cateleya

GETO ♡ TRUTH

It starts because of the playlist. That is what you’re going to tell yourself later.

That none of this would have happened if you hadn’t handed Suguru your phone ten minutes ago and said, pick something better, I’m begging you, because the same song had played three times and you were too comfortable on the floor to get up.

He had taken the phone from your hand with an amused little hum, changed the music without comment, and set it on the coffee table between you.

It should have been normal, harmless, completely fine. The problem was that you had forgotten what you'd been doing before he came over. Forgot about the open Tumblr tab, the tags, and the half read post you had absolutely no business reading while waiting for him to arrive.

Now the two of you are in your apartment living room, textbooks spread across the table, empty tea mugs beside a plate of snacks Suguru brought because he claimed you studied better when you weren’t “trying to survive on spite and caffeine.”

He’s sitting on the couch. You’re on the floor with your back against it, highlighter between your teeth, pretending to understand the notes in front of you.

Suguru leans forward to reach for his tea. Your phone buzzes once, then again. The screen lights up, and Suguru glances down automatically. You don't notice at first. You’re too busy trying to remember which page you left off on, flipping through your notes with a frustrated little sound.

“Did you move my—”

Then Suguru goes quiet in a way that makes you look up. He is always calm, always composed, but this is different enough to make your stomach tighten. He has your phone in his hand, and his eyes are on the screen—calm and amused and absolutely not guilty enough.

His thumb moves once, scrolls, and your stomach drops.

No. No no no.

"You are not reading that."

His eyes flick up to yours, and there's that smile. You scramble up from the floor and reach for the phone. He lifts it out of reach without even looking away from the screen.

“Suguru.”

“Mm.”

“Give it back.”

“In a moment.”

“You said that like you’re being reasonable.”

“I am.”

“You are literally reading porn about yourself.”

His mouth curves. “Romantic of you to call it that.”

Your face burns so hot you nearly feel dizzy. “I’m going to die.”

“Don’t.” His thumb moves again. “I’m almost finished.”

“Finished?” A strangled laugh escapes you.

He scrolls. Again.

“Suguru Geto.”

“That sounded serious.”

“It is serious.”

“It’s also very interesting.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It has my name in it.”

“That does not make it interesting.”

“It makes it personal.”

You reach for the phone again, and this time he catches your wrist gently before you can snatch it. The pressure is gentle but unmistakable, a reminder of his strength without any real force behind it. His eyes remain on the screen. That is somehow worse.

“Suguru.”

“Your tags are very thorough.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. His smile deepens, just slightly. Then he finally lowers the phone. For one blessed second, you think he’s done. Then his gaze drops back to the screen.

“You bookmarked it.”

You make a strangled sound and try to pull your wrist free. He lets you go immediately, but keeps the phone.

“Give it back or I’m moving countries.”

“You’d forget to pack half your things.”

“I’ll start over.”

“You left your laptop charger here for three days last week.”

“That was one time.”

“And your water bottle.”

“Give me the phone.”

“And your keys.”

“Suguru.”

He laughs then. Quiet. Low. Far too pleased. But even through the amusement, there’s something else underneath it. Something watchful.

Suguru is not just teasing you. He is reading you, and that is the dangerous part. Not the phone in his hand, not the post, not even the fact that he has now seen enough words to ruin your life permanently. It is the way his attention shifts from the screen to your face, like the embarrassment matters, but the reason behind it matters more.

Finally, he locks the phone. The screen goes black. He sets it carefully on the coffee table, exactly where it had been before. Then he looks at you—really looks—and something shifts.

“So.”

“Don’t say so.”

His head tilts. “Is this what you wanted?”

You cross your arms over your chest, mostly because you have no idea what else to do with your hands. “It’s fiction.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Your mouth goes dry. Suguru leans back against the couch, still composed, still unreadable in that infuriating way he has. But his eyes have changed. They’re darker now. More focused.

"Because tags are easy." His voice stays soft. "I want to hear the answer from you."

You look away. His silence stretches between you, and you realize it would be easier if he laughed—if he turned this into a joke and let you hide behind it. But he doesn't. He just waits, and Suguru has always been very good at waiting.

"…Maybe."

"Maybe?"

You glare at him. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?"

"Repeat things like you're in control of this conversation."

His smile returns. "I'm not?"

"You're insufferable."

"You invited me over."

"To study."

"And yet." His eyes flick toward the phone. You groan and cover your face. He stands, and you hear the soft shift of his weight before you feel him closer. When you lower your hands, he's in front of you. He isn't crowding you or touching you—just standing close enough that thinking becomes impossible.

His expression softened, but there's nothing gentle about the way he's looking at you. His gaze stays on yours as he leans in slightly.

"Was it me you wanted?" he asks quietly. "Or just the idea of me?"

That shuts you up. Because of course he would ask that. Of course Suguru would find the one question beneath all the embarrassment and put his thumb right against the bruise.

Your voice comes out smaller than you want. “You.”

Something in his expression changes. His breath catches for just a moment—the only tell that he's not entirely composed—before he leans closer, his thumb brushing your jaw.

“…Me?”

You stare at him. “Yes, you.”

His gaze drops to your mouth before returning to your eyes. “You should have told me.”

“I was not going to tell you I read fanfiction about you.”

A low laugh leaves him. “No.”

He reaches up slowly, giving you plenty of time to move away. You don’t. His thumb brushes beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough that you have to meet his eyes again.

“You should’ve told me you wanted me.”

Your breath catches. There is no joke to hide behind anymore, no phone, no screen, no tags. Just Suguru standing in front of you, calm and beautiful and far too perceptive, looking at you like he has finally found the answer to a question he never let himself ask out loud.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to,” you admit.

His thumb stills against your jaw. For the first time, he looks genuinely caught off guard. Then his expression softens, just enough to make your chest ache.

“You thought I would refuse you?”

“I thought you’d be kind about it.”

His eyes narrow faintly. “That isn’t the same thing.”

“It feels worse sometimes.”

Neither of you speaks. Then his hand slides from your chin to the side of your face, careful now. Almost reverent. “I see.”

“You do?”

“I think so.” His thumb traces your cheek once. “You didn’t want to be humored.”

Your throat tightens. “No.”

“You wanted to be wanted back.”

You hate how easily he says it. How gently. How accurately. You look down, but his hand keeps you there. Not forcing. Just asking you not to disappear.

“…Yes.”

His smile returns, but it’s different now.

“Then I’m glad I saw it.”

Your eyes snap back to his. “You are not allowed to say that.”

“I’m afraid I mean it.”

“Suguru.”

“You were embarrassed,” he says. “I understand that.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” His voice lowers. “But you were also honest.”

His gaze drops to your mouth for the second time. This time, he does not look away as quickly.

“And I find that difficult to ignore.”

Your pulse is racing. “You’re being very calm about this.”

“I’m not calm.”

“You look calm.”

“I know.”

It shouldn't affect you this much, but it does. His thumb lingers at the corner of your mouth, barely touching.

“Though I suppose…” His smile curves again, soft in a way that somehow feels more dangerous. “…this works too.”

“What does?”

“Finding out this way.”

You swallow. “Why?”

“Because now I know exactly what you were too afraid to ask for.”

Your face burns. He leans closer, close enough that his breath brushes your lips.

“And now,” he murmurs, “you know I’m not refusing.”

He kisses you before you can respond. It's slow at first, deliberate, his mouth warm and certain against yours. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair to tilt your head. The kiss deepens, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him with a soft sound that makes his grip tighten.

You reach for him without thinking, your hands finding his shoulders, his chest, the fabric of his shirt bunched under your fingers. He makes a low noise in his throat and pulls you closer, his other hand settling on your hip to guide you into his lap. The textbooks slide off the couch with a muted thud that neither of you acknowledge. When he finally pulls back, his eyes are darker than you've ever seen them.

"Look at me," he says quietly.

You do. He traces your lower lip with his thumb, still wet from the kiss.

"I want to see every expression you make tonight," he murmurs. "Don't hide your face from me."

Your breath comes out shaky. "Okay."

"Good girl."

The praise goes straight through you, heat pooling low in your stomach. He notices—of course he notices—and his mouth curves into that dangerous smile again before he leans in to kiss you harder this time, less patient. You feel his hand slide under your shirt, fingers splaying across your ribs, and you arch into the touch without meaning to.

"Suguru—"

"Shh." He moves his lips to your jaw, your throat, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. "Let me take care of everything."

He pulls your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without looking. You watch as he takes in every inch of exposed skin, his gaze slow and deliberate, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. When he cups your breast through your bra, his thumb brushing over the fabric, you bite your lip to stifle the sound that wants to escape.

"Don't do that," he says, his voice low. "I want to hear you."

"I—"

He unhooks your bra with practiced ease, sliding the straps down your arms and letting it fall between you. The cool air makes you shiver, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you.

"You're shaking," he observes, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he trails his fingers across your collarbone. His hand curves around your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it hardens under his touch. "Tell me what you want."

You can't think when he's touching you like this, can't form words that make sense. He leans in to replace his thumb with his mouth, his smile widening as he does. The wet heat makes you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

"Suguru—please—"

"Please what?" He switches to your other breast, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. "Tell me what you need."

"I don't—I can't—"

"You can." He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand still cupped around you. "Tell me what you need."

"You," you manage to say. "I need you."

Something darker and more intense crosses his face. He reaches up to pull the tie from his hair, letting it fall around his shoulders. His eyes on yours are burning, focused entirely on you.

"Then you'll have me," he says simply.

He stands, drawing you up with him smoothly, then turns and settles you onto the couch. When he comes down over you, his mouth finds yours again, and his hair spills around your face intimately, blocking out everything else. You reach up to thread your fingers through it, surprised by how soft it is, silky and cool against your skin. He makes a pleased sound and deepens the kiss, his hips pressing against yours in a way that makes you immediately aware of how hard he is. You roll your hips and he breaks the kiss with a sharp exhale.

"Careful," he warns.

"Or what?"

His smile is all teeth. "Or I'll stop being patient."

He doesn't give you time to respond before he's kissing his way down your body, his mouth hot against your collarbone, the skin between your breasts, your stomach. His fingers hook into the waistband of your pants and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.

"May I?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

"I need to hear it," he says softly.

"Yes," you breathe. "Please."

He pulls your pants and underwear down in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him. He looks at you like this is exactly what he wanted, and the knowledge of it sends heat pooling through your core.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands sliding up your thighs to spread them wider. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."

He settles between your legs, his breath ghosting over your sensitive flesh. One long finger traces through your folds, testing, and you're already wet. He makes a satisfied noise.

"Show me," he murmurs, and the quiet command somehow feels more intimate than any question. "I want to hear you."

Your face burns. "I don't—"

"Yes, you do." His finger circles your entrance without pressing in. "You were honest enough while reading. Be honest now."

"Please..” You manage to whisper.

He slides one finger in slowly, watching your face. "Here?"

"Yes—"

"And?" His thumb brushes over your clit, light enough to make you gasp. "Here too?"

"Yes—please—"

"That's it." He adds a second finger, curling them to find that spot that makes your back arch. "Let me see what works."

His thumb finds your clit properly now, circling with just enough pressure to make you whimper. He's methodical about it, testing different angles, different rhythms, watching every reaction like he's cataloging them.

"What do you need?" he asks, his voice low and controlled.

