Cattastrophe

His dark eyes are soft in the dim light, his expression unguarded in a way you've never seen before. His thumb continues its gentle path along your spine, and when you meet his gaze, he doesn't look away.

"Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he says back, his voice is rough with sleep.

You're still pressed against his chest, his arm wrapped around you, and the intimacy of it makes your breath catch. This is different from last night's intensity. This is quiet. Real.

"You didn't leave," you say softly.

"No." His hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your jaw. "I didn't."

You lean into his touch, and he shifts closer, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm on your lips, and when he kisses you, it's soft. Tender. Like he's savoring it.

You kiss him back, your hand sliding up to tangle in his hair, and he makes a low sound in his throat. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens.

"Mmm—" You press against him, feeling the heat of his body through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Megumi's hand slides down your back to your hip, gripping firmly, and he rolls you on top of him in one smooth motion. You're straddling him now, your thighs on either side of his hips, and you can feel him already half hard under you.

"Oh—" Your breath hitches.

He kisses you again, harder this time, his hands sliding under your shirt to grip your bare waist. His fingers dig into your skin, and you rock your hips against him instinctively.

"Fuck—" Megumi's voice is strained, his head tipping back against the pillow.

You grind down on him again, feeling him harden completely under you, and his hands tighten on your hips. He guides your movement, pulling you down harder against him, and the friction makes you gasp.

"Ah—"

His eyes are dark and hungry while he watches you move on top of him. One hand slides up under your shirt to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and you arch into his touch.

"Megumi—"

He sits up suddenly, wrapping his arms around you, and kisses you like he's drowning. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours, and you can feel his cock pressing hard against you through the layers of fabric between you.

You rock against him faster, chasing the friction, and he groans into your mouth.

"Nngg—fuck—"

His hands slide down to grip your ass, pulling you harder against him with each roll of your hips. The heat building between you is overwhelming, and you're both breathing hard, lost in each other.

"Oh god—Megumi—please—"

He kisses down your neck, biting gently at your pulse point, and you whimper. His hands are everywhere. On your back, your hips, sliding under your shirt to touch anything he can grab. You're grinding against him desperately now, the pressure building. 

"Ah—ah—"

Megumi's breathing is ragged against your neck. "You feel so—" He doesn't finish the sentence, just pulls you down harder against him.

You're so lost in the sensation that you don't notice Yuji stirring behind you until you hear his sleepy voice.

"Mmm... what time is it?"

You freeze, still straddling Megumi, your hands tangled in his hair. Megumi's hands are still gripping your hips, and you can feel how hard he is under you.

There's a long pause.

Then Yuji's voice, much more awake now: "Oh. Good morning."

You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder. He's propped up on one elbow, his hair sticking up in every direction, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene.

"Morning," you say breathlessly.

Yuji blinks. Looks at you. Looks at Megumi. Looks at where you're very obviously straddling his best friend.

"So," he says slowly, a sleepy smile on his face. “Are we... doing this again?"

Megumi's hands haven't left your hips. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest.

"I—" You don't know what to say.

Yuji sits up fully, his movements are slow. He doesn't move to leave or talk. His eyes flick between you and Megumi, processing what he’s seeing. His expression is confused more than anything else. He opens his mouth like he's about to say something, then closes it again. "What—" His voice comes out uncertain. "Guys?"

Megumi's hands drop from your hips like you burned him. He shifts under you, pulling back, and suddenly there's space where there wasn't any before. His jaw clenches as he sits up, creating distance between your bodies. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't look at Yuji. Just reaches for his shirt on the floor, his movements are sharp and controlled.

You're still straddling him, confused by the sudden shift. Yuji's expression mirrors yours.

"I'm going to..." Megumi doesn't finish the sentence. He just pulls his shirt over his head and stands, his back to both of you. His shoulders are rigid.

You climb off the bed slowly, suddenly aware of how exposed you are. Yuji watches the whole thing happen, his earlier sleepiness is completely gone.

"Megumi—" you start.

"Breakfast," he says flatly, still not turning around. His voice is carefully neutral and controlled. Everything he was a minute ago is locked back down again.

Yuji glances at you, then at Megumi's rigid back. "Right. Breakfast."

The three of you get dressed in heavy silence. Megumi doesn't look at either of you. When he's done, he heads straight to the door without waiting.

Breakfast is chaos.

Not because anything dramatic happens, but because the three of you are trying so hard to act normal that it's painfully obvious something is wrong.

You sit between Yuji and Megumi at the long table in the common area. Nobara is across from you, Panda and Maki are at the end.

"Morning!" Nobara says cheerfully, then pauses. Her eyes flick between the three of you for just a moment before she looks back down at her plate.

Panda tilts his head. "The energy at this table is weird."

Maki glances up from her food, her gaze moving between you, Yuji, and Megumi. She doesn't say anything, but she watches for a second longer than usual before returning to her food.

Megumi doesn't say anything. He's focused very intently on his rice.

Gojo appears out of nowhere, draping himself over the back of Yuji's chair. "Good morning, my adorable students! Everyone sleep well?"

"Fine," Megumi says flatly.

Gojo's grin is knowing, but he doesn't elaborate. "Interesting. Well, training starts in twenty minutes. Don't be late!"

He disappears just as quickly as he arrived.

Megumi stands up abruptly. "I'm going to get ready for training."

He leaves without looking back, and Yuji watches him go with a complicated expression on his face.

Nobara leans forward slightly, her curiosity is obvious, but she just shrugs. "Guess he's in a mood."

You finish your tea quickly and escape before the silence gets heavier.

Training is worse.

Gojo has you all sparring in pairs, rotating every fifteen minutes. You end up with Maki first, and she immediately gives you a look.

"So," she says as you circle each other. "Rough morning?"

"No," you say, blocking her strike.

"Liar." She sweeps your legs, and you barely dodge. "He keeps looking at you."

"He does not."

"He literally just looked at you."

You glance over and catch Megumi's eyes across the training field. He's supposed to be sparring with Panda, but he's watching you instead. When your eyes meet, he looks away quickly.

"See?" Maki grins.

You don't answer, focusing on the fight instead.

When you rotate partners, you end up with Yuji. He's gentle with you, more than usual, and it makes your chest ache.

"You okay?" he asks quietly as you trade blows.

"Yeah. You?"

He hesitates. "I don't know."

You pause, lowering your guard slightly. "Yuji—"

"It's fine," he says quickly. "We'll figure it out. I just..." He glances over at Megumi, who's now sparring with Yuta. "I don't want to lose him. Or you."

"You won't," you promise.

He nods, but he doesn't look convinced.

The next rotation puts you with Megumi.

The moment you face each other, the air feels charged. He's tense, his jaw is tight, and when he moves it's with more force than necessary.

"Megumi," you say as you block his strike. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

"You're not fine."

He doesn't answer, just attacks again. You dodge, but barely.

"Megumi—"

"I said I'm fine."

But he's not. You can see it in the way he moves, the way he won't meet your eyes. He's fighting himself as much as he's fighting you.

When Gojo calls for a break, Megumi walks away without another word.

Lunch is somehow even more awkward.

You sit with Nobara and Maki, trying to act normal, but you can feel Megumi's eyes on you from across the room. He's sitting with Panda and Toge, and Yuji is next to him, but there's a visible gap between them that wasn't there before.

"Okay, so," Nobara says, leaning forward slightly. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

"What? No," you say quickly.

"You're all being weird," Maki observes, her gaze moving between you and the boys. "Like, really weird."

"We're not being weird."

"You're definitely being weird," Nobara insists. "Fushiguro won't stop looking at you, and you keep looking back, and Itadori looks like he's about to have an existential crisis."

"He does not."

"He literally does," Maki says flatly. "Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened."

Nobara and Maki exchange a look. They don't really believe you, but they're not sure what to think.

"Okay," Nobara says slowly. "But like... something's different."

You glance over and catch Megumi's eyes from across the room. When your eyes meet, he doesn't look away this time. He just holds your gaze, his expression is unreadable.

You force yourself to look back down at your plate.

Maki follows your gaze, then looks back at you with raised eyebrows. "Yeah. That."

"There's nothing to know," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Nobara grins, but it's uncertain. "Well, whatever it is, it's definitely something."

You don't answer, focusing very intently on your lunch instead.

Afternoon training is more of the same awkwardness as earlier.

Megumi keeps finding reasons to be near you. When you're practicing with Nobara, he's suddenly there, offering corrections. When you take a water break, he hands you his bottle before you can reach for yours. When you stumble during a drill, his hand is on your back, steadying you.

"You keep touching her," Yuji says suddenly.

Everyone stops.

Megumi freezes, his hand still on your lower back. He looks at Yuji, then at his own hand, and slowly pulls away.

"I—" He doesn't finish.

Yuji's expression is complicated. Not angry, exactly, but not happy either. "It's fine. I just... noticed."

The silence stretches.

"Okay!" Gojo claps his hands. "I think that's enough for today. Great work, everyone!"

The group separates quickly, and you're left standing between Yuji and Megumi, neither of them looking at each other.

"I'm going to take a shower," Yuji says quietly, and walks away.

Megumi watches him go, his jaw is tight.

"Megumi—" you start.

"Not here," he says. "Come with me."

He walks toward the edge of the training field, away from everyone, and you follow.

When you're alone, hidden by the trees at the edge of the property, Megumi turns to look at you.

Before you can say anything, he closes the distance between you and kisses you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate, almost angry, his hands gripping your face like he's afraid you'll disappear. He pushes you back against a tree, his body pressing into yours, and you gasp into his mouth.

You kiss him back just as hard, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he makes a low sound in his throat. His hands slide down to grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel how hard he is against you.

"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard. "I can't stop thinking about you."

"Megumi—"

"I know." His voice is rough. "I know I shouldn't—"

"I need you to know I still love Yuji," you say quietly.

He goes completely still.

He doesn't move for a long moment. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there processing, his breathing the only sound between you.

Then quietly he says, "...I figured."

He steps back, putting distance between you, and walks away before you can stop him.

You stay in the shelter of the trees for another minute, staring after him, unable to move.

You go back to your room and close the door behind you.

The silence is immediately suffocating.

You pace the small space, unable to settle down, replaying the moment over and over. The way Megumi's face changed when you said it. The way he walked away without looking back.

You can't breathe. You sit down on the edge of your bed, wrapping your arms around yourself.

You lie down, curling onto your side, and try to make sense of what you're feeling. You love Yuji. You do. But Megumi—

There's a knock on your door.

"Hey." Yuji's voice is soft through the wood. "Can I come in?"

You sit up, wiping at your eyes. "Yeah."

The door opens and Yuji steps inside, and his expression changes immediately when he sees you. His eyes catch on the wetness on your cheeks, the way you're holding yourself, and something in him softens completely.

"Oh baby, don't cry," he says quietly, crossing the room in quick strides. "Come here."

He scoops you up gently, one arm wrapping around your waist as he sits back down on the bed, settling you into his lap. You're cradled against his chest, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, and his arms come around you. One hand is splayed across your back, the other is cradling the back of your head.

"I've got you," he murmurs into your hair. "I've got you."

You let yourself sink into him, breathing in the familiar scent, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. His hand moves in slow, soothing circles across your back, and he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Shh." He tilts your chin up gently with one finger, his dark eyes searching yours. "You don't have anything to apologize for.”

He kisses your forehead, tenderly and unhurried. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where a tear still clings to your lash. Each kiss is deliberate and careful, like he's trying to kiss away the hurt.

"Whatever happens with Megumi," he says softly, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, "I love you. We're okay. You and me? We're solid."

Your throat tightens. "You mean that?"

"Of course I mean it." He kisses you gently on the lips. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

You close your eyes and lean into him, and for a few minutes you just sit there together, his hand never stopping its gentle path across your back, his chin resting on top of your head.

After a while, he moves slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His thumb traces your jawline, and he gives you a soft smile.

"You want to watch a movie later?" he asks, his voice still gentle. "Something mindless? We can curl up together, get some snacks. Take your mind off things for a bit?"

You nod against his chest. "Yeah. That sounds really good."

He grins, and it reaches his eyes. He cups your face in both hands and kisses you—your forehead, your temple, your cheekbone, your nose, your lips—each one lingering just a little longer than the last one, until you feel the tension in your shoulders start to ease and you're almost smiling despite everything.

"Okay baby," he says, his voice is warm. "I'm going to grab some snacks. Your favorites, obviously. I'll be back soon, okay?"

He gives you one more long hug, holding you close, and then he stands. He takes your hand and squeezes it gently before letting go, and he leans down to kiss you one more time before heading for the door.

You watch him go, and for the first time since Megumi walked away, you feel like you can breathe.

The minutes pass slowly after Yuji leaves.

You get up and pace your room, trying to distract yourself. You straighten the books on your desk. You check your phone. You sit back down on the bed, then stand again.

You're calmer after Yuji's reassurance, but you still can't sit still. You keep thinking about Megumi. About the way he looked at you. About what he said before he walked away.

I figured.

You glance at the clock. Yuji's been gone maybe twenty minutes. He's probably still grabbing snacks, debating between different options like he always does.

Then there's another knock. Softer this time. Hesitant. You stop pacing.

"Come in," you say quietly.

The door opens, and Megumi steps inside.

He closes it behind him and leans against it, his eyes fixed on you. He looks tired.

"I don't care," he says.

You sit up straighter. "What?"

"I don't care that you love him." His voice is steady, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched at his sides. "I'm still here."

Your breath catches.

He crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed. "I know you're not leaving him." He stops, his jaw working. "I don't care. I want this anyway."

"Megumi—"

He kisses you before you can finish, his hand cupping your face, and you melt into it. His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, and you shift to straddle his lap.

"Mmm—"

His hands grip your hips, and you rock against him, feeling him harden beneath you. He groans into your mouth, his fingers digging into your skin.

"Fuck—" He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. "I've wanted this for so long—"

You kiss him again, harder, and he responds with equal intensity. His hands slide under your shirt, touching bare skin, and you gasp.

"Ah—"

You're so lost in each other that you don't hear the door open.

"Hey, I brought snacks and thought we could—oh."

You and Megumi freeze.

Yuji is standing in the doorway, a bag of chips in one hand and a movie tucked under his arm. He's staring at you and Megumi with wide eyes.

"Again?" he says. "I really have incredible timing."

You climb off Megumi's lap, your face burning. "Yuji—"

"No, it's—" He sets the snacks down on your desk. "It's fine. I just thought we could watch a movie, but if you guys are—"

"Stay," Megumi says.

