jini

In conclusion, everyone in campus both know and have heard of Riki. But then again, who doesn't?

He's the secret weapon of the soccer team, a one man army with insane skills. It's thanks to him that the team was able to bring home many trophies, one after another. Outside of soccer, he has a high reputation—which is to no one's surprise.

He demands for attention without saying it out loud. But there was no need to, not when you're Nishimura Riki. He carries himself with confidence, his signature smug and arrogant grin stretched wide across his face, walking like he owns the place. Heads and eyes will follow him, unconsciously giving their attention to him without them knowing.

With his high-rank status, swoon-worthy looks that made him looked like he was personally crafted from both gods and goddesses and wealthy background, there's no doubt there are all kinds of rumors going around. But what everyone was mostly interested in was his status.

Some shameless girls loudly claim they are Riki's crush, despite the fact they have never talked to him face-to-face before. It's a common sight to see girls confessing to him, followed by him rejecting their confessions, leaving them embarrassed or disappointed.

What no one knew however, was that he already has his eyes set on a certain someone. Someone who is out of his league but he doesn't care. What Riki wants is what he will get, no matter what it takes.

Fweeeeet!

A sharp, high-pitched whistle pierced though the air and echoed throughout the open-air field. Hearing it, everyone stopped what they were doing as they ran to gather before their coach. All of them were drenched in sweat, their jerseys sticking to their bodies, almost wanting to blend into their skin.

The coach—a man in his late thirties, stood before them with a stern expression on his face.

"Alright boys, the competition's in four days and I want everyone to be in their best condition. You hear me? That means no slacking around, no drinking and no wasting time on girls," he reminded them, directing the last part to a certain player in the team, who merely blinked his eyes, acting innocent.

"Yes, sir," everyone replied in unison.

The coach nodded, pleased and blew his whistle again. "Now let's start practice. Split into two teams of four."

~

Practice went on for the next three hours or so under the hot, sweltering sun. By the time it was over, all Riki wanted was to desperately return to his dorm, take a shower and collapse into his bed to sleep the rest of the day away.

His assignments and everything else that isn't important can wait. He slowly trudged to the benches where his duffel bag was, groaning as he knew he'll be experiencing horrible muscle pain tomorrow.

"Oh, Riki!"

The way he straightened up at the sound of your voice was quite embarrassing but thankfully, his teammates were too a few feet away from him, giving him some alone time with you. Riki stopped walking, watching you through his squinted eyes as you approached him, wearing your signature warm and friendly smile on your face.

The soccer player shamelessly lets his eyes scan you from head to toe—greedily drinking in the way your clothes perfectly hugged your body, further accentuating on your figure. Riki gnawed on his bottom lip, eyes darkening a shade when he noticed the skirt you wore was short. Short enough for his mind to start wandering off, going down the gutter.

He could see your clean, bare and unblemished thighs underneath it, making his mouth waters as he wish to sink his teeth into your pillowy thighs, wanting to hear you cry out. Would you moan his name? Would you start tearing up if he nipped at your inner thighs? Would you start shaking and squirming beneath him while beg—

"Babe? What are you doing here?"

Oh right, you're dating someone that's not him.

Riki snapped back to reality, scowling and frowning like your boyfriend—his captain, had committed a grave crime known in the world. In a sense, he did. Riki will never understand how his captain managed to capture your heart or how you ended up falling for him. As far as he was aware, your boyfriend was anything but nice to you.

Firstly, he doesn't treat you as an equal. It's a ritual for the team to host parties whenever they won first place at competitions. Parties is where Riki gets a front-row seat of witnessing his captain treating you like you were invisible.

He will wander off, getting dragged away by his own group of friends while leaving his girlfriend—you, alone to fend for yourself.

And it's always up to Riki to be your knight in shining armor. Thanks to that however, it allow him to build a friendship with you.

Secondly, your boyfriend has a huge ego. Riki always have to hold himself back from throwing hands whenever he heard the low, hurtful comments his captain made towards you. He hated how he couldn't do anything but what he hated the most was the look on your face. The way the smile dropped. The way the light in your eyes died down and most importantly, how his words made you feel insecure.

"Dude, you look like you're about to murder someone," Jungwon pointed out, with a knowing look on his mischievous face.

"Fuck off," the younger replied without missing a beat, causing his friend to let out an offended gasp, resting a hand on his chest.

"Hey! No swearing at your seniors!" Jungwon exclaimed but Riki wasn't paying attention to him.

Instead, his eyes were locked on your figure, watching you from where he stood as you stood beside you boyfriend, who had an arm possessively wrapped around your waist. Riki snorted under his breath, knowing the only reason why he did that was to avoid anyone from looking at you for a second longer.

Fortunately for Riki, he was hidden in the other's blind spot, giving him an uninterrupted view of the source of his wet dreams and someone who he jerks off to.

As if sensing someone's intense gaze on you, his captain looked over his shoulder and made eye contact with him. The two boys stared down at one another, both unwilling to look away and to let the other person win.

To further ignite the flames, your boyfriend had the audacity to grab your chin, turning you to face him. Riki could see the mild surprise on you before he kissed you, right in front of everyone. Some of his teammates made loud, fake gagging noises. Some started cheering and whistling, behaving like the immature boys they are.

Jungwon whistled, impressed with the bold stunt the captain pulled. Riki, on the other hand, was seething with anger. He narrowed his eyes, jaw clenched and fists clenched so hard his knuckles were turning white. He knew what your boyfriend was doing—trying to rile him up. As much as he hated to admit it, it was working.

To make matters worse, he maintained eye contact with Riki the entire time—from before he kissed you to after he broke the kiss. The soccer player nearly sees red when the captain threw him a smug, cocky smirk—taunting him.

Bet you wish you could kiss her huh.

Riki's limbs moved before his mind could processed. He took a step forward, ready to punch the grin right off the other's face but Jungwon was quick to interfere. The older stepped in front of Riki, right arm thrown out to block off his path.

"Jungwon, back off," Riki hissed.

Jungwon turned to him. "Are you crazy!? Do you want to cause a scene and risk sitting out on the competition? I know you like her but don't do something stupid and reckless."

The younger paused at the mention of the competition. He knows Jungwon is right and how he needs to remain on his good behavior for the next four days. It took all of his remaining self-discipline to cool down, forcefully ripping his eyes away from you and your boyfriend, like the sight physically burns him.

"Understood," he said through gritted teeth, turning around to storm to where his duffel bag was, pointedly ignoring the exasperated sigh Jungwon let out.

Riki grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder, walking away from the field without sparing anyone a second glance. If he did turn around, he would have noticed the way your eyes remained fixated on his retreating figure.

He would have noticed the way you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion, wanting to go after him but was stopped by your boyfriend.

Too bad Riki was busy simmering in anger and jealousy to notice anything.

~

The next four days of intense, harsh and grueling practice passed in a blink of an eye. Their coach show no mercy to the team, constantly pushing them over their limits as he barked instructions at them. But deep down, everyone knew that the coach simply meant well for the team and that he wants them to win the competition.

Riki spend most of his time on field, which meant he's in the same breathing space as his captain and this meant he was able to see you as well. Which was a win-win situation. But what he hated the most is the sight of you wearing someone else's jersey, with your boyfriend's number on your back.

His stomach twist and turned into itself whenever he sees you seated among the crowd, with a wide smile on your face as you cheered at the top of your lungs. He hated how you never looked at him, eyes always following your boyfriend—someone who doesn't deserve your attention, time and effort.

He hated how he had to witness the revolting sight of you running towards him, followed by your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend lifting you up into the air before kissing you right in front of everyone to show you belong to him.

Currently, Riki and his teammates were in the locker room as they were changing into their jerseys to get ready for the competition. The boy sat on one of the wooden long benches in the locker room, a damp towel hanging over his head as he looked down at the floor with his elbows resting on his thighs.

It's a routine he does every time before stepping onto the field—to clear his mind, getting rid of any form of unnecessary thoughts. The surroundings were tuned out until they were nothing but white noise to him until his ears registered an annoyingly familiar voice that made his left eye twitched before he could help it.

"So, have you done anything with your girlfriend yet?" One of his teammates ask the captain.

The captain snorts. "Not yet. Every time I try to do something, she always say no. What a pussy."

Riki clenched his fists and on his right, he saw Jungwon shooting him a worried look. The younger pointedly faced the front, staring at the boring, dull gray wall like it was the most fascinating thing in the world while eavesdropping on the conversation, his focus interrupted, much to his frustration.

Three to four teammates who were gathered around the captain laughed like he had said something hilarious. And then, one of them spoke up in a tone that sent shivers down Riki's spine.

"Bet she'd sound good when you fuck her."

That comment alone made Riki see red. He stood up, ripping the towel away from his pitch-black hair, clutching it in his left hand as he stalked towards the group of boys, who were busy sniggering and laughing while making lewd and offensive comments about you.

Their voices died down when Riki stood before them, his tall frame hovering over them and with the dim lights shining down on him, it made him looked intimidating.

The group of boys shared glances among themselves, having a bad feeling of what was about to happen but the captain merely looked up and flashed Riki an infuriating smirk, leaning back to lean against the locker behind him.

"Yes, Nishimura? Need something?" He drawled.

At this point, everyone's eyes were on the two of them, sensing the growing and thickening tension lingering in the locker room. Riki glared down from where he stood, hands resting by his sides. He didn't say a thing, lunging at the captain with incredible speed. He was able to catch the other off-guard to deliver a hard, strong punch right in his face, nearly breaking his nose.

Baam!

The captain's body roughly collided against the locker behind him as he shouted in pain, clutching onto his sore nose with his eyes squeezed shut. The other boys quickly scramble away, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

Riki didn't give him time to regain his bearings, stepping closer to grab the captain by the collar, easily lifted him up and slammed him into the lockers, leaving his legs helplessly dangling in the air.

"You fucking piss me off every time you open that mouth of yours, you know that?" Riki hissed, lowering his voice an octave lower so only the captain can hear him. He's well-aware of how some of his teammates had pulled out their phones, recording it to upload the clip onto the Internet later.

The captain was confused for a moment but realization dawned on him a few seconds later. A slow sly smirk stretched across his face, still having the balls to act all cocky despite the odds were clearly against him.

"Oh? Is this about (Name)? I know you like her but too bad she's mine," he sneered, having the time of his life watching how Riki narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning more intense.

In response, Riki shoved him further against the locker, causing it to squeak and groan behind him but the two boys didn't care.

"I'll watch my mouth if I were you," Riki warned—threatened him. "Just because you're the principal's son doesn't mean I can't beat you up. What? You gonna run to your daddy and cry to him that you got your pathetic ass kicked?"

The captain's grin fell and this time, it was his turn to be angered by Riki's words. The younger merely smirked, cocking his head to the side. "What? Cat got your tongue now?"

The captain threw a weak, measly punch at him but Riki merely dodged it by moving his head to the side, allowing him to hit nothing but air. Riki retaliate by kneeing him in the stomach, drawing a pained gasp from him as he hunched over slightly, hands now clutching his sides. The soccer player's ears registered the whispers and murmurs behind him but he paid them no mind. He moved, about to punch him again—

"What the hell is going on?"

Everyone stilled.

They turned to the door, where their coach was standing. His face had turned black, looking at the sight before him in sheer disbelief and anger, like he couldn't believed what he was seeing. The coach went unusually silent, opening his mouth, on the verge of exploding but he thought the better of it, choosing to address everyone instead.

"All of you, get ready and get out there. The match's about to start soon. I want all of you to bring back a trophy when it's over."

The team obediently nodded their heads, not daring to say anything that might cause their coach to snap at any moment. He merely gave them one more glance before leaving, allowing the team to quickly stepped out. Riki threw the captain a final warning glare and released his grip, watching as he ungracefully toppled to the floor without any form of remorse.

Riki was about to leave but stopped on the spot when the captain called out to him.

"Hope you know she'll never choose you," he said and Riki nearly burst out laughing, finding it nidicolous but he didn't show any emotions, not wanting to give himself away.

He merely looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with him. "I won't be so sure of that, captain."

Without waiting for his response, Riki left, fueled with newfound determination to steal you away from that arrogant boyfriend of yours. It was only a matter of time before you finally belong to him.

~

To no one's surprise, they won the match and left with a huge gold trophy and to commemorate the joyous occasion, the captain has hosted a campus-wide party at his place.

Due to him being the principal's son, of course he has his own place and of course he's rich enough to afford living on the wealthier side of the neighborhood.

Everyone on campus are rich since it is a rich kids academy but your boyfriend is on a another league of his own. Riki pulled up at the venue with Jungwon—who had shamelessly demanded to be picked up, as he was too lazy to drive over, much to the younger boy's annoyance. The moment they got out, they were able to hear the loud, slightly muffled sounds of music being blasted from the speakers.

The captain's private property was filled to the brim with a sea of people. Most of them were unfamiliar faces to Riki but he could spot some faces who he recognized as he entered. Everyone's eyes instantly turned to him. Jungwon stepped closer to nudge his elbow against him, a cheeky grin on his cute, round face.

Riki is the walking and literal definition of a fashion show. He's dressed in a black turtleneck with a black leather jacket donned over it. He wore a pair of washed jeans that further accentuated his already long legs, making him looked as tall as always. His fingers was covered in a wide variety of silver rings that glimmered whenever he made hand movements, catching people's attention.

However, they weren't you.

"Look at you, the center of attention again," he teased.

Riki rolled his eyes but the way his lips curved up in a smile says otherwise. "Shut up, it's not my fault I'm popular."

Jungwon snorted at his comment. "Other guys will kill to be in your spot."

"Too bad for them then."

His friend muttered something inaudible under his breath but Riki paid him no mind. He scans the sea of people, trying to search for a certain someone and when he finally found you, he stopped walking, unable to tear his eyes away from you.

There you were—wearing a sleeveless dress that looks sinful on you. You haven't noticed him yet, giving him the perfect chance to admire (and maybe drool, like the horny loser he is) you from where you stood.

You were talking to two girls who he recognized as your friends while holding a shotglass in your left hand. Riki cursed in his mind at how he felt his jeans tightening as he struggle to think of something else.

"Ain't no way you're getting hard now," Jungwon scrunched his nose in disgust at how Riki subtly or unsubtly, fixed his jeans.

"Why are you still here? Go find a girl to kiss or fuck," the younger bite back, "before you ask, no, I'm not waiting for you so go home by yourself."

Jungwon gaped, making an offended sound as he watched Riki made a beeline towards you, leaving him alone. As he got closer, he saw your friends pointing in his direction, causing you to turn to him as he stopped before you. Your friends whispered something to you, giggling among themselves before walking away, leaving the two of you alone.

"Riki, hey! How you doing?" You greeted him, having to raise your voice a little due to the loud music in the background and to his horror (and giddiness), you opened your arms for a hug.

And who was he to deny such a generous offer from you?

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you and with how close he was, he could get a strong whiff of your perfume—vanilla and fruity. Riki forced himself to step back, very reluctantly dropping his arms as he forced them to lay by his sides, to act like he was a completely normal human being.

A normal human being who jerks off to your pictures you posted on your Instagram account, that is.

"I'm good, did you watch the match?" He asked, internally wincing at how awkward and stupid he sounds. Thankfully, Jungwon wasn't around to see him making a fool of himself.

You didn't question him, to which Riki was grateful for. "Yeah, I did. You did really well, as expected from the Nishimura Riki," you teased him, playfully nudged him. Riki swore he felt the specific part of where you briefly touched him was warmer than usual.

"You were watching me?" He inquired, shooting another question at your bemused look, "what about your boyfriend? How will he react if he finds out you weren't watching him?"

He asked in a light-hearted, playful tone when deep down, he was genuinely curious. He wanted to hear it from you, wondering what your boyfriend had told you.

You pursed your lips, the tip of your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip. Riki's eyes zeroed in, nervously swallowing when he felt the familiar sensation of heat shooting straight down to his cock that twitched in the tight restraints of his jeans.

"He plays like he always do, I guess," you answered after a few seconds of pondering, raising your hand to tuck a few stray strands of hair behind your left ear, unaware of how Riki followed the movement with his eyes, like he was a predator and you are the prey.

He hummed, slowly nodding his head. "Is that so? Then, has he told you anything?"

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

Riki stepped closer, loving the way you had to tilt your head up slightly to look at him. "Oh, I don't know. Something related to a particular locker room fight."

Your eyes widened, now on the same wavelength as him. "Oh, that. Yeah, he told me about it. Told me how you made the first move, approached him and started fighting with him out of nowhere."

Riki resist the urge to burst out laughing, teeth sinking into his bottom lip to stifle the laughter threatening to slip. You continued speaking and furrowed your eyebrows, oblivious.

"He told me you were saying some… certain remarks about me and—"

"Woah, let's stop right there for a second," he cuts you off, not wanting to hear anymore of it. He raised a hand to silence you when you attempted to speak, only to close your mouth, allowing him to speak without getting interrupted.

"First of all, he's the one who talk about you to his friends. You don't have to know what he says and all I did was to give him a very much deserved punch, that's all," he summarized and shrugged his shoulders.

You stared at him for a few seconds in silence. Seeing this, Riki waved his hand in front of your face.

"Hello? Earth to (Name)?" He called out to you.

You snapped back to reality. "Oh, right. Sorry I was just—!?"

You didn't finish your sentence when someone knocked into you from behind, causing you to stumble forward. The liquor in the shotglass sloshed out, landing on Riki's clothes but he didn't care about his clothes. He was quick to steady you, hands instinctively resting on your hips so you won't face-plant into the ground.

He looked over you, scowling at how it was a drunk guy who could barely walked straight. His friends were quick to apologize on his behalf as they dragged him away from you. Sighing, Riki diverted his focus back to you, noting how your face was awkwardly squashed against his chest.

"You good?" He asked, hands still resting on your waist.

He could only focus on how his fingers were touching around your waist. But before his mind could leave his body, you straightened yourself and quickly stepped back, leaving some distance between you. Riki pointedly ignored the way his stomach churned. You gasped out loud at the sight of his now drenched and sticky clothes.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. If you want, I can lend you my boyfriend's clothes for you to change into," you frantically apologized while pointing to the flight of stairs located in the corner of his eyes.

Now Riki would be nothing but a utter fool if he doesn't take the chance you just gave him—the chance where he can be alone with you. Which was why he agreed, letting you lead the way as he followed you up the stairs. Every step he took made the music and noise died down until it was completely quiet.

You opened the first door on your left and he followed you in. One look around and he was able to tell it's your boyfriend's room. Riki stood near the closed door, observing you as you opened the closet to dig for clothes. With your back facing him, he drew closer, directly standing behind you in with his chest pressed against your back.

You went still. "..Riki, what are you doing?" You asked, voice trembling at the end. The slip-up made him smirked.

"Nothing, don't mind me, sweetheart. Continue," he drawled, boldly resting his left hand on your waist, savoring the startled gasp you let out and how your body leaned into his touch.

You clutched onto a sleeve of a shirt to ground yourself, shivers running down your spine at how he proceeded to rest his chin on your left shoulder. This is wrong. You have a boyfriend, for fuck's sake but despite that, you made no move to push him away.

Like a part of you want this. Want him.

The thought itself made his head spin. A part of him wants to take you right there and then—to fuck you in your boyfriend's bed, making you scream and chant his name until everyone can hear it. Hear you saying his name. Another part of him wants to keep that side to himself, not wanting anyone else to hear it.

Riki forcefully ripped himself away, taking a step back to give you some space. He watched as your shoulders loosened when you no longer felt him hovering behind you.

You grabbed a clean shirt and a pair of pants with your borderline shaking hands, giving it to him without looking at him. Chuckling, he accepted it and pointedly cleared his throat when you refused to turn around.

"Are you planning on staying here while I change?" He teased.

You spun on your heels, revealing your red cheeks and ears. "W-What? No! Go change in the bathroom, don't change here!" You protested.

Riki laughed, amused with your reaction. "I'm kidding. I won't do that," he paused for a second, eyes twinkling in mischief, "unless you wanna see?"

"Riki!"

He continued laughing as you attempt to push him towards the door but he didn't budge an inch, due to him being taller and stronger than you. The boy snickered, reaching out to ruffle your hair, to which you slapped his hand away.

Riki was unfazed, dropping his hand and headed to the door. His hand hovered midair, fingers brushing against the handle before looking over his shoulder.

