＼＼\٩(๑`^´๑)۶//／

Clark Kent, MetU’s golden boy, was a complete and utter asshole. Being the quarterback for the Bulldogs made him a god around campus; his defense was the best in the state, he was in line for all sorts of professional tracks, and whenever he showed up to any party, pep rally, or game, it seemed like the entire school swayed on its feet. People revered him for scoring goals and having the cool head to open a door for a girl now and again. But these noble acts, these shows of modesty, they meant nothing to you. You only knew him as the pompous ass he was in the morning. 

You knew for a fact you’d never done anything to make him act in such a way towards you. In fact, when you first met him as a transferring junior in a new city with no friends and no life, you had gone out of your way to be nice. Something like a last ditch effort to make the most of a scary situation. A poor mistake on your end.

You were fulfilling the one and only credit which didn’t transfer over from your county college back home: general chemistry. It was already annoying enough that you had to repeat a course, given you were an English major with no interest in science whatsoever, but there was no waving it, and by the time you transferred into MetU all the good slots were gone. You had to take it at eight in the morning with all the other jocks who scheduled out their time for afternoon practices. Every Thursday, you were forced to sit in a room that smelled of body odor and hope to God the ammonia didn’t explode one of the test tubes. 

Something good had to come of it, right? You had to think so. And for a split second, you thought it could have been true when you sat beside him. When you stepped in on the first day, the only chair around was beside the beast of a man. He had that dark hair, deep enough to be black but without the menacing edge, that seemed to flirt with his eyebrows; piercing eyes that changed between blue and green by the day; the prominent canines of a golden retriever. What wasn’t there to admire? His Bulldogs hoodie squeezed his shoulders. The pencil in his hand looked dwarfed in comparison. All in all, a proper specimen. But the lesson lied in how he stared at you. He stared just how every other boy had all your life– with confusion, which melted into discomfort, and then into a slow reproach. He was no golden boy, he was just cute. You’ll never forget it– all you said was, “It’s nice to meet you. I hope we can be friends,” to which you received the most lifeless stare in return and a gruff little, “Sure.”

Every conversation after that was kept to a minimum. You weren’t an idiot. 

The year passed in a flurry of projects that kept you in a perpetual state of nails-on-chalkboard aggravation. Clark was needlessly up your ass, commenting on every little equation you screwed up and fighting with you about quantities and solutions in every lab. It seemed every other word coming out of his mouth was a snarky one. 

“Don’t you think you should use the calculator?”

“You can’t mix those, remember?”

“No, genius, that’s the other side of the equilibrium.”

“You know, for someone as smart as you, it would be great if you listened more.”

If you had a penny for every time Clark’s voice curled over your shoulder to choke you out with his attitude, you could personally fund an expedition to Mars and send him up alone. He’d do great up there with the aliens. He’d piss them off and start a galactic war.

What was worse was that he was never wrong. When it came to the retention of the material, Clark was light years better at chemistry. He had the periodic table memorized, for one thing, and he could calculate isotopes in his head. He knew the nature of it, the math, the processes. Everything. When he caught you making an incorrect calculation or a misinformed hypothesis, he was quick to show off, but your grade had yielded the results. You were going to pass the entire semester with a straight 95, all because of Clark. The fucking bastard.

Well, as long as you survived the final project.  

Professor John Jones, who got along so well with Clark it made everyone want to stick a finger down their throat, assigned the class a final project that was meant to be ‘freeform’ and ‘fun’ – as if there was anything fun about metals and acids. Perhaps how they could burn skin off, but little more. Everyone had to perform an analysis of a mineral found in their hometown and construct not only a unique study of its properties, but come up with an efficient way to use it for energy-saving processes. Because rocks can save the ozone layer, right? God, maybe it worked for a bunch of scientists, but you just didn’t have the heart for it. 

But Clark planned to throw himself (and you) in headfirst. He insisted he had the best study in the class waiting back home on his family farm. He touted it while the class waited for the professor to show up at his usual fashionably late time of 8:15.

“What did you call it?”

“Kryptonite,” he deadpanned, chewing on the string of his hoodie. “They started calling it that back home because it glows a greenish color in the light. Y’know, like Krypton does when it’s electrified in a tube.”  

You stared into Clark’s eyes, feeling the familiar burn of frustration beneath your skin. Wracking your brain for a second, you thought, Krypton, Krypton, shit, what is that again…?

Clark’s eyes never left your face. He minded how you seemed to search for the answer, using that pretty brain of yours to try and muster the care for something you clearly despised. He smirked and said, “Krypton? Number 36?”

You blinked and pursed your lips. Shit. Element. Right. “Whatever. So what exactly are you suggesting we do?”

“Krypton’s been used for all kinds of stuff. They make energy-efficient lighting for cameras and signs, lightbulbs, they use it for medicine, they insulate windows and houses with it,” he rambled, spinning on his lab stool. “We can study the properties and see if it works even better than the original element.”

“Is it even linked to Krypton’s properties?"

“No idea,” Clark grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “That’s what the experiment is for.”

“That could be incredibly dangerous. What if it’s poisonous?"

“It’s a rock, genius,” Clark scoffed, “you’re telling me you’re afraid of a rock?”

“I don’t like the idea of a special rock that can only be found in your bumblefuck hometown, Clark, yeah.”

Clark clapped a hand over his heart in false pain. “You wound me.”

You grumbled softly and shut your laptop as Jones walked to the front of the room. 

“You’re coming to the farm this weekend so we can get this done,” Clark leaned in close to whisper. You could smell minty toothpaste as his breath brushed your ear. “Unless you’ve got a better plan.”

You scrunched your shoulders and shoved him away, practically growling as he let out a small snicker. The ghost of him still lingered, clean and warm in the space beside you. He did that a lot. Got close to tease, to mock, to prove you wrong. You hated it as much as you hated him. Everything he did snuck under your skin, proving that you were never quite going to get a handle on your anger with him around. All you had to do was pass this class, and then you would never have to see him again. All you would know of Clark would be his face plastered on the side of the stadium in a blue jersey, and his face plastered in the dining hall, and his face plastered on the campus newspaper… fuck, it might just be time to transfer again. 

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

Smallville was not just bumblefuck. It was podunk, redneck, Dorothy-and-Auntie Anne levels of nowhere. The Kent Farm sat on acres of golden land that sprawled in every direction, all fenced in by handmade posts and full of grazing cows and fluttering hay. It was beautiful, quaint, and absolutely fucking desolate. The thought of spending your entire weekend here with the guy you could stand the least sounded like perhaps you had already died, and were being condemned to a lifetime of torture inside the male psyche. This was what men liked, right? Trapping a girl in their sad, little nowhere? 

Clark’s truck never ceased smelling like Old Spice and stale coffee for the entire trip. The quarterback showed up at your dorm at five in the morning on Friday, banging hard enough on the door to wake your roomie Lois and get a pillow chucked at his face while you hurriedly dressed. “Oh, please don’t change on my account,” he had said, staring you down with that same smirk. You contemplated slashing his tires.

“Nice, isn’t it?” He sighed, rolling up the long, winding driveway. A yellow house poked through the sparse trees, spotted with pink flowers hanging on the awning and white-curtained windows.

“You’re really going to make me stay here until Sunday?”

“Nobody is making you do anything, smartypants,” Clark flashed his canines, “you just didn’t have a better plan.”

You huffed and clambered out of the truck, sneakers sinking into the muck of a freshly rained-on farm. Clark giggled at the squish of your shoes and watched you struggle to haul your duffel bag to the house, rolling his eyes at your stubbornness. At least it was cool outside, you reasoned. If the heat got any worse than this, you might kill him, and that would not even be your fault. The heat gets to everyone sooner or later. 

“My parents are home,” he said as he reached the porch steps. “Be nice.”

You grimaced as the porch found its way beneath your feet, and you let your luggage hit the wood with a thunk. “Can’t we just dig up some of your stupid rocks and get out of here?”

“You’re gonna want some pie first,” Clark grinned, swinging open the front door.

Here you were, being forcibly subjected into the world that made such a monstrously rude young man. Surely his parents were the problem…

 ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊

By Saturday night, you had come to the conclusion that you were the one making Clark such a fucking nightmare. 

Jonathan and Martha Kent were two of the kindest people you had ever met in your life. His father was a mild-mannered and sensible older man, well-aged, outspoken, funny; Martha was the picture of beauty and grace, a talented cook and bookkeeper, and an even better conversationalist. And Clark– well, wasn’t he just sweet? Sweet with his mother and father, washing the dishes, begrudgingly passing you old photo albums, offering you his childhood bedroom and taking the couch. He made every effort to be accommodating when his parents were around. But the second he took you out into the fields to dig for these ridiculous green rocks, he went right back to being the guy you revolted.

“Have you ever held a spade before?”

“No, genius, that’s just a regular rock.”

“I wouldn’t work too hard if I were you. Your head can’t handle all that thinking.”

It truly was a matter of one more joke and you would throttle him. You dreamed of it– lunging across the dining table or the makeshift lab in his barn loft, clasping your nails around his long, tan throat, and squeezing until that minty breath made its last pass through those mauve lips. It would be so rewarding. Especially after having to watch the guy dig up dirt for hours on end, sweating in the sun, soiling a Bulldogs t-shirt. You had to sit there and pant in the heat, tugging at your clothes and swatting back your hair, aware of your every curve and roll and move; while the corded muscle in his arms moved easily while digging, his thick hair slicked behind his ears, his big hands pawing at green rocks like they were calling to him, or avoiding you. It was just wrong. A grievance the universe must have had with you was being repaid somehow, some way. 

Clark had done the original labs that night in the barn– studying the rock, breaking it apart with a pick and running all kinds of tests on its hardness, makeup, and reactions to certain catalysts. You perched on the couch and took notes on his findings, eager to let him do the hard part he was so insistent on performing. For a while, there was no speaking. Only the occasional comment from the quarterback about how the Kryptonite reacted to fire, which you scribbled down. 

It was when the storm started that Clark opened his mouth again.

The shift was a shock. The night had been so cool and clear, with a slow breeze wafting past the barn window; but it seemed in a split second, the indigo sky broke open and began pouring sheets of rain. You yelped as Clark cursed and rushed to lock the windows. Rain flew inside the barn sideways along with huge gusts of wind, soaking your notes and scattering shavings of the rock meant for his study. Water speckled your clothes and hair. You glanced around and saw a small fire catch across the room by his precious rocks, and you threw yourself at it. By the time he latched the window, rainwater soaked the wooden floors and your project was smudged to shit. 

“What the hell?” He whined, snatching your notes up and blowing on them. “Look at this!”

“Don’t what the hell me! I didn’t make it rain!”

“You couldn’t have saved the notes at least?”

“Well, I apologize for going after your fucking work station! That wind blew the flame from your bunsen onto the wall!”

Clark’s eyes darted across the loft to his desk full of minerals, where a black stain marked the wall. You were putting out a fire, he could tell that much. As you stood before him, chest heaving and shirt soaked, his heart hammered in his chest. Clark had imagined this moment many ways, but in none of them did you look this upset. He set down your notepad and ran a palm over his face, huffing in exasperation. 

A low rage coiled in your gut as he slumped onto the couch, seemingly resigning from work for the rest of the night. Who gave him the right to be so mad? First of all, what kind of idiot puts a bunsen burner in a wood-and-straw barn? What asshole blames their partner who's never been in their house nor touched their weird, special rocks? A Clark-sized one, that was who. You were sick of it– the hypocrisy, the snark, the treatment. All you ever did was come to class. He was the one who took it upon himself to get you going.

The quarterback glanced up as your frame stomped closer, eventually standing with arms crossed over him and frowning on a level par with Eeyore. Not every girl could look so beautiful when she was losing her temper, but you could. Your hair was sticky with rainwater at the ends, your sweater was dribbling onto the light wash of your jeans, and mascara was clumping under your eyes, but none of it mattered. You were close, and you smelled like his soap. You were in the place he grew up. Very few things could make him happier.

“Do I really want to do this?” 

“...Do what?”

“Jesus. Yeah, I do,” you snapped. “What’s your problem, Clark?” 

Clark’s gut clenched. “What?”

“I know you hate me, but this?” You scoffed, turning around to look at the barn and seemingly looking past the walls out over the farm. The storm drowned the fields, surely, and for a moment you imagined standing out there and being washed clean of all the confusing feelings in your chest. “Making me come here, making me meet your parents and dig for rocks like a fucking five year old, when I know you hate me? What’s the point? What are you getting out of this, huh? I’m not going to thank you for figuring out a final project, and I certainly won’t be spoken to like an idiot!”

Clark froze as you spouted your anger over him, hands gesticulating in his face and making his body thrum. Hate?

“I don’t hate you.”

“You clearly fucking do! All you do is treat me like shit! You purposefully make me feel stupid, you clearly derive pleasure from correcting me when I’m just trying to fucking pass–”

A slow heat began to burn beneath his cheeks as he sat there and allowed himself to be berated. Your mouth turned down as you shouted, punctuating your skin with little dimples. The flame in your eyes burned bright, that same glint he caught when he first met you. He loved that spark. He missed it when you were gone. He only saw you once a week, and so he had to fit as many of them in as he could. He poked and prodded the bear to see her bite so that he might wear the mark for days. 

