he has on you sinful and unfair. Thighs rubbing together as his tongue licks at yours, low rumbles pulling from his chest. Still so horny for him but far too embarrassed to ask him nicely to fuck you.

Lips parting the smallest amount so he can ask, “Where’s my prize for making you cum?”

And now you’re remembering what you had promised if he managed to make you cum. Maybe if you were in your sane mind you’d try and wriggle your way out of it but considering he made you cum so hard you can’t even compare it to anything else, you’ll say it.

Taking a quick breath in and averting his gaze, you mumble, “…Satoru.”

His body reacts a whole lot more to that single call of his name than he thought it would, shiver running down his spine and dick twitching in his too tight sleep pants. Slumping down into you and whining, “Your voice is so pretty.”

Turning his head to the side, he latches onto your neck. Sucking a love bite into your skin, teeth nibbling at you before pulling away and licking over it.

He’d caught you off guard with it, gasp leaving you, “mmph– Gojo–”

He singsongs back, “–Satoru.” He nips at your skin lightly, “Say it again.”

His gaze on you feels heavy, watching your mouth carefully to see how the word forms, “Satoru.”

Eyes falling shut as he groans, savouring this for a moment before pulling from you and leaning back on his knees, “Sweetheart…” Large hands holding your thighs together by the knee as he asks, “can I fuck your thighs? Please?”

That was one of the last things you had expected him to ask of you, his straightforward request making you feel shy. It’s not even like you’re going to say no but you can’t have him thinking you’re too weak for him, “Aren’t you being a little greedy?”

He smiles big at you, like he already knows you don’t fully mean it, “I don’t think I’m following, pretty.”

“I agreed to say your name and that was it and now you’re asking for more…”

“I asked so nicely though,” he points out.

“You’re still being greedy.”

“Mhm,” he hums noncommittally, clearly he’s stopped paying attention. Already lifting your lower half off the bed and throwing both legs over one of his shoulders. “I’ve still not heard an answer from your pretty mouth yet.”

He’s holding you up so effortlessly, strong forearm holding onto your thighs. Free hand reaching down for the waistband of his pants. His eyes look to yours, eyebrows lifting in question, “Where’d your words go?”

“Okay,” you nod at him quickly, suddenly all too distracted by the sight of his slowly lowering pants. Happy trail far too enticing for you to even think of delaying this much further.

His hand stops moving, “‘Okay’ what?”

“Okay you can…” your eyes flit back to his hoping he’ll settle for you not having to say the whole phrase but with the expression on his face – patient and waiting – you can clearly see he’s not going to, “Yes… you can… fuck my thighs.”

He groans, pleased with your answer, “Fuck, thank you so much.”

Pants pushed down just enough for his cock to be freed. He’s so hard it looks aching, flushed a pretty shade of pink and leaking precum from the tip and down the sides. His hand squeezes the base of himself a couple times, taking deep breaths.

Tapping on your leg lightly to catch your distracted attention, “Open your thighs just a bit.”

Doing as he asked without questioning him, legs still over his shoulder as you give him room to move. He slides his cock between your thighs, resting between your cunt so wickedly that it has you fidgeting. The hand that had guided his dick grabs the outside of your leg and pushes, your thighs closing around him.

Gojo’s head tips back as he fights to keep his senses, your skin so warm and soft that he feels a little crazy. Pussy still so wet and messy for him that he can’t help but feel that go straight to his ego, you want him and that makes him feel all giddy.

Below him, you start writhing impatiently. The underside of his cock is pressed up against your clit and now you feel like you’re throbbing with the need for him to actually fuck you open. The moans that leave him are so pretty and you want to hear more, trying to move a little bit more in search of added pleasure but he’s quick to stop you.

The muscles in his arms bulge as he restrains your lower half, head dropping forward to look down his nose at you. The look he gives you makes you feel small, hole twitching at it. You need him to move right now and you need it bad, every part of you screaming for it.

“Move?” your lashes flutter up at him, “I need you– ngh– to move.”

Exasperated but all too amused breath leaving him, “You’re so needy. It’s making me dizzy.”

Frowning at his words, “I am not– ah!–”

But he’s quickly drawing his hips back and dragging his big cock through your folds before slamming forward, the whole length of him driving you insane. Between your thighs feeling so soaked, brain melting all at once.

“Fuck, fuck fuck, fuck– this is– you’re too– hnng–” Everything Gojo is trying to say is cut off by either moans or a brand-new line of thought.

With every thrust he makes you feel a little less like a person and a whole lot more desperate for him. It feels good, really good, so good that you want more. The fact that you’re aware of the fact he’s not even inside you and you’re feeling this good has your brain short circuiting. Fingers digging into the sheets, attempting to ground yourself and completely failing.

Your pussy is positively weeping for him; to be filled by him and it’s taking all of his strength to ignore the way your hole is borderline begging for his dick. Brows furrowed as he focuses on slamming between your thighs, already feeling so pitifully close to cumming like this. How he’s even held on this long is a wonder to him, too close to cumming earlier when he was tongue deep in your cunt.

Hitting your breaking point, you whimper out to him, “Gojo– hng– just put it in– hah!– you can put it in,” nodding your head desperately at him.

Chuckling breathlessly at your whining, “I thought you didn’t– fuck– didn’t wanna have sex with me like this?” He recalls your earlier assertion.

“Hnn– I– ah– changed my mind?”

Biting his lip to stop his moans enough to speak, “You’re talking outta your pussy, sweetheart.”

“I’m not, I’m not– hah!– please put it inside, please.” Worried that you’re not swaying him enough but you want it so fucking bad, insides aching for him, “Satoru, please.”

Well that’s just playing dirty, a small whine slipping from him at your use of his name, stuffing it down just so he can seem composed when he replies, “Well, when you beg me so sweetly like that how could I ever say no?”

Dropping your lower half onto the bed makes you mewl at the loss of friction and he can’t help but laugh airily at your despair. Opening your thighs obscenely just to drag his cock through your sloppy cunt, shivering at how messy you are. Little hole shuddering for him, the sight of it makes him tut.

“Are you even gonna be able to take me, hmm?” he wonders aloud to you.

You’re already nodding back at him, “You can make it fit…” eyes wet and fucked when you address him, “can’t you?”

You may as well have just shot him fucking dead, “Of course I can.” Eyes glinting in the low light of the room, “‘Course I can.”

Slowly pressing into you, opening you up so lewdly on just the tip of his cock. Your hands already reaching for him and gripping onto the hands on your hips. The amount of control he needs for this is astounding and you’re not helping with how twitchy and worked up you are. Every time you show just how much you’re enjoying this, how much you want him, he gets just that littlest bit closer to cumming prematurely.

“Sweetie,” he calls to you, words barely bitten back, “I need you to relax for me.”

“I’m trying, you’re just so–” Your eyes drawing down to where he’s picked you up and started working you open, “–big.”

Involuntarily, his hips drive forward, the tip of him finally slipping into you. The both of you let out moaned sighs, you’re fighting the urge to kick your legs, already feeling so good and nowhere near close to taking all of him.

“You’re gonna kill me, you’re trying to kill me,” he huffs out, feeling like the snug fit of your cunt might actually kill him dead right now and his only regret would be not being balls deep already.

His words are rushed and pitchy at the tail end, like he’s so close to whining about how good it feels. The soft flush on his skin is pretty, expression all twisted in so much pleasure. Looking at him is making you feel too many things, overwhelmed by his cock and how attractive he is. Bringing your hands up to cover your eyes, hiding him from your view.

Your name rolls from his tongue in a soft moan, “What are you– hah– doing?”

His slightly trembling voice has you clenching down on him, “I can’t– I can’t look at you right now.”

“Hmm? Why not?” The smile he’s definitely sporting can be heard in his tone. “Am I turning you on too much,” he taunts.

Replying hesitantly but honestly, “Yeah…”

Gojo was not expecting that from you, his ego growing tenfold from the idea alone, the confirmation only serving to make him even more unbearable. Small giggles leaving him, “How embarrassing~”

Your arms drop in exasperation, going to frown at him but as soon as your hands are off your face, he’s sliding into you a few more inches. Your brain no longer capable of thinking of anything at all, its sole purpose now registering the immense pleasure he’s giving you. Moans broken and shocked at his unexpected move, if your hips were on the mattress you have no doubt that you’d be trying to buck up into him just to take him all.

“Want my whole dick, sweetie?” He hums at you, thumbs rubbing soothingly on your hips from where he’s holding you up.

Your eyes feel wet, vision blurry, “I– hah!– want it, all of it.”

“‘Course you do,” he smirks, “so turned on just by the sight of me.”

Future you will be cursing horny you for admitting that to him so easily, he will absolutely be reminding you of this later. “Sh– shut up.”

“You sure you want me to?” A single brow quirking in your direction, “I think you like my voice, pussy squeezes me so nice when I talk to you.”

And then he’s slowly sinking into you inch by delicious inch, taking care as he does, cautious of how your tight, little hole swallows his cock. Drooling at the lewd sight of your pussy bulging around him, small and bitten back noises leaving him as he pushes into you.

You’re taking him so well, wrapped so perfectly around him, sinfully wet and soft. Cunt so greedy in how you suck him in that he might pass out, trying to focus so hard on filling you completely before he blows his load.

Damn near whimpering when his pelvis hits yours, struggling so bad to hold completely still, softly grinding into you. His whole body feels like it’s buzzing, ears thumping as his blood rushes in his head. Completely elated to be so deep inside you, even more so to see the way you squirm under him.

Your eyes already look so fucked out and dumb, lashes fluttering, struggling to keep them open. Everything feels raw and exposed, mind numbed and complacent, “Move– hnng– you need to– hnn– move.”

“Wait,” he groans, eyes closing to control his breathing, whines still trapped in every breath he takes.

“But–”

“–So cute, you’re so cute– hnng– and you feel fucking fantastic, too good that I need– hah– a moment to breathe before I cum inside you, okay?” He rushes out, words tumbling over each other just so he can adequately warn you that he’s certain this will end early if he starts moving any more than this.

That was cute of him, his bitten back words and grit teeth followed by soft sounds of feeling just so good has your heart jumping in your chest. Struggling so hard to be patient right now, beyond worked up, pussy absolutely throbbing around him. So slick and only getting wetter, especially when he’s admitted to feeling so good from sitting balls deep that there’s risk of him cumming before he wants to.

Maybe distracting him will work, “I’m glad… we got to get closer again.”

“Oh, we’re close alright,” he snarks, looking down at where he’s fucked so deep inside your pussy that it should be criminal.

“You’re such a pervert,” you complain, “I was trying to help.”

Leaning down, he rounds his arms under and around your body, hugging you flush to him. He doesn’t let go of you even as he rises, cock pulsing so hot inside you as he kneels on the bed. You’re clinging onto him so tight, praying that he doesn’t drop you.

“You’re gonna drop me,” you worry.

Nuzzling his face against your cheek, “I wouldn’t do anything to risk losing the tight heat of your pussy, sweetie.” Planting a sloppy kiss to your cheek and then your lips, “Just make sure to hold on tight.”

“You can’t drop me,” you assert.

He soothes, “I won’t.”

Lips locking with yours again, the urge to kiss you sitting too heavy in his chest to ignore. Tongue licking against your own languidly, kissing you so softly, taking his time. Mouth hot and wet as his lips smack against yours, his cock jerking inside you at how it feels to have his lips on yours.

Every part of you is buzzing, his kiss much more gentle and caring compared to the frenzied and needy way he had kissed you earlier. It’s making your heart feel weighted, this shared moment where he’s so deep inside you and kissing you so sweetly feeling so tender that it almost hurts.

Keeping his mouth on yours as his arms move from behind you to grip your thighs, he’s not even sure you register the change, still kissing him back so devotedly. And all he can think about is how bad he’s got it for you now, nipping at your lower lip to make you gasp before kissing you full again.

Hips pulling back, the slow drag of his heavy cock making your spine shudder. Keening into his kiss, lips dropping from his to moan.

“You’re so pretty,” he compliments low to you just before he slams back into you all at once.

The breath you’d had in your lungs exhaled so fast it makes your head spin, pathetic and whingey mewls the only thing leaving you. The compliment he’d given you making you feel a sickening kind of gooey fondness, feeling bashful at his sincere words. His kindness juxtaposed by the harsh way his dick is fucking into you.

Soft and delirious giggles leaving him, “You liked that~” He purrs, head dipped so his lips drag against your collar bone, “I’ll remember that.”

“D– don’t know– hnng!– what you’re talking about,” you babble back.

He coos at you, “I’m talking about– hah– how you liked being told– fuck– how pretty you are while I’m stuffing you oh so full.”

And you really wish you could lie to yourself about how much you like it, but your body is betraying you so severely, cunt gripping him tighter and gushing that bit slicker. Wet sloppy sound of him fucking you hard filling the room, squelching messy and lewd and embarrassing. So turned on that it doesn’t even matter, barely managing to garble out his name, moaning it over and over like a chant.

Back to being so horny and out of your mind that you can’t bring yourself to care about how needy and desperate you’re coming across. Hanging onto him for dear life as he thrusts so fast and deep that you’re seeing stars. His grip on your hips using you as if you’re a toy for him to fuck.

Tip of his cock hitting your cervix with each re-entry, hitting against every delectable inch inside you so completely and effortlessly that you’re starting to drool. “I– You’re so– ah!– deep!”

“Am I?” He stops thrusting, sitting as deep as he can go inside you, single hand drawing up to your stomach, “That means you can feel me here?” and then he’s pressing down.

You grip onto him tighter, clinging desperately, nodding fervently, “Mhm– yes– yeah–”

“–Already close, huh?” He notes. Your reaction so visceral, cunt pulsing around him rhythmically.

“Keep moving?” You rest your head on his shoulder, speaking into his skin, “Please, ‘Toru.”

Evil, that nickname for him on your tongue is so wicked and he doesn’t even think you realise you’ve just called him that. “You’re sending me to an early grave,” he mutters.

Hand back on your thigh in no time, lifting you with ease to keep fucking you breathless. Feeling absolutely devastated by how adorable you are, by how needy you are. Cunt positively creaming around him, saccharine sweet as your pussy begs for him over and over.

Tongue lazy in your mouth at you stutter out calls of his name, starting to have trouble holding onto him effectively. Gojo is the only thing stopping you from slipping back onto the bed, drooling onto his skin. Mindlessly, you press a soft kiss to his shoulder, and you just barely hear  the mewl he lets out because of it.

He’s so close to cumming, your loving kiss on his skin causing everything inside of him to go weak for you. “Sweetie, you feel so good– hnn– so so soso good,” he’s drawing in a shaky breath, “and now I need you to cum so good for me, yeah?”

Practically begging for you to cum on him, needing to feel it but you’re so out of it that you can’t reply coherently. Every word a sputtered whimper that you couldn’t stifle down without a hand on your mouth. You’re a complete mess and he feels so much overwhelming pride over the fact that he’s done that to you.

The only sounds you can hear anymore are the soft and sighed whines of Gojo holding back his orgasm, the lewd slapping of skin against skin, and the pleasant thrumming in your ears. The noises you assume you’re making not even fully registering to you, much preferring to hear Gojo’s anyways.

So close you can taste it and when he starts giving little rutted grinds of his hips every time your pelvises meet, you’re done for. Crying out broken moans as your cunt pulses hot and wet around him, cumming so hard you lose focus, vision dark and hazy and fucked so stupid.

You’re gripping him so tight, pussy trying to desperately milk him of everything he’s got. Veins in his cock throbbing against your walls so sinfully. Feeling so fucking sensitive with how he’d been holding back from cumming pretty much since he put his mouth on you.

Urgently, he gets your attention, “I’m gonna fucking– hnnn– cum, I need to–  hah–  I need to put you down so I can pull out.”

You only cling onto him tighter and shake your head, legs closing around him firmer, “Cum like this.”

And even if he wanted to argue with you a little more… he couldn’t. The lazy way the words formed against his skin and the cute way you’re drooling on him as him cumming so suddenly. Forcefully slamming into you a final time, dumping all of his cum so deep inside you and painting your walls an obscene creamy white. Hands gripping your thighs so hard that he thinks he might leave bruises of his hand prints behind. That thought alone making his dick twitch even more.

Feeling so boneless as he very carefully lays you down on the bed, his breaths coming fast against your skin as he reels from his own orgasm. Staying like that for a moment, pressed so close to you while you both come down from your highs. Aware enough to hold himself up by an arm so he doesn’t crush you under his weight.

As he goes to pull away he quickly realises you’re not about to let him go, “Gotta let me go, sweetheart,” he mumbles.

Brain taking a second to catch up to what he’s just said and the fact that you’re still clinging onto him, “Hm?... oh… m’sorry.”

His heart seizes in his chest, and he can’t help but press sweet kisses to your lips over and over, humming happily against you. Your grip loosens on him, and he fights against himself to pull back, there’s something he really wants to see.

Sitting back just to watch as he pulls out of you, his seed leaking from your gooey hole as he does. Shuddering at the view of it, his lecherous gaze lighting up at how much he’d cum inside you. As if on autopilot, his fingers collect what’s leaking from you and stuff it back inside, stroking against your inner walls.

His intention far from innocent, perverted touch making you twitch and whine. So hypersensitive from everything he’s put you through, one of your own hands reach down for his and grab at his wrist, trying to stop him.

“What’s wrong?” He asks through a smile.

You whimper at him, “Too sensitive, ‘Toru.”

Oh and there’s that nickname again, the one that make his heart skip a beat. “You’re okay, sweetie,” he hums as praise, “doing so well for me, you can cum one more time can’t you?”

You shake your head but your grip loosens and his grin grows wide on his face, he’s never forgetting how reactive you are. Still, he’s careful with you, he knows he just fucked you within an inch of your life, touch gentle as he fingers your pussy full of him.

Scissoring his fingers and gently rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb, “Your pussy is divine.” He continues cooing at you more, “Took me so well, so greedy for me, hm? So wet and tight, had me feeling like I was going crazy…”

You want to tell him to shut up, that he’s so embarrassing and shameless but your words won’t come. Mouth too occupied with letting loose the scandalous cries of pleasure you’re feeling, damn near pornographic in nature.

Back arching meanly only to be pushed right back down by his hand on you, trailing it from your sternum down your torso to just over your lower stomach. Lustful and plotting grin on his face when he pushes down, more of his cum leaving you only for his fingers to pull out to stuff it all back in.

It’s like he’s playing with you, getting a sick kind of enjoyment out of watching you squirm and leak with his seed. Already you’re so close again, barely having come down before he started finger fucking you, sensitive and dopey.

“Someone’s getting close,” he singsongs to you, the clicking sounds of him playing with your sopping wet cunt making your skin hot with shame.

Gojo puts effort into focusing in on that one spot he found earlier when he was tongue deep in your pussy, stroking you over and over, elated by the shocked and fucked look on your face. Body fighting so hard against its own pleasure and yet still greedy and begging for more.

Eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you cum yet again, struggling to breathe through it, whining out Gojo’s name over and over like how you did earlier. Twitchy and high strung and so so sensitive, thighs closing around his hand as you shake through your orgasm.

Forearm covering your eyes as tears slip from your waterline, everything feels so raw and electric and hot. Unable to even hear properly with how your head is rushing, all your senses dulled and simultaneously on edge.

Gojo tickles his touch up the outside of your thigh and you jerk at it, “Atta girl, did such a good job,” he compliments.

“I died,” you huff out.

“You didn’t die,” he wipes his fingers on your thigh, before crawling up your body.

You continue to complain, “You killed me.”

“I would never,” pulling back the arm hiding your face from him, “I like you far too much for that.”

Your only response back are begrudged grumbles that you don’t really mean. It’s hard to play angry at him well when you’re so high on your pleasure, body buzzing so pleasantly and head still dizzyingly content.

He smiles fondly at you before kissing you sweetly, lips lingering for a moment and then stating, “I’ll be back.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re left on the bed swimming in the relaxed and satisfying feeling thrumming through every inch of your bones. He shuffles around his room for a moment, changing into a clean pair of pants before scuttling out the door quickly.

Semi confused on where he’s gone until he comes back with a glass of water and a towel in the other, “Can you sit up for me?” You lay still for a moment, and it prompts him to check, “You can’t?”

“I’m thinking,” you don’t really want to get up, but you do, slowly dragging you body up to rest against his headboard.

He hands you the glass, motioning for you to drink while he sits down by your legs. Using the towel to gently wipe between them, careful not to touch you where you’re too sensitive. you finish the water and set the glass down on his bedside table where his lamp is lighting up the room.

Glancing down you quickly realise your shirt is still rolled up over your tits haphazardly, it suddenly feels dirty, you want a new shirt. “Gojo, can you grab me a shirt from my room… please?”