"Faster," you gasp, and he complies without hesitation, his fingers moving with renewed purpose.

"Faster," you gasp. "Please—"

He complies, his fingers moving with more purpose now, and the pressure builds steadily. You can feel yourself getting closer, your thighs starting to tremble.

"Look at me," he says. "Don't close your eyes."

You force your eyes open, meeting his dark gaze. He looks completely focused, studying every expression that crosses your face. His breathing catches for half a second.

“Just like that."

His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot, and his thumb presses harder against your clit. The tension winds tighter and tighter until—

"Come," he says quietly. "Let me see."

The orgasm crashes over you, your whole body tensing as pleasure floods through you. You cry out his name, and through it all his fingers keep moving, drawing it out until you're shaking.

"Good," he murmurs, finally stilling his hand. "Stay with me."

You're still shaking when he slowly pulls his fingers out. He brings them to his mouth, tasting, his eyes never leaving yours.

"That's what you wanted me to see," he murmurs.

Before you can respond, he leans down and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke. You jerk involuntarily, oversensitive, but his hands come up to grip your hips and hold you still.

"You're much more honest like this," he says against you. "Not hiding anymore."

His tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision. He's not rushing, just learning you the same way he did with his fingers—methodical, controlled, watching for what makes you gasp.

"Oh god—"

He makes a pleased sound and continues, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention. When he slides two fingers back inside you, the dual sensation makes you see stars.

"Suguru—I can't—"

"You can." He curves his fingers inside you, finding that spot again. "One more."

The second orgasm builds faster than the first, every nerve ending already lit up and sparking. His fingers curl inside you, his tongue moving in perfect rhythm, and you're climbing toward the edge again impossibly fast.

"Please—"

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me feel it."

You come with a broken cry, your hands flying to his hair to hold him in place. He doesn't stop until you're gasping and pushing at his shoulders, completely undone.

He pulls back, his lips glistening, and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh before sitting up. You're boneless, trembling, and he looks deeply satisfied.

"Everything you hide," he says quietly, "I can draw out of you."

You can't form words yet, can only watch as he reaches down to adjust himself through his pants. The reminder that he's still fully clothed while you're completely naked sends another pulse of heat through you.

"Come here," you manage, reaching for him.

He raises an eyebrow. "Demanding now?"

"Please."

That softens him. He leans down to kiss you, slow and deep, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. Your hands find the hem of his shirt and tug, and he pulls back just enough to let you pull it over his head. His chest is lean and defined, his skin warm under your palms.

"I want to touch you," you say.

"You are touching me."

"You know what I mean."

His smile is sharp. "Then do it."

You reach for his belt, fumbling slightly with the buckle until he covers your hands with his and helps you. His pants and underwear join the pile of discarded clothing, and then he's finally as bare as you are. Your breath catches at the sight of him—he's hard and flushed, already leaking slightly.

When you wrap your hand around him, he makes a low, rough sound.

"Fuck," he breathes.

You stroke him slowly, learning the weight and feel of him, and his hips jerk forward into your touch. His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.

"Open your mouth," he says, his voice strained.

You do, looking up at him through your lashes, and his expression goes dark and hungry. He guides himself to your lips, letting you take him at your own pace at first, but his hand in your hair tightens as you take him deeper.

"Don't look away," he says, his voice controlled despite the tension in his shoulders.

You hollow your cheeks and suck, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit in your mouth. His jaw flexes, his other hand coming up to cup your jaw as his breathing deepens.

"Relax your throat," he murmurs. "Let me in deeper."

You do your best to comply, breathing through your nose as he pushes in further. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the sounds he's making—low groans and muttered curses—make it worth it.

You take him as deep as you can, your eyes watering, and he holds you there for a moment before pulling back to let you breathe. His hand strokes your hair soothingly even as his hips rock forward again.

The tension in his shoulders tightens, his jaw clenching with the effort of holding back, but before you can push him over the edge, he pulls out of your mouth and hauls you up to kiss you hard.

"Not yet," he says against your lips. "I want to be inside you when I come."

He sits back against the couch and draws you with him, guiding you into his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, your hands bracing against his shoulders. This close, there's nowhere to look but at him.

"Here," he says quietly, his mouth curving slightly. "Because I want to see you when you stop hiding from me."

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he reaches down to line himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. His eyes never leave yours.

"Tell me if it's too much," he says.

"It won't be."

"Tell me anyway."

"Okay."

He guides you down slowly, so slowly, letting you feel every inch as he fills you. The stretch is intense, bordering on too much, but the fullness is exactly what you need. When you're fully seated in his lap, he makes a low sound in his throat.

He keeps his gaze locked on yours, his hand steady on your jaw. His other hand settles on your hip, holding you in place.

"Move…" he instructs. "Slowly."

You lift yourself slightly and sink back down, and the angle makes you gasp. He watches every expression that crosses your face, his thumb stroking along your jaw.

"That's what you wanted," he murmurs. "Not the idea of me. Me."

"Yes—"

His hand tightens on your hip, controlling the pace. "Say it again for me. I want to hear it every time."

"I wanted you," you manage. "Just you—"

His eyes darken with satisfaction.

"You—" You rock your hips, trying to move faster, but his grip keeps you slow and controlled. "Please—"

His voice stays calm even as his breathing gets heavier. "I want you to feel every second of this." His hands guide your movements, keeping the pace maddeningly slow, tightening whenever you try to rush.

"Suguru—"

"See?" he says quietly, keeping the pace slow. "Honesty suits you."

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, and he pulls you closer until your foreheads touch, until there's nowhere to look but into his eyes.

"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your lips. "Better than anything I imagined."

"You imagined—?"

"Yes." His hips roll up to meet yours, and the friction makes you both gasp. "Every time you looked at me, every time you smiled—I wondered what you'd feel like."

The confession breaks something in you. You kiss him desperately, your hands sliding into his hair, and he makes a rough sound against your mouth, finally letting you set a faster pace. His grip tightens on your hip, his breathing getting heavier.

"That's it," he says against your mouth. "Don't perform. Just feel it."

The pressure builds steadily, heat coiling tighter in your core. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit, circling it in time with your movements, and you're suddenly so close.

"Not yet," he says. "Look at me first."

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They're darker than you've ever seen them, his jaw tight with tension.

"Now," he says quietly. "Come for me now."

The orgasm crashes over you, stronger than the first two combined. You cry out his name, your whole body convulsing, and he holds you through it, his hands steady on your hips even as you shake apart.

"Fuck," he breathes, his control finally breaking. "I need—"

He shifts beneath you, his hands guiding you to recline slightly while he stays seated. The angle changes, deeper, and when he starts moving again it's with less control than before.

"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice strained.

"Yes—god yes—"

His hands on your hips control everything, lifting you and pulling you down onto him with increasing urgency. You think you have control like this, on top of him, but you don't—his strength, his grip, the way he's watching you with that dark, focused gaze.

"You listen so well when you finally stop fighting me," he murmurs.

His breathing gets ragged as his grip tightens on your hips, pulling you down harder each time. One hand slides up to rest on your throat, not pressing, just possessive.

"Mine," he says quietly, like he's testing the word. "You're mine."

"Yes—"

"Say it." His hips snap up harder. "Say you wanted me."

"I wanted you—" you gasp.

He makes a rough sound, his rhythm getting erratic, faster, less controlled. You can feel him getting close.

"Suguru—"

Your voice saying his name is what breaks him. He pulls you down hard, his whole body going rigid as he comes with a rough groan that doesn't sound like him at all. The rawness of it, the urgency—it's intoxicating.

He makes a choked sound and his arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as he rides out the aftershocks. His face presses into your shoulder, his breathing ragged, and you can feel him trembling.

Neither of you moves at first, both of you breathing hard and trembling. Then he carefully pulls out and turns you over, gathering you into his arms as he settles back against the couch. His hand comes up to brush your hair back from your face, gentle and tender.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet.

"Look at me."

You tilt your head back to meet his eyes. They're softer now, the dark intensity replaced with something warmer.

"Are you sure?" he presses. "I wasn't too rough?"

"No." Your voice comes out hoarse. "It was perfect."

His expression softens and he leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet. When he pulls back, he's smiling in a way you haven't seen before.

"Stay here," he says. "Let me clean you up."

He disentangles himself carefully and disappears down the hall, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth. He cleans you gently, his touch careful and thorough, and the tenderness of it makes your chest ache.

"Come here," he says when he's done, pulling you back into his arms. "Just rest for a bit."

You curl into his chest, your head tucked under his chin, and his fingers start running through your hair in soothing strokes. His other arm wraps around your waist, holding you close, and you can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing under your palm.

His lips brush your temple. "I meant what I said," he murmurs. "About being glad I saw it."

You make a soft, embarrassed sound and he chuckles.

"Don't hide from me now," he says. "Not after that."

"I'm not hiding."

"No?" His hand tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "Good. Because I have no intention of letting you."

"Possessive," you observe.

"Yes." He doesn't sound remotely apologetic. "Is that a problem?"

You think about the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way he said mine like it was a fact rather than a question.

"No," you say quietly. "It's not a problem."

His smile is soft and satisfied. He leans down to kiss your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.

"Good," he murmurs. "Because I'm not going to pretend I don't want you after this."

You laugh softly and settle back against his chest, letting your eyes close. His fingers continue their gentle path through your hair, and his other hand traces idle patterns on your hip.

Your legs shift against his, the couch creaking beneath you both. "We should probably move eventually," you say. "This couch isn't that comfortable."

"Eventually," he agrees. "But not yet."

"No?"

"No." His arms tighten around you slightly. "Right now, I just want to hold you."

The simple honesty of it makes your chest warm. You press a kiss to his collarbone and feel him smile against your hair.

"Okay," you say. "Not yet."

You stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the couch, his heartbeat steady under your ear and his hands gentle on your skin. The textbooks are still scattered on the floor, your clothes are everywhere, and you're both probably going to regret sleeping on the couch later.

But right now, wrapped in his arms with his hair falling around you both like a curtain, you can't bring yourself to care about any of that. Not right now, because this is perfect.

HIGURUMA ♡ GUILTY

It happens because the printer jams, which is technically where everything starts. Not with the open Tumblr tab, not with the post, and definitely not with the fact that you were sitting in Hiromi Higuruma's office while he was in a meeting, using his computer like that was a normal thing to do.

The printer jams again. The same ancient machine that everyone in the office treats like an unpredictable elderly relative, makes a horrible grinding noise, spits out half a page of a deposition summary, and then flashes a red error light like it is personally offended by your request.

You stare at it. The printer flashes again.

“Of course,” you mutter.

You are supposed to be organizing case files. That is your job today. Technically, your internship involves a lot of things—research, document review, filing, sitting quietly in meetings while pretending you understand more than you do—but today, specifically, you are supposed to print and sort the corrected client intake forms before Higuruma gets back.

It should have been simple, easy, almost impossible to mess up. Except the printer hates you, your laptop refuses to connect to the office network, and Higuruma had said, very casually before leaving for his meeting, “Use mine if you need to print anything. The password is on the sticky note under the keyboard.”

Which had felt intimate in a way it absolutely should not have. It’s just a computer password, a work computer password, a practical solution from your supervisor who trusts you enough not to be irresponsible with confidential files. That’s all. You are a normal adult, and normal adults can use Hiromi Higuruma's computer without making it weird.

