Hmm?

The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.

You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.

Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.

You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.

But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.

A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.

They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.

You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.

The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.

No sign of life.

You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.

A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.

You freeze.

He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.

Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.

Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”

His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.

“ Glad to meet you.”

You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"

He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”

A pause.

“ Said I frightened him.”

You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”

The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”

The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.

“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”

He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”

You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”

“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.

“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”

You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.

You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.

“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.

“ Expect the same.”

“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.

His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”

Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.

You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”

“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.

One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”

You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”

That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”

He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”

The door closes softly behind him.

You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.

He’s intimidating, sure.

Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…

You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.

Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.

The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.

And long.

Very, very long.

…

You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.

Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.

The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.

You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.

“ Still awake, Maus?"

You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.

One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.

The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.

“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.

He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”

You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.

Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.

From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.

“ I left food on the table.” He says.

“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”

You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.

Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”

“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.

You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.

König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.

“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.

You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”

“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.

“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”

You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.

He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”

“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.

He stands.

The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.

You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.

“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.

“ I need water.”

You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”

He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.

You focus very hard on your burger.

Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.

A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.

Your breath stops.

“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.

His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.

Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.

“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.

He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”

You bolt.

The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.

Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.

Less than twenty-four hours.

You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.

This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.

…

You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.

Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.

You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.

But your brain is a traitor.

Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”

You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.

Nothing works.

Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.

“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.

“ You zoned out hard.”

You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”

They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.

By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.

The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.

Then you spot the patrol.

Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.

A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.

You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.

It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.

You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.

Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.

You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.

König.

In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.

Those pale eyes pin you in place.

“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.

“ You put yourself in danger.”

You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”

He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.

His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.

“ I said…” He repeats, slower.

“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”

His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.

One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.

König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”

He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”

A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”

“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.

“ Do not spread it. No panic.”

You nod quickly, throat tight.

His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.

“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”

The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.

“ Okay.” You manage.

“ Be careful.”

One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”

You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.

Every step feels hyper-aware.

You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.

By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.

You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.

This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.

…

You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.

Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.

You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.

You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.

He feeds you. Constantly.

Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.

Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.

Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.

Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.

You still don’t know how he remembered.

Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.

“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”

You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.

They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.

If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.

The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.

He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.

Except for that one evening last week.

You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”

His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.

“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.

“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”

The words tumble out before your brain catches up.

You freeze.

He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.

Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”

His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”

“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”

He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”

“ You wouldn’t dare.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”

You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.

There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.

Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.

You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.

Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.

Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.

The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.

So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.

Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.

The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.

He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”

“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.

He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.

“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”

“ Eat anyway.” He says.

“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”

“ I am not cranky.”

He arches a brow.

You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”

The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”

He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.

Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.

You wonder if he feels it too.

You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.

You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.

Because it’s not.

And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.

…

You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.

It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.

You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.

The sliding door whooshes open.

Conversation dies instantly.

Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.

You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.

Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.

“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.

“Before something nests.”

You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.

Oh God.

He walks straight to your table.

Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.

“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.

“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.

He chuckles in low and warm.

“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”

Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?

Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.

You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”

“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.

A ticket.

“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”

He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.

Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.

Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.

Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”

He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.

The second he’s gone, chaos.

“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”

“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”

“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”

“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.

“ It’s a club thing!”

“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.

“ That’s a date, babe.”

You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.

Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.

König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.

Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.

“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.

“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”

Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”

Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”

“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.

Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”

Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”

Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”

Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.

König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”

Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.

“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”

“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.

Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”

Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”

“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.

“ Real romantic, big guy.”

König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.

Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”

He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”

Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”

Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”

König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.

Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.

You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.

Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.

Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.

…

You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.

Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.

The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.

Your gaze lands on the coffee table.

His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.

Curiosity wins. You reach for it.

The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.

Your brain blue-screens.

A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.

A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.

Explicit doesn’t cover it.

You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.

You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.

“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

The bedroom door creaks open.

König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.

Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.

You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”

“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.

You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”

You don’t make it two steps.

“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.

You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”

“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.

“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”

You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”

He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”

Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.

“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.

“ Why are you insulting Brent?”

König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.

“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”

His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.

“ I’m jealous.” He growls.

“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.

He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.

You gasp.

Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.

“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”

Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.

He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.

“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.

“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”

“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”

You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.

“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.

“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”

His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.

He groans, the sound tortured.

“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.

“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”

You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

…

You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.

His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.

You make the mistake.

A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.

The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.

Then you’re airborne.

One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.

The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.

The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—

You gasp.

One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.

König follows your gaze.

“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.

He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.

“ It still smells like you. And me.”

“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.

He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.

“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”

He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”

Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”

“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.

“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”

Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.

“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.

“ Perfect.”

His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.

Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.

He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.

He doesn’t stop there.

König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.

You’re bare to him now, trembling.

He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.

“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.

He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.

“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.

One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.

He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.

“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.