“Hmm?” He looks up to you and shamelessly stares at your tits, to which you cover them with your arms and frown, “I’m wiping my cum from between your thighs but you’re suddenly too shy for me to look at your tits?”

It’s not logical but that’s exactly how it feels, “Yes.”

Playfully, he rolls his eyes but gets up, discarding the towel in his hamper. He doesn’t go to your room though, simply tugging a shirt from one of his drawers. Walking back over to you with it in hand, “Arms up.”

Thoughtlessly, you do as he asks without question, arms raised up and waiting. Of course he takes the opportunity to blatantly stare at your chest, “Hey!” Your arms drop down.

An unapologetic giggle from him, “Sorry, sorry. Raise ‘em up again.”

You pout but you do lift them again and this time he actually takes your shirt off, it gets chucked over with the towel and the fresh shirt he grabbed is pulled over your head. It hangs off your frame and is clearly not your size but it’s comfy and soft and it smells like him.

Suddenly you’re feeling sleepy, eyes blinking slow as you struggle to keep awake. Something that changes when Gojo simply picks you up off his bed and starts walking out the room with you.

Yawning as you rest your head on him, “Where are we going?”

“To your bed, someone made a huge mess of mine,” he grins.

“And whose fault was that?”

Quirking a brow at you, “I’m pretty sure it’s yours.”

Feeling bashful as you pointedly look away from him, “Shut up…”

You both get into your bed beside each other, and you can’t help but snuggle into him, he’s so large and warm and it’s not even like you could avoid it because he was quick to wrap an arm around you and pull you snug to him.

Yeah… this friendship was definitely on a precarious ledge, and you tumbled right over the edge of it…

𝒂.𝒏. meow meow meow i hope you enjoyedddd,, this had been sitting in my writing folder since the middle of january and i couldn't wait anymore. i needed it finished and it's technically not because i had so many roommate gojo ideas that i couldn't add :< anyways !! THANKS FOR READING ILY❕

“kento dear,” you began, soft steps quietly thudding against the wooden floors as you made your way to him, who was fully dressed: soft charcoal sweater hanging off his frame, pushed up revealing his forearms, reading glasses hanging off the bridge of his nose while his sandy locs unstyled in a way you almost never got to see outside these walls.

which, unfortunately, was the problem. he was far too comfortable for the atrocities he had just committed against you whilst you slept.

“did you touch it?” your voice coming out suspiciously calm.

nanami doesn’t even look up from the cup of jasmine tea he was nursing. “no.”

you only narrow your eyes as you finally end up next to him. “kento.”

that bratty tone of yours was enough to earn you a glance now, hazel eyes tired yet sharp all the same. “i told you, no.”

“yeah, well,” you huff, crossing your arms, looking up at him expectantly, “waking up feeling like i got left in a meat locker says otherwise.”

he shuts his eyes as he takes a slow sip of his tea, setting it down with a soft clink, the steam curling between you. “interesting,” he begins, voice flat with quiet amusement.

“you seem quite functional for someone who claims they’re—” he pauses, unimpressed, before lifting his hand and giving your forehead a quick, precise knock with his knuckles, withdrawing before you can even think to catch his wrist. “—frozen solid.”

“ugh!” you huff, hands missing his wrist and instead clutching your forehead with an adorable frown. “i’m not frozen solid, but i’m going to be. i don’t know why you just can’t leave it on 72.”

he exhales slowly through his nose, “you know i get hot. i shouldn’t have to strip to be comfortable in my own home,” he says flatly.

his hand lifts without much ceremony, gently replacing yours on your forehead. he briefly rubs the spot he’d knocked before his fingers slip down to tug lightly at your ear, earning an immediate, indignant whine from you.

“or would you prefer i start walking around the house naked instead?”

“what? i’m not answering that.” you say, turning your face slightly away from him, the words coming out clipped as you huff under your breath, “pervert…”, still clearly offended at the recurring offenses.

you manage to slap his arm away. “i don’t see why you insist on wearing long sleeves and then complain you’re hot.” you grumble. “you’re making me hot just by looking at you.”

he scoffs softly at that, as if the answer is obvious. “i wear it because i enjoy being properly dressed,” he replies, smoothing an imaginary crease from his sleeve before leveling you with a look. “and physiologically speaking, it’s significantly easier to warm up than it is to cool down.”

“so, like i said,” he murmurs, reaching for his tea again, “the thermostat stays where it is.”

and just like that, the war begins . . .

the rest of the day was full of quiet hostilities:

the two of you swiping the thermostat in opposite directions each time you walked by, addressing each other by first name as if you were two disgruntled coworkers trapped in an enemies to lovers arrangement rather than of spouses, nanami opening windows for “circulation” while you wrapped yourself in blankets like a victorian child afflicted with a devastating illness, texting each other back and forth instead of verbally communicating.

YOU ‣ my hands are blue and numb. i hope your happy

KENTO ‣ *You’re How are you texting me then?

YOU ‣ don’t be annoying ken. that’s not the point

clearly, neither of you were willing to concede. which only meant this was quickly becoming a battle of endurance rather than a dispute about “temperature”. which also meant this was not going to end soon.

or so you thought.

despite the many, many hours of domestic warfare, the two of you still end up in bed the same way you always did, backs turned dramatically beneath the blankets, the thermostat unfortunately still set at 63. which meant nanami was winning.

the cold seeped through the sheets and curled around your legs until your body instinctively tucks in on itself, shoulders hunching deeper beneath the comforter with a quiet frown hidden against your pillow. beside you, nanami remaining entirely unaffected, laid comfortably on his side with one arm tucked beneath his pillow, warmth practically radiating off of him in waves.

it was infuriating.

because no matter how committed you were to the cold war, your body had always betrayed you first when it came to your husband.

sometime somewhere in between stubbornness and sleep, you found yourself shifting toward him subconsciously, inch by inch until your forehead presses against his back, your leg slipping over his beneath the blankets in search of warmth. the soft fabric of the white shirt he’d changed into earlier brushes against your skin, warm from sleep and smelling faintly of cedarwood and tea.

and god, the bastard was warm.

firm beneath your touch too, broad shoulders relaxing slightly the second you curl fully into him with a sleepy little sigh.

you knew he was awake. you could tell by his breathing, it wasn’t the same comforting slow that soothed you once the day came to an end.

for a moment, neither of you said anything, pride still clawing at your insides. then came the soft shifting of sheets before nanami turned toward you, your forehead brushing against his chest as his strong arms came to cage you in instinctively, one settling around your waist while the other tucked beneath your head. his chin rested atop your hair with a quiet exhale, pulling you into his warmth. 

your fingers curl weakly into the front of his shirt, face pressing deeper against his chest despite yourself. somewhere above you, nanami hums softly, entirely too aware of the fact that you were the one to cave first.

an inevitable outcome.

“interesting,” he murmurs into your hair, sleep roughening his voice. “what happened to hating me?”

you grumble something incoherent against him.

“mm?” he asks, entirely too pleased with himself. “couldn’t quite hear you love.”

your brows pinch immediately. “still hate you.”

his chest rumbles faintly beneath your cheek at that, amusement subtle but absolutely there. absolutely nanami.

“so, you admit defeat?”

you tilt your head up just enough to glare at him through the dark. “i told you. don’t say anyth—”

you were going to argue. save whatever was left of your pride.

except your words barely make it out before he tips your face up just enough to cut you off with a slow kiss, warm and unbearably smug beneath the blankets.

any and all insults died in your throat as butterflies began to bloom low in your stomach, your leg still hiked around his waist while his warmth slowly melted the last stubborn pieces of your pride away as your lips firmly molded against his own, a soft sigh escaping you. one of spite, obviously.

you could feel the faint curve of amusement against your lips when your annoyed little huff melts into him anyway — the exact outcome the two of you had been stubbornly dancing around all day out of pettiness and “spite.”

nanami pulls away from you before resting his thumb on your lower lip. “there you are love,” he murmurs softly against your mouth, breath mingling with yours: entirely too pleased with himself.

“63 seems perfectly fine to me, no?”

he only watches as your expression softens in real time before giving the faintest nod — mentally noting the effect he had on you.

“mm,” he murmurs. “thought so.”

what a horrible, horrible man you married.

you didn’t come looking for viral moments or “gotcha” questions. instead, you listened attentively. you made your guests laugh while ensuring they felt comfortable. and somehow, by the end of every interview, it felt less like journalism and more like a conversation between friends.

“welcome back, everybody,” you beamed, leaning forward slightly to connect with the lens. “today i’m joined by the incredible cast of michael.”

the cast waved and smiled, the energy in the room instantly lifting.

nia long, coleman domingo, juliano valdi. and finally… jaafar jackson.

the moment you’d seen him walk into the studio earlier your brain had completely malfunctioned. because what the hell? nobody had warned you. not a single soul had informed you that this man looked like that in person.

the pictures online did him absolutely no justice.

his smile alone should’ve come with a warning label. he wore a simple, tailored shirt that fit him perfectly, and his curls fell just right over his forehead. thankfully, years of professionalism kept your face neutral. mostly.

across from you, nia was already grinning. you and nia had known each other for years. she was one of the bigger names that you’d interviewed back when you were first starting out and you’d interviewed her countless times since. you loved her dearly and so did she.

which was exactly why you should’ve known she was up to something.

while you adjusted your notes and checked your earpiece, she leaned slightly toward jaafar. just enough for you not to notice.

“see?” she whispered, nudging his elbow. “i told you she was gorgeous.”

jaafar looked over at you while you were laughing with one of your producers, gesturing with a pen in your hand. his stomach immediately flipped.

“yeah,” he muttered quietly, clearing his throat. “she is.”

nia’s smile widened. she had him exactly where she wanted him. completely.

the interview began smoothly. you asked thoughtful questions. questions about responsibility, legacy, grief, art. the emotional weight of portraying real people.

“there’s a lot of pressure attached to this project,” you said, your voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “how did each of you navigate stepping into shoes that meant so much to millions of people? coleman, let’s start with you.”

coleman shifted in his seat, nodding thoughtfully. “you know, you have to approach it with reverence, but also find the humanity. we aren't just playing icons; we're playing real family dynamics. it requires a lot of vulnerability.”

“and it shows in the footage,” you responded, nodding before turning your gaze. “jaafar, what about you? especially with the familial connection, how did you balance that pressure?”

the answers were heartfelt and honest. exactly what you loved. and throughout the entire interview—

you couldn’t stop noticing jaafar. not because he was attractive.

well.

partially because he was attractive. but mostly because of the little things. he rubbed his knee whenever he got nervous. every single time. the way he took in his bottom lip. the way he twirled the ring on his finger.

whenever he was about to answer a particularly personal question, his hand would move to his knee and start rubbing absentmindedly, his fingers smoothing over the fabric of his pants. it was adorable.

and his smile.

lord.

every time he talked, every time someone made a joke, that smile appeared. soft, genuine, slightly shy. it transformed his entire face. you found yourself looking away more than once because you were determined to remain a professional. he quite literally gave you butterflies every time he spoke, his voice low and incredibly gentle.

meanwhile, jaafar was having the exact same problem. because every time you laughed, his attention snapped toward you. every single time. it was becoming embarrassing. especially since the rest of the cast had started noticing. nia was shooting him knowing looks, and coleman had a slight smirk playing on his lips. jaafar knew he would be getting an earful later.

after nearly an hour of conversation, you clapped your hands together, the papers in your lap rustling.

“okay, before i let you guys go, we’re playing a game.”

collective cheers went around the room. juliano pumped his fist in the air, while coleman leaned back with an amused groan. you laughed at their excitement.

“it’s simple. michael song versus michael song. you pick the better one.”

“oh no,” coleman sighed, rubbing his temples playfully. “this is how friendships end. you’re trying to tear this cast apart.”

“oh yes.” you smiled deviously. “absolute chaos is the goal here.”

the game started out simple.

billie jean versus smooth criminal. the cast chose smooth criminal.

“the choreography tilts the scale, it just does,” nia argued, and you nodded in agreement.

rock with you versus remember the time. rock with you was the victor.

human nature versus dirty diana. human nature obviously.

the cast surprisingly agreed on most choices. until disaster struck. you looked down at your card. then back up, biting your lower lip to hide a smirk.

“hmm.”

immediately suspicious, nia pointed a manicured finger at you.

“what’s that face? look at her face, y'all.”

“oh this is about to reveal character.” you said dramatically.

juliano laughed, shaking his head. “just ask the question!”

you took a deep breath, building the suspense.

“man in the mirror…”

everyone nodded, already prepared to shout it out.

“…versus the lady in my life.”

silence.

then one by one.

“man in the mirror,” coleman said firmly.

“man in the mirror,” nia echoed.

“man in the mirror,” juliano piped up.

your jaw dropped.

“WHAT?”

the entire cast burst out laughing at your genuine distress.

“y’all cannot be serious.”

“it’s man in the mirror,” juliano said, leaning forward with a massive grin. “it's a classic!”

“absolutely not.” you argued with the child, pointing your pen at him. “you are too young to understand the romance of it all.”

“absolutely yes.” juliano fired back, laughing.

you sat forward dramatically, resting your elbows on your knees.

“you people don’t understand.”

more laughter echoed through the studio as the producers joined in on the debate.

“no seriously. the intimacy. the yearning. the longing.”

you placed a hand over your chest, closing your eyes for effect. nia was crying laughing, wiping the corner of her eye.

“here she goes,” nia chuckled.

“i’m serious!” you pointed around the room. “maybe i’m just a hopeless romantic but the lady in my life is superior. the vocals at the end? the breakdown? come on!”

across from you, jaafar couldn’t stop smiling.

he loved watching passionate people talk about things they loved. and you? you lit up. your hands moved when you spoke. your eyes sparkled. your entire face became animated, your smile blinding. you were absolutely gorgeous.

it was impossible for him to look away.

“i actually agree,” jaafar spoke up, his voice cutting through the laughter. “it’s one of michael’s most slept-on songs and the vocal performance on it is incredible.”

“exactly!” you shouted, your eyes locking onto his.

“see?” you said triumphantly as you pointed in jaafar’s direction, looking at nia and coleman. “finally, someone with taste! thank you, jaafar.”

“but it’s still not beating man in the mirror,” juliano interrupted, completely ruining the moment.

everyone exploded with laughter again.

“juliano!” you gasped, putting your head in your hands.

“i’m right!” the boy insisted.

“you’re wrong!”

“i’m literally correct!”

the debate continued for several minutes, filled with playful banter and overlapping voices. and despite your best efforts—

man in the mirror ultimately won. a tragedy. a crime. an injustice. you were robbed and you informed the audience of this fact repeatedly, looking directly into the camera with a heartbroken expression.

finally, you smoothed down your outfit and smiled warmly at the cast.

“seriously, thank you all for being here. this movie means so much to so many people, and honestly, spending time with you all today, i can tell why this project worked.”

their expressions softened, the comedic energy shifting back to mutual respect.

“you guys have incredible chemistry. but more importantly, you’re all genuinely beautiful people.” you smiled.

for a second, jaafar forgot how to breathe. because the way you said it felt sincere. not media-trained. not rehearsed. sincere. he swore your eyes lingered on him for just a fraction of a second longer than the others, or maybe it was just his imagination.

his cheeks immediately warmed. thankfully the cameras stopped rolling before anyone could notice.

“and we’re clear.” one of your producers said from the back.

everyone began removing microphones. stretching and chatting. the technical crew started moving around the set, and the energy immediately relaxed into casual hums of conversation.

nia pointed at you as she stood up.

“i told y’all.”

you laughed, unclipping your own mic pack.

“told them what?”

“that you’re the best in the game.”

your hand flew to your chest.

“ms. nia, stop it.”

“oh don’t start. you know you’re the best.”

“thank you. i love you longtime, hunny.”

“i love you more. let’s meet for lunch soon! i mean it, text me!” nia said as she wrapped her arms around you tightly, inhaling your perfume.

coleman then walked up to you, extending a hand before pulling you into a warm hug, expressing his gratitude and appreciation for you. “you’re an amazing interviewer and an even better soul. keep doing what you're doing.”

“thank you so much for coming, send my love to the hubby,” you told him, beaming.

across the set, juliano leaned toward jaafar, watching you interact with the crew.

“she’s so pretty.”

jaafar looked over. once again, you were wrapped up talking to someone else—fixing a loose script page, laughing about something with a production assistant. completely unaware of the eyes on you. his smile appeared again, soft and helpless.

“she definitely is.”

juliano immediately grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes.

“do you think i can get her number?”

“absolutely not, buddy.” jaafar laughed, a genuine, deep sound as he patted him on the back. “you're a little too young for her, don't you think?”

a few minutes later the cast started heading toward the exit saying their final goodbyes, their voices fading into the hallway.

you were gathering your notes for your next interview, stacking the papers neatly into a folder, when a familiar voice stopped beside you.

“hey.”

you looked up. and there he was. he had stayed behind while the others walked off. close enough now that those stupidly pretty eyes were somehow even more distracting, catching the remaining studio light.

“hi!” your voice bounced a little higher than usual.

jaafar smiled. the smile. there it was again. lord help you.

“i just wanted to say thank you for having us once again.”

“of course. it was an absolute pleasure.”

“we’ve done so many interviews for this press tour, but nothing topped this one. i can see why nia loves working with you so much. you make it easy.”

and there it was. that nervous habit again but this time, it was him and that darn lip. adorable.

you laughed and your expression softened, your heart doing a strange little dance.

“that’s very kind of you to say. thank you, jaafar.”

finally, he glanced toward the door where the rest of the cast waited, the muffled sound of juliano's laughter drifting back in. then he looked back at you, holding your gaze.

“i hope i run into you again soon. maybe outside of a studio.”

your heart did a tiny little flip. the dangerous kind. the kind you ignored. because you were a professional. mostly.

you smiled, your cheeks tingling.

“i hope the same. i'm sure our paths will cross.”

his grin widened, clearly pleased with the answer. for a second, neither one of you moved. the space between you felt suddenly charged, the ambient noise of the studio fading into the background. then nia’s voice echoed loudly from down the hallway.

“jaafar! the car is waiting! let’s go!”

he sighed dramatically, but laughing anyway.

you laughed, shaking your head.

“you should probably go before she comes back in here to drag you out.”

“probably,” he agreed reluctantly. he took a few steps backward toward the exit, still smiling, still looking at you. “see you around.”

“bye, jaafar.” you waved your fingers at him and sent him on his way with a warm smile.

and as he disappeared down the hallway, juliano immediately appeared beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulder. already talking. already playing around. the two got along like brothers which you really admired.

while back inside the studio, you looked down at your notes, trying to focus on the next set of questions. then you looked toward the door he’d just walked through, the silence of the room suddenly feeling a bit more noticeable. and despite being the professional you are—

you couldn’t stop smiling either.

a couple weeks after the interview. your good friend quen called you for an interview of your own. she invited you to be on her youtube series, feeding starving celebrities to which you accepted of course.

“welcome to the fsc kitchen!” quen yelled, tossing her hair back and gesturing wildly toward the entrance. “introducing the queen of interviews, the baddest thing walking, my favorite vixen. ITS MY GIRL.”

you walk out, matching her chaotic energy immediately. you two jump around the kitchen excitedly, screaming and hugging each other like you haven't seen each other in years, even though you just texted this morning.

“welcome to my show hunny,” quen says, catching her breath and smoothing down her top.

“thank you! i’m so excited to be here.”

“it was a longtime coming.”

“yes yes yesss,” you agree, clapping your hands.

out of nowhere, edm began blasting from her speakers to which you both broke out into model poses, doing your best white girl club dances—complete with the fist pumping and the awkward hip sways. the camera crew was cracking up behind the lenses.

“okay okay,” quen said once the music subsided, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “would you like to know what’s on the menu today?”

“well of course my queen.”

“we’re doing lemon drops for the bev because i heard those are your favorite! then we’re doing salmon rice and potatoes. and lastly for dessert, we cheated and just bought a cheesecake girl.”

“amazing.”

first up was the drinks segment. while you prepped the ingredients—slicing lemons and grabbing the shaker—quen started asking her first set of questions, leaning against the counter with a look of pure mischief.

“you’re known for being super confident, while also being very sweet and caring,” quen began, watching you measure the lemon juice. “did you have an experience in your life that made you this way or have you always been this way?”

you answered while you started making your lemon drops, pouring the liquid into the shaker. “truthfully speaking, i didn’t always have this confidence but when i got to college? i just knew i was that girl.”

you both started laughing, quen nodding along.

“like walking across campus, you literally couldn’t tell me nothing,” you continued, shaking your head at the memory. “not a damn thing.”

you both continued to laugh and joke around until you grabbed the tequila bottle. you quickly covered the label of the tequila bottle with your palm, looking directly at the main camera. “no free promo, not sponsored.” you joked.

“not until they cut the check!” quen shouted.

the camera crew lost it.