"By the way, you look pretty in the dress," he complimented and stepped out before you could say anything, leaving you standing in your boyfriend's room, staring at him with wide eyes, flushed cheeks and your heart skipping a beat at his sincere words.

What the hell just happened?

~

The weekend passed and to every student's nightmare, it was Monday again. Time slipped through your fingers with you being productive in your lectures as you took down notes, like the diligent and hardworking student you are.

You even managed to spend your free time making notes for your upcoming examinations before it was your term break. Right now, you were waiting for your boyfriend in the library on campus with your headphones blocking out the surrounding noises.

You were so focused in your current task that you were unaware of someone approaching your table. The only form of warning you got was a tall figure blocking the ceiling lights before they removed your headphones, pulling it away from your head. Your head snapped up, ready to tell them off, only to pause when it's none other than Riki himself.

But what caught your attention is his hair.

It's still the same as before—in the same shade of pitch-black darkness but there was something different. There's a stark silver streak that cuts through the front, starting near the roots and breaking through the rest of his hair, like a scar of moonlight. Riki noticed your prolonged silence and how you stared at him.

Of course he did. He notice everything when it comes to you.

He chose to act innocent, still holding your headphones in his right hand. "What's wrong? Something on my face?" He inquired.

You awkwardly cleared your throat, fidgeting in your seat as you slung your right leg over your left while fiddling with your pen. "No, not at all. I just didn't expect the sudden change of your hair."

Humming, Riki sat opposite of you, even though he didn't ask. But it's not like you will kick him out anyways.

"Ah, I wanted something different before the term break starts. What do you think?" He replied, returning your headphones and your fingers accidentally brushed as you reached out.

Time paused and everything else around you stilled. You couldn't looked away from Riki, maintaining eye contact with him with your headphones now acting as the connecting bridge to link the two of you together. All you could focused on is the heat emitted from his fingertips, his intense and unwavering puma-like gaze and how his eyes darkened a shade.

Your breath hitched with how he traced your features with his eyes, showing no ounce of shame. Heck, he wasn't even hiding it to begin with. Somehow, the thought of him wanting you despite how you're taken made heat pooled in your stomach as you rubbed your thighs together. You frantically shook your head, getting rid of the thought.

What you didn't know was how Riki smirked to himself, knowing what you were thinking with how you oh so subtly squeezed your thighs underneath the table. He came to the library after overhearing your pathetic excuse of a boyfriend stating he's going somewhere with his friends, completely tossing you—his girlfriend, aside.

If you're dating Riki, this won't happen. Riki will make sure to spend his time with you, never wanting to leave you alone.

He was the first to break the moment, leaning back into his seat with his long legs stretched out before him.

"So, what are you working on?" He asked, jutting his chin towards your study materials laid out before you.

"Oh, it's nothing much. Just taking notes for my finals," you answered before narrowing your eyes as you pointed your pen at him, "don't you have finals too?"

Riki raised his hands in mock surrender, lips curled up in a smile. "Guilty as charged. I was wondering if you could tutor me."

"Tutor you?" You echoed, letting out a shocked, breathless laugh. "Riki, you're the most smartest person I know. Why do you need tutoring?"

"What's wrong with wanting to be more prepared for finals? Besides, is it wrong to ask the smartest student who always tops the entire cohort?" He pointed out.

You didn't know how to respond to that, knowing he was right and sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine, when do you want to start?"

"How about now? We can head over to my place. It's quieter there and I live alone, so you don't have to worry about people disturbing us," he proposed.

"Now?" You repeated, your eyebrows flying up so high they nearly disappeared into your hairline. "I'm supposed to meet my boyfriend."

Something akin to annoyance flickered across his face but it was gone when you blinked. "He wants me to pass you a message. Said he'll be going somewhere with his friends so he's not coming over."

You pursed your lips, pulling out your phone to check and there wasn't any messages from him. You wanted to say something but you felt your resolve vanishing when you saw Riki giving you wide, pleading eyes with his lips jutted out in a pout.

"..Fine, let's go then," you agreed.

Grinning, Riki helped you to pack up. Before you could carry your bag, he had carried it for you, slinging it over his shoulder without a care in the world as he walked ahead of you, leaving the library to where his car was parked.

"I can carry that myself," you said, wanting to snatch it back but Riki merely raised your bag up into the air, out of your reach.

"No can do. Let me do this for you," he clicked his tongue.

"Nishimura Riki."

"(Full Name)," he answered without hesitation, matching your tone just to be annoying.

You scowled as you caught up to him. "What's wrong with you? Why are you doing all of this?"

Riki stopped out of a sudden. You swore under your breath as you nearly crashed into him.

"You still don't get it?" He asked, voice strangely even and steady.

"Get what? Stop talking in riddles and just get straight to the point, Riki," you demand, frustration seeping into your voice.

Riki fully turned to face you and you were taken aback with how serious he looked—a huge contrast to his usual confident and laid-back demeanor he often carried himself in.

This was different, like this truly mean something to him. You dryly swallowed as he began speaking, or rambling, letting out his pent-up feelings he had been harboring for months.

"Every time I see you with him, it makes me sick. Why choose him, out of everyone else? Why settle for someone who doesn't even love you?" He started off, raising his voice slightly as he speaks, gripping onto the strap of your bag that was slung over his left shoulder.

You openly gaped. "What the fuck are you talk—"

"Are you blinded by love to the point that you'll settle for the bare minimum? Settle for someone who doesn't see you as an equal. Settle for someone who keeps brushing you off and parade you around like you're an item," he continued, cutting you off.

He couldn't stop now, not when you had unlocked the Paradox's Box.

"Riki—"

"Seeing you, someone who deserves so much more, going for a piece of fucking scum," he paused briefly, grabbing onto the front of his shirt—right where his heart was, "it hurts, a lot."

"Riki, wai—"

He steps forward. You retreated back but he followed.

This went on until your back hits the firm, smooth surface of a wall behind you. Riki braced his arms on both sides of you, blocking off any exit routes. Your heart betrayed you by skipping a beat at how tall he was, towering over you and how with his larger frame, he can completely engulfed you easily.

You parted your lips but your voice died down in your throat when he roughly tilted your chin up with his left hand, his thumb hovering over your bottom lip, not touching but you could feel his touch. You let out a soft, startled gasp when he harshly tugged on your hair, forcing you to further tilt your head back until your muscles start to ache in protest.

"Seriously, Riki, what's gotte—!?"

"Shut up and listen to me," he growled, the sound low and deep, causing you to clench down on invisible air and your knees buckled, threatening to give way.

You weren't sure what it was. Maybe it's the way he spoke, in that cruel and firm tone, like you were beneath him, like you're supposed to listen to him. Maybe it's the way he looked down at you, using his height to his advantage. Whatever it was, you let out an involuntary whimper before you could stop yourself.

Both of you stilled.

Riki reacted first—a slow, knowing and cunning smirk stretched across his lips. Like he had you all figured out. He gave a light, experimental tug on your hair, to test the water and just like before, another whimper fell from your lips. The taller chuckled, leaning down to brush his lips against yours.

You knew what he's doing. He's making you begged for it and honestly, with how you were already dripping between your legs.

"Say it," he demands, now firmly pressing his thumb against your bottom lip. He watched with smugness at how you willingly let him do as he pleased, letting him tugged your bottom lip down.

"Say you want me."

Your eyelids fluttered shut, mind going hazy. Riki waits, like the patient man he is. After all, he has waited long enough to have you like this so waiting for a few more seconds won't hurt him.

"I.." You whispered, like it's a sacred secret meant for just the two of you. Riki arched an eyebrow questioningly, waiting for you to finish your sentence.

"I want you."

You have the front-row seat of witnessing his eyes darkening a shade, desire written all over his face after you said it, giving him the consent for what he's about to do to you. For a moment, you thought he will jump on you right there and then—out in the open, in the hallway where anyone can walk in at any second.

But he retreated, fingers purposely tracing your jawline before dropping his hands. Your fingers twitched at your sides, tempted to pull him back. You felt cold out of a sudden, no longer feeling the heat emitted from his body.

"Not here," he murmured, eyes darting left and right to check for anyone and when no one was around, he crowded you against the wall again, savoring the gasp you let out.

You felt something thick and hard poking against your inner thighs, making you bit down on your lip, wondering how he will feel when he's inside you. Riki smirked, cupping your face up, forcing you to look at him.

"But when we get back, I'll make sure you'll only think of me once I'm done with you. And that, is a promise I intend to keep," he warns you, sending shivers down your spine at the implication behind his words.

~

The drive back to his place was quiet in a tense way. There was so much tension that you felt like it was suffocating you, the air curling itself around you while waiting in the shadows.

Riki didn't say a word, one hand on the steering wheel while the other firmly on your right thigh. Every time you look down, you gulped at how huge his hand looked on your thigh.

He didn't glance or speak to you the entire time, even after he had parked his car. Even when he led the way to the lift. Even when he brought you to the door leading to his home.

The moment you stepped in, all hell broke loose.

"Wha—!?"

You gasped out, vision shaking at the edges when you were slammed against the nearest wall surface, only for your lips to be captured in a passionate, intense kiss. Riki kissed you like he wants to devour you whole—from inside and outside.

He kissed you like he needs you to survive, to breathe. His hands never stay still, wandering around your body as he greedily mapped and traced your silhouette, leaving lingering heat and warmth behind in his trail.

You mewled into his mouth when he gave a tight, possessive squeeze at your hips, wanting to squeeze your thighs but Riki slotted his right, solid thigh between your legs, forcing you to keep them open. Your lips parted, eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head when you felt his cock perfectly aligned against your wet core.

"Feel that? That's what you do to me," he rasps, slinging your right leg to hook it around his waist, giving an experimental thrust up, grinning against your lips at the breathless, choked-out moan you let out.

"Ngh, Riki!" You cried out, throwing your head back, breaking the kiss to reveal your neck and it's only right for him to follow suit.

You arched your back off the wall, pressing your chest against his as he trailed hot and wet kisses down. Riki stopped at a particular area, his hot breath fanning against it before he sank his teeth into your skin, hard enough to leave a bite mark behind. A physical claim to show you belong to him.

"Fuck, you drive me crazy. Been wanting you like this ever since I first saw you," he groaned, the sound low and guttural, making your head spin.

You began moving your hips forward slowly, moaning at the delirious friction of your sticky panties rubbing against the rough surface of his gray pants. Riki didn't stop you but instead, he encourage you by flexing his thigh against your soaked pussy while he continued decorating your neck with hickeys and marks.

"Oh f-fuck," you shamelessly moaned, not caring how loud you were and how his neighbors might be able to hear you. All you cared was how you were embarrassingly close to reaching your climax.

Riki smirked, pulling back to look at you, eyes drinking in the sight of your flushed face and cheeks, your half-lidded eyes, your pretty, kissable and swollen lips.

All of it made you looked downright sinful—the exact opposite of how you normally were on campus. He repositioned his hands so now both were gripping onto your waist, bypassing the barricade of your clothes.

Your body visibly flinched at the feeling of his large, warm and calloused hands touching your bare skin, causing more slick to drip from your pussy. You were so wet that there's a visible wet stain left behind. Seeing this, Riki chuckled as leaned closer, angling his head to the side to whisper into your right ear.

"Look at you, humping my thigh like you're a dog in heat. How would your boyfriend react if he sees you like this?" He coos, faux sweetness dripping in his voice.

His crude words and condescending tone only made you grind faster, your movements growing sloppier and more frantic when you felt your stomach tightening. Riki noticed the way your breathing grew ragged, the way your shoulders rise and fell unevenly and how you kept moaning and whining, which is music to his ears.

"Wanna cum just like that?" He barked out a laugh, moving you when he saw how you were slowing down.

"Mhm! Pleasepleaseplease," you pleaded oh so prettily for him.

"Then cum for me, princess. Wanna see you soak my thigh," he groaned and you shattered, pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing as violent tremors coursed through your body.

Riki didn't give you time to regain your bearings, easily swooping you into his arms, drawing a squeak from you. You instinctively threw your arms around his broad, sturdy shoulders as he brought you to his bedroom with the door already opened. He threw you onto his messy bed and was quick to clamber over you for a kiss.

You met him in the middle, hands flying into his hair as you tugged on him, drawing a low, satisfied purr from the back of his throat. You parted your lips, spreading your legs wider to accommodate his taller and large frame as he situated himself between them. Riki sensually slides his tongue against yours before exploring every inch of your mouth, ensuring nothing is left untouched.

He hum as he grabbed the hem of your shirt, pushing the fabric up until it's near your neck. You were forced to break the kiss only for a second, allowing him to remove it. Riki tossed it to the floor before kissing you again, practically slamming his lips against yours.

He didn't bother unbuckling your bra, forcefully pulling it down to free your breasts as they bounced free from the restraints.

You let out a muffled whine at the cool air against your hardened nipples. Riki broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with you two breathing in the same space. He sharply inhaled as his eyes trailed down, raising his right hand to give a gentle squeeze to your right breast, kneading it like it's soft dough.

"Fuck," you sighed, leaning your head back, allowing yourself to be pushed back until you were now laying on his bed, with his pillow underneath your head.

Riki paused for a moment to take in the sight of you—shirtless, panting with looks that could rival against the goddess, like Aphrodite. His fingers twitched, tempted to take a picture but an idea hit him. Confusion appeared on your face when he slide off the bed without explaining.

You raised your head slightly, observing as he pulled out his phone from the pocket of his pants. He moved to the bedside table situated on the left, opened the Camera app and switched it to video mode. You watched as he expertly placed it an an angle to capture your lower half, your face out of the frame. But despite that, you felt embarrassed that he's recording it.

"What are you doing?" You asked, eyes tracking his movements as he grabbed something from his opened closet before moving back to the bed, placing himself between your legs. You wordlessly raised your hips when he patted twice on your thighs, allowing him to tug your pants down, leaving you in your soaked, utterly ruined white cotton panties.

Your ears turned red when he muttered "cute" under his breath. You tried to close your legs but Riki held you down, throwing you a pointed, warning look, leaving you no choice but to leave them spread open for him.

"Wear it," he instructs you while holding out the bunched up fabric in his left hand. You recognized what it was with the red jersey with his name imprinted on the back, along with his position number.

"This…" Your voice trailed off as you accepted it, staring at the jersey like you've never seen it before.

Riki smirked, moving to hover over you while tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his dark and lust-filled eyes. "I want you to wear my jersey while I fuck you. Don't worry, your face won't be recorded in the video. It's for me to keep it. I'm not letting anyone else see you like this."

He paused, letting his words sink in before leaning closer to brush his lips against yours, your breaths mingling and intertwining together.

"I want you to remember I'm the one who's fucking you. Not that shitty boyfriend of yours. Not anyone else either," he continued, lowering his voice until it's in that rich deep tone that made your heart fluttered.

Feeling shy out of a sudden, you looked to the side but Riki didn't like that. With a click of his tongue, he grabbed your chin, directing you to face him with him hovering over you.

"Don't look away. I want you to look at me, got it?" He asks and you wordlessly nodded your head.

"Use your words, baby. I want to hear you."

"Y-Yes, I got it," you whispered, watching the way he looks proud at your response.

"Now wear the jersey."

You obeyed, putting it on with your shaking hands as you slipped it over your body. The jersey is way bigger than you, completely engulfing you in it with the hem reaching your upper thighs. Riki stilled, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight before him. He nearly stopped breathing at how good you looked in his jersey. But more importantly…

"You look like you're mine," he swore, breathing ragged, sounding out of breath like he had ran a marathon.

Seeing the effect you have on him with you just wearing his jersey drew a soft whimper from you. You fidget about on the sheets, feeling nervous being on the receiving end of his firm and unwavering gaze.

"Riki, please.. do something," you whispered.

The boy chuckled, finding it cute. "Lay back, baby. All you need to do is to stay still and look pretty for me."

You complied, laying back down on the bed.

"Good girl," he praised you, eyes never leaving your face.

What the fuck.

A needy keen left your lips without you knowing at his sudden praise. Hearing it, Riki arched an eyebrow, mentally filing that aside for future purposes. Right now, he has a more important task to focus on—the task of getting his first ever taste of you. The boy shifted down until he's supporting his weight with his elbows.

He threw your legs over his shoulders, ignoring the surprised noise you let out. Your mind blanked out at the first hot, wet and rough long, slow and deliberate lick of his tongue, starting from damp, smooth entrance to your throbbing, aching clit. It's filthy, with Riki using his tongue to spread your remaining slick from your previous climax all over your pussy, making it even more messier than it already was.

"F-Fuck!" You cried out, back arching off the bed in an impressive arch that could put even the crescent moon into shame. You blindly fist the sheets beneath you, nails digging into it—a poor attempt to ground yourself.

Spurred by your expressive reaction, Riki continued. He dive in like a man on a mission, like he had been craving, yearning for this for many years. It's sloppy, rushed and intense. It's clear all he cares now is to bring you to your second climax, wanting to have your taste on his tongue.

He ate you out with sheer focus and determination, using his thumb and index finger to spread your fat, puffy pussy lips apart. Riki slid his tongue in and out, repeating the pace he sets while you were being reduced to a flushed, trembling and sensitive mess, all thanks to his skillful tongue.

"Shit, you taste so good. Should've done this sooner. Bet your boyfriend doesn't know how good you taste," he groaned, sounding like he was in heaven and he is.

If he could choose a way to die, he'd rather die with his face buried between your legs. To him, your slick tastes like sweet poison or some sort of drugs he could never get enough of. You clenched down on his tongue at his words, making him grinned smugly.

"You didn't let him eat this pretty little pussy, did you?" He asks, pulling away, drawing a sound of protest from you as the cool air of the room brushed against you.

You didn't speak, simply staring at him. Riki clicked his tongue, dissatisfied with your lack of response and delivered a sharp, light but stinging slap to your pussy, right in the middle. The sound echoed in the four walls of the bedroom.

You whimpered, your pussy pathetically twitched at the sudden rough attention.

"I asked you a question. Answer me."

"N-No!" You cried out, hating how his stern personality and the way he treats you—like your only purpose was to satisfy him was turning you on.

Riki hummed, pleased. "Good, I don't want anyone else to do this to you. You're mine."

He snarled the last two words, possessive seeping into his voice. Hearing him like this—all worked up and how jealous he was made your pussy throbbed, both at the lack of attention and his evident jealousy.

You briefly wondered: just when did he learned this? But the thought flew out of your mind when he pushed two fingers into your pink, twitching hole until he's knuckles-deep in. You could feel the cold, smooth metal surfaces of his rings pressed against your outer lips.

Riki moaned at how you clamped down on him with a vice-like grip—showing no signs of letting him go, the sound muffled with how his face was practically buried deep between your thighs.

Your mind didn't register the fact you were aimlessly rambling random nonsense now, saying words that sounded like please, more, Riki and so on. Whatever it was, it seems to do the trick, with how he expertly curled his fingers, brushing it against that delicate spongy spot hidden between your delicate walls.

His action made you see stars exploding behind your eyelids, mouth dropping open with a silent, high-pitched moan leaving your lips. Riki pushed forward until your lower half was now dangling in the air with his nose bumping against your clit, drawing a series of whines and whimpers from you.

"S-Stop. C-Can't," you weakly protested, trying to push him away but it was futile.

Riki snarled, like a cat baring its teeth at you at your rejection. "Yes you can. And you will take what I give you."

A part of you want to sob, to throw a fit that you seriously can't cum again but another part of you want to be good for him, want him to treat you like this—manhandle you around like you're a rag-doll, going all pliant while letting him do as he pleased.

Riki continued eating you out like a starved man, the obscene sounds of his lips loudly smacking against your clit. He swirled the bud peeking out with the tip of his tongue in a agonizingly slow, clockwise motion that has your legs twitching. You cried out for the unknown time when he wrapped his lips around the bud, almost like he's about to tear it off your pussy.

The wet, slimey muscle explored every inch and you were able to feel his purrs and moans, sending vibrations up your spine. You ended up locking your legs around his neck, holding him in place as he alternated between pumping his fingers in and out of you and moving them in a scissors-like movement when he's deep inside you.

You were dripping so much that the sheets were soaked and ruined beyond recognition. Riki didn't care that your slick was trickling down his chin, not caring that there were stains left behind. All he care about was pushing you to your second climax.