“ You’re a virgin?”

You nod, biting your lip.

A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”

He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.

You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.

“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.

“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”

The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”

“ Cum.” He commands.

“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.

When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.

You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.

“ Suck.”

You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.

“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.

“ Clean every drop.”

You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.

“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.

“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”

…

König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.

“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.

“ Take me out.”

You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”

His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.

You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.

The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.

He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.

Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.

König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”

You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”

You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.

König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”

You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.

You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.

“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.

“ It won’t fit!”

“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.

“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.

The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.

“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”

He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.

Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.

Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.

“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.

“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”

The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.

Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.

“ Faster…” He growls.

“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.

Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

He looms above, massive and overwhelming.

“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)

“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)

He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.

König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.

“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)

You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.

Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”

“ Cum.” He snarls.

" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)

You shatter.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.

He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.

There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.

His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.

“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”

Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.

His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.

He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.

“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.

“ It's useless. You stay here.”

“ But I—”

He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”

You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.

Intense. Possessive. Promising.

You swallow. Nod.

A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)

“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”

You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.

Sunday was never going to that club anyway.

…

Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.

You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.

You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.

He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.

Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.

You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.

The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.

Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.

He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.

“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.

You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”

You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”

Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.

Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.

“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.

“ Already soaked for me.”

You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.

He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.

The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.

His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.

The rest of the day is pure debauchery.

Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.

Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.

You take it often.

You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.

He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.

“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)

Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.

You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.

The screen flashes MOM.

You freeze.

König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”

“ Are you insane?” You hiss.

“ They’ll hear—”

He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”

You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.

You swipe accept.

“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”

Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”

You try to sound normal.

König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.

Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”

“ Baby? Are you okay?”

“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.

“ Just…stubbed my toe!”

König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.

You whine involuntarily.

“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.

“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”

Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.

His masked mouth finds your ear.

“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.

“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”

You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.

Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.

He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.

“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)

The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.

His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.

“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)

Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.

“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.

“ Assignment due—”

“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.

“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”

König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.

You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.

“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.

“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”

You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.

“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.

“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.

nerd!gojo who binges porn almost every night imagining it’s you riding him until he cries. he cums so hard to the thought of your voice moaning his name that he has to muffle himself with a pillow.

nerd!gojo who definitely pulled strings to get into the same project group as you. thought he’d finally get to talk to you outside of class. instead you show up once, scroll on your phone for ten minutes, don’t even look at him, then bounce. he sits there with pouty face, telling himself it’s fine.

nerd!gojo who realizes pretty fast that you’re galaxies out of his league. you’re always surrounded by hot guys, pretty people, the kind who get invited to parties he’d never step foot in. he realizes you’d rather eat glass than breathe the same air as him. accepts it. cries about it in the shower anyway.

nerd!gojo who’s been pathetically, hopelessly in love with you for over two years now. you don’t even know his name half the time unless someone literally points him out. meanwhile you’re hopping from dick to dick like it’s a sport and he’s just the background character jerking off to the thought of being one of them.

nerd!gojo who almost has a heart attack when you actually walk up to him after class and ask if he’s free to “tutor” you. his brain short-circuits. he stammers, blushes red, blurts out some cheesy line so you won't think he's boring.

nerd!gojo whose heart jackhammers so hard he thinks it’s gonna crack a rib when you suggest grabbing food first. he can’t sit still in the cafe as he keeps fidgeting, leg bouncing, palms sweaty, because every time you lean forward your tits press together and he has to grip the table to keep from whimpering.

nerd!gojo who’s so painfully dumb about you that when you get to his house he genuinely thinks you’re there to study. pulls out textbooks, notes, starts explaining like his life depends on it. doesn’t clock the way you’re staring at his mouth, his hands, his lap—too busy trying not to cum in his pants from your perfume alone.

nerd!gojo who finally starts to catch on when you ask him to “demonstrate” male anatomy with “practical examples.” his face goes scarlet, cock throbbing so hard it hurts, but he’s still half-convinced this is some prank until you drag the zipper of your top down and your tits nearly spill out right in front of his face.

nerd!gojo who nearly blacks out when you spread your slick folds right in front of him like it’s a goddamn porn tutorial, legs wide on his bed, asking “will this help?” while your pussy glistens like sin. his hand’s already shaking on his cock, fighting not to bust right then.

nerd!gojo who’s trying so fucking hard not to cum early, biting his lip bloody, eyes glued to your dripping cunt like it’s the only thing keeping him alive because he can't believe you're in his room and on his bed.

nerd!gojo who loses the battle anyway, jerks himself fast and desperate, cumming all over his knuckles like a pathetic loser while whining your name under his breath, cheeks burning red because he can’t even last looking at you.

nerd!gojo who genuinely thinks he’s about to die when you climb on top, grab his still-leaking cock, and rub the swollen head through your folds, teasing him with filthy whispers before sinking down slow and tight.