You repeat this to yourself while sitting at his desk, then again while logging in, then again when you notice the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the office. By the time you realize his suit jacket is still draped over the back of his chair, you start to doubt that.

You dressed exactly as a law intern should that morning, a blouse tucked neatly into a pencil skirt, sheer stockings, heels sensible enough for the office but not sensible enough to be innocent. At the time, it felt professional. Sitting alone at Higuruma's desk, surrounded by his files and the faint smell of his cologne, it suddenly feels like it was a poor decision.

The office feels different when he’s not in it, though you can't decide whether it feels less severe or somehow worse. His desk is neat in the way only his desk could be. Files stacked squarely, pens lined near the legal pad, a capped fountain pen resting beside the keyboard. There’s a half-empty mug of coffee near the edge, black and long gone cold. A yellow legal pad sits open beside the monitor, covered in his handwriting—sharp, slanted, precise.

You try not to stare at it too long, but fail. Then you remember you are supposed to be printing forms, not romanticizing a man's handwriting like you have completely lost your mind. The forms crawl along at a pace that feels almost deliberate.

You glance at the progress bar.

Ninety-three percent.

Somewhere between impatience and terrible judgment, you open another tab and log into Tumblr to kill the time. The moment your account loads, your dashboard appears. Right in the center of the page, like the universe hates you, is a post you opened during lunch and absolutely forgotten to close... a post with his name in the title.

Hiromi Higuruma x Reader.

Your blood goes cold.

"Nope," you whisper.

You grab the mouse so fast you nearly knock over his coffee. The page freezes. Because of course it freezes.

"Oh my god."

You click the X but nothing happens. You click it again. The cursor turns into the spinning wheel of death. You stare at it in silent, growing horror.

The conference room door opens somewhere down the hall. Voices spill into the hallway. Your stomach drops.

“No, no, no—”

You click harder, as if physical desperation might intimidate the computer into cooperating. It does not.

Footsteps approach from the hall—calm, measured, getting closer. The kind of footsteps that make your stomach drop.

The tab finally closes. You exhale so hard you nearly sag in relief. Then the browser reopens it, right as Higuruma appears in the doorway.

Neither of you moves. He looks at you first. Then at his desk. Then at the monitor. You have never wanted to disappear more in your life.

For a second, his expression doesn’t change. That’s the terrible thing about Hiromi Higuruma. Other people would react. They would laugh, frown, ask questions, make some obvious sound of shock or confusion.

He does none of that. He just steps inside and closes the door, quietly. You stop breathing.

“Higuruma-san—”

His eyes remain on the screen. You stand so fast his chair rolls back into the desk behind you.

“I can explain.”

He glances at you. Then back at the screen.

“I would be interested to hear that explanation.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He walks closer, slow and composed, setting the file from his meeting on the corner of the desk. His gaze flicks over the page. Not hurried or startled. But he’s not just looking… he’s reading.

You lunge toward the mouse, but he reaches it first. He sets one hand over the mouse, calm and decisive, before you can close the tab. Your fingers stop inches from his. The air between you goes completely still.

“Higuruma-san.”

“Mm.”

“Please don’t read that.”

“I already read the title.”

“That’s already too much.”

“I disagree.”

You forget what you were about to say. His eyes scan once over the screen. You make a sound of pure suffering. You try to speak, but the words tangle before they leave your mouth. He doesn't wait for them.

"So this is a story involving me."

You close your eyes. "Please."

"Written in the second person."

"Please stop."

"With several concerning tags."

You open your eyes. "Concerning?"

His gaze slides toward you. "Explicit."

"That isn’t concerning. That’s just—" You stop. "Actually, never mind."

His mouth almost curves. It’s not exactly a smile, but something worse. Satisfaction.

You point at the screen. "That was not supposed to be there."

"I assumed."

"I was using your computer to print the intake forms because the printer jammed and my laptop wouldn't connect, and then the browser synced my account, and I tried to close it, but your computer apparently hates me."

"My computer?"

"Yes."

"You are blaming the computer."

"I’m blaming several things right now."

"I see."

"You don’t see. You’re being calm in a way that makes this way worse."

He finally looks fully at you.

The overhead light cuts sharp shadows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than usual. He rubs two fingers briefly over the bridge of his nose, then lets his hand fall back to his side with the same quiet control he does everything else. Then his gaze returns to the monitor.

“…Interesting.”

You nearly choke. “No.”

“I did not ask a question.”

“And yet somehow I’m still objecting.”

His attention flicks back to you. “You object often when you are nervous.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I object to that.”

A very small smile touches his mouth. “That supports my point.”

Your face is so hot it almost hurts. He reaches for the keyboard.

You panic. “Higuruma-san.”

“I’m closing it.”

“Oh.”

He clicks once, and the tab disappears. The screen returns to the shared drive, plain and harmless, as if it did not just ruin your life.

The office feels strangely quiet afterward.

You exhale shakily. "Thank you."

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans back against the edge of the desk, arms crossing loosely over his chest. His meeting clearly ran long. Tie loosened, sleeves still buttoned. He has that look—exhausted, severe, like he's already decided you're disappointing.

Then he says, “I have one observation.”

Your stomach sinks again. “…Please don’t.”

“You appear to have a type.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks directly at you. “Quiet men.”

Silence.

His expression remains perfectly neutral. Then he adds, “With unresolved emotional issues.”

You stare at him. “…That’s…”

“Accurate?”

“Annoyingly accurate.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “I noticed.”

You drag both hands over your face. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“I doubt that.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you left explicit fanfiction about me open on my office computer.”

You drop your hands and glare at him. “I did not leave it open. It ambushed me.”

“Ambushed you?” 

“Yes.”

“Legally, that would be difficult to prove.”

“Oh my god.”

That tiny smile returns, barely there but somehow it wrecks you, then it fades. Not completely, but enough for the air to change. He looks back at the darkened monitor, then at you.

“You understand,” he says, voice quieter now, “that this is inappropriate.”

Your fingers curl against the desk. “Yes.”

“I am your supervisor.”

“Technically, temporary supervisor.”

His eyes narrow. “That does not improve the situation.”

“I know.”

He studies you for a long second. The silence in the office feels heavier now. When he speaks again, his voice is still calm, but there is something underneath it that was not there before. “I need to be very clear.”

You swallow hard. “Okay.”

“If this was only embarrassing, we could pretend it did not happen.”

Your heart pounds harder. “And if it wasn’t?”

He holds your gaze. “That is what I am trying to determine.”

You forget how to breathe. He pushes off from the desk and steps closer, not enough to touch you, but enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him.

“You are not in trouble,” he says.

“That doesn’t feel true.”

“It is.”

“You look like you’re cross-examining me.”

“I am trying not to.”

“That’s worse.”

“It is necessary.”

“Why?”

His expression barely changes, but you catch the tension in his jaw and the brief, incriminating drop of his eyes to your mouth before he looks back at your face.

“Because I read enough to understand the nature of what was on that page,” he says.

Your throat tightens.

“And I need to know whether it was only fantasy.”

The question lands with all the weight of a verdict, and you look away first.

“Higuruma-san—”

“Hiromi.”

Your eyes snap back to his. He looks almost surprised by his own correction, then exhales through his nose. “If we are having this conversation,” he says, “use my name.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Hiromi.”

Something shifts in his expression—barely a reaction, but enough to make your pulse jump. He reaches past you without touching you and clicks the monitor off, leaving the office softer without the screen’s glow.

“There,” he says. “No evidence.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh despite yourself. “That is a terrible joke.”

“I am aware.”

“You’re a lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“You should be better at those.”

“I’m told I am better at other things.”

Heat creeps up your neck. The silence after that is immediate, and the slight sharpening of his eyes tells you he heard exactly what it did to you. Slowly, he leans back against the desk again, but this time his attention stays entirely on you.

“I’m going to give you a chance to leave,” he says.

Your heart pounds. “Why?”

“Because if you stay, I will ask you questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“The kind where I won’t accept implication.”

Your fingers curl at your sides. “And if I don’t leave?”

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your face. “Then I will assume you want to have this conversation.”

You should leave. You should apologize, grab the printed forms, finish your internship, and never use another person’s computer again for as long as you live. Instead, you stay exactly where you are. Hiromi watches you for several seconds.

Then he says, “All right.”

Your heart pounds harder. “All right?”

“You stayed.”

“That’s not a confession.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it is evidence.”

Your breath comes out unsteady. He tilts his head slightly.

“Was it curiosity?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Accident?”

“The tab was an accident.”

“But reading it was not.”

You don’t answer. His voice lowers. “Use full words.”

“No,” you say. “Reading it was not an accident.”

“Was it about me?”

You try to look away, but his voice stops you.

“Don’t.”

It’s not sharp, which somehow makes it worse. It’s quiet, controlled, and certain.

You look back at him. “Yes.”

His fingers flex once against the edge of the desk. “Me specifically?”

“Yes.”

"So it is me you wanted. Not position, not authority, not the age gap—just me."

You go still, and his expression tightens because he notices that too.

“Answer.”

You barely get the word out.

“Yes.”

The office goes completely silent. Then he steps closer, still not touching you, still leaving enough space for you to walk away. That restraint should make it easier, but it only makes your pulse beat harder.

“Say it honestly.” he says.

“Hiromi—”

“Clearly.”

You inhale shakily. “I wanted you.”

Something in him stills. Not a loss of composure—almost the opposite. His restraint settles into something quieter, more dangerous.

“You understand what you are saying.”

“Yes.”

“You understand that if I touch you, I need to know it was not because you felt pressured.”

“I know.”

“You can leave.”

“I know.”

“You can tell me to stop.”

“I know.”

His gaze searches yours. “And do you want me to?”

“No.”

His jaw tightens. “That was not clear enough.”

Your heart is beating so hard you feel it in your throat. “I don’t want you to stop.”

For the first time, his control visibly slips. It’s brief, a sharp breath through his nose and a flex of his hand at his side, but you see it. Then he reaches up and loosens his tie. The gesture is small. But somehow that makes your knees feel weaker than if he’d rushed.

When he looks at you again, his eyes are dark and focused entirely on your face. “Good,” he says.

He steps closer, close enough now that the sleeve of his shirt brushes your arm. “Then tell me what you wanted from that story.”

Your mouth goes dry. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“Hiromi—”

“If we are going to cross this line, I need you to say what you want plainly.”

Heat rushes through you so hard you nearly lose your balance. His hand lifts as if to steady you, but he stops himself before touching you. He’s still asking, still waiting, and that restraint finally breaks something in you.

You reach for him first. Your fingers curl into his tie, and his eyes drop to your hand.

“That,” he says quietly, “is an answer too.”

You almost laugh, but it comes out shaky.

“I wanted you to touch me.”

His gaze lifts back to yours. “There,” he says, voice rougher now. “That was clear.”

Then he kisses you. His mouth is firm against yours, controlled but not at all cautious. His hand comes to your waist at the same moment, pulling you in with the kind of restraint that has finally run out of room. You make a small sound against him, and his fingers tighten like he’s been waiting all day to do this.

The desk presses into your back. His other hand comes up to your jaw, holding you still while he kisses you deeper. When he pulls back, his breathing is uneven, and so is yours.