“you’re terrible.” she told you.

“i’m professional.” you shot back.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“same thing.”

the next question came naturally.

“for your age, i feel like you’re doing so many big things in your life. wait- how old are you now?”

“i’m twenty six,” you said, before stopping and pointing a lemon knife at her. “wait- how old are YOU?”

“twenty five.”

“ayeee,” you cheered, clinking your fresh lemon drop glasses together. you both began to mumble the lyrics to sza’s 20 something’s song at the same exact time which caused you to burst into a fit of laughter.

the segment continued on and while you prepped the salmon, seasoning it generously on the cutting board, she asked more questions that got deeper and deeper, moving from your career goals to your personal life.

“okay, i gotta ask,” quen said, lowering her voice like she was letting the audience in on a secret. “have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”

you paused, a piece of salmon in your hand. “like on my show?”

“no, on my show,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. “yes, your show, girl!”

you both shared a loud laugh before you actually thought about her answer. your brain instantly took a trip back to a couple weeks ago. the shirt. the open buttons. the nervous knee-rubbing. the smile that should've come with a warning label. jaafar was the first person you thought about.

“can i plead the fifth?” you laughed, your cheeks beginning to hurt.

“absolutely not. this is feeding starving celebrities, not a court of law. spill it.”

you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter before telling the truth. “jaafar jackson.”

quen let out a piercing scream that probably blew out the audio levels in the control room. she jumped up and down, hitting the counter. “no way!”

“yes way, quenlin,” you muttered, covering your face with your hands from pure embarrassment, wishing the kitchen counter would just swallow you whole.

“well, jaafar jackson if you’re watching this… hit my girl up!” quen screamed directly into the camera, winking dramatically. “she is single, she is successful, and she likes your uncle's music! call her! and if you’re worried about the teeny tiny age gap, she’s the most mature person i know!”

you busted out laughing, throwing a dish towel at her to make her stop.

the show continued to move on, the salmon smelling incredible as it cooked, and finally it came to a close as you both stuffed your faces with the store-bought cheesecake after you edit farmed for social media.

“i loved having you, please come on more often. my soul sister,” quen said, giving you a massive hug as the closing music started to play.

“i love you, quenlin. thank you for inviting me.”

the next few days for you were insane. the moment the episode dropped on youtube, the internet took it and ran. the interview was being clipped and posted everywhere on all platforms—tiktok, twitter, instagram reels. shade room reposted it. people were making edits of you and jaafar from your original interview, putting them side-by-side with your confession on quen's show.

one very specific clip.

“have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”

“…jaafar jackson.”

you wanted to die. your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. your friends wouldn’t stop texting. your coworkers wouldn’t stop laughing.

your bosses? absolutely unbearable. you walked into the office three days later and immediately knew something was wrong. everyone looked excited. too excited.

your personal assistant practically sprinted toward you.

“good morning.”

you narrowed your eyes. “what happened?”

“nothing.”

“you’re smiling too hard.”

“am i?”

“yes.”

he slid his phone across the desk. you looked down and nearly choked.

“oh my god.”

there it was. a notification. one very simple notification. normal people wouldn’t have reacted like that. but you were far from normal.

jaafarjackson started following you.

the entire office erupted.

“HE FOLLOWED HER.”

you covered your face wanting the floor to swallow you whole.

“this is humiliating.”

“this is incredible.”

your boss immediately clapped his hands.

“okay.”

you pointed.

“don’t.”

“we need to capitalize on this.”

“oh my god.”

“we need jaafar back on the show.”

“we do not.”

“immediately.”

you dropped your head onto the desk.

hard.

everyone laughed.

“i’m going home.”

“you’re not.”

“i’m quitting.”

“you’re not.”

“i’m changing my name.”

“you’re definitely not.”

somewhere across the city— jaafar was experiencing his own version of embarrassment. because after watching the clip approximately seventeen times and smiling every single time, he’d finally worked up the courage to hit follow. the interview with quen showed an entirely different side of you. he was so intrigued. a mentally sane person would say he was obsessed.

good thing he wasn’t mentally sane.

and now? he’d somehow agreed to come back on your show. which meant in just a few days— the two of you would be sitting across from each other again.

the next few days leading up to the interview, nervousness fell upon you like a heavy blanket. you couldn't pace around your apartment without staring at your phone, replaying the clip from quen's show in your head and cringing into your pillows.

“what if he thinks i’m a weirdo?” you groaned to your reflection in the mirror while getting ready. “oh my gosh, i can’t handle this.”

you had to remind yourself that you were a professional journalist. you worked in the craziest of circumstances. a little awkwardness never hurt anybody. at least, that’s what you told yourself to get through this interview.

the day finally came, and unbeknownst to you, jaafar was just as nervous as you. he had been shifting around in his dressing room for an hour, adjusting his collar and asking his team if his hair looked alright.

when he finally walked out onto the studio floor, every piece of self-control you had left the window. he looked entirely too good. he was wearing a gold silk shirt that made him look incredibly warm and approachable, and the studio lights caught the exact same warmth in his eyes.

you had about thirty seconds to pull yourself together before he approached you. you took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, trying to force your heart to stop hammering against your ribs.

“hey,” he said softly, his voice a little lower than usual.

“hi!” you replied, maybe a little too quickly.

the two of you hugged—a brief, slightly tense embrace where you could swear you felt his heartbeat too—and barely exchanged words before your stage manager was clapping her hands, ushering you both onto the set.

“we’re rolling in three… two…”

your media training kicked in just in time. the familiar warmth of the lights helped ground you.

“welcome back, everybody,” you said, looking into the main lens before turning to your guest. “welcome back, jaafar. although it hasn’t been long since we had you the first time, how have you been?”

jaafar adjusted himself in his chair, his fingers immediately finding his knee to give it a quick, nervous rub before he caught himself and smiled. “i’ve been good, thank you. and yourself?”

“i’ve been great,” you said, a mischievous tilt finding its way back into your voice. “busy doing my own interviews and whatnot.”

jaafar’s eyes sparked with instant amusement. “so i’ve heard.”

the two of you shared a genuine, lingering laugh, and just like that, all the awkward tension went out the window. the comfort you had established during your first meeting came rushing back, making the studio feel small and private again.

you began to ask him more personal questions, moving away from his role as michael and focusing on him as an individual. you asked him about his family dynamic, what it was really like growing up as a jackson in the midst of such a massive legacy. you asked him what he initially wanted to do growing up before the artistry caught up with him.

“there's a moment for everyone,” you murmured, leaning in attentively. “when did you realize that your family was as prominent as they are? not just in the music industry, but their deep influence on the world, and on black culture specifically?”

jaafar listened intensely, his gaze locked onto yours. he answered beautifully, speaking with a humility and depth that made your heart do that dangerous little flip again. he spoke about watching his father and uncles, about the responsibility he felt to honor that history, and how much he valued the love the community showed his family.

towards the end of the interview, the control room chimed in your ear, reminding you of the segment your producers had cooked up. you cleared your throat, looking down at the fresh set of cue cards.

“okay, my team has put together some questions for us to answer,” you said, immediately turning your head to look directly into your specific camera with a warning glare. “these ARE NOT my questions, by the way! i would like that noted for future purposes.”

jaafar let out a soft chuckle, shifting in his seat to face you fully. “ask away.”

you looked down at the first card. “alright. are you dating anyone?”

jaafar didn't even hesitate. he happily responded, “no, i am not.”

you nodded slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear while giving a slow, knowing, look directly into the camera lens. the silence in the studio broke instantly as everyone on set started laughing uncontrollably at your expression.

“i too, am also single,” you responded smoothly, turning back to him.

jaafar reached over, playfully pulling the next card from your hand to read it himself. “alright, my turn. who was your celebrity crush growing up?”

you closed your eyes, bracing yourself. “barack obama, and i will not be explaining further.”

jaafar burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “that’s insane.”

“he has aura, jaafar! next question!” you argued, laughing with him.

you hesitated before reading the final card in your hand. your eyes scanned the text, and for a second, you considered throwing it across the room. but professional duty called, so you read it anyway, your voice dropping a little. “when seeing my recent interview with quen… hearing that i have a crush on you… how did you react?”

the studio went dead silent, everyone waiting for the response.

jaafar instantly got nervous, but he didn't look away from you. his expression softened completely. “i was taken by surprise,” he answered honestly, his voice quiet and sincere. “you’re a very beautiful woman. very intelligent. i have to admit… i watched the clip for days.”

your jaw slacked slightly, a intense wave of heat rushing to your face. “oh please, you flatter me, jaafar,” you said, blushing profusely and trying to use the cue card to fan your face.

“i’m serious,” he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he flashed that million-dollar, panty dropping smile.

the sheer charm of it was lethal. you had to cross your legs immediately, the physical tension between the two of you suddenly becoming unbearable. you could hear a producer in the back whispering a faint “oh my god.”

right then, one of your executive producers walked onto the set, holding just one more single cue card. she had a massive smirk on her face.

you cannot be serious, you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing into a fierce glare as she handed it to you. she just gave you a silent thumbs-up from behind the camera and scurried back into the dark.

you cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “before we close, we have a quick game to play.”

the producers had thrown together some random, convoluted party game—something involving rolling dice or picking matching cards—but the rules were clearly rigged from the start. no matter what choices were made, the penalty or the reward ultimately resulted in you two sharing a kiss either way.

jaafar looked at the card, then looked at you, an incredibly nervous but thrilled smile taking over his face.

“well,” jaafar murmured, leaning forward over the small table separating your chairs. “rules are rules.”

your heart was beating so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. “yeah. rules are rules.”

you both stood, talking small steps toward one another. when his hand gently reached up to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline, your eyes fluttered shut.

the moment his lips pressed against yours, the entire studio seemed to vanish. it wasn't a quick, awkward cheek-peck for the cameras. it was soft, lingering, and incredibly deep. for a second, it felt like you were entirely melting into the warmth of him, your hand instinctively rising to touch his forearm.

then, a sharp beep from a camera battery brought you crashing back to reality.

you quickly remembered that you were on camera, surrounded by your entire production crew. you pulled away, your breath catching in your throat, your lips tingling.

jaafar’s eyes slowly opened, looking completely dazed, his hand lingering in the air for a second before he dropped it to his side.

you forced your voice to work, looking toward the main camera with everything you had left. “and… that is all the time we have for today. thank you for watching. don’t forget to buy your tickets to michael and follow us on all socials!”

“and we’re clear!” the director called out.

the lights didn't even dim before the set fell into a strange, buzzing quiet. you closed the interview, stacking your cards with trembling hands. across from you, jaafar still stood, completely speechless from what had just happened, his eyes fixed on you like he was trying to figure out if he was still dreaming.

finally he mustered up the courage to ask, “are you busy tonight? i would love to take you out.”

you couldn’t help but feel that nia long was somewhere, rubbing her hands together and laughing wickedly, knowing that this had been her plan all along.

It was supposed to be dinner, nothing more than dinner, a simple, civil, carefully portioned evening where Odessa would sit across from Jaafar beneath soft lights and say the thing she had rehearsed a dozen times in the mirror, that it was better if they remained separated, better if they stopped circling each other like two wounded gods too proud to admit the war had ruined them both, better if they finally put an end to the back and forth, the almosts, the maybes, the quiet little domestic rituals that kept dragging them back to the edge of something neither of them seemed brave enough to name, and maybe, maybe, it was time to stop pretending the divorce papers were not waiting somewhere in the shadows like a prophecy neither of them had wanted to read aloud.

She had sworn this would be it.

She had sworn she would not let his eyes soften her, would not let his voice pull her into memory, would not let the fact that he knew how she took her wine, how she liked her food plated, how she always got quiet before saying something that scared her, become another reason to stay inside a marriage that had learned how to bleed quietly instead of die.

But then plans changed.

Or maybe he changed them.

Almost as if Jaafar had sensed the rug being swept from beneath his feet before Odessa ever reached for the corner, almost as if some old god had whispered in his ear that his wife was coming to bury them and he, stubborn as Orpheus turning toward the dark, had decided he would not let her walk into the underworld without singing first.

So there she sat, not in a restaurant, not at some polished table where distance could be measured by cutlery and folded napkins, but in an art classroom, of all places, with an easel set up before her like an offering, the room emptied of students and noise and ordinary life, leaving only the faint scent of paint, paper, and the hearty meal she was certain he had cooked himself, not ordered, not delegated, but prepared with those same careful hands that had once known every tender place in her life before they learned how to pack boxes and sign forms and leave.

The food sat plated beside her, warm and fragrant, arranged with a thoughtfulness that made her chest ache before she had even tasted it, and next to it stood a bottle of her favourite wine, because of course he remembered, because Jaafar had always remembered the things that made loving him complicated; he remembered the sweet red she reached for when she wanted to feel softer, the songs she played when she wanted to pretend she was not sad, the exact kind of intimacy that did not ask for forgiveness directly but placed itself in front of her like a sacrifice at Aphrodite’s altar and waited to see whether she would look away.

Sonder hummed low through the speaker, the music spilling into the empty room like smoke, all velvet and ache and late-night confession, and Odessa frowned as she looked around, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag because the entire setup felt too deliberate to be accidental, too intimate to be innocent, too painfully Jaafar to be anything other than a trap wrapped in romance and nostalgia.

“Jaafar?” she called, her voice travelling through the room and coming back to her softer, thinner, swallowed by the walls covered in drying artwork and half-finished studies of fruit, hands, faces, bodies, all those little mortal attempts to capture something before time took it.

No answer.

Her frown deepened as she picked up her phone, thumb already moving toward his name, irritation rising with unease in the pit of her stomach, because if this man had lured her into some dramatic, half-lit, emotionally manipulative performance and then had the audacity to be late to it, she was going to skin him alive like Apollo punishing Marsyas and leave his pretty confidence hanging somewhere as a warning.

But just as she was about to press call, the door at the back of the classroom opened.

Jaafar stepped out.

Not in the clothes she had expected, not in one of those clean, expensive shirts that made him look like trouble with a stylist, not in the calm armour he usually wore whenever he knew a serious conversation was coming, but in a linen robe tied loosely at his waist, the fabric soft and pale against his skin, his feet bare, his curls slightly mussed, and a sheepish smile sitting on his mouth as if he knew exactly how absurd he looked and had decided to let the absurdity disarm her before the rest of him tried to.

Odessa stared at him.

For a moment, genuinely, she had no words.

Jaafar lifted one hand in a small, almost boyish gesture, the kind of humble little wave that did not belong on a man who had once stood in her kitchen with the confidence of Hades claiming a queen and the mouth of Hermes after stealing cattle from Apollo.

“Before you say anything,” he said, that sheepish smile widening just enough to become dangerous, “I can explain.”

Odessa’s eyes moved slowly from his robe to the easel, from the meal to the wine, from the speaker playing Sonder to his bare feet on the art room floor, and then finally back to his face, where he stood looking too beautiful, too nervous, too pleased with himself, and entirely too capable of ruining every speech she had spent the day preparing.

“You better,” she said, though her voice came out quieter than she wanted, because the sight of him like this — ridiculous, vulnerable, staged and yet strangely sincere — had already reached for something in her she had planned to keep locked.

Jaafar’s smile softened.

And Odessa hated that too.

Because she had come there ready to end something.

But Jaafar, damn him, had set the room up like a man preparing to paint over ruin with his own hands.

Jaafar’s sheepish smile flickered, not disappearing, not exactly, but softening into something Odessa had not seen on his face in a long time, something stripped of swagger before he even untied the robe, something that made the linen hanging from his shoulders feel less like theatre and more like surrender, and for one awful, aching second she realised that whatever game she had expected him to play, whatever slick-mouthed, arrogant, beautifully infuriating performance she had prepared herself to resist, this was not quite that.

“I figured,” he began, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as his eyes moved from the easel to Odessa and then away again, as though looking at her directly made the confession harder, “one of our biggest issues, one of the reasons we’re… separated, is because you can’t see me.”

Odessa’s brows pulled together, but she said nothing, because there was something in his voice that stopped her, something quieter than flirtation and heavier than guilt, something that seemed to step into the room before him and lay itself at her feet like an offering to some old, merciless goddess.

“And maybe that’s on me too,” he continued, his mouth curving with no real humour this time, “because I don’t always know how to make myself visible to you without dressing it up as a joke, or confidence, or me acting like I’m fine when I’m not, and I know I got a slick mouth, Odessa, I know I can talk my way around a room and make everybody think I’m untouchable, but that don’t mean you’ve been seeing me.”

Her grip tightened around her phone.

Jaafar noticed.

Of course he did.

He always noticed the small things, the hand tightening, the breath catching, the way her eyes gave her away before her pride could shut the door, and maybe that was what made this worse, because Odessa had spent months believing she was the only one left standing naked in the ruins of them, only to find him here, barefoot in an art classroom, robe loose around his body, wine and dinner and Sonder arranged like incense at the temple of a marriage they had not yet buried.

“So I figured,” he said, stepping farther into the room, his voice low enough that the music nearly swallowed the edges of it, “if we’re going to fix things, if we’re even going to be honest enough to find out whether there’s something here worth saving, then I want you to see me.”

Odessa swallowed.

“Jaafar…”

“No,” he said gently, lifting one hand, not to silence her exactly, but to ask for just a little more courage from both of them. “Let me get it out before I lose my nerve, because contrary to what you like to think, I do lose it sometimes.”

That almost pulled a laugh from her.

Almost.

But then his fingers went to the knot of the robe, and the room changed.

Not crudely.

Not cheaply.

Not in the way her body might have expected after the kitchen, after his hands at her waist, after the kiss that had almost made her forget every sensible reason they were still separated.

This was different.

This was Jaafar standing before her not as the man who knew how to make her breath catch, not as Jalen’s father with the dangerous mouth and dangerous memory, not as the husband who still had a key to a house he no longer technically lived in, but as a man asking to be studied without armour, without performance, without the pretty tricks that had once made Odessa fall so fast she did not realise she was already in the underworld until the pomegranate seeds were sweet on her tongue.

“I’m gonna sit nude,” he said, and though the words could have been arrogant from any other version of him, tonight they came out careful, almost reverent, like he was offering himself not to Aphrodite’s vanity but to Psyche’s lamp, to the terrifying intimacy of being looked at while having nowhere left to hide. “And you’re gonna show me how you perceive me.”

Odessa stared at him, her pulse climbing into her throat.

The easel stood between them like an altar.

The blank canvas waited, pale and unforgiving, ready to receive whatever truth her hands were brave enough to tell.

“You want me to draw you?” she asked, because it was the simplest part of what he had said and therefore the only part she could safely touch.

“I want you to look at me,” he corrected softly, his eyes finally lifting to hers, steady now, darker than the room around them. “Really look at me, not the version you’re mad at, not the version you miss, not Jalen’s daddy, not the man who pissed you off, not the man you think already knows he can get you back if he smiles the right way.”

Odessa’s lips parted.

His mouth tilted faintly.

“There he is,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That’s the one you hate the most.”

“The arrogant one?” she asked, though her voice had lost some of its bite.

“The one who knows you still love him.”

The room went still.

Even Sonder seemed to hum lower.

Odessa looked away first, furious with herself for it, furious with him for saying it so plainly, furious that the sentence had crossed the space between them and found something in her that did not even try to deny it.

Jaafar did not press.

That was the thing that nearly undid her.

He did not smile like he had won, did not step closer, did not turn the moment into another one of his little victories; he simply stood there, robe still tied, eyes on her with a patience that felt older than both of them, like Orpheus had finally learned not to turn too soon, like Hades had opened his hand and waited to see whether Persephone would choose the fruit on her own.

“While you draw,” he said, quieter now, “we talk.”

Odessa let out a slow breath through her nose.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s broad.”

“It needs to be.”

“Jaafar.”

“Just you and me,” he said, and there it was, the plea beneath the confidence, the ache beneath the charm, the man beneath the myth. “No Jalen, no Malcolm, no family dinner, no school runs, no pretending the only reason we keep finding our way back to each other is because we share a child.”

Her eyes returned to his.

Jaafar’s jaw worked once, like the next words cost more than he wanted them to.

“No excuses,” he said. “No audience. No escape routes. Just us.”

Odessa’s chest felt too tight.

She glanced at the canvas again, at the charcoal set neatly beside the easel, at the meal still warming in its covered dish, at the wine he had remembered because of course he had, because loving Jaafar had always been impossible partly because he was careless in the places that hurt and devastatingly careful in the places that made leaving feel cruel.

“You think this fixes things?” she asked.

“No,” he said immediately.

That surprised her.

His eyes softened.

“I think this starts something honest.”

Odessa hated how much she wanted to believe him.

Jaafar looked down then, fingers brushing the robe’s tie again, not undoing it yet, not until she agreed, and that restraint, that quiet asking, lodged somewhere deep in her.