Yuji blinks. "What?"

"Stay." Megumi's voice is steady, but you can see the tension in his jaw. "Please."

Yuji looks at you, then back at Megumi. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

There's a long pause.

Then Yuji closes the door and locks it.

Megumi pulls you back down onto the bed, his body covering yours as he settles between your legs. His mouth finds yours immediately, kissing you deeply, desperately, and you melt into it.

"Mmm—"

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt higher, and you arch into his touch. He breaks the kiss only long enough to pull your shirt over your head, then his mouth is back on yours.

Yuji moves to sit beside you on the bed, his hand resting on your hip. When Megumi shifts to kiss down your neck, Yuji leans in and kisses your shoulder, soft and familiar.

"Oh—"

Megumi's hands work your shorts and underwear down, and you lift your hips to help. Once you're bare beneath him, he positions himself between your legs, his cock pressing against your entrance.

"Please—" you breathe.

He pushes in slowly, and you both groan at the sensation.

"Fuck—" Megumi's voice is strained. "You feel so—"

"Ah—" Your back arches as he fills you completely.

He starts moving, slow and controlled, his hips rolling in a steady rhythm. His mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply as he fucks you.

Yuji's hand slides up your body to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "So beautiful, baby," he murmurs against your neck, kissing the sensitive skin there.

"Mmm—oh god—"

Megumi's pace is measured, deliberate. You can feel him holding back, maintaining control even as his breathing grows ragged. His hands grip your hips, pulling you onto him with each thrust.

"Megumi—" You gasp his name.

"Nngg—" He groans into your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours.

Yuji kisses down your collarbone to your breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. His other hand strokes your side, your stomach, everywhere he can reach.

"Ah—ah—"

"That's it, baby," Yuji murmurs between kisses to your skin. "You're doing so good for him."

Megumi's thrusts grow slightly harder, his control slipping just a fraction. "Fuck—you're so—"

"Yes—" You're trembling beneath him. "Don't stop—"

Yuji's mouth moves to your other breast while his hand slides down your body. His fingers find where Megumi is moving inside you, and he gently circles your clit.

"Oh god—" Your whole body jerks at the sensation.

"Fuck—" Megumi's hips snap forward harder. "When you clench like that—"

"Does he feel good, baby?" Yuji asks, his fingers working your clit in slow circles. "Tell him."

"So good—" You can barely form words. "So deep—Megumi—"

Megumi shifts suddenly, sitting back on his knees and pulling you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and the new angle makes you cry out.

"Ah—fuck—"

He grips your hips and starts fucking up into you, deeper now, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. His eyes are dark and intense on your face, watching every expression.

"Oh—oh god—Megumi—"

Yuji moves closer, his hand sliding up Megumi's back. Megumi turns his head slightly, and Yuji leans in and kisses him.

It's messy. Sloppy. Their tongues sliding together, Yuji's hand coming up to cup Megumi's jaw. Megumi makes a low sound in his throat, his hips never stopping their rhythm inside you.

"Mmm—" The sound vibrates between them.

Yuji's other hand slides down Megumi's chest, feeling the muscles flex and tense as he fucks you. "Fuck—" Yuji breathes against Megumi's mouth.

"Nngg—" Megumi groans, his grip on your hips tightening.

When they break apart, Megumi immediately turns back to you, capturing your mouth in a desperate kiss. His tongue slides against yours, hungry and demanding, and you can taste Yuji on his lips.

"Ah—" You moan into his mouth.

Yuji sits back slightly, watching the two of you. Watching Megumi fuck you. Watching you fall apart on his best friend's cock. His hand moves to palm himself through his pants.

"Fuck, that's hot," Yuji breathes.

Megumi's pace picks up, his control fracturing. His hands slide up your back, holding you close as he drives into you.

"Megumi—I'm—" You're so close, trembling in his arms.

"Come for me—" His voice is wrecked. "Please—"

His next thrust hits perfectly, and you shatter.

"Ah—ah—fuck—Megumi—" Your whole body goes rigid, clenching rhythmically around him as your orgasm crashes through you.

"Fuck—" Megumi groans, his hips jerking. "You feel so—"

You're still trembling, barely coherent, when Yuji speaks.

"Megumi," his voice is rough, thick with arousal. "Take her on her hands and knees... please."

Megumi pulls out carefully, and you whimper at the loss. He helps position you on your hands and knees on the bed, his hands gentle despite the obvious strain in his body.

"Please—" you gasp, pushing back toward him.

He positions himself behind you and pushes back in with one smooth thrust.

"Oh god—" The angle is devastating, so deep you can feel it everywhere.

Megumi grips your hips and starts fucking you from behind, his pace immediately intense. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, punctuated by your gasps and his groans.

"Ah—ah—Megumi—"

Yuji shifts on the bed, moving to lie on his back and sliding underneath you. His head is directly beneath where Megumi is thrusting into you, and when his tongue first touches your clit, you nearly collapse.

"Oh fuck—"

"Mmm—" Yuji's groan vibrates against you.

His tongue works your clit in steady circles, but with each of Megumi's thrusts, Yuji's tongue slides up—licking along the length of Megumi's cock as it moves in and out of you.

"Ah—fuck—" Megumi's hips stutter. "That's—"

"Nngg—" Yuji groans, the sound muffled.

Yuji's hand comes up to gently cup and massage Megumi's balls while his tongue keeps moving between your clit and Megumi's cock.

"Oh god—oh god—" You're shaking, your arms barely holding you up.

"Fuck—" Megumi's voice breaks. "I can't—"

His pace becomes erratic, harder, and the sensation of Yuji's mouth, Megumi's cock, everything wrecks you.

"Mmm—ah—" Yuji's muffled sounds of pleasure send vibrations through both of you.

Your arms give out, and you collapse forward into Yuji's lap, your face near his hard cock. Without thinking, you take him into your mouth.

"Fuck—baby—" Yuji's hips jerk up, but his mouth never leaves your clit.

You suck him deeper, moaning around his length as Megumi continues to pound into you from behind. You can barely breathe, barely think, you’re completely overwhelmed.

"Nngg—" You moan around Yuji.

Megumi's hands grip your hips bruisingly tight. "Fuck—I'm so close—"

Yuji's tongue is relentless, circling your clit while still licking along Megumi's cock with each thrust. His fingers massage Megumi's balls, and you can feel both of them trembling.

"Mmm—" Yuji groans against you.

You suck Yuji harder, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock, and he makes a choked sound against your clit.

"Ah—ah—" Megumi's breathing is ragged. "I'm going to—"

The combination of sensations pushes you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard and sudden, and you scream around Yuji's cock, your whole body convulsing.

"Mmm—fuck—" The vibration of your scream travels through Yuji's cock.

You clench so hard around Megumi that he breaks.

"Fuck—fuck—" His hips slam forward one last time, and he comes deep inside you with a broken groan. "Ah—"

His whole body shudders as he empties himself into you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know there will be bruises.

When he finally pulls out, you feel his cum start to drip down your thighs. Megumi sits back on the bed, his chest heaving, his hand moving to slowly stroke his softening cock as he watches you and Yuji.

You're still shaking, barely able to hold yourself up over Yuji. He gently helps you shift, guiding you over him, your mouth hovering near his cock while his face settles between your thighs—your pussy over his face, his cock in your mouth.

"Oh—" you gasp as his tongue finds your oversensitive clit again.

"Mmm—" Yuji groans, licking through your folds, tasting both you and Megumi's cum.

You take him deeper into your mouth, sucking hard, and his hips thrust up involuntarily.

Megumi watches from where he sits on the bed, his hand moving faster on his cock as it starts to harden again. "Fuck," he breathes.

"Nngg—" You moan around Yuji's cock.

Yuji's tongue circles your clit, then dips inside you, and you're already building toward another orgasm despite how sensitive you are.

"Ah—ah—" Your hips rock against his face.

"Mmm—" Yuji's groan vibrates through you.

You suck him harder, taking him as deep as you can, and his hands grip your thighs, pulling you down harder onto his mouth.

"Fuck—baby—" His voice is muffled against you.

The pressure builds and builds, and when Yuji sucks hard on your clit, you break again.

"Mmm—" Your scream is muffled by his cock in your mouth, your whole body shaking as you come.

The vibration and the way you clench your throat around him pushes Yuji over the edge. He comes with a loud groan, his cum flooding your mouth, and you swallow it all.

"Ah—fuck—"

You both collapse, breathing hard, completely spent. You carefully climb off Yuji and lie next to him for a minute, trying to catch your breath.

Megumi moves closer, leaning down to kiss you. It's soft at first, and gentle, but quickly deepens. His hand cups your face as his tongue slides against yours. His other hand slides into your hair, holding you close.

Yuji watches from beside you, his breathing is still heavy. "Fuck," he groans. "That's so fucking hot."

When Megumi finally pulls back, you're all still breathing hard. He settles next to you, his arm draped over your waist, and you lean into him. His heartbeat is still racing against your back, gradually slowing down. 

Yuji reaches over and takes your hand, threading his fingers through yours. His breathing is evening out. He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah," you whisper back. "You?"

"Yeah." He squeezes your hand gently.

The three of you lie there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, just breathing together. Megumi's hand traces slow, lazy circles on your hip. His lips brush against your shoulder occasionally. 

Then, you feel his breathing change. His hand stills for a moment, then resumes its gentle path. His lips linger a little longer against your skin.

You turn your head and find him watching you, his dark eyes are soft in the dim light. He leans in and kisses you again, slower this time. His tongue slides against yours, and his body presses more firmly into yours.

Next to you, Yuji's breathing is heavier. His hand is still holding yours, but his thumb is brushing gentle circles over your skin. He moves closer, his chest pressing against you, and you feel him starting to het hard again. 

"Mmm," Megumi murmurs against your lips, pulling back just slightly. His hand slides up your side, tracing the curve of your waist. "Can I...?"

"Yeah," you breathe.

Yuji's hand releases yours and moves to your hip, mirroring Megumi's touch on the other side. His lips find your neck, kissing you softly, and you feel him completely hard against you now.

"Baby," Yuji whispers against your skin, his voice rough but gentle. "Please—"

You look at him, see the need in his eyes, and smile. You move to straddle him, positioning yourself over his cock.

"Your turn," you murmur.

"Fuck yes," Yuji breathes.

You sink down onto him slowly, and you both groan at the sensation.

"Oh—" You're so sensitive, every inch of him feels overwhelming.

"Ah—baby—" Yuji's hands immediately grip your hips.

You start to move, rolling your hips slowly. Yuji's hands guide you, pulling you down harder onto him, and soon he's fucking up into you, controlling the pace.

"Yes—yes—" You brace your hands on his chest.

He sits up slightly, wrapping both of his arms under your thighs to lift you up and down onto him. He kisses you deeply, his tongue moving over yours, and you moan into his mouth.

"Mmm—"

"Fuck baby," he groans against your mouth. "I love you so much."

You pull him closer to you, your voice breaking slightly. "I love you too, baby," you gasp.

From the side of the bed, Megumi makes a small sound. It sounds like something between a groan and a whimper.

You turn your head and see him watching, his hand still on his cock, and his expression looks conflicted.

Your stomach twists. You slow your movements on Yuji, and he stops immediately, sensing the shift in you. 

You carefully climb off him. He makes a needy sound, but you're already turning around.

You straddle him again, but this time in reverse, with your back to his face, facing Megumi.

"Oh fuck," Yuji groans as you sink back down onto him. "Baby—"

You look at Megumi and reach out your hand. "Megumi, come here."

He moves immediately, kneeling in front of you on the bed. You pull him into a kiss, and it's messy and desperate. Saliva spreading between you, your tongues rolling over each others, teeth catching on lips.

"Mmm—"

Yuji's hands grip your hips, and he starts fucking up into you again, harder now. "Fuck baby," he groans. "I love you, this view is—fuck—"

His hand comes down hard on your ass with a sharp slap.

"Ah—" You gasp and pull away from Megumi, your eyes wide.

"Baby," Yuji whines, his voice thick with need. "Give him more—please.”

You look up at Megumi, and he's already moving closer, his cock right there. You lean forward and take him into your mouth.

"Fuck—" Megumi's hand immediately tangles in your hair.

You start sucking on his length while Yuji continues to fuck up into you from below. The position is intense, you're bouncing on Yuji's cock while taking Megumi deeper into your mouth with each thrust.

"Nngg—" You moan around Megumi's cock.

Megumi's eyes lift from your face, and he looks past you to meet Yuji's gaze. They both groan then go back to watching you fall apart in between them.

"She's such a good girl, isn't she Megumi?" Yuji groans, his hips snapping up harder.

"Fuck—yes—yes—" Megumi's voice breaks, his grip on your hair tightening.

He starts fucking your mouth, his hips thrusting forward to meet you, and you take him as deep as you can.

"Taking us so deep, aren't you baby—fuck—" Yuji's pace becomes frantic.

You relax your throat and take Megumi completely, his cock sliding all the way down until your nose touches his pelvis.

"Fuck—" Yuji grunts in approval, fucking you like a madman now.

His hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you're suddenly so close again.

"Mmm—" You moan around Megumi's cock.

"Ah—ah—fuck—" Megumi's whole body is trembling.

"That's it baby—" Yuji's voice is wrecked. "Come for us—"

His fingers press harder on your clit, and you shatter.

You scream around Megumi's cock, your whole body convulsing, clenching so hard around Yuji that he breaks too.

"Fuck—baby—" Yuji slams up into you one last time and comes with a broken groan, filling you.

The vibration of your scream and the way your throat constricts around him almost pushes Megumi over the edge too, but he pulls out at the last second.

"Fuck—"

Megumi lifts you off Yuji carefully, and you cling to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms around his neck. You're completely wrecked, shaking, and barely able to hold yourself up.

He carries you to your desk, and you bury your face in his neck, breathing hard.

Behind you, you hear Yuji collapse onto the bed with a satisfied groan.

Megumi sets you down on the edge of the desk, and you look up at him with clouded eyes. He pushes into you one more time, and you both groan. His pace is more deliberate now, and he leans down to kiss you as he moves.

"Mmm—"

It doesn't take long. You're both so close, so overwhelmed. When you come again, it's softer, your legs spasm as the pleasure rolls through you.

"Ah—"

Megumi follows after you, his whole body shuddering as he comes inside you again.

"Fuck—"

He holds you, both of you breathing hard, before carefully pulling out and lifting you up again. You try to cling to him as he carries you back to the bed, but can barely move. He grips you tightly as you lay limp with your head lolled against his shoulder. 