nerd!gojo who cums embarrassingly fast seconds after he’s buried inside you, thick ropes flooding your pussy, hips jerking, eyes rolling back because holy fuck it’s better than every porn clip he’s ever jerked to.

nerd!gojo whose face completely changes after that second load—puppy eyes gone dark and hungry. he flips you onto your back, folds you into a perfect mating press sinking his dick into your wet heat.

nerd!gojo who finally unleashes years of pent-up obsession, fucking into you like he’s trying to carve his name inside your cunt. every thrust slams deep, cum from before squelching out around his cock, and he keeps filling you with his cum again and again until you’re overflowing.

nerd!gojo who gets rock-hard for the fourth time that night because he literally can’t get enough—cock twitching back to life while he’s still buried in you, mumbling “just one more, please” like a man possessed.

nerd!gojo who treats your body like a porn buffet, trying every position he’s ever jerked off to, eyes wide and frantic, chasing which one makes you scream his name loudest.

nerd!gojo who fucks you straight through the night until your vision blurs and your legs give out, passing out mid-thrust on his ruined sheets while he’s still whimpering into your neck.

nerd!gojo who’s a total little shit even in his sleep as he curls around you like a koala, latches his mouth onto your tit, and suckles softly while he drifts off, arms locked around your waist like he’s scared you’ll vanish.

nerd!gojo who wakes up panicked and almost cries when he finds the bed empty. spends ten minutes convinced the whole night was a fever dream, his dick still half-hard from the memory.

nerd!gojo who drags himself to class heartbroken, eyes red and puffy, until he spots you in your usual seat. lights up like the sun for half a second—then crashes when you don’t even glance his way.

nerd!gojo who nearly dies of happiness when you slip that tiny note onto his desk: “6 PM. Your place.” heart hammering so loud he’s sure everyone can hear it, already kicking his feet under the desk.

nerd!gojo who waits like an overexcited puppy, door open before you even knock, blushing and stammering while he sets out trays of cinnamon rolls, pastries, hot chocolate, all his favorite sweets like he’s trying to bribe you to stay.

nerd!gojo who gets a little sad but instantly horny when you cut through the sweetness and say “no wasting time,” pulling him on top of you and kissing up his neck like you own him.

nerd!gojo who swears your tits are the best thing he’s ever seen in his life as he slides his leaking cock between them, groaning like he’s dying while you tease his slit with kitten licks until he cums hard all over your chest, painting you like a canvas.

nerd!gojo who loses his fucking mind after that—fucks you like the world’s ending, flipping you through every porn position he’s ever bookmarked: missionary, doggy, mating press, face-down ass-up, spooning so he can whisper filthy praises in your ear.

nerd!gojo who’s a sneaky, greedy little shit—fucks you senseless until you black out on his sheets, then quietly snaps pics while you’re passed out, his mouth latched on your tit, his cheek smushed against your pussy, his cock nestled between your tits still leaking. saves every single one to his secret folder, heart racing because he knows you’d literally murder him if you ever found out.

nerd!gojo who’s been floating on cloud nine lately because you show up at his place every single day now. his cock, his puppy eyes, his desperate moans must be that fucking good, because you keep coming back like you’re addicted too.

nerd!gojo who’s fine, almost, with being your secret dick appointment as long as he gets to be with you. but he still craves more, so he tries to suck a dark hickey on your neck where everyone can see. but it backfires when you snap and threaten to ghost him for good if he pulls that shit again. he pouts like a kicked puppy for hours, his heart stinging.

nerd!gojo who completely loses it the first day you don’t show up. paces his room like a caged animal, shivering, stomach in knots, texting you paragraphs, calling until it goes straight to voicemail. anxiety chews him alive—did something happen? did you finally get sick of him? is this it?

nerd!gojo who spends the whole night curled in bed, eyes red, whispering “please come back” to the empty pillow that still smells like you, terrified you’ve abandoned him for good.

nerd!gojo who drags himself to class the next day hoping to see you, lights up when he spots your seat—then crashes when it’s empty again. days drag on like this. he finally breaks, corners your friends after lecture even though he knows you’d hate it, voice cracking as he asks “have you seen y/n?”

nerd!gojo who cries himself to sleep every night now, scrolling through those secret photos of you passed out on his bed—soft, vulnerable, his. the only proof you were ever real. studies forgotten, hobbies dead, just him and his broken heart and your ghost in his sheets.

nerd!gojo who almost stops breathing when you finally walk into class after days of nothing. he bolts up, runs to you like a moth to flame, only to get hit with your coldest tone—“what do you want, Gojo?”—like he’s a stranger. like the nights you screamed his name never happened.