“And all I want is to finish this, I just want to go back to school and turn it in and be done, I want to move on! You make everything so– so impossible, don’t you see that? What did I ever do to make you be so fucking rude?”

Clark’s lips parted as he tried to find the words, but nothing was forming. He studied how you turned your back and paced the barn, tugging at the ends of your hair and grumbling. 

“I don’t hate you,” he said again. “Far from it.”

“Yeah, right,” you rolled your eyes and sat at his desk. “I’m sure you treat every girl this way.”

The storm raged, spray battering the siding of the barn. The whistle mimicked a tornado, but he knew there was no chance of that. It was only a high tone, not the rumble of a train. There was something he hated– the rain. The rain did nothing for him. It was good for the grass and the animals, but it made sludge of the fields he ran drills on and it trapped him inside the house. The rain didn’t talk back, didn’t shoot dirty looks, and didn’t give him a reason to work twice as hard. The rain didn’t need to pass chemistry, a class she shouldn’t have to even take over again, a class she hates. He hated the rain. But you?

Clark rose and started towards you, pausing when you pressed yourself into the desk chair on the other side of the loft. “I mean it.”

You swallowed thickly. “Yeah? Well, you sure don’t act like it.”

“You’re fun to tease,” he offered. 

“It’s not fun for me! I hate it! You think I want to show up at the asscrack of dawn just to deal with you breathing down my neck, watching for my next mistake, ready to pounce and make fun of me for it? Maybe you’re some kind of science freak, that’s great, but I’m not, and you, Clark Kent, do nothing but cause me undue stress!”

His heart took a tiny bullet then, or at least something like it. The hairs on your arms were raised, your pupils dilated, your breath short. You were mad. Humiliated, even. You were looking up at him like you didn’t trust him. And really, what reason had he given you to do so? You were right about everything. You were so bright, so quick to hit back, and he adored that about you. He loved the way your nose scrunched when you fell prey to a confusing equation, and how you wrote hard enough to tear paper when you were angry. But very quickly and all at once, he started to see just what his feelings had blinded him to. When he thought he was giving you the answers, you thought he was treating you like you were stupid; when he poked fun at you for not caring, you felt he was mocking your attempts. Clark would have gone so far as to call his behavior flirtatious, but the reality was that he had been a complete and utter asshole, and now he was paying for it. 

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like this,” Clark said after a few moments passed. “I really didn’t.”

“What did you mean, then, Clark? Please enlighten me!” 

Your jaw was set hard, and he wanted so badly to reach out and smooth a thumb over the bone. He wanted to cup your squishy cheek. He wanted to kiss you and give you the answers to the final test. He wanted to get you an A on this project.

He sighed, “I was trying to flirt with you.”

The sound of about nine hundred alarms began to ring inside your ears. Clark Kent was walking closer until his knees brushed yours where you sat, his hands flexing at his sides, his big, stupid head full of remorse. Flashes of every time he angered you began to wash over you, muddling the emotions into murky water, making everything incredibly unclear and twice as frustrating. You leaned back a bit when he squatted before you, trying to catch your eyeline. 

“I hurt your feelings,” he continued, “but I didn’t mean to. I thought it was like… like a game, or something. Like you wanted to fight.”

A lump settled in your throat as his eyes– blue today– bore into yours. The response scraped past your throat. “That’s not how you flirt with a girl, you asshole.”

“How, then?”

“You– you fucking– you compliment her, you help her with things, you– fuck you, I don’t have to tell you this!”

Clark smiled a little, his guilty face glowing. “But I was doing that. All I do is call you smart–”

“Calling me genius and smartypants is an asshole move and you know it!”

“But they’re true! I say them because it’s true,” he barreled past your interruption, “and I did give you things. I gave you answers. Help. Taught you the material.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! I could’ve done it on my own!”

Clark huffed and rubbed at his eyes, letting a hand fall to your knee. You flinched but didn’t yank away. “I didn’t want you to. I liked doing it. God… I really got this all wrong, didn’t I?”

Everything felt discolored. With his palm on your leg, the world was incredibly hot. Your lab partner had been… helping you, complimenting you… underneath layers of sarcasm that only drove you further away. How were you supposed to detect that? No genius could. When you met him, what did that first Sure mean? Did he want to be friends? Had you misread him then? Was it you, too? Were you the asshole? No, you promised yourself, because men are always responsible for their actions, they should be smarter and better and braver… even though it was getting more difficult to think straight as he gazed up at you with those eyes. 

Clark’s face flushed as his thumb dimpled your thigh. “Bringing you here was supposed to help. I wanted to see if you’d ease up when we weren’t in class. You’re hard to track down on campus, y’know, and I thought maybe if we spent a little time…”

You blinked and muttered, “You’re an ass.”

Clark’s eyes lifted. “Huh?”

“You’re an ass,” you repeated, leaning forward. His head tipped back to follow your lording, baring his neck to you. “When you like a girl, you tell her. We’re not five. You can’t pull my pigtails and expect me to assume that’s flirting. I just think it’s mean.”

“I see that now,” Clark gulped. 

“And to think, I thought you seemed nice before you ever opened your mouth. Such a genius at science, but such a fucking idiot in every other way.”

Clark bit back a laugh as he watched the flame licking in your eyes. It was… it couldn’t be. Were you softening? 

“I’m so sorry,” Clark urged, leaning up a bit. You drew him in like a magnet. You could keep screaming in his face for all he cared– he just liked it when you looked at him. 

“You’re going to have to be more than sorry,” you breathed, lashes fluttering. He looked the same as when you met him. He hadn’t changed. He was still dark and beautiful, tall, strong, the image of perfection. He also still looked smug as a motherfucker, and whatever part of you got so angry clearly did so over how much you liked it. “I want an A.”

“You’re gonna get one,” he promised, letting both hands run up your thighs now. 

You chewed the inside of your cheek, and one curious hand betrayed your restraint as it reached up to touch his skin. His cheeks were searing, and for the first time, you felt in control of the situation. With Clark on his knees, you could say anything you wanted, and it wouldn’t be a tease about your skills or your struggles. It would just be allowed.

“I want a lot from you,” you began, pressing a finger to his pout. “I want more apologies. I want walks to and from class. I want to come back in the summer and see your mother. I want you to show me you can learn how to treat me nice, because that was the girl you would have gotten in the beginning if you weren’t so stupid.”

Clark had no objections. “Okay.”

“And I want one more thing.”

His knees pushed up a bit, closing the space between his face and yours. “What’s that?”

“My name comes first on the project,” you smirked.

Clark erupted in soft laughter, and before you could react, two strong palms hooked behind your back and slid you to the edge of the chair. His lips found yours with a surging intensity, locking and never letting go; the eucalyptic taste of his tongue slid against yours as you craned over him, cradling his jaw and feeling the slow worship that got lost in translation pouring into every grunt and hum. Of all the things he was great at, kissing was another. Man, he was easy to hate. Well– envy. Easy for you to envy. That was what it was, wasn’t it? Envy. Covetousness. Desire.

“You really have to work on your communication skills,” you panted, tugging at his hair in the way you’d always hoped to– be it like this, or in a fight.

“And you really need to work on your anger,” Clark beamed, chasing after your mouth. 

“That’s not my–”

“I’m trying to kiss you here, genius.”

“I hate it when you call me that,” you flushed, nearly falling out of the chair as you knocked his back onto the loft floor. 

“Just shut up and come here.”

As his hands slid under your shirt, the flutter in your gut was clear as day. You were a smart girl, there was no denying it, but you did well with words– things that were interpreted rather than solved. In matters of the heart, your emotions were as clear to you as pages in a book. But Clark did not work that way. His biology was scientific. His methods, his needs, were all components collected to achieve the desired result. 

It was only now, as the rain began to lighten on the roof, that you finally learned your first lesson from him. This was an equation you could solve: The properties of this kiss, plus the factors of you and Clark, multiplied by months of miscommunication and divided over one night in bumblefuck Kansas, equaled undeniable chemistry. Considering your margin for human error, that was the quickest problem you had ever correctly solved. And it felt good.

he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but i’m going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better it’ll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."

olderbf!nanami who eats you out like it’s a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. you’re on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and he’s taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

"n-nanami—please—" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.

"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "i’m going to make you cum. but i’m going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.

you’re moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."

olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and he’s behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.

"nanami—h-harder!!—" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.

"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "that’s me. all of me. and you’re going to take every inch, just like this. until you can’t think about anything but how full you are."

olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. you’re straddling him, his cock inside you, but he’s not moving.

he’s just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.

"p-please, i.... i can't—" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.

"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."

"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."

he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."

you bite your lip, your face burning.

"please fuck me, nanami. please."

he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "that’s it," he praises. "that's my girl."

olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. you’re lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.

he’s stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.

"you’re too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.

"no such thing. you deserve everything. and i’m going to give it to you for as long as you’ll let me."

olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because he’s not done taking care of you yet. you’re half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.

"nanami—" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and you’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.

"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.

tags :

babygirl : @sadisticslut666

“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to your house?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“A house you live in with your mother?”

“Also yes.”

“Is she home?”

“Probably!”

“But I can’t meet her?”

“Fuck no!”

You stared back at your boyfriend who looked like he might throw up at any second. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A blaring horn behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin, and when you looked in the rearview there was a line of cars held up behind you. Right. Because Adrian had stopped in the middle of a busy road. Adrian, however, suddenly no longer seemed to be in a rush to get home.

You put your hand on his forearm. “Ade, you gotta drive.”

“Okay,” he managed, voice a ragged whisper. He pried his foot off the gas and then proceeded to drive a blazing 25mph the entire rest of the way. You waited until the Seabring was parked on a cute, tree-lined neighborhood street to speak again.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little offended you don’t want me to meet your mom,” you said finally. Adrian laughed, doubling over so sharply you were afraid he was going to smack his face on the steering wheel.

“She’s the one who should be offended. She’s a total fucking bitch and I don’t want you to meet her because I don’t want her to, like, get her stupidness all over you.”

“Babe…” you breathed. “Respectfully, what the fuck?”

Adrian raked his hands over his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t think I get it,” you agreed. You laid a hand on his arm. “But, clearly it’s stressing you out. So, decision made, easy peasy!”

Adrian peeked at you from behind his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! Although…” you hesitated to ask because you could only imagine you weren’t going to like the answer. “How are we going to get in without your mom finding out?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you grumbled, wiggling in his grasp. “Your hand is so far up my ass I’m starting to feel like a puppet.”

“Just let go of the window sill!” Adrian hissed. “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you fall.”

You groaned and finally relented, knowing for a fact that Adrian did not have you. But the boy was going to have to learn his lesson the hard way, you supposed. The two of you fell into a tangled heap, your elbow landing squarely in his ribs, his knee striking against your hip in a surge of pain, your forehead colliding with his chin.

“Ow fuck – ow, ow, fucking hell, Adrian,” you grumbled, trying to gain any sort of leverage, but your hands were sinking into some sort of fabric over and over again on either side of Adrian while he tried to get his hands in between you, making sure you weren’t injured.

“Sorry! Sorry, are you okay? Are you alright? Speak so I know you’re not concussed!” Adrian said, scrambling. You rolled your eyes and batted his hand away.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “That is not how you check for a concussion, by the way.”

“What…what is this?” you asked. Whatever it was groaned under your weight as you struggled to your knees. “Is this a futon? Why do you have a futon in your basement?”

You climbed off of him with a bit of difficulty before you turned your attention towards the rest of the basement. “What the f – ”

Adrian clapped a hand over your mouth from behind. He was blazingly warm against your back, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you were going to run. You swayed slightly in his arms as you regained steady footing, your balance entirely thrown off by his sudden seizure of you. You nipped at his palm gently and he let you go. You turned to find his wide eyes focused on his slightly wet palm.

“Care to explain the drugs, Adrian?” you asked, this time managing to keep a lid on your volume.

He simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Where else would I put it?”

“Where did this all come from?” you asked, turning to look at it all again – pallets of drugs (was that fucking cocaine?) and what had to be millions of dollars, carefully banded and stacked in various places. You reached out to run your hand across the money but Adrian batted your hand away.

“That’s blood money, don’t touch it!”

“Where did all this come from, Adrian?”

“What, you think I’d just leave drugs and cash at crime scenes where anyone could take it? Like corrupt fucking police? Absolutely not,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t believe you think I should let the cops have all this.”

“I never said that, Adrian!” you exclaimed. “First and foremost, fuck the police – ”

“Fuck the police,” Adrian agreed with a thoughtful nod. 

“Secondly! I just can’t believe you never told me about this! I thought that we tell each other everything? I mean, you told me you were Vigilante on our first date.”

“Second date.”

“Adrian, we’ve been over this, having sex after a first date does not count as a second date.”

“Agree to disagree.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “And it’s not my fault your pussy is like my personal truth serum.”

“Adrian…”

His face contorted. “What, is that a weird thing to say?”

“It’s not really a normal thing…” 

“Whatever,” he pouted. “You don’t get it.”

“Come on, Ade, you were so excited to show me your basement. So give me the grand tour.”

“Fine,” he huffed. He crossed to a workbench and gestured at it vaguely. “These are my power tools. Over there is my wall of chemicals. Tour concluded.”

“Adrian,” you groaned.

“What?” he snipped. “You wanted the tour – there it is!”