"S-Stop—ngh, g-gonna cum," you whined, one hand clutching the pillow while the other grabbed a fistful of his hair as you desperately rocked your hips against his skillful, talented mouth. The lingering thought of him recording you had already flew out of your mind.

Riki tapped your inner thigh twice with his free hand, giving you permission. All it took was a long, flat swipe against your entrance for you to violently squirt against his mouth. The boy drank it up, treating it like sweet nectar from flowers as he lapped away, not wanting to waste a single drop.

"You're amazing, you know that?" He groaned, pulling back to reveal his lips and chin practically glowing from the sheer amount of slick stained on the lower half of his face.

Without breaking eye contact, his tongue darted out, wetting his already damp, thick and puffy lips before the pink muscle retreated into his mouth.

Your face turned as red as a tomato at how lewd he looks, like something straight out of a cheap porno video. Riki shifted up, cupping your face with both his hands and kissed you, letting you taste yourself on your lips.

You moaned, instantly parting your lips, body flinching at a particular harsh suck on your tongue, drawing a muffled whine from you. You blindly moved your hands about, slipping them underneath his hoodie to trace the faint outlines of his abs, feeling them contract at your touch beneath your fingerpads.

Riki nipped at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue against the seam of your lips as a form of apology. He shivered against your lips as your hands went beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, playing with the hem of his Chrome Hearts boxers.

"You're a fucking tease," he growled but his lips curved upward in a soft, loving smile at the giggle you let out.

"Wanna suck you off," you murmured, hearing an audible, muffled groan from him.

"You sure?" He asks, breaking the kiss as he lets you push him backward until your positions are swapped.

He's now laying on the bed, head near the edge while you straddle his lap, looking like a wet dream with his jersey hanging off your right shoulder. You nodded your head, leaning down to kiss him again and he eagerly reciprocate it, hissing into your mouth when you teasingly rolled your hips against his, feeling his clothed cock rocking against your overly-sensitive pussy.

Riki lifted his hips off the bed, allowing you to pull both his boxers and sweatpants down. You tossed them aside, not caring where it landed. His cock sprung free, laying flat against his stomach with his hoodie pushed up, the fabric brunched around his chest.

You paused for a second, taking in the sight of the tip of his cock already in a ferocious shade of reddish-purple, due to the lack of attention.

"Scared?" Riki asked, noting your prolonged silence and how you kept staring at it with wide eyes and poorly hidden surprise.

"N-No, just didn't expect you to be this big," you replied without hesitation, tucking your hair behind your ears as you shifted down, moving into a more comfortable position.

Riki watched with bated breath as your lips hovered near the tip, your hot breath grazing against it. You glanced at him, leaning forward to press a light, fleeting kiss, watching how his hips jerked upward, cock gliding against your lips. You took the chance to take him whole, lips wrapped around his cock like you're sucking a lollipop.

"Oh fuck," Riki groaned, head thrown back with his eyes fluttering shut at how tight and warm your mouth felt.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him as you moved forward. This is how he finds out you don't have a gag reflex, with how you easily took him whole until the tip hit the back of your throat. Riki reached out, right hand grabbing a fistful of your hair, using it like the reins—like you're a horse and he's a cowboy.

"S-Shit, takin' me so well," he rasps, voice cracking at the edges with how you began bobbing your head back and forth, one hand reaching between to fondle with his heavy, cum-filled balls.

Riki canted his hips into your mouth, savoring the muffled, startled moan you made and he felt your jaw slackened, he wasted no time in fucking into your mouth while you laid there—between his legs, letting him used you to chase after his incoming orgasm. Tears prickled your eyes as you readjusted your hands to rest them on his muscular thighs.

"So good for me, aren't you? Lettin' me use your mouth like a cockslut," he sneers, subtly shivering at how you moaned with your lips obscenely stretched wide around his cock and how a stray tear droplet rolled down your cheek.

He lifted his head slightly when he saw your hand between your legs and realization hits him. He barks out a dark, degrading laugh.

"Greedy little thing, touching yourself while getting your mouth fucked. You like this, don't you?" He coos, watching as you tried your best to nod your head while looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.

Riki didn't warn you as he spilled down your throat. You didn't gagged on the tangy, salty taste of his thick cum, swallowing all of it while not letting a single drop roll down your chin.

You withdrew your head with a soft, audible "pop" sound as you rested your chin on his left upper thigh, your lips now looking extremely bruised and swollen, like you had been mauled around by a beast, which wasn't far from the truth.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, cupping your chin upward and you obliged, parting your lips. You let him turned your head side to side and his cock hardens immediately at how you swallowed everything.

His eyes darkened a shade as he swore under his breath. He roughly tugged you forward, making you let out a startled yelp as your hands landed on his chest to avoid knocking your head against his, forcing you to straddle his lap.

"C'mon, ride me, pretty girl," he said, folding his hands behind his head as he watched you, having no intentions of helping you out.

You threw him a glare at how unhelpful he was as you raised yourself up while aligning him against your gaping, empty hole. Riki's eyes zeroed in on how you rubbed his tip against your outer lips, how you shuddered and how you let out a long sigh at the feeling. Biting down on your bottom lip, you slowly sank down, taking him inch by inch until he's fully sheathed in you.

Both of you moaned in unison at the heavenly feeling. You felt like you were being split apart and you swore you could feel him hitting the back of your throat too, with how big, long and thick he is. Riki's phone was still recording, capturing your back view as you rose up until his tip was still inside you before you slammed down, your thighs and asscheeks jiggling.

"Fuck, you're too—hah—b-big," you whimpered, head thrown back as you repeat the movement—raising yourself up before going down on him, riding him at the pace you set.

Riki hissed at how you tightened around him, thumb rubbing your clit while matching your pace, drawing a series of whines and moans from you. He rested his other hand on your hips, nails digging into your skin hard enough to leave imprints behind.

"Big? But you're takin' me so well. You're made for this. For me," he taunted and in a blink of an eye, he surged forward, easily switching your positions.

Your vision spun. One moment you were riding him. The next, you were on your back. Riki threw your legs over his shoulders, bending you forward into a mating press position as he jackhammer into you at a ruthless and merciless pace.

Your legs dangled uselessly in the air. The bedframe loudly smacked against the wall behind it with every thrust. You were certain his neighbors will be launching a noise complaint tomorrow.

The thought flew out of your mind when he shifted his hips slightly, his cock hitting that one spongy spot, making you moaned as you arched your back as you curled your toes, pressing your chest against his. Riki knew he hit bullseye from your reaction, wasting no time in abusing the same spot, over and over. He cupped your face, index and middle finger resting on both sides of your cheeks.

"Open up, doll," he demands and you did, bemused with his intention.

Only for him to spit into your mouth.

It's filthy, like he's claiming you as his. His sudden action made you clenched around him and he closed your lips, watching as you swallowed it without hesitation.

"That's my girl. So good for me, aren't you? Gonna let me fuck this little pussy, hm? Let me make you remember the shape of my cock," he growled, ducking his head to nip at your left earlobe.

You sobbed, unaware of tears now freely rolling down your cheeks, eyes rolling up to the back of your head. Your mouth dropped wide open, forming an "O" shape at how his cock kept sliding in and out of you, reshaping your insides to fit the outline of his cock, like he's forcing your body to remember it belongs to him.

"R-Rik—ngh—m-more—hah," you moaned, nails digging into his shoulder blades, hard enough to leave crescent-moon shaped indents behind.

"Fuck, you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight. Still tight even after I open you up," he panted against the column of your hickey-covered neck.

His eyes flicked down, noting a faint bulge on your stomach. His bangs fell over his eyes but he's able to see it—the outline of his cock inside you. Riki slowed down, tuning out the weak sound of disappointment you made. He watched, mesmerized at the erotic sight of watching it moved along with him.

Riki moved his left hand and lightly pressed down on it, matching it with the same time as he thrusted into you, gaining a choked out moan from you beneath him.

"You're so small but takin' me so well," he breathed out, mind spinning. He couldn't look away, even when he resumed the brutal pace he set earlier on.

"F-Fuck, g-gonna cum—pleasepleaseplease," you begged, voice all needy, whiny and desperate.

Riki moved to capture your lips in a kiss, although it wasn't a kiss with how you were openly panting against his lips but he didn't care. From his phone's point of view, it's capturing both of your side profiles with your features hidden.

"Yea? Wanna cum, baby?" He cooed, watching how you squeezed your eyes shut but he was quick to give a mean pinch to your clit, chuckling as you flinched from the sudden stimulation.

"Mhm! Please!"

"Then cum, show me you're mine."

With the combination of the possessiveness in his voice and a long, final thrust from him, you cum while chanting his name like a sacred prayer. You cum so hard that your vision blacked out for a few seconds, making you think you had actually passed out on the spot.

Riki fucks you through your orgasm, his own movements growing sloppier as your pussy spasmed violently around his cock, almost like you're sucking him in.

Riki was quick to follow suit, burying himself to the hilt as he painted your gummy, velvety walls in the shade of white. You whimpered at the sudden, uncomfortable feeling of being pumped full of his cock. He didn't pull out, choosing to collapse on top of you, earning an "oof" from you as he was crushing your lungs.

"Get off of me. You're crushing me," you complained, lightly whacking his shoulder but he remains unfazed with your measly attacks, choosing to shamelessly bury his face in the middle of your breasts.

"Nah, I'm comfy here," he mumbled, wriggling about so he could wrap his arms around you as well.

You sighed, resting your hand on his head as you stared at the ceiling. None of you said a thing, spending a few seconds to regain your breathing before you broke it, voice small and hesitant.

"..So, now what? What does this make us?" You asked, glancing down to see he was already looking at you, eyes locked on your face.

"Well, it's simple. You cheated on your boyfriend and now, we're dating," he casually answered.

Your cheeks flushed red at the sudden reminder but instead of feeling embarrassed, you felt strangely proud. It was then you realized that he was right the entire time—your boyfriend, well ex-boyfriend, had treated you with nothing but disrespect. He didn't see you as a girlfriend. He see you as an item—and the thought itself is enough to make you sick to the core.

"What's in that mind of yours, pretty girl?"

Riki's soft voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You blinked, snapping out of your trance to see his face is close to yours now, with him staring at you, like you're the only one in his world. Clearing your throat, you averted your eyes to the side, choosing to stare at the door instead.

"I was thinking how I'm gonna tell him," you answered.

Riki snorted, turning you back to face him. He leaned in until the tips of your noses brushed against one another. His eyes gleamed in mischief as he smirked, the sight downright attractive, making you clenched down on him.

He felt it. Of course he does, since he didn't pull out yet.

"Oh, don't worry. I'll handle it," he purred and without warning, gave a light thrust, drawing a startled gasp from you.

"But for now, how does another round sound?"

“what the fuck happened?!”

“i’ll explain later— just help her!”

“i can’t help her, we need fu!”

“there’s no time!” riki wailed, laying your body on danielle’s floor. she shook her head, chest starting to rise and fall frantically in a way that allowed for her panic to seep through— you were her best friend after all, slipping away before her eyes.

she gulped, swallowing the anxiety that tested her composure. “cat noir, stay here with y/- ladybug. i’ll call fu.”

“wait, but i—”

“stay. here.” she stood her ground firmly, speeding out the room for her house phone.

it left you alone with riki, whose gut twisted at the sight of your squirming, moans of pain and discomfort the only thing he heard. 

he was scared to touch you, he couldn’t go near you.

the last time he tried, he killed you.

“i’m so sorry,” was all he could whisper, sniffles pushing their way out despite his adamance on staying calm, because what right did he have to cry over what he did?

“c-cat noir… tikki…” you groaned, eyes closed shut as you gripped at your yo-yo. “huh? ladybug!” riki crouched down, careful to not touch you, but close enough to understand you.

“tikki? what about tikki?”

“you need… to h-help her.” your voice was tight, forced out in a way that told cat noir just how little life you had left. this wouldn’t do, he thought to himself. “what do you mean help her?”

he didn't get it until you said it.

“s-spots off.” 

no. he wouldn’t.

riki turned his back immediately, refusing to look at your civilian form. “i’m not going to do it, ladybug.”

“cat, please–”

“i won’t–”

“take her to fu–”

“not without you!” he wailed, completely losing it. everything holding him together had lost their hold on riki, and he was a mess, sobbing as he heard ladybug’s movements slow down. he knew what he had to do, he had to save tikki– she was the kwami of the ladybug miraculous, after all.

but he couldn’t turn around. he couldn’t bare it.

“you have to t-turn around, kitty.” your voice was soft, void of the strength and confidence it usually carried, but you didn’t have it in you to pretend anymore. you didn’t have it in you to play ladybug anymore.

“i can’t turn around,” riki’s voice mirrored yours, no more than a murmur as he looked down at his hands, at a loss for further action. 

the room was quiet, yet charged with the dread of the inevitable that the both of you carried.

“cat noir,” you whispered. “let me look at you… one last time.”

he froze, his restraint suddenly gone. he remembered the brutal truth, that ladybug was going to die here, and he had turned his back on her in her final moments.

he wouldn’t do that to her, to himself.

he turned around.

“...no.” you met his gaze, a weak smile the most you could muster as you watched the blood drain from his face.

the room had gone completely silent, overshadowed by the ringing in his ear. he began to shake violently, shivering as he tripped over his own feet.

"[name]."

it had been you all along. you had always been there for him, even without the mask on.

it was you who’d always found a way to make him feel better, you who always came to his rescue when his father tried to hold him back. you, who put everyone else before yourself. 

you, who saved paris everyday, without anyone knowing.

you, who’d changed his life twice over.

this wasn’t going to happen.

he didn’t care that danielle was calling for master fu, he didn’t care that you were fully set on dying where you were, he didn’t care that you had no time left. he’d find a way to bring you back. you had done too much to be left to die, he wouldn’t stand for it. he knew what he had to do.

he regained composure, his steps purposeful as he started to pick you up. “[name], i’m getting you out of here,” he spoke absolutely, leaving no room for opposition. “i’m going to save the both of you.”

you mumbled, “well, hurry up, then.”

by the time danielle came back into the room, the two of you were long gone, her curtains blowing in the wind in your absence.

riki had been sitting in the same spot for hours, knees brought up to his chin as he stared at you from the corner of the room. you managed to survive the cataclysm, thanks to master fu’s masterful medicinal work and the ladybug miraculous slowing down the effects of the strike.

you were alive, you’d heal completely. but riki still felt it impossible to push down his guilt. 

when you’d reached fu’s house a few hours earlier, he waited for you to be in the hands of the guardian before keeling over, all his horror and anxiety spilling out in bitter gushes of bile. 

now, he was as responsive as you were, frozen in his place despite the late hour. 

he stirred at the same time you did, watching your eyes flicker open as he quickly made his way to your side. he wouldn’t turn his back on you this time– he would be there for you now, all the way.

as your vision cleared up, you came face to face with the man in front of you. it was cat noir, you knew that much, but it was also–

“...riki?” your eyes widened as you realized. the same guy who you’d fallen in love with all the way back in high school, the selfless saint-of-a-man with a face that you still couldn’t manage to take your eyes off of, nishimura riki, was also your cunning, ever-charming jester of a superhero partner, cat noir. your cheeks flushed. talk about dramatic irony. “...huh.”

“are you okay? are you still in pain? are your veins still black?” he wasn’t even speaking directly to you, looking you up and down instead, observing for abnormalities. you chuckled, stopping his hand as it made its way to your wrist, “i’m fine, kitty.”

the nickname brought him back to reality, the nickname ladybug gave him. you knew it, you were ladybug. of course you were. 

“right, uh– sorry,” he awkwardly inched back, sliding away a foot or two on his bottom. even if he was cat noir, you had a pathetic weakness when it came to nishimura riki, one that made you smile no matter what he did, as long as he was around.

you also weren’t completely disgusted by cat noir, but you’d never tell him that.

“you don’t have to be so stiff, you know,” you grinned, obviously in much higher spirits than you were in before. “identity reveals are supposed to be wholesome.” 

he shot you a deadpan look. you understood immediately. “yeah, i know,” you replied to his gaze.

he still hadn’t said a word, almost frightened to say anything to you. he didn’t tell you what was up, but you knew anyway. you knew cat noir, you knew what was going through his mind– he was so predictable.

“it wasn’t your fault, riki.” you took his hand, running your thumb along his knuckles in gentle strokes. “you know it was monarch who threw you at me.”

“if i had just controlled my temper… not charged at him when i did—”

“he would’ve beat your ass, kitty,” you giggled, smiling ear to ear as riki subtly mirrored, grinning as much as he could running on negative sleep.

“riki, you did what you had to do,” you reassured him, noticing the way his face began lighting up at your words. there he was. “shit happens sometimes. that’s okay, ‘cause we always get through it, do we not?”

he paused, before nodding back at you. “we do.”

“and we always will.” you squeezed his hand.

The order came the way all orders did — not in words, not in sound, but in the particular quality of the light. A shift in the gold of it. A direction embedded in the warmth the way iron is embedded in rock — not placed there, not added, but of it, native and irrefutable. He had felt it ten thousand times before, or a hundred thousand, or a number that made both figures meaningless. The light moved and he moved with it. That was the whole of his existence, distilled: the light moved, and he followed.

He had never questioned it. That was the truth he would turn over later, in the long unmeasured dark of his falling — that he had never, in all that incomprehensible span of time, questioned. Not once. He had gone where he was sent. He had done what was asked. He had been, above all and before all, obedient.

But he had also watched. That was his particular nature, the quality that distinguished him from the others, though he had never been told as much — he simply knew it the way he knew the names of stars. He watched. He learned the specific tremor of a human hand when fear moved through it. He learned the sound grief made when a person believed themselves entirely alone — that low, animal register, nothing like the weeping done for an audience. He had watched ten thousand years of human life unspool beneath him like a river seen from a very great height, and he had catalogued it all, and said nothing, because there was nothing to say. It was not his place to feel. It was his place to serve.

The man they sent him to destroy was kneeling in a field of winter wheat. Praying. Of all the things he might have been doing in the last moments of his life — praying, hands laced together on his thighs so tightly the knuckles had gone the colour of bone, head bowed, lips moving in the particular quiet rhythm of a man who had done this every morning of his life and intended to go on doing it.

Praying to the very God who had signed his death. Because he did not know. He could not have known. The sin assigned to him was not a sin he had chosen — it was a circumstance, a thing that had happened to him the way weather happened, the way drought happened, indifferent to his character or his goodness or the particular devotion with which he pressed his hands together every morning in a field of winter wheat.

Riki stood at the edge of that field for a long time. The light pressed. It has been decided. Go. He thought about obedience. He thought about the word — the weight of it, the comfort of it, the way it had functioned as a kind of home for as long as he had existed. He thought about the man’s hands. He thought about the word mercy, which he had heard humans use for ten thousand years, which he had categorised and filed and never once applied to himself, because what would it mean for something like him to be merciful? He was an instrument. Instruments did not choose.

He looked at the man in the wheat. He put the judgment down. There was no drama in it. No declaration, no rebellion dressed up in bright colours. He simply — set it aside. The way you set down a tool you have decided, quietly and finally, not to use. And then he stood at the edge of the field with empty hands and waited to learn what that decision cost.

The answer came immediately. The light went out. Not gently. Not the way light fades at the end of a day, slow and amber and resigned. It left him the way a river leaves a riverbed in drought — all at once, and completely, and with a terrible indifference to what it left behind. Everything he had been, the vastness of it, the certainty, the sense of being held by something larger than himself — gone. Between one breath and the next. And then the wings, which went last, which was the worst of it by a measure he had no language for. The tearing began at the joint and finished somewhere interior, somewhere that had no name in any anatomy, somewhere that would ache for the rest of whatever he now was.

He had not known, until he lost them, how entirely he had lived in them. He fell for a long time after that. Or no time at all. He was no longer made of the stuff that could tell the difference.

The desert was red. That was the first coherent thing — the colour of the earth beneath his cheek, a deep arterial red, the kind of red that looked like something had bled into it long ago and the land had simply kept the stain. He lay with his face against it and breathed, which was new, which was strange, which his body insisted upon with a stubbornness that left no room for argument. In and out. In and out. The sun pressed down on the back of his neck like a hand.

His back was agony. The scarring — already scarring, already sealing over in the graceless way of mortal wounds — pulled across his shoulder blades every time his lungs expanded. He lay still and breathed anyway because there was nothing else to do.