nerd!gojo who sits through the rest of lecture suffocating, overhearing your friends chatter about a party tonight, about some guy you used to fuck who’s gonna be there, how you “always had a thing for him.” jealousy and sadness twist in his gut until he can’t take it—storms out, chair screeching, eyes damp.

nerd!gojo who disappears after that. goes straight home, collapses on his bed, cries until his throat’s raw and his eyes are swollen shut, heart bleeding out because he finally lost the one thing that made him feel alive.

nerd!gojo who has zero pride left when it comes to you—misses you so bad it’s physical pain. tracks down the party address like a desperate stalker, shows up shaking, just to see you, to beg, to breathe the same air.

nerd!gojo whose entire world rips in half when he peeks through the cracked door and sees you pressed against the wall, some guy’s mouth on yours, hands everywhere. he stands there frozen, tears streaming, watching like the pathetic fucking loser he’s always been afraid he is.

read the full fic here

he steps aside, and you walk into a spacious, modern apartment. it’s clean, but there’s a lived-in clash. one side of the living room has sleek, minimalist furniture and a huge tv with gaming consoles strewn about. the other side, visible through an archway, is dominated by a massive desk covered in stacked books, three monitors, and those very highlighters sato mentioned.

toru emerges from the kitchen, holding two mugs of tea. he’s in his element: dark-framed glasses, a soft, worn-in henley, and a faintly exasperated expression aimed at his brother. “you could have put a shirt on,” he says, his voice the familiar, calm cadence you know.

“you could mind your own business,” sato retorts cheerfully, flopping onto the large sectional sofa and grabbing a controller. “your study buddy’s here.”

toru’s eyes shift to you, and something flickers in them—apology, maybe, or annoyance. “sorry about him. he’s… a permanent fixture. ignore him.” he gestures with a mug toward the archway. “we can work at the desk.”

“hey, no way,” sato calls out, not looking away from his game. “i want tutoring too. work out here. i promise i’ll be quiet.” the grin he shoots over his shoulder suggests the exact opposite.

toru sighs, a long-suffering sound you realize must be a common feature of his life. “fine. the table.”

you settle at the large coffee table, pulling out your battered calculus textbook and a notebook filled with desperate scribbles. toru sits beside you, close enough that you can smell his soap—something clean and subtle, like linen and ink. he sets a mug of tea in front of you. “start with the problem set from chapter seven. show me where you’re stuck.”

as you begin explaining your confusion over related rates (how fast is the ladder sliding really, and who cares?), sato’s presence is a tangible distraction. 

he’s not being loud, but he’s there, a lazy panther stretched on the couch, thumbs moving deftly over the controller. every so often, he lets out a soft chuckle or a muttered “nice” at the screen.

toru is, as always, an excellent tutor. he explains the concepts with a clarity that cuts through your panic, his fingers tracing equations on your notebook. “see, you’re treating dx/dt as a constant when it’s clearly a function of the angle’s derivative. you need to implicitly differentiate the pythagorean relationship first.”

“she’s nodding but her eyes are glazing over, toru,” sato’s voice floats over. “your bedside manner needs work.”

toru ignores him, but you see his jaw tighten slightly. “ignore him, focus on me. try this one.”

you struggle through another problem. sato pauses his game, rolling onto his stomach to watch you both, his chin propped in his hands. his gaze feels heavy on the side of your face.

“this is painful,” he announces after five minutes of silent work broken only by your frustrated sighs. “for both of you. you need an incentive system.”

toru finally looks at his brother. “what are you talking about?”

sato’s eyes gleam. “i’m flunking stats, remember? coach said i gotta pass or i’m benched. so i need tutoring too. but i’m not doing it for free.” his blue eyes lock onto you. “new rule. for every problem i get right, i get a kiss.”

the air in the room evaporates. your pen stops dead on the paper. toru goes very still beside you.

“absolutely not,” toru says, his voice low and flat. it’s not a shout, but it carries a finality that surprises you.

“why not?” sato pushes, sitting up. “it’s motivational. high-stakes learning. she doesn’t mind, do you?” he winks at you.

you feel your face heat. “i, uh…”

“it’s inappropriate and distracting,” toru cuts in, his tone leaving no room for argument. he adjusts his glasses, a nervous habit you’ve noticed. “if you want help, you can sit here and work quietly. no incentives.”

sato holds his hands up in surrender, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face. “fine, fine. killjoy.” he saunters over and drops onto the floor on your other side, grabbing a spare notebook. “but i’m working here. the view’s better.”

and so it begins. the most surreal study session of your life. toru guides you both through problems, his explanations precise and patient. sato, it turns out, is not stupid—far from it. he grasps concepts quickly when he bothers to focus, but his focus is sporadic and entirely performative.

“so if the integral of this function represents the total distance,” sato muses, tapping his pencil against his teeth, his eyes on you, not the paper, “what’s my reward for finding it?”

