Someone To Find

he stumbles out of the locker room, a towel slung low on his hips, his skin still flushed and steaming. he pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of loose sweats in a daze.

you’re the only thing his lust-filled brain can think of. he’s certain he’ll die if he doesn’t get to you, now. he needs you like he needs air to breathe. like he needs nitroglycerin in his palms. the thought of your face, your voice, your body on his is the sole thing keeping black spots from swarming his vision.

everyone who works at his agency knows that katsuki never leaves work early. he’s always the first to arrive and the very last to leave. he’s the one who stays late to pore over incident reports until his eyes burn. he’s the one who turns the lights off and locks all the doors behind him. but tonight he’s out of the building before the sun has even fully set.

not trusting himself to drive in this state, he hails a cab. the decision to not get behind the wheel is one of the few clear-headed ones he’s made since this whole ordeal started. his hands are shaking too much, and he knows that he’d wrap his porsche around a lamppost before he could even make it past three blocks.

he slumps into the back seat, the cheap leather sticking to his sweat-damp skin, and groans out your address. the driver glances at him in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening at the sight of great explosion murder god: dynamight ™ looking like he’s about to spontaneously combust in the backseat of his car.

on a regular day, katsuki would tell him to mind his damn business and fucking drive. but he currently doesn’t even have the energy to scowl at the old man.

after what feels like eternity, the cab screeches to a halt in front of your building. he doesn’t even wait for the car to stop completely before he tosses a handful of yen bills at the driver and stumbles out onto the sidewalk.

he practically sprints into your building. he’s too impatient to wait for the elevator. he takes the stairs instead, taking them two, sometimes three at a time, he nearly collapses once, catching himself at the very last second.

he can barely stand by the time he finally reaches your door. he’s so close to exploding right here in the hallway and you haven’t even touched him yet. he somehow musters up the energy to fish the spare key you’d forced on him months ago out of his pocket. his hands are shaking so badly, it takes him three tries before the tumblers click.

he limps into your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him. every single one of his nerve endings is on fire as he leans against the door for a second. his head thudding against the cool wood. he can feel a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, follow the line of his jaw, and drip onto his t-shirt. this is pathetic. he’s pathetic. he just wants to crawl into a hole and die. or fuck you until he can’t remember his own name. he’d prefer the latter. he’s so hard it hurts.

“kats ?” he forces his eyes open, vision swimming before it focuses on you. you’re standing in the entranceway to the living room, wearing one of his old t-shirts and little else. he wants to rip that shirt off and see what’s underneath, to map every inch of your skin with his hands, his mouth, until you’re gasping his name.

you take in the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, the deep, feverish flush on his cheeks, and instinctively step closer. you reach up, your cool palm pressing against his burning cheek, and he almost sobs with relief. he leans into your touch like a starved man, a low moan rumbling in his chest. he could stand here all day and just let you touch him.

( he could probably cum in his pants, just from this, like a fucking loser. god, he wants you so bad. he wants your hands all over him. he wants his hands all over you. he needs to feel you. )

you lean in and press a soft kiss to his trembling lips. it’s supposed to be a sweet, simple greeting, but for him it’s feels like a match to gasoline. he fists his hands in the material of your shirt and pulls you closer. he can feel your body tense ever so slightly against his

“how was work ?” you ask, a little breathless when you finally manage to pull back just enough to look at him. 

“fuckin’ terrible,” he manages to grind out. his voice is so tight and strained. he barely recognizes himself. he’s embarrassed. so fucking embarrassed. part of him doesn’t want to tell you. he could just make something up. say he’s tired. say anything but the truth. but the thought of deceiving you, even to save his pride, is unbearable. he rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut as he mumbles, “got hit,” the words practically scrape his throat raw. “with a quirk.”

“what kind of quirk ?” you ask softly. your hand coming up to rest gently on his bicep. he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing violently. he feels the heat in his cheeks deepen, a fresh wave of shame washing over him. he has to say it. he has to force the pathetic words out.

“some . . . aphrodisiac bullshit.” he looks away, unable to meet your gaze, “i blasted the punk the hell up right after but it was already too late. it’s. . . fuck, it’s bad.” he swallows hard, “it’s . . really fucking bad.”

a smile slowly spreads across your face. you can’t help but laugh. never in a million years did you think you’d live to see the day katsuki bakugou needed your help.

“you’re laughing ?!” he chokes out. he’s just confessed to being hit by a lust quirk. this is the most humble he’s ever been. stripped of all his pride, reduced to a nothing but a desperate, needy mess in front of the one person he wants to see him as strong.

he’s never been this vulnerable, this submissive, in his damn life. and you’re fucking laughing ? he wants to be angry. he wants to push you away and reclaim some semblance of his dignity. but he can’t. all he can do is stand there and tremble as your thumb brushes over his bottom lip.

“sorry, sorry, it’s not funny,” you murmur, though the smile playing on your lips says you believe otherwise. “how are we supposed to deal with it ?” you’ve got to be messing with him. he’s in utter disbelief. does he really have to spell it out ? after he’s already humiliated himself this much ?

“obviously i need to. . .” he trails off, his face flushing an even deeper shade of red. he can’t bring himself to say the words. they’re too crude, too pathetic.

“you need to what, kats ?” you’re determined to make the most of the rare, once-in-a-lifetime chance to see your explosive, always-in-control pro hero boyfriend completely at your mercy. 

“you know what. . ” he grits out, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

“i don’t” you frown, your eyes wide with mock innocence. “you’re gonna have to use your words, kats. tell me exactly what you need from me.”

he lets out a frustrated growl, his head falling back against the door with a soft thud. “why are you doing this to me . . ?” 

“because you’re adorable like this,” you coo, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling the tremor that racks his entire body. “it’s a side of you i don’t get to see nearly enough.”

you pull back just enough to look him in the eye, your expression softening slightly, though the teasing glint remains. “and because i need to make sure you’re not just asking because of the quirk. i need to know that you actually want me.”

( you might as well have asked him if grass is green )

“of course i do,”  he chokes out, “how could you even. . . it’s always you. it’s only ever been you. even when my brain is fucking scrambled, it’s still just you.”

“okay,” you whisper, your hand sliding from his jaw down to his chest, right over his racing heart. you take his hand, fingers lacing through his, and lead him towards your bedroom. he follows you like a lost puppy, eyes fixed on the sway of your hips as you walk.

he’s on you before you can even shut the door. his hands grabbing your hips, pulling you into a hungry kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration.

your legs wrap around his waist as he lifts you effortlessly. he stumbles the few steps to the edge of the bed, sitting down with a soft thud so you’re straddling his lap.

he can feel how warm you are through his pants. this is hell. this is heaven. he’s gonna die. he’s positive he’s actually going to die if you don’t move. the pressure of your weight against his aching cock draws a sharp inhale from between his teeth. you lean down, your lips finding his again in a kiss that’s anything but chaste. 

you start to move, rolling your hips slowly, grinding your core against the hard, thick length straining in his sweats. a high-pitched whimper falls from his lips. a sound so foreign to his ears it takes him a second to realize it came from him.

( what. the. fuck. he doesn’t whimper. he doesn’t fall apart like this. he’s the one who makes you fall apart. )

he hates this. he hates the sound of his own voice. but he can’t help it. he needs more. he needs to feel you. his hands fly to your hips, thick fingers digging into your flesh with bruising force. 

“katsuki,” you whisper against his lips. your tongue darts out to taste the salty sweat on his skin. he groans, his head falling back against your ruffled sheets as his hips buck up to meet yours.

he’s burning up, his skin radiating a concerning amount of heat. you can feel it through your clothes, through his. you trail your lips down the length of his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his pulse. 

“are you sure you’re okay ?” you look down at him,face contorted with concern “maybe we should go to the hospital, get you checked out. . .” 

he stares at you, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. you’ve got to be fucking kidding him. here you are, asking him about his health while your chest is in his face and you’re straddling his lap. you’re gonna be the death of him. he swears to god. but what a way to go.

“the hospital ? i’d rather die than let another soul see me like this.” he snarls, though it lacks its usual bite, sounding more like a plea. “and i’ll blow you up if you even think about telling anyone this happened to me.”

“don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me ,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to his jaw.

your fingers find the hem of his t-shirt, the fabric damp with his sweat. you peel it up slowly, revealing the hard, defined lines of his abs. his stomach clenches under your touch, the muscles jumping as your fingertips graze his skin.

he lets you undress him like a doll. you drag the shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. his chest heaves as your hands return to his body, tracing faint scars, the ridges of his abs, the sharp v-line that dips down into his sweats.

katsuki’s trembling as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats, breath hitching as his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach with a wet smack. it’s flushed a deep, agitated red. his tip already beading with an obscene amount of precum that drips down onto his skin.

katsuki’s not one to feel self conscious, his confidence is as much a part of him as his quirk, but right now, under your gaze, he feels too exposed. he can’t meet your eyes. his gaze is fixed somewhere over your shoulder, his jaw clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. he’s completely at your mercy, and you haven’t even touched him properly yet.

you reach out, your fingers tracing the v-line of his hips, your touch light and teasing. he shudders violently, his hips bucking up, seeking more of your touch.

“please,” he whimpers “quit teasin’ me” please. please please please. he’ll beg. he’ll get on his knees and beg. he’ll say please. he’ll say anything you want. he needs to cum. it hurts so bad. he’s gonna die. he’s gonna die if you don’t let him cum.

“but it’s so much fun,” you murmur as your fingers trail lower, brushing against the base of his cock. he lets out a strangled moan as you wrap your hand around him, your palm cool against his burning flesh.

you start to stroke him, slow and teasing, your thumb swirling around his head and spreading the slick fluid down his length. he can already feel his orgasm building, a tight, hot coil in his stomach, but you won’t let him have it. you keep him teetering over the edge until tears are brimming his waterline.

“please,” he begs, throwing an arm over his face, hiding his shame as he pleads with you. “please, baby, let me cum. i’ll do – fuuuck – anything, please.”

“look at me,” you say firmly. he’ll look. he’ll do whatever you want. just don’t leave him like this. this pathetic. this weak. he peeks at you from under his arm, crimson eyes sparkling with unshed tears. you’ve never seen him looks so fragile, so broken. the mere sight of him makes your heart ache, you can’t deny him any longer.

you shift, kneeling between his spread thighs. leaning down and wrapping your lips around the his tip. it’s a shock to his system. he cries out as you take him deeper, flushed tip hitting the roof of your mouth. 

“shit . . . baby, please,” he chokes out, his voice a ragged, breathless mess. “i can’t. . . i’m gonna. . .” the afflicting aphrodisiac quirk amplifies every sensation. fuck. fuck fuck fuck. he’s trying to stay quiet, he really is. he’s biting down on his knuckles so hard he can almost taste blood, trying to muffle the obscene sounds falling from his lips, but it’s no use. every drag of your lips, every swirl of your tongue, pulls desperate whimpers and choked groans out of him

your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him off so hard it makes him see stars. you can feel him trembling, his thighs tensing under your hands as you take him even deeper and you know he’s not going to last much longer. you hum around him, the muscles in your throat constricting around his tip. and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge.

his body arches off the bed as he spills sticky ropes down your throat. you’re milking every last drop, until he’s a limp, trembling mess beneath you. you’re surprised by how sweet he tastes, like salted caramel, so much sweeter than usual.

“feeling better ?” you rasp as you pull back slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to his flushed cock.

he’s completely wrecked, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut, his face glistening cherry red. he’s never cum this hard in his life. he can barely breathe. his limbs feel like lead, his mind’s blissed-out and hazy. for a few precious seconds, he thinks it’s over. he thinks it’s worn off.

then he looks down and his heart sinks. his cock is still painfully hard. it hasn’t gone down at all. if anything, he’s somehow harder than he was before. he’s beyond horrified. he’s just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life, and it did nothing. the shitty quirk is still burning him alive, and he’s starting to think he might be stuck like this forever. 

“feels worse” his crimson eyes are filled with a mix of fear and desperation. “it’s . . fuck. . it hurts more now”

he needs more. he’s too ashamed to ask, too proud to beg you again. his pride has already taken too many beatings it may never recover from tonight. but his eyes are pleading with you as you clamber to your feet. he don’t say another word. you don’t need him to. you already know what he wants. you know katsuki like the back of your hand.

without breaking eye contact, you slowly strip off the shirt of his you were wearing, then your underwear, letting them fall to the floor. his breath hitches as his eyes trail over your naked body. he reaches for you, large hands gripping your hips and pulling you between his spread legs.  

you rest your hands on his shoulders as you straddle him again, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his bare thighs. his hands slide from your hips to grip your ass, pulling you even closer, grinding you against him slowly.

it feels so good. too good. and then he realizes why it does. he’s completely bare. it’s so rare for him to fuck you raw, a line he almost never crosses, and the fact that he almost did, that he was so lost to the quirk he forgot, terrifies him.

“no, fuck, we can’t. not without a c-condom” his voice straining as he reaches for his sweats. his hands shake as he yanks his wallet from the cotton pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste. he flips it open, lithe fingers fumbling through the slots, but there’s nothing there. 

he’s always so responsible, so prepared. a wave of despair washes over him, so strong it’s ridiculous. he was too out of it to check before he came here, too desperate to even think about stopping at a convenience store, and now . . . he checks again, more slowly this time, as if a shiny foil wrapper might magically appear. nothing.

a few hot tears spill over, tracing paths down his flushed cheeks, and it infuriates him. why the hell is he so damn sensitive ? he knows it’s the quirk fucking with his brain, his emotions, but it doesn’t make it feel any less real.

he tosses his wallet and sweats back onto the floor and rakes a hand through his blond hair, “i don’t . . . i don’t have one.”

he’s out. he’s fucking out. he’s always so prepared. he’s always so fucking responsible. and now, when he needs it most. he’s failed you. he’s failed himself. 

you’re kissing his tears away, your lips soft against his damp skin. “it’s okay kats” you soothe, cupping his cheek and smoothing your thumb over the jagged scar adorning it. “. . i’m on the pill, remember ?”

his crimson eyes, wide and vulnerable, search yours for any hint of hesitation, any sign that you’re just saying this to placate him. he finds none. he leans into your touch, his body trembling violently as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

“are you sure ?” he chokes out, his voice muffled by your skin. he’s not asking about the pill. he knows you’re just as responsible as he is. he’s asking if you’re sure you want this, sure you want him bare, with nothing between you when he’s this much of a mess.

“i’m positive,” you whisper, capturing his lips in a kiss that ebbs all his qualms away. his hands are everywhere, roaming your back, gripping your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s not a sliver of space between you.

you position yourself over him, crying out as the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. you sink down, taking him inch by inch. you’re so tight. so wet. and you’re taking him so well. all of him. bare. 

“baby,” he whimpers, his eyes squeezed shut. “move. please. you gotta move.”

you shift your hips in a sensual rhythm that has him seeing stars. his hands are gripping your hips so tight you’re sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow, but you don’t care.

“don’t stop,” he chants the phrase like a mantra. “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop.” like it’s the only thing he knows how to say. every drag of your walls against his cock is both a blessing and a curse.

for a few precious seconds, he just holds you, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder as you ride him, trying to anchor himself to this moment.

but the lust quirk doesn’t care about moments. it only cares about the ache, the burning, relentless need for more. his hips begin to move on their own accord, a slow, shallow roll that’s more instinct than conscious thought. another whimper tears from his throat as he feels your slick walls grip him like they never want to let him go, “can’t. . . i can’t stay still,” he gasps

he drives up into you frantically. the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mingling with his harsh pants and your breathy moans.

he’s completely consumed by the quirk and the mind-blowing pleasure of being inside you. his crimson eyes are half-lidded, tears of pure sensation and frustration leaking from the corners, but he doesn’t stop. he can’t.

“shit, look at you,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he forces his wide eyes open to watch you. the sight of you bouncing on his cock, your head thrown back in pleasure, your skin rippling with each brutal snap of his hips, is almost enough to make him cum again. “so fuckin’ pretty. . . takin’ me so well.”

his calloused thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, frantic circles over the sensitive nub. overcome by the need to make you cum. maybe, just maybe, your orgasm will trigger his own. maybe, just maybe, the feeling of you clenching around him will extinguish the fire burning him alive.

“c’mon,” he pants, his hips pistoning up into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt sucking him in reverberating in the room. he can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering and clenching as your own release builds. it spurs him on, his thrusts become even more erratic, more desperate. “that’s it,” he groans, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “gonna cum ? gonna make a mess all over me ?”

before either of you can fully process it, he rolls, taking you with him. the world flips, and suddenly your back is pressed against the mattress, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the feverish heat of his body blanketing yours.

he settles heavily between your thighs, his weight pinning you down, his forearms bracketing your head as he looms over you. his pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the crimson of his irises, just a thin ring of red surrounding pools of pitch black. all traces of his earlier submission are gone.

he doesn’t give you a moment to adjust, immediately picking up a brutal, punishing pace. his hips snap against yours, the sound of skin against skin louder and more intense than it was before. the thick head of his cock repeatedly kisses the spot inside you that makes your vision turn white. 

his scarred hand slides down your body until his thumb finds your clit again. his movements frantic as he rubs tight circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. the dual stimulation of his cock hammering into you and his thumb working your clit sends shockwaves through your entire nervous system.

“mghh katsuki,” you’re screaming and moaning his name so loud, you know your neighbors are going to complain again. but you’re well past the point of caring. and katsuki’s never given a single fuck about your neighbors; he’d burn the whole building down if it meant he could finally feel you cum around him. tears are falling from his eyes again, tracing paths down his face as he completely loses himself in you.

“yeahhh, that’s it,” he cries. his thumb on your clit presses down harder, hips slamming into yours with renewed vigor. your headboard smacks against the wall with the force of his thrusts. “c’mon, baby, please . . . cum for me. i know you’re close. . . i can feel it”

he can feel your whole body tensing, your back arching off the bed as you teeter right on the edge. your cunt is clamping down on him like a vice, rhythmic pulses that make his own vision swim.

“fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he groans. he can’t . . . he can’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. he could stay like this forever, buried inside you, feeling you cum on his cock over and over again.

“one more” he’s panting against your neck, his voice wrecked. “jus’ one more, baby, i swear i can feel it wearing off.” his hips have a mind of their own now, inching impossibly closer to yours.  you’re so overstimulated you can barely think, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body convulses with yet another wave of pleasure. your cunt is spasming around him again, and again, and again.

“s’too much,” you whine, “kats, it’s too much.”

“i know, baby, i’m so sorry . . .” he murmurs against your skin, “swear i’m gonna pay that extra a visit and send him straight to hell for doing this to me.”

a breathy giggle escapes your lips despite the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. “that’s not – hah – very heroic of you,”

he lets out a shaky breath, his rhythm never faltering. “‘m not sure i can even consider myself a hero anymore after this,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he presses his forehead against yours.

his thumb finds your clit again, circling the swollen bundle of nerves, sending both of you spiraling toward another peak again. he’s well past the point of shooting blanks now, his body completely wrung out, nothing left to give. his hips are faltering, movements growing sloppier. he’s barely propped up on his elbows, arms shaking violently with the strain of keeping his weight off you.

you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve both cum. you’re so blissed out, your mind floating somewhere far above the soaked sheets, nails digging crescents into his shoulders, as he falls apart for the last time.

for a moment, you both just lay there, breathing in the thick, humid air. there’s so much of him leaking from your folds, coating your inner thighs and soaking the already ruined sheets beneath you.

he can no longer ignore the mess he’s made of you when he musters up the strength to pull out. he makes a muffled, embarrassed sound against your skin, his face burning hot. “m’sorry. . . fuck, it’s everywhere.”

“it’s fine, katsuki,” you murmur, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair, the blond strands clinging to your fingers. 

he lifts his head just enough to look at you, crimson eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. he glances down, his gaze tracing the mess on the sheets before flicking back to your face. “we can’t fuckin’ sleep in this,” 

he pushes himself up with a groan, arms trembling so badly he almost collapses back onto you. he manages to roll to the side, landing with a thump on the mattress. the sudden loss of his body heat makes you shiver. he just lies there for a second, staring at the ceiling before forcing himself into a sitting position.

his vision swims as he inches towards the edge of your bed. he rises to his feet and his legs nearly gives out. but he’s still standing. you can see the fine tremors running through his thighs, the strain in his back as he straightens up with a pained grunt. 

he turns back to you, his face half-shadowed in the dim light. his hair is a sweaty, tangled mess, sticking up in every direction, and his eyes are barely open.

“c’mon,” he says, holding out a hand to you, “we’ve gotta shower. and then i’ll make you some dinner”

lust can weaken most men, can make them forget how to breathe, how to speak. but no shitty quirk can ever make katsuki forget his love for you. it’s in his bones, in his veins, in every fiber of his being. that’s why he’s pushing through the pain, why he’s offering you dinner and a warm shower – despite your feeble protests – instead of collapsing back into bed. even when his body is failing him, his heart is right there with you.

Usually you’d hate for people to offer help when you’re forced to do something you were unprepared for, taking the sentiment as a passive aggressive version of getting called incompetent but this time, you ponder while rereading the sweet little note in green ink— of course he used green ink to avoid students from being discouraged — and it's one of those times your stupidity has done you some good.

It’s an hour and a half later when class ends, people filing up to leave the doors of the lecture hall when a voice calls out to you. 

You smile at your professor, a little strained, but it’s okay, you tell yourself, you expected it. You walk up to him, bag on your shoulder, unzipped because you rushed down. You’re still smiling when you’re there, already preparing for what he has to say. 

The smile falls and you sigh, “I know that look.”

He’s standing with his arms crossed, dark shades balanced on his straight nose, looking down at you with nothing short of paternal disappointment. “Yes, and you shouldn’t be too familiar with it either. Seventy-five? really? I thought we were talking recommendation letters last week, turns out you’re barely passing my class?”

You swallow back, not really knowing what to do so you kinda just stand there awkwardly, waiting for him to air out his worries. “I know it's like, a little weird to put this much pressure on you but c’mon kid, you’re looking at being the next assistant after Choso to help your resumé right?” 

You nod, still not saying anything, but you can’t deny how you perk up when you heard his name. 

Your professor pauses briefly mid rant after spotting how you only met his eyes when he mentioned his current TA’s name, a light bulb flickers on in his head. 

He squints, “You’ve been familiar with each other, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” You’re quick to reply, stopping yourself from physically gulping out of nervousness. 

“He been showing you the ropes bit by bit?” he mutters, uncrossing his arms and leaning over the desk. 

“Bit by bit, yes.” You echo, unable to reply without being scared of saying the wrong thing to tick him off.

“And…” He feigned thinking about it, fidgeting with he pen in his hand and tapping the butt end of it on a thick stack of paper. “…He’s also helping with lessons to keep your grades up?” 

You say nothing, keeping your mouth flat and shut. You peer up at him, and shake your head slowly, “No sir.”

He tsks, standing up to his full height. “It’s not necessary but  you’re aware there’s an average for you to keep up just to become a TA right? We wouldn’t want students biting off more than they could chew.”

You nod once more, though this time, a lot more fervently. “I—yes, sorry. I’ll-“

“Get to it, yeah.” He finished for you, tucking his hands in the pockets of his slacks. He waits for you to move, watching how you’re still standing there and waiting for him to also tell you to move. You’re so alike, he thinks. 

He nods upwards, dismissing you. You thank him while you’re already turned your back, eagerly making your way to your next mission.

Gojo watches the door swing inwards from the impact of your departure, a smile in his tone when he mutters to no one, “That’ll give her some motivation.”

You’re rushing to your next class now, given the fifteen minute grace period you were granted had now been shaved down to ten, no thanks to your professor, forcing you to take two steps at a time when making your way to the other side of the building. 

You’re looking down at your phone, deleting and retyping a message in your instagram dms. It’s when you pass the stairway that an unexpected force uncontrollably comes on to you. You thud against it, breathe caught, hand tightly clutching at your phone. You stumble on your steps, holding onto the closest thing you feel for. You don’t fall, you don’t even come close to the ground, but your knees certainly felt like they couldn’t carry you.

Because here you stood against a very worried, very tightly holding you, Choso Kamo. Your mind blanks, your class just a few doors away, forgotten. Unintentionally, a small smile spreads on your face. 

“Hey, I was—“ He laughs nervously, “I was looking for you.” His hands wrap around your nearly limp arms, almost covering the expanse of it, yet held at a respectable position.

“You okay?” He tilts his head down to meet your eyes, a look of concern etching back on his terribly handsome face, he swallows thickly and you watch his adam’s apple bob decorating his thick neck.

 He takes a second to peer back at the stairs, then back to you before he realizes how his grip still clutched on you. “I’m sorry.” He pulls his hands down at his sides, unsure of what to do with them. “I was about to-“

“-Me too actually.” Cutting him off, you couldn’t help but smile even wider, uncaring if you looked too excited. You raised your phone, “Was about to send a dm but I got class in like,” You flip the screen to face you, “two minutes.” A pinch of apprehension makes its way to you but you push it back. 

His eyes widen behind his rectangular frames, lenses making them appear bigger than they actually are.  

“Really? Shit, “ He cursed, regretful,  “I don’t have class anymore so I could just wait out—”

“Sit in with me?” It comes out of you before you could stop it. “—or not.” You quickly add, retreating. “I could just go and email you.”

“No—I mean, Of course. Yes. Me, I’ll go.” He smiled with a toothy grin, ignoring how you said email instead of your socials in hopes you won’t bring up how he stuttered over his words.  You’re caught off guard and before you know it, he’s already making his way to the door without even being sure which class it was. 

He’s reaching for the handle when you stop him, “Oh, next door, please.” He nods bashfully, adjusting the strap of his comically small backpack on himself and apologizes under his breath. He follows you inside, you push, prying the door open. His palm flat against the wood, effortlessly holding it for you both. 

Luckily your professor hadn’t been in class yet, so you  weren’t spotted as the only late comer (technically no, with company, you weren’t.) The class was sparsely filled as it was only part of your minor and this schedule wasn’t as popular, so you could basically sit anywhere. You scan over the room, and you spot some seats at the very front. You’re about to take a step forward when you realize you’re being a little rude. 

“Where d’ya wanna sit?” You ask, head tilted up with a smile. You try to ignore the gleefulness that comes with the idea you’re gonna be seated next to him. Again, you push this feeling down, knowing it’s completely unprofessional and straight up childish. Though conversely, what you feel for him is not in the slightest, childish. 

“Back, definitely.” He answers a little too fast, blinking to check with you. “If you want.” He adds. 

He’s so polite, you could just die. 

You find comfortable seating by the right side of the class, second to last row and close to the back per request. This classroom was a little smaller, so distance from the whiteboard wasn’t really an issue.

You’re listening to your elderly professor repeat instructions about a future assignment and knowing he’s just going to be posting the guidelines, you just tune him out again, distracted. You have to learn to stop doing that.

But you’re shamelessly peeking at the side, Choso’s writing something down, you watch his face as he continues without a care in the world, back hunched down to get closer to the papers maybe, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in focus. You look down at what he’s writing when he flips the sheet over, the sound of the paper is quiet amongst the loud hum of the air conditioner.