He was thirsty. The indignity of it was almost impressive. That this body, this small and breakable and sweat-damp thing he now inhabited, would announce its needs so plainly, so without shame. Water, it said. Water and shade and rest. As though he were a horse. As though he were a field that needed rain.

He got up eventually, because lying in the dirt was not a solution to anything. The land around him was vast and red and smelled of sage and something beneath sage — something mineral, something that had been here before people had names for things and would be here long after. Scrub brush. A sky so blue it looked painted. The silence of a place that had never been required to be quiet for anyone, because no one came here to need quiet. It simply was.

He walked. He had always known where to walk before. The not-knowing was its own particular weight, something he carried in his chest alongside the ache of the absence of wings, and he did not examine it too closely. He simply walked, because the alternative was to stop, and stopping felt like a kind of surrender he was not prepared to make. The trail appeared the way things in deserts appeared — gradually, then all at once. A thin pale line worn into the rock by boots and time and the particular human insistence on going places. It led upward. He followed it because upward was instinct, still, even now, even stripped of everything that had made upward meaningful.

He did not make it far. His legs — unaccustomed, unreliable, apparently bearing some kind of grudge — buckled without much warning. He went down hard on the rock, gravel opening the skin of his palms, his back igniting with fresh complaint. He lay on the trail in the full weight of the afternoon and looked up at the sky and thought, with the detached clarity of something that had recently lost the ability to feel sorry for itself, that this was probably fitting. He closed his eyes.

Boots on rock. Light, practised, the sound of someone who knew every loose stone on this trail by memory. Then shadow — a mercy, small and immediate — falling across him, and the soft sharp sound of breath caught in surprise. He opened his eyes. You stood over him with a canteen in one hand and the particular expression of someone who had gone out expecting solitude and found instead a problem. Wide-eyed. Mouth soft with surprise. Your hair was coming loose from its braid in pieces, strands of it lifting in the dry hot wind, and there was red dust on your cheekbone and a worn canvas pack on your back and your boots were the boots of someone who covered ground in them regularly, scuffed pale at the toe.

You looked at him the way he had looked at the man in the wheat field. With your whole attention. Taking stock. Then something in your face settled — not resolved exactly, but decided — and you crouched down to his level and said, in a voice that was careful and unhurried, the voice of someone who had learned that stillness was its own kind of language: “You’re hurt bad.”

He said, “Yes.” His voice came out strange to his own ears — too much in it, or too little, calibrated for a register this body didn’t quite have the range for. He cleared his throat. Tried again. “I am aware.” Something moved in your expression. Not quite amusement. Something more careful than that. “Can you walk if I help you?”

“I believe so.” “Alright then.” You stood, resettled the pack on your shoulders, and got an arm under his before he had processed that you intended to. The warmth of you was — startling. Simply that. The solid, living warmth of a human body against his side, entirely unguarded, offered without hesitation to a stranger bleeding on a trail. He did not know what to do with it. He filed it somewhere new. Somewhere without a label yet.

“There’s a farm,” you said, already moving, already taking some of his weight with a matter-of-fact ease that suggested this was not the first time you had managed something heavier than you looked like you could. “Not far. My daddy’ll —” A pause, brief, weighted with something he couldn’t yet read. “There’s a farm. We’ll get you seen to.” “That is —” He searched for the right word, unused to needing to search. “That is very kind.”

You made a small sound that wasn’t quite agreement. Looked out at the trail ahead rather than at him. “Don’t go thanking me yet,” you said quietly. “Let’s just get you down first.” The desert stretched below, red and enormous and indifferent, and you walked him out of it as the sun began its long descent, the sky going amber at the edges, your shoulder steady under his arm and your voice low when you spoke — about the footing, about the path, about nearly there now, careful here, there’s a loose bit — talking him down the mountain the way you might talk something wild back from the edge of a very high place.

He let you. It was, he would think later, the first mercy anyone had shown him in longer than he could measure. He did not yet know he was about to walk into a house that needed some of its own.

The farmhouse sat low against the land like it was trying not to be noticed. That was the first thing Riki observed about it — not its size, not its condition, though both were notable, but the particular quality of its relationship to the earth around it. Most structures built by human hands reached, in some small way. Aspired to verticality. This one did not. It hunkered. It pressed itself into the red dirt as though it had learned, over long years, that drawing attention was not in its interest.

The wood of it had gone grey with weather. The porch listed slightly to the left. A barn stood some distance behind the house, in marginally better repair, and a vegetable garden occupied a patch of ground to the east, fenced against rabbits with wire so mended it was more repair than original. Practical. Relentless. The garden of someone who could not afford to let things die.

You had not spoken much on the walk down. Neither had he. The silence between you was not uncomfortable — it had a texture to it, a kind of mutual accommodation, each of you making room for the other’s quiet without requiring explanation. He had noticed that about you already. You did not fill silence for the sake of filling it. “Home,” you said, when the farmhouse came into view. The word came out level. No particular warmth in it, no particular coldness. Just — identification. This is the place. This is what it is. He filed that too.

The sun was low by the time you came down off the trail, the sky doing something extraordinary in shades of copper and rose that he observed with the distant part of himself that still catalogued beauty out of long habit, even now, even diminished. Your shadow stretched long ahead of you across the dust. His own shadow, beside it, was a strange thing to look at. He had not had a shadow before. You brought him to the porch and settled him against the railing with a care that was businesslike rather than tender — efficient, practised, the movements of someone accustomed to managing things on their own. Sit here. Don’t move. I’ll get water. You went inside without waiting for his acknowledgment, the screen door swinging shut behind you with a sound like a small argument.

He sat. He breathed. He looked at the land. Nevada in the last light of day was a different thing entirely from Nevada at noon. The harshness of it softened without becoming gentle — it was still vast, still indifferent, still the kind of landscape that would kill you without malice if you made the wrong decision. But the light turned it amber, turned the red rock gold, turned the scrub brush into something that almost glittered. It was beautiful the way difficult things were beautiful. Uncompromisingly. Without apology. He was looking at it when the door opened.

Not you. He knew that before he turned — the weight of the footfall was different, heavier, the particular tread of a man who had decided long ago that the ground owed him something. The man who came through the door was tall, broad through the shoulders, with the weathered look of someone the sun had worked on for decades and the eyes of someone who had decided, also long ago, what things were and saw no reason to revise his conclusions. He looked at Riki. Riki looked back.

The man’s gaze moved over him the way a hand moves over a fence line — checking for weakness, for threat, cataloguing. Then it moved to the blood dried rust-brown on Riki’s shirt, the state of his hands, the particular stillness of him, and whatever calculation was happening behind those eyes resolved into something that was not welcome but was not yet refusal. “Found him on the Hartley trail,” you said, appearing in the doorway behind your father with a tin cup of water and a cloth that had seen better decades. “He was down. Couldn’t leave him.”

Your father said nothing for a moment. Let the silence do something with its weight. “Couldn’t leave him,” he repeated, finally. His voice was the voice of a man who had learned that repetition was a kind of pressure. Low. Even. The tone of someone who had never needed to raise his voice because other methods worked just as well. “No sir,” you said. Your own voice had changed. Not much — you were careful, clearly practised at careful — but enough. A fraction quieter. A fraction smaller. The way a candle dims in a room where the window has been opened.

He noticed. He noticed the way you held the cup and the cloth with both hands, occupying your hands. He noticed the precise distance you maintained from your father in the doorway — not touching, never quite touching. He noticed the way your eyes moved to Riki briefly, checking, and then back to your father, and the particular quality of that check — not seeking reassurance, not quite. Something more complex. Something he did not yet have enough information to name. “He’ll need somewhere to sleep,” you said. “Just until he’s fit to travel. The barn —”

“I know where he’ll sleep,” your father said. Still that same measured quiet. “I make the decisions about this house.” “Yes sir.” A pause in which several things that were not words were exchanged. Then your father looked at Riki again, and something shifted in the assessment — still wary, but recalculating. “You well enough to work?” he asked.

Riki considered the question honestly. His back was a sustained misery. His hands were lacerated. He was thirsty in a way the cup of water you were holding was not going to resolve. He was also, he was discovering, possessed of a stubbornness that had apparently survived the fall intact, because the answer that came out of him was: “I am.”

Your father made a sound that was not quite satisfied and not quite dismissive. Somewhere in between. A sound that reserved judgment while implying judgment had already been made. “Barn,” he said. “You sleep in the barn. You earn your keep or you move on.” “That is agreeable,” Riki said.

Your father looked at him for one moment longer — something faintly unsettled in it, the look of a man who has heard a perfectly ordinary sentence and cannot explain why it struck him as odd — and then he went back inside. The door did not slam. That was almost worse, somehow. The deliberate quiet of it.

You let out a breath so small it was barely a breath at all. Then you crossed to the railing and crouched in front of him and held out the cup. “Drink,” you said. Back to that other voice now — the trail voice, the one that was unhurried and direct and entirely your own. As though the version of you that existed in the doorway with your father was a coat you put on and took off. He drank. The water was warm and tasted of the tin and was the best thing he had consumed in — he did not know how long. He drained the cup.

Something moved in your expression. Almost a smile. Not quite. “I’m going to look at your back,” you said. “There’s something wrong with it. I could feel it when we were walking.” He went still. “You don’t have to tell me how,” you said, already matter-of-fact, already reaching for the hem of his shirt with a clinical efficiency that suggested you were not going to make this strange if he didn’t. “I’m not asking. I just need to see what I’m working with.”

He thought about the scars. The twin masses of them, the raised and ruined topography of what had been taken. He thought about what they looked like to human eyes — whether they would frighten you, whether they would make you ask questions he could not answer truthfully without revealing things he was not certain you should know. He looked at your face. Your expression was open and patient and entirely without agenda, the face of someone who had asked a practical question and was waiting for a practical answer, the face of someone who was very good at waiting.

“Very well,” he said. You were quiet for a long moment when you saw them. He did not look at your face. He looked at the last of the light on the Nevada flats and felt the careful, impersonal touch of your hands at the edges of the scarring — not recoiling, not pressing, simply — present. “Does it pain you?” you asked. Quiet. “Yes,” he said. “Though less than it did.”

“Alright.” You exhaled slowly through your nose. Something in it that was not pity — something more careful than pity, something that took the fact of his pain and simply acknowledged it, made room for it, did not try to fix it into something more manageable. “I’ll bring salve. And something to eat, when he’s —” A beat. “When supper’s done.” When he’s settled, you had been going to say. When he can’t see.

He did not say that he had understood. He simply nodded. You stood, collecting your cloth and your empty cup, and you looked at him once more with that level, considering gaze — taking stock the way you had on the trail, the way that felt less like scrutiny than like a kind of serious attention, the kind usually reserved for things that mattered. “What do I call you?” you asked.

He thought about his true name. The sound of it, the weight of it, a thing made of frequencies this body’s throat could not reproduce and this body’s ears could not properly hear. A name that belonged to something he was no longer. “Riki,” he said. It was not his name. It was the closest this mouth could come to something that had once been his, worn down to something human-sized, something that fit.

You nodded like that was sufficient, like names were practical things and you had been given enough of one to work with. “I’ll be back directly,” you said. You went inside. The screen door said its small argumentative piece behind you. The Nevada dark was coming in from the east, slow and purple and enormous, swallowing the last of the copper sky, and Riki sat on the listing porch of a grey-weathered house and listened to the silence of a place that had learned to be very quiet, and understood, with a clarity that had nothing to do with any power he had lost, that he had not walked into a house.

He had walked into a situation. And for the first time since the field of winter wheat, he felt something that was not grief and not confusion but something altogether more purposeful settle into the empty place where his wings had been. He was not certain yet what to call it. He suspected it was anger.

—

He did not sleep. This was not, he was discovering, unusual for him. Sleep was a thing this body was capable of in theory — he had felt the edges of it, that soft dissolution, the way consciousness went loose and unheld at the end of the previous night — but had not yet managed to fall fully into. He lay in the barn on a bedroll you had brought out without being asked, a folded quilt on top of it that smelled of cedar and something floral and faintly of you, and he looked up at the rafters and listened to the dark.

The horses knew he was there. They had known from the moment he crossed the threshold, both of them moving to the far end of their stalls with that particular animal precision that had nothing to do with thought and everything to do with the part of a creature that existed below thought. They were not panicking. They had made their assessment — strange, strange, not right — and had simply relocated themselves as far from him as the barn permitted and were pretending, with great determination, that he did not exist. He found this quietly respectful. He did the same for them.

The barn settled around him as the night went on, its old wood contracting in the cool, making small sounds of adjustment. An owl worked somewhere outside. The wind came off the flats and pushed at the walls and moved on, indifferent, the way wind in Nevada moved — not around things but through them, or past them, without acknowledgment. He thought about the way your voice changed in doorways. He was still thinking about it when the sky began to go pale at the edges.

You were already up when he came out. The surprise was his own — he had assumed, given the hour, that the farmhouse would still be dark and closed, and had half-formed a plan to be useful in some visible, unobtrusive way before anyone emerged to direct him. Instead he found you at the pump beside the house in the grey pre-dawn, working the handle with the mechanical patience of someone who had done this ten thousand mornings and would do it ten thousand more, filling a bucket without ceremony or complaint, your hair still in its night braid, your feet in unlaced boots. You looked up when you heard him. “You’re up early,” you said. Not accusatory. Just noting.

“I did not sleep particularly well,” he said, which was true enough. You looked at him for a moment with that level morning gaze — assessing, the way you seemed to assess most things, with a seriousness that was not unfriendly but did not soften the looking. Then you held out the bucket. “Chickens first,” you said. “Then I’ll show you the rest.” He took the bucket.

The chickens were housed in a low wire run behind the barn, twelve of them, with the collective opinion of Riki that the horses had expressed but considerably less restraint about voicing it. They scattered when he approached, a brief furious explosion of feathers and complaint, and then regrouped at the far end of the run and regarded him with the specific hostility of creatures that had decided something was wrong without being able to articulate what. He crouched and waited. After a moment, one hen — bolder than the others, or perhaps simply more curious — picked her way back toward him with the exaggerated caution of someone pretending they are not doing what they are doing. She got within a foot of him and stopped.

He held very still. She pecked at the ground near his boot. Then at his boot. Then she looked up at him with one orange eye and made a sound of uncertain conclusion and walked away. “Huh,” you said, from behind him. He stood and found you leaning against the fence post with the empty bucket in your hand and an expression he had not seen on you yet — something lighter than your usual register, surprised out of you, unguarded in a way that lasted only a moment before you collected it back. “They don’t like strangers,” you said.

“I gathered.” “They don’t much like anybody,” you amended. “But they especially don’t like strangers.” “I have been informed,” he said, “that I am unusual.”

The corner of your mouth moved. Almost. You turned away before it could become something more, and he watched you go and filed the almost-smile in the same place as the canteen warmth and the cedar quilt and the version of your voice that was entirely your own.

The day’s work was plain and it was relentless. He understood, by midmorning, the particular arithmetic of this farm — the way every task connected to every other task, the way the whole enterprise was held together less by prosperity than by the sheer refusal to let anything fail. The fence line needed mending in three places. The roof of the barn had a compromise along the eastern edge that wanted attention before the weather turned. The well mechanism was original and complained loudly about it. These were not the problems of a farm that was thriving. These were the problems of a farm that was enduring.

He worked. His back made its protests known and he ignored them with the same focused attention he had once applied to the light. The physical labour was strange — the way his muscles heated and tired, the way sweat gathered at his collar, the way thirst came back reliably every hour with the persistence of a creditor — but not unmanageable. There was something in it, even. Something in the simple physics of a fence post driven into red dirt, the satisfying solidity of a thing made more sound than it had been.

Your father watched him from a distance for most of the morning. Riki was aware of this the way he was aware of weather — peripherally, constantly, without looking directly at it. The man had a way of occupying space that was its own kind of statement. He stood at the edge of things. He observed. He did not offer assistance or instruction, which told Riki that the watching was not supervisory. It was something else. Assessment, perhaps. Or the particular vigilance of a man deciding whether a new variable in his environment was a threat or a resource. He had not yet decided, Riki thought, which was more useful to be.

You moved through your own work with an efficiency that was almost architectural — each task slotted precisely into the available time, no motion wasted, no pause taken that wasn’t functional. You cooked and you mended and you hauled water and you did it all with the same quiet matter-of-factness you had applied to hauling him off a trail, and at no point did you look like you expected acknowledgment for any of it. At noon you brought him water without being asked.

He was at the fence line, his shirt damp through, the Nevada sun doing its particular best overhead. You came across the flat ground with two cups and handed him one and stood beside him and drank yours and looked out at the middle distance and said nothing. He drank. “How’s your back?” you asked, eventually. “Improved,” he said. “The salve was effective.”

You nodded. Kept looking at the distance. “You don’t have to tell me where you came from,” you said. Quiet, and even, and with the care of someone constructing a sentence they have thought about before saying. “Or what happened to you. That’s your own business.” He looked at the side of your face. The dust on your cheekbone again — different dust today, paler, from the flour you had been working with this morning. The loose strand of hair at your temple moving in the slight noon breeze. “That is generous,” he said.

“It’s practical,” you said, with a slight correction in your tone that was not unkind. “People don’t tell you things when you push. They tell you things when they’re ready.” He considered this. “You speak as though from experience.” A pause. Brief, but present. “I speak as someone who lives here,” you said, and left it at that.

He did not push. He understood, now, the patience of that sentence — the way it answered him and closed the door at the same time with such practised ease that the closing of the door was almost invisible. You had been doing that for a long time. Opening just enough. No further. He handed you the empty cup and turned back to the fence. “Thank you,” he said. “For the water. And for — “ He paused, searching, unused still to the narrowness of this language, the way it made him reach for things and come up short. “For the previous evening. You were not required to do any of it.” You were quiet for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “I wasn’t.”

And then you walked back across the flat ground toward the house, and he watched you go, and the sun was enormous overhead and the land was red in every direction and somewhere behind him your father was still watching from the edge of things, and Riki drove another post into the Nevada dirt and felt that purposeful thing in his chest settle deeper. Not anger, he revised. Not exactly.

Something older than anger. Something that had been in him even before the fall — that quality that had made him stop at the edge of a field of winter wheat and put down what he had been sent to carry. The inability, when it came to it, to walk away from something that was not right. He picked up the hammer. He kept working.

It was late afternoon, the heat finally relenting by degrees, when he heard it. He was at the barn, seeing to a loose board on the eastern wall, when the sound came from inside the house — low, and brief, and with a quality to it he identified immediately and completely, because he had catalogued it ten thousand years of watching human lives and he knew exactly what it was.

The sound a person made when something hurt them and they had learned not to make noise about it. He went very still. The air around him changed. He felt it before he registered it consciously — that familiar internal shift, the power in him waking from its uneasy dormancy, the pressure dropping around him in a radius that made the horses shift in their stalls and the chickens go abruptly, completely silent.

He stood with the hammer in his hand and the board half-fixed and every part of him oriented toward the house. A long moment passed. Then the back door opened and you came out with a basket of washing and went to the line without looking at him and began to hang it with the same flat efficiency you applied to everything, and your movements were fine — deliberate, controlled — and you did not look at him.

He looked at you. At the way you held your left arm slightly differently than your right. He set the hammer down on the top of the fence rail. Carefully. Quietly. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth and he looked at the chickens, who had gone back to their pecking, and he looked at the sky, which was going that extraordinary copper again, and he did not go to the house, because he did not yet know enough, and acting without knowing enough was how things got worse rather than better.

But he picked the hammer back up and he held it, and he did not put it down again until supper was called.

The barn was dark by the time you came. He heard you before he saw you — the soft unlatch of the door, the particular hesitation of someone who has decided to do something and is still deciding, right up until the moment they do it. A sliver of lamplight preceded you, warm and unsteady, and then you came through the door with the lamp in one hand and a plate in the other and you looked at him sitting up in the bedroll and you said, by way of explanation: “I saved you supper.”

He had not been given supper. He had noted this without comment, the way he noted most things about this house — quietly, and completely, and without letting the noting show on his face. “That was not necessary,” he said. “I know,” you said, which seemed to be your answer to most things that were offered in the register of obligation. You crossed the barn and set the plate down on the top of the nearest stall rail and then you looked around, briefly, for somewhere to be, and settled on a upturned crate a few feet from his bedroll and sat on it and set the lamp on the ground between you.