His thumb traces once along your lower lip. He works his way down slowly, unbuttoning your blouse and watching your face the whole time. When he reaches the last button, he doesn’t push the blouse off your shoulders. He only opens it, parting the fabric beneath his hands until the black lace underneath is fully exposed.

For the first time since he walked into the office, Hiromi pauses. It’s barely more than a hitch in his breathing, but you catch it. His eyes drop to the lace, then lower to the way your skirt is still fitted neatly around your hips, your stockings sheer against your thighs, your heels hooked against the edge of his desk.

From the outside, you look exactly as any professional intern should. Composed and appropriate, exactly how you're supposed to be. Underneath, you've been making very different choices. Your breath hitches. A muscle flexes in his jaw, and you realize he caught that too. The way your body responded to being seen.

"I didn't say anything."

“You looked.”

“Yes.”

“Hiromi.”

His mouth curves faintly, but there is tension in it now. “You are making it extremely difficult to remain objective.”

Your hands tremble slightly. His hand slides beneath the open blouse, knuckles brushing your ribs before his fingers find the clasp at your back. He doesn’t ask about the lace or tease you for it, and somehow that silence is worse. The clasp gives under his hand, and he draws the straps down your arms slowly before setting the bra on the desk beside you.

He looks at you again, and this time he doesn’t bother hiding it.

“You’ve been sitting across from me all day with this under your blouse?”

You lift your chin. "Would you have preferred I didn't?"

“No.” His thumb brushes the mark the strap left on your shoulder. 

His mouth lowers to your neck, warm and gentle kisses making your body feel tingly. 

“Hiromi—”

“Quiet.”

His lips trail lower, over your collarbone, then down until his mouth closes over your breast. The sound you make is immediate and embarrassing, and his hand comes to your waist, holding you still when your hips shift forward.

“Sensitive,” he murmurs against your skin.

You grip his shoulders. “Don’t say it like that.”

His tongue circles slowly, deliberately, and your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re taking notes.”

His mouth pauses. Then he looks up at you. “I am.”

Your chest tightens.

He switches to the other side, one hand coming up to palm where his mouth just was, and the dual sensation makes your thighs tense around his hips. His hand moves to your knee, then slowly up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher inch by inch until it bunches around your hips.

When his fingers reach the top of your stocking, he stops. The sheer fabric gives way to bare skin beneath his touch, and you watch his attention drop to the black lace thong sitting high on your hips. He goes completely still.

"Don't," you say before he can.

His eyes flick up to yours.

"I'm not going to," he says quietly, his thumb already sliding beneath the lace at your hip. "Yet."

Your skin shivers under his touch. That’s when his control shifts. Not gone, but sharper now, more focused. His fingers slide along the edge of the thong, not quite touching where you need him, and your hand tightens on the desk.

"Hiromi—"

"How long?"

Your stomach drops. "How long what?"

"How long have you been sitting in my office, looking at me like a professional, competent intern, while imagining me doing this to you?"

His fingertips skim the waistband of the thong with infuriating precision, and your hand tightens on the desk.

Your shoulders tense.

His attention sharpens. He's found the answer he wants to examine.

"The first week."

"Yes."

His thumb presses lightly against you through the lace. You gasp before you can stop yourself.

“There,” he says quietly. “That was honest.”

He traces along the edge of the thong, still not giving you enough, and your hips shift forward involuntarily.

“Stay still.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.”

His hand comes to your waist, holding you in place while his fingers drag over the lace with deliberate precision.

"Tell me what you read," he says.

"You already read it."

"I read the title and the tags. I want to hear you say it."

"You want me to narrate my own humiliation?"

"Without the sarcasm."

Your breath catches. There it is—that particular brand of control he's been using all night.

"I wanted you to touch me," you say, and the admission feels heavier when spoken aloud. "Skin to skin. No teasing."

His pupils dilate slightly with surprise, maybe, because you're being direct.

He slides the lace aside instead of taking it off, his hand returning to your skin, and you have to grab the edge of the desk to stay upright.

"Like that?"

"If you're going to tease me, at least commit to it."

He circles once, twice, not giving you enough pressure, and your hips chase his hand.

"What else did you read?"

"That you'd make me come. Multiple times. That you'd keep going until I couldn't—"

His finger slides inside you, just one, and your head falls back.

"…Until I couldn't think."

He adds a second finger without warning, and you lose your grip on the sentence entirely.

"Oh—fuck—"

He curls his fingers, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake.

"You were saying?"

"I wasn't—I can't—you know what I was saying—"

"I want to hear you say it."

Your shoulders tense.

"I wanted you to make me come."

"There it is."

His thumb presses against your clit at the same moment his fingers thrust deeper, and the combination causes a high pitched moan to slip past your lips. His hand moves with more purpose now. 

"Good," he says, voice rougher than before. "Now show me."

Your thighs lock around his wrist, your whole body tensing up as you come. You can't even tell if you're saying his name or just making noise. He keeps going until your muscles go slack and you're completely undone. When he pulls his fingers out, you're still shaking.

"That was one."

Your brain is still catching up. "One?"

"You're going to come at least twice more before I do."

"I don't think I can—"

"You will."

You sit up on the desk, still catching your breath, and watch as he steps back. He's still fully dressed—suit jacket, tie, everything—while you're half naked. The contrast makes your pulse quicken.

He reaches for his tie, loosening it before pulling it over his head. Then he starts on his shirt buttons. You watch, mesmerized, as he reveals more skin. The hollow of his throat, his collarbones, the lean muscle of his chest and stomach.

When he shrugs the shirt off, you reach out without thinking. Your hand presses flat against his chest. He's warm and solid.

His hand covers yours. "What are you thinking?"

"That I've been imagining this for two months and it's better than I thought."

His breathing deepens. He doesn't move. He just watches you. You slide off the desk and stop in front of him. Your fingers find his belt. The buckle clicks open beneath your touch. Then the button. Then the zipper.

His breathing hitches just slightly. You ease the fabric down just enough, your eyes never leaving his. His jaw tightens but he says nothing. You sink to your knees. One hand settles lightly against his thigh as you lean in. Your fingers wrap around him and he goes completely still.

"Fuck—"

You hold his gaze for one last second before your mouth closes around him. His head tips back on a sharp breath, one hand finding your hair almost immediately.

"Oh…"

You take him slowly at first, your tongue tracing along him before easing him deeper.

"So composed in my office," he murmurs, voice already rough. "Where did that go?"

You hum around him, and his hips jerk forward before he catches himself.

"Sorry—"

You take him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"Ah—fuck—"

His hand guides your rhythm now, and you let him, relaxing your jaw and breathing through your nose.

You can feel him getting close, his breathing ragged, his grip in your hair almost painful. He pulls you back suddenly, his chest heaving, and guides you to your feet with a hand under your chin.

"On the desk," he says. "On your back."

You climb up, the wood cool against your bare skin. He pushes your thighs apart and steps between them.

"I'm going to make you come on my tongue," he says, matter-of-fact. "And you're going to tell me exactly how it feels."

"Hiromi—"

"That's an order."

Then he leans down and puts his mouth on you. The first touch of his tongue makes you gasp.

"Oh—"

He licks a slow stripe up, then circles your clit with deliberate precision.

"Fuck—that's—"

"Keep talking."

"It's good—it's so good—"

His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and he works you with his mouth like he has all the time in the world.

"Mmm—right there—"

He focuses on that spot, his tongue moving in steady circles, and you feel the tension building again.

"Oh god—oh god—"

Your hands come down to his hair, and he makes an approving sound against you.

"Don't stop—please don't stop—"

He doesn't. He adds two fingers, sliding them inside while his mouth stays focused on your clit, and the dual sensation makes you cry out.

"Ah—ah—Hiromi—"

He curls his fingers, finding that spot again, and your back arches off the desk. Your grip tightens in his hair.

"I'm—"

That's all you can manage. His fingers thrust deeper, his tongue working faster, and you can't even tell if you're saying his name or just making noise anymore.

Your thighs start to shake.

He notices and his hands flex against you, holding you open even as your body tries to curl inward—but he doesn't stop. Not until your hand slips from his hair and you're pushing at his head, gasping something that isn't words. Only then does he ease back, letting you breathe.

"That's two."

You can't speak.

He straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then sits back in his office chair.

He kisses you once, hard. "Come here."

You step forward, but he shakes his head.

"Straddle me."

You move to obey, positioning yourself over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs. You feel his gaze on you like a physical touch. His hands come to your hips immediately, steadying you. You sink down slowly, and when you're seated fully in his lap, his hands tighten.

"What are you doing?" he asks quietly.

You hesitate. "Sitting on you?"

"Be specific."

"I'm straddling you in your office chair." You meet his eyes, fighting a smile. "Is this a deposition?"

His mouth almost curves. "Answer the question."

"I want you inside me," you say, and saying it aloud—in his office, in his lap—makes heat rush through you. "I want you to fuck me."

"That's better."

He shifts beneath you, positioning himself, and you feel the head of his cock press against you. His hands guide your hips down slowly, and the stretch makes you gasp.

"Oh—"

"Keep going."

You sink lower, taking him inch by inch, and his breathing becomes uneven.

"All.. the .. way." He says grittily while pushing down against your thighs to help you take all of him.

When you've settled all the way down, his forehead drops to your shoulder for a brief moment. Then he lifts his head, his expression controlled again despite the tension in his jaw. You start to rock your hips, and this time he doesn't stop you.

"Slower," he says. "I want to feel every movement."

You obey, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate grind, and his fingers dig into your skin.

"That's it."

The angle has him hitting deep with each movement. You can feel the tension building again already. His hand comes to your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

"How long have you been thinking about this?" he asks quietly.

"Hiromi—"

"Answer me."

"Two months," you gasp. "Since the first week."

His breathing deepens. "And you didn't say anything."

"You're my supervisor—"

"That didn't stop you from reading about it."

Your face burns. You try to look away, but his hand keeps you in place.

"Don't," he says. "I want to see your face when you admit it."

You keep grinding against him, the friction building with each slow roll of your hips.

"What did you think about?" he asks.

"This—" Your breath catches. "You—in your office—"

"Be specific."

"You touching me. Kissing me. Fucking me on your desk."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. "And did you touch yourself while you thought about it?"

"Yes—"

"How many times?"

"I don't—I don't know—"

"Estimate."

"Hiromi—"

"Answer the question."

"A lot," you gasp. "Almost every night—"

His hand tightens at your hip, and you feel him pulse inside you.

"Keep going," he says roughly. "Don't stop."

You grind down harder, chasing the tension that's coiling tighter with each movement. 

"Oh god—"

"Look at me."

You do. His eyes are dark and focused entirely on your face.

"You're going to come on me," he says quietly. "And you're going to tell me when you're close."

"I'm—I'm already—"

"Then say it."

"I'm close—Hiromi—I'm so close—"

"Show me."

Everything locks down around him. You can't breathe, can't speak—just his name spilling out while pleasure tears through you. He holds you through it, his hand steady at your hip, his thumb still working your clit until you're shaking.

"That's three."

You collapse against his chest, breathing hard, and his arms come around you immediately.

Then he tilts your chin up and kisses you—slow and deep, nothing like the controlled intensity from before. When he pulls back, his mouth trails down your jaw to your neck, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"You're so much more honest when you're like this," he murmurs. "It's incredibly sexy."