“I cannot believe you made me shimmy through a window for that.”

“Yeah, well, sorry it’s disappointing.” It was said in a way in which you knew he was not sorry at all. He was being petulant. 

“It’s not disappointing, it's just…a lot for me to take in. I’m very interested in it!”

“Uh huh,” Adrian mumbled, mindlessly thumbing through what appeared to be a box full of pocket knives?

Well, you could be petulant too.

“Fine!” you proclaimed, hands on your hips. Adrian rolled his eyes and you bit back a grin before climbing up onto the futon. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going back out the window,” you explained with a nonchalant glance over your shoulder at him. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his and you almost caved instantly. It would be so easy to climb down, wrap your arms around him, kiss the grumpiness right off of his handsome face. But you liked teasing him so much more. 

So you stretched up, desperately trying to hook your fingers into the windowsill that was just out of reach.

“You’re not going to be able to reach that,” Adrian said matter-of-factly.

“Watch me,” you countered, wedging your tongue between your teeth as you tried to will yourself taller out of pure spite. 

“Do you think you’re magically going to get taller or…?” Adrian asked like he could read your goddamn mind.

“Be quiet, Adrian, I’m concentrating,” you snipped back. You rolled up onto your tiptoes but the physics of standing on a soft surface made that change negligible. You dropped your arms down with a huff and jumped off the futon.

“Okay, I’m using the door!” 

“What?” Adrian gasped, lunging for you as you feinted towards the basement door. You laughed in delight as he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you backwards onto the futon, pinning you beneath him.

“Oh no! You caught me!” you wheezed out, all the air knocked out of your lungs.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Were you really going to go out the door?”

“Well, well, look at the situation we find ourselves in,” you commented drily, ignoring the question, batting your eyelashes at Adrian. 

“If you don’t answer my questions just know I know a lot of really effective torture techniques,” Adrian said lowly, a familiar hunger already creeping into his expression. You ran your fingers through his curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. “Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Me? Never,” you murmured. He shivered against you and you gave his hair a testing pull. His mouth dropped open slightly and you took the opportunity to sweep your tongue across his lower lip. He whimpered into your mouth as his hips rolled against yours instinctively. 

“Someone’s eager,” you assessed, grasping at his shirt and trying to untuck it from his jeans. “What did it, the puppet thing? Threatening to torture me? Tackling me onto your weird sex futon?”

“It is not a weird sex futon! Just a regular futon!” Adrian laughed against your neck and then winced. “Stop making me laugh, I can feel it in my dick.”

You hooked a leg over his hip. “Then maybe you ought to do something with that dick of yours.”

“I really want to have sex with you right now,” Adrian began.

“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming – ”

“Butts can’t come,” Adrian snickered. Then he shook his head like a hapless puppy, his curls tossing about. God he was such a dork sometimes. But he was your dork. “Though, I do sometimes feel like I could come just by looking at yours.”

You narrowed your gaze at him despite how adorably stupid he was being. “Just say it, Adrian. Why can’t we have sex right now?”

“The thing is…you’re kind of loud?” Adrian said with a wince. Then his eyebrows lifted. “And I love that about you. I love how loud you are. I love thinking about how if we lived in Metropolis Superman for sure would have heard us having sex and he’d be so fucking jealous. Thinking about it right now actually is making me, uh, a little hard – ”

“Adrian!”

“I’m just being honest!” he huffed. You decided not to comment on exactly who was the loud one in the relationship because you knew he would take it as a challenge and you liked hearing all the little pathetic sounds he’d make. He pushed his glasses up his nose only for them to slide right back down again as he looked down at you. “My mom cannot hear us.”

You nodded slightly. “I understand that that might be embarrassing for you. We don’t have to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be embarrassed!” he said, eyes wide. “I just don’t want her to know you’re here. Because if she hears us then she’ll ask who you are, and then she’ll want to know how we met and if we want snacks and if you’re staying for dinner and it’s a whole fucking thing.”

“Ade, that sounds very normal.” You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows. You hooked a finger into the collar of his rugby shirt. “What if I promise to be quieter than a church mouse?”

“What does that mean? I don’t really have a reference point for how quiet that is?” he replied, his tone tinged with the beginnings of a classic Adrian spiral. “On a scale of like 1 to 10 where 1 is – ”

You interrupted him with a kiss, your tongue wasting no time dipping into his already open mouth. He came alive, wriggling against you, hands grabbing hold of your biceps, grip tight, muscles taut and somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured against your lips. 

“It’s just an expression, love,” you replied, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. Then you narrowed your gaze slightly, squinting to study the color of his eyes up so close. In the dark basement his pupils threatened to swallow the dark green whole. Well, the darkness and your hand that had slipped below the waist of his jeans probably had something to do with it too. 

“How about if I get too loud then you just put your hand here,” you instructed, bringing his hand over your mouth and pressing it firmly. 

“Okay,” Adrian said, practically drooling. “I think I can do that.”

“Well then, problem solved!”

You were working to shimmy his jeans down slightly when he grabbed you by the wrist. 

“I wanna go down on you,” he breathed.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We can do both things…unless you’re in a rush for some reason?”

“It’s just that if you keep touching my dick like that I’m going to come in my pants, and I really want to put it in you,” he said, practically a whisper. There was absolutely zero reason for that sentence to be as hot as it was.

“Why is it that you seem like you’re begging every single time even though we’ve had sex a lot, Adrian,” you teased gently, brushing a stray curl out of his face. 

“What if you change your mind, hm?” Adrian asked, dipping his head so you could scratch your fingers across his scalp. “What if one day you wake up and you’re like, oh gosh, I never want to have sex with that weirdo ever again?”

“First of all, being a weirdo is strangely part of your charm,” you replied, pausing to kiss his forehead. “Second of all, I do think you’ve ruined me for life. You dick game is incomprehensibly good and you’ve literally made me go temporarily blind with your head between my legs. I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.”

“Not even Peacemaker? Because I really couldn’t blame you if you did want to have sex with him. Trust me, I get it, he’s kind of a perfect human man,” Adrian insisted like he was rationalizing in an argument he was having with only himself. His lips pursed. “Although he is kind of all hard edges so having sex with him is kinda sharp which you might not like.”

You were already reaching between the two of you to undo your button-down shirt. 

“Not even Peacemaker,” you affirmed. Adrian seemed to wrestle against his own grin, both pleased as punch that you didn’t want to have sex with anyone but him, and also a bit insulted that you didn’t want to have sex with his favorite person in the world. 

Tugging your shirt open, you guided his hands up to the front clasp of your bra and used his fingers to flick it open. Whatever logic war was raging in his brain was struck silent by the sight of your breasts. Maybe it was an unfair hand to play, but you wanted your boyfriend to stop thinking about his best friend and start thinking a little more about fucking you senseless. 

He wasted no time taking each of your nipples into his mouth in turn, because, as always, he insisted it was only fair for them both to get the same amount of attention. Though you’d never asked, you were fairly certain Adrian had been the type of kid to make sure each toy got the same amount of playtime so that no one toy felt left out.

He swapped his mouth for his hand on your chest and kissed his way down the rest of your body. He deftly yanked your pants and underwear down, kissing the inside of your knees as he peeled them the rest of the way off your body. In his eagerness to get down between your legs he scooted down the futon, his boot kicked one of the metal shelves behind him. The whole unit swayed slightly, the metal ringing out in a resonant sound. 

“Adrian?” A woman’s voice called from upstairs. You froze, but Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Are you down there, sweetie?”

Adrian’s mouth was decidedly preoccupied between your legs so he didn’t answer – it was a good thing, because it probably would have involved some absolutely blatant response about the fact that he was, in fact, down there. You pushed at his head but he only looked up at you with a hungry glint in his eyes as he dragged his tongue through your folds, painfully slowly. You hissed in response and he moved his hips slightly against the futon, settling in for a hearty meal. When Adrian ate you out it was almost always multiple courses, a real fine dining experience. 

He hadn’t even put his fingers in you yet – just used one hand to spread you open wider for him while the other still played with your breasts, alternating between them, pinching and palming and scratching. His face was pressed so firmly between your legs, his tongue so deep into you you wondered if he was trying to eat his way to your heart. 

“Jesus, Adrian!” you whispered, your heel kicking at his hip, trying to get him to ease up a little. But he was hyper focused, like he was speedrunning his way to your orgasm. He moved, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pinning your hips down as they tried to wriggle away from him for just a little reprieve. 

You heard footsteps on the stairs and you dug your heels into the futon, trying to pry yourself loose from his perfect, stupid fucking mouth. Instead, he traced his teeth over your sensitive clit and you came hard suddenly. You clapped your own hand over your mouth and Adrian batted it away. You managed to stay quiet, the only sound your own ragged breath in the quiet of the basement and the wet, obscene noise of Adrian’s mouth against you.

Except Adrian continued his ministrations between your legs, letting up with his mouth only to look up at you and grin while he slowly slid two fingers into you. He had that calculated look in his eye again and you knew he was studying you. He liked knowing exactly how each movement, each touch affected you. He crooked his fingers inside you, watching closely as you bit down hard on your lower lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet.

He was doing it on purpose. He wanted an excuse. 

You hated giving him what he wanted so easily when he was being a menace but you could taste your own blood on your tongue and he used his other hand to rub at your clit while he kissed your hip bone. A noise squeaked out past your lips and Adrian’s grin grew into a full fledged smile, the kind where you could see all his teeth. The kind that was both predatory and full of genuine delight. 

He moved his fingers faster, pushed deeper, bit hard at your hip, bruising the skin. You fumbled for his head but you could barely see straight. You managed to pull a fistfull of hair but it only made him giggle before he lapped at your cunt and made you come undone all over again. 

“Adrian!” you hissed through the rheumy film of your orgasm. Adrian pulled his fingers free and popped them straight into his mouth and pure, wet want flooded your own. 

“Adrian?” There was a knock at the basement door. You clapped your hands over your burning face but Adrian just seemed annoyed.

“Fuck off, mom!” he called, sliding his way up your body to bite at the sensitive spot below your ear. He loosely pressed his hand over your lips and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or pissed. When the friction of his jeans between your legs almost made you sob against his hand, you settled on grateful. 

“Do you have a friend in there with you?” his mom asked. “Should I make some snacks?”

“Jesus fucking – no, mom!” he whined, even as he rolled his hips against you. He grabbed at your breast with his free hand again and you bit his hand in retaliation. 

“Ow!” 

“Are you okay, honey? Please tell me you’re not giving yourself stitches in there again!” his mom continued. She seemed kind of sweet – what the hell was Adrian’s deal?

“Your mom seems nice,” you managed, free of his hand. 

“Stop getting ideas, I can see you getting an idea right now!” Adrian protested, pinning your hands above your head and silencing your mouth with a kiss.

“Adrian, hon, who are you talking to? Is that…is that a girl in there?” His mother’s voice noticeably ascended the scale in pitch and Adrian swallowed your laugh, your shoulders shaking silently. 

“I’m talking to my bros in the Fortnite lobby, Jesus fucking Christ! Can you hop off my dick for like five seconds, please?” Adrian shouted back, pulling away from your mouth, making you unacceptably hungry. When he returned to you, you bit his lip in recompense. He hissed but surged forward anyway, his tongue deep in your mouth. 

“Okay, Addy, you just let me know if you need anything! Just holler! I’ll be upstairs!”

You waited for the sound of footsteps retreating back up the stairs to pull back.

“So, I’m one of the bros now?” you taunted.

“Well, you’re better than one of the bros. You’re like…you’re my best bro. A bro for life. But, like, in a romantic way, a romantic bro,” he explained. You nodded like that made sense. Because, strangely, it did.

“So…Addy?” 

“Please don’t – ”

“It’s kinda cute!”

“No, it makes me sound like a fucking infant. And I’m not an infant. I’m a grown man.”

You giggled. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten, Ade. As a matter of fact…”

Your hand slid in between you, grasping at him through his pants. He was, unsurprisingly, already completely hard. He hissed through his teeth and then wrangled himself out of his rugby shirt, treating you to a spectacular view of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covered him in a way that made him look unfairly hot – like the centerfold in a magazine of hot nerds. You ran your hand up from the waist of his pants to the small, pale trail of hair just above and let your fingertips press firmly into the skin of his stomach. His gaze narrowed at you.

“Flip over,” he whispered, voice husky.

“Make me,” you whispered back. Adrian blinked back at you for just a moment before he slipped his hands around your waist and tossed you onto your stomach like it was no effort at all. He reached up and stripped you of the button down and the bra that still clung to your shoulders. His fingertips bit into the swell of your ass but then he paused.

“Sorry, was that okay?” he asked, sounding breathless in a nervous way. You looked back at him and offered a calm smile.

“That was perfect,” you assured him. “You’re perfect.”

“Okay, because if you want to fuck some other way that’s totally okay too, I just thought – ”

“Oh no, not you fucking me while I’m laying on my stomach! Whatever will I do!” you drawled sarcastically as you started to twist in his arms, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead like some scandalized, vaguely transatlantic woman. Then you paused and blinked at him. “That was sarcasm by the way.”

“Uh, duh, I totally knew that because you love when I fuck you like that! It’s like one of your favorite things. Remember that time we prone-boned and you like totally ruined your sheets?”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you whined, your hands flying up to cover your increasingly red face. 