Yuji moves to make room, and Megumi lays you down gently before climbing into the bed next to you. He immediately pulls you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you. Yuji settles on your other side, his hand resting on your back.

Megumi holds you tighter, his chin resting on top of your head.

The room is quiet for a long moment. Yuji lets out a tired little laugh. “So… are we ready to talk about this, or are we just going to keep having this happen?”

Silence. 

Megumi’s arms tighten around you. “…I’m not letting her go.”

“…Okay…” Yuji finally answers. 

You feel your chest tighten. Neither of them is asking you to choose. Neither of them lets go of you. 

Then Yuji’s hand resumes its gentle path across your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder.

"Goodnight, baby," he whispers.

Within minutes, you hear Yuji's breathing even out, then his familiar soft snores.

Megumi leans in and kisses you. It's soft and sweet. When he pulls back, you whisper, "Will you stay with us tonight? In my room?"

"I couldn't leave anyway," he says quietly.

He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin, and just holds you like that.

Tangled together, the three of you fall asleep.

You try to wiggle free. His grip tightens, and suddenly you're being pulled back against his chest, his other arm coming up to trap you completely.

"I have to go to work—"

"Call in sick."

"I can't just—"

"Yes, you can." He's kissing your shoulder now, your neck, the spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. "Tell them you've got a fever. Tell them you're dying. Tell them Satoru Gojo is holding you hostage and won't let you leave."

"That last one is accurate."

"See? Honesty is important."

You laugh despite yourself, and he takes advantage of your momentary distraction to roll you onto your back, settling his weight on top of you. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and there are pillow creases on his cheek.

He looks perfect.

"Satoru, seriously—"

"Seriously," he interrupts, kissing your collarbone, "you should call in sick."

"And what about you? Don't you have to teach?"

He lifts his head, and the grin he gives you is absolutely insufferable.

"Baby," he says, "I'm Satoru Gojo."

"…So?"

"So I don't have to do anything I don't want to do."

You stare at him. "That's not how jobs work."

"It's how my job works."

"You're the worst."

"And yet." He kisses your jaw. "You love me anyway."

"Debatable right now."

"Liar." He's moving lower, kissing down your throat, your chest. "You're obsessed with me. Admit it."

"I'm not admitting anything until you let me turn off that alarm."

"Fine." He reaches over without looking, fumbling for your phone, and somehow manages to silence it. "There. Problem solved. Now stay in bed with me."

"Satoru—"

"Please?" He's looking up at you now, and his eyes are doing that thing—that stupid, unfair thing where they go all soft and earnest. "I just wanna spend the morning with you. Is that so bad?"

You sigh. "You're impossible."

"Is that a yes?"

"…I'll text my boss."

"Yes." He pumps his fist in victory, and you can't help but laugh.

"You're such a child."

"Your child," he corrects. "Besides, I already texted Yaga that I'm not coming in."

"You what?"

"Told him I had a personal emergency." He's grinning now, completely shameless. "Very serious. Life-threatening, even."

"Satoru—"

"What? It's true. If I don't spend the morning worshipping my girlfriend, I might actually die. Medical fact."

"That's not a medical fact."

"It is now." He's kissing your neck again, and his hands are sliding up your sides. "Besides, those first-years can handle basic curse theory without me for one day. And if they can't, I'll just teleport one of them into the Pacific Ocean next week. Builds character."

You snort. "You're not going to teleport a student into the ocean."

"You're right. Too much paperwork." He grins against your skin. "I'll just make them run laps until they puke. Much simpler."

"You're terrible." You swat at his shoulder, but you're laughing.

"And you love me." His hands are still on your waist, thumbs stroking your sides through your shirt. "Now text your boss so I can have you all to myself."

You grab your phone, squinting at the screen. "What am I even supposed to say?"

"Tell them you're sick."

"I'm not sick."

"You're lovesick. Counts."

You snort. "That's the worst thing you've ever said."

"Objectively untrue. Remember when I told Megumi that—"

"I'm texting." You type out a quick message about not feeling well, and the second you hit send, you try to roll away to put your phone back on the nightstand.

Satoru's arms lock around you immediately.

"Nope."

"I'm just putting my phone down—"

"Don't care. You're staying right here." He pulls you back against his chest, burying his face in your neck. "Mine now."

"Satoru—"

"Shh. Cuddling."

You laugh despite yourself, settling back against him. His arms are wrapped around you completely, one hand splayed across your stomach, the other coming up to play with your hair.

"You're being clingy."

"Mm-hmm." He's not even denying it. His fingers are running through your hair slowly, and you can feel him breathing against your neck. "Problem?"

"No," you admit. "Just… pointing it out."

"Good." He kisses your shoulder. "Because I'm not letting go."

You just lie there together for a little while. His hand keeps moving through your hair, occasionally trailing down to trace your jaw, your collarbone. It's comfortable. Warm. You're already half asleep again when he moves slightly behind you.

"Baby?"

"Mm?"

"Can you roll over? Wanna see your face."

You turn in his arms, and immediately his hand comes up to cup your cheek. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, and he's looking at you with that soft expression that makes your heart do stupid things.

"Hi, baby.” he says.

"Hi weirdo.”

"You're so pretty in the morning."

"I haven't even washed my face."

"Don't care." He leans in, kissing you softly. "Still pretty."

You kiss him back, slow and lazy, and his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, holding you close. It's not urgent, it’s just sweet and affectionate. His other hand is on your hip, his thumb rubbing small circles through your shirt.

When he pulls back, he's smiling. "Love you."

"Love you too."

"Say it again."

"I love you, you absolute menace."

He grins. "Perfect." Then he's kissing you again, a little deeper this time, and you feel his hand slide up your side.

"Satoru—"

"What?" He's kissing your jaw now, your neck. "I'm just kissing you."

"Your hand is—"

"Also just existing." But his thumb is brushing the underside of your breast now, and you can feel him smiling against your neck.

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"Debatable."

He pulls back to look at you, and there's something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Stay in bed with me? Please?"

"We already texted work—"

"I know, but—" He's playing with the hem of your shirt now, fingers slipping just barely underneath to touch your skin. "I just… I really want you right now. Like, really want you."

"I can tell."

"Can you?" He presses his hips forward slightly, and yeah. You can definitely tell. "Because I'm trying to be patient, but you're making it very difficult."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You're existing. That's enough." He's kissing your collarbone now, and his hand slides higher under your shirt. "You're so soft. How are you so soft?"

"Satoru—"

"And you smell good. Why do you smell so good?" He's practically whining now. "It's not fair."

You can't help but laugh. "Are you seriously complaining about me smelling good?"

"Yes. It's distracting." He bites down gently on your shoulder. "Everything about you is distracting. It's a problem."

"Sounds like a you problem."

"It is a me problem." He lifts his head to look at you, and his hair is even more disheveled than before. "I'm obsessed with you. It's embarrassing."

"Is it?"

"Little bit, yeah." He grins, his thumb brushing your side. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous this is?"

"What?"

"You bring the Satoru Gojo down to his knees."

You blink up at him. “…That's an incredibly narcissistic way to phrase that."

"It is." He nods solemnly. "Also true. Very impressive feat."

You're laughing now, and he takes the opportunity to kiss you again, his hand sliding higher. "But I'm okay with it."

You're about to respond when he kisses you again and it’s deeper this time, and more insistent. His hand finally reaches your breast, cupping it through your shirt, and you gasp into his mouth.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Can I—can I take this off?"

"My shirt?"

"Yeah." He's already tugging at it. "Please?"

"You're so needy."

"I know." He's not even ashamed. "I'm very needy. For you. Always."

You lift your arms, and he pulls your shirt off slowly, his eyes tracking every inch of your newly revealed skin. When he finally gets it over your head, he just stares.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just—" He shakes his head. "You're so fucking beautiful."

"You've said that."

"I'll say it again." His hands are on your ribs now, thumbs stroking your skin. "And again. And again."

"Satoru—"

"I'm serious." He leans down, kissing between your breasts. "I wake up every morning and you're here, and I still can't believe it sometimes."

Your heart flutters. "You're being sappy."

"I'm being honest." He looks up at you, and his face looks so soft and sweet. "Can't help it." He's kissing your breast now, tongue circling your nipple. "You make me sappy."

"Mm—that's—"

"Good?" His hand finds your other breast, his thumb and index finger rolling your nipple. "You like that?"

"Yes—"

"Good." He switches sides, giving your other breast the same attention. "Love the sounds you make. Could listen to them all day."

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear, and you feel him smile against your skin.

"These should come off too."

"Should they?"

"Definitely." He hooks his fingers into the fabric. "Can I?"

"So polite all of a sudden."

"I'm always polite." He's kissing down your stomach now. "I'm a gentleman."

"You're really not."

"Rude." But he's grinning, and he's sliding your underwear down slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it's revealed. "I'm extremely gentlemanly."

"You held me hostage five minutes ago."

"See? Gentleman." He's at your hip bones now, and he bites down gently. "A respectful gentleman."

You're laughing again now, and he looks up at you with that insufferable smirk.

"What's so funny?"

"You. You're ridiculous."

"And you love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately?" He bites your inner thigh, making you jump. "Take it back."

"Make me."

His eyes flash. "Oh, I will." His hands are on your thighs now, spreading them apart. "I'm gonna make you take back every mean thing you've ever said to me."

"That'll take a while."

"Good thing we have all morning." He settles between your legs, and his breath is warm against your skin. "You're awfully mouthy for someone who called me a gentleman."

"I'm not being—oh—"

He's kissing your inner thigh, slowly and deliberately, and his hands are gripping your legs possessively.

"What was that?" He grins up at you. "Couldn't hear you."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He's moving higher now, and you can feel your breath catching. "You love me." He kisses your inner thigh. "That's what matters."

He kisses your other thigh. "Now let me show you how much I love you."

Then his mouth is on you, and any coherent thought becomes impossible.

He takes his time, with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue that make your toes curl. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, and when you try to close them on instinct, he just pushes them wider.

"Uh-uh," he murmurs against you. "Stay open for me. Wanna see all of you."

"Fuck—"

"That's it." His tongue circles your clit, and you gasp. "Let me hear you."

"Ahh—Satoru—“

His tongue flattens against you, drags up slowly, then flicks at your clit. Your hips buck up. He keeps doing the same motion, but faster this time, and your fingers twist in the sheets.

"Satoru—oh god—"

"You taste so fucking good," he groans, and the vibration makes you whimper. "Could do this all day… Might actually do this all day."

"Please—"

"Please what?" He lifts his head just enough to look at you, and his mouth is wet, his eyes are dark. "Tell me what you need."

"More—I need—"

"I know what you need." He slides two fingers inside you, and curls them up, reaching that spot that makes your legs tingle, and your back arches off the bed. "This?"

"Yes—"

His mouth is back on your clit. His fingers pump in and out, curling on every thrust. You can't think. You can barely breathe.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Come for me, baby. I wanna feel it."

His fingers curl harder. His tongue flicks faster. You start closing your thighs around him, but he holds them open. Your breathing gets ragged, desperate—

Heat floods through you. You cry out his name, your hands tangling in his hair.

He doesn't stop.

His fingers keep moving, gentler now, and his tongue has gone soft but it's still there, still circling, lapping at your entrance. You're shaking, gasping, and you think he's going to pull away.

He doesn't.

"Satoru—wait—I just—"

"I know." He looks up at you. His pupils are dilated, almost completely covering the blue. "Gonna make you come again."

"I can't—"

"Oh, you can." He adds a third finger, stretching you. "You're gonna come on my tongue again, and then I'm gonna fuck you until you can't remember your own name."

"Fuck—"

His mouth is back on you, and this time he's not gentle. He's devouring you, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out. The sensitivity from your first orgasm makes everything sharper, and you're already climbing toward another one embarrassingly fast.

"That's it," he groans against you. "Feel how wet you are? All for me. You're so good, baby. You're unreal. You're actually gonna be the death of me one day."

His free hand slides up your body, finds your breast and squeezes.

You break.

Your second orgasm hits even harder than the first. You're crying out his name, your whole body shaking, and he's still not stopping.

"Satoru—please—"

He finally pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you come down, trembling and gasping.

"Fuck," you breathe.

"Good?" He's grinning, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're so smug."

"I have reason to be." He crawls back up your body, and you can taste yourself when he kisses you. "You're beautiful when you come. Did you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"I'll mention it again." His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing. "And again. And again."

"Satoru—"

"I earned it." His hand slides down your side. "And I'm not done with you yet, baby."

"Of course you're not."

"What can I say?" He's positioning himself between your legs now, and you can feel how hard he is. "I'm obsessed with you. Can't help myself."

He lines himself up, and when he starts to push inside, you gasp. He's so big—you know this—but the stretch is always still so intense.

"Okay?" His voice is strained as he goes slowly, inch by inch.

"Give me a minute—"

He stops, buried halfway, and you can feel him shaking with the effort of holding back for you. "Okay, baby. Take your time."

You breathe through it, adjusting, and after a moment, you whisper, "Okay, you can move."

"Thank god," he groans, pushing all the way in until he's completely buried.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice cracks. "You feel so good."

He starts moving. Slow, controlled thrusts that make you gasp. Then he hooks one of your legs higher, pushing it up toward your chest, and suddenly he's hitting even deeper.

"Satoru—"

"There we go." He's watching your face. "Love watching you like this. So fucking beautiful."

"You're—ah—ridiculous—"

"Ridiculously in love with you, yeah." He thrusts harder, and you cry out. "That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

His rhythm picks up, each thrust deliberate and deep, and he's still watching your face like he's memorizing every expression.

"You always take me so well," he groans. "Like you were made for me, baby."

"Maybe I was—oh god—"

"Fuck, yes." His hand finds your other leg, pushing it up too. "Say that again."

"Ahh—Made for you—"

"That's right." His thrusts become harder, more desperate. "All mine, baby. Fuck."

He shifts his hips just slightly, hitting that perfect spot, and you come apart. You're screaming out broken attempts of his name, your whole body shivering uncontrollably.

"Fuck, baby—not yet—"

Before you can even process what's happening, he's pulling out and flipping you over. His hands grip your hips, pulling them up, and you feel him slide a pillow underneath.

"Ass up for me, baby."

You're still shaking from your orgasm, but you do what he asks. His hand slides down your spine slowly and possessively.

"Fuck, look at you." He squeezes your ass, and you hear him groan.

Then he's pushing back inside. The new angle makes you gasp. He's so deep like this, and when he starts moving, each thrust hits that sweet spot inside you. You swear you can feel him in your lungs.