You make a breathless sound that might be a laugh. He kisses your throat once more, then pulls back to look at you.

"Can you stand?"

You nod shakily. He helps you up carefully, steadying you when your legs threaten to give out. Then he stands, taking your hand and guiding you toward the window, his grip steady and deliberate.

Your heart jumps.

"Hiromi—"

"The blinds are down."

"But—"

"Look."

You do. He catches the cord and raises the blinds just high enough to expose the glass without opening the office completely. Through them, you can see the building across the street—dark windows, empty floors.

"I know that building closes at six," he says quietly. "It's been empty for two hours."

Of course he checked. Of course he knew. Your breathing picks up.

He positions you facing the glass, your palms pressed flat against the cool surface. The city spreads out below, lights glittering in the dark, and you can see your own reflection—flushed, half-naked, his shape behind you. His hand settles at your hip.

“This is what you wanted,” he says quietly.

Your shoulders tense. “Hiromi—”

“Not exactly this,” he says, his gaze meeting yours in the reflection. “The story did not need to be that specific.”

Your breath becomes shallow. His hand tightens at your waist.

“You wanted me. Here. In my office.” His voice lowers. “Because it wasn’t supposed to happen here.”

Your face burns so hot you almost look away, but his hand comes to your jaw before you can.

“Don’t,” he says. “Look at me.”

You meet his eyes in the glass. 

“Is that wrong?”

You swallow. “No.”

“No, what?”

Your fingers press harder against the window. “No, it’s not wrong.”

His gaze stays fixed on yours. “Then tell me what you want now.”

Your voice comes out shaky. “I want you here.”

“At the window?”

“Yes.”

"Why the window?"

You hesitate. His thumb drags slowly along your jaw. "Because it was yours. Because I wanted it to happen somewhere I knew it never should."

Your shoulders tense. Then his hand slides from your hip to your thigh.

"That," he murmurs, "is an answer."

He hooks two fingers beneath the stocking at the inside of your thigh and pulls deliberately. The sheer fabric gives with a soft rip, a dark run racing toward your knee. He watches the damage spread across your skin in the glass, his jaw tightening. "I'll replace them," he says, voice rough and final, like the decision had already been made.

"So you wanted this. Here. In my office. That's what you're telling me?”

You nod against his hand.

"Say it."

"Yes. I wanted it here."

His jaw tightens. "Then that's what you're going to get."

He enters you slowly—so slowly you feel every inch—and the stretch makes your breath catch audibly against the glass. His hand tightens on your hip. The other stays braced beside yours on the window.

For several seconds, he doesn't move. Just stays buried deep inside you, his chest pressed against your back, his breathing uneven and warm against the curve of your neck.

Then he pulls back. Slowly and deliberately. His hips roll forward again, deeper this time, and you hear his breath hitch—a quiet, involuntary sound that he can't quite control.

He does it again. The same measured pace. The same controlled intensity. But his breathing is getting heavier now, each exhale warm and audible against your shoulder. You can feel the tension in his body, the way his fingers dig into your hip like he's holding himself back.

His forehead drops to the side of your neck. His breath comes faster. He keeps moving—slow, deep thrusts that make your palms slide slightly against the glass—and you realize his control is starting to crack.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

"Don't make me infer."

"I don't want you to stop."

For a few seconds, he stays completely still, breathing unevenly against the back of your neck while your palms press harder to the window.

"Okay?" he asks, voice strained.

You nod, but his grip tightens.

"Use words."

"Yes," you breathe. "I'm okay."

His mouth brushes your ear.

"Do you want more?"

Your eyes flutter shut.

"Yes."

"Then ask."

Your voice comes out before your pride can stop it.

"Please."

That is what breaks the last of his patience.

His hips draw back slowly, then press in again, deeper this time, and your breath leaves you in a shaky sound against the glass.

"That," he says, voice rough, "was clear."

He starts moving with intent—pulling almost all the way out before pressing back in, each thrust deliberate and deep, one hand gripping your hip while the other stays braced against the window beside yours.

“This is what you wanted,” he says, low and close to your ear. “My office. My hands on you. Just enough risk to make you admit it.”

“Hiromi—”

His hand comes up from the glass to your mouth, covering it gently.

“Quiet. I don’t care if the building is empty. You’re going to keep your voice down.”

You nod against his palm. He thrusts deeper, and the sound you make is muffled against his hand.

“That’s better.”

His other hand slides around to your clit, circling slowly, and your knees nearly buckle.

"Mmm—"

"Stay still."

You try, but the combination of his hand, his cock, the cold glass against your skin, the reflection of the two of you in the window—it's too much.

His fingers press harder, his rhythm steady and relentless, and you feel everything tightening inside you, wound so tight you can't breathe.

"Mmmmmmmpphhhh—"

"Look at yourself."

You do and you can see everything in the glass—your flushed face, his hand over your mouth, the way your body responds with each thrust, the city lights framing you both.

"This is what your answer looks like," he says quietly. "No implication. No room to deny it."

You make a desperate sound against his palm.

"Are you close?"

You nod.

"Then let me feel it."

Your thighs lock around him.

"Mmm—mmm—"

He groans, his rhythm breaking for just a second before he pushes deeper, his hand pressing harder against your clit.

"Fuck—"

Your grip tightens on his wrist. Your breath comes in sharp bursts against his palm. He doesn't stop. Not until your body goes rigid, then shaking, your muffled sounds the only thing either of you can hear.

When you finally go still, he slowly withdraws his hand from your mouth.

"That's three."

You can barely stand. He pulls out carefully, and you whimper at the loss.

"Come here."

He guides you back to the desk, turning you to face him.

"Lie back."

You do, the wood cool against your overheated skin. He steps between your thighs, his hands coming to your hips, and slides back in slowly.

The angle is different, it’s deeper and more intimate.

"Oh—"

He leans down, his forehead pressing to yours, and starts moving with a slower, more deliberate rhythm.

"Look at me."

You do and his eyes are dark, intense, and you can see everything in them—the control he's been exerting, the need he's been holding back, the way he's barely keeping himself together.

"Hiromi—"

His hand comes up to cup the back of your head, holding you in place.

"I need to see you," he says quietly. "When you come again. I need to see your face."

"I don't think I can—"

"You will."

He kisses you, deep and consuming, while his hips maintain that steady rhythm. When he breaks away, you're both breathing hard.

"Touch yourself."

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and the added sensation makes you gasp.

"Oh—"

"That's it."

His thrusts get deeper, more purposeful, and you circle your clit faster.

"I'm close," he says, voice strained. "Come with me."

His hand tightens in your hair, his forehead still pressed to yours, and you can feel him getting close—his breathing is ragged, and his rhythm is faltering.

"Hiromi—"

"Fuck—"

He's not holding back anymore. His hips drive into you harder, faster, and his hand grips the back of your head like he's afraid you'll disappear. His forehead stays pressed to yours but his eyes are open, locked on yours, and you watch him break—his jaw clenching, his breath stuttering, everything he's been holding pulled taut.

"I—" He doesn't finish his sentence, he can’t.

His jaw clenches. His breathing comes in ragged bursts. You feel him everywhere—his cock deep inside you, his hand in your hair, his chest against yours—and it's too much, it's all too much.

"Come," he says, and it's not a command anymore. It's a plea. "Please—"

He comes with a low sound, his whole body tensing inside you, and the feeling of him losing control completely pushes you over the edge. You gasp his name and he buries his face in your neck, his hips still moving, his breathing shattered against your skin.

"Fuck—" He says it again, muffled, like he can't stop, like he's still coming, like he's never felt anything like this before.

You hold him while he catches his breath, and he pulls back to look at you. His hair is a mess, his face is flushed, and he looks nothing like the composed lawyer who caught you with fanfiction on his computer an hour ago. You reach up and touch his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.

"You're completely undone," you say quietly.

He catches your hand, pressing it against his lips for a moment before releasing it.

"That appears to be your fault," he says, still holding your hand against his face.

"We should—" You gesture vaguely at the state of his office.

"In a minute."

He kisses you again, softer now, and you melt into it. When he finally pulls away, he reaches for his shirt.

"Here."

You put it on, the fabric swallowing you, and he watches with something warm in his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That's not nothing."

"You look good in my clothes."

You hesitate a second too long. He pulls his pants back on, then starts gathering the scattered papers from his desk. You slide down, your legs still shaky, and find your thong.

"So," you say, pulling it on. "What happens now?"

He looks at you. "What do you want to happen?"

"I was kind of improvising."

"Clearly."

You make a face at him. He sets the papers down and crosses to you, his hands coming to your waist. He smooths his thumb over your hip once, then looks toward the locked office door. When his attention returns to you, his gaze is measured again, and a bit careful.

Then he says, "This was inappropriate."

"I know."

"I'm your supervisor."

You give him a look. "I'm aware, Hiromi."

"This can't happen at the office again."

He pauses, his thumb still tracing your hip, and you feel something change. You start to think—

Oh.

He's ending this.

Then his hand tightens slightly. "But—" He pauses. "My apartment is ten minutes from here."

Your heart skips. "Is that an invitation?"

"It's evidence of intent."

You smile. "You really can't help yourself."

"I have a reputation to maintain."

"You just fucked your intern at the window."

"Allegedly."

You laugh, and he kisses you again, quick and warm.

"Get dressed, I'll drive."

"What about my car?"

"You can get it tomorrow, or I can walk you to it now."

"Someone's going to see us."

"No one will know anything unless you decide otherwise."

"And what do I say?"

"That you stayed late. That I gave you a ride home because it was late. That's all anyone needs to know."

His hand comes to your jaw, tilting your face up. "Tomorrow we figure out what this means. Tonight—"

"Tonight we go to your apartment?”

"Yes."

You don't have a better plan. He helps you find your clothes, his hands lingering each time he passes you something. When you're both dressed—rumpled and obvious, but dressed—he turns off the lights and locks his office door.

The hallway is empty. The building is quiet, and he takes your hand. "Come on," he says.

“I have a hit list,” he says, his voice low with a terrifying calm. You can feel the restrained anger beneath it. A sharp dark tone he almost never uses on you.

“You do?” You tilt your head, a faint, unbothered smile touching your lips as you put down your glass of water. “Tell me more.”

“It appears I don't need to tell you anything at all,” he steps closer. There is a dangerous focus in his eyes. “The list has been rapidly cleared over the last few months. Target by target. Quietly… and efficiently.”

“Hmm.” You track his movement, keeping your posture relaxed. “How strange.”

“There is no trace left behind.” Rafayel continues, stopping right in front of you. He leans in, placing a hand on the kitchen counter on either side of you, trapping you against it. “But I did manage to find one common thread linking to every single one…”

“You—”

“—Me.”

Both of your voices overlap in the quiet room.

You smile up at his intense and dark expression, entirely unfazed by the threat radiating off him. “Jinx.”

Rafayel closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting out a harsh strained breath. When he opens them again, the anger cracks, revealing the raw, agonizing frustration underneath.

“…Why?” he whispers, his knuckles turning white against the marble counter. “Why would you do that?”

You look up at him, your smile soft and lovely.

“You are an artist, Rafayel,” you reach up to rest your hand over his clenching jaw. “...Blood on your hands doesn't suit you.”

His breath hitches at your touch, his gaze trembling slightly as he leans into your palm despite himself.