The horses regarded you with considerably more charity than they had managed for Riki. The bolder one — a bay mare with an opinion about most things — stretched her nose over the stall door in your direction and you reached up without looking and scratched between her eyes with the automatic ease of long habit. “That’s Clementine,” you said. “The other one’s Job.” “Job,” he repeated. “Daddy named him.” A pause that had a particular texture to it. “He has a sense of humour about suffering.”

Riki looked at you. You were looking at the lamp. Your left arm, he noted, was resting in your lap rather than propped at the elbow the way your right was. Protecting it without meaning to, or meaning to so consistently it had stopped being a decision. “Eat,” you said, without looking up. “Before it goes cold.”

He reached for the plate. Beans and cornbread, simple and adequate, and he ate it the way he was learning to eat — with the genuine animal attention of a body that had requirements and was no longer above having them. You watched the lamp and scratched Clementine’s nose and said nothing for a while, which was its own kind of conversation. “How long have you been here?” he asked, eventually. “On this land.” “Always,” you said. “Born here. Mama too, until she wasn’t.” You said it plainly, the way you said most things — not inviting sympathy, not deflecting it, simply stating the fact as a fact. “Just us since I was nine.”

“I am sorry,” he said. You looked at him then. Briefly, assessing, as though checking whether he meant it. Whatever you found seemed to satisfy you. You looked back at the lamp. “It was a long time ago,” you said. “That does not always make a thing smaller.”

A beat of quiet. Clementine withdrew her nose and lost interest and went back to her hay. Outside the barn the Nevada night was doing what Nevada nights did — going enormous and cold and very clear, the stars coming out in their thousands, indifferent and magnificent. “No,” you agreed, softly. “It doesn’t.”

He set the empty plate on the ground and looked at his own hands — the cuts from the trail already healed more than they should have been, another thing to be careful about, another thing to manage. He laced his fingers together and considered the lamp between you and thought about ten thousand years of watching people talk to each other, all those conversations he had catalogued from a very great height, and how entirely different it was to be in one.

“Your arm,” he said. Quiet, and even, leaving space around the words. You went still. Not a flinch — you were too controlled for flinching, he was learning — but a stillness that had a quality of decision in it. Whether to acknowledge or to redirect. You looked at him. “I walked into the door of the pantry,” you said. Steady. Practised.

He held your gaze and said nothing. The silence did what silences sometimes did, in his experience — it made room for something that wouldn’t fit through a smaller opening. Your jaw shifted. Something moved behind your eyes, some internal negotiation he was not privy to, and then you looked down at your left arm in your lap and back up at him and you said, very quietly: “He has a temper.”

Four words. Flat, and sparse, and carrying the weight of nine years of just us. “Yes,” Riki said. “I am aware.” Something in your face changed at that — at the acknowledgment, perhaps, or at the lack of surprise in it, the lack of the particular uncomfortable scrambling that people sometimes did when a thing they had said quietly turned out to have been heard. He did not scramble. He simply — received it. Made room for it. The way you made room for silences.

You looked at him for a long moment. “You noticed,” you said. Not quite a question. “I notice most things,” he said. “Most people don’t.” You said it without bitterness, which was almost worse than if you had said it with bitterness. Simply an observation. A thing that was true and had been true for long enough that you had stopped expecting otherwise. “I am not,” he said, carefully, “most people.”

Your mouth did the thing again — that movement at the corner, the almost-smile, the one that lasted only a moment before you thought better of it. But this time you did not look away. You let him see it, brief as it was, and something about that felt like a different kind of door opening. Smaller than the other one. More deliberate. “No,” you said. “I don’t suppose you are.”

The lamp guttered slightly in a draft from the barn wall and you both looked at it and it steadied and you looked back at each other and the moment resettled itself into something quieter. “Ki,” you said, and then stopped. He waited.

Your brow pulled together faintly, that look of someone who has said something before they have decided to say it. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Riki’s —” You shook your head slightly. “It’s fine. Never mind.” “Ki,” he said. You looked at him. “You may call me that,” he said. “If it suits you.”

The something behind your eyes again — that careful interior movement, weighing. Then, so quietly he might have missed it if he were less than he was: “It suits me.”

Clementine made a noise of vague equine commentary from her stall. Job ignored everything, as was apparently his nature. The lamp sat between you on the dirt floor of the barn and the night pressed at the walls and you sat on your upturned crate with your left arm in your lap and looked at him with those eyes that catalogued things, and he looked back at you, and the silence this time was not the silence of two people who had run out of things to say. It was the silence of two people who had said enough for now.

“I should go back in,” you said, eventually. You stood, collecting the lamp, and reached down for the plate. “Leave it,” he said. “I will return it in the morning.” You straightened. Looked at him once more in the lamplight, that level considering look, and he looked back at you and did not look away, and whatever was being communicated in that exchange was not a thing that needed words and both of you seemed to understand that. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said.

Something in him — something that had been falling, or wandering, or simply enduring the very long process of learning what it was to be this diminished and groundless thing — settled, incrementally, at the sound of it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. The word came out without deliberation. Natural, and certain, the way things were certain when they were simply true. He watched you absorb it — the slight pause before the door, the almost imperceptible shift in your shoulders — and then you went out and the lamplight went with you and the barn was dark again.

He lay back on the bedroll. He looked at the rafters. He thought about the sound your voice made when it was only yours — unhurried and direct and entirely unguarded — and he thought about a left arm held carefully in a lap, and he thought about nine years of just us in a house that had learned to be quiet, and he thought about a field of winter wheat and the thing that had lived in him then, the thing he had not had a name for until he was standing empty-handed in the aftermath of it. He had a name for it now. He had always been capable of mercy. He was discovering he was also capable of something considerably less patient.

—

Three days passed. Then four. Then five. The farm absorbed him the way dry ground absorbed rain — completely, and without ceremony, closing over the fact of him as though he had always been there. He learned the fence line and the well mechanism and the particular temperament of each of the twelve hens. He learned that Job, despite his name, was not actually long-suffering — he was simply quiet about his grievances until he wasn’t, at which point he expressed them comprehensively. He learned that Clementine would work beautifully for anyone who asked her nicely and would make their life very difficult if they didn’t, which he respected.

He learned the shape of your days. The pre-dawn pump. The chickens. The kitchen, then the garden, then whatever the farm required, then the kitchen again. The way you moved through all of it with that relentless quiet competence, never hurrying, never stopping, the whole of it held together by the sheer consistency of your attention. He learned that you hummed sometimes, when you thought no one could hear. Low and tuneless and entirely unconscious, the sound of someone whose mind had gone somewhere else while their hands stayed busy. He never said anything about it. He simply noted it, and filed it, and found that he listened for it.

Your father watched. Your father always watched. But the watching had shifted slightly in character — less assessment now, more the surveillance of a man who has made his calculation and is waiting to see if the numbers hold. Riki was useful. Riki worked. Riki did not ask questions or make demands or give your father any obvious reason for the unease that lived, apparently permanently, behind his eyes whenever he looked at him. Riki was also, he was increasingly certain, the only reason your father had not escalated in five days. He did not examine this too closely. He simply noted it, the way he noted everything, and kept working, and waited.

On the sixth morning you appeared at the barn door while he was seeing to Job’s hooves with a bridle in your hand and an expression that was as close to tentative as he had seen on you. “Daddy’s gone to town,” you said. “He won’t be back until evening.” He straightened. “I thought —” You looked at the bridle. Back at him. “I could show you some of the land. If you wanted. There’s more to it than what you’ve seen. The orchard especially.” Something in your voice was carefully casual in a way that meant it wasn’t casual at all. “You don’t have to.”

“I would like that very much,” he said. The almost-smile. Present and then collected, but he was getting faster at catching it. You rode Clementine. This seemed correct, somehow — you and the bay mare had the relationship of two creatures who had come to a long and mutual understanding, and Clementine moved under you with none of the difficulty she occasionally manufactured for other people, her ears forward, her stride easy. You sat a horse the way you did most things: without fuss, without performance, simply and completely.

He walked beside you. You had offered him Job, with the diplomatic neutrality of someone who was not certain how the offer would land, and he had declined with equal diplomacy. Job had expressed his relief by looking in another direction. They had reached an understanding. The land opened up beyond the farmstead in a way that the farmstead itself obscured — flatter than the trail, wider, the red earth giving way in places to pale grass and the occasional determined tree. The sky was enormous overhead, the particular blue of a Nevada morning before the heat had fully committed, and the air smelled of sage and something floral he couldn’t immediately identify.

“The orchard’s my favourite part,” you said, after a while. “Mama planted it. Apple trees mostly, one pear that never does much of anything.” You paused. “She said if you were going to be somewhere a long time you ought to plant something that would outlast you.” He looked up at you on the horse. The morning light was doing something specific to your face — catching the line of your cheekbone, the loose strand of hair at your temple. “She sounds like she was wise,” he said.

“She was practical,” you said. “I think sometimes they’re the same thing.” He considered this. “I think sometimes they are.” Clementine picked her way along the track and he walked beside her left shoulder and the distance between his height and yours on horseback put you almost at eye level with each other, which he found he appreciated — not having to calibrate the angle of conversation, not having to adjust. Simply side by side, the way the trail had made you, the first time.

“Ki,” you said. “Mm.” “How long are you going to stay?” He was quiet for a moment. The question was plain and it deserved a plain answer, and he had been turning the plain answer over for several days without finding a way to make it smaller. “Not long,” he said. “I do not — belong to any one place. I am not certain I ever will again.” He paused. “I am sorry. I recognise that is not a satisfying answer.” You looked at the track ahead. “No,” you said. “But it’s an honest one.” A beat. “I understand it, I think. Some people aren’t built for staying.”

“It is not a preference,” he said. “It is a — circumstance. There are things I have lost that made staying possible.” He glanced up at you. “I do not say this to be sorrowful. Only to be truthful with you.” You absorbed this with the particular quiet of someone who is listening completely. “I understand,” you said. And then, softer: “I’m glad you’re here now.” He looked at the track. “As am I,” he said. “Sweetheart.”

The orchard was a green and improbable thing in the middle of all that red. Eight apple trees in two rows, old enough that the bark had gone deeply furrowed, their branches spreading wide and low and laden with fruit not quite ripe — another few weeks yet, you said, but close. The pear tree stood at the end of the row in the slightly martyred way of a tree that had been asked to produce in difficult conditions and was doing its dignified best. You slid down from Clementine and looped her reins over a low branch and she began to investigate the grass with the focused enthusiasm of an animal who had been waiting for exactly this opportunity.

“Here,” you said, reaching up into the nearest tree and working an apple free from the branch — smaller than it would be at peak, still a deep green at the stem. You tossed it to him. He caught it. “Not quite ready,” you said, pulling one for yourself, “but they’re good now. Tart.”

He bit into it. It was tart — sharp and clean and cold in a way that surprised him, given the heat. He ate it and watched you do the same, standing in the narrow shade of the apple tree with the Nevada morning around you and Clementine moving through the grass and the pear tree presiding over everything with quiet dignity.

“Did she bring these trees here?” he asked. “Your mother.” “Carried the saplings from her own mother’s farm when she married.” You turned the apple in your hand. “Three days in a wagon. She wrapped the roots in wet cloth and checked on them every hour.” You smiled — not the almost-smile, a real one, brief and unguarded, aimed at the middle distance. “Daddy thought she was ridiculous. She told him some things were worth being ridiculous about.” He looked at your profile. The smile fading back into its usual careful lines. “She was right,” he said.

You looked at him. He was not certain, afterward, what made him do it — whether it was the smile or the apple trees or the particular quality of the light in this green and improbable place, or whether it was simply that it was the most natural thing, in that moment, in the way that true things sometimes arrived without announcement. He stepped close and pressed his mouth to your cheek. Not long. Not complicated. Simply — there, and warm, and certain.

He stepped back. You stood very still. Your hand with the apple in it had stopped moving. Your eyes, when you turned to look at him, were wide and very clear, and there was colour in your face, high on the cheekbones, that had nothing to do with the sun. He looked back at you with the particular steadiness of someone who is not going to apologise for a thing they meant. “Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “Yes,” he said.

A long moment in which several things were considered and none of them were said, and both of you seemed to understand that this too was sufficient. Then Clementine, with the timing of an animal entirely without sentiment, lifted her head from the grass and blew a long breath through her nose and looked at both of you with profound disinterest.

You laughed. He had not heard you laugh before. It was brief and soft and entirely real, surprised out of you by the horse, and it was the best sound he had catalogued in ten thousand years or however long it had been, and he thought he would remember it past the point where he could remember anything else.

That night you came to the barn again. No plate this time. No pretence of a reason. You simply came, and sat on your upturned crate, and he sat up in his bedroll, and the lamp went between you on the dirt floor, and you talked. About the farm. About the town half a day’s ride away, its general store and its church and its doctor who was also the barber, who you had not seen in two years because your father saw no reason for it. About your mother’s apple trees and your mother’s hands, which had been like yours, practical and capable, and the particular grief of inheriting someone’s hands without being able to tell them you had. He listened. He asked questions when questions were useful and was quiet when quiet was useful and when you paused he did not rush to fill it.

You asked him, at some point, where he had come from. He said: very far away. You asked if there was anyone there who missed him. He considered the true answer to this, which was complex, and gave you the simple one. “No,” he said. “Not anymore.” You looked at him. “I’m sorry,” you said. “Do not be,” he said. “I made a choice. I would make it again.” “What choice?”

He looked at the lamp. At the way the flame moved in the draft, small and persistent, unwilling to go out. “To refuse to do something that was wrong,” he said. “Even when I had been asked to do it by someone I had always obeyed.” A long quiet. “That took courage,” you said. “It took —” He paused. “I am not certain it was courage. I am not certain I calculated the cost before I paid it. I simply — could not. Some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response.”

You were looking at him with that full attention, that serious and complete regard, and he looked back at you, and the lamp burned between you, and outside the Nevada night was enormous and cold and blazing with stars. “I understand that,” you said, quietly. “I think I do.” He thought about a left arm held in a lap. About a voice that changed in doorways. About nine years of just us and what that cost, paid daily, without complaint, without anyone to acknowledge the paying. “I know,” he said.

You stayed another hour. Maybe two. Time had not fully resolved itself for him yet — it still moved strangely, catching and pooling, running thin in places. But whatever measure it was, it was not enough, and when you finally stood and took the lamp and said goodnight he watched the light go with the particular feeling of someone watching something good move away from them and knowing, with a clarity that had nothing comfortable in it, that they cannot keep it. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he said. “Goodnight, Ki,” you said. And then the dark, and the rafters, and the sound of his own breathing, which was still new enough to notice.

He lay in the cedar-smelling dark and looked at nothing and thought about apple trees planted by women who understood that some things were worth being ridiculous about. He thought he was beginning to understand that too.

—

It happened on a Tuesday. He knew this because you had told him, some nights ago in the barn, that Tuesdays were the worst — that your father came back from town on Tuesdays with the particular mood that town produced in him, something compounded of other men’s opinions and the price of things and whatever he had found at the bottom of whatever he had been drinking. You had said it matter-of-factly, the way you said most things, and he had filed it and said nothing and had been watching Tuesdays since.

This Tuesday your father came back two hours earlier than usual. Riki was at the well when he heard the horse. He straightened and watched your father come up the track with the specific quality of stillness that preceded bad weather — not loud, not yet, but carrying it, the way the air carried rain before rain arrived. Your father dismounted without looking at him. Took the horse to the barn without speaking. The set of his shoulders said everything his mouth was not yet saying. Riki set down the bucket.

He did not go inside. He had no cause to go inside. He stood at the well and he waited and he listened to the land, which had gone very quiet in the particular way it went quiet sometimes — the chickens off their scratching, Clementine still in her stall, even the wind seeming to hold itself. The sound, when it came, was brief.

A voice raised — your father’s, low and controlled, which was worse than shouting, he had learned, because controlled meant deliberate — and then something that was not a voice, something that had no register in language, that lived below language, and he was already moving before he had decided to move. The kitchen door. He did not burst through it. He opened it the way you opened things in this house — without drama, without announcement — and he stood in the doorway and he looked.

Your father stood at the far end of the kitchen. You stood nearer to the window, one hand braced on the table, your head down, your hair loose from its braid and falling forward. The posture of someone absorbing something. Waiting for it to be over.

Your father looked at Riki. Riki looked at your father. And the air in the kitchen changed. He felt it leave him before he could stop it — that interior shift, the power waking from its dormancy with the sudden and total alertness of something that had been waiting for a reason. The pressure dropped. The lamp on the table guttered. The window glass made a sound like it was being pressed from the outside. The temperature fell by degrees that had nothing to do with the weather. He had not moved. He was standing in the doorway with his hands at his sides and his face entirely still and he had not moved, but the kitchen felt like the moment before lightning, and every animal on the property knew it, and your father knew it, and from the way your head had come up slowly, carefully, you knew it too.

Your father’s face went through several things in quick succession. Then it went to something Riki recognised, because he had catalogued it ten thousand times in ten thousand human faces. Fear.

Not the performed kind. The real kind. The kind that lived in the body before the mind had caught up, that moved in the hands and the jaw and the particular way a man’s weight shifted backward without him meaning it to. Your father said nothing. Riki said nothing. The lamp steadied. The pressure did not lift entirely — he could feel it still, that live and uncontrolled thing in him, wanting — but he held it. Barely. The way you held a door shut in a high wind. With everything available to him.

“I believe,” he said, very quietly, very evenly, “that supper needs seeing to.” It was not what he meant. It was not close to what he meant. But it was the sentence that fit inside the doorway without breaking anything irreparable, and he said it the way he had once delivered divine directives — with a certainty so complete it did not require volume. Your father picked up his hat from the table. He walked past Riki through the door without looking at him. His footsteps crossed the porch. The barn door opened and shut.

The kitchen was very quiet. You had not moved from the table. Your hand was still braced on it, your head no longer down but not quite up either, your hair in your face. He could hear you breathing — measured, controlled, the breathing of someone who has learned to regulate themselves through force of will alone. He came into the kitchen.

He did not go to you immediately. He went to the lamp and turned it up and then he stood a few feet from you and waited, the way you waited for things — with patience, and without agenda. After a moment you straightened. Pushed the hair from your face. And you looked at him, and he looked at you, and whatever had just happened was present in the space between you in its full dimensions, undiminished. “Ki,” you said. Very quiet. “Yes,” he said.

“What was that.” Not quite a question. The tone of someone who had seen something they did not have a category for. “I would prefer,” he said carefully, “to discuss it later. Are you hurt?” Something moved in your face at the directness of it. At being asked plainly. “I’m alright,” you said. He looked at you. At the specific way you were holding yourself. “I would like to believe that,” he said. “I am finding it somewhat difficult.”

Your jaw shifted. You looked at the table. Then, quietly, with the care of someone setting something fragile down: “My arm again.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Come to the barn later,” he said. “When he’s settled.”

You looked up at him. “Ki —” “Please,” he said. The word came out with more in it than he intended — not a request, exactly, or not only that. Something more unguarded. Something that had been accumulating across five days of watching you move through this house and compress yourself smaller and absorb things that should not have to be absorbed. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then you nodded.

He was sitting in the barn doorway when you came. Late — later than usual, the farm long dark, the stars doing their extravagant Nevada best overhead. You came across the flat ground with the lamp low and your coat pulled around you and you looked tired in a way that was not only the tiredness of a long day. The tiredness of a long time. He moved to let you through.

You sat on the crate and he sat across from you on an upturned bucket and you were quiet for a while, which he allowed. Clementine observed you from her stall. Job was asleep, or pretending to be. “Show me,” he said, finally. Gentle. You pushed your sleeve back. He looked at your arm. He had seen worse — had catalogued far worse, from a very great height, across a very long time — but the knowledge of that did nothing useful here, in a barn in Nevada, looking at evidence of something done deliberately to you by someone who had decided they had the right. He looked at it and felt that thing in him again, that live and uncontrolled thing, and breathed through it, and held it.

He reached out and took your arm very carefully in both hands. You went still. Watching his face. He was not thinking about what he was doing — not precisely. He was operating on something below thought, something that had survived the fall intact the way instinct survives most things. He felt the warmth move through his palms, slow and unsteady, the power in him fraying at the edges as it always did — but present. Still present. He held it as long as he could, which was not long enough, and then he released your arm and sat back and felt the effort of it in the spaces between his ribs.