 He’s checking something, a test again? You wonder if yours is there. Something catches your eye, he’s even writing down notes in the side for each correction. Maybe he’s also writing notes of encouragement for others. You don’t wanna wanna act all sensitive but something in your chest dampens. A lick of disappointment knowing you weren’t just given a little extra effort.

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware that you completely distracted yourself again and let your overactive imagination take over. You bite your cheek, brushing off the disappointment and sit properly on your seat. It moves the entire table though, you moved a little too roughly. Choso backs up in his chair, the commotion throwing off your professor in his fruitless discussion.

You gasp before immediately turning to check on your hard of hearing professor. He mumbles some incoherent complaint but you don’t wait to think and just apologize, “Sorry,” and it’s hopefully enough to divert the attention from you both. 

Choso grunts, “No—sorry, my chair was too loud.” He pulls the long, shared desk back with one pull of his hand, before hunching to go back to work. There’s already a furrow in your brows at the apology, and you’re staring at the side of his face, his hand behind his full, overgrown hair, expression mirroring your own except towards his papers. 

You adjust back, only this time you’re a bit farther, scared he’ll probably sense you’re being a little invasive. So you keep your eyes up at the projected screen and let the silence pass, the light sound of the ballpoint scratching paper on the smooth surface of the table and your teacher murmuring mix behind the stupid thoughts interfering and prodding at your composure. 

You made this unnecessarily awkward, eyes looking back down on the paper without trying. You’re still kinda curious what he’s writing down. He’s writing down notes to the side, red pen and all— red pen and all?

You do a double take, your uncontrollable, imposing, borderline deluded thoughts returning back to their place in your hopeless brain. Did he use a red pen for everyone or green? He used green earlier, definitely. What the hell? Why does it matter?

“Can I help you?” The inner monologue in your head ceases at the question. You glance up at him, a crooked smile on his face, dimple gracing his features. He waits for you to say something, you process how it's a little close to a tease. You’re unable to say something and end up nodding.

He smiles, achingly sweet and sincere, still waiting for a response. You blank out, unable to think of a proper fake answer in time. 

A last flick of your gaze at the paper outs your thoughts, he looks down at them. “If you’re looking for any of your own, this isn’t your section’s.” He assures, trying to fill in the silence you were so talented in bringing out in your conversations. 

You giggle out of pure giddiness, unable to hold it in as you act like a school girl and not a college student. It’s probably so strange to him that you’re acting this way  — internally reprimanding yourself is your only avenue for self control at these moments. You hope he doesn’t think the same way. “No um, you’re so focused on writing nice notes for everyone and marking every point.“

He smiles wider, eyes turning into pretty crescents. He shakes his head once, sitting back on his chair, and finally not slouching. Your stomach flips noting how he occupies more than half the seat. He scratches his neck, eyes flicking back at the papers for a moment before meeting yours, then averting again. 

“I don’t think…” He leaned over to read the name on the paper, “…Inumaki, T. thinks my detailed corrections, or rather critiques are very nice, nor the rest of section Z26.” he mumbled the last part, adjusting the collar of his pull over.

“critiques?” You inquire, unconsciously leaning to his side of the desk, closer so you could read them too. Choso hopes you can’t feel the warmth on his cheeks radiating right now. 

He nods his head a little too quickly, despite not being able to see him from where you were. He’s dizzy with the scent of your floral shampoo under his nose, heady and pulling. “Yes, just to help with,” he falters again, your bare arm brushing against his own, clothed one when you point at a certain part of the paper while reading, knees hitting under the table when you’re closely looking down on the sheet. “With the, the uh, future tests yeah-”

Choso watches your lips move but he doesn’t hear what comes out. Right now, he’s pushing away such un-utterable, uncalled for thoughts when his view is your head over what would be is his lap, only being separated by this rickety table. It only gets worse when you shift your eyes at him, wide and up at his tired onyx ones, only now his are a little wider too, something past friendly reflecting in your before averting back down the white sheet.

You’re still reading the paper, taking in the info for each question. “Oh,”

He snaps out of his daze, immediately taking notice of your blank tone. “What’s wrong?” 

You’re processing the words on the essay type test he’s checking and you realize you’ve never seen this kind of test before. “Y’know, now that I’m reading this, I don’t think  we’ve answered this activity yet.” A beat, and Choso flips the paper down.

“Right, that’s probably not good,“ He places a spread out hand over the papers, sheets mix on top of each other, disheveled and disorganized, one nearly falling off the narrow table.

You’re already laughing, “You’re so clumsy,” your hand stopping one of them from flying out of place. 

“No, you probably shouldn’t look at that too-“

“Relax, I don’t have the photographic memory to copy each answer. As much as I wish I did.” You mumble the last part, tucking the papers into an organized pile, facing outwards. “See? No cheating for me.” 

Choso fights the smirk that inches his way under the skin of his cheeks, nodding to you. “I appreciate your integrity.” You return the look on his face except with the stack in your grasp right now, it reflects its white canvas like a soft light on your skin, a sweet warmth overcomes him. “I never told you why I was looking for you.” 

You place the sheets separate from his pile of unfinished work. Pursing your lips, you make a noise of acknowledgment. “Oh, I was thinking the same thing. I didn’t know how to approach you ‘cause it was kinda embarrassing.” 

“Embarrassing how?”

For a while, you contemplate how to make yourself sound less pathetic, trying to amp up how to sound flirtier without breaching whatever boundary of the title you held to him. You wanted to play safe, for now.

“Like to ask for help, I bet it's as funny as someone asking a stupid question since you probably didn’t have to do any of that when you were in my year.” You don’t have to confirm with him whether or not it’s true, Choso’s going straight to a master’s after graduating this year. You’ve been hyping yourself up to ask him out for a while, knowing that he’ll most likely drift from you as a friend with the work that comes with finishing one. 

You truly weren’t looking for any kind of college relationship or even a fling, knowing such places bring unnatural levels of attraction to people who lack self identity, and if you’re being honest, college made you question that part of yourself when you first began.

 Ergo, you focused on yourself for your first year to second. Now, you’re in your third year’s second semester and people are thinking about their thesis and fellowships.  And here you were only starting to make career moves for your future in your third year. 

But you digress, circling back to how all that led you to meet Choso. Someone you’ve made acquaintances with last year during an exhibit at the school’s anthropology museum. Yes, you had an anthropology museum — Jjk technical college was not cheap.

His hair was a tad shorter back then, guiding a bunch of first years through the new exhibit, excitedly discussing some bones and energy. The glint in his eyes was bright and he was wholly unfiltered, charmingly gauche. You had tried to pose a question at the time, wanting to entertain him out of definitely just pure curiosity for Bioarcheology, but second guessed yourself and never approached him again. 

Until, it was that same year you found out he had been the TA for the professor you were aiming for next year (as a second year college student), and you found out he was resigning as the teacher’s assistant from a friend of a friend, and how Gojo had been already looking for a new one early on because Choso was that competent.

You want to say that maybe you joined just because professor Gojo was someone you highly look up to in the field of history research and will grant you a killer recommendation for a future career — which you know he will— there’s an underlying feeling where you also can’t deny that the idea of how it brings you closer to Choso made the position all the more appealing. 

So this year, when Gojo read your CV and decided to accept you out of the many (3 applicants, one was an irregular student, the other a nepo baby), and encouraged Choso to start training you by now, it was like fate realigned itself to bring you closer to him.

Sort of.

Now he was in front of you- beside you, and casually replying with, “ I don’t mind spending my free time with you—tutoring and stuff.” He offers, completely unaware how he gets your stomachs in knots and your heart feels like it's trying to rip out of your ribcage. 

“Really?” You ask too eagerly, he nods for extra reassurance. “It’s just, Historiography just isn’t something I’m good at but I’m also I find it interesting but it’s also really hard but— I also want this.” You size him up,  towards his side of the table. “Y’know, this.” 

He‘s about to point at himself, before looking at the papers and something clicks in place. “Checking papers on top of your thesis, dropping them off at Gojo’s office at 8 am, and getting death stares when I come across his students?”

You nod, almost even more eager, “Absolutely.”

“You’re perfect then.” He says, no hesitation whatsoever. You were eating it up and he was completely unaware. You giggle, heat rushing to your face.

You almost forgot how talking came easy with Choso. It was refreshing to meet someone you could hold a conversation with without feeling like you had to perform all the time, or wonder what to amp up or tone down. He had his intimidating moments at first, like being overqualified for a TA and the unmistakable height, or when you’re overthinking how to impress him and you don’t truly act yourself —  but those impressions crumble effortlessly when you recognize him for his sincerity and obsession with the academe. 

Choso can’t help but let a chuckle bubble in his throat, smooth and rich like a creamy cup of strong coffee. He’s analyzing your face, the apples of your cheeks are out with how wide you smile, he made you smile like that. The fact sits comfortably in his chest. He’s staring at your lips, maybe he can get away with it as him just looking down to your height, the few times he feels his own acted as an advantage for him. 

“…any reason you use green?… Choso?” He blinks, and he’s back in the classroom and you’re now holding your own head with your palm, waiting for him to answer. 

The back of his neck is hot with the thought you could probably notice him zoning out. “I like,” he searches your eyes, hesitating, and then, “I like green, so.” He nods, trying to rationalize his plain answer to himself. 

You’re squinting, “Cool,” nothing behind your tone, just the air that still manages to sit awkwardly between you two, suddenly the old scribbles in the storage part of the desk was so interesting—

“And it's good for not like…” He swallows back his nerves, heart pounding in his ears. “I didn’t wanna discourage students.” 

The admittance runs like oil down your back and you feel like you’ve hit him dead center in what you wanted to hear. “Right,” You look around, a false pretense of thinking in your expression, “So… why the red?” You ask curiously, pen in your hand scratching off the old paint under the desk in anticipation.

He paused like a deer caught in headlights, licking the dryness of his lips. Staring down the sheet of paper, yes it’s red indeed, he thinks. His lips part, you watch the smooth, glossy sheen of it move against the light. “I guess I have a favorite class.” He coughs, feigning the ease he was currently lacking with each word he carefully chose to speak.

Despite the urge to egg him on, you leave it at that, your bravery for the day already expended. You know if you continued you might say something a little irrational, and you’re also afraid to jump his bones too quickly. Though you’re pretty sure he could still hold you up if you tried.

Class ends anti-climactically, your professor waving your class off with a less than interested parting. You’re out of the classroom, Choso following behind when, “So, when do you wanna start? I’m free after class tomorrow and it’s the weekend. I don’t mind staying longer.”

You’re following his pace as you walk through the hallways of your building, aiming for the exit but you’re thinking about what happens after. You’re not fully sure where you’ll end up once you part. Do you just go? He stayed with you the entire boring class, (obviously the only reason why you want to stay longer and none other in particular) surely there must be something you have to do in return.

You’re nearing the exit and you can’t help but feel like you’re letting something slip if you go past the doors without making your thoughts known, “I have this thing with my best friend tomorrow, this is not a very good look for me— I promised I’d do this qualitative interview and—“

He’s quick to reply, “Oh yeah, I totally understand—“

Shit, okay you were not seizing the moment correctly. “You should come with me.” You turn over to him, unable to stop yourself.

Choso all but freezes, “What?”

Okay, no going back now, smacking your lips together before going for the kill. “—With me. Yeah, we could hang out and,” Could you still back out? No. 

“Just, maybe study after? like we could study like… for the,” So much for not wanting to jump his bones, “…whole night.” You can’t look at him any longer, eyes scanning back the outside that now surrounds you. The noises of campus and the lamp posts are bright, projecting a warm white over you. But all this is not enough to comfort you from the trepidation finally shaking your brain.

You watch as Choso’s pale cheeks start to tinge into a flushy pink, eyebrows raising behind his glasses.

 “Oh, okay, yes. Okay!” He nods taughtly, though willing.

You pause, “Okay?” trying to check if he’s serious.

“Sure.” You’re both standing opposite his body, shocked with what you’re hearing from the other as much as you were shocked from the words leaving yourselves. 

A beat passes, leaves rustle, and amidst that you’re silently hoping it won't matter how you didn’t think this through fully. “Five o’clock sound good?”

***

It was a steady, calm-ish afternoon, your best friend Miwa was sat in front of you, laptops laid out on the table. She’s writing down notes and closing up her recording software and you’ve been fixing up your hair, clothes, and picking lint off it. You find a loose thread on your shirt when, “Hey,” You look up, alert. Miwa’s squinting at you, blue hair cast in a warm yellow from the mid-afternoon sun. “You good?”

You’re finger quits picking at yourself, “What? Yeah,” eyes flitting back to the pesky string sticking out of the hem of your top. 

There’s a hum coming from in front of you, “You sure? You’ve been so fidgety this entire time.”

“I am not fidgety.” You say, fidgeting. A sigh comes out of you, and you lean back on your chair, hands coming on top of the arm rests. “You really okay with me bringing Choso?”

At this, Miwa’s lips curl into a smirk. “I knew it.”

Your eyes flick over to the side in thought, then back at her sly expression. “What do you know?”

She’s sitting up from her hunched posture over her laptop, and drinking from her cup of her almost lukewarm coffee, shrugging with her eyes still locked on yours.

Your thumbs come up from the arm rests, “What is it?”

She clears her throat, placing the mug on a coaster. She looks back up, a smirk still planted on her face. “Just that I didn’t know that he was your crush,” she expects you to reply, but you’re still waiting for her to elaborate. “Y’know, Choso.”

“I don’t have a crush on him!”

She squints, “Okay so we’re lying today.”

“It’s merely admiration— and some attraction at most.”

“That’s literally what a crush is based on.”

You’re blinking at her, feeling caught. You bite your tongue, knowing that your best friend out of anyone should be able to catch you in a lie. Or even a truth you lie to yourself about. You speak up, “Well?”

“Y’know I love you.” She starts.

“Oh no.” Dread seeps into your stomach, and you know if she starts somewhere along the lines of sugar coating, the following was about to be some bland truth coated around maybe an even bitter core inside.

“I like Choso! He’s been your friend for a while and I’ve never talked to him but he sounds really devoted to his work, maybe goodlooking, he’s smart, and he’s nice—“

“What would Muta think…?”

She chuckles, softening at the thought of her own boyfriend. “No, I just wanted to keep an eye out for you too when I say this.” She pauses, trying to find a way to word this as pleasantly as possible. “Cause you know how girls talk…”

You latch onto that last part, stomach churning in suspense. “Not really, I don’t.”

She stops herself from cackling at your nervous expression, “I just heard he’s always…nice.” 

“What’s wrong with that?” 

“Like too nice? I guess…it’s really hard to explain babe,“ She cuts herself off, sensing your growing apprehension. She observed how your hands are rubbing on the expanse of your cup, and bringing it to your lips to avoid saying something. She quiets down her tone, now kinda shy about mentioning it. She leans a bit towards you, “Like… in bed, y’know?” 

You sputter in your mug, feeling unwelcome liquid scratch your throat. Miwa’s eyes widen when she watches you cough, eyes turning watery. “Ooh gag reflex, that’s not coming in handy.“

“Fucking shut up-“ You’re coughing still and she’s laughing uncontrollably now. “—I did not expect that.”

She’s wiping the corner of her corneas with a finger, “I—I’m sorry I just had to bring it up.”

You’re more composed now, eyes looking up at the clock, it’s ten minutes to five, and you’re trying to relax. 

You don’t exchange looks with Miwa until a short moment passes for you to think. 

“So have you thought about what it would be like?” You’re back to meeting her eyes, a silent exchange between you both. Miwa smiles at you, lowering her voice and putting a finger up to her ear like an agent, “Then I’m glad to relay information.” She’s giggling when you throw a tissue at her.

You’re already standing out of your seat and making your way to sit beside her. She motions her hand for you to come nearer, both turning your heads when the door chime rings and someone enters, calming down when it’s just some delivery person. You relax, side eyeing her. 

Miwa inches closer, “Okay so I’m friends with this senior from my org and she had a friend who was seeing Choso, sort of? Anyways I mentioned once that you were replacing him and that you’re a little into him, sorry.” You’re beckoning her to continue, not caring much for the last part and nodding along. 

“Anyways, it was like a one night stand thing and — don’t get me wrong I’m not trying to spread rumors or judge,” Another pause, and you’re already on the edge of your seat. 

“Well? Go on,” You pull her in, arms tangled and clutching her, knee jittering. 

“I heard he was kinda scared in bed? Like maybe he has a phobia or something.” Your knee stops, and you’re now confused, “It’s just kinda odd ‘cause the guys like a unit, right?” a crease forms between your brows. “Maybe he’s like… a power bottom?” she whispered, tone serious.

You’re nodding, taking in the information with actual consideration. “Possibly,” You’re fully facing her now, “Y’know…he is a TA.” 

It’s Miwa’s turn to be confused, struggling to find the correlation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You fight the expression trying to pull on your lips, you nibble on the skin then let go, “I’d say he’s good at being told what to do.”

Miwa’s eyes widened, before adding, “Tell me when you find out.” A second where you’re both quiet and then you’re being shook by the shoulders, both of you squealing and chortling in your corner. It would be no surprise if you’ve caught the attention of other customers with your commotion. 

She quits with the shaking, now smoothing over the fabric over your shoulders for messing up your top. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

You can’t help but entertain your imagination, “I mean I think I’m too conscious to be playing around too much.” Your friend nods along, supportive. Past these exciting thoughts, it was all a front for the feelings you struggled to word out, “I really like him, Miwa.”

She parts her lips but as if on cue, another chime from the door rings once more. He stood by the entrance for a brief moment, barely scanning the vicinity when he locked eyes on you, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. 

***

“—I think they never made any real contact.”

“No, that’s definitely up for debate.”

Miwa watches your back and forth, pen in hand. Choso decided to be part of her research sample as well, given that he’s already here, he should make use of his time. And he didn’t mind, he liked helping out. 

If only he could actually speak and answer the questions without you guys debating every time one of you made an opinion on something vaguely related to Miwa’s research topic.  At first it was good, your opinions can be added too but now she’s running out of space in her storage with how long this unintentional joint interview was going.

“Okay guys, the interview questions are about historical revisionism. While I do see the correlation, how did we end up in Egypt and…?”

“Ancient Mesopotamia.” Both of you say,  completing her sentence. 

“I can elaborate.” Choso suggests, clearly unable to read between the lines of Miwa’s inquiry.

She stretches in her seat, her legs feeling cramped up with the lack of movement all this time. “Y’know what, I’ll hold you two to that. But first, let’s take a break!” It’s not even a minute until she’s out of both your and Choso’s sights, on the way to the restroom, pen and recorder left on the table. 

“Y’know, I don’t think she likes me that much. I also think she’s too nice to tell me that.” You’re in the middle of cracking your neck until you’re moving your attention to him.

“Don’t worry too much about it, I think she just isn’t up for hearing any more strong opinions on exported textiles.”

“That’s if they were truly exported—“ You shove his arm, and he’s laughing at your face, not even moved from the push. He’s pretending to rubbing his bicep in feigned hurt, lifting his arm in the process, almost flexing. You try to ignore how they felt so hard under your fingertips. You check him out unintentionally, taking notice of how the hem of his layered shirt hangs enough to show the lower part of his stomach. Out of respect, you look the other way.

You swallow thickly, ears hot. “I think I’ll get another snack. Want anything to eat?” You’re already standing up and off the chair, limbs wobbly from the long period of time you spent sitting on the deep arm chair.

There’s a sudden burst of noise coming from the entrance of the café, very loud and boisterous. You can’t help but let your jittery self get distracted, there stood an entire group of men, looking like they just got off practice. You’re wondering why one of them looks vaguely familiar, but there’s a body blocking your view out of nowhere with what you realize is Choso’s chest. 

There’s an odd, slightly frantic look in his eyes you haven’t seen on someone as easygoing as him. “Um, how about I go with you?” 

You’re looking up at him, a little skeptical on why the sudden change of tone, but agree anyways. 

You’re in the short line along the display and point out pastries that you could try when a voice calls out to the person beside you. “Cho!”

It’s easier for you to check where it’s coming from as Choso was in front of said voice. You recognize the pink hair from the group coming in earlier. He’s about 2 inches away from being as tall as Choso, hair damp like he just came from a shower, and a sports bag was strapped across him. 

A pat on his shoulder signals your dark haired companion to turn, seeing a sight he’d been trying to avoid earlier. Of course he had to be the one ordering for his group. 

“Hey man,” Choso greets, strained, a guard visibly coming up around him. 

“What’s up, you don’t say hi to family anymore?” The sentiment, although on paper sounded sweet, in reality was like a taunt. Something you don’t wanna dissect to avoid reading into it too much. “Who’s this?”

You peer over at both of them, their attention now on you. Still unable to read the room, you focus on Choso to see how he wants this to play out. He steps in for you, “You know her, I mentioned the TA thing like a while back. She’s a friend, though she is replacing me.”

 He gestures to the pinkette’s side, introducing him. 

“My brother by the way. Same year though.” 

Sukuna nods at that and smiles, canines showing. He reaches out with his hand, and you meet it halfway. “Ryomen Sukuna.” Huh, he’s not a Kamo.

“Pleasure,” You’re squinting your eyes, there’s something a little unsettling about him that you can’t place, but you’re not trying to jump into that. 

 “I didn’t know Choso had any siblings — ones on campus, no less.”

You let go of his large, callous hands, moving an inch closer to the cashier when the customer before you has their turn to order. “Have 2 terms to catch up with and I don’t really see this one around either ‘cause I did training camp in Barcelona last semester.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silently, you’re comparing them, unknowingly looking back and forth between him and Choso a little too obviously. 

“We don’t look related do we?”

 Before you could defend yourself, a dry chuckle beats you to it. “We get that a lot.” He squeezed where his hand was planted on Choso, who visibly tenses. “Different mom, same dad. He doesn’t take after him though, if you’re worried—“

“Alright, I don’t think she wants to know about that.”

“Speak for yourself,” You laugh nervously, trying to ease the tension you could feel multiplying tenfold. He pats Choso’s shoulder before bringing his hand down to the side, not before looking at the side of his brother's face as he semi-whispered, “At least one of you doesn't have their panties in a twist.”

“I would if I were wearing mine.” A very long, awkward silence overcomes all three of you. That is until a nearly genuine smile breaks out of Sukuna’s angular features. 

“Ha, what the fuck,” He mutters in amusement, “You’re both weird, that’s cute.” A dry chuckle eases the anxiousness you were struggling to place the source of. Though at the cost of your own dignity.

The line to the cashier moves, it’s yours and Choso’s turn now. He’s first to leave his brother’s side, not even bidding him a glance as he moves past you. “Nice meeting you,” you voice out, still on edge, Sukuna just nods in acknowledgement. 

***

It’s around 6:40pm  when Choso walks you to your apartment outside of campus. There’s a slight tension in the air that you’re struggling to bring up, it’s been there for the remainder of your meet up, not having said a word since you’ve left the café. You’ve been trying to make a move and talk to him but he’s had his eyes on the ground this entire time, rarely up, and definitely never on you. 

He was about to walk in the pedestrian lane when you tug on his backpack. He’s caught in the pull, looking up to the red walking signal reflecting on the road. He walks back to stand next to you, still not saying a word. “What’re you thinking so hard on?”

For a moment he turned his head to you, a little too quick to not look like he wasn’t anticipating you to bring it up yourself. He looks ahead once more when you’re walking now. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

You start to feel a little guilty for not clarifying sooner, wondering if this entire time he thought he should’ve apologized for something he couldn’t control.

“It’s alright, it wasn’t unpleasant for me.”

He almost laughs at that, “Right, and I was jumping for joy.”

The air shifts, it’s not so tense anymore, just between that and uncertainty directed at something else entirely. “I felt really dumb earlier.” He adds, looking back down on the pavement. “I couldn’t say anything to make him leave us alone.”

You’re a few blocks nearby to your place, walking a little ahead of him so he could follow you now. 

“Again, it wasn’t that bad. You don’t have to apologize.” Once more, silence fills the space between you both and it feels like you’re unable to remove this weight you feel affecting your interaction.

Now you’re both looking at your feet as you wait for cars to pass the street you’re crossing and for the timer to finally get to zero. Your foot is stepping over a dry leaf to fill in the lack of communication, the sound crunching in the quiet in a loud, distant manner.

“I just kinda get made fun of for acting like this—weak.” You crane your neck up to meet his eyes, and you’re right to think he’s still looking down. “It’s just annoying how even until now it’s expected of me to bite back on others ‘cause I look like I should.” 

There’s a furrow in his brows, and he’s tightly clutching on the strap of his bag. “Like I’ve accepted that, sort of.  I’m already conscious of it— but maybe people like to pick on me when it's obvious I’m not gonna do anything.” 

You’re making another turn together, he’s leading with the path he’s familiar with and you follow, his words don’t falter. “Maybe ‘cause it makes them feel less small or some shit — I don’t know.”

After processing the words that left him, it brought you back to your conversation with Miwa. How you laughed about his past history with women and how you basically gossiped about his insecurities. Guilt swirls in your stomach, realizing this might just be a little worse than you treated it to be. You keep quiet, deep in your own thoughts, letting him say what he needs to.

“And of course my own brother is like that too.” He rants, tracing back to the behavior he displayed earlier. “He’s my brother and I love him, yes. But frat guys could be such dicks, y’know? I was like his first practice hazing dummy lite…in a way.”

You nod, acknowledging him. “Right, right.” You’re turning to the street ahead of yours, just about a block away now.

“It’s hard to not let those insecurities take over.” He groans, “I spent so much of my life trying to make my best first impressions, and I feel like it backfires on me with the wrong people—I hate that.” He’s scratching the back of his head. “Sometimes I just wish I looked normal. That way I wouldn’t literally feel like the elephant in the room.”

At that, you turn almost as if you’d heard the worst take in your life, brows scrunching. “Normal?”

He shakes his head, “Yes, normal. Like I can wear normal shoes and sit on couches normally.”

“I like that you’re not.” You say, insensitively. “I mean you’re not not normal. But I like…it.” You slow down, trying to backtrack on what you just let slip. 

He’s blinking down on you, a look of surprise etched on his slowly flushing face. “…Why?” 

Your breath is caught in your throat, not knowing how else to explain it.  No going back. Remember? 

 “I feel safe, even if you don’t…bite back. And on top of that you’re kind. I think that matters a lot.” 

Choso stares at you like you just grew a tree on your head, but in truth, he’s just trying to tone down his elation. “Really?” He asks dumbly, already cursing himself in his head for looking like he wants to hear you call him that again. Safe.

You dip your head, agreeing once more. “I’m a girl so I may be a little biased but if I were also a little taller, I wouldn’t have to deal with some idiot guys trying something on me, and I could also defend myself easier.” 

“Oh yeah—Yes, that's totally different from my problems.” He clarified, trying to catch himself from sounding ungrateful. You watch the way his expressions shifts from blank to stressed and bite back a smile. “There’s obviously people with worse problems than being bigger than a doorway.” He’s looking down and pushing his glasses up, almost ashamed. 