“…Neither does it suit you,” he murmurs, his voice cracking with a fierce and helpless pain.

You pause, the heaviness of his words hanging between you for a heartbeat. But you don't back down. Your fingers gently caress his cheek before slipping down to rest over his heart, feeling it beating against your hand.

“You are asking the wrong question, Rafayel.”

He stares down at you, caught in the trap of your devoted gaze.

“The right question is… what am I willing to do for you?” You lean in slightly, whispering, as if sharing a secret, your voice dripping with a slow molasses sweetness. “And the answer is… a lot.”

You’re half a sorcerer, half a useless being, a monkey, as he’d like to call them. Always teetering on the threshold of the two, never knowing how to wield into your own, but knowing enough to see more than the average person. A seer, a window. 'You are the bridge that connects the two worlds,' he once said, 'help these monkeys learn and understand where they stand in the hierarchy of the world.'

You, a window, are so much better than they are, you know, and that knowledge alone is a power that they could never have, until they’ve seen enough death and misery. How miserable must they be that they have to exchange grief for the simple gift of sight?

Not you, though, you’re so lucky, so much so that most of your life you wish you hadn’t been. Always able to see a manifested curse parasitic to those around you, but not having the power to do anything. Everyone in your life feared you like they’d seen a monster, keeping their distance, always exhibiting nothing but disdain towards your ability that unsettles them to their core. But not him, no, for since the moment he laid eyes on you he knew you were special, useful.

The first time Suguru saw you he was in the process of, what he said to be recruiting and purifying a small town just on the outskirts of Tokyo, one of the many places you’d stop by in since you ran away from home. He noticed how, amongst everyone, you could see the curses mirroring his gestures, how they’d been pulled and solidified like obsidian before he swallowed them whole. You couldn’t help but be mesmerized, such power, such control. He noticed how your mannerisms were tinged with admiration and awe, doe-eyed and dazzled. He liked that, he liked you, and he decided to take you with him then and there.

So, many moons later, you found yourself constantly kneeling at his altar at the congregation of his disciples, always nearest to him amongst his most devout and favored. Often, you’re seated where he likes you best, perched on his lap, his thick cock all snug inside your leaking cunt. It doesn’t matter that he uses you like this in front of an audience, he’ll always make sure you’ll be okay, that you’ll behave. You had been molded into a devout pet, wanting nothing but to be useful to him. After all, wasn’t he the first person ever in your life to notice your potential? to see the sight you’ve been bestowed upon as not a curse but a gift from the gods?

‘Hold still’

‘Don’t make a fucking move’

‘She’s crying for me, can you feel that? can you feel her tears running down your thigh? feel how she doesn’t want to let me go?’

He loves how every inch of you responds obediently to his touch, often without having to command you with words. An arch of your back as he touches the curve of your spine, a lift to your arms, ready to be tied above your head whenever he nudges the underside of them firmly yet softly. Whenever he requests your presence, you’d show up with no hesitation, wearing what he ordered you to underneath your robe. Though he prefers you bare, a devout pet in waiting, kneeling, ready to be of use to him in his quarters after a long day of playing god. Yet he had become one in your eyes, one you’re eager to please and worship. devotion in exchange for salvation, he had said.

You eagerly greet him, mouth wide open as he thrust his pulsating cock into your throat. He looks glorious this way you think; sable hair draped over his shoulders like silk, framing his chiseled torso, gojo-gesa pooling at his feet, brows furrowed in appreciation of your worship.

‘That’s it, there you go— take it all in— take all of me in, won’t you be good to me, haven’t I been so good to you sweet little lamb?’

He coos encouragement as his hands cradle both sides of your head, thumbs at your cheeks to wipe your tears as he lodged himself deep in your throat. He retracts and gives you a moment to breathe again, hands on your head, still. Though this time he’s petting and caressing the top of your head gently, letting you know how proud you’ve made him.

But oh how he loves it best when you allow him to have his way with knots all over your body, rope marks indented on your skin and flesh, keeping yourself so very still yet pliant for molding. Because while he is charming with his words, Suguru is also meticulous, skillful, dedicated, and patient. He wants to continuously perfect his craft, and you’re more than willing to be his docile toy.

The sight of diamond-shaped dents from the nijubishi form etched on your skin intoxicates him as he stands proud, admiring imprints of his art displayed on a perfect canvas. He’d kisses the marks on your skin after you’re unbound, rewarding you with your own pleasure, teeth gently biting the buds of your chest, mouth kissing your sensitive clit, tongue relishing in your arousal. He could taste your devotion before carving his own pleasure from your tender teary flesh, moving your bound body back and forth by holding firmly at the rope, your mouth ajar from how his thick cock stretch and split you open.

‘What a good little lamb, such a sweet little pet.’

He likes how you’re flexible, too, it makes it easier for him to mold you. Just as much as he likes how your much smaller physique looks so frail as you’re suspended horizontally in the middle of his chambers, tied in aomoke-zuri. So sweet and vulnerable like a lamb ready to be slaughtered. He loves the versatility of the form, and how you’re so accommodating to his whims in explorations. The first time you’ve succeeded in aiding him to perfect harukumo-juku, with your thighs spread and pulled apart, he couldn’t help but devour your exposed cunt.

‘Stay still’ he said as he held your thighs in place. ‘don’t ruin the form, that’s it, breathe, steady,’

Blood rush to your head as you try your best to keep your form and posture just how much he likes it, core muscles contract and relax in short intervals, breathing hitched to maintain your composure. The pressure from the knots make you wince delectably, because isn’t pain a test of reverence? didn’t he give you a new home? A new purpose to your existence? A safe haven? Wouldn’t you give him your all?

But he’s not that cruel, sometimes when he feels generous he grants you the freedom to use your voice, albeit to express pleasure like a prayer.

‘It’s okay, let them hear you, let them know how much of a good pet you are to me.’

No, he’s not cruel, not at all. He’s disciplined. Everything he does has its own punishment and reward. Like a god would to his selfless servant.

When you flinch too much than what he allows, he tightens the knot bit by bit, making the bind stronger, your legs open slightly wider, tinges of red would bloom on your skin. He’d drag his long fingers up and down your slit before landing his hand with a loud thwack on your dripping cunt, coaxing apologies out of your kiss-bitten mouth. But he’s considerate, after a few slaps, he’d coo sweetly into your ear and rub your clit tenderly, making you cry over the stimulations. He loves seeing you like this, his fingers caressing your cheeks, wiping away the tears before licking them clean, shutting you up with a kiss.

‘How marvelous’ he’d say, ‘that even your tears come crawling to me’

He’d stroke your skin softly, kissing parts of your body that had been colored with his touches. ‘You’re like a garden of earthly temptation, gods must have sent you to me as a gift’

So once again he brings you back to earth, unbound, kneeling with your face down. He digs to find pleasure deep within your burrows of velvety flesh, rings of white forming on his cock like halo, hands leaving marks on the plush of your behind. He’d grunt, he’d praise, eliciting guttural moans as he pulls you by the hair to plunge himself deeper, wanting hear more of your heavenly wails. He’d reward you again and again with kisses on your neck and on the curves of your back, licking the beads of sweat all the while, whispering adorations for how good you’re taking him.

‘I’m gonna fill you up, sweet little lamb’

‘I’m gonna fill you up and tire you out until you’re fast asleep’

‘I’ll fill you up again and again that you have no choice to carry the blessed sprouts of my seeds’

You’re in heaven, all your senses awaken and tingle all the way to the tip of your toes, sight turn blank that you couldn’t help but sing his name like a hymn. Still you’re powerless, a mess of a creature.

But you had been so good, hadn’t you? couldn’t ask for anything better, that all your trembling mouth could say is,

‘God, yes.’

ACT ONE.

You were too young when you first learned what loss of a loved one looked like, when you’d seen firsthand what it means for a body to be devoid of a life. What it means for grief, a concept that is abstract in nature, to take shape and manifest into something that felt tangible, something that felt real.

Though you could always point to where it hurts the most, despite its lack of concrete form, but there you can trace a shape of absence. Not so much as a void as how you've heard most people describe it, there's weight to its vast emptiness and you always felt like you could make out its outline. So maybe, you think, it's more like a speck of stain on a cloth instead, or more like an unidentified new organ manifested in the body and less like an unwelcomed tumor. Sometimes it shrinks, contained. But sometimes, it grows too, swallows, its shape becomes yours.

It’s not something that can be healed with any medicine or surgically removed with a knife. Not even the good old recipe of time could, not entirely, and not exactly permanently, at least.

That, you know for sure. Having tried different concoctions and ways to give yourself a fixing for about the past decade. From paid sessions to prescribed medications to alternative healings to alcohol and anything else you could get your hands on.

But nothing roots you into the temporary sense of rehabilitation more than the body of another. It brings you back to earth, here, there's a shape to you, you can feel, and you can be touched.

To be loved, however, was a different story. One that sounds more terrifying than wanted, complicated. With love implies the possibility of being reminded of loss, it's safer without. Without nothing to lose, what else on earth is there to hurt you?

It’s not that you’ve never heard declarations of love aimed towards you before, it’s simply that you’re not sure if they understood what it entails to love you. So you leave before they do, or they leave when the illusions of love have shattered.

He understood this well, too, but you didn’t know that yet. Not now, at least. For now you’re sitting across from him in the booth of a dive bar, with faint sounds of music and traces of tobacco in the air, the rhythmic tapping sounds of the pool table and chatters of the night's patrons act as a constant anchor in the background. For now, he's just another guy you talk to at some bar, maybe just another guy you wouldn't mind to be taken to bed with for one night.

"So," he said to resume the conversation as you both settled into the booth, "what brings a girl like you to a place like this?"

He gestures to the place you're in, as if it's an unthinkable place for you to be in. He was eyeing you then, intensely too, just for a moment before he took a sip of his second glass of beer that night, a dark and dry Irish stout.

"A terrible date," you said after taking your own sip of your drink. "It's actually the first one I've been on in a while since things ended with this last guy I was seeing."

"Oh? Sorry to hear that."

"About the date? Or about the breakup?"

"Hmm both, but more the breakup, I mean."

"Oh, it's no big deal, really. I mean, it was mutual, it was never going to work out anyway so we ended it amicably, kind of."

He raises an eyebrow and nods slightly, though he doesn't push further. Maybe he's trying not to pry, or maybe he's trying to get a read on you, you're not too sure which is which.

You were sure though that you liked talking to him, liked seeing his face, hair ravenous dark and a scar on his lip that paints him in a perpetual smirk. You also liked the way he's looking at you, liked the way his voice sounds, too.

"Hey," your fingers fiddle with the olive pick sitting on the lips of your glass, "what does that mean, anyway, a girl like me? What kind of girl do you even think I am?"

He laughs then, the second one that night, a hearty and deep-bellied one with a smirk of a grin that, to be honest, drive you a little crazy. "Well I mean you told me yourself earlier, apparently a princess like you is too good for a Guinness."

You gasped in a feign offense, "Oh I am not a princess and that is not what I said!"

"Sure."

Earlier in the night when you were still seated at the bar he’d offered you to try a sip of his beer and 'split the G', you somewhat politely declined, telling him "Do I look like I drink stout and can split the G?" before taking a sip from your glass of martini.