You looked at your arm. Then you looked at him. “Ki,” you said. Barely a sound. “Do not,” he said, quietly, “ask me to explain that. Not tonight.” A long silence in which you visibly decided not to push. That practised restraint of yours, that ability to make room. He was grateful for it. He was not certain he had the words tonight, and what words he did have were not adequate to the thing. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

You looked at your arm. Flexed your fingers slowly. “No,” you said, with a wondering quality that he did not examine. “No, it doesn’t.” He nodded. You looked at him with those eyes — that full and serious attention — and he looked back at you and did not look away and the lamp burned between you and outside the Nevada night was all stars and cold and the enormous indifferent dark. “Ki,” you said again. Softer.

“Yes, sweetheart.” “What are you?” He looked at you. You held his gaze with a steadiness that told him you had been building to this question for some time — not impulsively, not from fear. From the same seriousness with which you approached everything. You wanted to know. You were asking because you trusted him enough to ask. He thought about his true name. About the field of winter wheat. About the gold leaving him all at once, and the wings going last, and the long unmeasured fall into red Nevada dirt. “Something that was cast out,” he said. “For refusing to do what was wrong.”

You were quiet. “Are you dangerous?” you asked. He considered the truth of that. The full complicated truth of it — the unstable power, the thing in him that had made the kitchen glass flex in its frame, the fact of what he was capable of when he felt something strongly enough. “Not to you,” he said. It was the most honest answer he had.

You looked at him for a long time. Then you leaned forward from your crate, closing the distance between you, and you took his face in both your hands — your capable, practical hands, your mother’s hands — and you held it the way you held things that mattered, carefully and without apology, and you looked at him from very close and said:

“I trust you.” He closed his eyes. The barn was warm and smelled of cedar and horse and the faint sweetness of apple from the orchard, and your hands were on his face, and he was something cast out and diminished and still fundamentally unresolved, and none of that mattered, in this moment, at all. He turned his head.

His mouth found the corner of yours. Not quite — not yet, careful, giving you the space to decide — the barest brush, a question rather than an answer. He felt your breath change against his cheek.

“Ki,” you whispered. “Tell me to stop,” he said, very quietly. “And I will stop.” You didn’t. His mouth found yours.

It was — not like anything he had catalogued. Not like anything in ten thousand years of watching humans love each other from a very great height. It was immediate and warm and entirely real, and you kissed him back with the same directness you brought to everything, your hands still on his face, his own hands coming up to find your waist, and the lamp burned and the horses slept and outside the Nevada stars did their ancient indifferent work. He pulled back eventually. Not far. Your foreheads together, both of you breathing, the space between you warm. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “Tomorrow,” you said. Firm and quiet and entirely certain. “Tell me tomorrow.”

He looked at you. You looked back at him, close enough that he could see the lamp reflected in your eyes, and your expression was open and decided and unafraid, the expression of someone who has chosen a thing and is not going to be talked out of it tonight. “Tomorrow,” he agreed.

You stayed another hour. Neither of you spoke much. You sat close on the upturned crate and he sat close on the bucket and your shoulders touched and that was sufficient, and when you finally left he watched the lamp go the way he always did — with the feeling of something good moving away — but differently now. With the knowledge that it was coming back. He lay in the dark and looked at the rafters. He thought about tomorrow.

He thought about all the things tomorrow contained, all the things that would need to be said and decided and reckoned with — your father, and the farm, and the fact of what he was, and the fact that he had said not long in an apple orchard and had meant it and was no longer certain what meaning it cost him. He thought about your hands on his face. He thought: some things, when you are standing in front of them, admit no other response. He slept, for the first time.

—

He was at the pump when you came out. Earlier than usual — the sky still that deep pre-dawn blue, not yet committed to morning, the stars fading at the edges but present still overhead. You came through the back door with your coat on over your nightgown and your feet in your unlaced boots and your hair down, loose around your shoulders, and you looked at him across the yard with an expression he had not seen on you before.

Open. Unguarded in a way that had nothing careful in it. The face of someone who had slept and woken and found the previous night still true. He let go of the pump handle. You crossed the yard. You stopped in front of him and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the blue pre-dawn light was doing something specific to your face, to the particular quality of your eyes in it, and he thought about ten thousand years of cataloguing beautiful things from a very great height and how none of it had prepared him for this. For the way beauty looked from inside it.

“You said tomorrow,” you said. Quiet. “I did.” “It’s tomorrow.” “It is.” You waited. Patient, the way you were patient — completely, without performance. He took a breath. He told you everything.

Not all at once — it came in pieces, and you received each piece the way you received most things, with that full and serious attention, making room. He told you about the light, and what it meant when it moved. He told you about the order and the field of winter wheat and the man kneeling in it who had done nothing to deserve what had been decided for him. He told you about putting the judgment down and what happened after — the gold leaving, the wings going last, the long fall into red Nevada dirt.

He told you about the scars. He told you about the power — the way it lived in him now, fraying and unstable, the way it woke when he felt things strongly. He told you about the kitchen, the lamp guttering, the glass flexing, the thing in him that had wanted and that he had held, barely, with everything available to him. He told you he did not know how long he had been fallen. That time moved differently for him still, catching and pooling, running thin in places. That not long in the orchard had been the truth as he understood it, which was also not the whole truth, which was that he had not wanted it to be true at all.

You sat on the porch step while he told you and you looked at your hands in your lap and then at the horizon and then at him, and you did not interrupt and you did not flinch and when he finally ran out of words and went quiet you were quiet too, for a long moment. Then you said: “Show me.” He looked at you. “Your back,” you said. “Show me. Properly. In the light.”

He understood what you were asking. Not for proof — you had not asked for proof, you had listened to everything with the same gravity you brought to things that were simply true. You were asking because you wanted to see it. Because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something. He turned. He pulled his shirt over his head. The morning light, coming now in earnest at the horizon, fell across his back. He heard you stand from the step. Heard you cross the distance. Felt the particular warmth of you close behind him, and then your hands — your careful, capable hands — resting lightly on either side of the scarring. Not pressing. Just — present. “It must have been unbearable,” you said. Low.

“Yes,” he said. “It was.” “And you’d do it again.” “Yes.” Your hands stayed where they were. He felt you press your forehead gently between your hands, against the space between his shoulder blades, and he closed his eyes and stood very still and felt the simple animal warmth of it move through him like the water had moved through dry ground. “Ki,” you said. Muffled against his back. “Yes, sweetheart.”

“I think I love you.” He went entirely still. “I know that’s —” Your voice was careful now, the care of someone saying something for the first time that they have only ever read about. “I know that’s a large thing to say. I’m not — I’ve never said it before. I’ve read about it. In my mother’s books. I didn’t know if I’d recognise it.” A pause. “I recognise it.” He turned.

You looked up at him. High colour in your face, and your chin up, and your eyes entirely steady — not performing the courage of it, simply having it, the way you had everything, plainly and without fuss. He cupped your face in both hands. “Sweetheart,” he said. Very quietly. “You don’t have to say it back,” you said, immediately. “I’m not —”

“I love you,” he said. You stopped. He looked at you. At the particular expression moving across your face — something he had no prior catalogue entry for, something that was not quite disbelief and not quite joy and was perhaps both of those things failing to contain each other. “You —” “I have watched human beings love each other,” he said, “for longer than I can measure. I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like, now, which I did not before.” He brushed his thumb across your cheekbone. “It feels like this.”

You made a sound that was not quite a word. Then you reached up and you kissed him. Not like the night before — not a question, not careful. This was an answer, full and certain, your hands in his shirt and his arms going around you and the Nevada morning arriving in amber and rose around you, and it was the most completely real thing he had experienced since the fall, and he thought, distantly, that if this was what was available down here, in this diminished and groundless and entirely unpredictable human life — then he understood, finally, what he had chosen. He would choose it again.

Your father came home at noon. He came around the side of the house and found you at the porch, sitting on the step with a book in your lap that you were not reading, and Riki beside you on the step, close enough that your shoulders touched, his forearms on his knees, both of you looking at the middle distance with the specific quality of two people who have recently found each other and are still adjusting to the finding.

Your father stopped. The look on his face went through its familiar sequence — assessment, calculation, conclusion — but faster this time, and landing somewhere that made the hair on the back of Riki’s neck resolve into something alert. “Inside,” your father said. To you. Only to you. You stood. The book closed in your hands. Riki stood with you, and your father looked at him with a look that said: this does not include you, and Riki looked back with a look that said: I am aware.

You went inside. The screen door shut. Riki stood on the porch and listened to the land and kept his hands very still at his sides and breathed, slowly, in and out, and held the thing in him that wanted with everything he had, because the time was not now, because he did not yet know enough, because acting without knowing enough was how things got worse.

He went back to the fence line. He worked until the sun went low. He did not hear anything from the house. This was not reassurance. He had learned, in his time here, that the absence of sound meant nothing in a house that had learned to be quiet. He worked and he listened and he held himself ready in the way that something trained for ten thousand years to act does not stop being ready, even diminished, even fallen, even here.

Supper was not called. The lamp in the kitchen went out early. He sat in the barn doorway and watched the dark house and waited. It was past midnight when he heard you. He knew the sound. Not the first sound — that was too quiet, the controlled register of your father’s voice through walls, the specific low evenness of a man who had learned that control was its own kind of violence. That Riki had heard before. He held himself and breathed and waited.

It was the second sound that moved him. A crack — flat and immediate and unmistakable, the sound of a hand meeting a face with force, and then the sound that followed it, which was you, which was the sound of someone who had been trying not to make noise and had been hit hard enough that the trying failed. Not a scream. Something more broken than a scream — a cry wrenched from somewhere involuntary, somewhere below the careful management you applied to everything, and then the sound of something hitting the floor.

Then your father’s voice again. Still controlled. Still low. Explaining something, in the tone of a man who believes he is owed explanation’s reception, while somewhere on the floor of that dark house you absorbed it. Then the sound of it happening again. Riki stood.

He went to the window first. What he saw: you on the floor of your room, one arm braced under you, trying to get up. Your face turned away from him, hair loose and fallen forward. Your father standing over you with his belt in his hand and the expression of a man entirely convinced of his own righteousness, which was the most dangerous kind of man, Riki had learned — not the ones who knew they were wrong and did it anyway, but the ones who had built a complete architecture of justification and lived inside it without windows. He went to the back door.

He did not go to your father’s room. He went to yours, and he opened the door, and he came in, and he crouched beside you on the floor where you had put yourself in the corner the way small animals put themselves in corners — making yourself as small as possible, which was the most unbearable thing, that you had learned this — and he put his hands on your face and he made you look at him. Your face.

He looked at it and held everything in him still with a precision that cost him more than anything had cost him since the fall. “Look at me,” he said. Quiet and even. “Look at me, sweetheart. Are you with me?” You looked at him. Your eyes found his. “Ki?” You said, broken in the middle. “Yes,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you — your words, from the trail, the first ones, and he meant them the same way you had meant them, completely and without reservation. “Can you stand?” You could. Barely, and with his hands on you, but you could.

He took you to the barn. He settled you on the bedroll with the cedar quilt around your shoulders and he crouched in front of you and he looked at your face again and the thing in him was not fraying now. It was not unstable. It had resolved into something very clear and very still, the stillness of a decision made completely. “Stay here,” he said. You looked at him. At his face, at whatever was in it that had no human register. “Ki —”

“Stay here,” he said again. “Do not come in. Whatever you hear — do not come in.” “What are you going to do.” He looked at you. He did not answer. He did not need to. The answer was in his face and you could read it, he knew you could — you who catalogued things, you who paid attention, you who had looked at him from the very beginning with that serious and complete regard.

“Ki,” you said. Very quietly. “I know,” he said. He stood. He pressed his mouth to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your eye. He held your face in his hands one more moment and looked at you and you looked back at him and the lamp burned between you for the last time in this configuration, and then he put it down and he turned and he walked back to the house.

Your father was in the kitchen. He had not gone back to bed — he was at the table with a glass and his bible open in front of him, which Riki observed with a clarity that had no heat in it. The heat had burned off entirely on the walk across the yard. What was left was something much older and much colder than heat, something that had existed in him before he had a name for it, that had been in his hands in a field of winter wheat and had made a decision and had never, in the long unmeasured time since, doubted that decision. He came through the door. Your father looked up.

And Riki looked at him — and did not speak, and did not move, and simply let what he was rise to the surface of him completely and without management, without the careful containment of the kitchen two days ago, without the held door in a high wind. He let it come. The lamp went out.

Not guttered — extinguished, as though the air itself had decided it was no longer necessary. The temperature in the kitchen dropped so severely that your father’s breath became visible, a pale ghost of it in the sudden dark, and the glass on the table cracked cleanly down the middle and the bible’s pages turned without wind, all of them, to the end. Your father did not stand. Something had communicated to his body, below the level of thought, that standing would not help. Riki crossed the kitchen.

He did it slowly. There was no need to do it otherwise. Your father pressed back against his chair and made a sound that had no language in it, the sound of a creature that has encountered something outside the category of things it knows how to respond to, and Riki looked at him with eyes that were not, in this moment, entirely the eyes he wore in the daylight — and he was very calm, and very certain, and he put his hand on your father’s chest, and he was not long about it.

It was not cruel. He was not, had never been, cruel. He had been made for judgment, once — true judgment, the kind that weighed carefully and arrived at precision, not the kind your father had practiced in this house for nine years with a belt and a bible and a voice kept deliberately low. He knew the difference. He had always known the difference. It was the knowing that had cost him everything and he did not regret it, standing in this dark kitchen, not for a single part of a second. He stayed until it was finished.

Then he stood in the dark for a moment, in the silence of a house that had learned to be quiet and was now quiet for a different reason, and he breathed, in and out, and he let the thing in him recede back to its fraying dormant place. He walked back across the yard. He came through the barn door. The lamp caught him in pieces — his hands first, then his shirt, the dark stain of it. His face, which was entirely still, which had the quality of something that has passed through a very great heat and come out the other side resolved. His eyes, which found yours immediately and did not look away.

He stopped a few feet from you. You looked at him. At all of it, in the lamplight, without flinching. You looked at him the way you had looked at his scars in the morning light — because you did not want to look away from the parts of him that had cost him something.

He had done this before. In a different form, in a different age. He had been made for it, once. But he had never done it for this — for someone sitting in a barn in Nevada with a cedar quilt around her shoulders and her mother’s capable hands and nine years of just us and an almost-smile that he intended to spend a very long time coaxing into something less careful. “Ki,” you said. Your voice was steady. He had not known what your voice would be and it was steady, and something in him came fully to rest at the sound of it.

“Yes,” he said. You stood. The quilt fell from your shoulders. You crossed to him and you took his face in your hands — the way you had in the barn two nights ago, that careful and unapologetic hold — and you looked at him from very close. “You’re beautiful,” you said. He looked at you. At the absolute sincerity of it, the plainness of it, the way you said it the way you said everything — directly, and without fuss, and meaning it completely.

Something broke open in him. Not badly. The way ground breaks open in spring — to let something through. You kissed him. He kissed you back with everything he had, which was not what he’d had before the fall, which was less and more complicated and fraying at the edges, and it was enough, it was more than enough, it was the most enough anything had ever been.

You took very little. Your mother’s books. A change of clothes. The small tin of money you had kept in the flour jar for nine years because you had always known, in the way people know things they do not say aloud, that there would come a morning when you would need it. He saddled Clementine. Job watched this process with the air of an animal that had opinions but had decided, on this particular occasion, to keep them to himself.

The sky was going grey at the east when you came out of the house for the last time. You stood on the porch for a moment — not long, a breath, the specific pause of someone saying goodbye to something that was never really home — and then you stepped off it and crossed the yard and he held Clementine while you mounted and then he handed you the reins and you looked down at him. “Are you going to walk again?” you said. The almost-smile, present and real, and he looked at it and thought: there it is.

“I find I prefer it,” he said. “It gives me something to look at.” The colour came into your face, high on the cheekbones. He took Clementine’s bridle and he began to walk, and she walked with him, and you rode above him in the early morning with the Nevada land going gold around you and the sky opening up ahead in every colour it had, and he walked and looked at the horizon and felt the sun on his face, which was new enough still to notice, which he hoped would always be new enough to notice.

“Ki,” you said, from above him. “Yes, sweetheart.” “Where are we going?” He looked out at the land. At the vast and red and indifferent and quietly magnificent land, all that open sky above it, all that possibility in the distance. “Away from here,” he said. “And then — wherever you like.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I’ve never chosen before,” you said. Wondering, slightly. The voice of someone holding something new, testing the weight of it. “I know,” he said. “You have time.” The sun came fully over the horizon. Nevada went gold. Clementine walked on, and you rode, and he walked beside you with his face in the light and his hands at his sides and the scars on his back that had stopped hurting, finally, or had not stopped hurting but had become the kind of hurt that was also the shape of a choice he would make again and again and again —

And the road ahead was open. And you were on it. And that was enough. That was everything.

He didn’t talk much, but when he did, people shut up fast. Rumors followed him everywhere anyway: fights, expulsions he somehow avoided, nights where people swore they saw him leaving places covered in bruises that weren’t his.

No one could ever prove anything.

That somehow made it worse.

And then there was you.

The one who didn’t belong in either of their worlds.

The “normal” one, people liked to say.

Good grades. Good attendance. Good reputation. The kind of student professors remembered in a positive way. The kind parents pointed at when they talked about “making good choices.”

You were the opposite of everything Sukuna and Gojo represented—and somehow, that was exactly why nobody could understand how the three of you ended up inseparable.

It started as an accident, or at least that’s what you told yourself.

A shared class. A group project nobody else wanted to do properly. Gojo talking too much, Sukuna barely talking at all, and you stuck in the middle trying not to lose your sanity.

“You’re weirdly bossy for someone who looks like that,” Gojo had said the first day you met him.

“Shut up,” you replied immediately.

Sukuna, from the corner of the room, had looked up once and muttered, “She’s annoying.”

“Wow,” you shot back. “Nice to meet you too, asshole.”

That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Somehow, it turned into late-night study sessions, then food runs, then hanging out because “everyone else is boring as fuck anyway,” according to Gojo.

Sukuna never said much about it, but he never left either. And slowly, without anyone acknowledging it out loud, the three of you became a strange kind of unit.

Campus didn’t know what to do with that.

People stared when you walked with them.

They whispered when they saw you laughing with Gojo in the hallway.

They went silent when Sukuna stood next to you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You know they’re talking about us again,” you said one afternoon, walking between them across campus.

Gojo leaned down slightly. “Let them talk. It’s fun.”

“It’s annoying.” you muttered, dragging a hand over your face like you were already tired of the conversation.

Sukuna glanced at you briefly. “Ignore it.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You look like you enjoy being feared.”

“I don’t care enough to correct them,” he said flatly.

Gojo grinned. “See? He’s romantic like that.”

Sukuna didn’t even look at him. “Say something stupid again and I’m punching you in the face.”

Gojo grinned wider, like that was encouragement. “That’s the spirit.”

It should’ve felt normal.

It didn’t.

Not really.

Because there was always something slightly off about the two of them—like they were constantly in on something you weren’t. It wasn’t obvious at first. Just little things. The way Gojo sometimes watched your reactions instead of the movie. The way Sukuna’s attention always seemed sharper when something violent came on screen.

Especially horror movies.

That was their thing.

Every night they dragged into it

“C’mon,” Gojo would say, already pulling up another film on your TV. “You can’t seriously tell me you’re not scared of this one.”

“I’m not,” you answer immediately, not even looking away from the screen, arms crossed like you were already bored of the argument.

“You say that every time,” he laughed, leaning back into the couch like he already knew he'd win the argument.

Sukuna was usually sitting somewhere slightly behind you, would add without looking away from the screen, “She’s just pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” you snapped immediately, turning your head slightly like that was the dumbest thing, you've heard all night, arms crossing tighter over your chest.

Gojo gasped dramatically. “She’s immune to fear. We’re doomed.”

You rolled your eyes. “This is predictable. The killer always shows up in the last ten minutes and half the cast is stupid.”

Sukuna hummed faintly. “And you’d survive longer?”

“Obviously.” you added under your breath, like it wasn't even a debate.

That was usually when Gojo leaned in closer, grinning. “I still say you’d scream first.”

“I would not.” You shot back immediately, not even looking at him.

“You would.” Gojo said, leaning back like it was a fact didn't need to prove.