"Satoru—oh god—"

"That's it, baby." His hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise. "So fucking good."

He sets a punishing rhythm. You can feel another orgasm building fast. The sensitivity from your last one makes everything feel like you might actually break apart, and when his hand slides around to your clit, you moan loudly into the mattress, almost screaming.

"You gonna come for me again?" His voice is rough and teasing now. "Can feel how close you are, baby. You're so fucking tight around me."

"Yes—please—"

His fingers circle your clit faster. You're right on the edge, so close—

You break.

You let out a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him. He groans, and it sounds almost pained. His thrusts slow down, getting deeper and more deliberate. He's not chasing anything anymore, he's just feeling the way you're squeezing him.

"Fuck, baby—" His voice breaks, desperate and raw. "You're so fucking tight. Jesus, you're actually gonna be the death of me."

His hips move slower now, almost grinding into you, and you can feel him shaking. He's breathing hard against your back, completely overwhelmed, and then his whole body goes almost rigid before he collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, his face buried in your neck.

"Fuck," he breathes, and he sounds completely undone. "I love you so much. Fuck—you wreck me, baby."

You both just stay like that for a few minutes, tangled together, breathing hard, his heart pounding against your back.

Then he moves, rolling onto his back next to you, pulling you with him so you're still close. His arm stays wrapped around you, and when you look at him, his eyes are soft and completely open.

You don't think. You just move, climbing into his lap and kissing him, slow and deep and full of all the love and need you feel for him. His hands immediately find your waist, holding you like you're the only thing that matters.

"Come here," he says, and it's almost pleading.

You're already straddling him, and when you sink down onto him, you both groan into each other's mouths.

"That's it, baby," he breathes against your lips. "Just like that. Fuck—"

You start to move, rolling your hips. His head falls back against the pillow. His eyes stay locked on you though, watching every movement.

"God, yes—" He grips your hips tighter. "You feel so fucking good. That's my girl."

"Satoru—"

"I know, baby. I know." He's guiding you faster now, helping you move. "You're doing so good. Taking me so perfectly."

Your thighs are burning, but you don't care. You can feel yourself getting close again.

"That's it," he groans, watching you. "Use me, baby. Please. Take what you need. You know I love it when you do."

"Fuck—Satoru—"

"I know. I can feel it." His hips start moving too, thrusting up to meet you, and the added force makes you cry out. "Come for me, baby. Wanna watch your beautiful face when you fall apart on me."

He's fucking up into you now, hard and fast, and his hand slides between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter. You're letting out breathy and high pitched moans.

"Fuck, yes—" He's still moving, still thrusting up into you. "So fucking beautiful when you come. I could watch you like this forever, baby."

You're still shivering, still coming down, when you feel his stomach tighten under you.

"Baby—fuck—I'm gonna—"

"Come for me," you whisper. "Please, Satoru."

That's all it takes.

"Fuck—baby—I love you—fuck—" His words are broken and desperate. His hips snap up hard. "So good—you're *so good—*you're mine—"

He grips your hips so tightly it almost hurts, and you feel him pulse inside you as he comes, his whole body shuddering. His head falls forward, forehead pressing against your shoulder, and he's still murmuring against your skin. "Fuck—you're everything, baby—never letting you go—"

You're both breathing hard, shaking, and he's still buried deep inside you. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest, and you can feel his heart pounding.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"…Yeah." you breathe.

He laughs weakly, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are hazy and that breathtaking sky blue again. "That was—I don't even have words."

"Mhmm." you mumble.

He's kissing your face now—your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips. "Seriously, what am I supposed to do with you?"

"Satoru—"

His hands are running over your skin, like he can't bear to stop touching you. " You're the only one that gets me like this."

"You're being sappy again."

He pulls you closer, tucking you against his chest. "Only for you, baby. Only ever for you."

"I love you too," you say softly.

He's quiet, just holding you, his fingers tracing patterns on your back for a while.

"We should probably shower," you murmur eventually.

"Later." His grip tightens. "Right now I just wanna hold you."

"Clingy."

"Yep." He doesn't even sound ashamed. "You're stuck with me now. Forever. Hope you're ready for that."

"I think I can handle 'the Satoru Gojo'" you say laughing.

"Good." He kisses the top of your head. "Because I'm never letting you go."

"Sounds like a threat."

"Mmm."

And you lie there in his arms, the morning sun streaming through the window, his hands still moving over your skin in gentle swirling patterns, and yeah— forever sounds pretty fucking good. 

“n-no!” you cry out. “please! please— i need you!”

he tsks, sliding away from your clit, creeping lower and lower—so close but not where you need it the most.

“need me where, hm? here?” he presses a single finger against your entrance.

“or…?” he traces it lower, barely grazing your asshole. his smirk reflects in the mirror, dark with amusement at how you gasp and writhe humiliated in his hold. “see? you gotta say it, sweetheart.”

a shiver racks your whole body and you finally force the words out, no matter how utterly embarrassed and vulnerable you feel.

“need your fingers in my cunt— ah— please?”

your rewards arrives instantly.

“there we go. good girl. was that so hard?” he purrs, finally plunging two obscenely thick fingers deep inside you without warning. his other hand immediately slaps over your mouth to muffle your scream.

your cunt flutters at his praise and roughness alike.

“shhh, don’t wanna get a complaint from the neighbors again, do we?” he teases, curling those fingers right against your sweet spot, watching your eyes roll back into your skull through in the mirror. “look. just look at you. taking me so well.”

you let out a muffled noise, forcing your heavy eyelids to flutter back open obediently.

your mouth drops against his palm as you watch and feel how his digits claim you over and over again, sliding in and out of your perfect little cunt, folds puffy and hugging his thick fingers.

the hand over your mouth moves to grip your jaw, forcing you to keep your gaze forward.

he watches you watch yourself, gaze heavy and fixed on your face. he loves watching your expressions change as he tortures you, loves reducing you to a trembling, whimpering, desperate mess.

“see how wrecked you look? fucking made for this. you just needed these fingers stuffing you full, huh? pathetic. do you really need me? or do you just need something to fill you up?”

you only whimper, too overwhelmed to verbally respond, clenching hard around him as he degrades you in the sweetest, deepest voice.

“answer. tell me how desperate you are.”

“i- i- hnghh!”

what the fuck was the question?

his husky words had gone in one ear and out the other. too focused on the way he was hitting your precious sweet spot.

he slows his movements abruptly, dragging his fingers all the way out, leaving you clenching around nothing all over again.

“fuck—” you sob, hips bucking uselessly.

“can’t even think, huh? where’d my smart girl go?” he tuts, smirking as he presses his palm flat against your dripping cunt instead—grinding it there without mercy. “i asked if you need me or just anything to fill this greedy little hole. wanna try answering this time, sweetheart?”

you nearly sob, cunt raw as he spreads your slick all over, his hand grinding roughly.

“you! hic- just you!”

he slaps your pussy, the wet sound echoing as you jolt so hard your feet almost slide off the bed. but thankfully, his arms grip around you is too tight.

“answer properly.”

“aghnnn! tetsu! ah— only you can fill me up this good!”

he rewards your admission instantly, slamming those fingers back inside with a filthy schlick, curling them ruthlessly as his other moves lower to wrap around your waist to keep you still.

“haaah. damn right.” his voice is rough, strained with how hard he’s been holding back—too busy wrecking you to focus on relieving himself at all. “only i get to ruin you like this. watch yourself take it. see how fucking perfect you look with my fingers stretching ya out.”

he picks up the pace, thumb circling your clit in tight little spirals as he murmurs against your ear, “you gonna cum for me soon? feel you clenching so hard.”

you nod rapidly and then force the words out remembering he could take away your orgasm just as easily, “y-yes! gonna cum! tetsu… nghh!”

his breath hitches against your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he feels your walls flutter desperately around his fingers.

“go on,” he growls, pressing down harder on your clit—forcing your orgasm out of you with one brutal curl of his fingers.

the mirror reflects the way your entire body snaps taut, mouth falling open in a silent scream before the sound finally tears free. he doesn’t let up, fucking you through it, dragging the pleasure out until you’re sobbing and twitching in his hold—completely ruined.

“fuck yeah… that’s it. take it.” his voice is wrecked, hips rutting helplessly against your ass as he watches you unravel. “such a good fucking girl.”

he helps you ride down your high, palming your breasts with his other hand gently now—a complete 360 from how mean he had been earlier.

he nuzzles against your hair affectionately, slowly withdrawing his fingers with a soft, filthy squelch.

he brings his fingers to his lips, tongue darting out to taste and suck.

“such a messy girl.” he chuckles, watching your tired, blissed out expression through the mirror. “you with me?” he asks, gently squeezing your cheeks, making you pout as he holds you up against him.

“mhm…” you mumble.

even through you’re spent and suddenly sleepy, you’re made aware of how hard he is against your ass, gulping groggily.

he exhales sharply through his nose when you wiggle back against him—intentionally or not, it doesn’t matter. the way you whimper when his cock twitches against you has him groaning.

“tease.” he bites your shoulder lightly, hands smoothing down your sides possessively. “can’t even think straight and you’re still tryna get me worked up?”

he lifts you effortlessly, moving you to the head of your bed before crawling over you, lips brushing your ear.

“you wanna take responsibility for this, sleepyhead?” his voice drips with teasing amusement. “or should i just fuck you unconscious?”

you bite your lip, looking up at him with heavy lidded eyes.

and that’s what makes him loose his mind if it hadn’t been lost already.

you look so tired, so pliant and vulnerable. he was just joking but now he’s thinking about it, swallowing hard and resisting the urge to just take.

he cradles your face between big hands, gaze roving over your features with an emotion you can’t quite recognize. “god… i love you, you know that?” he murmurs, voice low with a sort of quiet reverence you don’t hear often.

“i love you too,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around his neck. “you can fuck me if you wanna… m’not that sleepy…” you say, through you’re already trailing off, lashes fluttering.

he chuckles, amused by how desperate you are to please him—even when you’re exhausted because of him. he can see the way you fight to stay awake and it makes his chest warm.

he drops his head, pressing gentle kisses across your face to the corner of your mouth, to the slope of your nose, your closed lids.

“shh,” he soothes. “not gonna do anything you’ll be complaining about in the morning, baby…”

you pout, feeling him shift away and reach out for him.

“where you going?”

he tuts at your sleepy whine, gently taking your hands to place them on the pillow next to your head. “i’m just gonna get you cleaned up, sweet girl.”

he kisses each of your wrists lightly, admiring the way you look—hair tousled, eyes heavy, lips still swollen from being bit. it takes every ounce of willpower to tear himself away from the perfect picture you make.

“no.” you huff. “i said you can use me even when i’m sleepy…” you mumble to yourself, grumpy.

he sighs, watching you with an amused but affectionate smirk. you were adorable like this—even more clingy and needy, and even more defiant.

“so stubborn.” he murmurs, finally forcing himself to move away.

he returns from the bathroom just a moment later with a warm towel, pausing to watch you with an endeared smile when you whine again and reach out for him.

“shit—easy,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh when you jolt at the contact. his touch is reverent as he cleans you up, careful not to drag the cloth too roughly over your swollen folds.

he leans down, pressing another soft kiss to your lower belly, right above your mound. “there. all better.” he murmurs, tossing the towel aside before gathering you up against his chest, tucking you beneath the covers.

he pulls you against him with a satisfied sigh, pressing another kiss to the crown of your head. “sleep, baby.”

you sigh, still not quite wanting to give into sleep.

he can really tell. so he comes up with a little compromise.

“go to sleep and i’ll eat you out when you wake up. sound good?”

your eyes blink open drowsily.

“i—” you swallow thickly, curling closer into his chest, fingers gripping him weakly. “you mean that?” you murmur, voice already thick with sleep.

he grins, fingers threading through your hair gently as he hums.

“mhm. be a good girl and get some rest first.”

that’s all you need to finally stop resisting—letting your eyes slip shut and sleep pull you under.

and true to his word, hours later, you wake up to his mouth between your sweet thighs.

idk what possessed me to write this but i’m so happy it did (ovulation did) my first time writing for this hottie btw🤤 this is probably one of the filthiest things i’ve written woohoo

alsoo i might do 2 more parts after this if i have motivationnn

You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.

Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.

And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.

You didn’t care.

She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.

Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.

You rarely crossed paths with him.

Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.

He must have thought she lived alone.

And maybe she wanted it that way.

Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.

“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”

You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.

“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”

You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.

You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.

Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.

Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.

It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.

After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.

She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.

“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”

She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.

“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”

You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.

“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”

But inside? You were laughing.

Because she had no idea.

You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.

You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.

But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.

You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.

You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.

But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?

She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.

You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.

You didn’t flinch. Not then.

But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.

And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.

You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.

You didn’t say a word.

But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.

Her bedroom door was wide open.

You froze.

The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.

One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.

You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.

None of them noticed you.

Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.

You almost laughed.

So much for good sex.

So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.

You didn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”

You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.

And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”

You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.

And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”

Your brows furrowed. “What?”

“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”

You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”

That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.

She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”

Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”

“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”

And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.

You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.

Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.

But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.

She knew.

And you’d never seen her look more pleased.

It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.

You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.

Then, the door creaked open.

You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.

Kuroo Tetsuro.

Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.

“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.

You raised an eyebrow.

There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”

You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”

Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.

You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”

His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.

“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”

You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”

“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”

The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.

“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”

“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”

Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”

You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”

“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”

There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.

For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.

Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.

“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.

Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”

You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.

It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.

And maybe—just maybe—so was he.

Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.

It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.

But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.

Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.

“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”

You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.

“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”

“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”

Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”

She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”

You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.

“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”

She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.

And it did hit him.

You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.

“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.

She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”

The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.

You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.

And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.

You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.

You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.

All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.

After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.

A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.

The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.

You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.

You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.

Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.

“…Tetsu?”

He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.

“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”

He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”

Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.

“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”

“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”

“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”

Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”

You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.

You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.

He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.

It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.

You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.

Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.

And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.

But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.

Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.

Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.

And he did.

The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.

It started with the little things.

He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.

Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise. 

After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.

One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.

You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.

“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.

You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.

Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.

More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.

He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.

“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.

Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”

That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.

Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.

A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.

You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.

“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.

You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.

“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”

Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.

That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.

But this time, you didn’t let it end there.

"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.

His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.

His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.

"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.

Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.

“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.

“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”

That was all he needed.

He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”

You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.

When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.

“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.

“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.

“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.

Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”

You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.

He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.

“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.

“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”

Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.

Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.