“What! It’s just a statement of fact. And a statement of hotness.”

You finished flipping onto your stomach if only to bury your burning face in the futon. Adrian’s hand ran along your damp inner thigh for a moment before he nudged your leg up slightly, and pulled your hips up and flush against his. 

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, and not in the good way. You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I have a condom?”

“You have a fucking arsenal down here but not a single condom?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had a girl down here before!”

“Aw, is that your roundabout way of saying I’m special?” you asked, batting your eyelashes. But Adrian was too preoccupied scrounging around for a condom. He was so cute doing it you were loathe to tell him all he had to do was open your purse. The man was desperate for it and you were willing to torment him just a little bit – he would be handsomely rewarded for it in the end. 

“Hey Ade?”

“Hold on, I’m sure there’s one here somewhere!” He yanked another drawer open, violently rattling whatever was inside. He slammed a cabinet open to no avail. You started to feel bad, even if you were getting a great view of his impressive physical form in the process. 

“Adrian!” you called, louder this time to get through to him over the small ruckus he was making, but hopefully still quiet enough to not rouse his mother’s suspicions again. Finally, he turned and looked at you dangling a condom from your fingertips. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he said breathlessly. “No, seriously, I wish I could paint you Titanic-style right now exactly like this.”

Adrian was on top of you again in the blink of an eye, teeth tearing at the foil of the condom and spitting it aside. You watched over your shoulder as he realized he still needed to take his pants off and was trying to figure out balancing the opened condom while he did that. You giggled and held out your hand for him to rest the condom on your palm. 

He tripped up off the couch, halfway out of his pants before he was even fully upright. He hopped on one foot as he desperately tried to free his other from the leg of his jeans, and you were treated to an increasingly silly whispered string of curses. 

When he was finally free he paused, putting his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

You giggled. “Are you winded?”

“No!” Adrian said, full volume. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling of the basement, but Adrian’s mom seemed to have gotten the memo. “This is…I’m doing breathing exercises, actually. Gotta loosen up my diaphragm for optimal airflow so I can have so much sex with you.”

“Get over here, you absolute goober,” you replied with a beckoning crook of your finger. Adrian stooped beside you to retrieve the condom you were still holding and pressed a quick peck to your lips, upturned in an amused smile.

He settled back between your legs, kneeling on the futon as he rolled the condom on and you waited patiently with your chin in your hands. The feeling of his warm fingers back between your legs surprised you, dragging through your folds, gathering slick before sliding his hand over the condom. 

“Are you good? Are you comfy?” Adrian asked as he grabbed hold of your hips and angled them slightly upward. He positioned himself at your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds, but waited for your approval. You quietly hissed at the sensation.

“Please, Adrian,” you managed. That was approval enough for him – he wasn’t in one of his taunting moods, determined to draw it out forever to the point of insufferability. No, Adrian was borderline efficient. It was a mood he sometimes got into – careful, precise, skilled. He pushed in, a long, slow stretch of flesh, the warm weight of Adrian partially against your back, keeping you pressed into the futon. A hand groped at the flesh of your hip and he gently guided you into the position he needed.

And that made your eyes water, the perfect depth, the perfect speed, the perfect amount of pressure – a gasp dragged from your lips at the angle. Adrian knew what made you tick. You’d witnessed the man disassemble and reassemble a gun with alarming speed on more than one occasion, and he knew how to disassemble you just as easily. 

It took no time at all for pressure and warmth to mount between your legs. 

“Put your hand over my mouth,” you panted.

“What?”

“I don’t think that I can keep being quiet,” you said, voice ragged. As if attempting to prove you wrong, Adrian buried himself, deep and slow, and a yelp came from your lips before you could stop yourself. 

“Right. Okay,” Adrian said in the kind of voice that sounded like he was processing a direct order. You tilted your head up slightly and Adrian dutifully cupped one hand over your mouth.

“Oh shit,” he managed. His fingers flexed against your skin as he thrust into you again, angling your hips ever so slightly once more, perfecting the position. Your needy hand slid under your body and Adrian groaned as your fingers touched at where your bodies were joined, fingers parting around the slick base of his cock for one taunting drag before retreating to your clit. Adrian’s pace faltered and you grinned into his hand. You nipped at his palm again but he stayed firmly in place and instead responded by draping himself further over your back, his weight pressing you further into the futon and your own eager fingers. 

You were close, close, closer as his fingers bit into your skin and you rubbed desperate circles at the apex of your thighs. You clenched around him and Adrian whined. 

“That’s not fair,” he hummed into your hair. He slowed for a frustrating moment and then his mouth was at your ear. “Can I try something?”

A million things raced through your mind – an electric series of possibilities, some of which perhaps bordered on terrifying. But you trusted Adrian. You loved him. Fucking you was a science at which he was studiously determined to excel. So, you nodded. And Adrian draped the full weight of himself on you, carefully, gently. And then he wrapped his other hand over your eyes, casting you into total darkness. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low in his chest against your back, words that sounded equally like reassurance and threat. A loving adage and a declaration of total possession. Your body responded unconsciously, pushing back against his thrusting hips, terribly wanting. “I want you to come, just for me, okay?”

You made a noise, something wrenched from deep within, muffled expertly by Adrian’s capable hands. He dragged his tongue along the side of your neck and then his teeth nipped the skin. A jolt of pleasure ran down your spine. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out when Adrian was dragging himself in and out of you with a studied speed, burying deep every time, hitting that perfect spot. 

“’m close, are you…close,” Adrian slurred before biting at your jaw, his words barely coherent. 

“Mhm,” you spoke into his hand, sure you were probably drooling. You didn’t care. Adrian nudged your knee ever so slightly with his own, spreading you open just a bit more. But it was enough. In the total darkness of Adrian’s embrace, you crashed over the edge, a shout muffled into his hand. You breathed quickly through your nose, finding it significantly harder to catch your breath and Adrian chased you into bliss only a second later, a curse hissed through his clenched teeth, certainly too loud. His hand released your mouth as his forehead fell into the curve of your shoulder. His sweaty hair tickled at your chin and you turned, still blind, to clumsily press a kiss to his temple. 

“Well, that was new,” you remarked, still trying to catch your breath. In the darkness beneath Adrian’s hand, the edges of your vision sparked.

“Was it okay? Did you like it?”

“It was more than okay, babe,” you murmured assurance. That was Adrian – aiming to please, even when it came to dabbling in something like minor sensory deprivation.

After a long moment, his hand fell from your eyes to the futon with an audible thump and he slipped out of you, laying half on top of you and half wedged beside you on the futon.

“I feel like I don’t have any bones anymore,” he muttered. “You stole them. You’re a bone thief.”

“I’ll keep your bones safe in my bone collection. Promise,” you laughed breathlessly. He perked up slightly, lifting his head so he could look at your face. 

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes wide with puppydog-esque devotion.

“Yeah. You’ve got centerpiece level bones. Real main attraction stuff.”

He brushed your hair from your face, and then wiped your cheeks free of tears, thumb grazing across your lower lip, collecting any errant spit. He popped his thumb into his mouth and you recoiled.

“Adrian, gross!”

“Sorry I just want part of you in me,” he replied like you were the one being unreasonable.

You smirked at him and shifted so that you could slip on top of him, straddling his narrow waist. “Maybe it’s time we revisit that conversation about peg – ”

“Adrian?” 

Adrian’s mother’s voice came from directly outside the door. You clamped your mouth shut, looking down at Adrian with wide eyes. 

“What, mom?” he called back, rolling his eyes, his head falling back onto the futon. 

“Do you and your girlfriend want to come upstairs for dinner? I made a baked mac ‘n cheese with the breadcrumb topping you like so much!” 

“Girlfriend?” he scoffed, voice traitorously too high. “What girlfriend? You’re so crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Peterson from across the street called and she said she saw you sneaking in through the basement window with a very pretty young lady!”

You had to laugh. There was simply no other choice. Adrian groaned and draped his arm over his face, treating you to a wonderful (very biteable) view of his bicep. “Fuck, I knew I always hated Mrs. Peterson. No trustworthy person has that many chihuahuas.”

When Adrian didn’t respond one way or the other to the evidence presented, his mother called out again, “Does the pretty young lady like mac ‘n cheese?”

You grinned down at Adrian who appeared to be going through the five stages of grief in quick succession. Luckily for him it was going to take a lot more than an overbearing mother to scare you off. If you could survive the Vigilante of it all, you could survive anything. You leaned down, bit Adrian’s bicep and then kissed his swollen lips before he could protest.

“The pretty young lady loves mac n’ cheese!” you called back.

-

“This-this–this is all just shit!” Eddie is one more cassette away from a meltdown. His pretentious music taste protrudes from his pores and he’s currently making it everyone’s problem. “Seriously? Please tell me you are not actually playing Rick Astley on your radio?”

“Are you the DJ here?” Robin asks, not like it was an actual question, swiping the tapes from Eddie's hand and putting them back where they belonged. “Yeah, thought so.”

It has been three days since Eddie Munson got back from LA, attempting to seek out new music and a new scene, yet somehow he's back in his hometown—Hawkins has a strange pull. And after everything he's gone through with these people, being apart really made him feel like something was missing.

And there has been constant terror at the WSQK since his return.

“Are you going to be like this all the time?” Steve asked, annoyed and swiveling around in a chair. Just wanting to get back to work so they'll be prepared for the next show.

“Until you guys start playing some real music.”

Steve sighs, both palms running over his face. “Jesus Christ."

Robin laughs to herself, organizing a bin of records, "Steve's just annoyed because he thinks you're gonna take his job.”

Eddie's eyebrow arch, barely visible behind his mop of curls. Sending Steve a look, a cheeky look. Before the metalhead goes back to the shelves of music, his finger grazes over the spine in search of this so-called real music.

Then suddenly, a shriek leaves Eddie's mouth, grasping the cassettes as if the secret to the universe was written along the spines. “Where in the hell did you get this rockin’ Robin?”

The girl's head shoots up, stepping over to see what Eddie was looking at. Her head cocked to gaze over his shoulder, Eddie handed over a tape from a cardboard box left on the desk.

“See, this is real music! Minor threat, Descendants, Bad Brains… Why are you hiding this gold?”

Robin clicks her tongue, “Not mine, theirs a girl who runs a late-night alternative station down the hall. She goes up to DC, New York, and Chicago a lot and gets them at shows. She is super, really nice.”

Steve not-so subtly perks up at the mention of you. Trying to play it off by looking over at the tapes like he hadn't looked at them over a million times before, Steve couldn't afford adding any more suspicion Robin had about Steve's not-so-secret infatuations.

“Where are you hiding this chick?” Eddie asks, putting the tapes back into the cardboard box.

“She's out of town,” Steve responds a little too quickly, sounding almost snippy as he has his arms crossed, still swiveling in his chair. Trying hard not to grumble at the fact you've been gone for a week now.

“Hopefully getting more good music, you'll have to introduce me.” Eddie gawked, Steve rolled his eyes at the implication.

On cue, the loud echo of the front doors of the Squawk rang through. Steve popped out of his chair on instinct, brain kicking himself after, to see who it was. Well, he knew who it was.

“That might be our neighbor,” Robin noted, getting up to smack your tapes out of Eddie's hands. “Put those back, I’ll return these and introduce you two.”

“Sweet,” Eddie grinned, his various metal accessories clanking against each other as he headed for you. Steve's stomach suddenly felt like it was caving in on itself.

Steve felt too eager with his steps towards the hallway, trailing behind an even more eager Eddie Munson, Robin leading the two to you.

The sun was shining through the windows, casting a gaze upon the narrow room. You took big, confident strides down the hall. A box in hand, your hair fell in that effortlessly messy way Steve has tried to accomplish his entire life, outfit adorned in political or band buttons. You presented yourself with this soft edge that Steve couldn’t help but think about late at night.

Your eyes found the group, Steve swears they found his eyes first—before bouncing to the unfamiliar metalhead. Of course. A large smile spread across your face, “I’m back! Hopefully I didn’t miss anything awesome while I was gone, and oh, who is this?”

Eddie put his hand out to shake yours, you had to quickly shift the box you held to your left hand and balance it against your hip.

Steve almost scoffed out loud, did Eddie not see that your hands were occupied? He could have reached out and grabbed the box from you, like a gentleman, but that tug inside him held his hands down—body unmoving.

“Eddie. Nice to see someone else who listens to real music.”

You shook Eddie's hand, smiling and introducing yourself. Eddie's smile matched yours and it just made Steve want to wipe the smugness off his face.

“Whatcha’ got in there?” Eddie's head tipped to look inside the box you held.

“Oh! Some tapes I got from New York this past week, some punk and youth crew stuff, you ever been to shows there?” You asked him.

Eddie's curls shook with his head, “been meaning to.”

You met his eyes, “I can always show you around if you want.”

“I’d love that.”

God, Steve was going to throw up.

Some other words were exchanged, Robin cut in and asked about your trip, Eddie asked about “real” music, again. Steve just stood there like an idiot, swaying on his feet. Mostly because he genuinely did feel like he was going to hurl. His vision fuzzed and his head spun, that loud and annoying ring that had been plaguing his ears for over a year now kicked in.

Then suddenly Steve was in your booth, the warm room with the familiar copy and paste flyers that covered your wall. Steve doesn’t really remember moving his feet to get here, but he was.