Sukuna finally glanced at you then, just for a second. “She wouldn’t last five minutes.”

“Excuse me?” you cut in immediately, turning your head toward him like you couldn’t believe what you just heard.

That was how it always went.

Jokes, Teasing, Arguments that never meant anything serious, —just noise filling the space between movies, popcorn, and whoever was talking the loudest.

Until the news interrupted, the TV flickered mid-movie.

The screen stuttered once… twice… then cut sharply to black before a breaking report forced its way through, swallowing the sound of whatever scene you’d been watching.

“Another body has been found near the eastern campus district—”

The room went quieter without anyone telling it to, like the air itself had noticed something and decided to stop moving for a second. Even the background noise from the TV felt distant now, like it didn’t belong in the same space anymore.

You frowned. “What the hell?”

You sit up a little straighter on the couch, eyes flicking toward the TV like it personally offended you, then back at them like they were supposed to explain it. “Why did it just do that?” you add, voice lower now, more confused than joking.

Gojo tilted his head slightly. “That’s new.”

The reporter continued talking, voice steady in that unsettling way news anchors always had when something terrible was being explained like it wasn’t real life.

Serial killings, students targeted, two suspects, still unidentified, a warning to remain indoors at night. The words kept coming anyway, too calm for what they actually meant, like the screen wasn’t talking about people at all—just statistics, just another update someone had to report before moving on.

For a moment, the humor drained out of Gojo’s face.

Sukuna didn’t move at all.

“…That’s fucked up,” you muttered quietly.

Gojo leaned back on your couch, whistling low. “Campus is gonna lose its mind over this.”

You didn’t laugh. Your eyes stayed on the screen for a second longer than necessary before you slowly looked away, turning toward Sukuna instead.

You looked at Sukuna. “You’ve got that face again.”

Sukuna barely shifted, but his eyes flicked toward you for a second. “What face?”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him like you’re trying to confirm it. “The ‘I’m thinking too much’ face.”

Sukuna clicks his tongue softly, almost like he’s annoyed you noticed. He leans back slightly, eyes half-lidded again like he’s trying to reset his expression

He clicked his tongue slightly. “It’s nothing.”

But he kept watching the screen longer than necessary.

Gojo, for once, didn’t joke immediately. “You think it’s real?”

Sukuna finally looked away. “It’s real enough for people to panic.”

You shifted slightly a small chill runs through you anyway, subtle but noticeable, and you hug your arms a little tighter as you lean back. “Well, I’m not staying locked inside like some horror movie idiot.”

Gojo laughed again, but it didn’t sound as loud this time. “That’s what the first victim says.”

“Shut up,” you said automatically as you glance at him immediately.

But Sukuna’s eyes lingered on you a second too long, like he was checking if you actually heard him or if you were just brushing it off like everything else tonight.

“Lock your doors,” he said casually, but there was nothing casual about the way he said it.

You frowned at him . “I always do.”

There’s a short pause, like that answer wasn’t quite enough for him.

“Do it anyway.” he adds after a second, quieter this time, already looking away like he didn’t want to make it sound like a big deal.

You huff softly through your nose. “I do it anyway,” you repeat, leaning back into the couch, trying to shake off how serious he sounded for no reason.

Gojo smirked faintly, watching the exchange like it was more interesting than the movie now. “Yeah, listen to Sukuna. He’s paranoid for a reason.”

“I’m not paranoid,” Sukuna said as he clicks his tongue immediately, sharper this time.

“Sure,” Gojo shrugs lazily, leaning back like he's completely unbothered again.

The night moved on after that, like the conversation didn’t matter. Movie resumed, jokes returned, normal came back the way it always did—easy, familiar, like the news report had already been mentally pushed to the side and replaced with something lighter.

Eventually, Gojo stretched dramatically arms going up like he was performing for an audience that didn’t exist. “Alright, I’m out.”

Sukuna stood a minute later.

You looked between them. “You guys leaving already?” you ask, still half-leaning into the couch, like the idea doesn’t fully register yet.

“Got things to do,” Gojo said, grinning, already reaching for his jacket like he was in no rush but still somehow leaving immediately anyway.

Sukuna didn’t explain anything, He never really did, but he stood up anyway.

As they reached the door, Gojo turned back one more time, leaning slightly on the frame like he had to make it dramatic. “Try not to get murdered while we’re gone.”

“I hate you,” you said instantly, no real heat behind it, more automatic than anything.

He laughed like that was the exact reaction he wanted. “Love you too.”

Sukuna lingered a second longer than Gojo. Just enough to feel noticeable.

His eyes met yours briefly, steady and unreadable in a way that made the silence feel heavier than it should’ve.

“Don’t answer unknown calls,” he said. It was very simple, direct even, no tone to joke it away.

You rolled your eyes immediately trying to shake it off. “What, you think the killer’s gonna prank call me?”

“Just don’t,” he repeats, quieter this time, like it isn’t worth arguing about.

Then he left.

And the house got quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s waiting for something to happen. Like sound had been turned down on purpose, like something was still there but choosing not to move yet.

You stood there for a moment after the door closed, staring at the empty hallway, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that settled in your chest.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered to yourself, reaching for the remote again.

But somehow, it didn’t feel like nothing. At least, that's what you tried to tell yourself.

But as the silence settled back over the house, that uneasy feeling never really went away.

── დ ──

The house always felt different after Gojo and Sukuna left.

Not empty, exactly. Their presence just had a way of filling every room without either of them trying. Gojo was loud enough to occupy an entire house by himself, and Sukuna's silence somehow did the same thing.

Just quieter - Too quiet.

The kind of quiet you only noticed after spending hours listening to Gojo run his mouth about horror movies and Sukuna complaining about literally everything.

The front door had barely shut behind them before the silence started settling into the walls.

You stood there for a moment after locking the door, staring at it longer than necessary. "Don't answer unknown calls."

You rolled your eyes as you locked the door. Of course that was the last thing he'd say before leaving.

Sukuna always had to get the last word in. Every single time.

"Like I'm in some stupid horror movie, victim, " you muttered under your breath shaking your head, twisting the lock a little harder than necessary like that would make the thought go away.

The deadbolt clicked into place.

You checked the windows too, mostly because Sukuna's annoying warning had gotten stuck in your head more than you wanted to admit.

Locked. Locked. Locked.

Satisfied, you headed back toward the living room.

The TV was still playing.

The horror movie Gojo had forced everyone to watch continued in the background, though now that you were alone it wasn't nearly as entertaining. Half the fun came from making fun of the movie with them.

Without Gojo's commentary and Sukuna's insults, it was just another predictable slasher film.

You grabbed your blanket from the couch and wrapped it around yourself.

"Wow," you said to the television tilting your head slightly like it might answer you back. "You're really gonna run upstairs instead of leaving the house."

The actress screamed.

You groaned, leaning back into the couch like you couldn’t believe people still fell for it. “Deserved.”

A few minutes later you wandered into the kitchen.

The popcorn bowl from earlier sat nearly empty on the counter, a few unpopped kernels still stuck to the sides like it had given up halfway through.

You debated going to bed.

Then decided against it.

It wasn't even that late.

Besides, after everything on the news tonight, sleep sounded exhausting than anything else—like your brain would just replay it the second you closed your eyes.

Another movie sounded better.

Something normal. Something predictable. Something that didn’t have breaking news attached to it.

The microwave beeped softly as fresh popcorn finished popping, the sound cutting clean through the quiet kitchen.

Butter melted.

The familiar smell filled the kitchen, warm and heavy in the air like nothing in the world had changed.

Normal.

Comforting.

Nothing scary about any of it.

You carried the bowl back into the living room and flopped onto the couch, adjusting the blanket like it was just another regular night.

Outside, the neighborhood was dark.

Most of the houses across the street had their lights off already. A few porch lights still glowed faintly in the distance, scattered like small, tired stars.

Everything looked peaceful.

So peaceful it almost felt wrong, like the world was pretending nothing had happened earlier just to mess with you.

Safe.

The phone rang.

You actually jolted this time, not even a small one, your whole body reacting before your brain caught up.

You nearly dropped the popcorn.

"Jesus Christ-" you blurted out, louder than you meant to, immediately shifting forward on the couch like that would somehow make the sound stop faster.

Your heart jumped before you could stop it.

The ringtone echoed through the quiet house.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

You stared at your phone on the coffee table.

Unknown Number.

You frowned. Your fingers hovered for a second, not touching it, just hovering there like you were testing whether it was real or not.

At midnight?

Who the hell?

Because nothing good ever comes from midnight calls in movies, and apparently your life was deciding to follow that rule tonight too.

The phone continued ringing.

"Probably Gojo," you said out loud, but it came out weird this time—less like a joke, more like you were trying to give it a normal explanation so your brain would stop spinning.

You reached over and answered.

"You're paying for my therapy if this is another one of your dumb pranks," you said immediately, already half-expecting Gojo to laugh before you even finished the sentence.

Silence.

You immediately sighed. You blinked once, still holding the phone to your ear like it might start making sense if you waited long enough.

"Gojo?" you tried again, slower this time.

Nothing.

Not even breathing.

Just silence.

That’s when your face shifted a little without you meaning it to, the humor draining out before you could stop it.

You sat up slightly. "Hello?"

Your voice wasn’t joking anymore now. It came out smaller, like the house had gotten quieter around it without you noticing.

A few seconds passed.

Long enough that you almost convinced yourself it was a mistake. A pocket dial. A glitch. Something normal.

Then a voice spoke.

"Was the movie any good?"

Your expression changed before you could stop it. The small, absent smile you didn’t even realize was there just disappeared off your face completely, like it had been wiped clean

Male. Deep. Calm in a way that didn’t feel casual at all—like every word had already been decided before it was spoken.

Too calm.

You sat up slightly, phone tighter in your hand now without you even noticing, eyes narrowing at nothing in particular like that would help you figure it out faster.

Not Gojo, Not Sukuna, Someone else.

"Who is this?" you asked, slower this time, more serious than before, like if you sounded calm enough the situation would start making sense again.

A brief pause.

Not empty. Not accidental.

"You sound disappointed."

That made your face tighten immediately.

"Who the fuck is this?" you snapped this time, sharper, fully alert now, sitting forward on the couch like your body had finally caught up to your instincts.

The man laughed quietly, not loud enough to be casual. Not crazy or sharp enough to be mocking.

Just amused.

The sound made your stomach twist for reasons you couldn't explain.

"Language," The man on the phone said, voice still calm, almost controversial - like he was correcting you over something small instead of the fact that he'd just called your phone at midnight uninvited.

You sat up straighter without even thinking about it, your shoulders pulling in slightly as you adjusted your grip on the phone. The couch suddenly didn’t feel as comfortable as it did a minute ago, like your body had decided it didn’t trust the space anymore.

"Okay, seriously. Wrong number." You try to sound annoyed, like this is just an inconvenience, but your grip on the phone tightens anyway without you meaning to. The silence on the other end doesn't feel like confusion- it feels like he's listening too closely.

"No." The response comes instantly, calm and absolute, with no hesitation at all, and that alone is enough to make your expression shift, the annoyance slipping out of your face without you meaning it to because something about the certainty in his voice doesn't match a wrong number, doesn't match anything normal.

The voice remained pleasant after that, almost friendly in a way that feels off the longer you sit with it, like he has no reason to change his tone because nothing about this conversation is surprising to him at all.

"I don't think it is."

Something about the conversation felt strange, the way he said it makes the conversation tilt slightly, not enough to be openly threatening, not enough to panic you outright, but just enough to sit wrong in your chest like a thought you can’t fully finish.

Not immediately threatening.

Just... off.

Like speaking to someone who knew something you didn't, someone filling in the gaps before you even realize they’re there.

You glanced toward the front window, like your brain is checking something it doesn’t fully understand yet, and all you see is the darkness outside pressing against the glass, the reflection of the room faintly layered over it like it doesn’t belong there.

Darkness stared back.

The man spoke again.

"What are you watching?"

You hesitate for half a second, frowning a little at how normal the question sounds compared to everything else, like this is just casual conversation instead of a midnight call from a stranger.

"A movie."

"What kind?"

"Horror."

There’s a brief pause on the line, just long enough for you to notice it, long enough to make you wonder if he’s smiling on the other end even though you can’t see him.

Then he laughs again—quiet, controlled, like he expected your answer before you gave it.

"I figured."

Your fingers tightened around the phone without really noticing it at first, like your body is reacting before your thoughts fully catch up. The conversation should have ended already- there's no reason for it to still be going, no reason for you to still be listening- but you haven't hung up, and that fact sits in the back of your mind a little too clearly for comfort

The conversation should've ended already, but you hadn't hung up. Partly because you were curious, and trying to figure out who is this.

"You call random people often?" you asked, trying to sound more in control than you actually feel, like making it casual will somehow shrink the situation down to something normal again.

There's a pause on the other end, brief but deliberate, like he's considering the question instead of just answering it.

"Only interesting ones." The answer comes without hesitation, like it’s already been decided long before you spoke, and that alone makes something in your expression tighten slightly as you sit there trying to figure out what “interesting” even means to someone like this.

"Oh my God." The words slip out of your mouth before you can stop them, more annoyed than actually afraid, and you lean back slightly like the conversation itself is starting to feel ridiculous.

"You're one of those."

"One of what?" The response comes immediately, like he's genuinely entertained by the label more than offended by it

"Those creepy mysterious callers." You say, rolling your eyes even though there's no one here to see it, trying to push the conversation back into something normal, something you can control.

"I prefer charming." He laughs quietly at that, like the idea itself is entertaining to him.

"Yeah," you mutter, adjusting your grip on the phone, “you’re not doing a great job.”

The man chuckled again.

For a moment, it almost feels like the conversation could stay there. Weird, but harmless enough.

Then he asks, "Are you home alone?"

The shift is immediate, not in volume or tone, but in how it lands. Your face changes before you even fully process why, the casual energy slipping out of you as your attention locks in a little more tightly.

"What?" you say, slower this time, like repeating it might reveal something different in it.

"Simple question," he adds, still steady, still unbothered.

The voice remained casual. Too casual.

You sat up completely now.

"Why would you ask me that?" you say, and this time your voice isn’t teasing at all, just careful, like you’re trying to figure out where the conversation actually changed direction.

Another pause on the line, not empty but deliberate, like he’s deciding what version of the truth you get.

"Because if I was alone in a house after hearing about two serial killers on the news..."

The smile vanished from your face, The silence stretches just long enough to feel heavier than it should.

"...I'd be nervous."

The room suddenly felt colder, not because of anything physical changing, but because of the way his words settled into it. Slow. Deliberate. Like he wasn’t just talking to you—like he was watching what each sentence did to you, waiting to see what would break first.

You stood up from the couch a little too fast, like staying seated for another second would somehow make the situation worse.

"Okay," you said, but it didn’t come out light anymore. Your voice had tightened without permission, flattening into something more controlled, more defensive. “Conversation’s over.”

For a second, there was nothing on the line.

"Wait."

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

"Don't hang up yet."

You started walking toward the kitchen anyway, like moving will make the conversation feel less real, like you can physically outspace whatever direction it's heading.

"I don't know you."

"But I know you."

That made you stop.

Not fully. Not dramatically. Just enough that your steps hesitate mid-motion, like your body didn’t get the memo to keep going.

For a second, the house feels louder again—the faint hum of the fridge, the soft shift of your own breathing—and then his voice cuts back in and everything else fades behind it.

The man continued.

"You don't like horror movies,"

You frown without thinking, staring into the space ahead of you like the sentence itself is wrong. “What?”

"You think they're predictable." he continues, still calm, still certain, like he’s listing facts instead of guessing them.

A knot formed in your stomach, small at first, easy to ignore if you pretend hard enough—but it doesn’t go away.

"You make fun of the characters."

Your grip on the popcorn bowl shifts slightly, your fingers tightening around the edge without you noticing.

"You always think you'd survive."

The popcorn bowl suddenly felt heavier in your hands, more noticeable, like even that small comfort has turned into something you’re aware of.

You looked toward the window again without meaning to.

Nothing there.

No one.

Just darkness pressing up against the glass like it belongs there more than the light inside does.

"Who are you?" you asked quietly.

The mysterious caller on the phone ignored the question.

Instead, he asked one of his own.

"What's your favorite scary movie?"

You stared into the dark living room as the question settled between you. It was simple enough on the surface, the kind of thing Gojo would ask just to start an argument, yet somehow it felt wrong.

Very wrong.

Without meaning to, you found yourself glancing around the room again, suddenly aware of every shadow and every corner.

And for the first time all night, you weren't making fun of the horror movie anymore.

Because suddenly it felt like you were standing inside one.

The silence stretched after that. not the comfortable kind, the kind that made your skin crawl.

You stood in the middle of your living room with the phone pressed against your ear, staring toward the dark window above the couch. Your reflection stared back at you from the glass, distorted by the darkness outside.

Nothing was there.

At least that's what you told yourself.

The caller chuckled softly, and the sound pulled your attention away from the window

"You got quiet."

You swallowed before you could stop yourself.

"Yeah, No shit."

The man laughed again. It was the same calm laugh as before, easy and unhurried, like he wasn't sitting on the other end of a strange midnight phone call but having a perfectly normal conversation.

Somehow that made it worse. It felt less like a prank and more like a game he was enjoying far more than you were.

"You sound nervous."

"I'm not nervous."

"Liar."

You rolled your eyes immediately, more out of irritation than confidence.

"Okay, first of all, fuck you."

That earned a louder laugh from him, and for some reason that irritated you even more than it scared you. Maybe because he sounded genuinely entertained. Maybe because every sarcastic comment you threw at him seemed to amuse him instead of shutting him up.

"Second of all," you continued, pacing a few steps across the living room, "if you're trying to be scary, you're doing a terrible job."

"Oh?"

The single word was enough to make you stop walking. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it—like he had suddenly become interested.

"Yeah."

You grabbed the popcorn bowl from the coffee table and sat back down, trying to convince yourself that this was just some loser with too much free time and an obsession with horror movies. Annoying? Sure. Creepy? Maybe a little. But there was no way you were going to let him know that.

"You're basically reading lines from every horror movie ever made."

The caller hummed thoughtfully on the other end, and for some reason the sound irritated you more than an actual argument would've.

"Maybe that's because horror movies know people better than people know themselves."

You stared at the phone for a second before letting out a short laugh. "Wow."

Grabbing a handful of popcorn, you tossed a piece into your mouth and shook your head. "That was deep."

"It was." The confidence in his answer made you snort.

"No. It wasn't." You rolled your eyes and leaned back further into the couch. "That sounds like something a guy writes in a notebook after listening to one sad playlist and suddenly thinks he understands the meaning of life."

A brief silence that followed wasn't nearly as awkward as it should've been.

"You really aren't scared of anything, are you?"

"Nope." A small smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth.

"Bullshit."

That earned an actual laugh from you. Not nervous. Not forced. Just genuine amusement.

"You're literally proving my point right now."

"How?"

The question comes a little quicker this time, and you can almost hear the curiosity underneath it. For the first time since the call started, he sounds interested rather than entertained.

"Because every scary movie starts the same way."

The caller seemed interested now. "Oh?"

You shift further into the couch, crossing one leg over the other as you glance toward the television still playing in the background.

"Yeah. The killer thinks they're smarter than everybody else."

The line remained silent. Not disconnected. Listening

So you kept talking.

"Then they spend twenty minutes talking instead of doing whatever they're supposedly planning."

For a moment, neither of you says anything.

You can hear the faint sound of your own breathing through the receiver.

"And then?"

You smiled despite yourself.

"And then they lose."

The callers laugh is different from the others.

Low, Amused, Dangerous.

There's something else underneath it now, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up even though you can't explain why. The sound lingers through the phone for a second longer than it should before his voice returns.

"I like you." he says, and for the first time all night it doesn't sound teasing or amused. The words leave his mouth too easily, too naturally, like it's a conclusion he's already reached while you've been busy trying to figure him out.

You frowned, the words slipping out of you more dismissive than amused, though even as you said them it didn’t quite land the way you wanted it to.

"That's unfortunate."

The words left your mouth before you can stop them, but the joke doesn't land the way you intended. Something about the way he said it makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

Not because it sounded romantic, or charming. If anything, that would've been easier to dismiss.

What unsettled you was how genuine it sounded. Like he wasn't flirting. Like he was simply stating a fact he'd already decided was true.