“I don’t want you to paint me pretty,” he said. “I don’t want you to flatter me. I don’t want you to draw the version of me everybody else sees, because everybody else gets the easy version, Odessa, everybody else gets the smile, the name, the stage, the bloodline, the charm, the parts that don’t ask anything from them.”

His gaze lifted.

“I want to know what you see when you look at me now.”

The words settled into her like dusk.

Odessa thought of him in her kitchen with his hands around hers, of him kissing Jalen’s forehead, of him saying he wanted his woman back with the kind of certainty that made her want to scream and soften at the same time; she thought of all the nights she had told herself separation was peace when really it had been winter, thought of Demeter grieving under grey skies, thought of Persephone pretending the underworld was only a prison when some part of her had made a kingdom there too.

“And what if you don’t like what I see?” she asked.

Jaafar’s smile was small, sad, and unbearably beautiful.

“Then at least I’ll finally know where I stand.”

For a moment, Odessa could not speak.

Then, slowly, she placed her phone facedown on the table.

Jaafar watched the movement like it meant something.

It did.

She hated that it did.

“You sit,” she said, nodding toward the stool positioned beneath the warm overhead light, her voice steadier than her heartbeat. “You talk. I draw.”

His mouth curved then, not into a grin, not yet, but into the beginning of one, that familiar confidence trying to return because it had never known how to stay gone for long.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Odessa pointed a finger at him.

“And if you make one slick comment about me studying your body—”

“You mean the body that gave you Jalen?”

“Jaafar.”

He lifted both hands, the sheepish smile returning as he backed toward the stool. “I’m done.”

“You are never done.”

“No,” he said, eyes warm on hers as his fingers finally loosened the tie of the robe, “but I can behave.”

Odessa picked up the charcoal, her mouth dry, her pulse disobedient, her whole body aware of the fact that this man had somehow turned a conversation about divorce into an art study, a confession, and a battlefield all at once.

“You better.”

Jaafar sat beneath the light, his robe slipping from his shoulders with the quiet gravity of a curtain rising before an audience of one, and Odessa forced herself to look not as a wife, not as a lover, not as a woman who had once known exactly how his skin felt beneath her hands, but as an artist, as a witness, as the only person in the room he had trusted enough to ask for the truth.

And still, when her charcoal touched the canvas, her first line trembled.

Odessa sighed as she let her bag slip from her shoulder, the leather landing softly beside her chair with a sound that felt far too final in the quiet room, and for a moment she simply stood there, caught between the woman who had walked in prepared to end a marriage and the woman now lowering herself slowly onto the stool behind an easel, charcoal and paint waiting in front of her like instruments of confession.

She watched Jaafar reach for the tie of the robe, watched his fingers hesitate for half a breath before he let the linen fall open, and the moment the fabric slipped from his shoulders, Odessa turned her gaze away too quickly for it to look casual, her breath catching in a way that irritated her because she had not given it permission to betray her.

Jesus.

How long had it been?

A year?

Two?

No, that was a lie, and she knew it before the thought even finished forming, because there had been moments, foolish moments, weak moments, lonely moments when grief had worn his voice and memory had smelled like his cologne, when Odessa had needed him more than she wanted to admit and had let herself be found in the ruins of their almost-endings; moments she had folded away afterward with trembling hands and called mistakes because calling them anything else would have required more courage than she had been willing to spend.

Still, this was different.

This was not the dim mercy of old habit or the desperation of two people reaching for each other because the night was too quiet and the ache too familiar; this was Jaafar deliberately placing himself beneath the light with nothing to hide behind, offering himself to her gaze like some mortal man dragged before Aphrodite’s altar and asking not to be desired, but to be understood.

Odessa sat at the easel, her back straight, her mouth pressed into a line too controlled to be honest, and reached for the shade of red before she reached for anything softer, because if Jaafar wanted to know how she saw him, then he could not expect pastels and mercy, could not expect the clean gold of Apollo or the gentle blue of an untroubled sea, not when loving him had always felt like pomegranate seeds crushed between her teeth, like a wound dressed in velvet, like the kind of red that belonged equally to devotion, anger, hunger, and war.

“Talk to me, baby,” Jaafar whispered, and the desperation in his voice was so bare, so unvarnished, so unlike the slick-mouthed confidence he usually carried around like a crown, that Odessa’s fingers tightened around the brush before she could stop them, the red paint gathering thick and wet at the bristles like pomegranate juice, like blood beneath a blade, like the first honest colour in a room where they had both spent too long pretending grief could be made polite.

His brown eyes met hers from beneath the soft classroom light, darker than usual, stripped of performance, and for once he did not look like the man who knew how to talk his way into her smile, or the man who could stand in her kitchen and make arrogance sound like devotion, or even the man who had given her Jalen and left her with a son who wore his face like a divine insult; he looked like someone waiting at the edge of his own judgment, like Orpheus standing in the mouth of the underworld with his hands empty and his voice trembling, knowing one wrong note, one wrong breath, one wrong turn could cost him the only woman he had ever been fool enough to lose.

Odessa looked at him over the rim of the easel, her throat tight, her body still far too aware of him despite all the hurt sitting between them, because there he was, offering himself to be seen, asking for truth as though truth were not the sharpest thing she owned, as though she had not spent the last year filing it down behind her teeth just so she could speak to him about packed lunches and school shoes and bedtime without bleeding all over the floor.

“What do you want me to say, Jaafar?” she asked, and her voice came out quieter than she intended, not weak, not broken, but careful in the way a woman sounded when she knew one honest sentence could bring the whole temple down.

Jaafar swallowed, his shoulders lifting with a breath that did not seem to satisfy him, and the linen robe lay discarded near his feet like the last piece of armour he had been willing to remove, leaving him seated before her not as a husband, not as an ex, not as the father of her child, but as a man asking to be drawn by the very hands he had once taught to shake.

“Tell me how I hurt you,” he said, and the words came rougher now, his gaze never leaving hers even though she could see what it cost him to hold it. “Tell me you hate me, tell me you can’t stand me, tell me you wish I’d never walked into your life with my pretty words and my ego and all my damn promises, but just…”

His voice cracked there, barely, the smallest fracture, but Odessa heard it as surely as if Zeus had split the sky open above them.

“Don’t stay quiet.”

The room seemed to still around them, the Sonder playing low through the speaker suddenly sounding distant, almost underwater, as though they had slipped beneath the surface of the life they showed everyone else and arrived somewhere older, darker, more sacred, some hidden chamber beneath Olympus where gods went when they were tired of being worshipped and needed, finally, to be wounded like mortals.

Odessa stared at him.

Not at his body, though it sat there beneath the light like another truth she refused to indulge, not at the careful arrangement of food and wine and paint and canvas he had set out like offerings to a goddess he had angered, but at his face, at the man beneath the beauty, beneath the name, beneath the confidence, beneath every version of himself he had used to distract her from the simple fact that he had been hurting too.

And that made her angry.

Angrier than she wanted to be.

Because it would have been easier if he were cruel.

It would have been easier if he sat there defensive, if he argued, if he smirked, if he gave her something sharp enough to swing at, but this version of him, this quiet, desperate, open-palmed Jaafar, made her feel like Psyche lifting the lamp over Cupid’s sleeping face and realising love was not some abstract punishment sent by Aphrodite, but a living thing with lashes, breath, scars, and the terrible power to look back.

“You want me to talk?” she asked, dipping the brush into the red again, too hard, watching the paint smear thick across the palette. “Fine.”

Jaafar did not move.

Odessa dragged the first stroke across the canvas, red cutting through the white with a violence that made her inhale through her nose, and the line was not clean, not pretty, not flattering, but it was honest, angry and alive and slanted across the blank space like the beginning of a wound.

“You hurt me because you made me feel stupid for loving you,” she said, and the words came before she could soften them, before she could dress them up in maturity or co-parenting language or all the respectable little lies women used when they were trying not to sound devastated. “Not because you didn’t love me, because that would have been simpler, that would have been clean, that would have been something I could bury, but because you did love me, Jaafar, and somehow you still made me feel alone inside it.”

His jaw tightened, but he stayed silent, exactly as she had asked without asking, and that made something inside her twist harder.

“You were there,” she continued, her brush moving again, the red deepening, spreading, finding the rough shape of his shoulders before she had even decided to draw them. “You were physically there, you came home, you held Jalen, you kissed my forehead, you bought the wine, you remembered the little things, and everybody probably thought I was lucky because look at him, look at Jaafar, look how soft he is with his son, look how he knows his wife, look how beautiful that family is.”

She laughed once, but there was no humour in it, only something brittle and old.

“But you were gone in all the ways that made me feel crazy for asking for more.”

Jaafar’s eyes lowered for the first time.

Odessa saw it and hated the satisfaction that came with landing the blow, hated that hurting him did not heal her, hated that the red on the canvas looked too much like all the words she had swallowed.

“You made me feel like I was standing in a room with a ghost who still knew how to touch me,” she said, her voice trembling now despite her best efforts, “and do you know how cruel that is, to have a man’s body beside you and still feel like you’re reaching for smoke, to have him look at you like he wants you and still not know whether he actually sees you?”

Jaafar closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them, they were wet enough to make Odessa’s chest ache in a way she resented immediately.

“I saw you,” he whispered.

“No,” she said, sharper than before, the brush pausing midair. “You saw what I could carry.”

That silenced him.

Completely.

Odessa’s hand shook once before she steadied it against the easel, the red brush hovering over the unfinished shape of him, and she realised then, with a cold sort of clarity, that this was the part she had avoided saying for months, the part even her own reflection had not been trusted with, because it was one thing to say a marriage failed, one thing to say two people drifted, one thing to say life and pressure and pride got in the way, but it was another thing entirely to look at the man you still loved and tell him exactly where he had laid his weight until your back began to bend.

“You saw that I could mother Jalen,” she said, slower now, quieter, each word placed down like an offering and an accusation at the same time. “You saw that I could keep the house warm, keep the schedules straight, keep the dinners going, keep myself pretty, keep myself patient, keep myself from embarrassing you with too much need, too much anger, too much hurt.”

Jaafar’s lips parted, but he did not interrupt.

“You saw that I could survive you pulling away,” she whispered. “So you let me.”

The words struck the room like a bowl dropped onto stone.

For a moment, there was only music, only breath, only the ugly red blooming across the canvas between them, only Jaafar sitting beneath the light as if he had asked for a portrait and been given a mirror polished by the gods themselves.

Odessa looked down at her palette because looking at him had become too difficult.

“I don’t hate you,” she said, and somehow that sounded sadder than if she had. “That’s the problem.”

Jaafar’s breath left him unevenly.

“I wanted to,” she admitted, her laugh breaking softly at the edges. “God, I wanted to, because hate would have been easier than sitting across from you three nights a week watching you make Jalen laugh, watching you wash dishes in my kitchen, watching you look at me like you still had every right to miss me, while I had to act like my whole body didn’t remember you.”

His eyes lifted to hers again, and the heat that passed between them was immediate, unwanted, familiar, threaded through with so much ache that it could not be separated from grief.

Odessa saw him hear that part.

Saw him feel it.

Saw the man in him respond before the wounded husband could hide it.

“Don’t,” she warned softly, though she did not know whether she was warning him or herself.

Jaafar’s mouth closed.

His hands flexed once against his thighs.

“I’m listening,” he said, voice rough.

That nearly undid her more than anything else.

Because she believed him.

Damn him, in that moment, beneath that light, with red paint on her brush and the truth sitting open between them like a sacrifice at Athena’s feet, she believed him.

Odessa turned back to the canvas, her next stroke slower, softer, red giving way to a darker shade near the place where his chest would be, because despite everything, despite the anger, despite the loneliness, despite the divorce papers waiting somewhere like a curse with her name on it, she could not paint him as only damage.

That was the cruel thing.

Jaafar had hurt her, yes.

But he had also loved her.

He had also held their son like a prayer.

He had also shown up.

Not always correctly, not always fully, not always in the ways she had needed, but enough to make leaving feel like cutting through living flesh instead of dead rope.

“You want to know how I see you?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the canvas.

Jaafar’s voice was quiet. “Yes.”

“I see you in pieces.”

He inhaled.

Odessa did not look back.

“I see the man who made me feel chosen and the man who made me feel abandoned wearing the same face, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

She sighed as she shut her eyes, the brush hovering uselessly over the canvas while the red on its bristles began to gather too heavily at the tip, trembling there like a drop of blood that had not yet decided whether to fall, and for a moment Odessa looked less like a woman painting her husband and more like some weary priestess standing before an altar she no longer knew how to pray at, caught between confession and mercy, between the hurt she had already handed him and the truth that would not let her make him the only villain in a story they had both helped fracture.

“But it wasn’t your fault,” she said at last, her voice quieter now, no longer sharp enough to draw blood, only tired enough to show where she had been cut. “Not all of it, anyway. We were both… weird.”

Jaafar’s brows drew together, not in offence, not even confusion exactly, but in the careful concentration of a man trying not to miss a single word, his body still beneath the light, his hands resting against his thighs, his mouth parted slightly as though he wanted to respond and had finally learned that love, real love, sometimes meant letting silence do its work before ego rushed in with a mop and ruined the crime scene.

“How so?” he asked.

Odessa laughed softly, but there was no humour in it, only a little disbelief at the size of the thing she was trying to explain with such an ugly, childish word as weird, when really what she meant was that they had been two people standing inside the same burning temple, both pretending the smoke was weather because admitting there was a fire would have meant admitting one of them had to reach for the other first.

She opened her eyes and looked at him again, really looked, not at the warm brown of his skin beneath the classroom light, not at the shape of his shoulders or the bare vulnerability of him sitting there stripped of every easy disguise, but at his face, at the softness around his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the man who had asked her to see him and was now learning what it cost to be visible.

“We were weird because we both wanted to be understood without having to explain,” she said, dragging the brush slowly across the canvas, the red softening into a shadow near where his chest would be, no longer a wound now, not exactly, but something closer to heat beneath skin. “I wanted you to know I was drowning without me saying I was drowning, and you wanted me to know you were trying without you saying you were scared, and somehow we both stood there waiting for the other person to become a prophet.”

Jaafar swallowed, and she saw it move down his throat.

Odessa looked back to the canvas before the sight could soften her too much.

“I kept thinking, if he loves me, he should know,” she continued, her voice lowering under the weight of honesty. “He should know when I’m tired. He should know when I’m lonely. He should know when I’m angry but too exhausted to fight. He should know that when I say I’m fine, sometimes I mean I’m one bad moment away from falling apart in the bathroom with the water running so Jalen doesn’t hear me.”

Jaafar’s eyes closed briefly.

“Odessa…”

“No,” she said, not harshly, but firmly enough that his eyes opened again. “Let me say it.”

He nodded once.

She took another breath.

“And you…” She paused, searching for the right colour, the right word, the right place on the canvas to put the kind of pain that had not come from cruelty but from misunderstanding dressed in pride. “You kept thinking if you provided enough, if you showed up enough, if you were calm enough, if you didn’t add your fear to mine, then that was love.”

Jaafar’s gaze dropped to the floor.

Odessa watched him for half a second, then dipped her brush into a darker shade.

“But I didn’t need you calm all the time,” she said. “Sometimes I needed you messy with me. Sometimes I needed you to sit in the ugly part and say, ‘I don’t know what I’m doing either,’ instead of acting like you had everything handled just because your voice stayed steady.”

His jaw flexed.

“I thought I was helping.”

“I know,” she whispered, and somehow that made it hurt more, because knowing his intentions had been tender did not erase the ache of their impact. “That’s the part that made it so hard to be mad at you.”

The music hummed around them, slow and aching, Sonder’s voice filling the room like incense in a ruined shrine, and Odessa felt suddenly aware of the wine sitting unopened beside her, the food growing cooler with every confession, the easel between them becoming less like an art assignment and more like a battlefield map where every stroke exposed a place they had once lost each other.

She added another line to the canvas, this one gentler, curving near the outline of his shoulder.

“We were weird because I wanted you to chase me, but I punished you when you got too close,” she admitted, and the shame of it warmed her cheeks before she could hide it. “I’d pull away because I was hurt, then get mad when you respected the distance, because in my head I was thinking, no, don’t respect it, fight for me, notice that I’m only leaving because I want to know if you’ll come after me.”

Jaafar’s eyes lifted to hers, something pained and familiar moving through them.

“And I did the same thing,” he said quietly.

Odessa stilled.

He breathed out, his voice roughening. “I’d go quiet hoping you’d ask what was wrong, then get in my feelings when you didn’t, like I wasn’t the one sitting there acting like a closed door.”

Her mouth softened despite herself.

“Exactly.”

Jaafar’s laugh came out low and humourless, a broken little thing that did not belong to his usual confidence. “We were stupid.”

“We were scared,” Odessa corrected, and her voice softened around the word because there, finally, was the truth beneath all the other truths, the root buried under the ash. “Stupid too, maybe, but mostly scared.”

He looked at her then, and Odessa could feel the shift, that old invisible pull between them tightening again, only this time it was not desire alone, not the slick warmth of his mouth or the memory of his hands, but something more fragile, something that had survived beneath all the wreckage like a green shoot pushing up through cracked marble.

“Scared of what?” he asked.

Odessa’s brush moved once, slowly.

Then stopped.

She stared at the canvas, at the rough red beginning of him, at the shape emerging under her hand like a truth she had been carrying longer than she knew, and when she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.

“That if we admitted how much we needed each other, the other person would have too much power.”

Jaafar went very still.

Odessa smiled faintly, sadly.

“And God forbid either of us be the first one on our knees, right?”

The words landed between them with a soft, brutal accuracy.

For a moment, Jaafar said nothing, his gaze fixed on her as though she had finally turned Psyche’s lamp toward both of them at once and revealed not monsters, not gods, not heroes, but two terrified lovers with ash on their hands and pride where prayer should have been.

Then he leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, every bit of staged vulnerability becoming real beneath the weight of what they were saying.

“I was scared you’d look at me and realise I wasn’t enough,” he said.

Odessa’s breath caught.

Jaafar’s mouth twisted faintly, not a smile, not quite pain either, something caught between the two.

“I know how that sounds.”

“No,” she said softly. “You don’t.”

His eyes searched hers.

Odessa set the brush down, because suddenly painting felt like hiding, and she had spent too long hiding behind movement, behind motherhood, behind dinner plates and school bags and the excuse of their son sleeping in another room.

“You think I wasn’t scared of the same thing?” she asked. “You think I didn’t look at you sometimes and wonder when you were going to wake up and realise loving me had gotten too heavy?”

Jaafar looked wounded by the very idea.

“That never happened.”

“I know that now,” she said, though her voice trembled enough to betray how much she had not known it then. “But fear doesn’t wait for proof, Jaafar. It just starts writing stories in the dark and calling them warnings.”

He looked down, breathing through it.

Odessa picked the brush up again, not because she wanted to hide this time, but because the confession had opened something in her hand, had given shape to something she could not carry in words alone, and when she touched the canvas again, the red did not slash; it curved, it shaded, it softened into the outline of a man she had loved, feared, blamed, missed, and never truly stopped seeing.

“We were weird because we kept testing each other,” she said. “Little tests. Quiet tests. Cruel tests we pretended weren’t tests.”

Jaafar nodded slowly, his expression tightening with recognition.

“I’d wait to see if you’d call.”

“And I’d wait to see if you’d come over.”

“I’d act like I was fine.”

“And I’d act like I believed you.”

“I’d leave before I asked to stay.”

Odessa looked up at him.

“And I’d let you.”

“I wanted you to see me,” Odessa sighed, her voice thinning around the confession as she reached for the white paint and squeezed it directly into the red, watching the colour soften beneath her brush, watching all that raw, angry crimson turn into something gentler, something bruised and tender and almost pink, as if even the wound on the palette had decided it was tired of bleeding and wanted, for once, to be touched without being opened again.

Jaafar’s eyes stayed on her.

Not on her hand.

Not on the canvas.

On her.

And Odessa hated that, hated it because this was what she had asked for and what she had resented him for not giving, hated that now, when she finally had his full attention laid across her like sunlight from Apollo’s chariot, she wanted to look away, wanted to hide beneath sarcasm or anger or the careful movements of her brush, because being seen, really seen, was terrifying when you had spent so long convincing yourself that invisibility was safer.

“I wanted you to see me without me having to fall apart first,” she said, dragging the softened red across the canvas in a slow, careful stroke, the colour catching beside the harsher marks she had already made, gentling them without erasing them, because maybe that was the truth of him too, maybe Jaafar was not one shade, not all wound and not all warmth, but some impossible mixture of both, some man made of damage and devotion, pride and tenderness, absence and arrival. “I wanted you to look at me and know when I was tired. I wanted you to notice when I was quiet, not peaceful. I wanted you to hear the difference between me saying ‘I’m fine’ because I was fine and me saying it because if I said anything else, I was going to start crying and never stop.”