“the reward is not failing,” toru says dryly, not looking up from correcting your work.

“boooring.” sato solves the problem in three swift lines of work, his handwriting a chaotic scrawl next to toru’s neat script. he nudges your foot with his. “c’mon. one little kiss? for academic excellence?”

“no,” toru and you say at the same time. you glance at toru; he’s staring fixedly at the textbook, but the tips of his ears are pink.

sato just laughs. “you two are no fun.”

as the hour wears on, the dynamic becomes a strange, tense ballet. toru is the composed center, a steady stream of knowledge and quiet authority. but you notice the subtle signs of his irritation: the way he clicks his pen, the slight tightening around his eyes when sato leans too close to you to point something out, the clipped tone he uses only with his brother.

sato, meanwhile, is a master provocateur. he “accidentally” brushes his arm against yours. he asks you to explain things toru just explained, just to hear you talk. he makes silly analogies that somehow make the math click (“so the derivative is basically the speedometer of the function, right? and integration is the odometer, adding up all the little trips.”). he’s charming, in an utterly obnoxious way.

and you’re caught in the middle, your calculus-induced anxiety now laced with a buzzing, confusing awareness. of toru’s focused intensity beside you. of sato’s playful, hungry attention across from you. of the fact that these two opposites, these twin forces of nature, are sharing the same air, and you’re the focal point.

during a break, while toru is in the kitchen refilling the tea kettle, sato scoots closer. “so,” he says, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “what’s the deal with you and the professor over there?”

“there is no deal,” you whisper back, acutely aware of toru just out of sight. “he’s my tutor.”

“right. he looks at you like you’re a particularly fascinating unsolved theorem,” sato grins. “all intense and stuff. gives me the ick.”

“he does not.”

“he sooo does. and you get all flustered when he points out your mistakes. it’s cute.” sato’s gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second. “my offer still stands, by the way. the kiss-for-answers deal. i’m acing this practice set.”

“no deals,” toru says, reappearing silently with the kettle. you jump. his eyes are cool behind his glasses as he looks at sato. “stop harassing my student.”

“your student,” sato mimics, but he leans back, giving you space.

the final half hour is the worst. or the best. you’re not sure. you’re working on a particularly nasty optimization problem. toru is walking you through it, his voice calm, his finger tracing a curve on the graph you’ve drawn. “the maximum area will occur when the derivative of the area function is zero. so we set a'(x) = 0 and solve.”

sato is watching, his chin resting on his folded arms on the table. he’s been quiet for a full ten minutes, which is a record.

you finally solve for x. “so… 25 meters?” you venture.

toru nods, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. it’s a rare sight, and it does something funny to your stomach. “exactly. well done.”

in that moment of your triumph and his approval, sato moves. it’s fast and smooth. he reaches across the table, cups the back of your head gently, and pulls you into a kiss.

it’s not deep or overly sensual. it’s firm, warm, and over in maybe three seconds. but it’s a shock of contact, of his confident mouth on yours, the faint taste of his mint gum. he pulls back, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “told you i’d collect.”

time stops. your lips tingle. you’re frozen, staring at sato’s smug face.

then you hear a sharp, sudden sound.

snap!!

you and sato both flinch and look at toru. he’s holding two halves of his mechanical pencil. the graphite inside is shattered. he’s not looking at the pieces. he’s staring at his brother, his expression utterly blank, but a storm is raging in those crystalline blue eyes. a muscle ticks in his jaw.

the air crackles, thick and dangerous.

sato seems to drink in the reaction, his smirk deepening. “what? she got the answer right. that was my incentive for hersuccess. my rules.”

toru carefully sets the broken pencil pieces on the table. he takes off his glasses, cleans them slowly on the hem of his henley, and puts them back on. the simple actions are charged with a terrifying control.

“session’s over,” he says, his voice eerily calm. he stands up, gathering his books without looking at either of you.

“aw, don’t be mad, ruru,” sato says, but there’s a new, watchful edge to his teasing now. he’s seen the fracture.

you’re scrambling to pack your bag, your heart hammering against your ribs. “toru, i’m sorry, i didn’t—”

“it’s fine,” he interrupts, his voice a low, tight wire. he still isn’t looking at you, methodically stacking his pristine notebooks. the broken pencil lies between you like a crime scene marker. “it’s not your fault. my brother has the impulse control of a toddler. we’ll resume next week.”

the dismissal is a physical force pushing you toward the door. but your feet feel rooted to the spot. the air is thick with everything unsaid—sato’s grin, the searing memory of his lips, and toru’s cold, silent fury that feels like it’s sucking all the oxygen from the room.

sato watches the exchange, his earlier amusement shifting into something more intent, more predatory. he sees his brother’s rigid back, your hesitation. he leans against the doorframe leading to the hall, blocking the exit in a casual, unspoken way.