“Steve?” Your voice muffled behind the ringing, but he heard you enough to snap out of his daze. “Are your ears and head doing that thing again?”

Steve's mouth felt dry, “Yeah, the ringing.”

You stood only a few feet from him now, leaning against your desk while Robin and Eddie rummaged through your records. It was just you and him now.

“I told you to go to the doctor for that,” you told him. Looking him up and down and checking for any other concerning signs.

“It’s fine. I’m fine, really.” Steve said, not to worry you, despite the vertigo still possessing him most days.

“You’re so stubborn, Steve.” You mumbled, bending over to search through a messy junk drawer.

Your booth was a stark contrast to rockin robins. It was messy, records and tapes stacked everywhere. Your clothes and belongings were scattered around like you lived here, which was partly true. A few instruments leaned up against furniture. It was comfy and warm, paper flyers and posters covered every inch, and overlapped each other. You had been here for many more years than Steve and Robin had, so of course it was more lived in.

Steve watched your hands switch from a second drawer, brows adorably furrowed together, not even realizing he was smiling at the sight. You found what you were looking for, turning back to Steve, “You should start wearing these when your ears ring, or just go to the doctor as I told you.”

You held out two earbuds in your palm, “I wear them at shows, I switched out the rubber part so—no cooties.” You laugh to yourself before dropping them in Steve’s hand. “They're expensive ones, so don’t lose them or I’ll kill your entire family”

“Thanks.” He croaked, vision still hazy. He liked the dimness of your space. Steve brought the buds up, trying to shove them into his ear canal. Yet, he was only met with more discomfort, already in a bad mood, his face only grew more sour.

And you noticed. Of course you did. Tipping on your toes to check his ears, laughing to yourself. It brought Steve's mind back down to earth a little.

“Hey, you got 'em’ upside down.” You spoke gently, brushing his hair from his face and adjusting the buds to fit comfortably. Relief washed over him and his body was incredibly warm from your sudden closeness.

Steve just hoped you didn’t notice the tips of his ears growing hot pink.

“Better?” You asked, the ringing stopped and he could only comfortably hear you. No background noise. Steve could seriously get used to this.

(Steve definitely couldn’t hear Eddie and Robin in the corner, watching the interaction from afar with a teasing giggle on their lips.)

“Better.” He forced out a thin-lipped smile, you deserved better than that but his brain was still a little fuzzy.

You hesitated for a moment, watching over the brown haired boy attentively. Before you awkwardly gave him a pat on the back, rubbing the red sweater-covered shoulder for a moment before parting from Steve. Cold. Steve’s head fell to the floor when you turned your back to go join whatever the other two were doing.

You were unfortunately too quick to fall into mindless chatter with Eddie, you two conversed about music genres and instruments that Steve had no clue about. Not a single guess. Even Robin had half the mind to know what you were talking about. And Steve had never felt more out of the loop. Biting his cheek and standing awkwardly off to the side, god, why was he even here?

Steve felt pathetic, grasping at straws for your attention around Eddie was going to just push him further in the friend-zone that—in full honesty—he never had a chance to climb out of.

Despite, being in your own world. Every few minutes when Eddie had his head held back laughing at something funny you said. Your eyes would find Steve instead, an unspoken expression of worry, one Steve could only see at pity.

“Would you wanna go out tonight? Theirs a dive bar uptown called the Hideout, you been?” Eddie asked you, catching your attention once more from Steve’s pitiful state.

Your face scrunched up, “That place where all the washed-up drunk old heads hang out at?”

“Okay, it’s not appealing, but my band plays there now and then. Just a few hours, maybe a few drinks?”

Steve's ears started ringing again, the more Eddie spoke the more it sounded like he was asking you on a date right in front of him and Robin. Real subtle, real classy Eddie Munson.

What made it even worse is that you said yes.

“I don’t drink, but I’ll hang for a little. I got a curfew of 9:15 though, gotta get back here for the show.” You beamed, overjoyed by the offer. Steve's knuckles went white, and that same dizziness took over.

So he excused himself to the Rockin’ Robin booth.

-

Steve bit his cheek hard. Lips swollen and bleeding from picking at them. His eyes glanced at the clock ticking again. Foot bouncing.

Steve didn’t really have life outside of work, or the chaos of the children that followed him like a cult. So despite Rockin'Robin's radio time being over multiple hours ago, he still chooses to laze around off the clock. Better than the ghost of a home he lives in now.

Check the clock again, it was 8:47. You were probably still out on your date with Eddie. Telling him his eyes and curly hair are pretty or probably sucking face in that dive bar after talking about how good his band sounds. It was gonna drive Steve to insanity.

Steve checks the clock again.

“Oh my god, will you spit it out?” Robin yelled.

“What?”

Robin dropped her pen on her notebook, turning her head to glare at Steve from her place on the couch. “I can hear you thinking yourself into a hole, much less the way you’re acting like you’re going through withdrawal from her.”

Steve mentions your name, slipping from his tongue without thought like a prayer.

“I knew it.” Robin shook her head proudly, just satisfied to figure out the main issues of Steve’s worries. “You’re jealous.”

“What?” Steve choked out, offended at the accusation coming from his best friend. “Why on earth would I be jealous of her being on a date with Eddie right now?”

“Oh my god!” Robin sprang from her couch, almost excited. “Is this room filled with truth serum?”

“Besides the point, I’m not jealous.” Steve shook his head, as if the motion would convince himself, slumping further in his chair.

“Okay well—besides the point—you have no reason to, by the way,” Robin adds.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks quickly, completely throwing out the I’m not jealous “ act. “Are they not, you know, on a date?”

“Steve.”

“What?”

Robin felt fuzzy with this oblivious straight male in front of her, feeling the exact way she felt in that mall bathroom high out of her mind on Russian torture drugs.

A part of her wanted to keep Eddie's secret under wraps, it wasn’t necessarily a promise and Steve had done more than enough to keep up his promise with her.

So she bit the bullet to spare Steve’s misery.

“Eddie is very gay,” Robin whispers.

“Oh.”

The Déjà vu hit them both like a freight train. Steve shook off the feeling.

“Okay, well, hypothetically.” Steve started, trying to keep his eyes away from Robin’s intense stare.

“Sure, hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically, if Eddie wasn’t gay, you know, he’d be the type of guy she'd go after, right?”

Robin rolled her eyes, not even believing this conversation could have possibly become this juvenile. “I don’t know, maybe you can ask her?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you look at her with googly eyes.” Robin threw it out there. No hypothetical.

“I do not!” Steve defended.

“Yes. Yes, you do!” Robin yells, “It’s honestly insufferable sometimes!”

“No, it’s not!”

“Steve, I’m going to throw this chair at your head.”

Steve sighed heavily, running his head through his hair, contemplating letting Robin throw the chair at him to just take him out of his misery.

“Either way, if I did look at her with googly eyes, or whatever you said, it doesn’t matter,” Steve said, with little fight left in him. Which was unusual for Steve Harrington and it ached Robin’s heart

“Why not?”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, but only a croak is heard. Looking around at his surroundings and hoping a message would just pop up for him on what to do, what to say, and how to feel.

“I like her a lot, Robin. But I’m not what she wants and-and that’s okay! I’m not gonna try to be the person she wants so I’ll just be around for when she needs someone… like me.”

“You’re so self-deprecating, it’s going to kill you,” Robin mutters into her hands, frustration evident on her face. “What do you mean you are not what she wants? Did you ask her?”

“No, but I mean, I can assume,” Steve spoke with a laugh lingering on his words, self-deprecating, as Robin said. Confused by the obvious in front of him.

“Assume what?” Robin asked.

“Look at me, Robin!” Steve motions to himself, from the top of his head to his worn-down Nikes. “I’m ex High School royalty, mind you, a piece of shit High School royalty. Who also fell off before graduation, that is like the exact opposite of who she would be attracted to.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna throw this chair at you.” Robin huffs, pacing now. Stressed out from Steve’s own stupidity. “You graduated what? Over two years ago? And you are still using High School politics to define your life?— Oh my god, that little shithead was so right.”

“Dustin?—Hey, no, no, he is not. Don't say that.” Steve shook his head wildly, offended.

“Uh-huh, yes, he is.” Robin nodded aggressively in response. “Either way, have you stopped to notice that she didn’t know you in high school? And that you have also changed a lot since the whole ‘King Steve’ era”

Steve went silent, not really taking a moment to remember that. God, he was so self-absorbed. You weren’t even in his and Robin’s grade to witness the peak of his assholery that constantly haunts him, that was his constant reminder to be better every day.

“So yeah, Dustin is right.”

“Well, you don’t have to add that in to make me feel like shit,” Steve mumbled, arms crossed and practically pouting.

“Stop putting yourself in a box and stereotyping your girlfriend. Just talk to her.”

“She not—“

“Steve.”

“Whatever, I’ll talk to her.” Steve mentioned, “But, what do I even say?”

“How many times have you hit your head—actually don’t answer that. Do what you would usually do with a girl, confess! Ask her out!”

“I haven’t successfully asked a girl out since junior year. My charm is dead.” Steve said, A slight panic is rising. Understanding now he’s actually confronting his infatuation with you, never having talked about it out loud. Robin fell into this information like it was a known fact already and Steve tried not to dwell on that too long.

“You’ll think of something, Harrington,” Robin said, giving him a small pat on the back and walking away from the conversation. Leaving him alone right when his panic set in. No advice. No support.

Steve was fucked now, especially when his brain decided to rely on Robin Buckley for dating advice.

Then, he heard the door slam closed, truly leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

He could just ask you out, but the embarrassment of you rejecting him and thinking he’s weird would be worse than having to witness you dating Eddie Munson. Maybe.

Steve could test the waters with you, throw out some cheeky compliments, and make a request to hang out on one more. See how you take that and go from there. Steve thinks, every time he's done that he’s fallen more into the friend zone. His pride was too defeated for that route.

The ringing was back and his head started to pound. Steve’s hazy eyes found the clock again. That special time he found himself looking forward to, maybe something would come to him.

9:30

With a heavy sigh and even heavier shoulders, Steve walked himself to the radio booth and switched to your channel. Getting comfortable in his seat to mull over how he can get you to fall for him despite everything.

The soft wine of a guitar rang through, “hello my night owls, this is Waiting Room radio with your host, back from her treacherous journey to the big apple for that oh-so anticipated Youth of Today show… I brought back some souvenirs and it’s not just the Sharpie stains on my fist… here is “Take a Stand” by Youth of Today”

Steve didn’t love some of the music you listened to. It was angry and fast-paced and messy. Yet for some reason, he tunes in most nights that you are live, even if it’s just to hear your smooth voice introduce yourself and the music. It was enough.

-

It had been a few hours of busying himself at the station enough so that thoughts didn’t protrude into his mind. It was getting late and your radio time had ended a while ago, a yawn escaped him and Steve decided it was better to leave now before getting too sleepy to drive. He’s crashed on the stuff couch too many nights recently and his aching back was evidence of it.

Steve knew he’d be back tomorrow, not caring enough to be thorough with packing his stuff up before he headed through the hallway and out the door.

He kept his eyes to his feet until they passed your studio, his gaze betraying him as he glanced at your door and the dark-tinted windows. Steve’s sneakers squeaked on the tile when he noticed the lights still on, the outline of you still lingering.

Which wasn’t unusual, common actually. You spent a lot of overnights here abusing the radio system and coffee machine. Steve only knew this because he found hanging out with you on your overnights was a good excuse not to go back to his ghost of a home.

It was the start of this friendship between the two of you, despite the differences in background. He didn’t meet you through fighting monsters or cracking Russian code, no trauma bonding through bruised eyes and drugs.

You just saw Steve for more than his family or reputation, he didn’t really understand how and why you spared him your time and care. But it was something he had to learn to appreciate and—obviously after some reflection and confrontation with Robin—to even notice.

Steve's body and feet betrayed him as he stood inches from your door, hand held high and knocking. It was only a few moments before you were standing before him, sweatpants and band t-shirts that looked a few sizes too small and hugged in the right places.

“Late night?” You asked him, unsuspecting, just open.

Steve nodded, “You too?”

“Always.” You grinned, “wanna come in and hang? Or are you gonna try to pester me to go home?”

Despite his worry and anxiety, a smile grew on his face that he couldn’t fight, “not tonight. and yes, I’m all yours.” Steve slid into your space, the flirt escaping his lips before he could realize.

Maybe something about confronting his feelings made it more real. In his hands. Attainable. Steve could only dream.

You found your chair as usual, and Steve moved a cart of records to the floor and sat on your couch-part-time-bed. It looked like you were in the middle of organizing with papers and tapes spread out everywhere in front of you. And you didn’t stop even with Steve’s present in the room.

Steve always liked that he could just live in your space, you never expected anything from him. Just a steady breath and sometimes an opinion of a flyer you’d drawn up.

“How was your date with Eddie?” The words slipped from his mouth before he could realize where his brain was.

Your face instantly scrunched up, almost a look of embarrassment painted on you. Yet, you still scoffed at Steve’s question, “That was the farthest thing from a date ever.”

“It go bad?” Steve asked, no usual sarcastic, just honest.