Jaafar swallowed, his throat working around whatever apology he had learned, wisely, not to rush into the room before she finished bleeding the truth out of herself.

Odessa mixed more white into the red, slower this time, pressing the brush in circular motions until the colour changed beneath her hand, and the motion felt almost too symbolic to bear, like Hera herself had leaned over her shoulder and laughed at the mortal woman trying to make sense of marriage with paint, as though love had ever been clean enough to shade properly.

“I know I made it hard,” she admitted, her eyes fixed on the palette because looking at him would have made the words too real. “I know I acted like I didn’t need anything. I know I got sharp when I was hurt and cold when I wanted to be held, and I know I expected you to understand a language I never actually taught you.”

Jaafar’s breath left him softly.

“Odessa…”

“No, let me finish,” she said, though there was no anger in it now, only exhaustion, only that deep, aching honesty that came when two people had finally stopped performing strength for each other and started admitting where the armour pinched. “Because I did that too. I did. I wanted you to read my mind and then punished you when you couldn’t, and maybe that wasn’t fair, but God, Jaafar, sometimes it felt like if I had to explain every place I was hurting, then it meant you hadn’t been looking.”

The brush touched the canvas again.

This time, the stroke was lighter, almost hesitant, catching the outline of his face, softening the red shadow beneath the cheekbone she knew too well, the same cheekbone Jalen had inherited, the same face that had haunted her son’s smile and made it impossible to ever fully hate the man sitting before her.

“I wanted to be chosen after the baby,” she whispered.

Jaafar went still.

Odessa felt it without looking.

The whole room seemed to tighten around that sentence, the music lowering into something ghostlike, the wine standing untouched beside the meal he had prepared, the canvas between them becoming less a portrait and more a battlefield where every colour had started naming casualties.

“I know you loved Jalen,” she continued, her voice roughening at the edges. “I never questioned that. Not once. You were beautiful with him, Jaafar. You still are. Sometimes it made me angry how beautiful you were with him, because everyone could see that part. Everyone could see Daddy. Everyone could see you holding him, rocking him, making him laugh, showing up with Starbursts and promises and that soft voice you use when he’s sleepy.”

Her hand trembled slightly, and the brush left a small uneven mark near the edge of the canvas.

She did not fix it.

“But I wanted you to look at me too,” she said. “Not just as his mother. Not just as the woman who could handle things. Not just as the person keeping the whole world from falling apart around him. I wanted you to look at me like I was still Odessa.”

Jaafar’s eyes shone, but he stayed silent.

Good, she thought, though the thought held no cruelty now.

Good.

Let him sit with it.

Let him know what it had felt like to become Demeter and Persephone at the same time, mother and missing woman, earth and underworld, life-giver and ghost, expected to bloom while half of herself remained unseen in the dark.

“I wanted to feel like you still wanted me when I wasn’t easy,” she said, dipping the brush again, dragging pale red into the hollow of the canvas’s unfinished chest. “When I wasn’t pretty and rested and laughing. When I was exhausted. When I was resentful. When I was touched out and lonely at the same time. When I was standing in the kitchen with spit-up on my shirt and my hair undone and I couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at me like I was a woman instead of a function.”

Jaafar looked down then.

Just for a second.

But Odessa saw it.

Saw the pain cross his face like a shadow over Olympus.

“I did want you,” he said quietly.

Her chest tightened.

“I know,” she whispered. “But wanting me in silence didn’t help me.”

The words broke something open between them.

Not violently.

Not loudly.

Just enough that the air changed, enough that Jaafar’s shoulders dipped as if the truth had finally found a place to land inside him, heavy and deserved.

Odessa exhaled, then mixed the paint again, red and white folding into each other until neither colour remained untouched by the other.

“I think that’s why I got so angry,” she said. “Because I could feel you loving me, but I couldn’t always see it. And then I started wondering if maybe I was imagining it, if maybe I was just making a myth out of scraps because I needed the story to be bigger than what it was.”

She finally looked up at him.

Jaafar’s eyes were already waiting.

“And I hated myself for that,” she said softly. “For still believing in us when I was so tired of being disappointed.”

His lips parted, but nothing came out at first, and for once Odessa did not mind the silence, because it was not empty; it was full of him listening, full of him receiving, full of the man who had brought her here and asked her to see him now being forced, finally, to see her.

“I see you now,” he said.

Odessa’s mouth twisted faintly, not quite a smile.

“Now is easy.”

“No,” he said, and his voice was still low, but firmer now, threaded with something rawer than charm. “Now is late. That don’t make it easy.”

That made her hand pause.

Jaafar leaned forward slightly, still careful, still not reaching for her, though she could see the effort in his restraint.

“I should’ve seen you sooner,” he said. “I should’ve asked better questions. I should’ve come closer when you got quiet instead of convincing myself you needed space. I should’ve known that sometimes you saying ‘leave me alone’ meant ‘please don’t make me ask you to stay.’”

Odessa’s throat tightened.

“And I know that ain’t fair to put all on me,” he continued, his eyes locked on hers, “but I’m not trying to be fair right now. I’m trying to be honest. I missed things I should’ve caught. I loved you, but I loved you lazy sometimes.”

Her breath caught at that.

Lazy.

Not absent.

Not false.

Lazy.

The word sat there with a brutal kind of accuracy, stripped of excuse and drama, and Odessa hated how much relief came with hearing him say it, hated how badly some part of her had needed him to name the thing correctly.

Jaafar’s jaw flexed.

“I thought because my love was real, you’d feel safe in it,” he said. “I didn’t understand that real love still gotta move. Still gotta speak. Still gotta get up and cross the room.”

Odessa blinked fast, turning back to the canvas before the tears could gather enough courage to fall.

The colour on her brush looked softer now.

Almost forgiving.

Not forgiveness itself.

Not yet.

But the colour of something considering it.

“Keep talking like that and you’re gonna ruin my concentration,” she muttered.

Jaafar’s mouth curved, small and careful.

“Don’t.”

“I ain’t say nothing.”

“You breathed smug.”

“I breathed relieved.”

That pulled the faintest laugh from her, unwilling and quiet, and Jaafar looked at her as if that tiny sound had been handed down by Aphrodite herself, a little mercy wrapped in music.

Odessa shook her head, dipping her brush again.

“You’re still annoying.”

“I’m still yours too,” he said softly.

Her hand stopped.

The room stopped with it.

Jaafar held her gaze, and there it was again, that confidence, not loud, not slick, not dressed in the old arrogance that used to make her roll her eyes and forget her own name, but something steadier, something that had survived being humbled and still refused to lie down.

Odessa’s chest rose slowly.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I know.”

“But you said it anyway.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Jaafar’s eyes softened.

“Because I wanted you to see me too.”

Odessa’s brows furrowed as she cocked her head to the side, putting the paintbrush down with a carefulness that made the small wooden handle sound louder than it should have against the tray, and for the first time since he had stepped out in that ridiculous linen robe with his sheepish smile and his grand little wounded-man plan, she looked at him not as the subject of her painting, not as the father of her son, not even as the husband she had come prepared to discuss divorcing, but as a man sitting beneath a classroom light asking for a truth she had not realised she owed him too.

“Tell me how I didn’t see you.”

Jaafar’s eyes moved from the brush to her face, and something in his expression shifted, not toward accusation, not even toward relief, but toward the raw uncertainty of someone who had wanted to be asked and was still unprepared for the violence of answering, because there were some wounds a person carried so long they became part of the posture, part of the smile, part of the way they entered rooms pretending nothing hurt.

He breathed out slowly, his hands resting loosely against his thighs, his shoulders lowered, his body still offered to her gaze though the conversation had made him feel more naked than the robe ever could have.

“You saw what everybody sees first,” he said quietly.

Odessa did not move.

Jaafar’s mouth twisted a little, not quite a smile, not quite bitterness, something sitting between the two like wine gone warm on an altar.

“You saw the name. You saw the face. You saw the Jackson of it all, the charm, the music, the confidence, the way people looked at me before I even opened my mouth. You saw the man who knew how to walk into a room and make it feel like he meant to be there, and I let you see that because it was easier than showing you the rest.”

Odessa’s throat tightened, but she stayed silent, because she knew what he meant before he even reached the centre of it; she had loved his confidence once, had been drawn to it like mortals drawn toward Apollo’s golden light, never thinking that light could blind as easily as it could warm.

Jaafar looked down at his hands.

“But you didn’t always see how much of that was performance,” he said, his voice lower now. “You didn’t see how much I was trying not to look scared.”

Her lips parted slightly.

He lifted his eyes back to hers.

“You thought I was calm because I knew what I was doing,” he continued. “Half the time I was calm because if I let myself feel everything at once, I didn’t know if I’d be able to stand in it. I became a father and a husband and a man everybody expected to carry legacy like it was light work, and I didn’t know how to tell you that sometimes I felt like Atlas with the sky on his back, except if I bent even a little, everybody would notice.”

Odessa swallowed.

The room seemed to quiet around him, the music still playing, the food still cooling, the wine still unopened, but all of it had faded behind the sound of his voice, behind the strange ache of hearing Jaafar Jackson speak without the shield of his slick mouth.

“You saw me providing,” he said. “You saw me showing up. You saw me with Jalen, and you saw that I loved him, and I know you never doubted that, but you didn’t always see that sometimes I was terrified of failing him.”

His jaw flexed once.

“Terrified,” he repeated, softer, as if the word embarrassed him. “I’d hold him when he was tiny and he’d look at me with my whole face, and all I could think was, what if I mess him up? What if I give him the worst parts of me? What if one day he looks at me and sees through everything the way you do and decides I wasn’t enough?”

Odessa’s eyes softened before she could stop them.

Jaafar saw it, but he did not use it.

He did not grin.

He did not turn it into an opening.

He simply sat there, naked in every way that mattered, and kept going.

“You didn’t see me because I made it hard,” he admitted. “I know that. I kept giving you the version of me I thought you needed, the steady version, the charming version, the one who could make you laugh before you got too close to what was really going on with me.”

His eyes flickered toward the canvas.

“And then when you painted me that way in your head, when you treated me like nothing touched me too deeply, I resented you for believing the lie I was working overtime to sell.”

That struck her.

Odessa leaned back slightly, as if the sentence had reached across the room and pressed a hand to the centre of her chest.

Jaafar’s laugh came out quiet and humourless.

“Crazy, right?”

“No,” she whispered.

His gaze snapped back to hers.

Odessa’s face had shifted, not defensive now, not guarded, but listening, really listening, and maybe that was why Jaafar’s voice roughened when he spoke again.

“You didn’t see how lonely I was in our marriage sometimes,” he said. “And I know how that sounds after everything you just told me, because you were lonely too, and I should have seen that, but I was lonely beside you, Odessa.”

Her breath caught.

He closed his eyes briefly, as though he hated the admission the second it left him, but he did not take it back.

“I’d be right there next to you and still feel like you were somewhere I couldn’t get to,” he said. “Like you had this whole world inside you that I only got invited into when something was wrong, and even then, I had to guess where the door was.”

Odessa looked down at her hands.

Jaafar’s voice softened.

“You’d go quiet, and I’d panic, but I didn’t know how to tell you I was panicking, so I’d act casual. I’d ask if you were good, and you’d say you were fine, and I knew you weren’t, but I also knew if I pushed wrong, you’d shut down harder, so I’d back off and convince myself I was respecting you.”

He paused.

“But sometimes I wasn’t respecting you. I was protecting myself from being rejected by my own wife.”

Odessa’s eyes lifted slowly.

His were already waiting.

There was no anger there.

That made it worse.

There was only truth, and truth, Odessa was discovering, had a far more merciless hand than rage.

“You didn’t see that every time you pulled away from me, I took it personal,” he said. “Even when I knew better. Even when I knew you were tired, or hurt, or overwhelmed. I’d tell myself, she doesn’t want me near her, she doesn’t need me, she only wants me here because of Jalen, and instead of saying that, instead of giving you the chance to tell me I was wrong, I got proud.”

Odessa exhaled unsteadily.

Jaafar nodded, as if he had expected that part to land.

“I got real proud,” he said. “Ugly proud. Quiet proud. The kind of proud that don’t yell, don’t slam doors, don’t look like anything from the outside, but it will sit beside the person it loves most and starve before it asks for a plate.”

The image made something in her ache.

Because she knew that pride.

She had married that pride.

She had matched that pride.

Their marriage had been full of it, two starving people sitting at opposite ends of a table they kept setting for everyone but themselves.

“I wanted you to choose me too,” Jaafar said, and his voice dipped into something younger, something almost ashamed. “Not as Jalen’s father. Not because I was already there. Not because it was easier to keep the family together. I wanted you to look at me and want me, and when you didn’t say it, I started acting like I didn’t need to hear it.”

Odessa’s eyes burned.

“You never said that,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“You acted like you already knew.”

“I know,” he said again, and this time the words sounded like penance. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I acted like I knew because I didn’t want to ask and find out I was wrong.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The canvas sat between them, red and softened pink and unfinished lines, an image of him beginning to emerge in fragments, exactly as she had said she saw him, and Odessa wondered whether that was what marriage had been for them too — two people painting each other with shaking hands, using colours they had never learned how to mix.

Jaafar leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, the classroom light catching the tension in his shoulders, the vulnerability in his face.

“You didn’t see me because you were hurting,” he said, not accusingly, but gently, as if he had only just found the grace to understand it. “And when you’re hurt, Odessa, you look for evidence.”

Her brows furrowed.

He nodded.

“You do. You start building a case. Every late answer, every tired tone, every time I didn’t notice fast enough, every time I tried to fix what you wanted me to sit with, every time I gave you space when you wanted me to cross the room. You put it all on the table like proof that I didn’t love you right.”

Odessa’s lips parted, and for a second she looked ready to argue.

Then she stopped.

Because he was not wrong.

Jaafar’s voice lowered.

“And maybe I didn’t love you right all the time,” he said. “But you stopped seeing the parts where I was trying.”

Her face shifted.

His did too.

Pain, recognition, regret — all of it passing between them like Hermes carrying messages neither of them wanted delivered.

“You didn’t see that sometimes I came over for family dinner because it was the only time all week I felt like I could breathe,” he admitted. “You thought I was just being consistent for Jalen, and I was, I swear I was, but I was also coming because I missed my house.”

Odessa looked at him sharply.

He held her gaze.

“I know it’s your house now,” he said. “I know. But when I walk in and smell your cooking, and Jalen comes running, and you’re there pretending you’re not glad to see me, for a few hours I get to remember what it felt like before we started turning love into a test neither of us could pass.”

Odessa blinked fast.

Jaafar’s mouth softened.

“You didn’t see that leaving every night hurt,” he said. “You didn’t see me sit in the car. You didn’t see me tell myself to drive off. You didn’t see me wanting to come back up and knock and say, ‘Can I stay?’ like a fool.”

Her breath trembled.

“I would’ve said no,” she whispered, though there was no conviction in it.

“I know,” he said, and one corner of his mouth lifted sadly. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”

The honesty sat heavy.

It would have been easier if he had lied.

Odessa looked at the canvas again because looking at him was becoming unbearable.

“And Malcolm?” she asked, voice quieter. “Was that about you feeling unseen too?”

Jaafar’s eyes darkened, but not with the same jealousy from before, not with the sharp possessiveness that had filled her kitchen and ruined her plans; this was quieter, rawer, more honest.

“Malcolm was about me realising I had let you believe I was okay standing outside my own life,” he said. “And maybe I deserved that. Maybe I stood outside too long and expected you to keep a space warm for me. But when Jalen said that man’s name, all I could think was, she’s about to let somebody else sit where I was too proud to ask to stay.”

Odessa closed her eyes.

Jaafar’s voice came softer.

“And I know you’re not a place, before you say it. I know you’re not a chair at a table or a spot in a bed or something I can claim because I miss it.”

Her eyes opened again.

He was watching her with a faint, wounded smile.

“But I am a man, Odessa. And I love you. So yeah, I felt it. I felt it like somebody had put a blade under my ribs and twisted slow.”

She pressed her lips together.

“And you came in with Starbursts and wine.”

“I came in with Starbursts and wine,” he agreed. “Because I’m still me.”

A laugh almost escaped her, but it broke halfway into something softer.

Jaafar saw that too.

His face gentled.

“You didn’t see how much I wanted you back because I kept dressing it up,” he said. “I dressed it up as family dinner. As helping with dishes. As showing up for school runs. As making Jalen happy. As flirting just enough that you could roll your eyes and not have to answer me.”

Odessa’s hand drifted toward the paintbrush but did not pick it up yet.

“And tonight?” she asked.

“Tonight I got tired of dressing it up.”

Her eyes lifted.

Jaafar’s gaze did not waver.

“I want my wife,” he said simply. “Not because I’m jealous. Not because I’m scared another man might want you. Not because Jalen deserves both parents in one house, even though he does. I want you because I love you, because I miss you, because when I picture my life ten years from now, twenty years from now, when I’m old and not as pretty—”

Odessa gave him a look.

He paused.

“Fine,” he corrected, the faintest glimmer of his usual confidence returning through the ache. “Still pretty, just seasoned.”

Despite everything, Odessa huffed a laugh.

Jaafar’s mouth curved, but he did not let the joke carry him away from the truth.

“When I picture my life, you’re there,” he said. “You’ve always been there. Even when we were separated, even when I was mad, even when I told myself maybe this was just what we were now, you were still the person I wanted to come home to.”

Odessa’s chest rose and fell slowly.

“And you didn’t think I needed to hear that?”

“I was scared if I said it, you’d tell me I was too late.”

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was full of every almost they had survived.

Every night he had not knocked.

Every time she had not called.

Every family dinner pretending to be casual while grief sat with them and helped set the table.

Odessa reached for the paintbrush again, but her fingers hovered over it for a moment before she finally picked it up.

“What else?” she asked quietly.

Jaafar looked at her.

She dipped the brush into the softened red, the colour no longer angry enough to be blood, no longer pale enough to be forgiveness, but something in between.

“What else didn’t I see?”

Jaafar’s expression shifted, and when he answered, his voice was barely above the music.

“That I needed you too.”

Odessa froze.

His eyes shone, but he did not look away.

“I needed you,” he said again. “And I hated that I did, because needing someone makes you feel like they can ruin you on purpose even when they never would.”

Odessa’s breath caught sharply, because those were almost the exact words she had said without saying them, the fear beneath everything, the power of needing, the terror of being first on your knees.

Jaafar smiled faintly, sadly.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “See? Two peas in a pod.”

The phrase hit her with such tenderness that she nearly had to look away.

But she did not.

Not this time.

She looked at him — really looked at him — sitting beneath the light, stripped down to skin and honesty, no slick mouth to save him, no son in the room to soften the tension, no Malcolm to distract from the truth, no dinner table to hide behind.

And for the first time in a long time, Odessa saw not the man who had failed to see her, not only the man who had hurt her, not only the husband who had left too much unsaid.

She saw the boyishish fear beneath the beautiful man.

The loneliness beneath the confidence.

The prayer beneath the pride.

The ache behind the swagger.

She saw Jaafar.

She bit her lip and shook her head, not in refusal, not even in disbelief, but in that weary, trembling way a woman did when the truth had finally found the nerve to sit beside her and would no longer be ignored, and with a sigh that seemed to drag itself up from somewhere beneath her ribs, Odessa reached for the wine and took a long, unapologetic swig straight from the glass, letting the taste bloom across her tongue, rich and familiar and warm enough to steady her hands before it ever reached her blood.

Jaafar watched her.

He did not speak.

For once, mercifully, beautifully, dangerously, he did not speak.

His mouth, that slick, ruinous mouth that had talked her into laughter, arguments, forgiveness, and their son, stayed closed as Odessa set the glass down with a soft clink and reached for the hem of her shirt, her fingers curling into the fabric while her heart beat so hard she could feel it in her wrists, in her throat, in the tender hollow behind her ears.

If he wanted to be seen, then so would she.

Not admired.

Not desired.

Not worshipped like Aphrodite rising from the seafoam, all golden light and easy beauty, untouched by fear, untouched by motherhood, untouched by the strange grief of becoming both woman and vessel, wife and stranger, lover and ghost inside her own marriage.

Seen.

Properly.

Mercilessly.

Tenderly.

So she pulled the shirt over her head.

The fabric whispered upward, carrying with it the faint scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the last easy layer of distance she had been hiding beneath since she stepped into the room, and she let it fall to the floor beside her bag without ceremony, without folding it, without pretending this was neat when nothing about them had ever been neat.

Jaafar’s breath changed.

Barely.

A small, quiet break in the rhythm of him, but Odessa heard it, and because she heard it, because she knew him too well not to, she lifted her eyes to his with a warning already forming behind them.