“aw, don’t run off,” sato purrs, his eyes on you but his words aimed at toru’s back. “the fun’s just starting. ruru's just jealous he didn’t think of it first.”

that does it. toru turns around slowly. he’s taken his glasses off again, and without them, his gaze is startlingly direct, a glacial blue fire. “jealous?” he repeats, the word soft and dangerous. he takes a step toward you, not his brother. his focus is entirely on you now, and it’s overwhelming. “you think that’s what this is?”

you swallow, unable to look away. “i…”

he stops right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head up. the clean scent of him—linen, ink, tea—wraps around you. 

“he got a kiss for one right answer,” toru murmurs, his voice dropping so only you can hear. a faint, unfamiliar smirk touches his lips, one you’ve never seen before. it’s not warm. it’s competitive. “what do i get for teaching you the entire module?”

your breath hitches. this isn’t the toru you know. this is someone else, someone unlocked by that snapped pencil and his brother’s taunt.

behind you, sato lets out a low whistle. “oh, shit. here we go.”

toru ignores him. his hand comes up, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek with a touch that’s surprisingly gentle, at odds with the intensity in his eyes. “well?” he prompts, his thumb stroking your jawline.

the last thread of your sanity snaps, pulled taut by the twin forces of their attention. “well… what do you want?” you whisper.

his answer is another step forward, forcing you back until your legs hit the edge of the heavy coffee table. “you.”

then his mouth is on yours, and it’s nothing like sato’s quick, confident steal. this is slow, deliberate, and devastatingly thorough. it’s a claim. his lips are softer than you imagined, moving with a precise hunger that melts your bones. one hand cradles the back of your head, the other rests on your hip, pulling you flush against him. you moan into his mouth, a soft, shocked sound, and you feel him smile against your lips.

when he pulls back, you’re dazed. his eyes are dark, pupils swallowing the blue. “see?” he says, his voice rough. “context matters.”

a slow clap comes from the doorway. sato is grinning, a wild, approving light in his eyes. “fucking finally.” he pushes off the doorframe and walks toward you both, his movements loose and predatory. “knew you had it in you, dude. all that pent-up nerd rage’s gotta go somewhere.”

toru doesn’t let you go, but his arm loosens slightly as sato circles you both. “this doesn’t involve you,” toru says, but the edge is gone from his voice, replaced by something heavier.

“the hell it doesn’t,” sato laughs. he stops behind you, his chest not quite touching your back, but you feel the heat of him. “i started it. i get to finish it.” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, his thumbs rubbing circles into the tense muscles. you shudder, trapped between them. “unless you wanna stop?” his question is a challenge, murmured against the shell of your ear.

you shake your head, a frantic little motion. “no.”

“didn’t think so.”

what follows is a blur of sensation, a dizzying transfer of focus from one brother to the other. toru kisses you again, deep and consuming, while sato’s mouth finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder, biting down just enough to make you cry out against toru’s lips. your bag drops to the floor forgotten.

toru’s hands are methodical, almost clinical in their efficiency as they push your shirt up and over your head. sato’s are everywhere, impatient, skimming your waist, unhooking your bra with a practiced flick before toru can even process the clasp.

“you're always in a hurry,” toru mutters, but he’s pulling you back to kiss him, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples with a focused curiosity that makes you whimper.

“and you overthink everything,” sato retorts, his hands sliding down to your jeans, popping the button. “just feel it.”

his fingers dip inside your panties without preamble, finding you utterly soaked. he groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck where his lips still linger. 

“fuck… already dripping like this? for us?” his fingers circle your clit with a firm, knowing pressure that makes your knees buckle instantly. a sharp, needy whimper escapes you, and toru’s steadying hand on your hip tightens, pulling you closer into his chest as you melt between them.

toru pulls back from the bruising kiss just enough to speak, his breath ragged, eyes dark and stormy behind his slightly fogged glasses. “upstairs,” he rasps, the single word laced with urgency. “the table won’t hold.”

sato chuckles, a deep, wicked rumble, but there’s no argument in it. before you can process, he’s scooping you up effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. the hard line of his cock presses insistently against you through his sweats, and you grind down on reflex, drawing a hiss from him. 

toru follows close behind, already tugging his henley over his head as he climbs the stairs two at a time. the sight of him shirtless—lean muscle honed from who-knows-what disciplined nerd regimen, pale skin marked with faint freckles across his shoulders—makes your mouth water.

sato kicks open the door to what’s clearly his room: a glorious disaster of gym bags, crumpled jerseys, basketball posters, and a king-sized bed piled with unmade sheets that scream “sex has definitely happened here.” he tosses you onto the center of the mattress with a playful growl, the springs bouncing beneath you. you land on your back, breathless and flushed, staring up at the two towering figures stripping down with predatory focus.

sato is first, shoving his sweats and boxers off in one go. his cock springs free—heavy, thick, flushed a deep pink and curving slightly upward, already leaking pre-cum from the tip. he strokes himself once, lazily, eyes raking over you like he’s memorizing every curve. 

toru is more methodical, setting his glasses carefully on the nightstand before unbuttoning his slacks and letting them pool at his feet. he’s not as girthy as sato, but longer, elegantly straight with a thick vein pulsing along the underside, the head glistening. both of them naked is a surreal overload—identical faces, identical blue eyes burning with want, but bodies sculpted by polar-opposite lives.