“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”

When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.

To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.

It drove him crazy in the best way.

You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.

Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.

Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”

He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.

Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.

“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.

You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”

You weren’t lying.

You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.

He’d die a happy man.

You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.

“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”

And you? You just smirked.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.

Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.

The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

He never wanted to let you go anymore.

If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.

But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.

Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.

Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.

You called it simple. He called it everything.

Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.

Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,

"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."

And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"

And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.

You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”

But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.

Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.

"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"

You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.

Neither of you would have it any other way.

Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.

It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.

"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."

And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”

That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.

Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.

And truthfully, he liked it that way.

He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.

Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.

But last night, he needed more than domestic.

He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.

And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”

He didn’t go home.

He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.

He took you right there in your bedroom.

On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.

Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.

And last night?

He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.

So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.

He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.

But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.

At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.

And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.

Moaning your name.

Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.

It made her snap.

So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.

“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.

You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.

“Define that.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”

You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.

“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”

Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.

“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”

You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.

“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”

She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”

“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”

“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”

“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”

That was the one that hit.

Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”

You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.

“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”

She didn’t answer.

“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.

“You’re lying.”

You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.

“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”

Her face twisted.

You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”

“Bitch.”

You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”

She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.

You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.

Toned down? Maybe. But this?

This was your victory lap.

And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.

That story was for another day.

Daryl’s fucking weird.

From the second you stagger through Alexandria’s gates, half-starved and asking for shelter, his attention latches onto you and doesn’t let go. It isn’t a passing glance, or even curiosity. It’s steady. 

Intent. 

The kind of stare that feels less like looking and more like measuring, like he’s trying to figure out what you are and hasn’t decided yet.

At first, it almost makes you smile. There’s something about the way his eyes narrow, the way his shoulders stay locked tight, like he’s braced for something that hasn’t happened. So you humor it. You lift a hand, offer a small wave, an easy gesture meant to smooth over whatever tension he’s carrying.

He watches you do it, then turns away like you weren’t worth acknowledging.

Alright. Message received.

You chalk it up to attitude, to whatever brand of personality he’s got, and by the time Maggie’s tour of Alexandria starts to blur into a string of houses and unfamiliar faces, you assume that’s the end of it. First impressions made, filed away, done.

It isn’t.

Because you keep catching him.

Across the yard while you’re talking to someone else. Leaning against a post like he just happens to be there. Standing off to the side during introductions, quiet and still, doing nothing except watching. He’s never close enough to interrupt, never far enough to miss anything, always somewhere in that middle space where you can’t quite ignore him.

And every time you look, he’s already looking back.

You try to make sense of it. Alexandria’s small. People overlap. You’re new, and someone keeping an eye on you isn’t exactly strange.

But this doesn’t feel like someone checking in.

It feels like being tracked.

Over the next week, that feeling settles in instead of fading. 

No matter where you go, there’s this quiet awareness trailing behind you, a shadow with a crossbow. You’ll be mid-conversation, half-listening, and something in your gut will tighten just enough to pull your attention away, to make you glance up or over your shoulder.

He’s always there when you do.

The same expression, or lack of one. Mouth set, eyes narrowed just enough that everything about him reads a little too close to irritation, even when he’s doing nothing at all. 

Maybe that’s just how his face rests, but it doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to ignore.

Especially since he still hasn’t said a word to you.

Not a greeting, not a warning, nothing that gives any shape to whatever this is. 

Rick had told everyone to give you space while you settled in, and you’re grateful for it. After everything, the quiet helps.

You just wish someone had told Daryl.

You stay with Maggie and Glenn at first, drifting through those first few days in a strange, cautious haze, until ten days later you’re handed a place of your own. 

It’s far more than you expected. Far more than what you’re used to, and you’re stepping through the front door for the first time when that familiar prickle crawls up your spine again.

You turn before you can stop yourself.

He’s across the street, sitting on the front steps of the house opposite yours like he’s always been there. Chin propped in his hands, elbows on his knees.

You flip him off and go inside.

Another day passes, and you’re coming back from the infirmary after helping Denise.

When he does look up, it’s subtle. Only his eyes move, flicking up until they land on you without hesitation.

Your neck prickles when they stay there, heavy.

The blade stills in his hand.

For a second, nothing moves. Not him. Not you. Just that stretch of space between you, pulled tight like a wire.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts the knife.

Slow.

Deliberate.

The tip angles toward you, not quite level, not quite careless either, like he hasn’t decided what it is yet. A gesture that could be nothing. Could be everything.

Your stomach drops anyway.

He tilts it slightly, inspecting the edge, turning his wrist just enough that the light catches along the blade. It flashes once, quick and clean, and for a split second it lines up with you again.

Like he’s sighting down it.

He drags his thumb across the edge, not enough to cut, just enough to feel it, then nods like it meets whatever standard he had in mind.

Only then does he look back down, returning the blade to the stone.

Shhk.

Shhk.

The sound picks up again like nothing happened.

Like you didn’t just feel the distance between you measured in inches instead of yards.

Like that wasn’t meant for you.

You retreat inside and lock the door.

You stay there longer than you mean to, back pressed to the door.

After some deep breaths, you start moving through the house under the pretense of getting settled. 

The kitchen alone feels surreal, stocked in a way that almost doesn’t make sense after everything you’ve gotten used to, and you end up making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just to prove to yourself it’s real.

Still, even as the afternoon slips toward evening, you’re still being watched.

You notice him through the windows more than once. Sometimes he’s working, sometimes he’s just adjusting his crossbow, but his attention drifts back to your house again and again, like it’s tethered there.

It starts to get under your skin in a way that doesn’t dull with time. If anything, it gets more acute.

By the time you finish collecting all of your laundry in the back bedroom, your nerves feel worn thin enough that you decide to shower before dealing with any of it, just to reset. 

It’s been too long, longer than you like to think about. You’ve bathed in rivers when you could find them, used rainwater when you were lucky, and you haven’t had anything close to proper soap for well over a year.

You cleaned up at Maggie and Glenn’s, but you didn’t feel safe enough for a full shower.

Standing in a real bathroom again feels unreal. Clean tile beneath your feet, thick towels within reach, even a razor sitting on the edge of the sink.

You hesitate longer than you should before finally giving in.

It should feel safe.

For a moment, it does.

Then you notice the window.

Bare glass, wide open to the outside, with nothing covering it. No blinds, no curtains, not even the hardware left behind. Just an unobstructed view straight out into the side yard and the street beyond.

The detail sits wrong immediately.

Not because it’s missing, but because it was removed.

The holes where something used to be secured are too clean for anything else.

A quiet tension tightens in your chest as you step out into the hallway, checking the rest of the house with a growing sense of certainty. The living room is the same. The kitchen too. Every window stripped down to nothing but glass and frame, like the ability to block the outside world was taken out on purpose.

You don’t react right away. You just take it in, filing it away the same way you’ve learned to do with anything that doesn’t quite fit.

By the time you reach the back bedroom, you already know what you’ll find.

Still, you check.

Still bare.

You draw in a slow breath, steadying yourself as your thoughts start to align instead of scatter. You’ve trusted people before. Taken things at face value. It never ended well, not out there where trust had a way of turning into something sharp if you weren’t careful.

So you learned.

Look twice. Question everything. Assume there’s always something you’re not seeing.

And right now, that’s the problem.

There’s nothing you’re not seeing.

The house isn’t offering you privacy. It’s offering you visibility.

Your attention drifts, inevitably, back to him. To the way he’s always outside, always within range, always watching without ever saying a word. You’ve known men like that before, even if the faces were different. The pattern isn’t new. Watch first. Decide later. Act when it suits them.

When you check outside again and find the stoop empty, your stomach drops before you can stop it.

You never see him move. He’s either there or he isn’t, and the absence feels worse than the presence because it leaves you guessing.

Leaves you exposed.

Of course he moved.

You did.

You head back to the bathroom, your knives already in your hands before you consciously decide to grab them, and press a towel up against the wall where the window sits. It takes a few quick motions to pin it in place, blade biting into drywall until the fabric holds well enough to block the view.

It isn’t perfect, but it’s enough.

You shut the door, undress, and step into the shower, letting the water hit you in a way that almost feels overwhelming. It’s hot and steady and endless, and for a few brief minutes, it’s enough to pull you out of your own head as the last two years start to wash away in pieces.

You linger longer than you should.

Long enough for your guard to soften.

Long enough for the quiet to feel almost safe again.

Daryl slips back into your thoughts, and that alone is enough to pull you out of it.

You shut the water off and step out, reaching for your towel—

Then stop.

The bathroom door is open.

Not by much. Just enough to break the line you remember leaving it in.

You stare at it, your mind catching on the detail with a sharp, immediate certainty.

You closed it.

You know you did.

For a second, that old unease tries to creep back in, that cold, distant sense of being watched from somewhere you can’t see.

But it doesn’t settle the same way this time.

It burns.

Because now there’s context. The missing blinds, the open lines of sight, the way he’s positioned himself day after day like he’s waiting for something. You blocked the only clear view he had, and the timing lines up too neatly to ignore.

Your grip tightens around the towel as something sharper pushes past the unease.

If he wanted a different angle, then he came inside to get it.

The thought lands hard, and instead of fear, it sparks something hotter, angrier, cutting clean through whatever hesitation you might have had before.

Fine.

You dress quickly, dragging your last clean outfit from the basket without caring that it isn’t actually clean anymore. When you realize your panties are missing, the same pair you know you tossed in there earlier, you don’t waste time searching.

It only feeds the same conclusion.

You pull your jeans on anyway and head straight for the front of the house, your focus narrowing with each step until there’s nothing left but the need to confirm it.

The windows come into view.

And so does he.

Back on the stoop.

Like he never left.

He’s on the same steps, same posture, easy and rooted, a bucket settled near his boots.

Walnuts this time.

He cracks them open with a knife in quick, practiced motions, dropping the meat of them into a container at his side. Busy hands. Relaxed body. Like he has all the time in the world.

Of course he’s back.

Now that you’re dressed.

Now that there’s nothing left to see.

That thought hits, and something in you just… goes.

You don’t stop to think it through. The door swings open hard enough to smack the wall, then slams behind you as you cross the street in a straight line, gravel crunching under your boots, loud and unfiltered.

Daryl looks up.

His head tilts slightly as you approach, his gaze dragging once down your legs, your hips, then back up again.

It lands.

And lingers.

There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, caught between a smirk and restraint, like he almost lets it show and then reins it in.

You stop a few feet in front of him, breath sharp, anger sitting just beneath your skin like it’s looking for a way out.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” you demand, low but cutting. “You get off on this or something? Watching people through their windows like a fucking creep?”

The shift in him is immediate.

Whatever that almost-smile was, it vanishes, replaced by defensive anger so quickly you get whiplash.

“What?” he snaps, sitting up straight. “The hell you talkin’ about?”

Oh.

His voice is nice.

This is the first time you’ve heard it.

It only pisses you off more.

“Don’t play dumb,” you fire back. “You think I haven’t noticed that every window in that house is bare?” A humorless laugh slips out. “I finally block your view, so you break in and find another angle?”

Color climbs up his neck, fast and hot. “What are you—”

“You’re a fuckin’ pervert, aren’t you?” The conclusion lands all at once, too clean to ignore. “My panties are gone.”

That hits.

His shoulders go rigid, jaw locking so tight it ticks. For a split second, something flashes across his face, too fast to name—surprise, maybe, or something closer to oh, shit.

“I ain’t a—” He cuts himself off abruptly.

Not because he doesn’t have the words.

Because he’s looking past you.

His head turns slightly, eyes flicking toward the rest of the community, scanning the conversations happening in streets, the houses, like he’s checking who might be listening.

Your stomach drops.

And then he steps in, closer than before, hand coming up in a quick, sharp motion, pointing in your face.

“Hey—” His voice drops, urgent now. “Keep it down.”

A hush.

A warning.

Like you’ve just said something you weren’t supposed to say out in the open.

Your pulse spikes.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, louder if anything, the words cracking with disbelief. “You are a perv—”

“Shut up,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you now, still scanning, still tense in a way that doesn’t match the argument. “Ain’t somethin’ you go yellin’—”

That’s it.

That’s the moment it locks.

Because he’s not confused.

He’s not denying it.

He’s trying to contain it.

“Are you serious right now?” you laugh, sharp and incredulous, taking a step back just to look at him properly. “You’re worried about people hearing that?”

His eyes cut back to you, something dark flashing there, but it doesn’t matter.

You’ve already decided what that look means.

“You didn’t even deny it,” you push, voice rising again despite the way he tries to rein it in. “You just told me to be quiet.”

“‘Cause it goes without sayin’. You’re being—” he starts, frustrated now, but you don’t let him finish.

“No, no, I just find that really interesting,” you cut in, shaking your head, the anger coming back twice as hot. “All this time, and that’s what you’re worried about? Not that I’m wrong, just that I’m loud?”

He exhales hard through his nose, jaw flexing, clearly trying to get a handle, but the damage is done.

Because from where you’re standing, it doesn’t look like denial.

It looks like guilt trying not to get caught.

“No, that’s it, isn’t it?” you press, stepping closer, the edge in your voice turning sharp with something almost triumphant. “You like peepin’ on girls. Sniffin’ their underwear—”

“Enough,” he growls. “You got somethin’ wrong with you—”

“I’ve got something wrong?” you echo, incredulous now, your voice still rising despite yourself. “You’ve been following me since I got here, like—”

“Like what?” he snaps, pushing to his feet, the bucket tipping as he moves at you. “Ain’t my fault you keep lookin’ my way.”

“Yeah, because I caught you,” you shoot back.

His jaw works, fingers tightening around the knife still in his hand.

You feel it then.

The shift.

Conversations around you falter, voices dipping, attention turning like a slow ripple. Somewhere behind you, Rick’s voice carries in that low, steady way of his, not words yet, just presence closing in.

You don’t look.

Your focus stays locked on Daryl.

He’s glaring now, breathing heavier, tension pulled tight through him.

But he’s also clearly humiliated. His eyes scan over your shoulders, then land on someone.

“Nah, I’m done with this,” he mutters, rough and cutting, turning like he’s already checked out. Eyes locked on someone.

Then he adds, nonchalantly and distracted. “You’re bein’ a bitch.”

It lands like a spark in dry grass.

Your hand moves before you think better of it.

The crack is sharp across the street as your palm connects with his cheek, snapping his head to the side with a curse.

For a second, everything stills.

Your hand tingles. His fingers come up slow to his face, pressing there like he’s holding the sting in place.