“Don’t.”

His jaw flexed.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His gaze stayed on her face with effort, with discipline, with the kind of restraint that looked almost painful on him.

“I wasn’t.”

“Liar.”

That almost made his mouth twitch, but he swallowed it back, and something about that, something about Jaafar choosing silence when desire had always been another language he spoke too fluently, made Odessa’s chest ache in a way she had not prepared for.

Slowly, she reached for the next layer.

Then the next.

Each piece fell away from her like old skin, like armour undone one fastening at a time, like some mortal woman stepping out of the role everyone had given her and standing at last before the gods with nothing left to prove except that she had survived being loved badly and beautifully by the same man.

And Jaafar, who had come here to be looked at, sat beneath the classroom light and learned what it meant to look without taking.

He watched her shed the carefulness.

Watched her shed the wife who had come prepared to speak of divorce with her chin high and her pulse hidden.

Watched her shed the mother who packed Jalen’s lunches, remembered appointments, kissed fevers, folded tiny shirts, and still somehow managed to put herself back together before anyone could ask whether she was tired.

Watched her shed the woman who had stood in kitchens, bedrooms, hallways, and court-adjacent silences pretending she had not been waiting for him to ask the right question.

By the time Odessa stood bare before him, stripped down past clothing, past pride, past performance, past every pretty little defence she had used to make her hurt respectable, she did not feel like Aphrodite.

She felt like Psyche with the lamp trembling in her hand.

She felt like Persephone at the threshold, no longer pretending the underworld had only ever been a prison.

She felt like a woman who had spent too long being touched and not enough time being understood.

Jaafar’s eyes shone.

Not with hunger alone, though that was there, because he was still Jaafar, still the man whose gaze had weight and heat and memory, still the man whose confidence had once curled around her like smoke until she forgot how to leave the room; but beneath it, deeper than it, was something quieter, something close to grief, something that made his face soften as if he were not looking at a body he had once known, but at all the years he had failed to honour it properly.

“You said you wanted me to see you,” she whispered, her voice steadier than she felt, though her hand still hovered above the palette as if the brush had suddenly become too heavy to lift, as if the colour she needed did not exist in any tube of paint but somewhere inside her chest, somewhere raw and red and aching.

Jaafar nodded slowly, still silent, his eyes never leaving hers.

And that was what undid her most.

Not the way he looked at her body, not the tension sitting beneath his restraint, not even the memory of every moment where his hands had once known her better than language, but the silence, the way he let her speak without reaching for control, the way he sat there stripped down to skin and fear and love, letting her decide what truth would enter the room next.

“So…” Odessa breathed, her eyes shining as she looked at him properly, taking in the line of his shoulders, the vulnerability in his mouth, the softness he had always hidden beneath charm, the boy inside the man, the husband inside the ex, the father inside the lover, the godlike confidence and the mortal fear stitched together in one impossible body. “I see you.”

Jaafar’s throat worked.

“And you’ve never been more beautiful,” she whispered, the words leaving her before pride could dress them down into something safer, something smaller, something less capable of changing the air between them.

His face shifted then, not into a smile, not yet, but into something stunned and wounded and almost boyish, as if Apollo himself had been praised not for his light but for the shadow he had survived carrying.

“I see the man I love,” Odessa continued, and the confession trembled, but it did not break. “I see the one with the slick-ass mouth, the one who always thinks he can talk his way out of trouble and somehow talks himself deeper into it, the one who makes me so mad I forget I’m supposed to be mature, the one who knows exactly how to look at me when he wants me to soften, and I hate that it still works sometimes.”

A breath of laughter escaped him, fragile and disbelieving, but his eyes were wet now.

Odessa’s were too.

“I see the man who hurt me,” she said, softer, because love could not be honest if it skipped the blood. “And I see the man who is trying to understand how. I see the father who kisses our son like he’s a prayer. I see the husband who left too many things unsaid. I see the boy who got scared and called it pride. I see the man who wanted to be needed but was too afraid to ask.”

Jaafar lowered his head, one hand lifting briefly to his mouth, and Odessa knew him well enough to know he was trying to keep himself together.

She looked down at the palette then, at the red she had softened with white, at the colour no longer angry enough to be a wound and not yet gentle enough to be forgiveness, and she dipped her brush into it with a shaky hand.

“I see you, Jaafar,” she whispered again, touching the canvas, dragging the colour into the shape of him with more tenderness than she had meant to allow. “And I love you.”

The room went still.

Not empty still.

Full still.

The kind of still that came after a storm when the gods had finally stopped arguing and even the sea held its breath to see what would survive.

“I love you, Jaafar,” she said again, because the first time had not killed her, because saying it did not make her weak, because maybe the cruelest lie she had told herself was that love lost power when spoken aloud. “I love you angry. I love you hurt. I love you even when I wish I didn’t. I love you even when I’m standing here trying to prove I can live without you.”

His eyes lifted to hers.

“And I hate that too,” she admitted, laughing through the tears gathering at her lashes. “I hate that loving you still feels like standing in front of the underworld with pomegranate on my tongue, pretending I don’t remember choosing the fruit.”

Jaafar’s breath shuddered.

For once, he had no slick response.

No clever mouth.

No arrogance ready to save him.

He only sat there beneath the classroom light, beautiful and bare and utterly undone, while Odessa painted him in softened red, trying to capture the impossible truth of a man who had been both wound and balm, both Hades and home, both the reason she had run and the place some foolish, faithful part of her had never stopped trying to return to.

Jaafar stood at that moment, slowly, carefully, as if one sudden movement might frighten the confession back inside her chest, his eyes fixed on her through those lowered lashes, brown and wet and impossibly soft beneath the classroom light, and Odessa watched him rise to his full height with her breath caught somewhere between her throat and her heart, watched the man she had just painted in red and ache unfold from the stool like some god stepping down from marble, no longer hiding behind robe, humour, legacy, or that slick mouth she had cursed and loved in equal measure.

He came toward her with a quietness that made the room feel smaller, made the space between them feel sacred rather than empty, and when he stopped in front of her, towering over her at six-two to her five-eight, Odessa had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes, had to stand there with the brush still trembling in her hand and all her bravery scattered around her feet like discarded petals at Aphrodite’s altar.

For once, Jaafar did not smile like he had won.

He did not tease.

He did not say some smug, beautiful, infuriating thing that would have made her roll her eyes and pretend her pulse was not tripping over itself.

He only looked at her, really looked at her, as if every word she had just spoken had gone into him and rearranged something behind his ribs, as if her love had not made him proud but humbled him, as if being seen by her had stripped him down more completely than any robe ever could.

Then his hand lifted.

Slowly.

Carefully.

His fingers found her cheek with the kind of tenderness that almost hurt, his palm warm against her skin, his thumb brushing beneath her eye as though he could feel the tears she had refused to let fall, and Odessa’s eyelids fluttered despite herself, her whole body remembering him before her pride could decide whether remembering was allowed.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice low and unsteady, roughened by want but softened by something deeper than hunger. “Please.”

Odessa’s lips parted.

And God, there he was — the man with the confidence, the man with the nerve, the man who had once talked her right out of her good sense and into a love so consuming it had left them with a child who wore his face like proof — asking her, not taking, not assuming, not standing before her like Hades with a claim and a crown, but like Orpheus with his hands empty and his heart in his throat, begging for the song one more time.

“I love you,” she breathed.

Jaafar’s eyes closed for half a second, as if the words had struck him somewhere mortal.

Then he bent his head and kissed her.

Not with the arrogance she had expected from him, not with the easy victory of a man who knew he had been wanted all along, but with a reverence that made Odessa’s chest ache, his mouth meeting hers like a prayer finally answered after too many seasons of drought, his other hand coming up to cup her face fully as though he needed to hold her still not because she might run, but because he might fall apart if he did not have something sacred beneath his hands.

Odessa rose into it before she could think better of herself, her fingers curling against his chest, paintbrush forgotten, breath forgotten, every careful speech about separation and distance and divorce dissolving beneath the press of his mouth, because this kiss did not feel like an ending or even a beginning, not exactly, but like the first honest thing after a long war, like Persephone stepping out of winter with pomegranate still on her tongue, not innocent, not untouched, but choosing to bloom anyway.

Jaafar kissed her like he had heard every hurt and still wanted the woman who carried them.

Odessa kissed him back like she had spent too long pretending love was something she could survive by refusing to name.

Odessa made a soft, helpless sound against his mouth when Jaafar deepened the kiss, the kind of sound that seemed to leave her before pride could catch it, before sense could grab it by the wrist and drag it back down, and Jaafar answered it with a low breath of his own, one hand still cradling her cheek while the other slid firmly to her waist, pulling her into him like he had been starving quietly for this exact closeness and had finally, finally stopped pretending hunger was discipline.

The kiss changed then, not losing tenderness so much as letting heat rise beneath it, slow and inevitable as Helios dragging the sun over the edge of the world, his mouth moving over hers with the kind of confidence that made her remember exactly how dangerous he had always been when he stopped talking and let his body finish the sentence.

Odessa’s fingers clutched at him, first at his shoulders, then his chest, then anywhere she could hold because the room had begun to tilt around them, the easel forgotten, the canvas half-painted and bleeding red behind her, the confession still hanging in the air like incense offered to Aphrodite herself.

Somewhere beside them, the wineglass tipped.

It slipped from the small table with a delicate, fatal sound, hit the floor, and shattered.

Red wine spilled across the tiles like a second painting, dark and dramatic and entirely ignored.

Neither of them cared.

Neither of them gave a single damn.

Not Odessa, whose breath caught when Jaafar’s mouth left hers only long enough to drag one warm, reverent kiss along the corner of her jaw, and not Jaafar, whose arms tightened around her as though the crash had only reminded him how badly he needed both hands on her.

“Jaafar,” she gasped, startled and breathless, but whatever warning had been meant to follow never made it out.

Because he lifted her.

All five feet eight of her.

Like it was nothing.

Like she was weightless, though Odessa knew she was not, like he had been waiting years to remind her that he could still carry her when she forgot how to stand, and her thighs wrapped around his hips on instinct, immediate and familiar, locking around him with a remembered ease that made both of them go still for half a heartbeat.

His eyes lifted to hers.

There it was.

The old fire.

The old ache.

The thing that had made Jalen possible and made forgetting impossible.

Odessa’s lips parted, but Jaafar only looked at her, breathing hard, his hands firm beneath her as if she were something sacred and dangerous and entirely his to hold only because she had allowed it.

“You good?” he whispered, voice rough, checking her even through the heat of it, even with his mouth swollen from hers and his composure hanging by a thread.

Odessa stared down at him, at the man she had loved, hated, missed, painted, forgiven too early and too late and not at all, and something soft and reckless moved through her chest like Persephone reaching for the fruit again with open eyes.

“Yes,” she breathed.

That was all he needed.

Jaafar turned with her in his arms, carrying her across the art room while the music kept playing low through the speaker, Sonder wrapping itself around the quiet like velvet, the broken wineglass glittering behind them like some abandoned warning from the gods.

The couch sat against the wall beneath a row of unfinished student sketches, all charcoal faces and half-shaded hands, but Odessa barely saw it before Jaafar lowered them both down, careful despite the urgency, controlled despite the way his breathing had turned uneven.

She sank into the cushions with him over her, and for one suspended second they only looked at each other.

No Jalen.

No Malcolm.

No divorce papers.

No separation.

No carefully rehearsed speech waiting at the back of her throat.

Just them.

Jaafar and Odessa.

Two people who had spent too long circling the ruins of their own love like it was Troy after the fire, pretending there was nothing left worth saving while their hands kept reaching through the smoke.

Jaafar brushed his thumb over her cheek.

“I love you,” he said, not slick, not smug, not performing, just raw enough that it entered her like a vow.

Odessa’s eyes shone.

“I know,” she whispered.

His mouth curved faintly. “You gon’ say it back?”

Even now.

Even here.

That mouth.

That wicked, impossible mouth.

Odessa laughed breathlessly and pulled him down by the back of his neck.

“I love you, Jaafar.”

His eyes closed like the words hurt in the best way.

Then his mouth found hers again, and the room slipped away around them — the easel, the wine, the unfinished painting, the plans she had come to make, the ending she had meant to give them — all of it fading beneath the warmth of his body, the weight of his hands, the soft ruin of her own surrender.

And somewhere between the music and the red paint drying on the canvas, between broken glass and breathless laughter, between old hurt and the first fragile shape of forgiveness, Odessa stopped trying to leave the underworld.

For tonight, she chose the pomegranate.

Jaafar did not think he was insane for this.

Desperate, maybe. Reckless, perhaps. A man driven half-mad by patience, certainly. But insane? No. There was nothing insane about going to retrieve what had always, in some quiet and ancient part of him, belonged to him; nothing deranged about finally reaching for the woman he had spent years orbiting like some punished god circling the same forbidden star, condemned to watch her glow from a distance while lesser men warmed their hands at her fire.

Because he had been patient.

He had been kind.

He had been more gracious than he was naturally inclined to be, if he was being honest, and Venus Taraji Hamilton had worked his last nerve — not the first, not the second, not even the frayed little string of restraint he kept tied around his pride for her sake, but the very last one.

And the worst part was that she knew what she was doing.

She knew exactly what she was doing when she announced her engagement at that family dinner, the one where the Jacksons and the Hamiltons sat together under warm lights and polished silver, mingling like two old bloodlines in some mythic hall, laughing over wine and legacy as if they had not all spent years pretending they could not see the storm gathering between him and Venus. She knew what she was doing when she let another man place a ring on her finger and then offered the news up like a blessing, like a toast, like it was not a blade laid carefully at Jaafar’s throat.

And he had not even been there.

That was what nearly made him laugh, though there was nothing funny about it.

He had been away filming, swallowed whole by the tedious, sacred, gratifying work of becoming his uncle — of bending his body, his voice, his spirit toward a man the world had already turned into myth — when his mother called to tell him the “good” news. The word had come through the phone bright and harmless, dressed in congratulations, but Jaafar had heard it for what it was.

A warning bell.

A prophecy.

A door closing somewhere it never should have been opened for anyone else.

The woman at the front desk, bless her heart, had been so visibly starstruck at the sight of him that she forgot the shape of her own job, her eyes widening, her smile trembling at the edges as though Hermes himself had stepped down from Olympus and asked for a room key. She was too dazzled to follow procedure, too flustered to question why a man who was not listed under Venus Hamilton’s reservation was asking for access to her floor, and though Jaafar made a quiet mental note to raise that with Venus once they left the hotel together — because no, they would not be booking here again, not if any pretty face with a famous name could charm his way past security — he still gave the woman a soft, devastating grin, thanked her like a gentleman, and made his way toward the elevators with the calm certainty of a man walking into a temple he believed had been built for him.

He rolled his neck as the elevator doors closed, the soft gold light catching along his jaw while he pressed the button for the penthouse suite — because of course Venus would be in the penthouse, of course she would spare no expense when it came to her own comfort, her own privacy, her own little palace in the sky; and yes, he assumed she had paid for it herself, because Venus Taraji Hamilton did not let men buy her luxury when she could purchase divinity with her own black card, and Jaafar’s assumptions about her were rarely wrong.

By the time the elevator climbed to the top floor, he had already loosened his shoulders, already swallowed the last bitter mouthful of restraint sitting beneath his tongue, already made peace with the fact that whatever happened next would happen because Venus had forced his hand — or at least, that was the lie he fed himself as the doors parted with a quiet chime.

The corridor beyond was hushed and expensive, all muted carpet, low lighting, and the kind of silence that belonged to people who paid not to be disturbed. Jaafar stepped out just as a room service attendant approached her door, tray balanced carefully in hand, knuckles lifted and ready to knock.

“I got it,” Jaafar said smoothly.

The man paused, recognition flickering across his face, quick as lightning over the Aegean, and Jaafar only smiled — that easy, devastating smile that had opened doors long before he ever touched a handle — before slipping two crisp hundred-dollar bills into the man’s hand with a murmured, “Keep the change.”

It was enough. Of course it was enough.

The attendant blinked down at the money, then back up at him, already retreating with a polite nod, and Jaafar waited only until he disappeared around the bend of the corridor before he turned toward Venus’s door, slid the keycard from his pocket, and let himself inside like a man entering a room he had already claimed in every version of the future that mattered.

The suite was quiet when he entered, too quiet, the kind of expensive silence that did not feel empty so much as carefully arranged, curated by money and taste and the kind of woman who had learned very early that peace was something you could purchase if you knew which floor to book and which people to keep outside the door.

Venus had left pieces of herself everywhere.

Not mess, never mess, because Venus did not do mess unless it was emotional and even then she had the nerve to make it look intentional, but evidence; a white satin heel tipped lazily near the chaise, a pearl earring abandoned on the marble console, a bridal shower sash folded over the back of a chair as if the words printed across it had offended her and she had stripped them from her body the moment she crossed the threshold. There were flowers everywhere, blush roses and white peonies spilling from glass vases like offerings left at the altar of some beloved, cruel goddess, and along the far table sat champagne, untouched cake, little gift bags tied with silk ribbon, and enough pale, pretty bridal nonsense to make his jaw tighten.

Bride-to-be.

The phrase seemed to glare at him from every corner.

Jaafar shut the door behind him with a quiet click, the sound small but final, and for a moment he simply stood there with the room service tray in his hands, taking in the ridiculous theatre of it all; Venus in white, Venus with flowers, Venus celebrated, Venus wrapped up and handed toward another man as though she were not the same woman who had once laid beneath him until dawn with her fingers twisted in his hair and his name broken soft against her mouth.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and humourless.

“Playing house,” he murmured under his breath, setting the tray down on the dining table, his eyes drifting toward the half-open bedroom door. “You really lost your mind.”

A sound came from deeper in the suite then — the low rush of running water, maybe the bathtub, maybe the shower, and beneath it, faint but unmistakable, the soft hum of Venus’s voice carrying through the room like smoke from an oracle’s bowl. She was singing to herself, absentmindedly, some old song he had heard her play in the car years ago, back when he was still young enough for her to laugh at him without consequence and old enough to know he hated every man who made her smile.

For one second, one dangerous, merciful second, the sound softened him.

It brought him back to summers in too-large houses where their parents drank wine on patios and Venus wandered barefoot through kitchens, hair piled on top of her head, skin glowing in the heat, calling him baby Jackson when she wanted to irritate him and Jaafar when she wanted something. It brought him back to being sixteen and furious at his own age, watching her leave parties with men who had full beards and real cars and the audacity to place hands at the small of her back. It brought him back to twenty-four, when she had stopped laughing long enough to look at him properly, and the whole world had tilted on its axis like Olympus itself had leaned down to see what they would do.

Then he saw the ring box on the dresser.

Not the ring itself — no, that was probably still on her finger, where she insisted on wearing her lie — but the velvet box it had come in, open and waiting, black against all that bridal white like a funeral flower.

Whatever softness had risen in him went cold.

He crossed the room slowly, every step measured, his body held with the kind of restraint that was not peace but the last wall before ruin. He touched nothing at first. He only looked. At the flowers. At the sash. At the programme from the shower with her name printed in elegant script beside the name of a man Jaafar had never liked, not because the man was cruel or foolish or unworthy in some obvious way, but because he had committed the unforgivable sin of arriving late to a story and acting like he had written the beginning.

That was what sickened him.

The arrogance of it.

To meet Venus in the middle of her life and think a ring gave him claim to what Jaafar had known since boyhood.

The bathroom door opened.

Venus stepped out wrapped in a white robe, steam curling behind her like mist from some sacred spring, her hair pinned up loosely, tendrils escaping around her face, her skin bare and luminous from the heat. For half a breath she did not see him. She was looking down, twisting a lotion cap back into place, comfortable in the privacy she had paid for.

Then she lifted her head.

And stopped.

The air changed so violently it felt like a god had entered the room and taken offence.

Venus’s hand tightened around the bottle. Her eyes moved over him once — the open collar, the tension in his shoulders, the calm, terrible set of his face — and then, slowly, to the door behind him.

“Jaafar.”

His name did not sound like surprise.

It sounded like warning.

He smiled, but there was no joy in it. “Venus.”

She blinked once, as if giving herself time to decide which version of herself would answer him: the friend, the almost-lover, the bride-to-be, the woman who had spent years stepping over the same burning line and acting shocked when her feet blistered.

“What are you doing in my room?”

“Our room, for tonight,” he said lightly, glancing around. “Apparently. Since security downstairs is decorative.”

Her mouth parted, disbelief cutting through her composure. “You bribed your way into my room?”

“I tipped a room service attendant.”

“You got a keycard.”

“I smiled.”

“Jaafar.”

There it was again, sharper now, but he only tilted his head, watching her the way he always had, like there were languages written beneath her skin and he had spent his life learning how to read them.