“shirt. now,” sato orders, voice gravelly, and you obey on autopilot, arching your back to peel the fabric away. your bra follows, snapped open by sato’s impatient fingers before you can even reach for it. naked and exposed under their twin gazes, you feel like prey—vulnerable, electric, wanted.

toru crawls onto the bed first, graceful as a panther despite his usual awkwardness. he pulls you up into his lap, claiming your mouth in a kiss that’s slower, deeper than before—less frantic claim, more thorough exploration. 

his tongue maps every inch, teasing, drawing soft, needy sounds from you that he swallows greedily. sato presses in from behind, his naked chest hot against your back, hands roaming possessively. he kneads your breasts, rolling your nipples between rough fingers until they’re hard peaks, pinching just hard enough to make you gasp into toru’s mouth.

“god, these tits,” sato murmurs, voice muffled as he mouths at your shoulder. “fuckin' perfect. been thinking about ‘em since you walked in.” he bites down lightly, soothing with his tongue, and you arch into him with a whine.

toru breaks the kiss, lips shiny, to watch his brother’s hands on you. “she responds so well to touch,” he observes, clinical even now, but his voice is wrecked. his hand slides down your stomach, dipping between your thighs to stroke through your folds. you’re drenched, and he groans. “so wet already.”

toru doesn’t hesitate. he maneuvers you onto your back against the pillows, spreading your thighs wide with strong hands. sato kneels beside your head, cock bobbing inches from your face as he watches. toru settles between your legs, blue eyes locked on yours for a beat—intense, questioning—before he leans in.

his first lick is heavenly, the flat of his tongue dragging from your entrance to your clit. you jolt, a sharp “ah!” escaping. he hums approval, then dives deeper—precise flicks over your clit, lips sealing around it to suck gently, his tongue circling in tight, perfect loops. it’s calculated, like he’s solving you with his mouth, learning your rhythms.

“t-toru—oh fuck, toru, yessss…” your hands fly to his hair, tugging the soft white strands.

sato watches, transfixed, stroking himself slowly. “shit.” he reaches down, tweaking a nipple, making you cry out.

toru slides two fingers inside you—long, elegant digits that curl immediately to that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. he pumps them steadily, mouth never leaving your clit. the wet schlick-schlick of his fingers mixes with your escalating moans.

“g-gonna come—toruuuuu, please, don’t stop—ah! ah!”

he doesn’t. he sucks harder, fingers crooking faster, and you shatter. your thighs clamp around his head, back bowing off the bed as you scream, waves of pleasure crashing through you. toru works you through it relentlessly, only easing when you’re sobbing, oversensitive and twitching.

he pulls back, lips glistening, chin slick with you. “you're sweet,” he murmurs, licking his lips.

sato’s had enough watching. “fuck that. my turn.” he hauls you up by the arms, positioning you to straddle his lap as he sits back against the headboard. his cock stands proud, and he notches it at your entrance. “ride me, gorgeous. show me you can do.”

you sink down slowly, the stretch burning deliciously. he’s so thick, filling every inch. “s-sato… oh god— s'big…”

“fuuuhhck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “that’s it— t-take it like a good girl.” you start moving, rolling your hips experimentally, then bouncing in earnest. each downward thrust bottoms him out, the head kissing your cervix, making you gasp.

toru kneels behind you, his chest to your back. his mouth finds your neck, sucking marks into the sensitive skin as his hands roam—cupping your bouncing breasts, pinching nipples, sliding down to rub your clit in time with your rides. “just like that,” he whispers hot against your ear. “such a good girl— doing so well for us.”

“s-sato—fuck, yes, harder—ah! toru, y-your fingers… shooo good!”

sato thrusts up to meet you, the slap of skin loud and filthy. “moan for me. louder.” his hands guide you faster, relentless.

you’re incoherent, a litany of “yes yes yes” and their names, stuttering through gasps. toru bites your shoulder, his free hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back for a messy kiss over your shoulder. the angle has sato hitting deeper, and you come again, clenching vise-tight around him with a wail: “c-coming—sato!”