Then he looks back at you with a glare that doesn't waver.

“And you’re stupid too,” he grinds out, voice low. “Slappin’ a guy with a blade in his hand.”

He steps in, closing the space, eyes narrowing down at you.

“Go ahead,” he adds, quieter, more dangerous for it. “Try that one more time.”

Your fists curl at your sides, anger coiling tight.

“That a threat?”

“Is if you swing again.”

You step forward anyway, and so does he. Your bodies are close. And now you can smell him. Cigarettes and sweat and leather.

You hate how pretty his eyes are.

So much that you do move to swing again.

Movement cuts in from your periphery, fast and solid, and then Rick’s between you before you get the chance. One hand lands firm on your shoulder, the other planted against Daryl’s chest.

“Easy,” he says, steady but commanding. “Both of you, take it down a notch.”

Daryl bristles immediately, pacing behind him like something caged, but Rick doesn’t give him an inch.

“I don’t care what he did,” Rick adds, glancing back at you. “You calm down. I’ll handle him.”

“She came at me with this crazy shit,” Daryl snaps, trying to push forward again, his focus still locked on you. “You off your wacko meds or somethin’?”

“Daryl.” 

He keeps leaning forward until he’s back in your face, nudging Rick off balance. “Maybe you’re on the fuckin’ rag—”

“Daryl!” Rick turns and shoves him back harder this time.

You drag in a breath, the tremor in it betraying how tightly wound you are.

“Rick,” you start, forcing it steady, “there are no blinds in that house. And he hasn’t stayed more than a hundred feet away from me since I got here. And—”

Deanna steps in then, calm and composed, taking in the scene like she’s reading smoke before it turns to fire.

“The blinds were taken down years ago,” she says gently. “The previous owners were renovating before the outbreak. I never had the means, or the time to replace them. No one’s been inside that house since.”

The words settle.

Slow.

Heavy.

Behind Rick, Daryl stills, then tilts his head slightly, something sharp and amused flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Guess all that bitchin’ was for nothin’, huh?” he says, low, almost conversational, but edged enough to make your blood hum.

“Daryl, if you don’t stop I’ll hit you myself,” Rick warns.

You feel it then, the anger draining out and leaving something hotter in its wake.

Embarrassment. 

You don’t stay.

You turn and walk back to your home without another word, the weight of it pressing in as the adrenaline burns off.

An hour later, there’s a knock.

Gabriel, Glenn, and Maggie stand there with an armful of curtains between them, soft colors and heavy fabric, something solid to put between you and the outside. They help you hang them, filling the house in piece by piece until the windows stop feeling like open eyes.

They stay for dinner.

You ask them all what Daryl’s deal is, and while they admit that his apparent fixation seems a little odd, they claim he just... does that sometimes.

Zones out.

Which is so completely valid. You do the same.

But he is not zoning out.

He's zoning in.

On you.

You tell them that.

But they spend a long time assuring you that Daryl isn’t the creep you think he is. That he’s definitely an acquired taste in terms of personality. 

First and foremost, all of them go on to stress his loyalty to this group. 

Which also confirms your first theory about him: that he’s likely just sussing you out.

He’s not quick to trust.

Neither are you.

And you just made a fool of yourself in front of half the community. The rest have likely heard about it by proxy.

The next day at the infirmary, confirms your suspicions.

But everyone subverts your expectations. Mostly the women.

Rosita gives you knuckles and calls you a badass, Denise praises the fact that you got a hit in, and Tara says that she’s wanted to do that before, but didn’t have the balls.

Another month goes by, and you still have a shadow with a crossbow.

You start spotting him without meaning to, like your brain learned the shape of him and now pulls it from the background automatically.

You test it.

Throw a middle finger over your shoulder without even looking.

Wait a beat.

When you glance back, he’s already got two fingers raised right back at you.

“What’s your fuckin’ problem with me?” you ask him once.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Nothin’.”

Like the word’s worn smooth from overuse. Like it’s the only one he’s willing to give you.

By the third time you ask him for an explanation, you’re grinding your teeth. By the fifth, you’re imagining creative ways to shut him up indefinitely. You linger on the thought of his throat under your hand, the heat of his carotid pumping.

You swear to all that’s holy, if you hear that word one more time, you might actually try it.

He’d probably just smile at you while you did it. Just to piss you off some more.

And the worst part is, you can see it. Clear as anything. The way his mouth would pull, just barely, like he’s in on something you’re not.

Another month bleeds into the next, days folding over each other in that quiet, relentless way Alexandria has. 

Routine settles in, but he never quite becomes part of the background. Not fully.

If anything, he becomes a bigger focus for you.

You start noticing where he is without trying. Catching the shape of him in your peripheral before you even look. Listening for the soft creak of those steps, the scrape of his boots, the low murmur of his voice when he bothers to use it.

It’s irritating.

You tell yourself that, every time.

Still, your attention keeps circling back, like a tongue worrying a sore spot.

Three months in, you start noticing something new.

At first, you think you’re imagining it. That same prickle at the back of your neck, that instinct that tells you when he’s looking, except now when you turn, his gaze isn’t where it used to be.

It’s lower.

You catch it once. Brush it off.

Twice. Coincidence.

By the fifth time, you know exactly what you’re seeing. You’re on a supply run with Rick, Abe, and unfortunately…

Daryl.

And he’s staring at your ass.

Just fixed there, like he forgot himself for a second and didn’t bother correcting it. Hell, maybe he’s been doing it since you arrived, and he just doesn’t care if you notice anymore.

Your chest twists, sharp and immediate. Not quite anger. Not quite anything you want to examine too closely.

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath the next time it happens, not even bothering to hide it as you turn fully, catching him in it.

He doesn’t turn away.

Doesn’t even look embarrassed.

His eyes merely lift, slow, dragging back up to meet yours like he meant to do it. 

Like he’s daring you to say something, head tilted back, looking at you down his nose.

The frustration is familiar now, but not entirely unwelcome. You latch onto the sharp edge of it before it can turn into anything else.

“You serious?” you snap, hands braced on your hips. “You gonna keep staring, or you wanna explain yourself for once?”

His shoulders shift in a half-shrug, casual as anything.  “Ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

Rick groans in annoyance beside you guys. “Guys, seriously. What part of stealth is hard to understand?”

Abe shrugs. “Ain’t your fault your mama blessed you with that ass, sweetheart.”

You know what? It actually feels like a compliment coming from Abe. The fact that Daryl refuses to practice any introspection is what really infuriates you, because that just makes it all the more obvious that he’s trying to fuck with your head.

The arguments come easier after the ogling starts.

Small things at first. Sharp words tossed back and forth when you cross paths, irritation snapping quick and hot before either of you bother cooling it. Then bigger ones, louder, edged with threats.

You call him out. He deflects. You push harder. He pushes back just enough to keep it going.

It never resolves.

It just resets.

Over and over.

You have to be separated at council meetings so often that they stop inviting both of you for a few weeks at a time.

He’s contrarian, patronizing, and just a general jackass. 

Like he’s made it his life’s purpose to test you.

The worst part is that he usually lets up, pulling back from the argument only once he’s got a rise out of you. Like that was all he wanted in the first place. To piss you off and make you burn red.

Dammit.

Your panties start going missing again.

At first, it’s easy to brush off. You’ve been on your own for a long time, living out of scraps and half-systems that only made sense to you. Things get misplaced. Left behind. Forgotten.

It happens.

Maybe your washing machine has a thing for eating black lace.

Except it keeps happening.

And it’s always the same pattern.

Always when they’re dirty.

You notice it the third time. Not right away, not in some dramatic flash, but in that slow, creeping way where your brain starts pulling threads together without asking permission.

You remember putting them in the basket.

You remember it clearly.

And then they’re just… not there.

You stand in the doorway of your bedroom longer than you mean to, staring at the half-filled basket like it’s going to explain itself if you give it enough time.

It doesn’t.

You check the bathroom. The floor. The corners. Under the bed. In the sheets. Hell, even under the rugs. Anywhere they could’ve slipped or gotten caught.

Nothing.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, dragging a hand over your face. “Fine.”

You tell yourself you dropped them somewhere else. That you’re tired. That your memory’s playing tricks after everything you’ve been through.

It’s a decent explanation.

Until it happens again.

And again.

By the fifth time, it’s not an accident anymore.

It’s a pattern.

So you adjust.

You stop using the basket. Start setting them aside somewhere else, somewhere more deliberate. A drawer. Then under your pillow. Then tucked into the back of your closet behind a stack of folded clothes like you’re hiding something from yourself.

Each time, you make a point of remembering.

You place them down. You look at them. You tell yourself, they’re here.

You leave.

You come back.

Gone.

Not shifted. Not misplaced.

Gone.

The first time it happens from the new spot, something cold slips down your spine.

The second time, you don’t even feel surprised.

Just… tired.

Frustrated in a way that doesn’t have anywhere to go.

Because there’s no proof. No sound. No sign that anything’s been touched. The house stays exactly the way you leave it, neat and still and quiet.

You start checking the windows again. The locks. The doors. You take your time with it, methodical, hands steady even when your thoughts aren’t.

Everything is exactly how it should be.

Every time.

And that’s the part that gets to you.

Because if nothing’s wrong—

Then what the hell is happening?

You catch yourself standing in the middle of your bedroom one night, staring at the empty space where you know your pack used to be, and for a second, something ugly curls in your chest.

Doubt.

Not about the situation.

About yourself.

You press your lips together, hard, like you can force that thought back down where it came from.

No.

You’ve survived too much to start second-guessing your own head now.

You know what you saw. Where you put it. What you remember.

Which leaves only one option.

Him.

Your jaw tightens as something sharp and restless settles under your skin.

You’re not crazy.

A few nights later the air in your home is thick with silence. You’re alone in your bed, or at least you presume to be, but the absence of proof isn’t proof of absence. You know that now. 

The thought coils in your stomach, hot and restless, as you press your thighs together under the thin sheet.

Daryl’s been gone for three days on a supply run, and the relief should be palpable. Instead, it’s just… hollow. Like the space he leaves behind is somehow louder than his presence ever was. 

You hate that you notice. Hate that your fingers twitch against the mattress, restless, like they’re waiting for permission you refuse to give.

But tonight, you’re done waiting.

You slide your hand down your stomach, slow, just to prove you can. The fabric of your shirt skips under your palm and you bite your lip. 

It’s not about him. It’s not. It’s about the tension in your muscles, the ache between your legs, the way your body craves what your mind keeps trying to forget. 

You press your palm flat against your underwear, exhaling sharply through your nose when you feel how wet you already are. 

Pathetic. You’d laugh if you weren’t so fucking frustrated.

The first touch is clinical. Testing. Like you’re still convincing yourself this is allowed. But then your fingers dip beneath the elastic, and the gasp that punches out of you is anything but detached. 

You arch off the mattress, hips lifting instinctively, chasing the pressure. 

Fuck. It’s been too long. 

Your thoughts stutter. Images flashing behind your eyelids: rough hands pinning your wrists, hot breath against your neck that smells of cigarettes, the sharp sting of teeth. 

You squeeze your thighs together, trapping your own fingers. The friction burns just right.

Your shirt rides higher as you palm your breast, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple. Not teasing, not exploring, just needing. The pressure sends a jolt straight down to where your other hand is already working in tight, impatient circles. 

You don’t have the patience for slow tonight. Not when every press of your fingers feels like scratching an itch you’ve ignored for years.

With a frustrated groan, you kick your pants and panties off in one sharp motion, letting them land in a heap on the floor. 

The air feels like frost spreading along your bare skin, clinging to the sweat you’ve worked up already. You drag your fingers through your slick, hissing at the contact, and then you’re pushing two inside your cunt without hesitation. 

The stretch burns so good, and you turn your head into the pillow with a whimper as you curl your fingers, searching.

Legs spreading wider, you hook a knee over your elbow, pulling yourself open as you fuck into your fingers into your cunt with fast motions.

It’s not enough.

You add a third finger, biting back a whine when your muscles clench around them.

Fuck, you’re so wet. It’s stupid and embarrassing, like your body’s been waiting for this even when your brain refuses to admit it.

And then—because you’re weak, because you’re angry, because you must hate yourself—your mind flashes to him. 

Daryl.

You imagine his calloused hands replacing yours, his rough grip yanking your thighs apart, his voice growling something filthy. Insulting you. Degrading you.

His cock ruining you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and yearning.

You press your heel into the mattress, lifting your hips higher, fucking your fingers harder—like if you just push, just take, you can chase that feeling out of your system. 

But of fucking course it’s no use.

The more you touch yourself, the clearer the images become: Daryl’s teeth sinking into your neck, his hands holding your breasts, his cock filling you up so much better than your hand ever could.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, but the betrayal of your own pulse turns into a sharp ache between your legs.

A whimper claws its way up your throat as your fingers speed up.

"Fuck you," you grit out between clenched teeth, your fingers working faster now, slick and desperate. "Fuck you, fuck you—" The words come out whiny, choked, like a mantra you don’t even realize you’re saying until your own voice echoes back at you. 

Your thighs tremble, your hips angling as you chase that crest, so close you can taste it.

Just a little more—just a little—

The sound splits through the air like a gunshot.

Floorboard.

Hallway.

You recognize it instantly, the way your body knows hunger or thirst or the sting of a fresh wound. Your fingers go still inside you, muscles locking so fast it hurts. The wet sound of your own touch hangs in the air, obscene in the sudden silence.

Your door is open.

Wide.

You didn’t think you needed to close it.

Daryl’s not supposed to be here.

Breath trapped in your throat, you don’t move. 

Don’t blink. 

All at once, the dark of your bedroom feels alive, pressing in from all sides. Your pulse hammers against your ribs, loud and fast like it’s trying to punch itself out. 

Then, another sound. A shift of air.

Slowly.

So slowly your muscles protest, you turn your head toward the doorway.

The hall is darker than your room, a void where the weak moonlight doesn’t reach.

Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. 

You wrench the blanket around yourself and bolt upright, moving before your brain registers the command. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you dash across the bedroom and flick the bedroom light on, the sudden brightness stinging your eyes. 

The room is empty. Exactly as it should be.

Then—

Thump.

Upstairs.

A sound so deliberate it doesn’t even pretend to be accidental.

You know it’s stupid. You know running toward danger instead of away is the kind of shit that gets people killed in this world. Half naked, no less. But you don’t care. 

You’re wired, adrenaline singing through your veins like a live current as you take the stairs two at a time, bare feet slapping against the wood.