“You should be more careful where you stay,” he said. “Front desk nearly fainted. Didn’t ask for a thing. You could’ve had anybody walking in here.”

Her brows lifted. “But I got you.”

Something flickered across his face.

A wound, quickly dressed.

“Yes,” he said, voice lower. “You got me.”

Venus looked away first, which would have pleased him once, back when every crack in her composure felt like victory, but now it only made something bitter twist inside him. She moved toward the dresser, setting the lotion down with deliberate care, as if the ordinary motion could restore order to a room already splitting open around them.

“You need to leave.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Her shoulders tensed.

The room went still.

Jaafar took one step closer, not enough to crowd her, not enough to touch, only enough to make the distance between them honest. He watched the line of her throat shift when she swallowed, watched her fingers curl once at her side before she remembered herself and smoothed them out.

“Say it,” he repeated softly. “Tell me to leave, Venus, and I’ll go.”

She turned on him then, eyes bright with anger, but anger had always suited her too well, had always made her look like Athena before war — beautiful, armed, impossible to reason with because she had already decided she was right.

“You don’t get to do this,” she said.

A small laugh left him, quiet and stunned. “I don’t get to do this?”

“No.” She pointed toward the door. “You don’t get to show up here, today of all days, and act like I owe you some performance.”

“Today of all days,” he repeated, tasting the words like poison. “Your bridal shower.”

Her jaw tightened.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“Don’t.”

“No, really.” His eyes dropped to her left hand, to the diamond sitting there with all the smug confidence of a thief in a palace. “Beautiful ring.”

Venus tucked her hand slightly into the sleeve of her robe.

The movement was small.

It still ruined him.

“Don’t hide it now,” Jaafar said, his voice dipping, something harsher bleeding through. “You wore it all afternoon.”

Her eyes flashed. “You weren’t even there.”

“No,” he said. “I heard.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I heard.”

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Beyond the glass doors, the city glittered beneath them, distant and indifferent, all those lights burning like the scattered remains of some fallen constellation. Venus stood in the middle of the suite in white, damp from steam, furious and beautiful and guarded to the bone, and Jaafar thought, not for the first time, that the Greeks would have started a war over less. Men had crossed seas for faces like hers. Men had burned kingdoms for women who looked at them with less history than Venus had in one raised brow.

He had waited years.

He had swallowed years.

And she stood there wearing another man’s promise like he had never touched the truth of her.

“You announced it at dinner,” he said finally. “With both our families there.”

Her lips pressed together.

“I wasn’t there.”

“You were filming.”

“I was working.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.” He stepped closer again, then stopped himself, his hands flexing once at his sides. “You don’t know, because if you knew, if you had any idea what it felt like to get that call from my mother, to hear her tell me you were engaged like she was telling me the weather, like she wasn’t handing me a blade wrapped in ribbon—”

“Jaafar,” she said, quieter now.

“No.” His voice cut through the room, not loud, but final. “No, you don’t get to soften me right now. You don’t get to say my name like that and make me remember I love you before I finish being angry.”

Venus went still.

There it was.

Not implied. Not dressed up in teasing, jealousy, old friendship, bad timing, childhood history, or whatever else she liked to use as fabric to cover the naked thing between them.

Love.

Plain as a wound.

Her eyes searched his face, and for one brief, devastating second she looked afraid.

Then she looked away.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Jaafar laughed again, but this time it was almost broken. “Look at you.”

“Stop.”

“No, look at you.” He gestured toward her, toward the robe, the flowers, the ring, the whole immaculate crime scene of her denial. “You’ll stand in front of a hundred people in white and smile until your face hurts, but you can’t look me in the eye when I tell you the truth.”

Her voice sharpened again because softness had gotten too close. “The truth according to you?”

“The truth according to both of us.”

“There is no both of us.”

He stared at her.

The silence that followed was cruel.

Then Jaafar nodded slowly, once, as if she had finally said something so absurd it brought him clarity.

“No both of us,” he echoed.

Venus’s throat moved.

He looked at her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“So I imagined it?”

She said nothing.

“The way you used to wait for me at parties even when you pretended you weren’t?” he asked. “The way you’d touch my arm and then act like you forgot your hand was there? The way you couldn’t stand any woman near me, but had the nerve to call me childish when I noticed?” His voice dropped. “That night? I imagined that too?”

Her face changed.

Not much.

But enough.

“Don’t bring that up.”

“There she is.”

“Jaafar.”

“No, there she is,” he said, almost tenderly now, and that tenderness felt more dangerous than the anger. “That’s the woman I came to see. Not the bride. Not the designer. Not whatever perfect little statue you’ve been posing as all afternoon. You.”

Venus wrapped her arms around herself, the robe pulling tighter, and for the first time since she had stepped out of the bathroom, she looked less like a goddess carved from marble and more like a woman cornered by her own heart.

“You have no right,” she said, but it came out softer than she wanted.

“I know.”

“You waited years.”

“I know.”

“You said nothing.”

“I said everything except the words.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes burning. “It wasn’t. And I hate myself for that. I hate that I let you make me your secret without even asking. I hate that I stayed close enough to bleed and called it friendship because I was scared if I asked for more, you’d shut the door completely.”

Her lips parted.

He shook his head, almost smiling at the irony of it, at the humiliation of his own honesty.

“But I’m not twenty-four anymore, Venus. And you don’t get to keep talking to me like I’m some boy with a crush you can outgrow on my behalf.”

Her eyes flashed again, wounded this time. “I never said that.”

“You never had to.”

That landed.

He watched it land, watched her absorb it, watched the pride on her face tremble under the weight of everything she had refused to name. Outside, the city kept glowing. Inside, the room felt ancient, fated, like every choice they had ever avoided had finally risen from the floor and stood between them.

Venus turned away, one hand lifting to her forehead.

“I’m getting married,” she said.

“I know.”

“You keep saying that like it means nothing.”

“No,” Jaafar said quietly. “I’m saying it because it means everything.”

She looked back at him.

His voice lowered.

“That’s why I’m here.”

For a while, she only stared at him, and he let her. He let the truth sit there. He let the ring shine. He let the flowers wilt in their vases. He let every ghost of every almost between them crowd into the room and bear witness.

Then Venus whispered, “Why today?”

His face hardened, not with anger this time, but hurt.

“Because today they celebrated you leaving me.”

Her expression cracked.

Just barely.

But he saw it.

He always saw her.

“Jaafar…”

“Don’t marry him,” he said.

The words left him cleanly.

No poetry. No metaphor. No myth.

Just the thing itself.

Venus looked like he had reached into her chest and closed his hand around something living.

“You can’t ask me that.”

“I’m not asking.”

Her eyes narrowed, instinctively bristling.

He corrected himself, softer but no less firm.

“I’m telling you the truth before you ruin all three of us.”

“All three?”

“You. Him.” His eyes held hers. “Me.”

Her breath shook once, barely audible.

“He loves me,” she said.

Jaafar nodded. “I’m sure he does.”

“He’s good to me.”

“I hope he is.”

“He’s stable.”

“I hate him already.”

Despite herself, something almost like a laugh broke through her anger, tiny and disbelieving, and the sound struck him straight in the chest because there she was again, his Venus, the girl who used to laugh at him across dinner tables, the woman who had never once understood how dangerous her joy was in his hands.

He smiled faintly, but it faded too fast.

“He can be good,” Jaafar said. “He can be stable. He can love you properly, on paper. I’m not saying he’s a bad man.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you don’t love him like you love me.”

The room went silent.

Venus did not deny it.

That was the first confession. Not spoken, but there, heavy and bright as the diamond on her hand.

Jaafar’s gaze dropped to it again.

“Take it off,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Take it off.”

“No.”

His jaw flexed.

“Then tell me you love him.”

She stared at him.

“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, “and I’ll leave.”

Her mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Jaafar watched her fight herself, watched pride wrestle with truth, watched fear lay its pretty hands over her throat. He should have felt victorious. Some small, ugly part of him did. But most of him only felt tired. Tired of the game. Tired of being a shadow at the edge of her life while other men stood in daylight beside her.

Venus looked down at her ring.

For one moment, her thumb brushed over it.

Jaafar stopped breathing.

Then she whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

His voice was almost gentle. “But you’re glad I did.”

Her eyes lifted.

The space between them seemed to collapse without either of them moving.

“Tell me to leave,” he said again, quieter now.

Venus swallowed.

Her eyes shone, furious and helpless and hungry with five years of silence.

“Leave,” she said.

But it was weak.

A word without a spine.

Jaafar tilted his head. “Like you mean it.”

She said nothing.

“Venus.”

That did it.

The sound of her name in his mouth, low and broken and reverent, seemed to pull something loose from her. She crossed the last of the distance first, not gracefully, not carefully, but like a woman stepping off the edge of a cliff she had spent years pretending was only a balcony.

Her hands hit his chest.

For one second, it could have been a push.

Then her fingers curled in his shirt.

Jaafar looked down at them, then back at her, his face changing in slow, devastating recognition.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He did not touch her yet.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know.”

His voice softened.

“I do know.”

Venus’s breath caught.

And when he finally lifted his hand, he did it slowly, giving her every second in the world to stop him, to step back, to choose the door, the ring, the life waiting for her with polished shoes and sensible promises. But she did not move. She only stood there, trembling with anger or want or grief, and let his knuckles brush the side of her face.

The touch was barely anything.

It still ruined the room.

Her eyes closed.

Jaafar’s thumb grazed her cheek, and his voice came like a prayer dragged through smoke.

“You don’t get to marry him with my name still sitting in your throat.”

Venus opened her eyes.

Then she kissed him.

Or he kissed her.

Later, neither of them would be able to say who moved first, only that the distance between them finally gave up pretending it had ever been real. One moment they were standing in the middle of a room full of bridal flowers and lies, and the next Venus had both hands in his shirt and Jaafar had one arm around her waist, pulling her to him with a sound low enough to shame thunder, kissing her like he had spent years starving politely at a table where she kept passing him empty plates.

It was not gentle at first.

It was not sweet.

It was punishment and relief, accusation and apology, the breaking of a drought, the return of a tide, the kind of kiss that made Venus stumble back against the dresser and sent one of the little perfume bottles rolling onto its side. Jaafar caught the edge of the furniture with one hand, caging her without trapping her, his other hand still at her waist, still careful despite the storm in him.

He pulled back first, breathing hard, his forehead nearly touching hers.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

Venus’s eyes were dark, unfocused, her mouth parted, her fingers still holding him like she hated him for being solid.

She looked at him.

At the door.

At the ring.

Then back at him.

And instead of answering, she reached down with a trembling hand, slid the diamond from her finger, and placed it on the dresser beside them.

The sound it made against the marble was small.

Tiny.

Almost delicate.

But to Jaafar, it might as well have been the fall of Troy.

The sound of that ring touching marble should have sobered him.

It should have reminded him that this was not some flirtation tucked beneath a dinner table, not some old private joke passed between them in a crowded room, not another almost they could dress up in denial and leave behind before sunrise. It should have reminded him that there was a man somewhere in the world who believed Venus Taraji Hamilton was his fiancée, that there were mothers planning flowers and aunties saving dates and a whole wedding slowly assembling itself around a lie beautiful enough to pass for a blessing.

But all Jaafar felt, watching that diamond sit cold and useless on the dresser, was satisfaction.

Not relief.

Not surprise.

Satisfaction.

Because the ring was pretty, yes. Expensive, certainly. Tasteful in the way Venus’s things were always tasteful, all quiet wealth and polished restraint, a stone chosen by a man who had clearly studied her enough to know what would look good on her hand.

Cute.

That was the word that came to him, cruel and dismissive and almost amused.

The ring was cute. The engagement was cute. The idea of Venus walking down an aisle toward that man, smiling beneath flowers, letting him take her hand like he had ever once held the storm of her properly, was cute in the way children playing at kingdoms was cute; elaborate, earnest, and entirely dependent on everyone pretending the crown was real.

Because it would never be him.

That man could give her vows, houses, honeymoons, clean promises wrapped in white linen and family approval, but he would never have what Jaafar had. He would never know what it was to be twenty-four and finally have Venus look at him like she had run out of excuses. He would never know her laughter turning breathless in the dark, her pride slipping, her voice losing all its sharp edges around his name. He would never know the unbearable intimacy of being wanted by a woman who had spent years insisting she knew better.

He could marry her.

He could not touch the myth.

Jaafar looked from the ring back to her, and whatever Venus saw on his face made her breath catch.

“There,” he said softly.

Venus’s eyes narrowed, but it was a fragile thing now, anger trying to stand upright on trembling legs. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

His mouth curved.

That was the problem with him, she thought distantly — one of many, really, but the most dangerous one in that moment — Jaafar had always been beautiful, always, even when he was too young and too eager and too irritatingly sure of feelings she refused to take seriously, but adulthood had given his beauty weight. It had put command in his shoulders, arrogance in his stillness, a slow, devastating patience in the way he watched her as though he had never needed to chase because history itself had already handed him the ending.

He stepped closer, and the room seemed to shrink around him.

“I’m not pleased,” he said, though the lie sat shamelessly on his tongue.

“You look pleased.”

“I look right.”

Her lips parted.

He smiled then, not sweetly, not kindly, but with the kind of confidence that had ruined her once before, the kind that did not ask permission to exist because it had never doubted its own welcome.

“Don’t confuse the two.”

Venus should have slapped him.

She truly should have.

There were several sensible, dignified things she could have done. She could have snatched the ring back up, put it on her finger, and ordered him out. She could have reminded him of her fiancé, her family, the bridal shower downstairs, the months of planning, the life waiting for her beyond this suite. She could have told him that whatever had happened between them years ago had been a lapse in judgment, a fever, a moment of weakness caused by champagne and nostalgia and the dangerous mistake of looking too long at a boy who had become a man while she wasn’t paying attention.

But then Jaafar lifted his hand and touched the belt of her robe.

Not pulling.

Not untying.

Just touching.

Two fingers against white silk, gentle enough to be respectful, bold enough to be obscene.

Her whole body remembered him before her mind could gather itself.

That was what made him so dangerous.

He did not have to rush. He did not have to beg. He did not have to perform hunger like men who were afraid a woman might forget they wanted her if they stopped proving it for more than ten seconds. Jaafar was worse. Jaafar stood in front of her with that unbearable calm, that dark-eyed certainty, that mouth still damp from kissing her, and looked at her like he had already seen the future and she was late to it.

“Still want me to leave?” he asked.

Venus swallowed.

His gaze dropped to the movement of her throat, and the corner of his mouth lifted, barely.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ve never been good at lying to me up close.”

“I’ve lied to you plenty.”

“No.” His fingers slid from the belt of her robe to her wrist, circling gently, thumb pressing once against her pulse like he was checking whether the truth was still alive beneath her skin. “You’ve performed for me plenty. There’s a difference.”

Her pulse jumped under his thumb.

He felt it.

Of course he felt it.

His smile deepened.

“See?”

The arrogance of him should have offended her into sanity.

Instead, it dragged her back five years.

Back to that first night, when the air between them had finally split open after too much wine, too much laughing, too many years of him looking at her as if age was a locked door and he had simply been waiting for the key to appear. He had not fumbled then either. That was what embarrassed her most when she let herself remember it. He had not been nervous in the way she expected him to be, had not treated her like some impossible older woman granting him mercy. He had looked at her like he had been preparing for that moment his whole life and had no intention of wasting it pretending he was surprised.

That was why she had let him in the first time.

Not because he was pretty, though God help her, he was.

Not because he was a Jackson.

Not because he was younger and flattering and hungry for her attention.

Because Jaafar had stepped into his want like a throne.

Because he looked at her like choosing him was not a risk, but a correction.

Because when she had whispered, “You’re too young for me,” he had only smiled, slow and wicked and impossibly calm, and said, “Then stop wanting me like I’m not.”

And now, years later, standing in her bridal suite with her ring abandoned beside them, he looked exactly the same.

Worse, actually.

Older. Sharper. More certain.

A grown man who had outlived her excuses.

“Jaafar,” she warned, but her voice betrayed her by softening around the middle.

His thumb brushed over her wrist again.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“My name,” he said, eyes lowering to her mouth. “The way you say it when you forget you’re pretending.”

Venus’s breath left her in a thin, irritated laugh. “You are so full of yourself.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just yes, smooth as oil over marble.

Her eyes flashed. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I didn’t take it as one.”

He moved then, not suddenly, not roughly, but with such surety that Venus found herself backing into the dresser before she had decided to move at all. His hand came to the marble beside her hip, caging her in only because she let herself be caged, his body close enough for heat, not pressure, his cologne and skin and rain-dark confidence filling her lungs until the room no longer smelled like roses and expensive soap, but like him.

Like trouble with a pulse.

Like the last honest thing left in the suite.

“You think that man downstairs doesn’t have an ego?” he asked quietly.

Venus lifted her chin. “He’s not downstairs.”

“Good.”

Her brows rose.

Jaafar smiled. “I don’t feel like being polite.”

“You were never polite.”

“I was very polite.” His eyes held hers, dark and amused. “Painfully polite. Saintly, even.”

She almost laughed, but she caught it too late, and he saw the corner of her mouth betray her.

His face changed at once.

Softened, but not weakened.

That was another thing she hated. How quickly he could find the girl in her. How he could strip away the designer, the fiancée, the woman with the immaculate public image, and uncover the Venus who used to sit barefoot on kitchen counters during family parties, eating fruit from a bowl and telling him to stop staring before she started charging him rent for the view.

“You remember,” he said.

“Remember what?”

“Me being polite.”

“I remember you being annoying.”

“You liked it.”

“I tolerated it.”

“You watched for me when I walked into rooms.”

Her smile vanished.

He leaned in a little, voice dropping, warm and low.

“You still do.”

Venus looked away.

He touched her chin, lightly, turning her face back to him with the kind of gentleness that somehow felt more commanding than force ever could.

Then he said, in Spanish, soft enough that it seemed meant for her skin more than her ears, “Mírame, mi Venus.”

Look at me, my Venus.

Her lashes fluttered.

That did something to her. He saw it. He had known it would.

Not because the words were complicated, not because he had dressed them in poetry, but because he said them like possession and worship were the same language when it came to her. Like her name belonged in his mouth with an accent of inheritance. Like he had not come to steal her from another man so much as retrieve her from a bad translation.

“No me mientas, preciosa,” he murmured.

Don’t lie to me, beautiful.

Her hands went to his chest, and again, for one breath, it could have been a push.

It was not.

Her fingers spread over him instead, feeling the steady, infuriating confidence of his body beneath his shirt, the calm rhythm of a man who should have been trembling but wasn’t, because Jaafar had never been afraid of wanting her. He had only been afraid of losing access to her. There was a difference.

“You think you can just come in here,” she whispered, “say a few things in Spanish, smile at me like that, and I’m supposed to forget I have a whole life outside this room?”

“No.”

His answer came too quickly.

Too confidently.

Her eyes searched his.

“No?” she challenged.

“No,” he said again, dipping his head until his mouth was near her ear. “I think you already forgot. I’m just the first person honest enough to say it.”

Her breath broke.

He kissed the space just below her ear, not enough to undo her, just enough to remind her that he knew exactly where to begin. Venus’s fingers tightened in his shirt, and Jaafar smiled against her skin because there it was again, the old truth rising between them like Aphrodite from seafoam, beautiful and shameless and impossible to drown.

“You’re engaged,” he murmured, his lips brushing her jaw.

“Yes,” she said, but the word came out thin.

“To a good man.”

“Yes.”

“With a good ring.”

Her eyes closed.

“A beautiful wedding coming.”

“Jaafar—”

“A cute little future,” he said, and this time the arrogance sharpened, turned golden and cruel at the edges. “Very cute, Venus.”

She opened her eyes.

He lifted his head and looked at her fully.

“But don’t stand here and insult me by pretending it holds a candle to this.”

The room went silent.

Every flower, every gift bag, every delicate bridal ribbon seemed suddenly ridiculous.

Venus stared at him, and Jaafar stared back with no apology at all, his face close to hers, his hand steady at her waist, his whole body speaking in the language of a man who had already compared himself to the competition and found the competition wanting.

“You’re unbelievable,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You think one night means more than a proposal?”

Jaafar’s expression shifted.

The smugness did not leave him, not entirely, but something older moved beneath it, something wounded and devoted and frightening in its certainty.

“No,” he said. “I think our one night meant more than his whole proposal.”

Venus’s lips parted.

“And that’s why you’ve been running from it for five years.”

The words hit her so cleanly she had no defence ready.

He watched her absorb them, watched anger flare and fade behind her eyes, watched the truth settle where pride could not immediately reach it. His hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, and still he did not pull her in. Still he waited.

That made it worse.

He was giving her the dignity of choosing her own ruin.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he said.

She inhaled.