“shit—take it, baby— who knew you'd be such a slut?” sato grunts, but he holds off, flipping you suddenly onto all fours without pulling out. “toru—her mouth.”

toru understands instantly. he kneels in front of you, cock hard again, tapping your lips. “open wide, beautiful.” you do, sucking him down eagerly, hollowing your cheeks. he groans, threading fingers through your hair, thrusting shallowly. “thaaat's my smart girl… so perfect.”

behind you, sato resumes pounding, one hand fisting your hair beside toru’s, the other spanking your ass sharply. both brothers facing each other over you, using your body—feels depraved, immersive. you’re stuffed full, rocking between them, drool slipping from your stretched lips around toru’s cock.

“fuck— her throat,” toru pants, eyes flicking to his brother for a split second before squeezing shut. “s-s'tight…”

“you close, baby?” sato growls back. “god— m'gonna come—where?”

“i-inside,” you whine around toru, the word garbled.

that undoes them. sato slams deep, moaning as he floods you, hot spurts painting your walls. the sensation tips you over again—“mmph! fuck!”—muffled by toru, who follows seconds later, spilling down your throat with a stuttered “sh-shit—swallow it all. yeahh, that's it— takin' me so good.”

you do, gulping greedily, even as cum drips from your chin. they pull out slowly, and you collapse face-first into the pillows, a wrecked, trembling mess.

sato flops beside you, dragging you half onto his chest. toru curls behind, spooning close, his softening cock nestling against your ass. lazy kisses pepper your skin from both sides—sato on your mouth, toru on your neck.

“jesus fucking christ,” you slur, boneless.

sato chuckles breathlessly. “i told you guys incentives work.”

toru nips your earlobe. “shut up, sato.” 

the bed shakes with their shared, exhausted laughter. you’re already drifting, sated and claimed.

--

satoru froze mid-thrust, and you felt his cock twitch hard inside you. it made you whimper a little.

“eh?” he asked, cheeks flushed red.

your walls tightened around him on purpose, watched his lashes flutter. “the pillow thing. with who, ‘toru? who did you do this with first? did you lie to me?-“

his face went scarlet from his neck to the tips of his ears even more. poor boy who swore you were his first hook up now was deemed a traitor.

“i—i didn’t—” he tried to hide against your shoulder but you grabbed his jaw, forced him to look at you.

“tell me.” you mumbled, pouting a little, moving your hips slightly.

he swallowed hard, cock pulsing so violently you felt it in your stomach, as he slowly began to rock his hips again, not fully on the rhythm of before.

“i… watched. a-a lot.” he stammered. then, he dropped his head on your shoulder as he began to lose his composture. “like. hours. a-and read- forums— damnit, re-reddit threads! reddit! descriptive ones! y-yeah, i-“

you giggled, arms around him again.

“you studied how to fuck me?”

he sounded like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“i didn’t want to be bad,” he mumbled. “n-not for you. i- i just— made notes… oh, fuck” he cursed softly when you pressed him tighter against you.

“you're so cute" you smiled against his lips, rolling your hips up to meet his next thrust. “i bet you got hard even thinking about this"

“i- y-yeah, i did" he nodded, blue eyes glassy with pleasure, "a-and ‘m not sorry,” he panted, starting to move again faster , like your teasing had flipped a switch. “i jus' wanted to be good for you- oh my god”

"are you close, 'toru?" you whispered, nails softly raking down his back as he kept thrusting into you. "yeah-" he nodded eagerly, breathing hard, "you're- just, ah, squeezin' me so good, shit, m'sorry, m'sorry-"

He loses rhythm for a second, hips jerking erratically before he finds it again—faster, deeper, pillow keeping you perfectly elevated so he can bully that spot over and over, making you moan alongside the creaks of the bed and the bedframe against the wall.

"sa-satoru!" you cried his name, back bowing, nails leaving red lines down his back as you clenched so tight he choked on a curse, feeling the first spasms of your orgasm.

“fuck—fuck, that’s it, that’s it—” he fucked you through it, pace turning sloppy, desperate. “i'm gonna come, baby, p-please-"

“yes—yes, inside, 'toru, please—”

his rhythm fractured; hips stuttering, thighs shaking, glasses sliding further down his sweaty nose. he looked and was wrecked. his hips kept jerking forward in tiny, helpless little thrusts like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, filling you up while he gasped your name over and over like a prayer.

“shit—shit, ‘m sorry—‘m still—still coming—”

you threaded your fingers through his white hair, tugging gently until he lifted his face. his glasses were completely fogged now. you kissed him slow and sweet, tasting salt and desperation on his tongue.

he whimpered into your mouth when you deliberately fluttered your walls around his oversensitive length.

“f-fuck—wait—wait, baby, ‘s too much—” he whined, but didn’t pull out. if anything, he sank a little deeper, like he couldn’t bear to leave.

you smiled against his lips. “you studied… just for me?”