The upstairs hallway stretches before you, shadows clinging to the corners. You never come up here. The air is thick with the scent of dust and—

Cigarettes.

You whirl into the first room, then the next, checking corners, behind doors, under the bed like some frantic animal.

Nothing. No one. 

The house is still. Too still.

Then you see it.

The curtain in the bedroom sways, just slightly, like someone brushed past it seconds ago.

Maybe you did.

Maybe you’re imagining things again.

Your throat goes dry.

You step closer, every muscle in your body coiled tight. 

The window is cracked open—just enough for a hand to slip through, to lift from the outside. Your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

You slam the window shut and lock it.

You should feel relieved that you didn’t find anything other than a cracked window. You should sag against the wall, laugh at your own paranoia, chalk it up to the wind or your own fucked-up imagination. But the heat under your skin doesn’t fade. 

You storm back downstairs, your breath coming fast, your thighs and fingers still sticky with your own mess. You step back into your bedroom, then promptly freeze.

Your panties.

The ones you’d kicked off in a frenzy—

Gone.

A laugh claws its way up your throat, jagged and wild. 

Of course.

Of fucking course they are.

Hours crawl by in a slow bleed of shadows, your fingers clenched around the knife under your pillow until dawn streaks the sky in grays and blues. 

You don’t sleep. You don’t even think you blink. 

Every creak of the house feels like a taunt, every rustle of wind a whisper against your skin. By the time the sun finally lifts over Alexandria’s walls, you’re already dressed, already moving, your body thrumming with a restless energy that demands action.

You leave Alexandria under the guise of going on a solo hunt, claiming you didn't sleep well. You also ask tersely about Daryl and when he’s returned. 

Rosita’s quick to tell you that he’s still not back.

Which you’re still pretty confident is utter bullshit.

She pulls the gate open for you without asking any questions, and you make a beeline for the forest. The spot isn’t far, a mile or two beyond the eastern tree line, where the land dips into a shallow cliffside.

You found it months ago, back when you still bothered mapping escape routes, back when trust was a currency you hadn’t yet wasted.

The alcove is quiet, sheltered by a natural curve of rock that funnels walkers away like water around a stone. Today, though, luck’s run dry. A single walker stumbles between the trees nearby.

Your fingers flex around your knife. Fine.

The walker's milky eyes lock onto you, its jaw working like it can already taste your flesh. You roll your shoulders back, flipping your knife in your palm—a quick, practiced motion that should feel satisfying but just leaves your fingers twitchy. 

Whatever. At least this is something you can fix.

You take two steps forward—

Thwip.

An arrow—no—a crossbow bolt hits dead-center between its eyes with a wet crunch, sending the walker crumpling to the forest floor like a puppet with cut strings. 

Your breath stutters in your chest as your pulse rushes and thumps in your ears so loudly that you go half-deaf.

No way.

There's no fucking way in hell that he actually followed you out here.

You whip around to see, who?

Daryl Goddamned Dixon, stepping out from between the trees, crossbow still raised.

That’s it. 

Enough.

You snap.

The moss underfoot muffles your steps, but your rage isn't quiet. You stomp toward him, snapping twigs under your boots like they're his bones. 

His smirk is infuriating, like he’s won. When his mouth opens, you already know what’s coming before he says it.

"You're welcome," he drawls. The crossbow dips lazily in his grip, like this is nothing. 

Like you're nothing.

Your fist connects with his jaw before you even consider the repercussions. The impact jars up your arm with sharp, satisfying pain as his head is thrown to the side, and for one glorious fucking second, you think he might actually take the hint.

But then his hand shoots out, fingers digging into your chin hard enough to grind your teeth into the inside of your cheek. You taste the tang of your own blood when he yanks you forward.

His mouth crashes into yours—no softness, no asking. Just heat and teeth and the taste of contrasting iron on his split his lip.

You bite back, literally, sinking your teeth into the affliction until he grunts, but he doesn’t let go. His other hand fists in your hair, pulling just shy of painful, and you growl as you arch, because fuck him, you won’t be the one to break first.

His crossbow hits the ground somewhere beside him, forgotten. You shove at his chest, and the kiss breaks as he stumbles backward.

His eyes lock onto yours.

Dark, feral. 

God, it makes your pulse kick harder. 

You barely have time to react before he’s surging forward again, closing the distance between you like a predator cornering its prey. 

You swing again, fist aimed for his ribs this time, but he catches your wrist.

"Let go—" you snarl.

He yanks you forward so hard your shoulder protests and you collide against his chest. The heat of him burns through your clothes.

He leans forward, breath rasping against your ear. 

"Have a little fun without me last night?" His voice is low, taunting, rough with something that isn’t just anger.

“Damn you!” You feel a scream building up in your throat. “I knew you were—”

Daryl slaps you across the face, and your scream comes out gritted.

You don’t dignify it with words. Instead, you jerk your knee up—aiming for his gut, his balls, anywhere that’ll wipe that smug look off his face—but he twists, taking the hit on his thigh with a grunt.

His hands move fast to your shoulders, where they grab fistfuls of your jacket, fingers digging into the lapels before he dips his thumbs beneath and shoves down.

Daryl gets your jacket off, and you only realize it’s off when you see him toss it aside. The fabric drapes over a log before crumpling to the ground.

For half a second, you both just stare. Chests heaving, lips parted around ragged breaths.

You can see the exact moment his gaze drops to your mouth.

Your neck.

Ultimately landing on your tits.

You shove at his chest again, but he prepares for it this time. He barely moves. Just rocks with it, steadies, and looks back at you like you’ve done something mildly interesting.

One hand finds your waist, pressing into the dips there.

“Pervert,” you spit, but the word lacks venom when his thumb brushes the strip of bare skin where your shirt has ridden up. “You’re foul—”

His mouth crashes into yours before you can twist away, and fuck, it’s infuriating how good it feels. How your body curls into him, how your fingers claw at his vest just like he did with your jacket. 

Dammit, he growls against your lips, rough and possessive. It makes your stomach flip. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging into your ass overtop your jeans. He yanks you forward against him.

You can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this when his hips nudge into you.

He's rock hard.

You don’t ask. 

Neither does he. 

Your fingers push at his vest, fumbling in the heat of it all. He shrugs it off for you instead. 

The shirt beneath is a button up flannel, and you don't bother taking it off the nice way. You just slide your fingers into the closure, grasp, and rip apart.

Daryl grunts as he looks down. He doesn’t help this time, just watches you literally tear his shirt open with that infuriating half-smile of his, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

The fabric splits with sharp, satisfying pops, exposing his scarred skin beneath.

Your brain short circuits.

Long enough that Daryl has a chance to hook his fingers into the neckline of your tank top, finger burying in your cleavage.

Then he yanks down, rough and impatient. The fabric stretches, then splits down the middle with a sharp rip.

Before you know it, your bra is exposed and Daryl’s gaze drags over it. 

It makes your skin burn. You don’t know whether to cover yourself or punch him.

You quickly decide to go with the latter.

Your fist connects with the side of his ribs hard enough to make him curse and cough. Daryl staggers, one hand clutching his side, but his grip on your tank top doesn’t loosen—instead, he uses it to yank you forward, off-balance.

He just manhandles you.

You stumble forward, and before you can right yourself, he shoves you back now. Hard.

Your calves hit something solid. 

His fucking crossbow. 

And then you’re going down. 

Your elbows slam into the dirt first. The impact jolts up your arms, then your shoulders hit next, then your spine. The breath punches out of your lungs in a sharp wheeze. 

Above you, Daryl’s shadow blocks out the sun. His shirt is gone.

One of his knees lands between your thighs, his weight pressing down into you before you can twist away. You buck around under him, snarling, pushing on his chest, slapping his face, nails scraping over his shoulders. 

You put a hand in his face and push up. 

“Get the hell off’a me,” you snap, twisting sharply to the side.

It works—sort of. 

Daryl thrashes to get your hand off his jaw, but he takes long enough for you to roll over. You crawl out from under him, and scramble to get up, but he grabs your ankle. 

You topple with your forward momentum just as he drags you back toward him. You hook your fingers into the soil and drag, but it’s useless.

You spin and try to land a kick on his nose. He leans back and avoids it, like he knew you’d try.

You start kicking the fingers wrapped around your ankle instead. He lets go then with a grunt. You stand up and run for your jacket, but he’s on you again so fast that you yelp.

Then, ostensibly, you’re both rolling across the dirt, grappling like feral cats. You manage to land another punch on his cheek, but it doesn’t land right. 

His knee catches you in the ribs, and you cough.

But then you’re on top, straddling his waist with your thighs locked tight around him. You raise your fist—

And he catches it again, dammit, fingers clamping down like a bear trap.

You snarl, trying to wrench free, but he uses the momentum to flip you again. Leaves and sticks splinter beneath your back, and Daryl’s already wedging himself between your thighs.

His free hand slides up your side impatiently, then his palm closes over your breast, squeezing and kneading you.

“Asshole,” you spit, arching into the touch despite yourself.

His mouth curls into that infuriating smirk again. 

You try to push him up, but he catches both wrists and pins them high above your head while his hips press down. The firm line of his cock rubs between your spread legs.

Deliberate, taunting.

Hell, maybe even a fucking warning. Because he stops and just pushes against you and stays there.

Your traitorous body responds instantly, heat pooling low in your belly. Grinding back and forth, rubbing your clit wetly on the seam of your jeans. You hate him for it.

So you spit in his face.

Daryl whips his head away, then he turns, lip curled in anger. 

Then he does the same right back. 

Spit lands hot and wet on your cheek. You shrug your shoulder up to try and wipe it off, but you don’t get far because he’s leaning down to capture your mouth in a kiss again. 

Messy. Rough. 

All teeth and tongue.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way. Just his tongue shoving into your mouth like he’s trying to choke you with it. You suck, then drag your teeth along it while he retreats. 

You’ve never heard someone actually growl before, but he certainly does. The sound rumbles against your lips, his fingers tightening around your wrists until your skin burns, but you don’t pull them away.

Mostly because you can’t. 

Instead, you arch up and lock your legs around his waist. You grind and rub on his cock, because two can play at that game. 

You’ll take what you want from this, too. 

Daryl groans, pulling back to start kissing down your neck. Then he’s biting a line down your chest, teeth dragging until he reaches your exposed breast. 

His free hand yanks at your bra, rough and impatient, the cup snapping down and curling under the swell of you. His palm is calloused, hot against your bare breast, and then he gives you a punishing squeeze. 

A moan stumbles out of you once he leans down and takes your nipple in his mouth.

“Fuck you,” you grit. 

Now you knee him in the ribs—same spot as your punch—and he grunts, his body buckling just enough for you to twist your arms out of his grip.

Your thighs clamp around his waist as you flip the both of you until he’s flat on his back in the moss and dirt. 

His belt is thick, worn leather, and you don’t bother with finesse. You jerk the buckle loose, knuckles brushing the soft swell of his stomach, and he slaps you, open-handed while you work his jeans open, sharp enough to make your head snap to the side.

Your cheek stings, but you don’t pause. You just punch him in the gut in retaliation. A quick, brutal jab. 

Another slap lands on your face and you don’t react to it. 

But God, it hurts. He does it again, then another smack lands on your tit.

Aside from the impacts, he’s not resisting you. Not really. 

You pull the zipper next, and Daryl’s breath hitches when your fingers brush lower.

Then he puts up a fight again.

One hand fists in your hair, yanking you down and wrestling you onto your side. One of his arms is already under you and circles around your waist. He drags you on top of him this time, your spine to his chest and staring up at the canopy overhead.

“Let go of me,” you snap. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

His hips grind up against your ass. "Winnin'." His voice is so fucking deep it rumbles from his chest and right into yours.

Fuck.

His free hand slides down your stomach and digs into the button of your jeans like he's trying to crush it.

You writhe against him, twisting your hips sharply to get his hand to stop its assault, but Daryl just grunts at the friction and holds you tighter. His forearm is like a steel band around your ribs. 

You gasp when the button of your jeans pops free. The zipper rasps down next before you can do much else.

His fingers dive into your jeans with no fucking courtesy. 

“I hate you,” you grit. You start thrashing around, but his arm is steadfast, holding you in place with so much force it's hard to take a full breath. 

You hiss, thighs snapping together instinctively, trapping his wrist between them.

He’s already there though.

“No panties today, huh?” he chuckles.

God.

“Gee, I sure wonder why—”

“Slut.”

“I hate you.”

"Fuckin’ liar," Daryl growls against your ear, breath hot and ragged. His fingers curl, pressing harder, dragging through the wetness he finds there like he’s proving a point. "Tellin’ me you hate me when your cunt’s drippin’."

His finger drags along the seam of you regardless of the space you give him, rubbing rough and torturous. 

You choke on your own breath. "I do hate you," you spit, but the words crack when he presses lower, and your legs part, because fighting him just hurts more. 

You whine and immediately despise yourself for it. The callouses on his palm grind against your clit like cat’s tongue while his fingers properly glide around through your slick heat. 

It feels so much better than you thought it would.

You can feel how wet you are. He slips and slides around in it, and you really hate giving him the satisfaction.

So you grab his wrist and pull on it.

Doesn’t stop him though, he's too strong.

You realize with a sinking feeling that you’re fighting a losing battle when you try to pull again, because he doesn’t flinch. 

He’s rigid, immovable.

He lifts his knees and spreads them. The movement forces your thighs to separate wide just as two fingers plunge into your cunt.

"Shit," you hiss. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"

His teeth graze your shoulder, sucking and marking you, and God, your hips jerk into his touch like some desperate little thing. You keep fighting him, even as his fingers piston inside you.

"That why you’re grindin’ on my hand?" Daryl's breath hitches, like he's just as affected by the touch. 

His fingers curl, dragging out a slow, filthy stroke that punches a ragged noise from your throat. You buck against him, nails scraping skin from his forearm, but he just tightens his grip around your ribs with a grunt.

Your scratch makes him bleed.

He doesn’t care.

You feel helpless. 

So for a short while, you just let his fingers fuck into you, let his breath sear the back of your neck, let the weight of his arm hold you atop him like you’ve surrendered. 

Daryl’s grip on you gradually loosens just a fraction, his rhythm slowing like he’s caught off guard by your fawning.

And that’s all you need.

You twist violently, wrenching your hips sideways, and his fingers slip free. Just when Daryl thinks he has you pinned again, you throw your head back against his.

The back of your head collides with a rough crack—bone meeting bone. It sends white-hot pain spiderwebbing through your skull.

"Shit–!" he shouts.

His hold on you drops away, and you scramble free, rolling onto your knees beside him in the dirt. 