You turn to the road leading up to your street, your apartment just at the end of it. “Is that like 6’3 or…”

“Huh?” He meets your inquisitive eyes, “Uh, just a little more.” He replied, shying away from your stare. You’re thinking about all the objects that could possibly match up to Choso’s figure. 

“Those chillers they got in 7’11?”

“Hm, nope. Like 2 inches more, maybe.”

Your stomach does a flip you had to ignore, “You’re lying. Six foot six?”

“Without shoes, yes.” He nodded, met with you side-eyeing him. “Well you’re free to go with me to my annual checkups and see.” He defends, a smile finally appearing on his face at your skepticism.

You squint, stopping yourself from looking too excited with the many, unbecoming thoughts storming your brain. “I’ll hold onto that.” 

Shortly after, you find yourself standing in front of the building to your apartment. “I’m sorry about dumping all that on you, It was a lot.” He looks around before letting out a barely there sigh, “I’ll get going now—“

“Are you forgetting?” You look back and Choso’s standing stiffly, feet planted on the ground. “We’re…studying, remember?”

Choso’s throat bobs at your sly tone, convincing himself there is nothing behind it.  “You did a lot today I just thought we were tired—“

“We don’t have to study then.” You’re looking around and thinking to yourself before landing back on his face, “I mean you came all the way here, you could come up and have some tea?”

The notion has his chest puffing out to regulate the way his heart started beating like its pounding from behind his sternum. He doesn’t say anything, his eyebrows raise behind his glasses, his usually sleepy eyes now wide. He nodded and let out a strained, “Okay.”

***

The door to your apartment swings open with a loud creak. The lights switch on, a warm white cascades from the ceilings. 

Your keys make a clinking noise against the ceramic jewelry tray you leave on the dresser by the entrance. The door is wide open, you feel Choso trailing behind a couple steps away. 

He’s standing kinda stiffly, “Do I take my shoes off or—“

You’re shaking your head, stepping aside to let him in. “My neighbors are kinda sticklers for people who leave their shoes outside in the halls.” He walks past the doorway, head craned down. It’s supposed to look like he was trying to avoid getting hit by the frame of it, though he’s only finding a way to hide his face naturally.

He picked his head up when he heard clanking from the kitchen which meant that you were inside. “I hope you’re not allergic to pollen? I like to put honey in mine.” You ask, your voice still clear as the space isn’t big at all, but in his head it’s distant. He’s trying to calm himself down, taking in your apartment. 

It’s small, kitchen tight and you’ve no space for a table. You use the counter as one, your bed, desk, and sofa all in the same space. However, the lack of furniture made it wide, the “living room” taking the least space with just a little coffee table and the tv on the floor as the only decor. 

“You didn’t say anything so I didn’t add any honey.” He finds himself turning on his feet when he’s met by your figure, coming from the kitchen with two— red and yellow —mugs. You hand him the yellow one, he  takes it with a ‘thanks’. You make a move to sit on the couch, trying to get cozy. Choso’s still standing, sipping on his cup awkwardly.

“You can sit if you want.” Choso’s eyes flick over to you. You realize he had shed his bag on the entrance, still it looks like something is weighing on him.

“I’m okay, I might launch you out of it—“

“Sit with me.” You pat the spot beside you on the couch, your fawn-like eyes up at him. 

It turns his legs into jelly. Thoroughly convinced, he sits beside you, trying to be as careful as he can so the side of the couch doesn’t sink to his weight too much.

He winced at the audible sound of the springs under the cushions, “Sorry.” 

Quietly, you assess him. How stiffly he sat, how much of the seat he took up despite keeping himself at the edge of it. If he sat back, would his knee brush against yours? Though you feel a little bad for taking advantage of his reactiveness towards you. However, something deep inside you is undeniably excited with the thought. 

On the other hand, Choso feels like he’s watching himself act in third person, deliberating what part of his body he should move next to not look too obnoxious or stiff. He doesn’t know if he should just let the silence pass till he runs out of tea, or maybe till it turns lukewarm. You shift in your seat, he feels your gaze heavy on him. You don’t say anything, you just stare at the side of his face. His throat bobs.

He looks over to you for a split second and meets your eyes, you raise your brows at him, a smirk growing on your sweet face. 

An anxious laugh bubbles from his throat, the tips of his ears tinging red. “I think you’re aware of how you’re making me nervous.” 

You couldn’t stop the way the smirk spreads into a wide smile. “I was thinking of how to get you to talk, is all.” You tilt your head to the side, checking out how the light from your room lamp makes his jaw seem sharper. His hair nearly fell on his shoulders, built and perched with his elbows on his knees, posture a little hunched, but he still sat taller than you. Nothing short of tempting in your eyes.

He follows your gaze, “What?”

“You’re also thinking of something.”

His brows pinch, he hates how good you are at prodding at him when he clearly doesn’t know what to say. “I’m always thinking.”

You nod, “And still, you haven’t said anything since we went up.”

Choso pauses his already stiff self. You place your mug down, crossing your legs on the couch. He brings his attention back to you but you’re already intently looking at him. He flinches back.

Sighing, “What do you think I’m thinking about?” You purse your lips, shrugging at his question. He shakes his head, a smile fighting its way on his face.

 “Then I’m happy you only brought me here to drink some tea.” A roll of his eyes comes out of sarcasm, reaching for his own mug on the table, stretching his arm out. 

He’s about to pull his hand back when your smaller one lands on top of his. The contact would have made him drop the glass into little pieces if it weren’t for the coffee table underneath. He lets down the cup, missing the coaster you laid out. 

“That’s my mug….” You point at the red cup in his grasp, yours. You let the words linger like the pads of your fingers on the back of his hand, “Hm, you’re really warm.”

He blinks, unable to ground himself back to reality because maybe, maybe you’re trying to make a move on him. He’s unable to look into your eyes, 

“Uh,” He falters, the warmth on his cheeks multiply and spread out when you inch closer, the warmth of your own body makes him feel like he’s overheating. 

“How else could I get you to go up with me?” You say, goading another reaction out of him. 

“I-I mean you could just ask and…I wouldn’t say no,“  You’re closer to his face now—too close. But you’re still not looking at eye level — not close enough. 

“I think I’ve done a lot just to be around you, Cho.” He almost melts at how the stupid nickname his brother calls him sounded so good coming from your honeyed lips. Choso gulps, audible and embarrassing in the silence of your apartment. 

He started off this conversation on the edge of the couch, somehow it feels like you’ve backed him into it.

“Y’know, the TA stuff, asking to study—do we look like we’re studying now?” Your arm skates over his hand, up his arm, the touch leaving goosebumps in their wake.

You watch how his jaw all but clenches at the feeling, a newfound confidence makes you unbelievably giddy, driving you to push more. “But I wanna know for me,”

He feels like he’s running out of breath before he could utter a word when your palm lands up on his hard chest, feeling for the erratic thumping of his heartbeat underneath the fabric of his shirt.

Your head is craned up, lashes bat at him, “What are you willing to do?”

He’s looking deeply into your eyes, searching for the answer to your question, not realizing how his neck is craning down at your height in return. Several beats pass — he feels a tug on his shirt and then he’s closing the distance between your lips. 

He whines on the soft, wet skin, sucking gently, eyes falling shut. His hand finds your cheek, the other reaching for your side when you tangle your arms around his neck. The pace is hungry yet fervent, tugging and melting against the other. You pull away slowly, lips parting from each other wetly. You’re smacking your own lips before smiling up at Choso, giggling. 

His eyes are hazy, glasses crooked out of place. His hands are covering your back and smoothing over your clothes, “I can do anything— whatever you want.” 

If you weren’t already grinning wide enough, now you’re fully Cheshire-like. Pushing yourself closer towards him, “Anything?” He nods eagerly, you’re pulling him in, hungry. 

His hand is on the back of your neck now, holding. There’s something about his touch that feels like it’s keeping you together without feeling too possessive. Caring with a dash of hesitance. One you’re looking to break through tonight.

Your lips travel down his neck, leaving hot, lingering kisses along his throat. “Oh, mmh-“  He bites his lip immediately after nearly letting out the low noise from chest, eyes shutting when you find the particularly sensitive spot on his neck. You feel his fingers dig rougher on your hips, you’re on your knees now, determined to cover every inch of him in your touch. Your weight falls on him when he tugs you, the hands planted on his shoulders squeeze out of instinct.

“You good? I-I didn’t mean to, ah—“ He tried to move his head away from your persistent lips, but a shiver that runs through him stops his actions. You’re sucking on his skin, humming proudly, undettered from your little slip. His hands brush down your sides, they plant themselves lower on your waist.

You plant kisses all the way back to his chin then meet his lips again. You’re eye level, a sinister glint in your eyes. You stick your tongue out, half lidded gaze and staring right at him — brushing the wet, pink muscle along Choso’s bottom lip, teasing. Heat rushes on his face, blood rushes on his crotch. You’re killing him.

You suck on the pink flesh, tugging then letting go, he’s pulling you in closer by the back of your neck. He wants you on him,  mind unable to decide how — just everywhere is fine. You drop your palm down between your bodies and on the garter of Choso’s sweats, feeling for the hardness underneath.

He hissed as your fingers brushed what would be his shaft, “Um, sorry, can we make out a little I think…” He holds your head closer to his face, breaths mingling as you catch them. “I’ll get less hard— nervous, I think. Sorry,” You hummed in agreement before landing back on the flushed skin of his mouth, quieting him down with your lips.

You giggle against him, chasing as he squirms, palms settling on his shoulders. You pull off him with a peck, feet planting back on the carpeted floors.  Choso now sat far into the couch, slacked with legs spread. His mouth parts as you start undressing, stripping off into your underwear. 

He sizes you up and down, taking in your soft, bare skin, your strapless bra and cotton panties under the warm lights of your apartment. It elicits a heavy throb under his pants. Choso’s breathing feels uneven and the air grows thinner when you settle back on the couch, only now between his spread out legs.

 You’re steadying yourself, his hands find a place on your warm, now bare skin. You smooth over the wide expanse of his chest, then land on his neck, even warmer than you. “This okay?” You ask, to which he only replies with a nod. 

You’re about to lean into him when he reaches for his glasses, but you stop him before he tries to pry the piece of metal off. “They stay on.”

His breath catches in his throat, stomach dipping. A part of him he’s not quite sure whether he wanted to acknowledge, liked when you tell him what to do.

 He lets his hand fall, you adjust the rims on the bridge of his nose. “You’re so pretty.” You’re holding his face with both hands, tilting it upwards to you. A lopsided grin appears on his face at the comment, eyes shying away and down from your face and to the body on him.  

“Thanks- Thank you,” He replied poorly. His palm skated from your waist and to your back, laying above the clip of your bra. His lips are caught between his teeth as he takes in the feel of your skin against him, he looks up. “You’re awfully pretty as well.”

He was never good at expressing himself,only with what he was sure of. But this was new, you pushing, him taking, it was all new. But he meant every word he said to you. He leaned in to catch your lips against his. Fuck, if only you could tell how much he meant it.

He’s slotting his tongue in between your parted mouth, leaning further in and you’re falling back, but he’s catching you — keeping you to him. You work together smoothly, as smooth as silks rubbing against each other. You clutch on to him tightly as if he’ll slip if you don’t. You taste like jasmine tea and he’s wondering if the sweet taste is from the honey or just you. He’s holding you by the neck and pushing your back into him. 

You finally move to settle on his lap, the kiss unwavering so you’re first to pull away, “Choso—“ He catches the sound of his name in your mouth, chasing, taking, and taking. There isn’t any place on your body that isn’t covered by him, your arms, your back, your legs in between his that caged you. You moan at the thought against his greedy tongue,  entirely consumed. But you’re impatient and already wet, the fabric of your panties has been riding up for the last 10 minutes. So you squeeze his arms weakly, but it’s enough for him to let air flow between you.

“Shit, Sorry—” He’s frantic and searching your eyes, but he’s met with your hazed out ones and your swollen, drooly lips. He wiped the corner of it, chest heaving. “I need to— you’re driving me insane,” He chuckles, deep and uncertain with how true the fact felt. He’s brushing your hair back gently, “I’m sorry,” he lets go of you as you’re pulling away.

You’re upright now, letting your feet back down. You’re bending over to his lap, palms resting on his spread out limbs, “You need to make it up to me,” You’re once again reaching for his sweats, the imprint of his shaft taking form at the side. He gently lays his hand on your wrist.

 “Are you sure?” His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the frames of his glasses are now on the tip of his nose bridge. But there’s a wave of genuine uncertainty blanketing his expression.

You’re blinking up at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

It’s a tangled knot in his chest, one bundled in embarrassing moments and unsuccessful hook-ups. He stuttered over his words,

“Just that before I’ve-“ he pondered if he should risk you laughing at him, but you’re expectantly looking into his eyes, and your hands are already on his lap, a little more and you’d be right where he’s aching for you. “I’m scared of making it…unpleasant?” 

His hand rubs up and down your arms, you’re tuning him out and thinking of how you should go about sitting on him. He continued to ramble on, “Um, like I’ve been told it was…“

“Too big?” You ask, attention now on him. Externally you’re collected, stating it like a remark. But internally you know it’s a fact. You feel a little bad thinking about it but now you’re piecing together your earlier conversation on what Miwa’s friend’s friend might’ve been complaining about. 

Choso all but nods, eyes scanning your room as if that would keep yours away from him. “I could just help you, y’know. We don’t have to—“

You’re turning over and maneuvering his hand out of his lap, sitting on his thigh. For a moment, you’re a little hesitant, hovering. “I mean I’d like it if we did, but I’m also…” His words trail off, holding your hip and securing you on his lap, unbothered as your weight settles on one thigh. He clears his throat, “I’m okay with, um,  anything.”

You’re leaning into him, on your side, hand trailing underneath the hem of his shirt, grazing his clenched abdomen. He jolts, causing you to jump in your seat. Your eyes widen for a moment before relaxing, hand skating lower under the garter of his sweats with a simpering grin on your face. You’re kissing his cheek, gentle and slow as your hand palms over his hard, covered cock.

He’s watching your move under the fabric of his gray sweats, feeling your smaller fingers squeezing and rubbing the base of it. It hurts, he thinks. In a way that something stings and feels good at the same time. You’re squeezing at his tip when he throws his head back on the couch, groaning loudly. You take the opportunity to mouth on his neck again. 

“Can you please— Can I please take it off?” He asks politely, but the grip on your hip feels anything but. You hum, still licking at the expanse of his neck. 

You’re pulling his pants down with his help—mostly him just taking it off himself, desperate and aching. He’s bare from the waist down now when you settle back on his thigh, sweats and boxers discarded on the floor. 

You’re now shamelessly gawking at his erection bouncing against stomach, slapping against it. The warmth of your hand catches him off guard, finally making contact skin to skin. You tug on the shaft, immediately taking notice of how your fingers struggle to close around it and were squeezing on accident.

“F—oh, god. ” He rests his head on your shoulder, sweat building on his forehead. You start moving your hand up and down, already slippery from how he’d been oozing in his boxers the entire time. He’s quiet behind you, save for the heavy breathing on your skin. You go faster. “Your hand’s so tight,” it comes out in a whimper. A wet, mouthing sensation can be felt on your shoulder, he’s biting your skin to muffle himself. But It doesn’t work, his throat lets loose with each reaction.

 His eyes roll up from your shoulder when he feels you lean forwards and away from his chest, cock twitching when a wet glob of spit drips on him from your tongue.

You’re both watching your hand work up and down, bringing both onto the shaft, he’s cursing as you go faster. 

You’re throwing your other leg over his thigh, straddling him in reverse, before resting back on him. Choso's hands come up to hold you under your knees, keeping your legs apart. He watched as the movement stretched the fabric, pussy still clad in underwear, drenched and barely covering it. But he can’t help but peek lower, your hands exclusively paying attention to his erection. 

You joke, “It’s like I'm jerking myself off.”

A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, the vibrations thrum against your back and you turn them into moans as you suddenly go faster. “Sucks though, I can’t feel it.” 

You’re unable to see his expression behind you, but you can hear how his moans are muffled between his teeth, “You’re s-so eager.”

You reveled at how shaky he’d sounded. “One of us has to be.”

And then a strange noise akin to the tearing of fibers can be heard from below. You gasp as it happens in front of you, hands slowing its ministrations. You realize you’re watching him rip your underwear, exposing your wet, shiny pussy. “Hey—“

 He’s adjusting himself from under you, bringing his other hand under your thigh, your legs tugged higher as he starts rubbing right on your clit. 

He’s rough and accurate on where he wants to touch you, deliberate in his movements.  He’s quick but he isn’t rushing either, his only motive was to get you to falter in his stead as you were doing just the same.

Your voice shrinks into breathy pants, the slick sound from your poor clit syncing in with each, “Ah, ah, Cho—“

“You’re making me so, so hard, baby—” You’re both an obscene sight to behold, playing with each other, spread out, grunting or whimpering. Both sloppily still trying to let your lips tangle with each other despite the inconvenient position. Both a mess, your tits spilling out of your bra, and his glasses all fogged up. 

You grind into him, “Feels so good,” rubbing your juices on the cock you’re jerking with now one hand, coating his chubby length. Your body felt like it was on overdrive, moving your hips up and down as you clenched on nothing, gushing freely. 

You’re biting your lip as your hips grow erratic, brows pinching and your abdomen clenches on itself. “I-I’m close.”

Choso lets a groan escape,“Fuck, really?” realizing he’s making you come first. It’s a miracle he’s held off this long, he wonders if he’ll hold up if you let him inside. The thought makes him move your hips on his cock, assisting you as you use him to get yourself off. 

He doesn’t know if he’s breathing so hard because he’s getting tired or because he knows getting your clit rubbed nudges you a little closer to the edge when you start to get louder. He breathes against your ear, “Come on me, please.” He’s mumbling now, less at you and more to himself.  “I wanna see you cum on me, please, please—”

Your legs begin to shake in his hold, fighting to shut close but the grip under your knees forces you to come with your legs spread wide, pussy making a show of spasming against Choso’s cock, voice breaking as you whimper. “That’s it baby, that’s it,” 

Choso is completely enamored, the sounds of your high pitched whines in the air was like music to him, the way you writhe against his body was this entrapping dance. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you.

He notes how you were still in your bra, he whispers something about it, but you’re just nodding your head with your eyes shut, riding it out. Then he’s unclipping the strap with one hand, the fabric falling off and releasing your perfect tits.

You then relax your back to him, twitching still. But then he’s thrusting his erect cock up between your folds, the stimulation starting to make you wetter again, your breath can only catch up so fast.  You’re attempting to lift your hips with a squirm.”Gi-give me a sec—”

Choso quickly lets your legs fall to the side and pauses, sitting up and moving your head to face him. “Shit- we can stop here,” he assured, breathy and worried. “I didn’t mean to, I was just looking at you. You looked-” So fucked out, “I’m sorry.“

“Sh-shut up,” You look away and Choso stiffens under you. Was he too rough? Before he could even utter another apology, you spoke, “I’m fine, I just need to— breathe.“ 

He watches you quiet down from underneath you, he’s rubbing your thighs comfortingly. “I am sorry,” The silence lingers, only getting tenser with each beat that passes.

And then you start chuckling — at nothing in particular. Your breathing slows down, and you look back to check on him. He looked so worried, brows pinched and his lip jutted out. A lazy smile breaks into your features, leaning down to catch him in a chaste kiss so he wouldn't see the expression on your face. “I liked it, okay?”

His breath hitched in his throat when you spoke against his lips, “Yeah?” 

You’re nodding, smile now exposed. You kiss him again, powerless against his sweet lips. He relaxes, hand coming up to the back of your head. “I wanna-“ A kiss, “Fuck you now,” A slower kiss, “Please.”

He’s backing up to read your face, reassessing. Within the silence, something passes between you two. Amidst the air that smells of sex and vaguely of tea, there’s this mix of warmth and uncertainty—and whether or not to dive in it — that lingers in between. 

He’s nervous under your gaze, once again, looking for a way out of your eyes that traps him so effectively like no other. He’s looking down at his still, very much, erect self. “I don’t have a condom.”

You’re thinking to yourself before you reach for the side table of your couch, scrambling for a box you kept there in case.

Choso’s scrambling to rip the plastic off before fishing for one packet. “I’m not really sure if it would fit so, maybe just try it,” You remark as you’re being maneuvered out of his lap and on the side of the couch. He fumbled with the rubber a couple times, pulling it down before it snapped a little too tightly on his girth. He tugs it down on him until a tear starts spreading on the side of the translucent material. 

“I’m sor—“ He hissed as it snapped against his skin, “See I can’t even fucking…I don’t think this is quite right—” He’s cursing to himself, obviously a little sexually frustrated. For someone his size he still managed to look somewhat like a defeated puppy. 

You’re tugging the broken thing off, relief blooming in his chest but it’s short lived as he’s reminded of how he might not even have sex with you anymore. “But no, we really don’t have to.”  He says, discouraged. 

“You can fuck me raw, I’m on the pill.” He internally groaned, pulled back out of his head. You just had a way with your words. 

He does a complete 180, eyes widening, shifting from beaten to optimistic. He reminds himself to curb his excitement though, slowing down. “You can be on top—set the pace?” You’re already moving to sit on his lap.

He’s nodding his head at you, and finally rips his shirt off himself, now completely naked. You’re staring down at him, licking your lips at the sight of his milky skin and toned chest. He pulls you out of your thoughts, voice small and distant. 

“I’ll pull out, yeah?” He’s swallowed back thickly, more of reminding himself to do that. “Just be slow okay? I didn’t prepare you that wel—um,"

His voice trails off when you’re already lining yourself up with his reddened tip. “A little at a time—Oh,” You’re already sinking down, unrepressed. 

The stretch is long and constant, to the point it feels like you’re rethinking how fast you jumped on this, except you remember you’re already lowering yourself very carefully. 

Your jaw hangs open in a silent scream when you get past the head, sinking lower, your walls throb against his member. You’re bracing yourself with a palm, Choso’s chest is covered in sweat and heaving. “You’re so—‘s really tight, oh fuck you’re so warm,” He whined out, unable to complete a sentence.

He’s leaving a trail of hot, open mouthed kisses on your neck and then back on your lips to keep your mewls at bay. You’re kissing back, he’s only half way in when you start moving. Choso’s breaths turn ragged against yours, pulling you closer to him. You catch your breath, “It’s stretching me out so much, Choo-” You whine, slowly rolling your hips.

He’s squeezing your waist before trailing his hands down your ass, “You’re doing good, you’re doing really good.”

He’s looking down at your progress, struggling to tell where you ended and he begun, now nearer to the base of his cock. He throbs inside you. “Fuck, a-are you okay?” He’s looking back up at your face, taking in your lips, bitten and swollen under your teeth. 

He lets out a shaky whimper, “You’re taking so much.” His eyes finding their way back to your hole swallowing him. “So good, baby.”

You tuck your feet over his thighs for leverage, pulling off his cock slowly then sinking back down, and back up. You repeat the motions, torturously slow, your slick creating this lewd noise from each rock of your hips as you go deeper. Choso’s hands are on your thighs, weighing you down but he’s really holding back from actively pushing — still you’re sinking, taking more. 

You start to bounce, struggling to hold yourself up with your palm on his chest, the slight sting of the stretch dulling out to a deep pressure. It’s a lot easier now, you go even faster with the help of your growing arousal slicking up his cock. Every touch you leave on each other now feels highly sensitive, your tits pressed against Choso’s hard chest, his hands squeezing on your ass for dear life. You’re left unable to keep up conversations or teases to each other now, heads completely in a different space. You're left babbling incoherencies as your tingling nerves derail your focus, the only thing clear was to go after what felt good. 

But you falter, your knees slowing as they start to ache but you push yourself further, desperate, taking even more of Choso’s length. You find yourself losing balance and lean over, panting. You lift your hips, then let your ass fall back into his lap, a strained mewl leaving your throat, “I-I need help. I need you, Cho—need you t’a fuck my pussy,” 

He groans out at how high your voice got, fresh from its suppressed whines. “Okay I’ll help,” He’s quick with his hands, holding you by the globes of your ass, and pulls you up. He bites back a noise, hearing and feeling your tight pussy gush and clamp on him as he lifts until it’s just the tip. “s’ okay if I thrust a little?” He whispers against your ear, growing desperate as his cock pulses in anticipation. You nod fervently in his neck, arms circled around him. “Okay baby, I’m gonna. I’m gonna help this pussy- fuckkk” 

It’s noisier now, from your skin, sticky and slapping against each other, to your gasps turning into moans against each other’s open mouths. Choso’s now taking all the work, lifting your ass and bringing it down to meet his aching cock even faster than you could have. He starts meeting your pussy half way, thrusting up wards and it knocks the wind out of you.

Moans spill out of you with each thrust up, breaking and then bursting out of you. You’re clinging to him, bodies impossibly close, skin rubbed up against skin. “You’re so fucking loud, honey—do you like it?” His groans turn into grunts with how he’s physically exerting his body, on a mission to see you break apart on top of him.

You reply with a noise of acknowledgment, barely audible amongst the slapping and heavy breathing. You’re body feels hot all over, from inside and out. He’s deep enough inside you in places you didn’t even know was possible to go that far in, and the best worst part is you haven’t even reached the base of him yet. A new objective makes itself known in the part of your brain that still functioned, a dimly flickering idea. 

“Ch-choso can you, ngh—“ You’re bringing your face out of his neck to face him, but he’s still busying himself with his thrusts, “I want you deeper, c-could you do that f’me?”

He’s letting out a high pitched whine he when lets you down, about to throw his head back when you catch his lips in yours, tugging on his hair and pulling roughly.  “You’re stronger than me Cho, c’mon. Make me cum on your big cock—“

He groans, planting his feet on the ground, before you know it you’re up in the air, now standing. You cut yourself off with a moan, both of you do —sighing out when he lifts your ass up before dropping you on his painfully hard cock. “You’re so filthy when you talk, y’know that?”

It feels like he's all the way to your lungs when he finally bottoms out in you, which would make sense since it feels like you aren’t breathing anymore. You cry out once more, wiling your eyes and muffling the noises in his neck, biting down. “Are you crying?” He asks, concern prodding between his excitement, but the thought manages to make it’s way to his cock, fucking you on him rhytmically slow and deep. You let out a choked sob, “Fuck you’re crying—not even going that fast.”

“Then g-go faster,” You managed to voice out between moans, your hips wiggling in his grasp. He groans in response, kneading your ass to stop you from getting ahead of him.

“You tell me if it’s too much- just, you have to tell me a-alright?” You’re clenching on him, still trying to bounce. “Shit, Okay.” 