“Tell me,” he repeated, quieter. “Tell me you don’t remember how it felt to stop fighting me.”

Venus’s eyes glistened, furious with him, with herself, with the ring sitting beside her like a witness.

“You don’t get to make this romantic.”

His smile was faint. “Baby, I didn’t have to make anything.”

Her face tightened.

He lowered his voice.

“You did that when you took the ring off.”

For a moment, Venus looked as if she might break.

Then she kissed him again, and this time there was nothing accidental about it.

She reached for him with both hands, pulling him down to her like she was tired of losing arguments to her own body, tired of being noble, tired of being sensible, tired of standing in rooms full of flowers while pretending she was not haunted by a man who had learned too young how to want her and too well how to wait.

Jaafar caught her immediately.

Of course he did.

One arm closed around her waist, the other bracing against the dresser as her back met marble and her mouth opened beneath his, and the sound he made was low, pleased, almost victorious — not surprised, never surprised, because in Jaafar’s mind this had always been where they were going. Every engagement party, every avoided conversation, every man she put between them, every year she spent calling him younger like it was a spell strong enough to keep him out; all of it had only been a delay.

Not a denial.

Never a denial.

He kissed her like he wanted her to understand that.

Like he wanted the memory of him to bruise every future she tried to build without him.

When his hands found her waist again, he lifted her easily onto the edge of the dresser, and Venus gasped against his mouth, one hand flying to his shoulder while the other knocked into the perfume bottle behind her. It clinked against the marble, sharp and delicate, but neither of them looked at it.

Jaafar did pull back then, only enough to see her.

And that was almost worse than the kissing.

Because he looked at her with his lips slightly swollen, his shirt gripped in her fists, his eyes dark and alive with the kind of masculine satisfaction that made Venus want to curse him and kiss him harder in the same breath. He looked beautiful and unbearable, like Apollo with a grudge, like a prince arriving late to a wedding he had every intention of interrupting.

“What?” she snapped, because his silence was too much.

He smiled.

“You’re mad.”

“I am.”

“No.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, slow and possessive. “You’re mad because you missed me.”

Her stomach turned over.

He leaned closer.

“And you’re mad because I know exactly how much.”

Venus shook her head, but there was no conviction left in it. “You’re so arrogant.”

“I had to be,” he said. “You gave me nothing else.”

That quieted her.

His face softened, just slightly.

“I had to believe this meant something,” he said, his voice lowering into something almost tender. “Even when you acted like it didn’t. Even when you put that ring on. Even when you smiled for everybody today like you weren’t sitting there lying through your teeth.”

Venus’s throat worked.

“Jaafar…”

He kissed her once, slower now, less punishment than proof.

Then he rested his forehead against hers.

“Do you know what I thought when my mother told me?” he asked.

She did not answer.

His hand slid up her back, holding her with maddening steadiness.

“I thought, she’s really going to make me come get her.”

Venus huffed out a laugh, broken and disbelieving, even as her eyes shone. “You are insane.”

“No,” he said, smiling against her mouth. “Desperate, maybe.”

Her hand rose to his face before she could stop herself, fingers grazing his jaw, and the touch stole some of the triumph from him. For a second, the ego, the confidence, the controlled arrogance all thinned, and beneath it was the boy who had loved her too early, the man who had waited too long, the friend who had stood beside her life while slowly starving on what she refused to give him.

Then he turned his face and kissed her palm.

Soft.

Devastating.

“Pero no estoy loco,” he murmured. “No por ti.”

But I’m not crazy. Not for you.

Venus closed her eyes.

And Jaafar, seeing the surrender move through her before she could name it, smiled like a man watching the gates of Troy open from the inside.

“Does he even know how you like it?” he murmured against her skin, his mouth moving slowly over the slope of her shoulder, not quite kissing, not quite sparing her either, his lips ghosting over the small pale scar she had carried since childhood — a thin, stubborn little mark from the summer she had fallen off the monkey bars and scared everyone half to death, including him, though he had been too young then to understand why seeing her hurt had made something violent and helpless twist inside his chest.

His thumb brushed beneath it now, reverent and possessive all at once, as though he remembered not only the scar but the girl who had earned it: Venus at twelve, furious with tears in her eyes because everyone kept fussing over her, swatting hands away while pretending she was not shaken; Venus at sixteen, rolling her eyes when he asked if it still hurt; Venus at twenty-eight, arching beneath his mouth like she had finally stopped pretending she did not know exactly what he had grown into.

Jaafar smiled against her shoulder, slow and arrogant, because that was the thing her fiancé would never understand.

He could learn her schedule, her favourite flowers, the cut of her gowns, the polite version of her smile.

But Jaafar knew the scar, he knew Venus, better than anyone would.

“Hard from the back while you watch.” Venus shuddered as he pressed another kiss against her shoulder, a hand weaving around her waist as he drew her back into him

“I’m telling you right now, Venus,” he murmured, his voice low against her skin, all velvet and warning, the kind of calm that came before gods split seas and men burned cities for women they had no intention of losing. “There ain’t no way in hell you were walking down that aisle with me still alive.”

Venus went still beneath him.

Not because the words shocked her — no, some part of her had known, had always known, that Jaafar’s patience had limits, that beneath all his charm and careful restraint was a man arrogant enough to believe fate itself had made a mistake by giving her another man’s ring — but because hearing him say it out loud made the whole room feel smaller, hotter, more dangerous, as if every flower from her bridal shower had suddenly become funeral lilies.

He lifted his head just enough to look at her, his mouth close to her shoulder, his eyes dark with five years of swallowed want and wounded pride.

“You really thought I was gonna sit there?” he asked, almost amused now, and somehow that was worse. “In a suit? Smiling? Watching him take your hand like I don’t know what it feels like when you stop fighting me?”

Her breath caught.

Jaafar’s thumb brushed over the old scar on her shoulder, gentle in a way that did not soften the possession in his voice.

“Baby, please,” he said, the faintest smile touching his mouth. “I would’ve objected before the preacher got his mouth open.”

“So this what you gon’ do for me,” he whispered, his voice low and steady against her throat as his fingers found the silk ties of her robe, tugging once, slow enough to make her breathing change, deliberate enough to make it clear he was not rushing a thing.

Venus’s hands tightened against his shoulders.

“Jaafar—”

“No,” he murmured, kissing beneath her jaw, the word warm against her skin, almost gentle, though nothing about him felt soft right then; not the set of his mouth, not the weight of his hands, not the impossible certainty in his voice as the silk loosened beneath his fingers. “You done talked enough. You done lied enough too.”

Her breath caught, and he smiled like he heard it, like even that belonged to him.

“You gon’ call downstairs,” he continued, dragging his mouth to the side of her neck, “and switch the card on this room to mine, because I’m not having another man pay for the place where I remind you who you belong to.”

Venus’s eyes fluttered shut.

“And after that,” he said, voice deepening, lazy and lethal with confidence, “you gon’ book five more days.”

Her eyes opened then, sharp despite the way her body leaned into him. “Five?”

“Five,” he said, without hesitation, as though he had already decided it somewhere between the elevator and her door, as though the number had been handed down from Olympus itself. “Maybe six if you keep looking at me like that.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the arrogance of that answer sink into her skin.

“Then you gon’ take that pretty little ring,” he murmured, glancing toward the diamond sitting abandoned on the dresser, “put it back in its box, and give it back to that man when you get home.”

Venus stilled.

Jaafar lifted his head, his eyes finding hers, dark and calm and far too sure of himself for a man who had just walked into her bridal suite and started rearranging her entire life with his mouth on her neck.

“And you gon’ be kind when you do it,” he said. “Because he ain’t do nothing wrong except think he could marry a woman who was never really his.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

His thumb brushed her cheek, almost tender.

“After that,” he said, softer now, but somehow more devastating, “we gon’ change the invites.”

Venus stared at him.

The city glittered behind him, all gold and glass and distant little stars, but Jaafar looked brighter than all of it, beautiful with audacity, wearing his confidence like a crown he had no intention of taking off.

“You lost your mind,” she whispered.

He smiled.

“No, baby,” he said, dipping his head until his mouth hovered over hers. “I found my wife.”

Her breath broke.

Jaafar kissed the corner of her mouth, then the other, slow enough to be cruel and patient enough to be obscene, as if he had all the time in the world now that the ring was off her finger, as if the bridal suite, the flowers, the wedding plans, the man waiting somewhere with her future in his hands — all of it had become little more than theatre dressing around the only truth that had ever mattered.

“Because you and me?” he whispered, his mouth hovering against hers, his voice low and velvet-dark, heavy with the kind of confidence that did not ask to be believed because it had already crowned itself king. “We finna get married instead.”

Venus stared at him.

For one suspended second, the whole room seemed to hold its breath: the city burning gold beyond the glass, the white roses and peonies spilling from their vases like offerings at Aphrodite’s altar, the closed velvet ring box sitting on the dresser like a dead prophecy, and Jaafar standing between her knees with his hands on her waist and certainty all over his face, looking at her as if Zeus himself had leaned down from Olympus and told him, Go get what is yours.

Then Venus laughed, but it was not amusement that broke out of her, not really; it was disbelief, panic, fury, longing, and all the years she had tried to keep stacked neatly inside her chest finally rattling loose.

“You are out of your damn mind.”

Jaafar smiled, slow and devastating, his lashes low, his mouth still too close to hers. “No,” he said, and the word came out soft, almost gentle, which somehow made it worse. “I’m done letting you act like you don’t know what this is.”

“This?” she echoed, breath catching despite the sharpness she tried to force into her voice.

“This,” he said, and pulled her closer with one sure hand at the small of her back, not rough, not careless, but with the calm authority of a man who had waited so long that waiting had become a second skin and now, finally, he was stepping out of it. “You and me. All these years. All this back and forth, all this timing our lives wrong on purpose, all this pretending we just kept missing each other by accident.”

Venus’s expression shifted.

There it was.

The little fracture.

The tiny betrayal of the face before pride could cover it.

Because that was the part neither of them had ever wanted to say out loud: whenever Venus was single, Jaafar had someone, some beautiful girl with bright eyes and a soft hand tucked through his arm, some woman smiling too widely in photographs as if she had not sensed the ghost standing between them; and whenever Jaafar was finally alone, Venus had someone, some polished man in tailored suits, some collector or architect or financier with the right watch, the right manners, the right age, the right everything except the one thing that mattered.

He was not Jaafar.

And they had done that dance for years.

Round and round, like two foolish mortals cursed by some bored Greek god, always reaching for each other only after placing somebody else in the way, always pretending jealousy was coincidence, always pretending the timing was tragic when the truth was far uglier.

They had both been cowards.

Venus swallowed, her hand tightening in the front of his shirt. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you weren’t part of it.”

Jaafar’s mouth stilled against her skin.

For the first time all night, something like guilt moved behind his eyes, but it did not weaken him; if anything, it made him more dangerous, because even his guilt came wrapped in confidence, wrapped in the quiet arrogance of a man who believed that everything he had done, even the mistakes, had still been orbiting her.

“You think I didn’t know?” Venus asked, her voice low now, shaking not with fear but with all the old hurt she had taught herself to wear elegantly. “You think I didn’t see you? Every time I was finally alone, there you were with somebody else. Some girl smiling at you like she had won something. Some girl wearing your jacket. Some girl touching your chest in pictures like she had permission to touch what I—”

She stopped herself.

Jaafar’s eyes darkened.

“What you what?” he asked softly.

Venus looked away.

He touched her chin and brought her face back to him, his fingers gentle, his gaze not gentle at all.

“No,” he murmured. “Finish it.”

“Don’t.”

“Mírame, Venus.” Look at me, Venus.

The Spanish left his mouth like heat over marble, intimate and inherited, not performed but pulled from somewhere deep in him, from blood and memory and the side of his family that had taught him affection could sound like command when spoken softly enough.

Venus’s lashes fluttered.

Jaafar saw it, of course.

He saw everything.

That had always been the problem with him.

He noticed too much, remembered too much, knew too much; he knew the scar on her shoulder from the monkey bars, knew the perfume she wore when she wanted to feel untouchable, knew the way she went quiet when she was hurt, knew that she laughed louder around people she did not trust and softer around people she did, knew that she hated being rushed in the morning, knew that she kept handwritten notes in a box like little relics from a private temple, knew that she could design gowns fit for goddesses and still sleep in old T-shirts when no one was watching.

Her fiancé knew Venus Hamilton.

Jaafar knew Venus.

That was the difference.

“No me mientas, preciosa,” he whispered, thumb brushing along her jaw. Don’t lie to me, beautiful.

Venus exhaled shakily, her fingers curling tighter in his shirt. “No me mandes.” Don’t order me around.

His smile came slow, pleased, wicked at the edges.

“Then stop obeying.”

Her eyes flashed, and for a second the woman he had known all his life came back in full force: sharp, proud, radiant, impossible, Athena with lip gloss and a temper, ready for war even with her robe loose at her shoulders and her ring abandoned behind her.

“You are so arrogant,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

No shame.

No hesitation.

Just yes.

Venus let out a disbelieving breath, but it trembled too much to be a laugh. “You’re not even going to deny it?”

“Why would I deny what you like about me?”

The sentence landed between them like a match dropped in oil.

Her mouth parted.

Jaafar tilted his head, watching her with that infuriating calm, that unbearable certainty, that grown-man confidence that had ruined her the first time because, God help her, he had not come to her like a boy begging for a chance, had not stumbled over his want, had not treated her like some older woman he was lucky to touch.

No.

At twenty-four, Jaafar had stood in front of her like a young Apollo already aware of his own beauty, already certain the sun would rise because he told it to, and when Venus had whispered, “You’re too young for me,” trying desperately to place four years between them like a locked gate, he had only smiled, stepped closer, and said, “Then stop wanting me like I’m not.”

And that was why she had let him in the first time.

Not because he was famous.

Not because he was beautiful, though he was beautiful in a way that felt almost offensive, all dark eyes and long limbs and mouth made for trouble.

Not because he was younger and wanted her with the devotion of a man who had turned longing into religion.

But because Jaafar had never made his desire feel uncertain.

He had looked at her like choosing him was not a scandal, not a mistake, not a lapse in judgment, but a correction the universe had taken too long to make.

And now he was looking at her that same way again.

Only worse.

Older.

Sharper.

More assured.

A man who had grown into every dangerous promise his younger self had made.

“You think one night means more than a proposal?” Venus asked, but the question came out too soft, too wounded, too much like she already knew the answer and hated him for making her ask it.

Jaafar’s hand slid from her waist to her back, firm and warm through the loosened silk. “No,” he said. “I think our one night meant more than his whole engagement.”

Venus went still.

“And that’s why you’ve been running from it for five years.”

The words hit her cleanly.

There was no mercy in them, but there was truth, and truth had always been more dangerous between them than touch.

“You don’t know that,” she whispered.

Jaafar smiled faintly.

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Venus.” He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear now, his breath warm enough to make her close her eyes against her will. “If he had touched anything in you that could make you forget me, I wouldn’t be standing here.”

Her breath broke.

There it was, the ego.

Not loud, not childish, not desperate.

Worse.

Certain.

Jaafar looked at her fiancé’s ring and saw something pretty. Expensive. Tasteful. Cute, even. He could admit that much. The man had chosen well. But the ring did not frighten him, the proposal did not humble him, the wedding did not make him feel beaten, because in Jaafar’s mind, all of it was surface — lace over a wound, flowers over a grave, a polished altar built on ground that had always belonged to him.

Her fiancé could give her a diamond.

Jaafar had given her a memory she could not survive.

Her fiancé could put her name on invitations.

Jaafar had his name sitting in her throat.

Her fiancé could stand at the end of an aisle.

Jaafar was the reason she would tremble before she took the first step.

“That ring is cute,” he murmured, glancing toward the velvet box.

Venus blinked, offended despite everything. “Cute?”

“Very cute.”

“You are such an ass.”

“But it ain’t me.”

Her lips parted, and Jaafar’s smile deepened because he felt it — the pulse jump beneath her skin, the old truth rising between them like Aphrodite from seafoam, naked and beautiful and impossible to drown.

“He can put a ring on you,” Jaafar said, his voice low and slow, every word deliberate. “He can stand in front of everybody and promise you stability, houses, children, Sunday brunch, whatever pretty little life he thinks he’s offering.”

Venus swallowed.

“But he can’t stand in a room where he ain’t even present and make you forget how to breathe.”

Her eyes shone.

“Jaafar…”

“No me corras más,” he whispered against her cheek. Don’t run from me anymore.

She closed her eyes.

He kissed the side of her face, just beneath her temple, so tenderly it nearly hurt more than the arrogance.

“No me corras más, mi Venus.” Don’t run from me anymore, my Venus.

Venus made a small, wounded sound, and his hand tightened at her waist, not to trap her, never that, but to hold her steady beneath the weight of what they were finally saying.

“You were my problem,” she whispered, the words slipping out in Spanish before she could dress them in English and make them safer. “Siempre fuiste mi problema.” You were always my problem.

Jaafar went still.

For the first time, the godlike certainty flickered.

Only for a heartbeat.

But Venus saw it.

She saw the boy beneath the man, the child who had watched her fall from monkey bars and cried after everyone else stopped fussing, the teenager who had scowled every time she brought someone older to a family party, the twenty-four-year-old who had kissed her like he had been waiting his whole life to prove he was no longer too young, the man standing before her now, beautiful and arrogant and wounded by every year she had refused to choose him.

So she said it again.

“Siempre.” Always.

His eyes darkened, but not with victory this time.

With ache.

“Venus…”

She shook her head, her voice trembling now, Spanish and English tangling together because one language was no longer enough to hold everything bleeding out of her. “Every time I tried to be smart, every time I tried to be good, every time I chose the man who made sense, the man who was there at the right time, the man who didn’t come with all this history, all this mess, all this—”

“Love,” Jaafar said.

The word cut through her.

She stared at him.

He stepped closer, until there was barely anything between them but breath and silk and five years of cowardice.

“Say it.”

Her eyes filled. “No.”

“Dilo.” Say it.

“No me mandes,” she whispered again, but weaker this time. Don’t order me around.

Jaafar smiled, soft and devastating.

“Then stop wanting to obey.”

Venus kissed him like she was furious that he knew her, furious that he could stand there wrapped in arrogance and tenderness and be right, furious that the whole world had made sense an hour ago and now every safe thing she had built was turning to ash in his hands.

Jaafar caught her immediately.

Of course he did.

He caught her like he had always known she would come to him eventually, like every year, every lover, every jealous performance, every photograph with the wrong person, every almost, every silence, every family dinner where they sat too close and said too little had only been the long road back to this room.

His mouth moved against hers with slow command, heat and restraint braided together, his hands firm at her waist, his body close but not careless, his confidence so complete it became its own kind of seduction.

He did not touch her like he was lucky.

He touched her like he had been chosen.

That was what ruined her.

Jaafar pulled back only enough to look at her, his mouth slightly swollen, his eyes dark, his expression beautiful in its shameless satisfaction.

“You’re mad,” he murmured.

“I am,” Venus breathed.

“No,” he said, thumb brushing her lower lip. “You’re mad because you missed me.”

Her face tightened.

He smiled.

“And you’re mad because I know exactly how much.”

“You are impossible.”

“I know.”

“You think you can just walk in here, speak Spanish, kiss me, tell me I’m marrying the wrong man, and I’m supposed to fall apart?”

Jaafar’s gaze moved over her slowly, from her loosened robe to her wet eyes to the ring box behind her, and when he looked back at her face, the arrogance in him glowed like Helios dragging the sun across the sky.

“No,” he said. “I think you already fell apart when you took the ring off.”

Venus’s breath caught.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the old scar on her shoulder, the one he knew before any man had thought to study her, the one her fiancé had probably seen but never understood.

“Does he even know how you like it?” he murmured against her skin, the question low enough to be wicked, tender enough to be cruel.

Venus’s eyes closed.

Jaafar kissed just above the scar, not quite on it, as if he were worshipping the memory as much as the woman. “Does he know this?” he asked. “Does he know you cried when you fell off those monkey bars, then yelled at everybody for acting like you cried?”

A breathless laugh slipped from her, broken and unwilling.

His mouth curved against her shoulder.

“Does he know you hate being called delicate, but you keep every fragile thing anybody ever gives you?” He kissed her again, slower. “Does he know you get quiet when you want something too much?”

“Jaafar…”

“Does he know you?” he asked, lifting his head, eyes locking onto hers. “Or does he just know how pretty you look behaving?”

That one hurt.

She looked away, but his hand found her cheek and brought her back.

“No,” he whispered. “Don’t hide now. Not after all this.”

Her eyes shone.

“I was scared.”

His face changed.

The arrogance softened, but did not disappear; it became protective, almost reverent, like Ares lowering his sword not because the war was over, but because the woman in front of him mattered more than victory.