Daryl's groan is muffled behind his hands—fingers pressed to his forehead where you'd cracked into him. He sounds pissed.

Good.

Pride flares just like the pain in your skull as you kick your boots off in quick, jerky motions, the laces creaking under the force. Your jeans follow, shucked down your thighs with rough impatience, then you kick them aside entirely.

Daryl's hands drop from his face just as you swing one leg over his shoulders, knees bracketing his head. His pupils dilate when your thighs come together around his cheeks. Confusion flickers, then his pupils flare.

His lips part before you even settle down fully, tongue already dragging wet and heavy over his bottom lip like he's starved of you.

Your thumb digs into the swollen red spot on Daryl’s forehead, just because. He grunts in pain, turning his head sharply to dislodge the pressure. 

His arms snap up and surprise you, circling around your thighs with a grip like iron. 

You panic, because you’re caught again, and he pulls you. You wanted some semblance of control, but he keeps taking it from you.

As much as you try to fight him and gravity, you know it’s a losing battle. 

Your body drops abruptly toward his face, and he tilts his head up to meet you.

The first hot swipe of his tongue against your clit is a shock—wet, deliberate, and filthy. You try to jerk back up instinctively, but his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, securing you there. 

His mouth seals over you, tongue dragging slow and rough from your entrance to your clit in one merciless stroke.

Daryl’s laps at you, messy and drooling and moaning like you’re some fucking delicacy. You stare down at him, and you really hope he can’t tell how much his enthusiasm turns you on.

He chuckles deep in his throat the second it crosses your mind. 

You tremble involuntarily, spine bowing. “God, you’re a jackass.”

You suck in a shaky breath and it comes back out as an equally shaky moan. His nose presses into your clit with every rough drag. You hiss through your teeth, fingers twisting tighter in his hair—not guiding, just taking, grinding down against his face like you want to suffocate him with it. 

Drown him in your cunt.

Daryl’s groan vibrates against your skin, hot and ragged. You dig your thumb into the bruise on his forehead again, pressing hard enough to make him growl. 

Not in pain apparently. 

His eyes roll white and flutter shut, and the bastard still doesn’t stop. If anything, his tongue works harder, slides up and flicks against your clit like he’s trying to spell his name on you.

You whimper his name without meaning to, and his eyes fly open again, brow scrunching in concentration as he looks up at you. 

His hands slide up your thighs, callouses catching on your skin. They skim over your hips, one palm sliding around to smack your ass. You jerk forward with a gasp, your thighs tightening around his head reflexively. 

His hands don’t stop traveling. They continue upward, fingers digging into the dip of your waist. Then higher, clumsy and bumping over the cups of your bra. 

One hand squeezes roughly over the fabric, fingers pinching your nipple overtop it until you hiss. The other cup flipped back up over your breast, and he tears it down again like he’s reclaiming the lost territory.

You don’t bother fumbling with the clasp. Instead, you yank the whole damn thing off, bra and the torn remains of your tank top being flung somewhere beside you into the dirt. 

Cool air ghosts over your bare skin, but the heat of Daryl’s gaze burns you hot again.

His eyes move between your face and your tits, dark and hungry. And the sound he makes. 

Fuck. 

A low, throaty moan muffled against your clit. 

You grind down harder, riding his face like you’re trying to discipline him. Daryl disciplines you right back, hands engulfing your breasts, squeezing, and pinching your nipples. 

That’s how you play with them—

You gasp and can’t your hips down along his tongue.

“Ohh, oh fuck—” Your voice cracks when his tongue slides upward, lapping at your clit with insistent licks in the off-tempo of your grinding.

What the fuck. This is how you touch yourself.

And that little slip up just gave you away.

Daryl's tongue works you over with brutal precision—like he's studied you, memorized the exact way you touch yourself in the dark… when no one's watching…

You gulp and shiver when you remember.

He did. 

The realization makes your skin prickle with fury even as your thighs tremble around his head. You yank his hair hard enough to make him grunt, then the bastard laughs—mouth still pressed wet against your cunt. The vibration sends a jolt up your spine.

His hands keep palming your tits like he owns them, then he pulls your nipples. 

You jerk forward with a gasp. 

Oh.

His lips seal around your clit, then he’s sucking, and your focus wobbles. A broken noise punches from your throat, your body jolting as bliss surges through you.

You try to get his head away, palm shoving at his forehead, the other hand clawing at his scalp, but he holds firm. His tongue flicks against the spot he just sucked, relentless, and your thighs quake around his skull. 

“You c-can’t make me—come—” Your words dissolve into a ragged moan, your hips stuttering against his face as the heat in your belly coils tighter.

Shit.

Maybe he can.

His fingers twist your nipples sharply, and the pain-pleasure of it makes your cunt clench. You snarl and twist your hips to get away, but Daryl growls, his grip lowering quickly to circle around your thighs again. 

His grip on your thighs locks you in place. And his tongue returns to its assault on you, faster, rougher, trying to ruin you with it.

You’re close. Too close.

And he knows.

He leans his head up into you, eyes locked on your face.

“Daryl, I’m—“ You jerk backward with a snarl, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad, fingers digging bruises into your skin. 

The bastard laughs again.

And that’s what does it. 

The coil in your belly snaps, and you're coming on his mouth with a gritted, angry groan. Once that familiar warmth floods in, you forget the fighting and just chase it, grinding your hips down against his face in wild, jerky movements.

Daryl doesn't let up. 

Not even a little. He takes it. You look down at him and he stares right back up at you.

His tongue works you through it, dragging your pleasure out until it borders on painful. Until your thighs shake and your fingers twitch out of his hair to brace on the ground beside it instead. 

Only when you start to slump forward, breathless and trembling, does he finally pull his mouth away, but not far. His breath puffs hot and wet against your oversensitive skin, his chest heaving.

You sit upright overtop him again, panting. Tiredly, you look over your shoulder to see Daryl’s… cock.

Oh, shit.

It’s out of his pants now. Your pulse scatters when you see the full length of him. Red and thick, throbbing in strong flexes off his stomach. Precum glistens and drips from the head. 

You feel him moving. 

You lag behind.

He grabs your forearms and simply moves you. You blame your afterglow when he’s already got you flat on your back, crawling over you like a big cat. His knees slot between your thighs before you can snap them shut.

One elbow braces beside your head, caging you in, while his free hand arrives on your cunt with a rough spank. 

You yelp. Loudly. 

“Girl, shut up,” he grumbles. He presses a hand over your mouth, then spreads your thighs with his knees. “You want this shit.”

He goes right back to spanking your cunt, fingers meeting your clit in snaps, searing through your nerves like fire. 

There’s no rhythm. No warning between.

You wail into his palm and thrash, hands finding his shoulders and shoving, futile. 

It’s so cruel. You just came and now he’s slapping your cunt like he’s mad at you for it. 

You crack your eyes open to see him squinting down at you, pleased with himself. Like he’s triumphed. Like he’s got you all figured out and he knows just how to break you.

All at once, he stops slapping and starts rubbing, rough and wild, fingers dragging through the sore, wet mess he’s made of you.

His hand slides off your mouth and you suck in a breath. 

“What’s wrong with you—” you snarl, but the words die when his fingers plunge inside your cunt. 

Your hips jerk off the ground, a ragged gasp tearing from your throat. 

"Fuck—F-Fuck you—" you whine, twisting violently beneath him, but Daryl hooks your knee in his elbow and he bends you in half, like he’s trying to bury you into the soil.

His fingers curl inside you, rough, relentless, dragging up against your walls so good your thighs tremble.

You feel your stomach coil again.

Unhelpfully, your mind supplies the image of his cock fucking in and out of you instead. You fucking moan, and his taunting smile is what gets you to slap him across the face.

The crack echoing through the trees, but the bastard just groans, shaking his head like a dog with a bone. His fingers don’t slow. Every time you land a hit on him or catch him off guard, it makes him double down. 

Your thighs try to clamp shut, but it’s useless. Daryl’s fingers plunge deeper, curling just right, and your vision flickers. 

Pulse stutters. 

Heat blooms.

No.

But then you get the sudden urge that you need to piss.

No, no, no. 

You’re gonna squirt. Holy shit, you always struggle to get there on your own, but he’s about to pull it out of you like it’s child’s play.

You writhe violently, snarling curses into the dirt, but he’s too strong. Too heavy.

The sound gets so obscene. You always get wetter when you’re about to cum, god, it’s humiliating. 

You panic.

You buck. 

You arch and squirm. Nails gouging his arms and wrists, but he doesn’t relent.

So your hands fly up to cover your face instead, goddammit. You shake and tremble without control of it, then his fingers push up inside you one last time, pressing deep, and your body seizes.

Your second orgasm hits you like a fucking brick.

He makes you squirt, the bastard. The hot rush floods between your thighs and up into his stomach. His palm slips.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes. He yanks his fingers free and rubs your clit back and forth, splashing in it like it’s fucking fun. 

You go rigid. 

It’s torture. It’s too much.

You might say something, but who cares?

You’ve never felt pleasure like this.

You drop your hands from your face to see him sucking two fingers in his mouth, cleaning them with deliberate, filthy drags of his tongue, like some starved animal.

You scowl at him through your haze and—

The sharp crack of his palm against your cheek snaps your head to the side, the sting blooming hot and sudden. 

Before you can even recollect your thoughts, Daryl grinds the thick head of his cock against your clit. 

You gasp. "Don't even think about—"

Another slap cuts you off, harder this time. Your vision turns to static, and when it clears, he’s already sinking into your cunt, seating himself to the hilt in one solid push of his hips.

Daryl leans forward and grabs your chin. "You gonna shut up now, or do I need to keep smackin’ you around?” 

"Just fuck me," you snap. 

He thrusts like he’s pissed. Each thrust punches the air from your lungs. His breath is hot and ragged against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin and marking you up, ruining you, ensuring everyone knows exactly whose fault this is.

Then his hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your hands and knees before you can even think to protest. He fists a hand in your hair and yanks your head back.

“Doesn’t look like you hate me that much,” he taunts.

But you do hate him.

You do.

You promise.

His fingers tighten in your hair, yanking hard enough to make your scalp burn, and you just go willingly. One particularly rough snap of his hips knocks you forward and your elbows buckle. 

Daryl shoves your cheek into the dirt, then he’s spitting in your face again. 

You don’t try to wipe it away. You just wear it.

"That’s real pretty," he growls.

He spits on you again. Smears his thumb through it on your cheek.

You find that you’re too dazed to even bite back anymore.

You just don't have the energy left. 

Face down, ass up. 

Cunt used and filled.

You simply take it.

He must feel the shift, because he redoubles.

You blink—once, twice—and suddenly you’re upright on your knees in the dirt, your hands limp at your sides. You don’t remember moving. Him moving you?

You dunno.

Don’t care.

Daryl’s grip is iron on your chin, tilting your head up, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, and your mouth opens on its own.

Your tongue lolls out, heavy and stupid, like some trained fucking mutt waiting for a treat.

Daryl doesn’t give you one.

He spits in your mouth instead, thick and warm, right onto your tongue.

You swallow like it’s second nature.

You blink again—and his cock is in your mouth, dragging against your tongue.

Daryl’s fingers tight in your hair, pulling you forward. 

You don’t fight it. You don’t even gag. Your throat opens for him like it’s been trained to, swallowing him down until your nose presses into coarse hair.

His hips jerk forward once, twice—sharp, punishing little thrusts that make your eyes roll back.

Then he groans, low and ragged, and spills hot down your throat. You swallow instinctively, the bitterness of him lost under the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. 

When he pulls out, you don’t move. Your lips stay parted, slack and wet, your tongue heavy behind your teeth. 

You don’t taste him.

You don’t taste anything. 

Daryl’s breath is uneven above you, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. His hands are still tangled in your hair, holding you in place. You blink up at him, your vision swimming at the edges, and for a second—just a second—he looks concerned for you.

Then your vision just dips to black.

The world comes back in slow, aching pulses.

First, the dull throb between your legs, then the sharp sting where his teeth marked your neck, and finally, the bone-deep exhaustion that weighs your limbs down like lead. 

You groan, eyelids fluttering, and the sound scrapes raw against your throat. Everything hurts. Everything feels used.

Something scratchy and thick brushes against your bare skin—his poncho, maybe, wrapped haphazardly around your shoulders. The wool smells like Daryl, that bitter edge of leather and pine that clings to him. 

Daryl.

Arms tighten around you. “Quit squirmin’,” he grunts. There’s no bite in his voice. No anger. It’s rough, sleep-thick, like he’s been dozing upright with you slumped against his chest.

The realization makes your stomach twist. How long has he been sitting here, holding you while you were out cold?

The thought should piss you off. 

But, God, you have never been so tired in your life.

So you just forget it.

The next thing you recognize is the quiet. No birds, no wind, just the slow, steady rhythm of Daryl’s breathing against the crown of your head. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek, a muted but insistent pulse beneath his ribs.

It’s nice. Soothing.

His fingers twitch against your side, pressing lightly into the bruises he left earlier, and you flinch before you can stop yourself. 

Never mind.

Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry. Useless, aching, tender in places you didn’t know could ache. 

The wool draped over you scratches at your bare skin, but it’s warm, and it smells like him, and right now, that’s the closest thing to comfort you’ve got. You swallow again, wincing at the soreness in your throat.

"Easy," he mutters, voice low and gravelly. His thumb swipes over your hipbone, rough but careful, like he’s mapping the damage.

You want to bite him. 

You want to lean into it. 

Instead, you just exhale shakily, your breath ghosting over his collarbone.

"Fuck you," you mumble, but there’s no heat behind it. Just exhaustion. 

Daryl huffs, and for a second, you think he might actually laugh. He doesn’t. But his chest vibrates under you, just a little, like he’s holding it back.

The canteen presses against your lips before you even register it. You blink up at the canopy overhead, and his grip on the back of your neck tightens just enough to make you swallow. 

It's possessive and annoying.

Normally, you'd wrench away—spit the water back at him, maybe—but right now, the weight of his hand feels good. Grounding. The water soothes the raw ache in your throat, and for once, you don't fight him. You just drink until the canteen tilts back, dribbling a cold line down your chin.

It tracks down your neck and into your cleavage. That feels good, too.

"I hate you," you mumble drowsily, curling into the curve of his shoulder.

"Yeah, whatever," he answers, pulling the poncho higher on your shoulders.

You drift.

If you made it to the end, bless your freaky little heart. thanks for reading, friend. comments are very appreciated! 🖤