The slower sounds of your skin slapping each other turn into rapid, sharp sounds. Choso grunting from each thrust, now fully unrepressed. In seconds, the image you’ve crafted of him as this shy, hesitant boy, crumbles. You’re fully moaning out now, his cock nudging deeper and repeatedly in that spot that triggers your insides. “I’m so full, fuck-“

He’s hiccuping his moans out, turning into whimpers as he pumps you up and down even faster, his nails digging into the meat of your ass. “You’re taking me so good baby,” He’s thrusting up when he lets you fall on his cock midway, his muscles forgetting to strain. “Fuck, take it, take it—“ 

He dives in against your lips, tongue invading your whimpering mouth. You try your best to kiss back, eyes nearly closing while he’s drowning you in him. You’re clenching on his cock a lot tighter now, his balls drenched in your arousal, slapping against your other hole from the impact of his motions.

“I think I—I’m gonna cum-“ You pull away from Choso who lets out a breathy moan, licking your lips to chase yours. You’re falling limp against him, hips rendered useless when he’s already fucking you on a pace outside of your own stamina. 

Your insides are pulsing around his member, your moans growing even louder. Choso’s deep enough into you when he feels his cock twitch, “I need to pull out—“ You’re immediately protesting, letting out noises of disapproval. “No, no baby I’m gonna cum if you—“

“I don’t care.“ Fuck. Choso holds himself back, his pre-cum oozing out makes your sopping hole even more slippery at the thought of filling you up to the brim.  He’s thinking of ways to keep himself from cumming right this very second when you’re already so fucked out and desperate, high up in your own head.

His dick twitches again and he’s biting his lip, slowing his carry on your body til you’re stopping altogether. Before you could say anything else, he’s pulling out and placing you on the couch, lying down. You’re complaining, spreading your legs as much as the cushions on your side could let you. 

Choso’s holding his cock, squeezing at the base to calm himself down but he opens his eyes to your gaping, hungry hole, presented to him like an offer, “C-cum inside me, Cho,”

His resolve breaks within a blink of an eye, already laying above you and wrapping your legs around his waist. You feel like crying out of joy when he finally makes his way inside, thrusting slowly and hissing from how tight you still are. “I need to be on top of you, I need to—“ He mumbled, eyes already hazed out and clambering for satiation.

He topples over you as he finds his balance, now setting a newer pace from earlier, caging you with his body while his thrusts grow even faster.

The sensation is much more different now, a stretch added with the forces of his thrusts now fully landing on you.

He’s watching every twist of your face and moan spill out. Scanning your body downwards while he lays a palm on your lower abdomen, “If I cum inside you’re gonna bulge right h-here, d’ ya want that?”

You’re squealing against him when he presses down, his cock nudging where he’s digging his fingers from the outside. Your walls flutter against his member, sucking him in and pulsing wetly. Choso’s grunting against you, hips growing faster as he watches your eyes get even more hazy and your face twisted.

Your eyes are rolling back when he starts rubbing on your clit, already impatient with wanting to feel your pussy tighten impossibly around him.

He’s whispering incoherencies to you, face on your neck when he pulls back his hips and pushes back in deeply as he continues rubbing you. 

You cry out, shuddering against Choso as the coil in you snaps, holding onto his wrist as your legs secured against his ribs.

He lets out a shaky moan, pumping faster when he chases his orgasm while you ride yours out on him, bodies grinding up against each other intimately. 

A curse lets you know that he’s finally reached his climax, thrusts growing slow and deep while pumping you full of his sticky cum.  Your eyes are glossed over, your throat sore from your own voice when he’s riding out his high, panting and leaving kisses all over your face. 

Your chests are pumping against each other,  both catching your breaths. Your hand finds its way to his face, turning it so he could look back at you. His cheeks are red and his glasses were no longer on him, probably losing them from how much you’d been switching positions. 

You’re brushing his hair from his face, tucking a long strand onto his ear. Your body still feels like it’s on fire but it doesn’t compare to how even after all that, his stare on you still makes your heart skip a beat. You let out a breath, gathering yourself.

 “What do you think?” His eyes scans over your face, “Better than coming up to study?”

Choso shifts on his elbows as he’s laying on top of you.“Yeah that was…” He takes a moment to think of a better way to describe it, a smile spreading on his face. “Really good.” He settles with honesty instead.

He’s thumbing over your shoulder, a hundred thoughts trying to materialize themselves in his still mushed up brain. “I’ve never done it like that, before I mean.“ 

He’s looking up to meet your eyes, and you’ve got a glow emitting from you, drawing him in. He hesitates for a moment but then, “And you? How’d you feel?”

You huff out a soft chuckle, realizing how ironic this all was. How you’ve still managed to not destroy the awkwardness that came with affections even when you’ve skipped over to, well sex. Choso waits for your answer, something swirls tight in his chest, uneasy but still patient. 

You’re brushing back the hair on his scalp, taking in how much less guarded he looks without glasses. “Yeah, I feel…safe.”

He smiles, that knot in his chest untangling. To no surprise, he finds the thread it’s bundled from may be connected to you. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling, “Yeah.”

"already distracted, sweetheart? here i thought i was doing a good job," his voice is a low, amused rumble against your skin, the words vibrating through your bones. he doesn't stop the slow, grinding roll of his hips, a languid rhythm that feels like he has all the time in the world to ruin you, to reshape your insides to the exact mold of his cock. he's not fucking you fast or frantic; he's fucking you deep, each push a deliberate invasion that steals the air from your lungs and replaces it with a thick, syrupy heat that pools low in your belly. his weight is a warm, solid blanket pinning you to the bed, and you feel so small underneath him, so utterly consumed. "did you get a good angle? i'd hate for him to miss the look on my face when i'm this deep inside his ex-girlfriend's tight little cunt."

you whimper, your hands coming up to clutch at the broad expanse of his shoulders, nails digging into the corded muscle there. the sheer audacity of it all, the wrongness of it, makes your head spin just as much as the perfect, constant pressure of his cock dragging against your g spot. he's your ex's father, a widower of ten years, a man you'd only ever seen in stiff family portraits and the occasional polite, distant conversation at a holiday dinner. but when you'd shown up at his door, tears long since dried into tracks of spite on your cheeks, clutching a bottle of his late wife's favorite whiskey and the incriminating screenshots of his son with another woman, something in his icy blue eyes had shifted. it wasn't pity. it was recognition. a shared, cold fury at being discarded by the same selfish man. one drink turned into three, your bitter rant turned into a charged silence, and then his hand had found the back of your neck, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and he'd asked, calm as still water, "do you want to make him feel as small as he made us feel?"

and god, did you.

"n-no, it's perfect," you gasp out, your voice wrecked and high-pitched, nothing like the confident woman who'd just sent a sext to her cheating ex. under satoru's touch, you became this—a pliant, whimpering mess, brain dribbling out of your ears along with the slick that was coating the insides of your thighs and his heavy balls. "he's gonna see it. he's gonna see how his daddy fucks me so much better."

"that's my good girl," he praises, the words a dark, honeyed whisper against your lips before he catches them in a messy, open-mouthed kiss that's all tongue and teeth and shared breath. he groans into your mouth, a sound of pure male satisfaction as he pushes in even deeper, grinding his pubic bone against your swollen clit. "using your words so pretty. but i think we can do better, don't you? i think my son needs to hear more than just a picture. he needs to hear how stupid you get on my cock."

his hips pull back, leaving you achingly empty for a terrifying second, the cool air of the room a shock against your soaked folds. before you can even whine at the loss, he's pushing back in, a single, devastating thrust that punches a ragged "ah—fuck!" from your throat. his pace is still unhurried, a leisurely in-and-out drag designed to make you feel every single ridge and vein of his heavy cock. he's thick, so much thicker than his son ever was, and the stretch is a constant, burning pleasure that borders on overwhelming.

"look at you," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look down at where his body meets yours. his silver hair falls forward, tickling your forehead. "can barely keep those pretty eyes open. you feel that, angel? feel how deep daddy is?" he punctuates the word daddy with a sharp nudge of his hips, making you cry out. "my ungrateful brat of a son had this—had this perfect, tight little pussy—and he threw it away for some cheap, loose hole. didn't know how to appreciate it. didn't know you need to be fucked slow and deep until you forget your own fucking name."

"i—nnngh—i forget," you babble, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him involuntarily. his words are like a drug, short-circuiting every rational thought. the age gap, the taboo, the absolute filthiness of the situation—it all melts into a haze of pure, unadulterated lust. your legs are spread wide, hooked limply over his forearms as he holds himself above you, your body completely open and vulnerable to his leisurely assault. "s'too much... daddy..."

"shhh, i know it is," he coos, his tone dripping with condescending affection that only makes your cunt clench harder. he leans down to press a soft, almost chaste kiss to your sweaty temple. "it's supposed to be too much for that little brain of yours. you don't have to think anymore. that's my job now. my job is to just fill this needy little hole up and make you feel good. you just have to lie there and take it, isn't that right? be my pretty little cocksleeve for the night."

you nod frantically, your words devolving into a stream of broken moans and whines as he resumes his slow, deep rhythm. the wet, obscene squelch of your pussy taking him fills the quiet room, a soundtrack to your ruin that's more damning than any photo could ever be. your phone buzzes somewhere near your head—once, twice, a frantic series of vibrations that you know is your ex's panicked calls and texts. the sound only makes satoru smile, a slow, predatory curve of his lips.

"seems like he got the message," satoru muses, his voice as calm and unbothered as if he were commenting on the weather. his eyes don't leave yours, holding your gaze captive as he continues to fuck you with that maddening, leisurely pace. "you think he's crying yet? you think he's picturing his father's cock buried in the sweet cunt he used to have? the one he's never getting back?" his thumb finds your clit, pressing down on the slick, puffy bud with just enough pressure to make you see stars. he starts rubbing slow, tight circles that are perfectly in time with his thrusts. "go on, baby. tell me. does it make you feel good, knowing you've ruined him? knowing you're up here, getting your brains fucked out by a better man?"

"yes, fuck, yes, daddy, s'good," you slur, your back bowing off the bed as the dual stimulation of his cock hitting deep and his thumb on your clit sends sharp bolts of electricity through your nervous system. every nerve ending is alight, focused entirely on the point of connection between your bodies. you're making sounds you didn't know you were capable of, high-pitched and desperate and completely shameless. "he never... he never fucked me like this... never made me feel this full..."

"of course he didn't," satoru scoffs, a hint of genuine disdain for his son bleeding through the lazy affection in his tone. "he's a boy playing at being a man. doesn't know a woman like you needs a firm hand and a thick cock and a man who knows how to take his time. you need to be appreciated, don't you, sweetheart? need to be told how good you're being, how perfectly this greedy little pussy takes every inch of me."

he shifts his angle, hiking your leg up higher over his arm, spreading you even wider, and the next thrust has him rubbing against a spot so deep inside you that your vision whites out for a second. a loud, broken sob of his name tears from your lips. "oh god, right there, daddy, please—"

"right there?" he repeats, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest. he stays there, grinding against that devastatingly sensitive patch of nerves with a steady, unrelenting pressure that makes you feel like you're going to shake apart at the seams. "this little spot right here that makes your eyes roll back? the one that makes your mouth just hang open and drool? yeah, i know it. i'm gonna stay right here, baby. gonna rub my cock against this spot until you're a completely blank slate. until the only word left in that pretty head is my name."

your response is an unintelligible garble of moans and pleas. the world has narrowed to the smell of his cologne and sex, the feel of his hot skin against yours, the sound of his dirty, affectionate words in your ear, and the devastating, constant pressure in your core. you're not a person anymore; you're just a body for him to play with, a vessel for his pleasure and yours, and it's the most liberated you've ever felt. your ex's frantic buzzing has faded into background noise, as insignificant as a fly against a window. all that exists is satoru's heavy, languid weight and his cock reshaping you from the inside out.

"that's it," he groans, his own composure starting to fray at the edges. his thrusts, while still deep and controlled, gain a new intensity, a hint of the raw power he's been holding back. his breathing is ragged against your neck. "squeeze me just like that, angel. milking my cock so good. you love being filled up by your ex's daddy, don't you? love being my little secret, my dirty girl. say it. say you're my dirty girl."

"i'm your dirty girl," you echo mindlessly, the words tumbling from your lips without a second thought. your hands scramble for purchase on the slick skin of his back, nails raking down, leaving red welts in their wake. he hisses in pleasure at the sting. "i'm yours, daddy, all yours, fuck, he can't have this pussy back, it's yours—"

"damn right it's mine," he snarls softly, his hips snapping forward a fraction harder, a fraction faster, breaking his own slowburn rule. the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fills the room, a lewd counterpoint to your incoherent cries. "this cunt belongs to me now. i'm the one who's gonna take care of it. i'm the one who's gonna fuck it full whenever i want. my son can look at the pictures and cry himself to sleep knowing his father is the one making his girl scream."

he pulls his face back just to look at you again, drinking in the sight of your debauched, blissed-out expression. his thumb swipes across your slack lower lip, collecting the drool that's escaped, and he pushes it into your mouth. you suck on it greedily, your tongue swirling around the digit as he continues to pound into you with that slow, brutal precision. his blue eyes are blown wide with lust, but there's a deep, possessive satisfaction in them too. he's not just fucking you for revenge. he's claiming you. and you're letting him.

"good girl," he praises again, his voice a ragged whisper. "just like that. don't think. just feel. feel how deep i am. feel how your body opens up for me, like it was made for me. this is what you needed, wasn't it? not some boy who doesn't know what he has. a man who will take his time and worship this perfect little body until you're too dumb to even remember his son's name." he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his next words a hot, filthy promise that seals your fate. "from now on, whenever you feel empty, you come to me. and i'll spend all night filling you back up, nice and slow, until you can't walk straight. understand?"

you can only nod, your body a live wire of pure sensation, every nerve ending singing for him. the buzz of the phone is a distant, forgotten memory. the only thing that matters is the heavy, perfect fullness of him moving inside you, the hot brand of his skin on yours, and the dark, possessive affection in his voice as he continues to murmur filthy, praising things against your skin, breaking you down and building you back up into something that is utterly, irrevocably his.

Geto Suguru

the vibration of your phone against the rumpled sheets is what makes you smile, a slow curving of your lips that suguru geto catches from where he's buried deep inside you, his broad chest pressed to your back, one large hand splayed possessively over the soft give of your belly to keep you flush against him. he’s not even thrusting, just rocking, a lazy grind of his hips that has the thick, leaking head of his cock nudging incessantly at that spot inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges. you can feel every inch of him, the heavy weight of his sac pressed warm and full against the slick curve of your ass, the coarse, trimmed hair at his base scratching your sensitive skin in a way that just adds to the overwhelming, filthy heat of it all.

“is that him, sweetheart?” his voice is a low, amused rumble in your ear, his breath hot and smelling faintly of the whiskey you’d both shared an hour ago when he’d opened the door, looking so devastatingly handsome in a simple black sweater that you’d almost forgotten the real reason you came over. almost. “your pathetic ex-boyfriend texting to ask why you’re not answering his calls?”

you manage a hum, your throat tight, words failing as he shifts his weight, pulling his hips back just a fraction before easing forward again with a wet, sucking sound that makes your inner walls clench down around him involuntarily. “mmhmm,” you gasp, your fingers tightening around the phone. the screen lights up with another string of frantic messages from kenji. where are you? we need to talk. i can explain about her. it was a mistake. the audacity of it makes you snort, a derisive sound that dissolves into a broken little whimper as geto chooses that exact moment to rotate his hips in a slow, deep circle.

“don’t ignore me now,” he chides softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear, his tone dripping with that infuriatingly gentle condescension that makes your cunt flutter helplessly around his intrusion. “you came to my doorstep with those pretty eyes all red-rimmed, telling me my son was a fool. and you know what i thought? i thought, ‘he must be an even bigger fool than i raised, to let something this sweet and tight slip through his fingers.’” he punctuates the statement with a sharper roll of his hips, a tiny grunt escaping his own throat as your wetness coats him anew, making the glide even easier, even more obscene. “is this what you wanted? for his father to fill up this needy little hole while he panics?”

your back arches involuntarily, pressing your ass more firmly into the cradle of his hips. he’s so big, so thick, not just in length but in sheer girth, stretching you open in a way that borders on overwhelming even with how soaked and ready you are. he’d spent the first twenty minutes just playing with you, his long, elegant fingers sinking into your mouth to wet them before dragging them through your folds, circling your clit with a lazy, expert pressure while murmuring the dirtiest, sweetest praise against your throat. “such a sensitive thing,” he’d said, watching your face contort with pleasure. “kenji never knew how to touch this, did he? always in a rush. boys have no appreciation for the instrument they’re given.” now, with the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, you understand the difference between a boy's fumbling eagerness and a man's knowing, deliberate possession.

“i want to send him a picture,” you finally manage to whisper, your voice wrecked and breathy. you tilt the phone so the camera faces the long mirror on his closet door, the one that reflects the debauched tableau of you both. you can see your own face, flushed and slack with a pleasure you can’t control, your lips parted and wet. and you can see geto behind you, a few strands of his long black hair stuck to the side of his neck with a thin sheen of sweat, his dark eyes half-lidded and fixed on the reflection of your joined bodies. the sweater is rucked up just enough to show the base of him where he’s buried inside you, the rest of you both still mostly clothed in the frantic urgency of the moment, and somehow that’s dirtier than being fully naked.

a low, appreciative chuckle vibrates through his chest and into your spine. “go on then,” he encourages, his hand sliding up from your belly to cup the weight of your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, his thumb finding the stiff peak of your nipple and rolling it lazily. “show him what he lost. show him who’s taking care of you now. make sure you get a good angle, baby. i want him to see how deep his father’s cock is buried in that sweet little pussy he took for granted.”

your fingers tremble as you angle the phone, capturing the image in the mirror: the long line of his body draped over yours, the possessive clamp of his hand on your chest, and the undeniable, graphic connection where his groin meets the curve of your rear. it’s lewd, it’s explicit, and it’s the most satisfying thing you’ve ever seen. you attach it to the chat with kenji, your thumb hovering over the send button for only a second of delicious anticipation. then you press it. sent.

geto’s reaction is immediate and primal. the second he hears the soft whoosh sound of the message sending, his hips snap forward with a force he hadn’t used yet, punching a sharp, startled cry from your lungs. “there,” he grunts, the single word thick with satisfaction. “now he knows. now he gets to feel a fraction of the humiliation you felt when you saw him with that girl. let him chew on that image while his father fucks this tight, perfect cunt stupid.”

he sets a new rhythm, not frantic, but deep and thorough, each stroke pulling a wet gasp from your throat. his cock drags along your inner walls with a deliberate friction that has your mind going hazy, the edges of your thoughts softening into a warm, pulsing fog. you can’t form a coherent sentence anymore, just a stream of “uh, uh, uh,” sounds that match the cadence of his thrusts, your mouth hanging open and slack against the pillow. he loves it, you can tell by the way his breathing hitches and his grip on your hip tightens, fingers dimpling the soft flesh.

“that’s it,” he coos, his voice a dark, hypnotic melody in the dim light of the room. “let all those smart thoughts just drip right out of your head. you don’t need to think, do you? just need to feel. need to be stretched open on a thick, patient cock that knows how to treat you. kenji never did this, did he? never made this tight little belly feel so full it aches?”

you shake your head frantically, a mindless motion of agreement, because he’s right. kenji was all quick, clumsy fumbling, a few minutes of in-and-out before he was done, leaving you frustrated and aching. but this… this was a slow, relentless claiming. geto’s body was a heavy, warm blanket over you, his movements a lazy, rolling tide that just kept pulling you further and further out to sea. the angle was devastating, his cockhead kissing your cervix with a blunt pressure that was just this side of painful, but wrapped in so much slick, slick pleasure that it made your toes curl and uncurl in the sheets.

“you make the prettiest sounds,” he murmurs, his lips tracing a wet path down the column of your neck. “little mindless whimpers. a wet, hungry little noise every time i push back in. it’s like your cunt is trying to talk to me, telling me it doesn’t want me to ever stop. and i won’t, sweetheart. i’ll just keep you here, keep you full, keep this perfect pussy warm for me all night long. you’d like that, wouldn’t you? being my little cockwarmer?”

a pathetic, desperate “please” is all you can manage, the word slurring into a moan as he shifts his angle slightly, his pelvis grinding against the swell of your ass with a dirty, circular motion that rubs his pubic bone right against your clit. it’s an indirect, teasing pressure that has sparks shooting up your spine, your inner muscles fluttering in a series of uncontrolled, greedy spasms around him. he groans in response, a deep, guttural sound of pure male appreciation.

“fuck, you grip me so tight when i do that,” he observes, a note of genuine awe in his otherwise filthy tone. “like you’re trying to pull me deeper. greedy little thing. don’t worry, daddy’s got you. daddy’s going to keep this snug little hole stuffed just the way you need it.”

he slows his hips even more, the thrusts becoming a lazy, barely-there rocking that is somehow more intimate and more intense than anything else. you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, the slight curve that lets him hit that perfect spot inside you with unerring accuracy. it’s a constant, building pressure, a low hum of pleasure that’s become the entire world. your phone, lying forgotten on the sheets, buzzes again with a series of frantic notifications—kenji, no doubt, his world imploding—but the sound is distant and unimportant, a buzzing fly against the thick, soundproof glass of the pleasure cocoon geto has woven around you.

“ignore it,” he instructs softly, reading your mind. “he’s irrelevant now. you’re here with me. and i’m not done with you.” his hand leaves your breast to slide up and gently cup your jaw, turning your face towards his. his dark eyes are intense, pupils blown wide with lust, but there’s a soft, almost affectionate curve to his lips. “look at you. so fucking pretty when you’re dumb on my cock. eyes all glassy, mouth all wet. this is where you belong, isn’t it? right here, under me, getting your sweet little brains fucked to mush.”

you can only nod, a tear of pure, overwhelming sensation leaking from the corner of your eye to trail down your temple. he kisses it away, the gesture so unexpectedly tender that it makes your heart clench even as your cunt does the same around him. his hips continue their slow, devastating grind, the wet sounds of your joining filling the quiet room—a slick, lewd symphony of your arousal and his steady, possessive rhythm.

“you feel so good, baby,” he breathes against your cheek. “so tight and hot and wet. like you were made just to take my cock. made to be filled up nice and slow. we’ve got all night. and i’m going to use every minute of it to make sure you feel appreciated in ways my idiot son could never even comprehend. i’m going to keep you right on this edge, just feeling full and stretched and used, until you forget your own name. all you’ll know is my weight, my scent, the feeling of my cock keeping you open.”

his words are a drug, seeping into your bloodstream and turning everything to a warm, liquid haze. the world narrows to the heavy press of his body, the deep, steady intrusion of his cock, the rough whisper of his sweater against your bare back, and the wet, messy sounds of his unhurried possession. there’s no climax in sight, just this endless, perfect plateau of sensation. it’s a lazy, luxurious, filthy fuck that’s more about the act of being filled and owned than any frantic race to a finish. it’s a deliberate, exquisite ruination, and as you sink further into the mattress under his patient, grinding weight, you realize you never want it to end. the phone buzzes again, a frantic, helpless sound, and you smile a slow, dumb, blissed-out smile against the pillow, letting the vibration of geto’s approving chuckle in your ear be the only thing that matters.

Toji Fushiguro

you never thought you'd be here, spread out on toji fushiguro's unmade bed with your ex-boyfriend's father's mouth attached to your throat like he's trying to suck the soul right out of you, his enormous scarred hand wrapped around the meat of your thigh to keep it hiked up over his hip while he rolls his clothed erection against the damp heat of your cunt through your ruined panties, and the whole time your phone is propped up on the nightstand recording a video that you're absolutely going to send to his worthless son the second you remember how to breathe properly, which isn't going to be any time soon because toji just ground down against your clit with the thick ridge of his cock through his sweatpants and you made a sound that didn't even sound human, more like something wounded and desperate and absolutely pathetic in the best possible way.

“yeah, that's it, let me hear you,” toji murmurs against the hinge of your jaw, his voice all low and gravelly and dripping with this lazy sort of arrogance that makes your stomach flip inside out, and he doesn't even have the decency to sound winded even though he's been grinding you into his mattress for the past ten minutes like he's got all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of rushing a single second of ruining you for anyone else, his free hand sliding up under the oversized shirt you're wearing, the one that used to belong to his son, the one you deliberately wore tonight just to twist the knife a little deeper, and his calloused palm scrapes over your bare stomach in a way that makes your muscles jump and clench and your cunt leak through the thin cotton barrier still separating you from what you actually came here for. “little thing like you coming into my house smelling like him, wearing his clothes, looking at me like you wanted to be split open on my cock before you even got through the front door. you think i didn't notice? you think i didn't know exactly what you were doing the second you texted me asking if i was home alone?”

his fingers find the underside of your breast and he doesn't grab, doesn't squeeze, just traces the weight of it with the backs of his knuckles in a way that feels almost contemplative, like he's admiring the view, like he's got you exactly where he wants you and he's savoring the anticipation of what comes next, and the worst part, the absolute worst most infuriating part, is that you can feel his mouth curl into a smirk against your skin because he can feel how wet you are, can probably smell it, can definitely feel the way your hips keep twitching up to meet the slow filthy grind of his cock against your covered cunt like your body is trying to fuck itself on him through two layers of fabric and failing miserably.

“fuck, toji,” you gasp out, and your voice is already wrecked and you haven't even gotten him inside you yet, haven't even seen the thing that made his son, and that thought alone makes your cunt clench down on nothing so hard it almost hurts, makes your back arch up off the mattress and your nails dig into the scarred expanse of his shoulders where his shirt has ridden up, and he laughs, the bastard actually laughs, a low rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours and makes your nipples tighten into hard aching peaks that he hasn't even touched yet.

“what's the matter, sweetheart? getting impatient?” his thumb hooks into the waistband of your panties and drags it down just enough to expose the jut of your hipbone, and then he's pressing his mouth there, tongue tracing the ridge of it while his eyes stay locked on yours, dark and half-lidded and so fucking smug that you want to slap him and beg him to ruin you in equal measure, and when he speaks again his lips brush against your skin with every word, “you came all the way over here to get back at my idiot son, least you could do is let me take my time with you. don't you think you deserve to be savored a little? don't you think you deserve to be fucked by someone who actually knows what he's doing?”

his teeth scrape over your hip and you keen, actually keen, a high reedy sound that you've never made in your life and that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassed with, but toji's fingers have slipped lower, finally, thank fuck, finally, and he's pushing your panties to the side with a rough careless motion that makes the fabric dig into the crease of your thigh and then his fingers are sliding through your folds and he groans, a deep satisfied sound that rumbles out of his chest like a purr, and you watch his eyes flutter shut for just a second like he's savoring the feel of you, like you're something to be tasted and enjoyed and devoured at his leisure.

“soaked,” he says, and it's not a question, it's an observation, a statement of fact delivered in that same lazy drawl like he's commenting on the weather, and then he's pushing two fingers inside you without any preamble, no teasing, no working you up to it, just the sudden blunt stretch of his knuckles breaching you and curling up into that spot that makes your vision white out around the edges and your mouth drop open on a silent scream, and he holds them there, not moving, just letting you feel how full you are with just his fingers and how much fuller you're about to be when he finally gives you what you came here for. “this all for me? or is some of this still for him? you thinking about his face when he sees what his daddy's doing to his little girlfriend? you thinking about how he's gonna cry when he realizes he threw away the best thing he ever had and now she's spread out on my bed with my fingers in her cunt and my name on her lips?”