"Ugh, what I meant was I can't drink stout! I don't drink beer much anyway, maybe those fruity IPAs—you know those pale ales, those I can still stomach."

"Picky and particular. You know, you're not helping your case here, princess." He takes another sip, "Also, IPAs? I didn't take you to be into those, makes me think of those hipster home-brewed beer."

"Well you don't know anything about me now do you? Besides, please—you're—what—a middle aged guy like I'm pretty sure you have a buddy or two who has picked up a home-brewing hobby. Isn't that what guys your age do anyway when you're bored or having a crisis?"

"Ouch," he says while putting hand on his chest. "I am not middle-aged, not yet at least. But, point taken, I do have friends who dabbled here and there."

"See, and what—you don't?"

"Not really that big into alcohol if I'm being honest. This," he says as he lifts up his glass, "is just something I do once in a while to blow off steam, I don't drink that often."

You rest your chin on your hand, tipping your head sideways, "Huh, really?"

"Really," he says between sips, "why, does that surprise you?"

"Well you just seemed to be so familiar with the bartender, so I just thought you were a frequent flyer."

"Nope, just know the guy who owns the place. This is basically the only place I go to, for a drink, or two, sometimes more."

"Oh?"

"Well on the off chance that I end up finding myself in good company I'll order more so I can stay longer."

"Hmmm."

Maybe it's the liquid courage, or maybe you're just seeking for a little adrenaline rush to makeup for the previous less exciting encounter. But either way, you don't mind being the first to push the buttons.

"Okay, well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"In good company right now."

"Well, that depends on how the company's behaving the rest of the night." He says with a smile, voice punctuated slightly at the word behave you nearly missed it. But you caught enough of it that you shift slightly in your seat.

"Hmmm. Okay, fair. But that also depends on what you have to say," you pointed to the absence of ring on his finger with a nod, "I mean, what about you, what's your story? What's a guy like you, and no offense your age, doing talking to a girl like me?"

You learned that he was married, twice. Separated from the second, not so much detail on the first, somewhat dodged the topic, even.

He could've lied about it all, of course, isn't that what men often do anyway? Lying about the existence of a relationship and supposed-presence of a ring? But what you don't know is none of your concern, as long as you're told a guy is single, everything is fair game. What is truth and what isn't of another person's life, a stranger's no less, is none of your business.

⟢

The truth that you have yet to learn though, is this; that he is drinking out alone because it's been plaguing him again, she has been plaguing him again. Nearly two decades later and he could still make out her absence, which in turn pulled him into a reckoning of all the things he had done since, and all the things he had to live through before her.

He had a second chance, briefly, short-lived. Divorce wasn't too much of a surprise, all things considered, they had only been married because each of them were so lonely, so equally clueless in being a parent. But once the kids got older, there was nothing left that they had in common. As time moves and all love lost, separation became par for the course.

He held no hope out for any glimpse of the third. Not yet.

But another, different kind of truth is this; tonight wasn't the first time he'd seen you, though he wasn't sure if you actually remembered him, too. He was, genuinely surprised to see you there of all places. You looked like someone who wouldn't set foot in a place that doesn't at least have a wine selection older than the 1990s. But it was a welcomed surprise, he always liked seeing you, even then in passing, but especially tonight, earlier next to him at the bar, then across from him at the booth, and now pressed against the wall as he finally gets to kiss you.

It would also be a dishonesty to himself not to admit that he'd been thinking of kissing you since you entertained the thought of conversing with him. Wanting to kiss the space where your neck and shoulders meet when he saw the flimsy strap of your dress fall over as you tilt your neck sideways —was that on purpose?— liked the way your hair fell and cascade down then, too. Wanting to hear what other sounds your voice makes the moment he heard you speak, which turned out to be better than he could ever thought.

He kept kissing you, now tipsy and all giggly in his arms, legs all but liquefied since the moment he slid his foot back up your shin under the table, a response to the previous nudging of your toes onto his. Lost your composure even more than you thought possible when he placed his large hand over your knees in the cab, opening them slightly to run a hand up your thigh. He didn't move his hand up further, didn't need to, just held it there firmly, thumb slowly moving back and forth your inner thighs it was enough to make you feel like you had more to drink than you actually did.

You nearly laughed again then, feeling a nudge in your lower abdomen from where his body pressed onto yours with your back against the wall. But not before he pushed his knee between your legs, sliding up and pressing it to where you're soaking. He could feel you, your warmth, your dampness.

"Hmm, someone's excited." he says as he kisses along your jawline

"Hey, isn't that supposed to be my line?" you said between breaths, before you hear your own voice erupts into a moan as he kiss and licks the underside of your jaw.

"You never shut up, do you?"

"Hmm, no."

"Good, let me hear you," he said before biting the skin of the crook of your neck.

He chuckles at your moan, picks you up then and not a moment too soon, one hand hiking up the hem of your dress before snapping the band of your lace panties against your soft skin. But you, impatient as you always have been, instinctively grind yourself against him in response. He teases you then as he places you on the edge of the bed, said something about you and your greed, but all you could think about is how badly you want him to rip your clothes off by his teeth.

You moan and lift your head off the bed when you feel his hand palming you where you want him, fingers caressing where your desire has pooled, palm pressing down your clit. He could feel it, how bad you wanted him, could see the sheen of your slick spilled all the way down to your inner thighs.

He pulls it to the side, eyeing the translucent string where your panties and your core once connected.

"Christ," He muttered under his breath. "You're always this wet?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Why don't you find out yourself."

"Don't test me, kid."

"Hey, I'm not a k—oh fuck." He dipped his head then, tongue stubbornly pushes itself into your folds, desperate to taste you and all you could do was press the base of your palm into your eyes.

⟢

Admittedly, though not so different than yourself, Toji had tasted more women than he had variations of alcohol. But he could've sworn there's something different with the way you taste, something about it that he likes more than he thinks he should.

Maybe it's how responsive you are to his touches, maybe it's the voices you make and how easy it is for him to coax them out from the depths of your throat, maybe it's how tight you're squeezing just his fingers alone, maybe just because it's you.

You knew that your dress will be crumpled in ways beyond fixing that night. Sweat slowly seeping through its fabric from being bunched up along your lower back, legs folded into mating press as he lose himself and his tongue on your taste.

He looked up then, fingers came to replace where his nose was, nudging your clit like a pinch, the pressure from either side making your head spin it made you stifle your moan.

But he only egged you on,

"Didn't I tell you, let me hear you."

He laps his tongue again then, but not before spitting where you're already wet. He drinks it up; your moans and the way your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, he moaned into you as he felt a tug, telling you not to let go.

Finally, he came up for the second time, kissing you on the mouth so you know how good you taste, too. Fingers tugging the hem of your dress saying, "Take this off, I want to know if you feel as good as you taste."

a/n initially I wanted it to be a long fic with three acts, but I hit a snag on the second plus I think it might've been a tad too long if I didn't...

⟢

You tried to wait. Tried to distract yourself or, hell, even tried to deal with it yourself. But no matter how you try, you just can't satisfy your desires like he can.

You feel a bit ashamed, creeping through Sylus's bedroom door while he's fast asleep. He was absolutely exhausted when he got back home. Tired enough only to leave you with a quick kiss and a "Have a good day, sweetie," before he trudged off to take a quick shower and pass out. Tired enough that you feel absolutely guilty slinking over to the bed and sitting beside him.

He's sleeping on his stomach. He usually does when you're not in his arms. Cradling the pillow under his head, at ease with his back exposed, yet on guard with his hands inches from his gun.

He looks peaceful. His back rises and falls with each breath. Shoulder blades shifting as his chest expands and relaxes. His biceps are flexed from the position of his arms, taught and enticing. And his face: lashes brushing his sharp cheekbones, brow relaxed, lips slightly parted. You can't resist carefully brushing aside his bangs to get a better look. He's beautiful. Ethereal.

You need him. The ache in your belly grows restless. The overwhelming wetness in your panties yearning to be properly taken care of.

You're still trying to work up the courage to nudge his shoulder when he sighs long and drawn out through his nose.

"What is it, sweetie?" he mumbles. His words, slurred and rough with exhaustion.

You bite your lip. He sounds so tired. You really should just leave him be.

Hearing only your restrained silence, he slowly blinks an eye open to squint up at you. The peaceful line of his brow turns into a frown as concern has him turning onto his side to see you better. "What's wrong?"

You shake your head. "It's nothing. I'm sorry for waking you."

"'S fine," he slurs. He reaches out for you, finding your hip and rubbing it soothingly. "What d'you need, kitten? You wouldn't come in here just t'watch me sleep."

"Maybe I did," you tease. "You're so pretty - maybe I wanted to admire you at your most vulnerable."

A sleepy smirk tugs his lips. He closes his eyes for a moment to fight off the burn of sleep, then looks up at you again. "It's a sight only you're permitted to see."

"I know. It's very valuable to me."

"But it's not why you're here."

You sigh. He's not going to let you slip free this time.

You shake your head and run your fingers through his hair. He hums at the lovely feeling of your nails dragging along his scalp, playing with his still slightly-damp hair, petting him like he's your pet. He naturally angles his head for more, leaning into your hand and brushing a kiss to your wrist. "I'm..." You sigh again, fully relenting to the situation. "Unbearably horny."

He chuckles, then laughs. It's cute and boyish, and he brushes his lips over your wrist again like an apology.

"I tried dealing with it myself, but you just- I don't know. You... know my body better."

"I'm flattered," he hums. "But I don't know how much... assistance I can provide right now."

"I know. Which is why I was trying to get out of saying it in the first place."

He shakes his head slightly, nuzzling his nose against your pulse. "I'm glad you came to me. I... like that you trust me with this." He hesitates, like the words are strange in his mouth to say. Maybe it is. You've noticed how often he struggles to be vulnerable sometimes, even with you. You can't blame him, either; you have no idea the life he led before you.

He breathes in the fragrance of your skin. Traces his lips over your pulse, seeking the thrum of your heart beneath. And then he turns over onto his back. Even in his tired state, he doesn't seem to struggle at all to pull you up by your waist to settle you onto his lap. And damn, you wish you could memorialize the way he looks up at you: eyes heavy and dark, lips so soft and sleepy as he smirks, hair tousled and messy.

"Use me."

You blink down at him. "Excuse me?"

He chuckles. His thumbs tuck under your shirt to run along the waistband of your pants. You shiver. An electrified thrill runs up your spine.

"You need me to satisfy your desires. Well, I'm offering my body to your needs, kitten. You can use me for as long as you need to."

Saliva pools under your tongue at the offer. You swallow it down, willing your fingers not to tremble as you rest them against his chest. "Are you sure?"

He nods. "Absolutely."

"You're not too tired?"

A hum, and a shrug. "If I fall asleep, you can keep going," he says. "I can't leave my poor kitten wanting."

God, the permission he just granted you makes you instinctively try to press your thighs shut. All you succeed in doing is squeezing his hips. He grins, so pleased with himself for having such a strong impact on you.

You lean down over him to press a light kiss to his lips. It's slow and sweet. The passion is there, thrumming under the thick blanket of sleep. "You can always tell me to stop," you murmur against his mouth. "I don't wanna take advantage of you."