“Uh, yeah. Well, no—um, I don’t think it was a date to begin with anyways… but I hung out for a little, Eddie's scene is all very nice just… not my usual crowd.”

“Really?” Steve genuinely sounded surprised, finding himself getting more comfortable on your couch as he gazed at you. “You and Eddie seem pretty similar though, like your type. Thought that would go well?”

Steve tried not to let his bitterness linger in his words. You had teased him for his attitude problem before. But you just smiled at him, for no real reason, but you did. “I’m sure Eddie and I will be good friends, but there is a difference between punk and metal.”

Steve could ask about it, never understanding anything about music politics and the differences from what. More often than not he’d ask and barely comprehend much, sometimes he just needed an excuse to listen to you talk or have you look him in the eyes. Steve was just silent tonight.

“And Eddie…” you trailed off, laughing, “…definitely not my type.”

“You got some New York guys that are more your type?” Steve said, his brain too tired to even filter his words. Bitterness wasn’t even laced in his speech anymore, but defeat. Steve didn’t even want to know yet, but he still asked. Bracing for the information that’s only going to kick him further down.

“Steve.” You breathed out, your usual voice thrown away. Replaced with something new, a tone Steve never heard from you, he wasn’t even sure how to describe it.

“What? Do you not have a type? Are you one of those girls who don’t have a type, ya know, that kinda just…” Steve couldn’t stop the word vomit. Curse this comforting feeling that has grown too impossibly strong—built on late nights yearning to not be anywhere but here in this studio, to not be anywhere but with each other. Steve’s chest ached and he just couldn’t shut up. “..just think they don’t have a type but then they go after the same kind of person that’s just like them, they just won't admit it.”

“Steve.” You laughed, amused by the spill of utter nonsense leaving him. The self-inflicted and honestly ridiculous madness he’s driving himself into. “What’s gotten into you?”

He felt like a kid again. Lips pouting and shrugging his shoulders, mumbling a barely audible, “I dunno.”

You almost gave him a wary look, turning away and avoiding his gaze to busy yourself with anything else. Goddamit. Robin was so wrong and Steve was so going to wring her neck tomorrow.

“Where’s the sudden interest come from? Trying to set me up on a date, Harrington?” You teased.

Steve scoffed.

“That's funny?”

“No, it’s—it’s just, no, it’s nothing.” Steve shook his head, you still couldn’t look at him.

It was silent for a while.

The tension in the room grew heavy all of a sudden, awkward. Any of you could have left at any point, Steve could have excused himself home. You could have gotten up and explained how late it was getting and kicked him out.

But you both stayed put, sitting in the heavy air.

“I have an unfortunate history of falling for jocks, ya know, the boy next door type.” You said, a peace offering that Steve didn’t really deserve disguised as information.

“Unfortunate?” Steve spoke softly, turning his head to try and chase your face that still stayed turned away.

You laughed, it was cut short and self-deprecating, “I’m always chasing after boys that would never spare me a glance, it sucks but, I can’t fake attraction.” You sighed deeply, dragging out a confession that weighed you down sore and tired. “So I just stopped, no point in trying, right?”

Finally, you turned to him.

“Right.” He whispered to himself, an almost silent agreement as his brain went haywire. Sweaty fingers fiddling around themselves in his lap. Because, yeah, you are right. Steve looked at you and understood.

He swallowed down his pride, a ball of hope replacing it. “What if you did try, just one more time?”

The weight in the room was unbearable, you'd have better luck cutting the tension between the two bodies with a knife. A slow realization played on your face, you might as well be half scared, a buzz rising up your back. An unspoken understanding.

“Steve…” you said his name again, not followed by a giggle or snarky comment. It was barely above a whisper, your breath suddenly stolen from you.

“Would that be so bad?”

Your eyes found his, trailing up from where he slumped into your couch. His shirt bunched up in awkward places, the constellations of moles painted his neck and face, and the unruly brown hair from the day’s activities. Full of boyish charm and hesitant courage. You wanted to melt into him.

“I guess not…” You said, watching Steve finally move. Stepping up from his seat and closer to you, with every step closer your heart pounded, brushing your chest. Barely a foot stood between you, despite how the world seemed to be in slow motion, Steve wasn’t stopping. He couldn’t even if he tried. “Steve?”

Steve Harrington was going to die right here in Studio C of the Hawkins WSQK Squawk building if you kept up the way you were looking at him now. You are still sitting pretty in your chair, as he towered over you, a man possessed. Your eyes were wide, pupils dilated with hope. Just staring, searching.

“You gotta give me a chance or I’ll just embarrass myself.” He said, not even realizing his hand was rising to your face. Ghosting against your cheek, then you leaned in slightly, it was enough for Steve to finally cradle your soft skin. “Come on, just one chance.”

That tense rubber band that stretched thin between you two snapped, you were breathless.

“I’ll give you as many chances as you need, Harrington.”

It was a final spell of a confession before you rose quickly, almost dizzy. Finding Steve’s lips like it was second nature, he had stayed cradling you, guiding you once his body caught up with yours. It was electric, two buzzing bodies finally connecting. Leaning, melting. Both your hands grasp at each other's faces and necks, your fingers twisting in the strains of hair on the nape of his neck.

Steve swears he must have slipped and fallen in the hallway, died, and gone to heaven. Your lips parted for him and he didn’t think twice before swiping a lick in between your lips, he didn’t realize how hungry he was for you until now, maybe he could have guessed this feeling was incoming when he got a migraine thinking of you doing this with the metalhead.

But you weren't.

No, you were in Steve Harrington's arms after months of late nights in this studio. After being his sole escape from this whole fucked up world. ‘Cause Steve didn’t need to know these walls were soundproof to know everything went quiet when he was with you. You were the peace that settled after the dust, you were warm. You were the smell of nostalgia and lavender, cotton and sugar. You tasted like it, too.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Steve parted from you, an audible click of your spit-covered lips, he felt breathless, wild. “That you don’t want this, you don’t want me, that I could never do it for you.”

It almost pained you to think Steve could ever believe that. “God—Steve, you are so, so fucking wrong.”

Steve literally shuddered, like a spike of cold air had run up his spine. But it was just you, grasping him and knocking him down all at once. You leaned back a few steps, leaning against the corner of the soundboard. Steve followed, kissing you again like you were his oxygen. Needy. Hungry. Pushing his body against yours, caging you in.

All Steve wanted was to be closer, because his tongue in your mouth wasn’t enough. His hands roamed and his knee slotted in between your legs. Pushing against your core, pulling a sweet, surprising sound from you. Vibrating his lips that lit a fire inside of him.

“Want you, Steve.” You breathed, “always have.”

“Yeah?” Steve couldn’t believe this, after silently and hopelessly pining for you. For it all to come to this so suddenly. “Tell me.”

You kissed him, pulling away just as quickly as you leaned in. “When I first met you, you and your stupid—,” you kissed him again, “messy hair and your.” Another kiss. “Charm that made me feel dizzy.” Kiss. “Your stupid blue jeans that fit too well and” another breathless kiss. “Your smile, these pouty lips-“ kiss. You kept your eyes on him now, “and the way you care for people when they aren’t watching.”

“Sweetheart..” The name left his lips like a prayer.

“Since the beginning I wanted you, I didn’t know how obvious I could make it… so I just assumed you weren’t into it… into me.”

Steve’s finger rubbed your cheek, he tried not to get too lost in your eyes, “Robin says I give you googly eyes.”

Your face scrunched up, “I used to think you were looking at me funny.”

“What?” Steve's face dropped at the information, like he was personally offended by your words. “No, oh my god, no, never.”

“Really?” You asked, unbelieving.

Steve didn’t respond, he didn’t need to. Only smiling at you, all giddy and full of nerves like a boy during his first kiss. Steve's hands held you steady as he brought you in closer.

Your legs intertwined as you leaned farther into the soundboard behind you, Steve’s leg slid up further, nudging in between your legs. A heat rose up you quickly, Steve’s hands still roaming further down, holding gently on your neck.

Maybe you leaned down first, or Steve's leg hitched up, you weren’t sure who moved first. But Steve's knee had pushed up enough to send a shiver up your spine, a surprised gasp of pleasure running from your mouth. You felt Steve smirk against your lips, kissing down your jaw and neck.

Then he did it again, rubbing his thigh against your sweatpants-covered core, the sweet spot that kept pulling sweeter sounds from you he had only dreamt of hearing.

“Steve..” you whined, lips brushing his messy head of hair as he found that ticklish spot under your ear.

“Yeah? ‘That feel good?” He mumbled against your skin, vibrations down to your thighs. “Just tell me to stop if that’s what you want, hmm?”

Steve hesitated for a moment to wait for your response, hands hovering above your waist.

“Keep going,” you ached for him. And Steve obliged, because he’s realizing he'd do anything for you. Absolutely ruined. And he was going to return the favor.

Steve’s finger found the skin underneath the hem of your tiny, tiny t-shirt. Spreading his grasp across your hips and stomach, wanting nothing but to feel you more. Pulling you into him, against him. Drawing more sounds from you.

You ached, you squirmed under his hold. Feeling the giddiness radiating off the boy like sunshine. Your hips bucked against his thigh, and an overly intense sensation struck you.

“Come on, sweet girl.” Steve cooed, and you practically melted into him. “Let me hear you, I always wanna hear ya’”

Steve's hands pulled you down again, guiding your hips to cross the larger part of his thigh, pushing you to slowly drag your covered and aching clit onto him. Giving you that permission to let yourself use him to feel good, to keep making noise. Steve wanted to drown in it.

“Mhmm,” you wined, a hitch in your throat as you kept moving your hips, Steve's hands practically doing all the work. “Ah—Steve, oh my—“

Steve swallowed your moans with another kiss, letting his hand reach further down, toying with the elastic waistband around your lower lips.

He needed you more than oxygen. Closer. “Keep going?” He said against your lips, pausing at your pants, because a part of him still felt like this was a dream, a sick joke. That you in his arms, literally aching for him, could never be real.

You nodded, pulling at his neck. Shifting your hips higher and Steve moved with you, one hand pushing past your pants and the other bracing hushed behind you.

With the make-out frenzy, both of you far out of mind, Steve's hand slips on some switch, some button, who knows. The loud noise or high-pitched guitar and fast-paced drums made you both jump, literally. You even yelped.

“Ah, fuck.” You scrambled to move off of Steve, the sudden departure from your body made him feel cold, but it was more than enough to watch you completely flustered and seemingly forgetting how to work your whole system. “Goddamnit, shut up!”

Steve was laughing, and by the time the shouting from your speaker turned off. You were too. Still practically on top of each other, you had turned back from pausing the disruption.

“Sorry…” Steve apologized with a boyish, lopsided smile. His hair a wild mess after what your hands did to him. His eyes wild, possessed by lust and darting to your every inch, he just wanted to soak in the sight of you and everything more.

You shared a look, and you both laughed. Steve's head falls into your chest, as you knock your head back to let out more giggles. Because, of course the exact makeout sesh you’d been yearning for would take place here, where you’d always imagined, just to be interrupted by an accidental switch on the soundboard. It was ridiculous, you couldn’t help but laugh, it was everything you’d ever wanted these past few months.

Steve's shoulders shook with joy, until you pulled him back up to face you. His irises were dilated and shining at the sight of you, satisfaction pained him.

“You wanna keep this going where Ian McKaye can’t interrupt us.” You asked, a slight bite to your lip after you looked down and still found yourself slotted into him. Like a perfect puzzle piece.

his smile turns feral.

"the thought," he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath warms your lips, "of coming home to those thighs."

your breath stutters.

he pushes the hem of your skirt higher with two fingers. "these," he says, voice rougher, long fingers caressing the soft skin of your thighs, "kept me alive."

your cheeks burn. "s-satoru-"

"on that mission," he continues, ignoring the tremor in your voice, "all i could think about was how warm they are. how soft they are. how the inside of them tastes when you’re shaking and trying not to say my name too loud."

your thighs snap together on instinct.

satoru notices, as he always does. he laughs softly, pleased and the tiniest bit cruel.

"oh? that got you shy?" he asks, tilting your chin up more. "after everything you do to me?"

"i-i didn’t mean-"

"didn’t mean what?" he breathes, brushing his knuckles along the inside of your thigh. "didn’t mean to sit here like this? didn’t mean to show me all that soft skin? didn’t mean to tease me with something i’ve been thinking about all damn day?"

your lips part, helpless.

he drops to his knees on the floor, same height as your thighs. like a prayer he whispers daily. (he does).

his hands slide up from your ankles to your knees, slow enough to burn, spreading your legs just an inch, then another.

"you have no idea," he murmurs, "how obsessed i am."

you whisper, "o-obsessed…?"

he kisses just above your knee, not the center, not the inside, close enough to make your breath break. then he looks up at you with a smile that’s almost sinful.

"yeah, baby," he murmurs, "obsessed. like, ‘I wanna lose myself between your thighs until i forget my own name’ obsessed."

your whole body goes hot.

"satoru-"

"i think about them constantly," he continues, voice dropping even lower, "the shape of them… how they clamp around my head when you’re close… how they shake when you’re trying not to fall apart."

your hand flies to his hair, not to pull him closer, just to steady yourself.

he smirks. "mm. that little grab? yeah. that’s what i like."

his hands slide higher, squeezing the flesh of your thighs like he owns every inch.