“both,” you admit, and it comes out breathless and wrecked and honest in a way you didn't mean it to, and toji's eyes flash with something dark and satisfied and hungry, and he starts moving his fingers then, slow deep strokes that drag against your walls and make your hips roll up to meet him without your permission, your body chasing the pleasure like it's got a mind of its own and that mind is entirely focused on getting more of whatever toji fushiguro is willing to give it. “both, fuck, toji, please, i need—”

“i know what you need,” he cuts you off, and his voice is softer now, almost gentle, which is somehow worse than the arrogance because it makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with the orgasm building low in your belly, and he withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, making you feel every inch of the drag until you're empty and aching and clenching around nothing, and then he's sitting back on his heels and pulling his shirt over his head and you forget how to breathe for a solid three seconds because you've seen him before, of course you have, you dated his son for two years, but you've never seen him like this, in the low lamplight of his bedroom with his hair mussed and his pupils blown wide and the scar at the corner of his mouth pulling tight with the smirk he's giving you as he watches you watch him.

“take a picture,” he says, and it takes you a second to realize he's not talking to you, he's gesturing at your phone still recording on the nightstand, and then he's looking back down at you with that same lazy predatory smile and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, and your mouth actually waters, which is disgusting and humiliating and completely involuntary and you don't care even a little bit because toji fushiguro's cock is thick and heavy and flushed dark at the tip and there's a bead of precum already gathering at the slit that you want to lick off so badly your tongue actually aches with it. “go on, sweetheart. send him a preview. let him see what he's missing. let him see his daddy's cock about to split open his girl's pretty little cunt.”

your hand is shaking when you reach for the phone, but you manage to stop the recording and pull up your ex's contact, and toji watches you do it with this look on his face like he's never been more proud of anything in his life, and then you're hitting send on a clip that shows the last thirty seconds of him grinding against you and the sound of you moaning his name and the way he looked when he pulled his cock out, and you don't even have time to feel the full weight of what you've just done before toji is taking the phone from your hand and tossing it somewhere across the room and positioning himself between your thighs like he belongs there, like he's been waiting to be there, like this was always where you were going to end up from the moment you first walked into his house two years ago and shook his hand and felt something crackle up your arm like static electricity.

“eyes on me,” he says, and his voice has gone low and rough and commanding in a way that makes your cunt clench and your breath catch and your whole body go pliant and waiting beneath him, and then he's notching the head of his cock against your entrance and pushing in, just the tip, just enough to make you feel how wide you're going to have to stretch to take him, and you make a sound that's half moan and half whimper and entirely desperate, your hands flying up to grip his biceps because you need something to hold onto, something to ground you, something to keep you from floating away on the sensation of being filled so slowly and so deliberately by a man who is taking his time with you like you're something precious and not just his son's ex-girlfriend looking for revenge. “there you go, take it, that's my good girl, just like that, let me feel that tight little cunt stretch around me, fuck, you feel that? you feel how deep i am? you think he ever got this deep? you think he ever made you feel this full?”

“no,” you gasp, and it's true, it's so pathetically true, your ex never made you feel anything close to this, never made your toes curl and your back arch and your nails dig into his skin like you're trying to crawl inside him, never made words spill out of your mouth like water, broken little pleas and curses and his name, his father's name, over and over again like a prayer, “toji, toji, oh fuck, toji, please, more, i need more, i need—”

“i know what you need,” he says again, and this time it's against your mouth, his lips brushing yours with every word as he finally, finally bottoms out, his hips flush against yours and his cock seated so deep inside you that you can feel him in your throat, or maybe that's just the moan you're choking on, and he stays there for a long moment, not moving, just letting you feel the weight and the heat and the impossible stretch of him, letting your body adjust to the intrusion, letting you marinate in the knowledge that you're impaled on your ex-boyfriend's father's cock and you've never been more turned on in your entire life. “you need someone to take care of you. someone who knows how to fuck you right. someone who's gonna make you forget you ever let my useless son put his hands on you. that's what you need, isn't it, sweetheart? that's why you came to me.”

he starts moving then, and it's not fast, it's not rough, it's this slow deep grind that rubs the head of his cock against your cervix with every thrust and makes your eyes roll back in your head and your mouth fall open on a continuous stream of sound that you couldn't stop even if you wanted to, little broken uh uh uhs punched out of you with every roll of his hips, and his mouth is everywhere, on your throat and your collarbone and the swell of your breast where he's finally pushed your shirt up far enough to get his mouth on your nipple, sucking hard and then soothing it with his tongue while his hand palms your other breast with that same lazy possessive grip, like he's claiming you, like he's marking you, like he's making sure you'll feel him on every inch of your skin for days.

“that's it, let it out, wanna hear every pretty little sound you make,” he murmurs against the spit-slick skin of your chest, and his hips never stop moving, that same relentless rhythm that's driving you slowly out of your mind, making you feel every inch of him dragging against your walls, making you acutely aware of how much bigger he is than his son, how much thicker, how much better he fits inside you like your body was made to take him specifically. “you sound so fucking sweet when you're getting fucked right. bet he never heard you like this. bet he never made you sound like this. bet he never knew what to do with a pretty little thing like you once he had you.”

your phone buzzes somewhere across the room, probably your ex seeing the video, probably him losing his mind, probably exactly the reaction you wanted when you set out to do this, but you can't bring yourself to care anymore, can't bring yourself to think about him at all when toji is fucking you like this, slow and deep and thorough, like he's memorizing the inside of you, like he's learning every spot that makes you gasp and every angle that makes you clench and every rhythm that makes your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist.

“you're gonna come on my cock,” he tells you, and it's not a question, it's not even a command, it's just a statement of fact delivered in that same low lazy drawl like he's telling you the sky is blue or water is wet or you're going to fall apart around him because it's inevitable, because it's the only possible outcome of him fucking you like this, and his hand slides down between your bodies to find your clit, his thumb pressing against it in slow tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips, and the dual sensation makes your whole body seize up and your mouth drop open on a sound that might be his name and might be a sob and might be both. “gonna feel you squeeze my cock, gonna feel this pretty little cunt milking me dry, and then i'm gonna keep fucking you, sweetheart, i'm gonna keep you right here on my cock until you can't remember your own name, let alone his, you understand me?”

you understand him perfectly, and your body is already obeying, already tightening and fluttering around him, already racing toward the edge he's pushing you toward with every slow devastating thrust of his hips and every lazy circle of his thumb and every filthy word that falls from his mouth like he's got an endless supply of them, like he could talk you through this for hours and never run out of ways to tell you how good you feel, how tight you are, how much better you take him than anyone ever has, how he knew from the first moment he saw you that you'd end up right here, spread out beneath him with his cock buried inside you and his name on your lips and his son's world crumbling to pieces somewhere far away where neither of you can be bothered to care about it anymore.

Nanami Kento

"you're so much tighter. . ." kento nanami murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice that same low, measured baritone he uses when discussing stock portfolios or the weather, but now it's frayed at the edges, roughened by exertion and something far more primal, his hips never once faltering in their slow, devastating grind as he keeps you folded nearly in half on the expensive leather of his home office couch, your knees pressed back toward your own shoulders by the broad, unyielding weight of his palms on the backs of your thighs, and the sheer audacity of the statement, the casual dismissal of his own son's ex-girlfriend, the boy who had the audacity to cheat on you with a barista who makes less in a month than nanami spends on cufflinks, makes your inner walls clench down around the thick, veiny length of him so hard he actually hisses, a sharp intake of breath through his perfect teeth.

the sound is almost as satisfying as the filthy squelch of your own arousal coating his cock every time he withdraws just enough to let you feel the flared ridge of his head dragging against that spongy, desperate spot inside you before he sinks back in to the hilt, a lazy, possessive rhythm that speaks of a man who knows he owns this cunt now, who knows he's rewriting every memory you ever had of his disappointing offspring with every single inch of his superior, older cock, and you can feel the vibration of your phone against the small of your back where it's wedged between your sweat-slicked skin and the cool leather.

the screen still lit up with the last text you sent, a blurry, artfully angled shot of nanami's broad, suit-clad shoulders and the unmistakable glint of his rolex as his hand splayed possessively over the curve of your bare ass, captioned simply with a single emoji, the smirking devil face, and you know the little read receipt has popped up by now, you know your ex is staring at it, his stomach dropping out through his fucking feet, and the thought makes you roll your hips up to meet nanami's next thrust with a wet, needy little whimper.

"that's it," he praises, and the word is a balm and a brand all at once, his hips stilling for a moment just to grind against your cervix in a slow, mean circle that makes your vision blur at the edges, "let me feel that greedy little pussy thank me for giving her what she actually needs, a real man's attention, not a boy fumbling around in the dark with someone else's barista," and his tone is so infuriatingly calm, so conversational, as if he isn't balls deep in a woman half his age.

a woman his son used to bring to sunday dinner, a woman who is now making a complete mess of his expensive trousers which are only shoved down just enough to free his cock because he'd been too impatient, too focused on bending you over the arm of this very couch the second you'd walked through the door of his high-rise apartment with that wicked, vengeful glint in your eye, to bother with the formality of fully undressing.

he shifts then, a subtle adjustment of his grip on your thighs that has him pulling out until just the very tip of him is nestled inside your fluttering entrance, and you make a sound that's half protest, half desperate keen, your hands scrabbling uselessly at the starched cotton of his dress shirt where it's still buttoned all the way up to his collar, the knot of his tie only slightly loosened, and he watches you with those tired, knowing brown eyes, a faint sheen of perspiration at his temples the only outward sign of his own arousal, "no, no, don't get grabby now, sweetheart," he chastises, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

"you wanted to be a brat, you wanted to send him a picture, now you're going to let me use this perfect little pussy exactly how i want to, aren't you? you're going to lie there and take it like a good girl while daddy fucks all that frustration out of you," and the question isn't really a question, it's a statement of fact, a decree, and you nod frantically, your throat too tight with lust and vindication to form actual words beyond a garbled, "uh-huh, uh-huh, daddy, please."

the word slips out, unbidden, and you feel the way his cock twitches violently inside you, a hot pulse of approval, and his composure cracks just a fraction, his nostrils flaring, "that's right," he grits out, and then he's moving again, not with any more speed but with a renewed, deliberate force, each thrust a deep, claiming plunge that pushes the air from your lungs in breathy, punched-out little moans.

"that's exactly right, i'm your daddy now, the one who actually knows how to fill this needy cunt up, the one who isn't going to run off with the first pair of tight jeans that smiles at him because i know the value of a thing when i have it," and his hand leaves your thigh to come up and grip your jaw, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to angle your face toward the large window overlooking the city skyline, the lights of tokyo blurring in your peripheral vision as he forces you to look at the reflection of the two of you, the image of his fully clothed, powerful form looming over your half-naked, pliant body, his cock disappearing into you over and over again in the darkened glass.

"look at that," he commands, his thumb pressing down on your bottom lip, parting it from your teeth, "look at who's fucking you, look at whose name you're going to be moaning into his son's pillow the next time you find yourself in that shithole apartment he shares with three roommates, look at the man who is going to ruin you for anyone younger than forty," and the visual is obscene, the contrast between his controlled, tailored presence and your own desperate, writhing form so stark it makes your cunt gush around him.

a fresh wave of slickness making the slide of him in and out of you even filthier, even louder, a wet, rhythmic clapping sound that fills the quiet, refined space of his office, and you can see in the reflection the way your own eyes are glassy and unfocused, your mouth hanging open, a single strand of drool escaping from the corner where his thumb is still holding your lip down, and you look completely and utterly dumb on his cock, every coherent thought replaced by the heavy, dragging fullness of him.

"is he blowing up your phone yet?" nanami asks, his pace finally beginning to lose some of its lazy restraint, his hips snapping forward with a sharper, more possessive edge, and you can feel the thick head of him kissing your cervix with every stroke now, a deep, dull ache that borders on too much but never quite crosses the line, it just makes your legs tremble harder in his grip, "is he sending you paragraphs of pathetic, misspelled rage? is he finally realizing what he threw away, what he was too much of a fool to appreciate?"

and his words are punctuated by the increasing force of his thrusts, the couch creaking softly beneath the shifting weight of you both, and you manage to whine out a broken, "y-yes, feels s'good, daddy, feels so much bigger than him, can't even compare," and the admission makes his hips stutter for the first time, a genuine, guttural groan ripping from deep in his chest, a sound you've never heard him make before, not even when you'd first sunk down onto his cock with a triumphant little smirk on your face not fifteen minutes ago.

he shifts again, pulling out completely this time, and the sudden emptiness is a cold, aching loss that makes you sob in protest, your hips chasing his retreating warmth, but he's already manhandling you, his strong hands flipping you over onto your stomach with an ease that makes you feel weightless and completely owned, and he drags your hips up until your knees are tucked under you and your cheek is pressed into the cool leather.

your back arched in a deep, presenting curve that puts your soaked, puffy cunt on full display for him, and you hear the soft, wet sound of him stroking his own cock, slicking it with your juices, before the broad, blunt head of him is notching back at your entrance, and this time he doesn't tease, he just sinks home in one long, relentless push that has you keening into the cushion, your fingers twisting uselessly in the leather.

"this," he grunts, draping himself over your back, the fine wool of his suit jacket scratching against your bare, sweat-slicked skin, his mouth hot and wet against the nape of your neck, "this is where you belong, isn't it? face down, ass up, waiting for me to fill you up because you know i'm the only one who can, you know that little boy of mine never had a clue what to do with all this."

one of his hands snakes around your hip, his fingers finding your neglected, throbbing clit with unerring accuracy, and he doesn't rub, doesn't circle, he just presses down, a hard, steady pressure right on top of the swollen nub that makes your entire body seize up, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your cunt milks his cock in a series of violent, involuntary spasms.

"you wanted revenge," he breathes against your ear, his hips starting up a new rhythm, this one deeper, meaner, a grinding, circular motion that rubs the entire length of him against every sensitive, aching spot inside you while his finger stays pressed firmly against your clit, turning the world into a tunnel of white-hot, consuming sensation.

"this is it, this is the revenge, this is you getting absolutely ruined on his father's cock, and you're going to send him another picture, aren't you? you're going to show him how pretty you look with my handprint on your ass and my come dripping out of you, and he's going to know, he's going to know for the rest of his pathetic little life that daddy fucks better than he ever could, that his girl is gone, she belongs to the man of the house now," and his words are a filthy, possessive litany against your skin, his voice growing more and more ragged with every roll of his hips, his usually so carefully constructed composure finally crumbling into something raw and animalistic and completely, utterly yours.

the pressure of his finger on your clit is relentless, a maddening constant that doesn't let up even as he fucks into you with those deep, possessive grinds, and you can hear yourself making the most pathetic, desperate sounds, little broken moans and whimpers that you would be embarrassed of if you had any higher brain function left, but all you can do is feel, feel the impossible stretch of him, feel the way his body covers yours like a heavy, protective blanket, feel the scratch of his trousers against the backs of your thighs, feel the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing into your ass cheek with every thrust, and you know, you just know that your ex is probably calling you right now, the call going straight to voicemail because you'd put your phone on do not disturb the second nanami had pushed you up against the wall in his foyer, and the thought of him listening to this, to the wet sounds of his father fucking you, to the creak of the leather couch and your own desperate, muffled moans, is almost enough to send you spiraling.

"good girl," nanami grits out, the praise a dark, honeyed thing that drips down your spine, and he rears back, sitting up on his knees behind you, and the new angle is devastating, his cock hitting something so deep and so good that you sob out a garbled version of his name, "k-kento, oh fuck, oh fuck, right there, daddy, please, please," and he doesn't answer with words, he just grips your hips with both hands.

his thumbs digging into the dimples just above the swell of your ass, and he starts to fuck you properly, long, hard, purposeful strokes that have the couch inching across the polished hardwood floor with the force of them, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every forward surge, and the sound is obscene, a wet, rhythmic clapping that fills the room and drowns out the distant hum of the city below.

"do you think he can hear you?" nanami muses, his voice a strained, dark rumble, "do you think he's picturing this right now? his sweet little ex-girlfriend getting her brains fucked out by his own father? does he know how wet you get for me? how easily you open up for a real cock?" and each question is punctuated by a particularly brutal thrust that shoves you further up the couch.

your nipples dragging against the cool leather, and all you can do is moan and take it, your body completely pliant and receptive, molded to his will, and you think you might be drooling again, a damp spot forming under your cheek on the cushion, and you don't even care, you're so far gone on the feeling of him, on the scent of his expensive cologne mixed with sex, on the sound of his ragged breathing and your own desperate, high-pitched keens.

his hand slides up from your hip, over the curve of your waist, to press down firmly between your shoulder blades, pinning you even more completely to the couch, and the feeling of being trapped, of being held down and used so thoroughly by this powerful, older man, is the final nail in the coffin of your sanity, and you let go completely, your mind going blissfully, wonderfully blank as he fucks you with a single-minded intensity, his grunts turning into low, animalistic growls every time your fluttering walls clamp down around him, and the world narrows to just this, just the feeling of his cock splitting you open, just the sound of his voice calling you his good girl, just the knowledge that somewhere out there, your ex is losing his fucking mind, and it's all because you're here, getting absolutely wrecked by the one man he could never, ever measure up to.

Ryomen Sukuna

you didn't plan for it to feel this good, not really, not when the whole thing started as a razor-edged scheme born from the sting of betrayal and the cold fury that settled in your chest when you saw those text messages lighting up your ex's phone. revenge was supposed to be sweet, a dish served with a side of smug satisfaction and a photographic receipt sent straight to his gutless son. but now, with your knees digging into the expensive, rumpled sheets of ryomen sukuna's bed and your cheek pressed against the cool leather of his headboard.

you're starting to realize that revenge might just be the most exquisite, filthy, full-bodied thing you've ever tasted and it tastes exactly like him, like expensive whiskey and smoky cedar and pure, unapologetic dominance. his large, calloused hand is splayed across the small of your back, fingers dimpling the soft flesh just above the swell of your ass, holding you in place with an effortless, almost lazy kind of strength that makes your cunt clench helplessly around the thick, veiny intrusion of his cock.

he's not even moving, not really, just buried to the hilt in one slow, devastating stroke that left you gasping and seeing stars behind your eyelids, and he's letting you feel it, letting you marinate in the obscene stretch of him splitting you open while his other hand scrolls through your phone with a casual disinterest that is somehow more infuriating and more arousing than anything else.

“hold still, little thing,” his voice is a low, subterranean rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine, a sound that feels less like speech and more like the earth shifting under your feet. “you wanted a picture to send to my idiot son, didn't you? then stop squirming. or do you want him to see just how much of a sloppy mess his daddy's cock is already making you before the camera even clicks?” he shifts his hips then, just a micro-movement, a barely-there rotation that grinds the broad.

blunt head of his dick right up against that spongy, devastating spot deep inside you, and the sound that tears from your throat is a broken, wet “aahn— f-fuck, daddy, please,” that you don't even recognize as your own. it's high and reedy and utterly pathetic, a noise that belongs to some brainless little cocksleeve, not a woman who walked into this penthouse with a plan and a chip on her shoulder the size of his bank account. the plan is dissolving now, melting like sugar on your tongue, replaced by a heavy, languid heat that pools low in your belly and turns your limbs to water. you can hear the faint click of the phone's camera, a sound so clinical and mundane in contrast to the primal, wet squelch of your pussy gripping him like a vice every time you breathe.

“there,” he grunts, tossing the phone onto the mattress beside your hip, the screen still glowing with the damning image of his thick, tattooed forearm braced beside your head, his hips flush against the curve of your ass, and your face—god, your face—twisted in a mask of slack-jawed, eye-rolling ecstasy.

“caption it. i'm not doing all the work here. tell the little shit who you belong to now.” but you can't form words, not when he finally starts to move with a deep, rolling grind of his hips that pushes you further up the headboard, your nails scrabbling uselessly against the smooth leather. his pace isn't frantic or punishing; it's the opposite, a slow, possessive drag that pulls him almost all the way out, leaving you feeling cavernously empty and whimpering at the loss, before he sinks back in with a heavy, grunting exhale that stirs the fine hairs at the nape of your neck.

“that's it,” he coos, the condescension in his tone dripping like warm honey over your frayed nerves. “look at you, all that big talk about revenge and ruining my son's life, and you can't even keep your thoughts straight once you've got a real man's cock stirring up this needy little cunt. is that what it is, sweetheart? you needed a daddy to come in here and fuck the thoughts right out of that pretty, empty head of yours?” his hand slides from your back, up your spine, and tangles in the hair at the base of your skull, not pulling hard, just fisting it firmly to tilt your head back and arch your spine into a deeper, more submissive curve. it changes the angle, makes every lazy thrust feel like he's trying to carve a space for himself inside your very core, and the wet, rhythmic shlick shlick shlick of your arousal coating his length fills the vast, shadowed room.

“y-yes, daddy,” you babble, the words slurring together as your eyes flutter shut, a single tear of overstimulation leaking from the corner of your eye to track a hot path down your temple. “s'good... 's too much... he never... never made me feel...” you can't even finish the sentence, your mind a blank canvas painted only with the feeling of him, the weight of him, the sheer, overwhelming presence of ryomen sukuna buried so deep inside you that you swear you can taste him in the back of your throat. he laughs, a low, cruel sound that holds no real malice, only a deep, satisfied amusement at your unraveling.

“of course he didn't. that boy wouldn't know what to do with a pussy this sweet if it came with an instruction manual and a map. all he knows how to do is fumble around and then run off to find something easier to play with. pathetic.” he punctuates the word with a sharper, deeper thrust that jolts your whole body and makes you keen, a high-pitched “nnggh—fuck!” that echoes off the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tokyo skyline.

you're a mess, drool starting to pool at the corner of your mouth, your thighs trembling with the effort of just staying up on your knees, and he's barely broken a sweat. he's fucking you like he has all the time in the world, like your tight, wet heat is his own personal toy to warm his cock in, a lazy afternoon diversion.

“reach back,” he commands, his voice a low rasp against your ear. “grab your ass. spread yourself open for me. i want to see this greedy little hole swallowing every inch of daddy's cock.” your hands move before your brain can even catch up, clumsy and trembling, reaching back to grip your own cheeks and pull them apart, giving him an even filthier, more obscene view of where your bodies are joined. the cool air of the room hits the stretched, slick skin of your pussy and you whimper, feeling impossibly exposed, impossibly vulnerable.

“such a good girl for me,” he praises, the words dark and rich and sending a fresh flood of slick dripping down your thighs to stain his expensive sheets. “so much better than any other little slut who's ever tried to warm my bed. you've got that look in your eye, you know. the look of a woman who's been starving without even knowing it. and now you've finally found a man who knows how to feed this insatiable little appetite of yours.”

he pulls out of you completely then, and the sudden emptiness is a physical ache, a bereft whimper tearing from your lips. you barely have time to protest before his strong hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your back with a casual display of strength that makes your head spin. the sheets are cool against your heated skin, and you look up at him, this forty-five-year-old man who looks like a vengeful god carved from granite and sin.

his hair is a tousled mess, pink and black strands falling into eyes that gleam with a predatory, lazy satisfaction in the dim light. he's still fully dressed in his black slacks and unbuttoned white dress shirt, the fabric hanging open to reveal the hard, scarred planes of his chest and stomach, the dark lines of his tattoos snaking across his skin. the contrast of his clothed power against your complete, naked vulnerability makes your cunt clench around nothing, a fresh wave of desperation washing over you.

“daddy, please,” you beg, your voice a ragged whisper, reaching for him with grasping hands. “need you back inside... please, i'll be so good, i'll do anything...” he just looks down at you, a smirk playing on his lips as he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, bending you nearly in half with a flexibility you didn't know you possessed. the new position is even more intimate, more vulnerable, his cock nudging against your slick, puffy folds, painting them with your own wetness.

“look at you begging,” he murmurs, his tone one of pure, indulgent condescension. “you came here to use me, to get your little revenge, and now you're the one who's been used up and broken in. my son's dumb little ex-girlfriend, spread out on my bed, begging for my cock like it's the only thing that makes sense in her pretty, empty world. isn't that right, baby? isn't this all your dumb little cunt is good for now?”

he sinks back in with a slow, relentless pressure that steals the breath from your lungs, a long, guttural “ohhh—fuuuck—daddy—” drawn from the deepest part of you as he bottoms out. this angle is different, deeper, more intense. every slow grind of his hips rubs against your clit with a maddening friction, and your eyes roll back in your head, your hands flying up to grip his forearms, your nails biting into the corded muscle and dark ink.

he sets a rhythm that is nothing short of torturous bliss. it's not a race to the finish; it's a long, drawn-out journey of pure, hedonistic pleasure. he fucks you slow and deep and filthy, his hips rolling in a continuous, lazy circle that has your inner walls fluttering and gripping him in a desperate, rhythmic massage.

“that's my girl,” he grunts, his eyes locked on the sight of your face contorting in pleasure, your mouth hanging open on a constant stream of wordless moans and broken syllables. “nngh— ah— aahn— oh god, daddy, right there— s-so deep—” you're babbling, completely lost to the sensation, your earlier plans of revenge a distant, laughable memory.

all that exists is this, him, the heavy weight of his body pinning you down, the slick, obscene sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your sopping cunt, and the filthy, degrading praise that falls from his lips like a benediction.

“you feel that?” he asks, his voice a strained, husky whisper against your lips. he doesn't kiss you, just hovers there, his breath mingling with your own ragged pants. “feel how deep daddy is? feel him in your tummy? that's a real cock, baby. not a boy's toy. and this greedy little pussy is going to learn to take it whenever i want, however i want, for as long as i want. you understand me?” you nod frantically, words completely beyond you now.

your entire world has narrowed to the slick, tight channel of your cunt and the massive, relentless intrusion filling it again and again. the pressure builds slowly, a low, simmering fire in your core that he stokes with every deliberate, grinding thrust. you're making sounds you've never made before, high-pitched, breathy little “uh-uh-uh” noises that are punched out of you with every push of his hips. you're drooling, tears are streaming from the corners of your eyes, your whole body is slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and you have never, ever felt more beautiful, more wanted, more completely and utterly claimed.

“the next time that little shitbag son of mine sees this picture,” he growls, his pace never faltering, that same lazy, devastating rhythm continuing as if he could do this for hours, “i want him to know. i want him to see that look on your face. that's the look of a woman being properly fucked for the first time in her pathetic life. and i want him to know that it's my cock she's drooling for, my name she's screaming, my bed she's ruining with her sweet, messy little cunt. you're not his anything anymore. you're daddy's little mess now.”

he shifts his weight, moving one hand down between your sweat-slicked bodies to press his thumb down hard on your swollen, throbbing clit, rubbing tight, lazy circles in perfect counterpoint to the slow drag of his cock inside you. the dual sensation is explosive, your back arching off the bed, a sharp, keening wail of “daddy—daddy—pleasepleaseplease—” tearing from your raw throat. you're not even sure what you're begging for anymore. for him to stop? for him to never, ever stop? for him to fuck you so deep and so good that you forget your own name, forget the boy who broke your heart, forget everything but the sound of his low, approving grunts and the feeling of being so utterly, blissfully owned?