He nods. Lips part to lick at the seam of your mouth, welcoming the taste of you to his senses. His large hands squeeze your hips, silently telling you just how much he desires you, too. He guides you, in no rush or urgency, until your clothed cunt rests right over the bulge under the thin blanket. Even through the layers of clothing, it's addicting to feel the effect you have on him. His cock growing hard just for you.

You rock steadily against him. Grind your hips down against his. He groans softly into your mouth. His breath seems to shudder, like he feels everything twice as much as usual now that he's inebriated with exhaustion.

His hips rise just barely to match your pace. You feel his cock harden more and more, pressing insistently against you, begging for you to take what you want for yourself.

You press your tongue into his mouth. He welcomes your dominance, sucking on your tongue and meeting it with his own. He tastes like his toothpaste, from brushing his teeth before he went to bed. The fresh chill of mint counterbalancing the heat of your kiss.

When you pull away, your teeth catch his lip and tug. He breathes a sigh of your name, mumbled out as he eagerly cracks open his eyes to see what you'll do to him next.

You sit up and shift yourself down onto his thighs. He watches, enraptured, as you pull the blanket down to reveal his sleep pants. Dragging your hands down his stomach, his belly pulls in with a sharp breath of air. You look up at his face as you grab his waistband. His face is all flushed. Cheeks burning a beautiful pink, up to the tips of his ears.

You draw the fabric down torturously. Slowly, slowly over the curve of his cock, straining to be free, pressing eagerly up against his boxer briefs. He lifts his hips up slightly to let you pull them down over his ass.

You're so tempted to suck him off through his underwear. Tease the impression of his cockhead with your tongue through cotton, licking a wet spot overtop a precum stain.

But you're just too damn needy. Too fucking desperate to have him fill you like no toy possibly could. He's utterly ruined you with his cock. An addiction only he can provide, a withdrawal only he can satiate.

You drag your nails along the lines of his hips. His head falls back into the pillow. Adam's apple bobs with a low groan and a swallow. He bites his lip when you finally drag his underwear down and his cock springs free. It slaps up against his stomach, twitching and beautiful. You think of licking up the vein running along the underside. Sucking at the tip and licking at the drooling slit.

But your pussy throbs with urgent desire. Gushes with unbridled arousal. You lift yourself off of him and his hands move on autopilot to help you remove your pants and panties.

He lifts his head to watch in a daze as he draws his fingers through your slit, parting your lips to expose the pretty threads of slick he gathers on his fingertips. He raises them to his mouth, licking at the glistening wetness. Sucks his fingers into his mouth with a delirious moan at how delicious you taste.

"So wet..." he breathes. "How long did you play with yourself for, sweetie?"

You whine at the reminder, embarrassed. "An hour, at least," you gripe. Too damn long, that's for sure. Fingering yourself, grabbing different vibrators and turning them to all different settings, various dildos. Nothing could satisfy the hunger. If anything ever did bring you near the edge, it was never enough to push you over. The second your breath would hitch and mind would get light, it went away, waiting for you to chase after it again and again.

He groans around his fingers at the thought. You, trying so hard not to bother him. Trying so hard to take care of yourself alone. Only to come crawling to him. It certainly boosts his ego. But, really, what could be more arousing than knowing your partner desires you so much?

You straddle his hips again, laying your parted folds along the length of his dick. You grind him like that, stroking him along your pussy, soaking his cock with your wetness. His fingers dig loosely into your hip, his other hand falling from his mouth to hold onto the pillow underneath his head.

Before long, you can wait no longer. You lift yourself up and he watches, so fucking pretty, as you line his cock up to your entrance. Your cunt accepts him so readily, already well prepared by your desperate ministrations from before. He glides so deep into you, stretching you open so perfectly, curving along your walls like he was molded to fit there. He gasps your name again, like a breathless prayer. Brow furrowed, mouth hanging open, eyes fixed on where your bodies are joined.

It's exactly everything you needed. His blunt tip nudging at your cervix. The heat of his body. The feeling of him twitching against you already, leaking precum deep inside your cunt. You moan, rolling your hips to grind your clit against his pubic bone and the pretty mess of pale hairs that decorate the base of his cock.

"Fuck," he sighs, rolling his hips lazily to match you. They don't quite time up, but it feels too good to even think of complaining.

"You're so perfect, Sy," you moan. Lift your hips and drop them right back down. The clap of skin, the slam of his cock, hitches your breath. "Mnh, so- fuck! So perfect."

The praise goes straight to his head. It always does. You love when he's making love to you, hunched over you as he rolls his hips to perfectly angle himself in all the ways that make you cry out his name. When you can whisper in his ear all the sweet things he's never gotten to hear before. About how beautiful he is. How gentle he can be. How you love having him so close, feeling all his skin against yours. How good he smells with his fancy colognes. How you adore all the sounds he makes, his grunts and groans and the sharp hiss of air through his teeth when you squeeze around him or bite his neck; the rare occasions he honest to god whimpers for you, whining about how good you feel around him, how gorgeous you are, how he's so desperate to fill you up. And right now, the praise is even more effective, as his sleep-addled mind takes it in deep, without the knee-jerk reaction of feeling like he doesn't deserve it.

He lets his head fall back. Eyes slip shut. Mouth parted around the syllables of your name, whispered like a declaration of love in the wee hours of morning, when everything is so hushed yet so profound. His fingers tighten around the corner of the pillow. Back arches, seeking out more of your attention, drowning in what you're already giving him.

You plant your hands on his chest for support. Drag your nails down his abs as your hour of foreplay creeps up on you. Your arousal has already soaked his pelvis and inner thigh, even the prominent veins that travel from his navel down to his cock. Each bounce is accentuated with the slick, wet sound. It drives you wild. Picks up your pace. Goes to your head until you're riding him like you're possessed.

"F-Feels s'good~! Mnh, needed you s'bad. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, m'gonna-"

"Cum, baby," he whines, grabbing at your thigh with his free hand, squeezing the plush meat so hard it'll bruise. "Cum f'me, please, kitten."

Hearing his sleep roughened voice so high pitched and broken, begging. You don't stand a chance to last a second more.

You cry out his name. Grind yourself down on his cock as your walls clench so tight around him, swollen clit dragging along his skin. His hips lift slightly, barely at all. His cock twitches, cum flooding your cunt in hot spurts, filling you more and more until it spills out around him, dripping onto his thighs.

You slow to a stop, body trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. It takes you a second to breathe again. A minute more before you can open your eyes. You seek out Sylus's face through the daze and have to fight the giggle that bubbles up your throat.

His eyes are shut but his brow is relaxed. Mouth parted around even breaths, chest rising and falling slowly. His fingers have released the pillow. Eased up on your thigh.

Fast asleep.

You can't help admiring him for a bit. The slight glisten of sweat on his skin, his bangs sticking to his forehead. The slight shake to his breaths, still affected by his orgasm. You can even hear the faintest snore.

"My pretty baby," you coo in a whisper. You carefully lean down, laying your body overtop his, mindful not to wake him up again or let him slip out. You press a faint kiss at the corner of his mouth, then the bridge of his nose, and his chin, before tucking your face into his neck. "Sweet dreams, Sy."

---

Tag List:

you hated his best friend too, the one who made you sound like a graphite pencil that had rolled too far.

gojo's wide grin came into view. "fancy seeing you here."

"it's a public library," you replied flatly.

"leave her alone, satoru." suguru's chiding voice had an effect similar to scraping nails on a chalkboard. he didn't even look at you, texting someone on his phone. dressed way too comfy—grey sweatshirt and pants that cast him in a soft halo, luscious hair held back by sheer will—to be looking for a fight this early in the weekend. "don't pick on the weak."

"wanna study together?" gojo made it sound like he was doing you a favour. "you got that test coming up, yeah?"

"i'm good, thanks." you had important things to do. assignments and deadlines and existential crises to consider.

"c'mooon, don't be like that," gojo pouted. he tried to wrap his arm around your shoulders but your glare stopped him short. "suguru doesn't mind at all. right?"

you weren't sure why but your eyes found his. strangely, they were already on yours. dark and unreadable. suguru merely raised an eyebrow as if to say, your call.

ten minutes later you were sitting next to gojo. across from suguru. a variety of books opened in front of you. gojo, you thought, couldn't possibly know how to read but he continued to surprise you.

"so, got any plans after this?" gojo wasn't here to study for anything at all, practising a right hand pass instead with an imaginary football.

"none of your business."

"that's a no, huh."

suguru's lips twitched. he wasn't studying either, textbooks spread in front of him to give passers-by the illusion of knowledge. in reality, he was still busy texting whatever dropshipping course he'd invested in. looking annoyingly attractive as he did so.

gojo wasn't easily deterred. "you should join us later, number two. we'll be heading to toji's after this and he's got like, plenty of quiet space you can study in."

"which is what the library's for so, no." you eyed him warily—you didn't know why they both were here, if they already had plans to study at toji's. but that was a thought for another time, so you picked up a pen and flipped open your notes. slipped your headphones on and read the first practice question. tried to ignore the feel of certain eyes tracking your every movement.

suguru hadn't planned on coming to the library. he and satoru were supposed to be at toji's by now, surrounded by cheap soda and half-cooked ramen, but he'd seen you enter the library while they were walking down the street. stray strands framing your pretty face, a frown pulling at your lips as you rummaged for your library pass.

"just need a book," suguru had assured satoru when he suggested they study at the library instead.

gojo had concerns. "but we can't eat in there."

"lunch is on me."

and if anyone asked why the sudden change of heart, suguru would tell them he just felt like it, for no particular reason.

the no particular reason was pulling out her phone now, beckoned by a ping.

"prof yaga just posted the teams for the research project." gojo skimmed through the list. "i got nanami!"

but suguru was watching your face. your scrunched nose, forehead creasing as you silently read your name. again. and again. but no matter how many times you desperately wished for it to change, SUGURU GETO remained neatly slotted next to yours.

"maybe it's a mistake," you muttered to yourself, swiping through the rest of the list. all these students and that's who your professor paired you up with? the guy whose hair was insured for ¥400,000?

"yaga doesn't make mistakes," suguru said, matter-of-factly.

"you'd know a lot about mistakes, wouldn't you?"

"i'm speaking to one now, aren't i?"

gojo waved his hands frantically, trying to diffuse the situation. "heyheyhey you guys, no fighting. it's just a small project. you can be civil about this." he dug an elbow into suguru's side, blue eyes narrowed at him. "right?"

"yeah, sure." he didn't believe it and neither did you.

"i'll ask yaga if he's willing to reconsider the list." your chair scraped against the floor, hands collecting your things from the table. "bye, gojo."

gojo sighed as you left without acknowledging the other boy, the one who could have just kept his mouth shut a little. "why are you like this?"

"like what?"

"like this." gojo motioned at him with an accusatory finger. "you're so annoying around her, dude. like you're purposely trying to get under her skin."

"i have no idea what you're talking about."

he had some idea, though. as satoru went on a rant about being nice to nerds so that he can be spared when they inevitably rule over the world, suguru thought about you. how cute you were when you got all bothered, huffing curses you thought he couldn't hear. those glossy lips always pulling into a frown whenever you spotted him. how your cheeks flushed pink when you were irritated.

and maybe if you hadn't been so busy loathing him, you would've noticed that suguru never checked the list himself the entire while. almost like he already knew who he was paired with.

or like he was the one who convinced yaga to pair you together in the first place.