"you know what else?" he asks, tone darkening. "you walk around all day with these pretty thighs out… and i have to pretend i’m not thinking about how they’d look wrapped around my face."

your breath catches, hard. "s-satoru… we- you-"

"i know."

he spreads your knees another inch. "we’re not doing anything…" the grin he gives you is wicked. "…yet."

your heart slams.

he leans in, lips hovering a whisper above your inner thigh, not touching, but close enough that you feel the ghost of his breath.

"you make the sweetest sounds when i touch you here," he whispers. "do you know that?"

you shake your head, dazed.

he laughs. "you do. you moan without realizing. you whimper when my hands get a little higher."

his thumb brushes the crease where your thigh meets your hip, feather light, torturous.

"and you scream," he finishes softly, "when i hold you open and tell you to."

your thighs tremble.

he watches them with genuine delight.

"god, you’re adorable," he purrs, squeezing harder, marking you with his fingers. "you know how many times i thought about this today?"

you whisper, "how… how many?"

he kisses your thigh again, higher, slower."every. damn. minute."

your legs shudder around him and he exhales shakily.

"yeah," he murmurs, "that’s the reaction. that’s what i came home for."

he presses his cheek against your thigh like he’s settling into the place he belongs.

"open a little more," he whispers. "let me look at what kept me sane today."

you do, slowly and shaking.

and the way he breathes, low, reverent, starving, says exactly what he wants without him needing to say it.

"good girl," he whispers, voice shaking with hunger he’s barely controlling. "don’t move."

•●SUGURU GETO●•

you’re doing nothing special.

just sitting on the floor of suguru’s living room, legs folded beneath you, hair clipped back with something sparkly and childish, flipping through a magazine like time moves slower for you than everyone else.

your lip gloss is fresh, though.

and your lips keep parting in these absent little pouts as you read… and suguru can’t breathe.

he’s pretending to organize books he already organized twice, but every time you purse your lips to blow a strand of hair away or drag them together to spread the gloss, his spine tightens.

"sugu?" you ask, still flipping pages, not seeing the way his eyes darken. "do you like this color? it’s, um… strawberry sugar sparkle."

you lean in to show him.

your lips shimmer.

he forgets what air is.

"yeah," he says, voice low, "i like it."

you blink. "really? i thought maybe it’s too shiny-"

his gaze drops to your mouth again.

slowly.

hungrily.

"no," he murmurs, taking the magazine out of your hands before you realise he’s moved closer, "it’s perfect."

his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. you freeze, cheeks warming.

"you had gloss there," he lies gently.

"oh," you whisper, breath warming his finger, "thanks…"

your tongue flicks out to wet your lip and he makes a sound you’ve never heard before, half gasp, half groan.

"don’t do that."

you tilt your head. "do what?"

he laughs under his breath, strained and dark.

"that," he says, eyes heavy lidded. "you have no idea what you do when you lick your lips like that."

you pout instinctively, gloss shining.

absolutely ruining him.

"i didn’t mean to," you say.

"i know," he breathes, leaning closer until your knees touch, "that’s the problem."

his fingers slide up your jaw, lifting your face toward his.

"come here."

you always listen. you crawl closer, soft and trusting, settling between his legs on the floor. his thumbs cradle your cheeks, stroking the plush curve of your lower lip.

your breath trembles.

"suguru… you’re staring."

"i know."

"why…?"

his eyes darken, warm and hungry all at once.

"because your lips are unfair," he murmurs. "soft and sweet and always shiny and always… inviting."

your heart jumps.

"inviting… who?"

his smile is slow, sinful, tender.

"me."

your fingers curl into his shirt.

"open for me," he whispers.

you do.

instantly, sweetly, without hesitation. and he slides his finger between your lips.

slow.

testing.

careful like he’s touching something sacred.

your mouth closes around him without thought, gloss smearing across his knuckle as you suck gently.

suguru’s breath breaks.

"sweet girl…" he whispers, voice shaking, "don’t do that unless you want me to lose every bit of control i have."

your tongue brushes him.

his other hand tightens on your thigh and his jaw flexes hard enough to hurt.

he pulls his finger out slowly, shining with your gloss and spit, and presses his forehead to your cheek like he needs a second to stay sane.

"you’re going to be the end of me," he murmurs.

you tremble.

"suguru…"

he lifts your chin and pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. your thighs fall around him, settling flush against his hips.

your lips hover inches from his, wet, glossy, soft, and swollen from his touch.

nothing touches, not yet. but the air between you grows hot and tight.

his voice drops lower. "if i kiss you now," he says, thumb dragging across your lip again, "i won’t stop."

your breath hitches.

your thighs squeeze around him.

your fingers clutch his shirt.

he smiles, slow and dark.

"later," he whispers, brushing his nose against yours, "i’ll show you exactly what that little mouth does to me."

•●KENTO NANAMI●•

you don’t usually visit nanami while he’s working. not because he minds, he likes when you show up unexpectedly, but because you always get lost or distracted or stop to look at something shiny.

yet today, you walk straight into his office with purpose, soft steps echoing across the room.

he looks up from his paperwork.

and freezes.

your sweater… is falling off one shoulder.

your hair… is tucked behind your ear on the other side.

your neck… is exposed.

and the fading evidence of him is right there.

marks he left days ago, the ones he worried were too much, the ones he kissed after, apologizing even though you told him you liked it- they’re almost gone.

and you’re showing them to him like a gift.

nanami reaches up to remove his glasses, the gesture slow, deliberate, betrayed by the way his hand isn’t entirely steady.

"you came to see me," he says, voice quieter than usual.

you brighten instantly, leaning on his desk in a way that makes your neckline slip even lower.

"mmhm," you hum, tapping a finger over the fading marks. "i wanted to show you something."

his breath catches.

you tilt your head and brush your hair aside, revealing every inch of skin he once claimed.

"look," you whisper. "they’re going away."

nanami closes the file he was reading, slowly, like if he moves too fast he’ll lose control.

"i see," he murmurs, staring far too long at your neck for someone trying to be professional. "they faded quicker than i expected."

you pout.

actually pout.

"i didn’t want them to."

something in his composure splinters.

he stands before he means to, pushing his chair back, stepping around the desk until he’s standing inches from you. his hand lifts, hesitates, then touches your chin with an unbearable gentleness.

"you really shouldn’t come here looking like this," he says quietly, leaning just close enough for you to feel the warm brush of his breath.

"why not?" you blink up at him, confused and sweet.

nanami’s eyes darken.

"because i can’t be responsible for what happens next."

your pulse jumps, he feels it beneath his thumb. you tilt your head, shy but inviting.

"kento… will you make more…?"

his control snaps, but not wildly. not greedily. slowly, inevitably. like he’s giving in to something he never stood a chance against.

his hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers barely curled, touch so careful you almost whimper.

"come here," he breathes.

you step into him without thought.

and nanami bends his head, lips brushing your neck in a kiss so soft it aches.

you gasp, fingers clutching his tie.

he exhales shakily against your skin.

"i should not be doing this in my office," he murmurs, but his mouth finds you again, lower now, warmer, lingering in the place where your pulse flutters.

you melt completely.

"k-kento…"

the sound of your voice breaks something in him. he presses a firmer kiss to your neck, then another, marking you with slow, deliberate heat that spreads through you like sugar dissolving in warm tea.

your knees wobble.

nanami steadies you instantly with a hand at your back, still not touching anywhere else, still impressively disciplined despite the hunger in his breath.

he kisses the base of your neck, letting his lips linger there.

"you came here to tempt me," he whispers.

you shake your head, too dazed to speak right away. "i just… wanted you to see…"

he hums against your skin.

"i see everything," he answers.

he sucks a new mark into your neck, slow, warm, claiming in the quietest way possible.

"is this what you wanted?" he asks softly.

you nod, breathless.

he kisses higher, lips brushing your ear.

"good," he murmurs, voice roughening, "because i’m not finished."

•●CHOSO KAMO●•

choso has never cared about hands before.

never thought about them, never noticed them, never looked twice at anyone’s fingers or nails or the way they moved. nothing about that ever mattered.

until you.

until the first time he saw you tapping your glossy nails against your phone case, absent and dreamy, little sparkles catching the light with every tiny movement and something in his chest clenched so sharply he mistook it for pain.

now he can’t stop staring.

you’re sitting on his futon, cross legged, humming as you show him your latest nail set. soft pink, little gems, delicate bows on your thumbs, holding your hands out for him to see like it’s nothing.

like it isn’t ruining him.

"they’re cute, right?" you ask, voice light. "the girl who did them said they’re, like… super girly."

super girly.

yeah.

that’s one word for it.

choso reaches out slowly, too slowly, taking your hand between his larger ones. your fingers look impossibly small against his palms. your nails glint when he tilts your hand toward the lamp.

"pretty," he murmurs.

you beam. "really? i wasn’t sure if they were too much-"

he shakes his head, thumb brushing over the gem on your index finger. "not too much. never too much on you."

your cheeks warm.

his eyes track the motion of your fingers as you wiggle them happily, brushing lightly against his skin, leaving trails of heat wherever you graze. he inhales, a shaky sound for someone usually so composed.

"choso?" you ask softly. "you okay?"

he nods… but doesn’t let go of your hand.

doesn’t stop tracing your fingers.

doesn’t stop staring at your nails like they were made for him.

"your hands," he says, voice rougher than he intends, "they’re… small."

you blink. "um… thank you?"

his thumb slides over your knuckles, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing them.

"and soft," he adds, swallowing. "too soft."

your breath hitches at the shift in his tone.

"choso…?"

he lifts your hand to his mouth before you can finish, brushing a kiss to the back of it, gentle, warm, almost worshipful.

you gasp quietly.

he exhales against your skin like the shape of your fingers is something he shouldn’t be allowed to touch but can’t stay away from.

"you have no idea what you do with these," he murmurs.

your heart jumps. "with… my hands?"

he nods, lifting your wrist to kiss that too.

"different nails every week… always matching your outfits… always so pretty…" he trails off, eyes darkening by degrees. "and you touch everything like you don’t notice what it does to me."

your thighs squeeze together without you meaning to.

he notices.

of course he does.

choso’s fingers slide between yours, dwarfing your hand entirely, thumb sweeping over the bow on your thumbnail.

"i think about them more than i should," he admits quietly.

you swallow, lips parted. "what do you think about?"

he meets your eyes and heat coils low in your stomach at the look on his face.

"the way they feel on me," he says simply.

your breath catches.

"choso…"

"the way you trail them over my skin without thinking," he continues, voice low enough to shake you, "the way you tap them when you’re nervous… the way you curl them into my shirt when you want attention…"

your chest tightens.

and then his voice drops even lower, dark and warm and honest, "and how good they look…" his thumb lifts your chin gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"…when you’re using them for me."

your entire body heats.

your fingers tighten around his reflexively.

he exhales sharply through his nose, jaw flexing.

"don’t do that," he whispers.

"do what?" you breathe.

"hold me like that," he murmurs, leaning closer, forehead almost touching yours. "you know what it does to me."

his breath fans across your lips.

your nails, all cute pink bows and glossy gems, rest against his chest.

his eyes flick down to them again.

ruined.

completely ruined.

he takes your hand and presses it to his cheek, closing his eyes like he’s savoring the softness.

"i love your hands," he admits, voice barely a rasp.

you swallow. "choso…"

he opens his eyes, dark, fixed on you, nothing restrained left in his expression.

"lie down," he murmurs. "before i stop pretending I have any self-control."

•●TAKUMA INO●•

you sit on his couch, legs tucked under you, humming while you scroll your phone, doing absolutely nothing except being pretty and that’s enough to destroy takuma every single time.

your hair is long today. soft today. shiny today. falling over your shoulder in loose curls that look like they were made specifically to tempt him.

he’s pretending to watch TV.

he’s not watching TV.

he keeps glancing at you from the corner of his eye, pretending he isn’t losing his mind over the way a single curl keeps slipping against your collarbone.

finally, he caves.

"come here," he says, voice too casual to be real.

you crawl over, mindlessly sweet, not noticing the way his breath stutters as your hair bounces with each movement. you sit beside him, and before you can even ask why he called you, his hand is already in your hair.

he twirls a strand around his finger, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the texture.

"you changed it," he murmurs, voice low.

you blink. "changed what?"

"your hair," he says, leaning closer, fingers sliding through it again. "it’s softer."

you smile. "i used that pink bottle you like!"

his throat bobs and his hand fists gently in the back of your hair as if he’s stopping himself from pulling harder.

"yeah," he whispers, "i noticed."

you giggle and lean into his touch without hesitation. "you always play with it. you must really like it."

he laughs, the shaky kind, the kind that means he’s trying very hard to keep himself together.

"you have no idea," he says, brushing your hair over your shoulder, letting it spill across your chest. "you really don’t know what you do to me, do you?"

you tilt your head. "what do i do?"

his eyes darken in a way that makes your cheeks heat instantly.

he toys with the ends of your hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers.

"this right here," he says quietly, "makes me lose my mind."

you blink, clueless and sweet. "my hair?"

"yeah," he breathes, leaning in close enough to feel his breath on your cheek. "the way it falls over your face… the way you play with it when you’re thinking… the way it spreads over my hands when i-"

he stops himself.

your thighs press together.

you whisper, "when you what…?"

takuma exhales hard, fingers sliding deeper into your hair, gathering a handful gently but firmly.

his voice drops. "when I pull it."

your breath catches.

he smiles, slow, nervous, a little crooked, because he knows you felt that.