Higuruma Hiromi

"arch your back a little more for me, sweetheart—yeah, just like that, fuck, you're such a pretty little thing taking me so deep like this, aren't you?"

his voice is a low, syrupy rasp against the shell of your ear, each syllable punctuated by the slow, devastating roll of his hips. you're on all fours on his massive bed, the expensive sheets a tangled ruin beneath your trembling knees and the palms of your hands. higuruma hiromi, your cheating ex-boyfriend's widower father, is draped over your back like a second skin, his chest hair scraping pleasantly against your sweat-slicked spine.

he's not fucking you fast; he's fucking you thoroughly, like he's memorizing the exact shape and clutch of your cunt with the fat, leaking head of his cock. he pulls back until just the tip is stretching your rim, making you whine and clench down on nothing but aching emptiness, before he sinks back in with a wet, obscene shllick that echoes in the dimly lit room. it's lazy, it's affectionate, and it's the filthiest, most degrading thing you've ever done, and you're loving every single second of it.

"h-hiromi, please," you gasp, your voice already wrecked and cracking despite this only being the start of the long, drawn-out revenge plot you'd orchestrated. your arms are shaking, and he notices immediately, because of course he does. he's a defense attorney, a man who notices every flinch, every micro-expression, every little tell. he notices when you're about to collapse, and he fucking loves it.

"shhh, i've got you, baby," he coos, the term of endearment a stark, dizzying contrast to the way he's splitting you open on his thick, aged dick. one of his large, veined hands leaves the dip of your waist and slides up your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly.

he presses down firmly, and you both moan at the same time—you because you can feel the hard outline of him moving inside you from the outside, and him because he can feel his own intrusion through the plush give of your tummy. "feel that? feel how deep daddy is in this tight little pussy? your ex could never get this deep, could he? too busy trying to be quick and quiet when he wasn't out sticking his dick in other girls. such a waste of a pretty girl."

you clench down involuntarily, a fresh gush of slick making the slide even filthier, even louder. he chuckles, a dark, breathy sound right by your ear. "oh, you like that, don't you? you like being reminded that my son is an incompetent fool who couldn't keep a treasure like you satisfied. he's out there with that bottle-blonde barista, and i'm in here, in his childhood home, rearranging his ex-girlfriend's guts while she sobs on my cock. that's my good girl."

he shifts his weight, and you hear the faint, distinct sound of a phone camera shutter. you don't even need to look; you know he's taken another one. his phone is propped up on the pillow next to your head, the screen facing away from you but you know the camera app is open, ready to capture this beautiful, messy act of vengeance. "smile for me, princess," he murmurs, his voice dripping with condescending affection. "let's make sure my boy sees exactly how a real man treats what's his."

you force your eyes open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of pleasure and pure, spiteful glee. you look directly at the lens, your mouth falling open in a perfect 'o' of exaggerated bliss just as he snaps his hips forward a little harder, a little meaner, jarring a real, guttural moan from your throat. click. that one's going in the text thread.

you can already picture your ex's face, the shock, the fury, the sheer, pathetic disbelief. "ngh, fuck, hiromi, that's—you're so big, it's too much," you whine, playing up the dumb little victim act even though your inner walls are fluttering and sucking him in greedily.

"too much?" he parrots, pulling out slowly until his cock springs free with a lewd pop, leaving your hole gaping and twitching for him. he sits back on his haunches, grabbing a handful of your ass and spreading you open wide so the cold air hits your soaked, puffy lips. "this cunt doesn't seem to think it's too much. look at it trying to suck me back in. it's weeping for me, sweetheart. such a sloppy, desperate little thing."

before you can even think of a reply, he's manhandling you, his grip firm and unyielding. he flips you over like you weigh nothing, your back bouncing against the cool sheets. "up," he commands, hooking his hands under your knees and pressing them up towards your chest, folding you nearly in half. "hold your legs. show daddy how much you want him back inside."

your hands scramble to obey, gripping the backs of your thighs. the new position is obscenely vulnerable; you're completely exposed, your dripping cunt presented to him like an offering. he looms over you, his silver-streaked hair falling into his sharp, intelligent eyes.

at forty-five, higuruma hiromi is a masterpiece of lean muscle and weary experience, his body honed by years of stress and a stubborn dedication to keeping in shape. the scars of his profession are etched into the lines around his eyes, but right now, those eyes are fixed solely on the wet, willing mess between your legs.

"good girl," he praises, the words a hot, heavy blanket over your senses. he doesn't just thrust back in. he guides the fat, ruddy head of his cock through your slick folds, painting your clit with your own arousal, making you jerk and sob. "so wet for an old man like me. it's flattering, really. or maybe it's just that you're a filthy little thing who gets off on fucking her ex's dad. which one is it, baby? use your words."

"b-both," you stammer out, your mind going blank, hazy, blissfully empty of anything but the feeling of him teasing your entrance. "i'm a filthy little thing, hiromi, please, please just fuck me again, i need it, need your cock, need daddy to fill me up—"

that's all the permission he needs. he pushes in with one long, relentless glide, and your back arches off the bed as a loud, broken keen tears from your throat. "uuuunnngh, yes, yes, like that, oh fuck, hiromi—"

"that's it," he grunts, setting a new pace. it's not the lazy, deep grind from before. this is something else entirely. it's slow, yes, but it's a deep, purposeful rocking motion, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every downward stroke. he's not just fucking you; he's claiming you, molding your insides to the shape of him.

his mouth descends on yours, his kiss sloppy and wet, all tongue and teeth, swallowing your moans and feeding you his own guttural sounds of pleasure. "take it. take every inch, sweetheart. you're doing so well for me. such a perfect little hole. he never deserved to see you like this, spread out and desperate and so fucking beautiful."

he breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw, your neck, biting down on the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your throat. you feel his other hand snake between your bodies, his thumb finding your neglected clit and pressing down in tight, unforgiving circles. "ah! ah, ah, ah—hiromi, that's—"

"look at me," he interrupts, his voice a low growl. you force your eyes open, meeting his intense gaze. "i want you to look at me while i'm inside you. not him. me. i want you to remember this is me making you feel this way. hiromi. say my name."

"hiromi," you whimper, your voice small and trembling. "hiromi, hiromi, hiromi—"

he groans, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. he picks up his phone again, holding it above you both. this time, it's a video. you can see the little red recording light in your peripheral vision. "tell my son what a good job his father is doing," he instructs, his tone utterly calm and conversational even as he's drilling into you with that devastating, clit-grinding precision. "tell him."

you turn your head towards the camera, your expression one of pure, unadulterated rapture, tears streaming from the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. "your dad," you pant out, each word hitching on a moan. "ngh, fuck, your dad fucks me so—ah!—so much better than you ever could. he's s-so deep, i can feel him in my throat. and he's so, so nice to me after he makes me cry on his big, fat cock."

higuruma laughs, a genuine, delighted sound, and it's the sexiest thing you've ever heard. "that's my sweet, dumb little girl," he murmurs, ending the video and tossing the phone carelessly to the side. "revenge looks so pretty on you."

he shifts again, pulling out of you and leaving you empty and aching. a frustrated cry escapes your lips, but he just shushes you, manhandling you onto your side. he spoons up behind you, his chest to your back, his cock nudging insistently at your soaked entrance from behind.

he hooks his arm under your top leg, lifting it up and back to rest over his hip, opening you up completely. he slides back in with a wet, contented sigh, and you both moan in unison at the new, impossibly deep angle.

"this is my favorite," he confesses into your hair, his voice a low, lazy rumble. "feels like we're just two puzzle pieces finally fitting together the right way." he starts moving again, a slow, syrupy grind that has you seeing stars.

his free hand roams your body possessively, cupping your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then sliding down to rub your clit again with the same slow, lazy rhythm as his hips. it's not frantic, it's not a race to the finish. it's a long, drawn-out exploration of pleasure, and he's the one holding the map.

"feel good, sweetheart? just a nice, slow fuck from your ex's daddy?" his breath is hot on your neck. "you can be as loud as you want, you know. the whole house is empty. scream for me. let the neighbors know who's making you feel this good."

and you do. you let every whimper, every moan, every broken sob fall from your lips uncensored, the sounds filling the room and mixing with the wet, rhythmic squelch of him sliding in and out of your sloppy cunt. "hiii-rooo-miiii," you cry, dragging out the syllables of his name, your voice warbling with pleasure. "it's s-so good, so deep, you're in my stomach, i swear, oh fuck—"

"i know, baby, i know," he coos, his hips never faltering. "just let it all go. let daddy take care of everything. you don't have to think, you just have to lay here and let me use this perfect little pussy. that's all you need to do. can you be a good, pretty little toy for me? can you just let yourself feel good?"

you nod frantically, your mind a complete blank. he chuckles, kissing your shoulder blade. "good girl. that's my good, dumb girl." he continues the slow, devastating grind, his cock stroking places inside you that you didn't even know existed, his fingers a constant, steady pressure on your clit. the pleasure is a rising tide, all-encompassing, washing away every thought of your shitty ex, the heartbreak, the anger. there's only hiromi, his body, his voice, the overwhelming sensation of being completely and utterly filled.

he whispers a litany of filthy, affectionate praise against your skin, telling you how tight you are, how wet, how perfect, how he's never had a cunt that fits him so well, how you're such a good girl for taking him so deep, how you were wasted on his pathetic son.

each word is a fresh wave of heat, a new layer of dizzying pleasure. his pace remains that same, unyielding slow roll, drawing out the feeling, making it last for what feels like hours. the world narrows to the slick slide of his cock, the hot press of his body, the steady thrum of pleasure building and building in your core, a taut, aching pressure that has you clawing at the sheets and babbling nonsense.

he never speeds up, never gets rough. it's the ultimate form of control, this lazy, affectionate, devastatingly deep fucking. he's showing you, with every slow, deliberate stroke, exactly what you've been missing. he's proving his point with patience and precision, not force. and as you lay there, held open and pinned in place by his body and his cock, you realize you're not just getting revenge anymore.

you're getting ruined for anyone else, and the smug, possessive sound of hiromi's breathing in your ear tells you he knows it, too. this was never just about a text message; it was about him claiming a piece of you his son was too stupid to keep. and you're letting him, whimpering and moaning and being such a good, dumb, little girl for him, for as long as he wants to keep you right here, on the edge of everything, full of nothing but him.

Shiu Kong

"stay just like that, sweetheart, fuck—right there, milking me so fuckin' good," shiu's voice rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest, gravelly and low, as his big hands flex against the globes of your ass, fingers spreading you open even wider around his thick cock buried to the hilt inside you from behind, and you can feel every single inch of him pulsing against your slick walls, the stretch so obscene and perfect that your thighs are already trembling where you're bent over the expensive mahogany desk in his home office.

the same desk where you'd seen family photos of his cheating son just weeks ago before you'd hatched this whole delicious plan, your cheek pressed flat against the cool wood as you arch your back even deeper, pushing your hips back to meet his lazy, grinding thrusts because that's exactly what this is—lazy, slow, punishing in the most indulgent way possible, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin you and he intends to use every second of it.

"your boy know you get this wet for his old man?" shiu murmurs, one hand sliding up the curve of your spine, fingers pressing into the dip of your lower back to keep you arched and presented for him, and his other hand snakes around your hip, thick fingers finding your swollen clit with practiced ease, circling the sensitive nub in slow, devastating strokes that have you keening into the desk, your mouth falling open on a wet gasp that fogs the polished surface beneath your cheek, "nah, bet he doesn't, bet that ungrateful little shit had no idea what he was throwing away when he decided to stick his dick in someone else, huh, sweetheart? his loss, my fuckin' gain."

you try to respond, try to form words around the desperate, punched-out sounds escaping your throat every time he rolls his hips forward, the head of his cock kissing something deep and devastating inside you that makes your vision blur at the edges, but all that comes out is a broken, "d-daddy—" and you feel his whole body shudder behind you, a rough groan vibrating through his chest and into your back where he leans over you, his salt-and-pepper hair brushing against your shoulder as his lips find the shell of your ear.

"yeah, that's it, call me daddy, since my son couldn't act like a fuckin' man, let his daddy show you how a real man treats a pretty little thing like you," his breath is hot and damp against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe before he pulls back just enough to watch the way his cock disappears into your soaked cunt, the wet, obscene sounds of your arousal filling the quiet room every time he pulls out just an inch before sinking back in, slow and deep and so fucking thorough, like he's trying to memorize the feeling of you from the inside out.

"look at you, takin' all of me so easy, like this pretty pussy was made just for my cock, hmm? so fuckin' tight, sweetheart, grippin' me so good, you gonna let daddy take care of you now? gonna let me stretch this little hole whenever i want?"

your fingers scramble for purchase against the smooth wood, nails scraping uselessly as he shifts his angle just slightly, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk, a high, reedy moan tearing from your throat as your inner walls flutter and clench around him involuntarily, and shiu laughs, low and dark and so fucking pleased with himself, his thumb pressing harder against your clit in retaliation.

"oh, there it is, right fuckin' there, huh? that's my good girl, lettin' me know exactly where she needs it, so fuckin' responsive for me, baby, shit—" his hips pick up a fraction of speed, still lazy, still controlled, but there's a new intensity behind each roll of his pelvis, each deep grind that has your toes curling in your heels and your back bowing impossibly further.

he pulls out slow, deliberate, until just the thick, flared head of his cock is stretching your entrance, and you whine at the loss, your hips chasing him on instinct, but his hand on your lower back holds you steady, keeps you right where he wants you, "uh-uh, greedy little thing, daddy's gonna give it to you, don't worry, just wanna feel this tight cunt suck me back in."

and then he's pushing forward again, one long, smooth stroke that fills you so completely you can feel him in your throat, your mouth dropping open on a silent scream as your eyes roll back, and shiu groans like he's the one being wrecked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder blade for just a moment before he's straightening up again, both hands moving to grip your hips hard enough to bruise.

"fuckin' hell, sweetheart, you feel that? feel how deep daddy is inside this pretty little pussy?" he pulls you back onto his cock with each lazy thrust now, using your hips like handles, and the new angle has you seeing stars, your clit rubbing against the edge of the desk with every forward motion while his cock punches against your cervix with every pull back.

it's too much and not enough all at once, and you're babbling now, incoherent pleas and moans spilling from your lips as he takes you apart piece by piece, "yeah, that's it, let it all out, let daddy hear how good he's makin' you feel, bet my worthless son never had you soundin' like this, bet he never made this tight little cunt weep all over his cock like you're doin' for me right now."

his words are filthy, dripping with smug satisfaction and something darker, something possessive that makes your cunt clench even tighter around him, and he hisses, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he recovers with a breathless laugh, "oh, you like that, don't you? like hearin' how much better daddy is at fuckin' this sweet pussy? such a dirty little thing, fuckin' your ex's father, lettin' an old man bend you over his desk and ruin you, and you're lovin' every second of it, aren't you, baby? can feel you gettin' wetter every time i talk, such a fuckin' slut for daddy's cock."

you're nodding frantically against the desk, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, and you manage to gasp out, "yes, yes, daddy, love it, love your cock, love how you fuck me so much better—" and the words are barely out of your mouth before he's pulling out completely, flipping you onto your back with a strength that makes your head spin, your legs hooked over his broad shoulders before you can even process the change in position.

the new angle is devastating, his cock sliding back into you in one smooth thrust that has you crying out, your hands flying up to grip his forearms where they bracket your head, and shiu is looking down at you with hooded eyes, his expression a mixture of pure male satisfaction and something softer, something almost tender that makes your chest ache even as he's splitting you open on his cock.

"there she is, wanted to see that pretty face while i fuck you, sweetheart, wanted to watch those eyes go all dumb and crossed while daddy stretches this little cunt out," and he punctuates the words with a deep, grinding roll of his hips that has you keening, your back arching off the desk as your nails dig into his skin.

"so fuckin' beautiful like this," he murmurs, one hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip before pressing into your mouth, and you suck on it greedily, your tongue laving over the rough pad of his finger as he watches you with dark, intense eyes, "yeah, just like that, good girl, suck on daddy's thumb while he fucks this sweet pussy, look so fuckin' pretty with your mouth full and your legs spread for me."

his pace is still lazy, still unhurried, but the depth is punishing, each thrust pushing so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach, and the wet, squelching sounds of your pussy taking him over and over fill the room like a filthy symphony, mixing with your muffled moans around his thumb and his own low, rough groans of pleasure.

"can't believe my own flesh and blood was stupid enough to let this go," he says, almost to himself, his hips never faltering in their slow, devastating rhythm, "can't believe he had this tight, perfect little cunt waitin' for him at home and he still went and fucked around, what a fuckin' idiot, but i guess i should thank him, shouldn't i, sweetheart? should thank my dumbass son for givin' his daddy the best pussy he's ever had."

he pulls his thumb from your mouth with a wet pop, replacing it with two fingers that press down on your tongue, and you moan around them, your eyes fluttering as he fucks into you deeper, harder, still slow but with more force behind each stroke, "that's it, take it, take all of daddy's cock, let me feel this greedy little hole milk me dry, fuck—"

his composure cracks for just a moment, his hips stuttering as your inner walls clamp down around him, and he laughs, breathless and rough, "oh, you like that, huh? like when daddy loses control a little? yeah, you do, i can feel this pussy flutterin' every time i slip up, such a fuckin' tease, gonna be the death of me, sweetheart."

he shifts again, pulling out just long enough to manhandle you onto your side, one of your legs pushed up toward your chest while the other is trapped between his thighs, and when he slides back in, the new angle has you seeing stars, your mouth dropping open on a silent scream as he hits something deep and devastating that makes your whole body shake, "yeah, there we go, found it, didn't i, sweetheart? found that spot that makes you go all dumb and stupid on daddy's cock, look at you, can't even talk now, can you? just a pretty little hole for me to fuck, that's all you are right now, isn't it, baby?"

you can only nod, tears streaming down your temples now as the pleasure builds and builds, your mind going hazy and blank except for the feeling of his thick cock dragging against your walls, the wet sounds of your pussy sucking him in, the low, rough timbre of his voice as he talks you through it, "that's okay, sweetheart, daddy don't need you to think right now, just need you to feel, just need you to let me take care of this sweet little cunt, fuck—you're so fuckin' tight like this, grippin' me so good, shit—"

his hand comes down to grip the meat of your thigh, holding you open and spread for him as his hips roll in that same lazy, devastating rhythm, and you're nothing but a mess of moans and pleas and broken sobs of "daddy, daddy, please—" even though you don't know what you're begging for, don't know if you want him to stop or never stop, just know that you're drowning in the feeling of him, in the way he's taking you apart so slowly and thoroughly, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin you for anyone else.

"please what, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice a low, teasing rumble, and his thumb finds your clit again, pressing down in slow, tight circles that have your hips jerking against his grip, "use your words, baby, tell daddy what you need, tell me how good i'm makin' you feel, come on, i know you can do it, even with this dumb little pussy brain you got right now, just focus on daddy's voice and tell me."

"feels—feels so good, daddy," you manage to gasp out, your voice wrecked and trembling, "your cock is so big, fills me up so good, better than—better than anyone, better than your son, please don't stop, please keep fucking me, daddy, please—"

his groan is almost pained, his forehead dropping to yours as his hips speed up just slightly, still lazy but with a new edge of desperation, "fuck, sweetheart, you can't just—can't just say shit like that, gonna make me lose my fuckin' mind, you know that? tellin' me i fuck you better than my own son, such a dirty fuckin' girl, love it, love this nasty little mouth on you, love this tight, perfect cunt, love every fuckin' thing about you, shit—"

he buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and damp against your skin as he mutters filth into your ear, his hips never faltering in their steady, devastating rhythm, "gonna keep you, sweetheart, you know that? gonna keep this pussy all to myself, gonna fuck you whenever i want, wherever i want, gonna bend you over every surface in this house and remind you who you belong to now, not my worthless fuckin' son, no, you're daddy's now, aren't you, baby? this sweet cunt is daddy's, this pretty mouth is daddy's, every fuckin' inch of you is mine now."

and all you can do is nod and moan and cling to him, your fingers tangled in his salt-and-pepper hair as he fucks you slow and deep and thorough, the obscene sounds of your joining filling the room along with his rough praises and your broken cries, and somewhere in the back of your hazy, pleasure-drunk mind, you remember your phone, remember the pictures you'd taken earlier, remember the smug, vindictive satisfaction of sending them to your ex, but none of that matters now, not when shiu is buried so deep inside you that you can't tell where you end and he begins, not when he's murmuring "good girl, my good fuckin' girl, takin' daddy's cock so well" against your skin like a prayer.

the world narrows down to the feeling of him, the sound of him, the weight of him pressing you into the desk as he takes and takes and takes, and you give it all to him willingly, greedily, your body arching into every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it never wants to let him go, and maybe it doesn't.

maybe this is exactly where you were always meant to end up, spread open and wrecked on your ex's father's cock, being fucked so slow and good that you can't remember your own name, only his, only "daddy, daddy, daddy" spilling from your lips like a litany.

Sylus

It was a quiet evening, the two of you were in his study. Sylus was typing something on his computer while you lounged on the sofa with a book, trying to keep yourself occupied. You really were trying. Sylus had promised he just needed to finish something quickly and then his attention would be entirely yours. You were impatient, but you were doing your best to let him work. But eventually your book stopped holding your attention, so you set it aside. Your gaze wandered idly around the study until it settled on him.

Sylus was focused, hands moving across the keyboard with effortless precision. His sleeves were rolled back, exposing strong forearms, every so often his rings caught the lamplight with a faint glint.

Your eyes traced his features. The line of his jaw, the silver locks falling around his face, the sharp curve of his mouth, the quiet gleam in those red eyes. Your fingers twitched, almost as if resisting the urge to trace his face.

“You are ridiculously handsome,” you murmured.

His fingers stilled over the keyboard. Only then did you realize you had said it out loud. Heat flooded your cheeks.

“I… I mean…”

You stuttered, too flustered, while he slowly lifted his head and looked at you with that infuriating, knowing smirk.

“Oh?”

Surely, your face could not get any hotter.

“It wasn’t supposed to…” your voice trailed off as you silently begged the floor to open and swallow you whole.

“To be said out loud?” Sylus supplied.

You huffed and looked away, fixing your stare on a bookshelf as if it might save you. Then you heard the scrape of his chair. Footsteps.

Closer.

And closer.

Until he stood directly in front of you.

“Well,” he drawled, “I was wondering why you were staring.”

He leaned down slightly.

“Guess I got my answer.”

“I wasn’t staring,” you protested weakly.

The lie convinced neither of you. Sylus gave a low hum.

“You looked seconds away from climbing into my lap.”

A strangled sound escaped you and his smirk deepened. He braced one hand against the back of the sofa, caging you in.

“Say that again.”

“No,” you refused immediately, painfully aware of how close he was.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.” You grumbled, but it only amused him more.

His free hand came up, fingers surprisingly gentle as he cupped your jaw and tilted your face back toward him. And then you noticed it. The tips of his ears were pink. You blinked and looked closer. Then you realized that he was flustered too. He was simply hiding it better. Something in your chest ached. Because suddenly it occurred to you that maybe those words had not been said to him often, if ever.

Your hands rose almost instinctively, cupping his face. Your thumbs brushed over his cheeks.

“You are very handsome,” you whispered, looking right into his eyes. “Every version of you.”

Something flickered deep in his eyes. Doubt.

“And yes,” you added softly, as if answering his unspoken question, “that includes the dragon.”

And just like that, scales shimmered beneath your hands and his tail curled around your leg with desperate tenderness. Sylus stared at you like you had broken something in him.

Then, quiet and almost pleading:

“Say that again.” The smugness in his voice was gone.

You smiled and happily obliged.

“You are so, so handsome.”

Before you could say more, Sylus dropped to his knees in front of you with a heavy thud and pressed his head into your lap. His tail tightened around your leg.

Your fingers slid into his silver hair, threading his locks.

And for once, the illustrious and feared leader of Onychinus, always composed and seemingly untouchable, looked utterly wrecked by a compliment.

“Again,” he murmured against you.

You laughed softly and repeated your words again and again, until he believed them himself.

Caleb

Caleb was leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, sunlight catching in his purple eyes while he absentmindedly helped you cook. Well, “helped” was not quite the right word for it, because you were mostly just sitting on the counter, dangling your feet and babbling about your day while he did almost all the actual work. Not that Caleb minded. In fact, he seemed to prefer it this way.

He was casually chopping vegetables, calm and efficient, while you watched and pretended you were supervising him properly.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“You’re so handsome.”

The knife paused mid-air. Caleb did not look up right away. When he did, it was slow and measured, like he was trying to decide whether he had heard you correctly.

“What did you say, little apple?”

Your face heated instantly.

“I… I didn’t… I mean, I did, but I didn’t mean to say it out loud.” You looked away, too embarrassed to look at Caleb. That earned a quiet hum from him. He set the knife down carefully and turned fully toward you.

“So you think I’m handsome.”

“That is not what I said,” you protested weakly, even though you knew denying it was pointless.

“Mm. Yet that is what I heard.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands for a second before peeking through your fingers. Caleb was watching you now, expression unreadable. Not cold exactly, but thoughtful. There was something else underneath the teasing, something you could not quite name.

“Say that again,” he said. He sounded far too casual.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Caleb’s mouth curved in a smile, but it did not quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer, closing the already small distance between you until he was standing right between your knees.

“You didn’t mean it?” he asked, voice light, though there was a strange edge to it now. “Or…” His gaze sharpened just a little. “Do you think someone else is more handsome?”

The question was delivered with a playful tone, but the look in his eyes was intensely attentive, as if he was waiting for your answer with far more interest than he wanted to admit.

When the silence stretched for far too long, he leaned in again and gave you his best sad puppy eyes he was able to make.

“Oh, I see…” He sighed and you could’ve sworn you saw a stray tear rolling down his cheek. He looked like a kicked puppy now. You rolled your eyes and reached to ruffle his hair, making it even messier than it already was.

“Of course not. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever met.”

The second the words left your mouth, Caleb went still for half a beat. Then all the tension drained out of him so quickly it was almost comical. He leaned in immediately, resting his forehead lightly against your shoulder with the kind of contentment that made it very obvious he was pleased with himself. When he looked up at you again, his purple eyes were bright and unmistakably soft. That ridiculous, puppy-like look he got whenever you gave him just enough affection to send him straight into orbit.

You laughed under your breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Caleb said, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips, “you still said I was handsome.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “You totally planned that.”

“Maybe.”

“Caleb.”

He only smiled wider, completely unashamed. What was worse was that he looked far too satisfied with himself, like he had just confirmed something important.

“Good,” he said at last, voice warm and easy again. “Now I know it is affecting your judgment.”

You stared at him. He glanced up, all innocence and sunshine.

“What?” he asked. “That was useful information.”

You laughed, helplessly exasperated, and Caleb’s smile softened into something quieter. Something more knowing. He tucked the thought away, as if he had just been handed a private little treasure to keep. And knowing him, he would absolutely bring it up again when he wanted to catch you flustered. Which, you had to admit, was probably exactly why he had asked you to say it again in the first place.

Rafayel

You were at the Mo Art studio, keeping Rafayel company while he worked. Or, more accurately, while he sulked and worked. Your fishie boyfriend sat in front of a massive canvas with all the wounded dignity of a tragically misunderstood genius forced into labor. His brush moved with practiced grace despite the dramatic pout on his face, each stroke far too precise for someone who had spent the last hour complaining that inspiration could not be rushed.

Just an hour earlier Thomas had ripped into him for procrastinating, missing every imaginable deadline, and disappearing in the middle of commissioned work because he had, in his words, “felt spiritually called to collect seashells.”

Rafayel had taken the lecture like someone being condemned. With great offense, dramatic sighs and at least one muttered accusation that Thomas was ‘stifling true art.’

And now Thomas, desperate and clearly at the end of his rope, had quietly conspired with you before leaving.

“Keep him motivated,” he whispered.

Which, in practice, meant keeping Rafayel from abandoning the painting halfway through to drag you to the seaside or fake an artistic crisis.

You had agreed. At first, it had been easy. A little praise here, a few approving hums there. Occasionally reminding him how pretty his hands looked covered in paint. That had bought you almost forty minutes of productivity.

Then he started sulking again.

“This is oppression,” Rafayel declared, not looking away from the canvas.

“You’re painting.”

“Against my will.”

“You volunteered for this commission.”

“That was before I realized deadlines were involved.”

You bit back a smile. Rafayel dabbed at the canvas with exaggerated suffering.

“You know,” he added mournfully, “a less cruel lover would be distracting me right now.”

“I’m literally here to keep you working.”

He turned just enough to level you with an accusing look.

“Exactly.”

You laughed and leaned back in the chair beside him. For a while, only the sound of brushstrokes filled the room. Then your eyes drifted to him. He really was beautiful when he painted. Purple hair slipping loose around his face, paint smudged faintly across his knuckles, eyes narrowed in concentration. The slight part of his lips when he focused. Something in your chest squeezed and the words escaped before you thought them through.

“You’re so handsome.”

You immediately bit your tongue, but the damage had already been done. Rafayel stopped painting and turned to look at you.

“Excuse me?”

You quietly tsked, slightly annoyed that he wasn’t focused on his painting when you blurted that.

“Ignore it. Back to your painting.”

The brush clattered into a jar, as Rafayel stood up alarmingly fast.

“You can’t just say something like that and expect me to continue as if nothing happened.”

He crossed the room in seconds and planted himself in front of you, arms crossed.

“Repeat it.”

“Not until you finish that painting.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“I’m motivating you, just as Thomas asked me to.”

Rafayel looked like you betrayed him. “So Thomas had corrupted you.”

You folded your arms and glared at him stubbornly. “Canvas first, compliments later.”

Rafayel had narrowed his eyes and, to your horror, dropped to his knees in front of your chair. “Please?” He clasped his hands dramatically to his chest, blue-pink eyes suddenly glossy. “I can’t paint without encouragement from my muse.”

You just rolled your eyes at his antics.

“Was this a lie?..” His eyes glossed over even more, his lower lip was trembling. He actually pouted right now and somehow looked offended, wounded and flirtatious at the same time.

You gave up with a sigh and murmured. “You are very handsome.”

He blinked, as if he didn’t expect you to surrender so quickly. “Again.”

You laughed at his demand. “You are impossible.”

“And handsome.”

“And dramatic.”

“And handsome.”

You reached out and caught his face in your hands, thumbs brushing his warm cheeks.

“You,” you said slowly, “are distractingly, unfairly, devastatingly handsome.”

Rafayel stared, completely stunned. Then his ears went pink. And for a fleeting second, he looked almost vulnerable enough that you nearly believed you had truly stunned him. But then his expression turned mischievous.

“Excellent.” He said solemnly. “I’m too emotionally overwhelmed to paint now.”

Your jaw dropped. “Oh, you manipulative little…”

You didn’t get the chance to finish, because Rafayel stood and with surprising strength for someone so slender, scooped you up effortlessly and sat in your chair, shifting you onto his lap, painting completely forgotten. Rafayel nuzzled into your shoulder and sighed dramatically.

“My muse has praised my beauty,” he murmured. “How can anyone expect me to work under these conditions?”

“You set this up.”

“I prefer ‘inspired this outcome.’”

You tried to glare. Then he tilted his head, looking far too pleased.

“Say ‘devastatingly handsome’ again.”

“No.”

“Cruel.”

“You have a deadline.”

“I have emotional needs.”

He pressed his cheek against yours. You sighed exasperated. That commission wasn’t getting finished today.

Zayne

“You are so handsome,” you murmured, your gaze lingering on Zayne as he reviewed a report Greyson had asked him to look over.

Zayne only lifted his eyes above the pages for the briefest glance.

“Mm.”

That was it. You stared at him dumbfounded.

“That’s your response? I just called you handsome.”

His eyes kept moving over the report, as if you were talking about the weather.

“You’ve been staring at me for quite a while, before voicing your observations.” He said evenly. “I acknowledged it.”

You narrowed your eyes, staring intently at him. “I just called you handsome,” you repeated more firmly this time.

“Yes.” He turned another page.

“And?” You could already feel your eye twitch.

“And what?”

You huffed and folded your arms.

“Most people would react, when their girlfriend would call them handsome.” “I did react.” You almost growled at his infuriatingly calm tone.

“That wasn’t much of a reaction, you just made a noise.”

Zayne finally paused. Slowly, he lowered the report just enough to look at you properly over the top edge.

“If you are looking for a dramatic response,” he said, “I can provide one.”

You blinked. Before you could ask what he meant, Zayne set the report aside, removed his glasses, and folded them neatly against the edge of the desk. Your eyes immediately went wide, as you followed his every movement.

Zayne moved toward you with unhurried precision, every step measured, his expression unreadable. The closer he got, the more aware you became of him, his height, the quiet strength in his frame, the subtle warmth of his presence.

He stopped directly in front of you.

You looked up at him, suddenly very aware of how short the distance between you had become.

“What are you doing?” you asked, though your voice had lost some of its earlier bite.

Zayne’s gaze pinned you in place.

“You wanted a reaction.” He leaned down and your heart skipped a beat.

Zayne slowly decreased the distance and you could feel his breath tickling your ear.

“That was a very accurate observation,” he murmured, his voice low enough to make your skin prickle. You entire face burned. And then, as if it wasn’t enough, you felt his lips ghost over the shell of your ear. You were sure your heart had actually stopped beating for a second.

Zayne lingered there for a moment too long, as if clinically observing the effect he was having. When he finally pulled back, it was only far enough to study your expression. His eyes, usually so composed, held the faintest glimmer of satisfaction.

You stared at him speechless, as your mind scrambled for some kind of a reaction and finding none.

“Now,” he murmured ever so softly, “let me finish reviewing the report without trying to distract me.”

You could only make a strangled little sound, catching the thinly veiled warning in his voice. The worst part? You had not actually been trying to distract him, not this time at least.

Zayne turned as if to return to his desk and then paused.

Without looking back, he added calmly:

“Though…”

Your breath caught again, as he glanced at you over his shoulder.

“If you insist on offering further observations…” the corners of his mouth tilted upwards, barely. “I may be persuaded to react again.”

You made an incoherent sound.

Zayne returned to his desk as if he had not just completely dismantled your nervous system. He picked up the report, adjusted his glasses and resumed reading. Like nothing had happened. And that was your breaking point. Now you just had to see him flustered. You slid off the couch and padded over to his desk, stopping beside him. You leaned down and murmured into his ear.

“You are still very handsome.”

Silence stretched between you. Then Zayne removed his glasses again. You immediately took a step back, your heart instantly hammering in your chest.

“You seem intent,” he said quietly, “on preventing me from finishing this report.”

And then you realized, his first reaction wasn’t him being indifferent to the compliment. He was being merciful. And now you will pay the price for distracting him twice.

Xavier

You were in the kitchen preparing dinner. In the living room your boyfriend was peacefully sleeping on the couch, even though it was a little too small for him. He had shown up on your doorstep an hour ago, claiming he was terribly tired after a gruesome fight with several Wanderers. He looked completely unharmed to you though. He also claimed he had depleted his Evol during the fight and could not even teleport back home. Another lie, you were certain of it, since the only Wanderers sighting was closer to his apartment complex, not to yours.

You just rolled your eyes and let him play whatever game he was playing. After the dinner was cooked, you went into the living room and crouched down in front of him, staring at his sleeping face. You would never tell him that, but you actually liked watching him sleep. It was probably the only time when he was completely at peace and not looking like the weight of the entirety of time and space had rested on his shoulders.

You reached up carefully brushing away hair from his face. Slowly, trying not to wake him up, you traced his featured with the tips of your fingers.

“You are so handsome, Xavie, it’s dangerous.” you murmured.

For a second, nothing happened. Then his lashes fluttered and you froze. Xavier did not open his eyes right away, instead his hand moved lazily, his fingers curling around you wrist, not letting you pull away.

“Dangerous?” he repeated, voice rough with sleep.

“You were awake?” you asked suspiciously.

The corners of his mouth tilted just slightly. “Awake enough to hear you.”

Heat rushed to your face and you tried to pull your hand away, but his fingers tightened by a fraction, preventing that.

“You were supposed to be asleep,” you muttered.

Xavier hummed softly, his thumb brushing once over your wrist. Then he slowly opened his eyes.

“You think I’m dangerous,” he noted quietly. He shifted, just enough for his shoulder to sink deeper into the couch cushion. His gaze stayed on you, calm but no longer half-lidded with sleep.

You sighed, defeated.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No? You said it.”

Suddenly your vision blurred and your world shifted.  When the bright light stopped blinding you, you slowly opened your eyes and realized you were now sitting on the couch and Xavier was resting his head on your lap.

You glared at him half-heartedly, sinking your fingers into his hair. “You said you couldn’t teleport,” you carefully tagged at the strand of his hair, not to hurt him but to make a point. He only looked at you with those absurdly wide blue doe eyes.

“I couldn’t.”

You huffed, amused now. “You literally just teleported.”

“It was…” a pause. “…strategic repositioning.”

You laughed as your fingers drifted through his hair. Xavier’s eyes fluttered half-shut, but you could tell he still was watching you from under those big eyelashes.

Then he said, almost too casually:

“You called me dangerously handsome.” A pause, then softer: “What makes me dangerous?”

You stared down at him as he actually waited for your answer. You threaded your fingers through his hair, while pondering over his question.

“You look far too innocent, when in reality you are very far from that.”

His eyes opened again, looking at you thoughtfully. Then his hand found yours where it rested in his hair and laced your fingers together. He drew you hand closer to his lips and slowly kissed your knuckles.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about.”

Xavier’s mouth curved faintly.

“That’s dangerous?”

“You do things like that with that handsome face of yours and pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Xavier looked far too satisfied, closed his eyes and shifted to be more comfortable.

“Wake me up in ten minutes,” he murmured, already half-asleep, as if the conversation was over.

“what’s it called?”

“uh.” you look up, digging through recent receipts and credit card statements. “dragon…”

he draws in another breath of you.

“fire…” you gasp when he nips at your skin with his teeth, unable to hold back any longer. “…kiss?”

he freezes, then chuckles. “ah.”

“ah?” you frown when he lifts his head. his lips land on your hair. “what do you mean, ah?”

“ah, this makes sense.” he grins, planting more possessive pecks onto your forehead. even up here your sweet scent drives him into a frenzy. “how much did you get it for?”

you purse your lips and suddenly you’re bashful. never once in your relationship has he asked you about prices, having said at the very beginning that it would take decades for you to even make a dent into his fortune no matter how much you consume.

it shouldn’t be a point of shame either, because he actively asks you to use his card for anything you might need. yet, confronted with it now… it’s harder to admit that you’d thought a luxurious bottle justified such a price for a few drops of product.

and like he reads each thought you just had, he bends to kiss your lips gently, to coax you out of the spell. “i don’t mean to pry.”

“i think i spent too much.”

“no,” he drawls, utterly entertained by you. “not at all, sweetie.”

you pout. “then, why…?”

“you don’t have to buy this again,” he’s like a bird, pecking at the skin of your blushing face with butterfly kisses.

you open your mouth— to bite, to complain, to express the frustrating confusion he’s wringing you into.

You turn it over between your fingers. The candlelight catches on its edges, casting small flickering shadows across the sheets you have kicked into a tangled mess at the foot of the bed.

You cannot sleep.

This is not unusual. Sleep has never come easily in this palace, in this room that is yours only in the way a gilded cage belongs to the bird inside it. But tonight the restlessness is different. Tonight it has a shape, a name you keep pressing your tongue against the roof of your mouth to keep from whispering aloud.

Rafayel.

You close your eyes and your chest tightens like something is cinching around your ribs, like the air in the room has gone thin and hot and you are breathing through it too fast. The fishtail beacon pulses against your palm. You set it down on the table near your bed. Pick it up again. Set it down. Your hand hovers over it, fingers curling and uncurling, and your pulse thuds dully in your wrists and the base of your throat.

He gave it to you three weeks ago. Pressed it into your hand on the rooftop overlooking the dunes, his gloved fingers lingering against yours for two seconds longer than necessary, his eyes unreadable above the dark line of his mask. “This’ll connect me to you,” he told you, and the laziness in his voice didn’t match the intention of his hands, the way he folded your fingers over it one by one. “No matter where you are. You squeeze that, I’ll know to come to you.”

You asked him why. He tilted his head, and even with half his face hidden you could see the smirk pulling at the corner of his eyes. “Maybe I just get bored easily, princess.”

That is the thing you learned about Rafayel. Everything is a deflection. Every sincere gesture wrapped in three layers of teasing, every vulnerability dressed up as indifference, every act of devotion disguised as convenience. He showed up on your balcony the night you nearly drowned in the canal during your ninety-ninth escape attempt, pulled you out of the water by the back of your dress with one hand while the other held a blade still wet with someone else’s blood, and when you gasped up at him, choking and shivering, he looked down at you like you were an inconvenience he had not budgeted for.

“You got a death wish or something?” he drawled, and the mask muffled the lower half of his voice into something dark and velvet. “Cause if you’re gonna keep throwing yourself into rivers I’m gonna need a heads up.”

You called him Abysswalker because he would not give you his name. The way his eyes flickered, sharp and startled, before the indifference slid back into place. You did not understand then why the name struck him like that. You still do not fully understand now. But you remember the way his jaw tightened behind the mask, the way he exhaled slowly through his nose, and the way he finally, reluctantly, gave you his real name just to make you stop.

That was weeks ago. He has been a constant since.

Not constant in the way of something reliable or predictable, nothing about Rafayel is predictable, but constant in the way of something you cannot stop being aware of. He appears on your balcony at odd hours, never announced, always with an excuse. He sprawls across your furniture like the concept of personal space is a quaint human custom he has chosen not to observe. He picks up your things, examines them with exaggerated curiosity, puts them back in the wrong places. He calls you ‘Your Highness’ with enough irony to fill a cathedral, and sometimes, when he forgets to perform, he calls you ‘Princess’ in a voice so quiet it barely clears the space between you, and the word sounds like something else entirely.

You have memorized him in pieces without meaning to. The way the candlelight catches on the row of silver piercings climbing his ear when his hood falls back. The sharp line of his jaw above the mask, the only inch of his face he allows you. His hands, always gloved, leather worn soft at the knuckles, and the way they move when he talks, lazy and expressive, mapping the air between you with confidence that could dip into arrogance. 

You know the sound of his breathing when he is amused. The slower cadence of it when he is thinking. The way it hitches, just barely, when you catch him off guard with something honest, and the fraction of a second it takes him to recover before the smirk slides back into place.

You know he is hiding something. There’s something like a mark on his chest, the one you have only glimpsed twice. He adjusts his clothes whenever he catches you looking. He changes the subject. He deflects.

And you know, with the kind of certainty that sits in your bones like something you were born with, that he is not here by accident. That whatever brought him to your city, whatever mission lives behind those unreadable eyes, it involves you. Your heart. The heart that is not really yours, the one that belongs to Philos and its people and whatever divine purpose decided before your birth that your chest would house something too valuable for you to claim as your own.

Everyone wants your heart. You have known this since you were old enough to understand why they kept you locked in this palace, why they dressed you in silk and called you princess and never once asked what you wanted. Your heart sustains the planet. Your heart grants immortality. Your heart, your heart, your heart.

Not you. Never you.

And Rafayel... you do not know what Rafayel wants. That is what keeps you awake at three in the morning turning the fishtail beacon over and over in your hands like a rosary, your pulse hammering against the skin of your wrist, your mind replaying the same scene on a merciless loop.

The ruins. Four nights ago.

He had taken you to the sand dunes beyond the city, the ones that stretch endlessly under a sky so vast and dark you could feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. The ruins of something ancient jutted from the sand like the bones of a creature too massive to comprehend, and he walked through them with the familiarity of someone who has walked through them a thousand times, his coat trailing behind him, his hand loose at his side.

You stumbled on a crumbled stairway, your foot catching on stone that shifted beneath you, and he moved faster than you could process, his arm around your waist, your back flush against his chest, and the world stilled.

His hand spread wide across your stomach, fingers pressing gently through the fabric of your dress. His breath was warm against the shell of your ear, filtering through the mask, and you could feel his chest expand against your spine with each slow inhale. You were not in danger. The stairway was three steps high. You would have scraped your knee at most.

He did not let go.

“Be careful, Your Highness.” he murmured, and his voice was so close you felt it vibrate through the bones of your skull more than you heard it with your ears.

You stood there, his arm locked around you, the heat of his body seeping into every point of contact, and something inside your chest cracked open like a door you had been leaning against for weeks finally giving way. Your fingers drifted upward, almost involuntarily, reaching toward the edge of his mask where it met the line of his jaw, and his free hand caught your wrist.

Not roughly. His thumb rested against your pulse point and his grip was gentle and his hand was shaking.

The silence lasted three seconds. Maybe four. Long enough for you to feel the thunder of his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, fast and hard and completely at odds with the steadiness of his hands. Long enough for the heat between your bodies to become something you could taste at the back of your throat, sweet and metallic and dizzying.

Then a sound in the distance, the scrape of sand shifting, an animal or the wind or nothing at all, and he released you. Stepped back. Adjusted his mask. Shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“Watch your step next time,” he offered, and his voice was perfectly, infuriatingly casual.

You did not speak about it. You walked back to the palace in silence and he left through the balcony and you pressed your forehead against the cool stone of the wall and breathed and breathed and breathed until the trembling in your hands subsided.

It did not subside.

It has not subsided since.

You pick up the fishtail beacon again, restless. The heat of it seeps into your palm, travels up through your wrist, settles in the center of your chest where that cursed heart of yours beats too fast for a girl who is supposed to be sleeping. You think of his hand across your stomach. The vibration of his voice against your ear. The shaking of his fingers around your wrist and the way his pulse betrayed every lie his voice tried to tell.

You squeeze the beacon.

Not by accident. Not impulsively. You look at it, you feel the warmth of it, and you close your fist around it with the full and terrifying knowledge of what you are doing. You are calling him. At three in the morning, in a thin nightdress, with your hair loose and your chamber a mess and no excuse prepared and nothing to offer him except the truth that you could not bear another night of pretending you do not want him here.

The beacon flares warm, then cool, then warm again, like a heartbeat answering yours.

You wait.

The balcony doors are open. The desert air drifts in carrying the dry scent of sand and the faint sweetness of night-blooming flowers that climbs the palace walls, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed with your fingers twisted in the fabric of your nightdress, your heart hammering in your ears so loudly you almost miss the sound of his landing.

Almost.

The soft scrape of boots on stone. The whisper of fabric settling. And then he is there, a silhouette framed in the balcony archway, the moonlight catching on the silver chains at his chest and the piercings in his ear, his hood pushed back, his coat open, his mask still on.

His eyes find yours across the dark room and something moves behind them, quick and unguarded before the familiar laziness slides into place like a curtain being drawn.

“You called for me, Princess?” he steps inside, and his voice carries that drawl, that slowness that makes every word sound like he is doing you a favor just by speaking.

Your mouth opens and closes a few times. Throat drier than the desert sand. “I... couldn’t sleep.”

He tilts his head. One eyebrow lifts above the line of his mask. He does not believe you. You can see it in the way his gaze drops from your face to the beacon in your hand and back again, slow and knowing, and the corner of his eyes creases with a smirk you cannot see but can feel like a physical touch across your delicate skin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he echoes, stepping further into the room, his gloved hand trailing along the edge of your vanity, fingers tipping over a small glass bottle of perfume with exaggerated carelessness. “So you summoned the Abysswalker into your chambers in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t summon you.” you try to lie, but it’s pointless.

“You squeezed the beacon,” he picks up one of the ribbons from your vanity, winds it around his index finger, lets it unravel. “That’s kinda what it’s for, Your Highness.”

The heat climbs up the sides of your neck. You tuck your chin, averting your gaze toward the window where the sand dunes shimmer faintly under the moon, and you feel rather than see him move closer, even if his steps are dead silent. The room is not large. Four steps and he would be at the edge of your bed.

He takes three.

“You didn’t have to come,” you manage, and your voice comes out thinner than you intended.

He is quiet for a few moments. His hand drops the ribbon. When he speaks again, the teasing has thinned just slightly, like a layer of paint wearing through to something rawer underneath.

“Yeah, well.” he shifts his weight, and his gaze slides sideways, and for a moment he looks almost uncertain. “We both know that’s not true.”

The silence stretches. You can hear the palace guards’ distant footsteps in the corridor beyond your door, the soft murmur of Natasha speaking to someone down the hall. The world outside this room, the world of duty and hearts and gilded cages, presses against the walls like water against a dam.

“Raf.” your voice is as soft as the ribbon previously swirled around his finger.

His eyes snap back to you. You have never called him that before, even though he gave you his name, you never dared call him something more intimate than it. The truncation of his name sits between you like a lit match.

You stand up from the soft mattress. The nightdress moves around your thighs, thin silk that you chose for the heat, not for him, though the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before jerking back up to your face makes your skin prickle with awareness and shyness. 

You want to see his face, gauge what his emotions truly convey in his expression. You cross the space between you in two steps and your hand rises slowly, your fingers reaching for the hem of his mask.

His gloved hand catches your wrist before you can fully touch it. His grip is loose, barely there, his thumb resting exactly where your pulse hammers against the thin skin.

“Your Highness.” he coos, the teasing lilt curls around the title like smoke. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“You always wear it.” your voice is soft. Steady, somehow, despite the heat rushing through your veins. “Why? Are we not close enough for you to drop it, or do you simply not want me to see your face?”

His eyes search yours. For a long moment they are completely unreadable, deep and still like water that is darker than it looks, and then something shifts in them, something that is not quite amusement and not quite pain but lives in the space between.

“Maybe I’m just ugly under here,” he deflects, but the usual sharpness is missing from his voice. “Ever think about that?”

“Show me, then.”

“Why?” he tilts his head, as his thumb traces a slow circle over your pulse point that makes your breath stutter in your chest. “What’s so important about seeing my face, Princess?”

“I want to see you when you speak to me.” you hold his gaze. Your fingers hover at the edge of the dark fabric, close enough that your knuckles brush his jaw. “I want to see all of you, not only what you allow me to.”

Something flickers across his expression. A crack, hairline thin, there and gone. He exhales through his nose slowly. “You’ve seen glimpses of it before,” he murmurs. 

“Glimpses are not enough.”

The words land between you and his grip on your wrist loosens, finger by finger, until his hand falls away entirely. He doesn’t move or speak again. Just watches you with those impossible to read eyes, blue-pink ombres in the candlelight, and the silence is permission.

You hook your fingers under the fabric and draw it down.

It slides past the bridge of his nose, past the sharp cut of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his face unfolds beneath your hands like something sacred being unwrapped. The line of his mouth, fuller than you imagined, the lower lip bitten faintly pink. The small beauty marks scattered across his skin like constellations you want to map with your fingertips. The jaw, sharp enough to cut, and the way it tightens when your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth.

He is beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful. In the way a fire is. In the way that something dangerous becomes holy when you hold it close enough to burn.

“There,” he breathes, and his voice is stripped bare now, no mask to muffle it, every vibration of it reaching you unfiltered. “Happy now?”

You don’t answer him, too busy committing him to your memory, just how beautiful he truly is. Your thumb is still resting at the corner of his mouth and his lips part just barely under the pressure of it. His breath is warm against the pad of your finger. His eyes are locked on yours and they are not unreadable anymore. They are saying everything his voice refuses to, and you are still unsure of what to make of whatever you find there.

“The ruins,” you whisper. “Four nights ago, when you caught me...”

His jaw flexes under your hand. “You tripped. It would be careless of me to let the Princess fall.”

“You didn’t let go after.”

Silence. His chest rises and falls. You can see the column of his throat work as he swallows.

“Rafayel.” your voice drops to barely a breath because the guards are outside and Natasha is down the hall and this room is the only safe place left in a palace full of eyes and ears. “Why didn’t you let go of me?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the laziness and the teasing, all of it has burned away like fog in direct sun. What is left underneath is raw and exposed and so full of longing it makes the air between you feel too thick to breathe.

“You know why, Your Highness,” his gloved hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his face, pressing your palm flat against his cheek, and the tremor in his fingers is the same one you felt in the ruins, the same one he tried to hide. “I can’t seem to be able to stop... Wanting to be close to you.” 

His words wash over you like cold water in a suffocating desert. Your throat works slowly, tasting your words on the tip of your tongue before you actually decide to let him hear them. It was a simple gesture, catching you so you wouldn’t fall. He could just as easily say so, if it truly meant nothing to him. But nothing is ever accidental with Rafayel, you know this.

A simple touch, a simple embrace under the guise of protecting you to not fall was like opening a door between you, one previously closed, partly on his end. A simple gesture of proximity, one he leaned into before he could have stopped himself. One you didn’t mind, but rather wanted more of.

“Be close to me, then.” your eyes lift up to his, thumb stroking gently over his warm face, “I want you close to me, too.” The words land like a bird’s feather, too soft and barely audible, but enough to reach his ears in the closeness of your bodies.

“Words carry meaning, Your Highness,” his voice drops lower. His thumb traces along your knuckles, slow and gentle. “Actions do, too. So be honest with me… Why did you summon me tonight?”

The words hit your sternum like a fist. Your breath leaves you in a rush and your hand fists gently against his cheek and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the color, and the distance between you collapses. There’s no room for pretense anymore, not that you really want to anymore, not that you can.

You kiss him.

It is not quite gentle. It is the culmination of weeks of almost and not quite and what if, and your mouth finds his with a desperation that startles you, that feels like falling except you have been falling for weeks and only now hit the surface of whatever waits below. His response is immediate, his hands gripping your waist, fingers pressing into the silk of your nightdress, pulling you flush against him until you can feel the chains and buckles of his coat pressing into your chest, the warmth of him bleeding through every layer of clothing that separates you.