"takuma…"

"don’t say my name like that," he murmurs, tugging your hair just enough to make you gasp. "i’m hanging on by one thread right now."

you swallow, dizzy. "i… didn’t know you liked it that much."

"sweetheart," he whispers, leaning closer, "i think about it constantly."

your eyes widen.

"a-and i like when you play with it too-" you start, flustered.

"not the same," he interrupts softly, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail just to let it fall again. "you don’t understand what it does to me."

his hand travels to the back of your head again, fingers slipping under the roots.

"if you knew…" he says, tone turning low, confessional, "…how often i imagine these pretty strands wrapped around my fist while you’re on your knees…"

your entire body lights on fire.

"t-takuma-"

"yeah," he whispers, forehead brushing yours, "that’s what drives me crazy. watching your hair bounce when you move. feeling it against my thighs. imagining how it’d look sticking to your cheeks while you look up at me with those big pretty eyes-"

you whimper.

he freezes, only to let out a shaky breath, thumb brushing your lower lip.

"that’s it," he says, voice a warm rasp. "that’s exactly the sound."

his hand tightens in your hair for half a second, enough to make your legs go weak, before he forces himself to let go.

he sits back.

breathing hard.

chest rising.

jaw tight.

eyes molten.

"if i keep going," he says, "i’m gonna forget how to stop."

you lean forward, lips parted, dazed and wanting.

"then… don’t stop."

takuma groans under his breath like you just broke something inside him.

he grabs your hair again, slow, deliberate, hungry.

"careful," he warns softly, "because i’m two seconds away from putting this pretty hair to work."

•●RYOMEN SUKUNA●•

you don’t even notice you’re making noise.

you never do.

that’s what ruins him.

sukuna sits on his throne like futon, legs spread, broad chest bare, tattoos dark against his skin, watching you with that predatory fascination he saves just for you. you’re doing nothing but putting lotion on your legs, soft little hums under your breath, sighs every time your fingers brush your knee.

he pretends he’s bored.

he’s absolutely not bored.

"you’re noisy today," he says lazily, head tilting, eyes glinting like knives.

you blink up at him, doe eyed, utterly unaware of how sweet your voice was a second ago. "i-i wasn’t being noisy…"

"you were," he corrects, lips curling. "you always are."

you pout, confused. "you never complain…"

"why would i complain," he growls, leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, "when your pretty little sounds are the best thing in my entire damn kingdom?"

your breath stutters.

he notices instantly.

your thighs press together.

he notices that too.

in two slow steps he’s in front of you, crouching down, thumb hooking under your chin to tilt your face up toward him.

"there it is," he murmurs, voice low and smug. "that little catch in your throat. the one you make just for me."

you try to look away, shy and flustered, but he grabs your jaw gently, forcing your gaze back to his.

"don’t," he warns softly, "don’t hide from me."

you breathe out a tiny sound, not even a real whimper, barely a breathy exhale, but his fingers tighten.

"that one," he says. "i like that one."

your cheeks burn hot.

"s-sukuna-"

and there it is again. the whisper of his name, soft and trembling. it goes straight to his head.

a slow smirk spreads across his face. "say it again."

you shake your head weakly. "no… you’re teasing me…"

he laughs, deep, cruel, delighted.

"of course i’m teasing you." his thumb brushes your lower lip, dragging it down just enough to make you gasp. "you’re adorable when you get all flustered."

you grab his wrist, trying to steady yourself. "you’re being mean…"

"i’m being patient," he corrects, voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "if i were being mean, you’d be screaming already."

your legs nearly give out and sukuna watches your reaction like a starving god watching a sacrifice.

"ahh…" he murmurs, tracing your throat with a single claw tipped finger, not pressing, just caressing. "there’s another one i like. that tiny gulp you make when you’re nervous."

he leans closer, close enough that his breath ghosts over your neck.

"you make the prettiest sounds," he whispers. "you know that?"

you shake your head, too warm, too overwhelmed. "i-i don’t…"

his lips brush your ear.

"yes you do," he growls. "you moan for me. you whimper for me. you say my name like a prayer you don’t know the meaning of." his hand slides to the back of your neck. "and you scream-"

your knees buckle hard.

he catches you instantly, pulling you into his lap like that was always where you were meant to be.

"easy," he murmurs, voice warm but mocking. "getting weak just from my voice?"

"you- you’re doing it on purpose-" you breathe.

"of course i am."

he tilts your chin up again, holding you there like you’re fragile and breakable and his favorite thing to break.

"you’re my woman," he says simply. "your sounds belong to me."

your breathing turns uneven, soft gasps spilling out before you can stop them.

he presses his forehead to yours, eyes half lidded with hunger he’s not hiding at all.

"that’s it…" he whispers. "give me another."

you shake your head.

he smirks.

"fine. i’ll take one."

his hand slides up your spine, slow, careful, devastatingly gentle for someone so monstrous. his thumb grazes that spot just under your ear, the one he discovered by accident and now uses like a weapon.

you gasp. soft, broken, involuntary.

sukuna’s breath shudders.

"there it is," he growls, grip tightening. "my favorite one."

your lips part, another sound caught on the edge of your throat.

he nudges your nose with his, voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a touch.

"give me one more," he murmurs, eyes burning into yours, "and i’ll decide what to do with you next."

the room goes quiet.

your breath trembles.

his smile sharpens.

"go on, princess," he purrs. "i’m waiting."

•●TOJI FUSHIGURO●•

you’re bending over his counter when it starts, not even for a sexy reason, just because you dropped your lip gloss and are trying to reach it without getting on your knees.

toji walks in and stops dead.

absolutely no shame, no hesitation, just outright staring at the curve of your ass sticking out in tight shorts.

"the hell are you doin’?" he asks, voice low and amused.

you pop back up with the gloss in your hand, smiling cluelessly.

"i dropped this! sorry- did i get in the way?"

he stares at you with that expression he always has with you, the one that sits somewhere between hungry and trying not to ruin something too delicate.

"get in the way?" he echoes, stepping behind you. "sweetheart, if you knew what you look like when you bend over in front of me-"

you tilt your head. "what do i look like?"

his palm comes down on your ass in a sharp, perfect smack.

you yelp, stumbling forward.

"like that," he says, grinning as he palms the spot he just smacked, slow and heavy. "fuckin’ perfect."

your heart stutters.

"t-toji-"

he slaps it again, slower this time, fingers spreading, squeezing like he’s testing something he already owns.

"yeah," he mutters, voice dropping, "that’s it. that little jump… i like that."

you try to step away but he pulls you back with a hand at your hip, pressing his chest to your back, large body crowding you effortlessly.

"why’re you runnin’?" he murmurs into your neck. "thought you didn’t mind when i touched you."

you breathe out, "i don’t- i just-"

he grabs a handful of your ass and pulls you flush against him.

"then stop pretending you don’t like it," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear. "you walk around in these tight little shorts… wigglin’ this perfect fuckin’ ass in front of me… and expect me not to touch?"

your knees buckle.

he chuckles, catching you easily, sliding a hand under your thighs to lift you onto the counter like you weigh nothing.

"careful," he tsks. "can’t have my pretty girl fallin’ apart before i even start."

your face burns. "toji…"

he stands between your legs, smirking up at you like the devil got bored and decided to wear sweatpants.

one hand rests on your hip.

the other?

firmly cupping your ass like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"relax," he says, squeezing hard enough to make you whimper. "i’ve already made it clear this is mine."

"y-yours…?" you squeak.

he leans forward until his lips touch your cheek.

"yeah," he rumbles. "been mine since the first time i saw you walk away. don’t act surprised."

your breath shudders.

his hand slides down, fingertips tracing the bottom curve of your ass, coming dangerously close-

you grab his wrist, trembling.

he laughs softly.

"what?" he frowns playfully. "shy now?"

"you’re- you’re being intense," you whisper.

"baby," he says, gripping your ass tighter, "this is me holdin’ back."

your thighs squeeze around his hips instinctively.

he groans, low, rough, like the sound was punched out of him. "don’t do that unless you want me to lose every bit of control i’ve got."

"i wasn’t- i didn’t mean-"

he kisses your cheek again, slow and hot.

"you never mean to," he whispers. "that’s the problem."

his hand slides up and down the curve again, slow, savoring.

"you have no idea what this ass does to me," he murmurs. "i think about it all the damn time… hittin’ my hands just right… bouncin’ when you walk…"

you make a tiny sound, something between a gasp and a whine.

his voice drops even lower.

"and don’t get me started on what i wanna do when you get on your knees. how good that view is. how good you look with my hand in your hair and my other hand right-"

you slap your hand over his mouth before he says something that melts you into the counter.

his eyes glint with laughter and hunger as he pulls your hand down gently.

"don’t stop me, sweetheart," he murmurs. "you asked."

you swallow.

he spreads your thighs a little, kisses your jaw once, heat spilling through you like a slow burn.

"i’ll behave…" he whispers, lips brushing your skin, "if you sit still."

you don’t move. you can’t.

toji smirks, squeezes your ass one more time, firm, deliberate, claiming, and steps back just enough to look at you, breath heavy.

"good girl."

your stomach flips. "toji…"

"yeah," he says, looking at your thighs, your mouth, then your ass again, "i’m not done. not even close."

•●SHIU KONG●•

shiu sits in his chair like a king, cigarette between his fingers, jacket half off his shoulders, legs spread, expression unreadable except for the faint curl of interest tugging at his mouth.

you stand in front of him wearing almost nothing.

not for him, not exactly. you’re just trying on outfits, holding up a little sheer robe, humming to yourself.

but you keep stepping into the light.

and every time you twist your body, his eyes drop to your waist, to the faint bruised shapes of his fingers, and something darkens behind his calm smile.

he’s watching it move. watching the soft curve, the narrow dip, the way your skin catches the light. you have no idea how much he’s drinking it in.

"turn around," he says.

you blink. "why…?"

"just turn."

you do. slow, soft, hair falling over your shoulder as you face away from him. the robe slips off one arm and pools at your elbow.

he exhales, slow and dangerous, smoke drifting upward as he leans back further in the chair.

"there they are," he murmurs.

you glance back shyly. "my… my marks?"

"my marks," he corrects smoothly. his eyes lower again, fixated. "and my favorite place to see them."

your waist.

bare.

soft.

warm.

perfect height for his hands.

"they’re fading," he adds, studying the shape of you like a craftsman inspecting something he made with intention. "didn’t take. tsk."

you flush. "i… didn’t think you liked them that much."

his jaw flexes, just enough to show he’s not half as calm as he looks.

"sweetheart," he says, tapping ash off the cigarette without looking away from your waist, "i don’t put my hands anywhere i don’t intend to see later."

you swallow.

he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t look away.

and you realise, a little too late, that shiu kong doesn’t stare like a man admiring something beautiful.

he stares like a man identifying territory.

"come closer," he says.

you take a step.

"closer."

another step.

he grabs your wrist when you’re within reach, pulling you down effortlessly so you end up straddling his thigh, naked waist pressed right against him. your breath stutters, hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself.

he smirks, slow and cruel.

"look at you," he murmurs. "nothing on… except the marks i left."

your skin burns under his gaze, not shame, but the heavy weight of being seen.

he touches your waist with both hands this time, thumbs brushing the curve, fingers wrapping the sides, holding you still like he’s claiming something fragile and delicate.

"you fit here too well," he mutters, almost annoyed. "like your body was made for my hands."

your breath shakes.

he squeezes gently, pushing in just enough to remind you exactly how large his hands are.

the robe slips further down.

he looks delighted.

"you know what the problem is?" he asks, dragging his thumbs slowly along the dip of your waist, tracing the exact places he bruised you before.

"i like this part of you too much."

your eyes widen. "my… waist?"

"mm," he hums. "this small little thing-" both hands tighten possessively around you "-driving me insane every time you walk by."

he shifts his thigh beneath you, forcing your body to settle lower.

his lips brush your cheek. "you have no idea how distracting it is," he murmurs. "watching your waist sway like that when you move. watching your shirts ride up. watching you stretch in the morning and not even realise what you’re showing."

you make a small sound, something soft and breathy, and his grip immediately tightens. his hands slide up and down your waist again, shaping it, memorizing it, marking it.

he studies the bruises like someone admiring fine art.

then, "stand up."

you do, shaky.

"good girl," he murmurs.

the robe falls away completely.

your waist catches his attention instantly, clean, bare, all soft skin and curve.

shiu drags his gaze down your body, slow, calculating and deliberate, stopping right at the center of you.

and then he says, almost irritably, "come here."

you step closer.

he wraps his hands around your waist again, lifting you onto his thigh with obscene ease.

"this," he says, squeezing just hard enough to leave new prints, "is mine."

your breath hitches.

his eyes darken further.

"and i want everyone to see it."

your stomach flips at the intensity.

he leans back, watching you, thumbs stroking the ridges of your waist like he’s mapping where next to bruise.

"wear something smaller next time," he says. "or nothing. nothing works too."

your lips part.

he chuckles, deep and dangerous.

"go on," he adds, tapping his thigh again. "i want to see how your waist moves when i touch you."