He kisses you back like drowning, like burning, his mouth hot and insistent and tasting faintly of salt, and your hands are in his hair, the strands impossibly soft between your fingers, strands you ached desperately to touch and feel, and now you’re finally permitted to do so. The sound he makes against your lips, low and raw and wrecked, vibrates through your entire body. 

He breaks the kiss first, his forehead dropping against yours, his breathing ragged. His hands haven’t moved from your waist, and his intention of not withdrawing doesn’t miss you even as your thoughts scramble to dust trying to come to terms with the fact that you just kissed him in your chambers in the middle of the night.

“You got no sense of danger whatsoever, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your mouth. The teasing lilt you’re so familiar with is back but it’s thin now, translucent, stretched over something that trembles. “Summoning an Assassin to your room in the middle of the night. Kissing him, too.”

“You kissed me back.”

“Didn’t say I was the smart one either.”

Your laugh is barely a breath before his mouth catches it, kissing the sound from your lips before it fully forms. Then he is turning you, his hands guiding you by the waist until your back meets his chest in an echo of the ruins that makes your skin sing. His arms wrap around you from behind, his chin settling against the curve of your shoulder, and you feel his breath fan hot across the side of your neck, making you shudder from how good it feels, trickling down your feverish body.

“This dress,” he coos, and his gloved fingers splay across your stomach, wide and warm, the leather soft against silk. “This thin little thing...” his thumb traces a slow line from your navel to the base of your ribs and the sensation shivers through you in a wave that you feel in your scalp and between your legs. “You called me here dressed like this? Shameless.” his lips brush the shell of your ear and you can hear the grin in his voice. “Not very princess-like behavior if you ask me, Your Highness.”

Your cheeks burn in both embarrassment and something akin to pleasure, because he’s suddenly switched on you from raw and honest to this version of him you are familiar with yet not at all, at the same time. Your hands come up to rest over his, pressing them closer against your stomach, and you feel the sharp intake of his breath against your damp neck.

“I was not expecting company when I prepared for bed,” you manage, though your voice is embarrassingly breathy.

“Does the Princess know she doesn’t lie very well?” he mouths the word against the hinge of your jaw, and then his lips trail lower, down the column of your neck in a line of barely there kisses that leave heat blooming in their wake like brushstrokes of fire. “You squeezed the fishtail beacon in your hands and thought of me, knowing exactly what you were inviting into your chambers by doing so.”

You tilt your head to give him access and you feel his mouth curve into a smile against your throat before he presses a kiss to the pulse point there, lingering to feel the frantic rhythm of your heart against his lips. His hands map your body with agonizing slowness, the leather of his gloves dragging over the silk in a friction that makes your nerve endings light up, tracing the curve of your waist, the curve of your hips, the dip of your lower back, and your whole body is shivering, leaning back into him, your weight settling against his chest.

“Cold?” he taunts softly, his mouth at the junction of your shoulder and neck now, open and warm.

“You know I’m not cold.” your voice cracks on the last word because his thumb has found your collarbone and is tracing the bone of it so slowly and maddening, that feels like he is drawing you with intentions alone, his finger as featherlight as a paintbrush on canvas.

You reach behind you, your fingers finding the fabric of his hood where it gathers at his shoulders, and you push it back and off, while your hands slide up into his hair, an action that makes him groan against your neck. A low vibration that you feel in your spine. Your fingers tighten and his hips press forward against you involuntarily. The sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly, your legs almost giving out at what you feel pressed against your lower back.

You turn in his arms, a bit impatient. Your hands go to his chest, palms flat against the fabric of his tunic, and beneath your right hand you feel it. A wave of warmth, sharp and sudden, and when you look down you see it through the thin fabric, a red and pulsing glow. The mark on his chest burning to life under your touch like something answering a call.

His whole body goes rigid at your touch, even as a slight shiver runs through him.

“Don’t...” he starts, but his voice fractures on the syllable. Despite his sudden withdrawal, his hands are still on your waist and he is not pulling away. 

“What is this?” you press your palm harder against the glow and his breath stutters out of him in a sound that is almost a whimper, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, his eyes squeezing shut. The image in front of you makes your lips part in surprise and wonder, because yes, you are curious about the mark and have been for a while. But seeing his reaction to your unprompted touch, how he reacts as if you struck him in either pain or pleasure...

“It’s... complicated, Your Highness.” he forces the words out through gritted teeth. “What you have to know it’s that it’s old. It’s... ours.”

Ours.

The word detonates in your chest, and your brain scrambles for meaning, for logic, but finds none. You don’t need to know, not now, at least. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to interrogate him about it another time, but for now, your fingers curl into the fabric of his tunic and you pull him forward. His mouth finds yours again and this time the kiss is slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against yours and his gloved hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull, tilting your head to deepen the angle. You moan against his lips and feel his fingers tighten in your hair.

You walk him backward. It takes effort, he’s taller and solid and his arms are locked around you, but he goes almost willingly, his mouth still on yours, his boot catching on the edge of the rug as he walks. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress of your bed, he sits and you climb into his lap with a gracelessness that burns your ears red.

He pulls back just enough to look at you through heavy, half-lidded ombre eyes. You are straddling his thighs, your nightdress rucked up around your hips, your hands braced on his shoulders, your face flushed and your breathing ragged. The feeling of him under your body, pressed so close you feel his warmth, his solid muscles, and the state you turned him in... all of it sets your whole body alight and your brain is too far gone to really grasp what you just did. But his is not.

The slowest, most devastating grin spreads across his face.

“So bold, Your Highness.” his hands settle on your bare thighs where the silk has ridden up, his thumbs tracing small circles against your skin. The contrast of leather against bare flesh makes you dizzy. His gaze drops to the tangled sheets beneath him, the pillows thrown sideways, the blankets kicked to the floor. “The sheets are a mess. You really couldn’t sleep tonight, could you?”

You were a fool to think he wouldn’t call you out on it, but the way his words drawl, slow and teasing and maddeningly sexy makes you come to the conclusion that you don’t mind a little bit of his teasing, even if it turns your rosy cheeks two shades darker. You press your forehead against his, your fingers knotting in the chain at his collar. “D-Don’t speak like that.”

“Did something trouble the Princess’ mind?” he leans back on one hand, casual and a tad insufferable, even as his other hand slides higher up your thigh with a slowness that makes your muscles clench at how good it feels, the feeling of his cold glove on your bare skin. “Was it a certain Assassin she boldly called in the middle of the night to come put her to sleep?”

“I will throw you off this balcony.” You avert your eyes, suddenly too shy at his words but too stubborn to let him see the full effect his words have on you.

“Promises, promises.” he catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face so the candlelight catches your eyes. The smugness softens, melts into something that makes your throat ache. “You’re blushing so hard, Princess. Your ears are red.”

You bury your face against his shoulder and feel the rumble of his laughter vibrate through his chest against your palms.

“Hey,” his voice gentles, his hand coming up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into the hair at your nape to guide your gaze back to his. “C’mere. Won’t you look at me?”

You lift your head, albeit a little hesitant. Your eyes are wide, you know, bright and pleading, the want in them so naked it terrifies you. You know he sees it, too, by the way his throat bobs slowly, by the way the playfulness drains from his expression like water from cupped hands and what is left is hunger, raw and deep and shaking and it startles you but also makes your body shiver in delight once more. 

He kisses you again, and this time it is not a question nor a hesitation. His slick, soft lips find your trembling ones while his hand slides to the strap of your nightdress. His fingers pause there for a moment. A question in the hesitation, and you answer it by reaching up and sliding the strap off your own shoulder.

“Inviting me into your bed,” he whispers sweetly against the corner of your mouth, his fingers trailing down your arm as the silk falls. “What happens if the guards outside the door hear something and come find the princess in such an... unfit position?”

“Then you’ll have to keep me quiet,” you breathe, swallowing when his eyes go black. Your spine feels like lightning bolted down from the nape of your neck and down to your lower back and then down still, right between where your thighs are bracketing his lap, in the place now moist and throbbing and needing friction you’re still not bold enough to seek.

His mouth descends on your neck, open and hot. His teeth graze the sensitive skin below your ear, making you gasp while his gloved hand comes up to cover your mouth, gentle but firm, muffling the sound against leather.

“Shhh,” he whispers against your throat, and you can feel the smile there. “That’s more like it.”

His hands undress you in pieces, peeling the silk away with a slowness that is both exhilarating and torturous, pressing his mouth to every inch of skin he reveals, your collarbones, the dip between them, the curve of your ribs. His lips trace the shape of you like he is committing your naked body to memory, like he is painting you with his mouth, and every point of contact sends sparks cascading down your spine until you are trembling in his lap, your fingers tangled in his hair, your head tipped back in pleasure while soft sounds escape between your parted lips.

You tug at his coat impatiently and that makes him laugh, low and breathless, shrugging out of it without detaching his mouth from your sternum. His tunic follows, making the red mark on his chest visible where it blazes in the low light, pulsing in time with his heartbeat, so so beautiful. You press your lips to it and he hisses, his hands fisting in the sheets, his hips rolling up against yours.

“F-Fuck,” he breathes, the word sounds punched out of him, unplanned, raw. It does unspeakable things to your own body, shooting precisely between your legs, like an arrow hitting bullseye.

His mouth finds yours again, more hungry now, and his hands are gloveless now. You barely registered when he took them off, but they map the skin of your chest with such gentleness that makes your eyes sting, thumbs tracing and circling your peaked nipples until your back arches and a sound escapes you that you did not know you could make. You guide his hands upper, your fingers wrapped around his wrists, pulling him closer, pressing his palms flat against your breast. He groans into your mouth and you swallow the sound.

“I might be the Assassin, but you are the lethal one here, Princess,” he whispers against your lips before his hand slides lower, down the plane of your stomach, slow and purposeful. In no time, his fingers find the hem of the silk still bunched at your waist and slip beneath it.

Your hands grip his shoulders so hard your knuckles go white. He watches your face with those devastating bicolored eyes, heavy lidded and swallowed by lust, reading every flicker of sensation that crosses your features. His forehead presses against yours and his free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone in such a tender gesture despite the lust consuming his soul. When his fingers, gentle and knowing and unbearably precise, find how wet you are, the sound you let out is somewhere between a sob and a plea for more of it.

“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick and dripping with something that sounds like awe disguised as arrogance, probably already knowing the effect it has on you when he weaponizes his honeyed voice as such. “My beautiful Princess.”

He moves his hand in slow, maddening strokes, building a rhythm that tightens every muscle in your body, and when the sounds you make grow too loud his mouth covers yours, absorbing every gasp and whimper against his lips. His other hand presses flat against the small of your back, holding you against him, steady and sure while the rest of you falls apart.

“That’s it, Your Highness,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth, and his voice has gone rough, wrecked and raspy. “Cling to me. I’ve got you, let yourself fall.”

You shatter in his arms with your face buried against his throat, your teeth sinking into your own lip to keep from crying out, your body bowing into his like a wave breaking against shore. He holds you through it, his lips pressing against your temple, your forehead, the damp curl of hair at your ear, murmuring soft nonsense that sounds like your title and his heartbeat and something in a language you don’t recognize, older than either of you, oceanic and aching.

When your breathing steadies, when the tremors slow to aftershocks and you lift your head to look at him, he is wrecked and unrecognizable. His cheeks are flushed dark, the color bleeding into the tips of his ears. His lips swollen and bitten red, and his chest is heaving and the mark on it pulses like a second heart.

He doesn’t rush to the next part, doesn’t even assume there will be more than what he gave you just now. He just gazes down at you, savoring how you look as the highs of pleasure wash over your body in subsiding waves. You just gave a part of yourself to him, one you can never take back but you don’t want to. It is his now. It was his to take so it is his to keep, now and forever. And you want to give him more parts of yourself, feel like he’s the only one who’ll keep you safe and not feeling like a trapped bird.

This was yours to give, and yours to decide how and when to give it. You want to give him so many more parts, no matter what it is he wants to take. A few pieces, more like this one. Your heart, which is already in his possession, even if he is unaware of it. You’ll give him your fleshed heart too, if only he asked.

Yours to have, yours to give. And you choose him to take it.

You cradle his face in your hands. Your thumbs trace the beauty mark beneath his eyes, and your voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, raspy but full of unspoken feelings. He awaits an answer to a question he doesn’t voice or even attempt to form, but you choose to speak it anyway.

“I’ve made a selfish decision by summoning you here, but I... I want this. I chose this.” your forehead presses against his and your breath mingles warm between your parted lips. “You are my freedom, Rafayel. I choose you to have me and my body... my heart.”

His eyes search yours, and the vulnerability in them is staggering. The kind of openness that looks like it costs him everything. His hands come up to cover yours where they rest against his face, his fingers lacing through yours, trembling.

“How sure are you of this, my beloved Princess?” his voice is barely above a breath. All the teasing turned to something so naked it makes your chest ache, something painful and raw. “Is it truly what you want from me?” his thumb traces the line of your jaw and his gaze drops to your mouth and back to your eyes. “Giving yourself to someone like me... a reckless thing for a Princess to do. Do you truly want me?”

You kiss him slowly, certain of your decision, wanting to make him understand it, too. Your hands slide into his hair, your body pressing flush against his, and when you pull back your lips brush his as you speak.

“There will never be anyone else I want.”

The sound he makes when he registers your soft whisper is something deep, something that starts in his chest where the mark burns red between you and travels through his entire body in a shudder that you feel everywhere your skin touches his. His arms lock around you and he pulls you against him. His mouth finds yours with a ferocity that steals whatever breath you had left, if you even had any.

He lays you back against the tangled sheets with a gentleness that contradicts the desperation in his kiss, settling over you, the weight of him warm and solid and everywhere. The mark on his chest glows between your bodies like something forged in a furnace, the red of it casting your skin in shades of amber and flame.

“Gotta continue to keep quiet for me, Princess,” he breathes against the hollow of your throat, cooing the words in a teasing lilt, but his voice is shaking now, barely held together. “Unless you want the whole palace knowing who you chose to give yourself to tonight.”

You pull him closer by the back of his neck and his hips press forward with the move. It’s what you both want and crave, if the sounds you both make are any indication. Your shared moans are greedily swallowed by each other’s mouths. His hand finds yours on the pillow, fingers interlacing, squeezing tight.

The world narrows to the space between your bodies. To the rhythm of him moving with you, against you, inside you... To the flex of his jaw when he bites back a groan as you squeeze tightly around him. To the way your name sounds when he whispers it against your collarbone like a confession he has been holding in his mouth for lifetimes. 

Your back arches off the mattress when he hits a certain spot, somewhere deep where it’s tender and untouched, and feeling him press there makes your eyes roll back into your head. His arm hooks beneath you, pulling you against him, his forehead pressed to yours, his breathing fractured and raw.

“Fuck, Your Highness...” his voice breaks on the words, his hips stuttering as they thrust inside your warmth. His bare hand presses firm and warm over your mouth when you cry out in pleasure, and the look he gives you is equal parts desperation and lust. “Keep quiet... the guards...”

You can’t. You pull his hand away and replace it with his mouth, kissing him hard, making him groan against your lips. The sound vibrates through your whole body and the sheets are twisted beneath you and his hand is gripping your thigh and pulling you impossibly closer, and you don’t want this moment to stop. You never want to be away from him after tonight, not ever.

“My beautiful Princess,” he gasps against the corner of your mouth when his rhythm falters for a moment, then quickens, his whole body trembling above you. It’s a beautiful tell you recognize as him losing himself inside you, and you assume he is as close to feeling this closeness between you as you are, this shared pleasure. “Your body doesn’t lie... clings to me so tight...”

Your nails drag down his back and he hisses at the sensation, the feeling of them marking his bare skin makes his hips snap forward and makes the bond mark on his chest blazes so bright you see it through your closed eyelids, red and fierce and consuming. You break apart at the same time, or close enough, his face buried against your neck as he spills so much warmth inside you. Your fingers knotted in his hair from how good it feels. The sound he lets out against your skin, muffled and shattered and utterly broken, is the most honest thing you have ever heard him say.

He stays after that.

The candlelight has burned low by the time the trembling stops, by the time your breathing evens out into something resembling relaxation and his heartbeat slows against your back where he has curled around you, his chest warm and bare against your shoulder blades, his arm draped over your waist, his fingers tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist. The bond mark still glows faintly, a soft red pulse that matches the cadence of his breathing.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he mumbles against your hair, and the drawl is back but soft now, heavy with sleep, the consonants blurred. It makes you smile and move closer in his embrace, “M’trying to enjoy this before you kick me out of your bed.”

It’s a jest, you recognize it as such. Yet even as he jokes, your chest feels heavy where his words settle, scraping against your heart like little knives.

“I’m not going to kick you out.”

“Promise?”

There is something in his voice. Something small and young and achingly uncertain, something that lives under all the smirking and carelessness, and it cracks the last wall inside your chest like a fist through thin ice.

You turn in his arms and press your palm flat against the mark on his chest, the red glow warm beneath your hand. You look him in the eyes with a gaze so raw and honest and blurred by the moist of unshed tears, and you tell him.

“I promise.”

His expression does something complicated, and for a moment his mask wavers so completely that you see everything in his eyes. The relief, the ache, the love so vast and old it seems to spill beyond the borders of this single life. Then he blinks and the smirk ghosts back across his lips, smaller now, gentler, like a muscle memory he can’t quite shake.

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips warm and impossibly soft. “‘Cause I wasn’t gonna leave anyway.”

His eyes close and his breathing slows. His arm tightens around you in his sleep, an involuntary , instinctive thing, as though even unconscious his body refuses to let go of something it has waited too long to hold.

You lie in the dark with his heartbeat against your palm and the fading glow of the mark beneath your fingers and for the first time in your life, you feel like something that belongs to you.

Outside the window, the desert stretches to the horizon. The dunes roll in smooth, undulating waves under the moonlight, pale gold and endless.

If you look long enough, they almost look like the sea.

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once you had returned you would spend hours on end on your personal level of the cave, a level not far from his own hoard.

he never entered without your permission, always making noise on his way toward the entrance, hovering around for you to let him in.

he sat in the main den, lazily reclining against soft fur and your combined scents. his clawed fingers twirled around an ancient coin, one from an evolved society hundreds of years ago.

he was thinking of his human.

this was his first dragon-human relationship, well his first relationship at that. in all of his years he didn't find himself in company of humans, rarely any dragons if he was being honest.

humans were confusing. they were small and soft, no defenses on their bodies to protect them from the harsh environment. they often treated their own horribly, outcasting them when it fit their agenda.

though he knew dragons could do the same for he was left alone, never quite fit in with his human looks yet shunned when horns grew in bloodied stumps across his forehead. but his human was different.

they accepted him as he was, adjusting and learning his dragon ways with a smile on their face and his head in their hands.

you were in your nest once again, his ears perked to hear the faint rustling of you doing what ever it was that kept you from him. you had ran down there after a visit to the market, pressing a soft kiss against his lips.

he frowned, tossing the coin across the room, the priceless thing clanking against many others of its kind.

he was growing tired of your distance, missing those hours you spent away you would have spent in his arms.

he sat straighter when he heard the soft pitter patter of bare feet on the stone floor. his body already turning toward the direction of the sound. his chest rumbled out a pleased purr when you came into view.

there you stood, loose clothing swaying behind you from your movement and your hair loose. his tail moved on its own, wrapping around your waist and depositing you into his lap.

"where have you been little dragon?"

your forehead bumped against his, soft little noises leaving your throat as you nuzzled up against him. he responded, tail tightening to keep you close.

he frowned softly when you pulled away, that was when he noticed your arms behind your back.

"happy birthday!"

you suddenly cheer, dazzling smile warming his heart through his cloud of confusion. birthday? he didn't have a specific day of birth, you knew that. "what do you mean?" he questioned, claws gently tracing your jawline.

"i have no date of birth."

you felt a pinch against your cheek when you rolled your eyes. sometimes he was so literal, it was cute. "you didn't but now you do! i gave you one!" this seemed to only confuse him further. with a soft sigh you bring your hands between you, showing off the gifts you got him.

"remember what i told you about human birthdays?" he offered you a hum in agreement. "we celebrate them with loved ones, eating cake, making wishes, opening presents gifted to you."

the silver chain a beautiful contrast against the black of his claws.

it was a long thing, the length of his entire torso, adorned with white and red jewels that shined brightly in the light. he admired the handiwork, the jewels were intricately hooked onto the chain, placed in a manner that would compliment his body.

in your other hand was a dagger, stark black it rivaled the night sky, and a wicked sharp curve on the tip of the blade and the pommel. red streaks shimmered across the dagger from top to bottom.

the feeling of your fingers digging into his back registered in his mind before his wings were sprouting, flexing wide in a big stretch. wrapping around you, he came to realize the dagger matched his wings perfectly.

the rumbling in his chest grew louder, vibrating off the walls. "you like them?" your fingers took the metal chain and began to clip it onto his body. around his neck and shoulders in a pretty swoop then around his waist.

"is this what you have been doing? this is why you have been depriving me of your presence?"

okay maybe he was a little sensitive, you didn't think he would have cared much if you weren't around for a few hours. giving him a sheepish smile you cup his face and give him a wet kiss.

"yes… i had the dagger custom made so that's why i kept asking to go to the market and he was finally done with it today!"

"he?" sylus grumbled and didn't even flinched when you slapped at his chest at his words. your jealous dragon looked much like the cute kittens you feed on the streets.

"anyway, it took forever to think of the design and even longer for it to be made. it looks just like your wings!" seeing you so proud made him happy, a little smirk curving on his lips.

holding the dagger in the air, he twisted it around, inspecting it once more. "yes, i must say it bears a striking resemblance but it holds no match to the real thing." his wings spread out wide again, poised high to showoff their impressive wing span.

that was high praise from your jealous dragon. fingers toying with the silver chain, you traced the jewels you had spent countless hours and nights placing. you wanted to make something yourself for his birthday and after racking your brain you had the idea of this.

sylus loved his gems and accessories. his body and horns were adorned in the metal, jingling as he moved about. the nest held his favorite jewels, nestled perfectly in a corner and presented for display.

after scouring through his massive hoard you finally found the perfect jewels. your excitement quickly dwindled into determination as you struggled to make the accessory. it had to be perfect.

you knew sylus would love anything you gave him, holding it dear to his heart. but you wanted him to be proud, to want to wear it with that gleam in his eyes as he flaunted it around the city or forest.

so here you were, fingers slightly raw from days of use and a beautiful accessory to make up for any aches you had. "how about this? i know you don't mind but i made it from jewels in the treasure cove."

you felt him tense, the dagger clattering to the furs with a dull thud. head snapping up, you met his gaze, blazing red eyes and a deep flush across his cheeks. his pupils were wide and his chest started to rise quickly.

"hey, what's—"

your words were cut off when suddenly you were flipped around, the plush furs cushioning your back. sylus loomed above you, thick legs spreading yours apart, the heat radiating off of him in smothering waves.

his tail flicked behind him, your eyes only able to catch the tip every once and awhile. "you made this?" his voice dropped to a deep growl and the chain he was referring to hung loose off of his body.

hand coming to cup his cheek, he leaned into your palm, nuzzling into the skin. "i did, why? is it bad? i've never really done it before but i know the general idea of how to make them." your rambling didn't bother him.

sylus nipped at your palm before placing a big hand on your chest gently. "do not speak about my mate this way." his claws curl ever so slightly and catch on the fabric of your top.

"you have made this with your little hands, worked them raw for a monstrous fiend when you did not have to."

he soothed the pinch in your brows with a kiss, nose brushing against your hairline. "you have made something for me. i will treasure it until the end of time. it will never leave my person, harm will never come to it."

the chain brushed against your body as he helped you sit up, the metal warmed from his skin. your arms wrapped around his neck, palms running across the muscular divots in his shoulders.

"i know you wont, you love me too much."

he purred at your words, tail swaying contentedly behind his back.

"yes, yes i do little dragon."

he sat in your arms for a few quiet minutes, heat radiating from his chest and soothing little grumble sounds leaving him.

"what is this cake you speak of? i wish to try it."

giggling at his words, you wiggle in his arms. "you have to let me go so i can get it sy." he made a great show of grumbling, slowly removing himself from you and watching you leave the nest.

growing restless at your departure sylus sat in a reclined position. the scent of something sweet filled his senses as you came back, hands holding a big plate with a massive lump in the middle.

tail swishing in curiosity, he brought you back onto his lap, this time sideways. the sweet lump was colored black with a small dragon on the top and lit candles surrounding it.

"this is cake, your cake."

he eyed the cake.

with a small huff, you held it higher. "humans like to sing a birthday song for the birthday person then that person blows out the candles and makes a wish."

his face twists up before his hand flicked lazily, "do what you wish." smiling, you began to sing. the lyrics were simple but your soft voice made is chest warm. dragons never sang, especially not for someones birth.

when your voice quieted you looked up at him exactingly, eyes gleaming. with a grumble, he really needed to stop indulging you in your silly human customs, his lips pursed as a great puff of air blew past his lips.

the flames grew before puffing out in black smoke, the pungent smell tickling your nose. "i wished for—" sylus began when a chunk of cake was shoved inside of his open mouth.

"you're not supposed to say it out loud! it won't come true!"

chewing through the moist spongey cake, a clawed finger swipes through the icing before smearing across your cheek. your gasp makes him smirk and he digs through some more, the icing sticky against his claws.

"eat the cake! not make a mess of it sylus!" even in your attempt at escape you delicately place the cake far away so it doesn't get crushed.

you feel his tail wrap around your waist as you try to crawl away, the ground leaving from under you as you're suspended in mid air.

"it's my birthday cake is it not?" rolling your eyes, your arms cross over your chest as you look away from him. "yes? then i can do with it as i please."

still turned away, your eyes look over the nest, suddenly more interested in the piles of furs. you're shaken slightly, the world going blurry as he moves you about.

"don't be upset beloved. it's my birthday after all."

you're planted right back into your rightful seat, arms still crossed as you look at your smirking mate. the tip of his tail traces shapes onto your stomach as he unravels your arms, the limbs letting him do what he pleased.

his smirk softens. "thank you for your presents. i will hold them dear for the rest of my life." his eyes were sincere as he placed your hands over his heart. "and thank you for trusting me with your traditions."

softening at his words, you can't help but grab his horns and bring him in for a deep kiss. "you're welcome. thank you for letting me share them." humming in approval, sylus traces his nose from your cheek to your neck, nuzzling into the warmed skin.

"i did not expect you to be so bold though." the familiar prick of his canines in your neck made you shiver, legs tightening around his hips.

"what do you mean?" your hand came to his hair, playing with the soft strands. it was awhile before he spoke, lips busy kissing and marking up your soft skin.

"your gift, the chain. you made it for me. staking your claim for other humans and dragons to know just who i belong to." his voice dropped low, long tongue slithering out to taste your skin.

"no one will dare to court me with your work around my neck, little dragon."

"WHAT?!"