"I mean it."

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist.

"Okay, now you're officially weird," you said, trying to bring the conversation back to something lighter, something you could control again, but even your voice came out a little sharper than you intended.

The caller ignored the comment completely.

"You always do that," he says, his voice carrying that same quiet certainty that's been bothering you since the call started.

You slowed mid-step without realizing it, your grip tightening around the phone as your brows pulled together.

"...Do what?"

The answer came immediately, like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

"Pace when you're irritated."

That alone would’ve been easy to brush off, something anyone could guess if they were lucky.

But then he added more, and the certainty in his voice started to feel heavier than coincidence.

"You chew on the inside of your cheek when you're thinking."

Your jaw loosened slightly before you even processed why.

You hadn't even realized you were doing that until just now.

A strange quiet spread through your chest as your attention sharpened again, the room suddenly feeling less like your living room and more like somewhere you were being observed from a distance you couldn’t measure.

"You tap your fingers when you're impatient."

"What?" It comes out faster this time, less sarcastic, more instinctive, like your brain is trying to interrupt whatever direction this is going before it settles too deeply.

On the other end, he laughs softly—not loud, not exaggerated, just entertained in a way that makes it worse because it sounds like he’s enjoying how you’re reacting instead of just talking to you.

"You do it all the time."

Your eyes drifted without permission, first to the window, then the hallway, like your body was checking for something your mind didn’t want to name yet.

"Who are you?" You ask again, but this time it doesn’t sound like irritation anymore. It sounds like you’re actually trying to understand.

No answer.

"You know that's not creepy at all."

Another soft laugh follows, and your grip tightens again before he continues, voice still calm, still too familiar with you in a way that doesn’t make sense.

"You leave lights on when you're alone."

Your chest tightens.

And suddenly, it stops feeling like a conversation at all.

"You sleep with your TV running sometimes."

You didn't respond right away, not because you had a clever comeback ready, but because for the first time tonight you couldn’t tell if he was just guessing like before or if he actually knew something about you that he shouldn’t. That uncertainty sat heavier than anything he’d said so far, and it made the silence on your end stretch longer than you meant it to.

The caller sighed softly like he could feel that shift in you.

"You really should close your curtains."

Your body reacted before your thoughts fully caught up, your head turning sharply toward the living room window like it had been mentioned on purpose. The curtains were still open. They had been open all night without you even thinking about it, just letting the dark outside sit there like it didn’t matter.

And now suddenly it did.

Because all that separated you from the street was glass—and from the outside, it was just darkness in your house, no movement, no detail, nothing to explain what was inside.

Right?

The thought barely finishes before a quiet laugh comes through the phone, low and almost satisfied in a way that makes your stomach drop for no clear reason.

And for the first time all night, your confidence cracked just a little.

"Now," he said softly, like he’s observing you instead of talking to you, “are you scared yet?”

The silence that follows doesn’t feel empty anymore. It feels held there, like he’s waiting for you to admit something you don’t want to say out loud.

You let out a slow breath, shifting the phone against your ear like you was already tired of the entire conversation.

“Okay,” You say at last, voice sharper now, more defensive than amused, “I don’t know who you think you are, but you’ve got way too much free time on your hands. Seriously. Go outside, touch grass, get a job—something.”

There’s a small pause on the other end, and then he laughs.

“You talk a lot for someone alone in a house,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

You rolled your eyes immediately, trying to drag yourself back into control of the situation. “Yeah, because I’m unfortunately stuck talking to you.”

“Still not scared?”

That question lands differently than the others. Not teasing this time, Just direct.

“Should I be?" you shoot back, forcing some attitude back into your voice, but it doesn’t quite sit right anymore.

Because now the humor is thinning out. And what’s left underneath it feels a lot less like a prank—and a lot more like something you didn’t invite into your house in the first place.

“Right now,” you add, quieter but sharper, “you’re just giving unemployed serial killer vibes. Whatever.”

The voice on the other end dropped lower slightly, the shift subtle enough that it didn’t sound louder or angrier—just different. Colder.

“You think this is funny?”

You paused, leaning back a little, trying to keep your tone steady even as the conversation started to feel less like a game and more like something you were slowly losing control of.

"I think you’re bored," you said instead, because that still felt like the safest explanation.

“That’s where you’re wrong.”

The calmness in his voice changed the atmosphere more than any raise in volume ever could. It wasn’t frustration. It wasn’t irritation. It was certainty, like he didn’t need you to believe him for what he was about to say next to matter.

“You have friends who answer for you," he continued, like he was thinking out loud rather than speaking to you directly, “but they’re not always going to be there.”

Your expression tightened before you could stop it.

“…What?”

A small knot started forming in your stomach as the kitchen around you suddenly felt too still, like even the background noise had dulled without you noticing.

He let the silence sit there for a moment longer than necessary.

“Let me make something clear softly," he says softly, almost casually, like he was explaining something simple. ““Don’t think about hanging up. Don’t even consider it like an option. Because if you do…”

A pause.

"I'll gut you like a pig and spread you're insides all over campus, you wouldn't want that happen would you?" The mysterious caller on the phone says with a mocking teasing tone, but it seems like his words were true.

Your grip tightened around the phone without you even noticing at first, like your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

A pause followed, heavier this time, like he was letting the silence sit on purpose before continuing.

“And I don’t think you want to find out how serious.”

Your mouth went dry for half a second, the earlier confidence slipping just slightly out of place as you tried to keep your breathing steady.

“…Okay,” You said slowly, forcing your voice to stay level even though it wasn’t working as well as you wanted it to, “you’re doing too much now.”

A faint exhale came through the phone, almost like a sigh, but not frustrated—more like patient, like he was considering how far he actually needed to go.

“I could make it worse.”

That alone made you step back from the counter instinctively, your hand tightening again around the phone like it had become the only solid thing in the room.

“Worse how?” You snapped, but it came out sharper than steady, like you were trying to push the feeling down instead of actually challenging him.

The Mysterious caller didn’t answer the way you expected.

Instead, it shifted direction entirely.

“You’re not alone as often as you think you are."

“Okay, no,” You said immediately, voice tightening as you took another step back without thinking, “we’re done. I’m done. Whatever this is, I’m done.”

A quiet laugh followed, calm and almost amused.

“You always think you can end things first.”

Then- Click.

You froze.

Not because it was over, but because for a second it didn’t feel like it had actually ended cleanly. The line didn’t just drop into silence immediately—there was a faint stretch of static, like something lingered on the other end a second too long before it finally went dead.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the phone like it had personally offended your existence.

"What the fuck,” you muttered under your breath, barely even recognizing your own voice.

For a second, you didn’t move. Didn’t really breathe right. Just stood there trying to make your brain catch up with what just happened.

Then you forced yourself to shake it off.

“Nope. Not doing this tonight.”

You walked back into the living room, trying to physically leave the feeling behind you.

The popcorn bowl was still where you left it.

The horror movie was still playing on the TV, some character running down a dark hallway screaming at nothing you cared about anymore.

Predictable.

Annoying.

You grabbed the remote and changed it without hesitation.

“Yeah, no thanks asshole ” You muttered, switching it immediately to something lighthearted—some random comedy rerun you didn’t even bother choosing properly, just anything that wasn’t that voice anymore.

The sudden shift in tone made the room feel less heavy, less wrong. You sank back down into the couch, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself as you forced your breathing to slow down, trying to convince your brain that nothing about this was actually as serious ad it felt a few minutes ago.

You sank back onto the couch, pulling the blanket over yourself again, forcing you're breathing to slow down.

“It’s just a prank,”you told yourself quietly. “It’s literally just some freak with a phone.”

You reached for the popcorn again, more out of habit than hunger.

A few minutes passed. Some comedy show you put on played in the background, laughing track and all, You even let out a small laugh once or twice without really thinking about it, like your body was slowly remembering how to relax again.

Almost Normal.

Almost.

But every now and then, your eyes still drifted toward the hallway, just for a second, like something in you wasn't fully convinced it was over yet.

Then you'd look away again.

"I’m going to bed,” You muttered finally, louder than necessary, like saying it out loud would make it more real, like the house needed to hear it too.

You turned off the TV.

The sudden silence hit harder than you expected, cutting off the background noise so fast it almost felt like something had been taken away instead of just turned off.

You hesitated at the bottom of the stairs for a moment, your hand on the railing, then forced yourself to go up anyway, step by step, trying not to overthink the fact that every sound in the house suddenly felt louder again.

Once in your room, you closed the door behind you and locked it, then checked it once more out of instinct before finally letting yourself breathe properly.

And for the first time that night, you didn't pick up when your phone buzzed again.

You just stared at it for a second too long, let it ring, and turned it face down like ignoring it made it less real

── დ ──

The next morning doesn’t feel like anything ended.

It doesn’t feel like sleep fixed anything either, because it barely happened in the first place. Every time you closed your eyes, there was that voice again—not loud, not shouting, just calm and steady in a way that felt worse than any threat.

Like it wasn’t guessing anymore. Like it already knew how the night was supposed to end, and you were just catching up too slowly to stop it.

By the time sunlight finally creeps in, you stop pretending rest is going to help.

Your room feels too quiet when you finally get dressed, too normal in a way that doesn’t sit right with you. Nothing looks different from yesterday, and that’s exactly the problem. Everything still looks like a regular morning, like nothing happened, and your brain doesn’t know how to match that with what you’re carrying from the night before.

You stand in front of the mirror for second longer than you needed to, just staring at yourself like there should be something obvious written there—some explanation, some proof that you didn’t imagine the whole thing.

There isn't.

So you grab your bag and leave before your thoughts can spiral again.

Outside, the air is cold enough to sting your face immediately, sharp in a way that helps more than it should. It doesn’t fix anything, but it pulls you out of your head just a little.

Halfway down the street, you spot Shoko waiting near the sidewalk like she’s been there for a while already, arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in that tired way she always has in the mornings.

“You look like shit,” she says as soon as you get close.

You let out a breath that's almost a laugh. “Good morning to you too.”

She pushes off the wall and starts walking beside you without making a big deal out of it, but there’s something different in the way she’s looking at you now—less casual, more observant, like she’s actually paying attention instead of just joking around.

“Didn’t sleep?” she asks after a second.

“Barely," you admit.

She huma softly. “Nightmares?”

You hesitate just long enough for that answer to feel heavier than it should.

"Something like that.”

She doesn’t push further, but the silence between you shifts slightly, like she’s filed that away somewhere in her mind instead of dropping it.

After a moment, she changes direction.

“You hear about the second body?” she asks instead.

Your steps slow just slightly before you force them to stay normal. “Second?”

She nods once. “Found near the west parking lot early this morning. Campus is already freaking out.”.”

That tight feeling in your stomach comes back immediately, sharper this time.

“That’s insane," you say quietly.

“Yeah,” she replies, voice flat in that way that makes it sound even worse. “People always act like it’s a movie until it stops being one.”

You don’t answer right away, because something about what Shoko said sits heavier than you want it to. The idea of everything being entertainment until it suddenly isn’t feels a little too familiar right now, and you don’t like how easily your mind connects that to last night.

You both walk in silence for a bit after that.

The closer you get to campus, the more everything changes. It isn’t subtle either—it’s immediate. More people. More noise. More movement that feels too fast for what’s actually happened.

News vans are already outside the gates, parked at awkward angles like they’ve been there since sunrise, reporters leaning forward with microphones, cameras sweeping across crowds of students who can’t seem to decide if they’re supposed to be scared or excited.

Another body has been found.

That’s what everyone keeps repeating, like saying it enough times will make it easier to understand.

Another body. Another warning. Another reason to feel like you should’ve stayed home.

“Jesus,” you muttered under your breath as you take it all in, “it’s like the whole campus broke overnight.”

Shoko glances at you briefly. “It kind of did.”

You step through the gates, and the noise follows you in immediately, swallowing the entrance whole. Students are everywhere—phones up, videos playing, overlapping voices turning everything into noise that doesn’t actually say anything useful.

“I heard it was near the dorms.”

“No, it was someone from class—”

“That’s not even funny, stop—”

You pass them without slowing down, your expression tightening more with every step, not because you’re unaffected, but because you don’t want to get pulled into it.

“People are insane,” you mutter.

“People cope badly,” Shoko replies simply.

Inside the main building, it only gets worse.

Bulletin boards are already covered in emergency notices—printed warnings, security updates, bold text telling everyone to be careful like words alone could undo what’s already happened.

“DO NOT WALK ALONE AT NIGHT.”

“REPORT SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY.”

“SECURITY ESCORT AVAILABLE.”

Like that means anything now.

The hallways are packed, students pressed into clusters, replaying news clips on their phones like it’s content instead of something real. Every few steps you catch fragments of conversation that blur together into one constant noise.

“Did you see the footage?”

“My friend said it was near the east dorms.”

“It’s probably fake.”

“Bro, people literally died.”

You keep moving, head slightly lowered—not because you’re calm, but because looking too long at any of it makes it feel more real than you’re ready for.

Shoko notices anyway.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you answer too quickly, like your body is trying to respond before your brain can correct it. “Just tired.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t press further either.

You keep walking.

A nearby group has a news video playing on full volume, the reporter’s voice cutting through everything else like it doesn’t care how loud the hallway already is.

“Authorities have confirmed the victim was discovered early this morning—”

Some students react like they’re watching a trailer. Others go quiet for a second before going right back to talking. A few even laugh.

“Some people are sick,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” Shoko says flatly. “They are.”

The hallway stretches ahead of you—crowded, loud, chaotic—but you focus on it anyway. Step after step, forcing yourself not to linger on anything for too long.

Not last night. Not the voice.

Not the way everything is starting to feel connected in a way you can’t explain yet.

Because something is happening.

And even if you don’t want to admit it out loud, it already feels like it’s getting closer.

── დ ──

Lunchtime at campus feels almost fake, like the world outside has been screaming about death and panic all morning and somehow inside the cafeteria everyone agreed to pretend none of it exists. Just another normal Tuesday. Just noise, food trays, conversations that don’t match the headlines.

You sit outside first, away from the packed tables and the constant buzzing of voices that all feel too loud for a place where people are supposed to be processing something like this. Your tray sits untouched beside you. Food you don’t really feel like eating.

Your eyes drift across the courtyard without really landing on anything. It’s not even that you’re thinking about one thing at a time anymore—it’s everything at once. The calls. The voice. The news. The way all of it feels like it’s slowly tightening into something you can’t name yet, like a knot you didn’t realize was being tied.

“You’re gonna turn into one of those sad movie characters if you keep staring into space like that.”

The voice comes from above you, casual, like he’s been there the whole time.

Before you even look up, you already know who it is.

Gojo drops into the seat beside you like he belongs there, leaning back like your personal space is optional. An arm immediately lands across your shoulders like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You exhale through your nose. “Get off me.”

“No,” he says simply, not even pretending to consider it.

Behind him, Sukuna sits down more slowly on the bench, like he’s actually aware of where he is instead of just occupying space in it. His eyes flick to you once, then away again, like he’s clocking your mood without saying anything about it.

Gojo leans in slightly, grin already forming. “So. Murder campus. Fun times, right?”

You gave him a flat look . “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he insists, like he’s negotiating something.

“It’s literally people dying.”

Gojo shrugs. “Yeah, but like… not us.”

That makes you pause for half a second before you even realize you’re reacting.

Sukuna exhales like he’s been waiting for that exact moment. “Shut up.”

“What?” Gojo lifts his hands slightly. “I’m just saying facts.”

You shake your head, pushing your focus back down toward your tray. It doesn’t help much.

“How can someone just do that to people like it’s nothing?” The words come out quieter than you meant them to, like they slipped out before you could decide whether to say them at all.

For once, Gojo doesn’t immediately joke back.

Sukuna looks at you longer this time, actually paying attention instead of just existing nearby.

And that’s when your focus drifts again—just slightly—past them.

Back to last night. The phone. The voice. The way it knew things it shouldn’t have known. The way it made everything feel like you were already being watched even when nothing was there.

“Hey.”

Sukuna’s voice cuts in sharper than Gojo’s ever would, low and direct.

You blink, snapping back into the present.

“What?”

He’s still looking at you. Not teasing. Not joking. Just observing.

“You’re not listening,” he says.

You force your shoulders to lift slightly in a shrug that doesn’t really land. “Just tired.”

Gojo leans back. “She’s always tired. That’s basically her brand.”

“Shut up,” you mutter automatically, but there’s no real heat in it.

Sukuna doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary, like he’s not convinced, but eventually he looks away like he’s choosing not to push it.

You stand up from the bench suddenly.

Both of them look up at you.

“Where are you going?” Gojo asks immediately.

You gesture vaguely behind you. “Back to class.”

“Wow,” he says, leaning back again like he’s offended by the concept of responsibility. “Leaving us for education. Betrayal.”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll survive.”

Sukuna finally speaks again as you turn away. “Don’t skip meals.”

You pause slightly.

Then shrug without back. “Not your problem.”

Gojo gasps. “Wow. Cold.”

You walk off.

And behind you, Gojo calls out loudly, completely unconcerned with volume or timing.

“Hey, you think the killer picks victims alphabetically ?!”

A few nearby students turn.

You stop walking.

Slowly turn your head as you stared back at him.

Then flip him off without saying a word.

Gojo immediately raises both hands like he’s been wronged by the universe. “What? I’m just asking questions!”

Sukuna exhales sharply like he’s officially reached his limit for the day. He reaches over, grabs an empty bottle from the table, and throws it straight at Gojo’s head.

Gojo dodges it easily, laughing anyway. “Dude!”

“Dumbass” Sukuna mutters.

You shake your head, already turning away again, but this time there’s something lighter in your chest for a second—barely there, but real enough to notice.

Almost a laugh.

For a moment, it feels normal again.

But as you walk away off, the feeling from earlier doesn’t fully leave.

It just sinks underneath everything again, quiet, waiting, like it never left in the first place.

── დ ──

When school finally ends, it doesn’t feel like relief.

It feels like everyone is just being released back into the same danger, one group at a time, like the building can’t hold it in anymore and is slowly letting people spill out.

Students flood the hallways and then the exits in clusters—pairs, friend groups, people sticking closer than usual without really saying why, like distance suddenly matters in a way it didn’t yesterday.

You adjust your bag strap and start walking home alone. Not because you wanted to, because that’s what you always do.

Every passing car makes your head turn slightly before you even realize you’re doing it. A reflex at this point. Like your body is reacting faster than your thoughts can catch up.

You try not to think about it. Try not to think about anything at all, really.

That’s when you hear a car slow down right beside you.

Not too fast. Not aggressive.

Just matching your pace.

And you already knew before you look.

Gojo leaning halfway out the passenger window like personal space doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, grinning like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Get in,” he calls out casually.

You stop walking immediately. “No.”

He doesn't even hesitate. “Get in before you become tonight’s headline.”

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary . “That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” he shrugs.

From the driver’s seat, Sukuna doesn’t even turn his head fully at first. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, like he’s already tired of the conversation before it starts.

“Stop acting stupid and get in.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I said no.”

Gojo tilts his head like you’re being difficult on purpose. “You really wanna walk alone right now? With everything going on?”

“I’ve walked alone before.”

"“Yeah,” he cuts in, “not with murder news on every screen and half the campus acting like they’re in a documentary.”

That lands a little differently than his usual jokes. Not enough to shut you up. But enough to make the silence stretch.

Sukuna finally glances at you then—quick, steady, not pushing, not teasing. Just watching like he’s waiting to see what you choose rather than trying to convince you.

And somehow that feels louder than Gojo talking.

You exhale sharply throughyour nose. “Fine. Whatever.”

Gojo immediately cheers like he’s won something. “See? Common sense. Love to see it.”

“Shut up,” you mutter as you climb into the back seat.

Inside, it almost feels like nothing is wrong at all. Like the campus isn’t falling apart in slow motion. Like people aren’t whispering about bodies and warnings and names nobody can confirm. Like last night didn’t happen, or at least didn’t stick the way it should have.

Gojo turns the music on immediately—too upbeat, too loud for the mood, like he’s actively refusing to let silence exist. He starts talking almost instantly too. Random things. Professors, stupid students, something he saw in the hallway that made no sense.

At some point, without really noticing when it happens, you find yourself laughing a little.

Even Sukuna seems less sharp in the way he drives—still quiet, still focused, but not as heavy as earlier.

It should feel wrong, but it doesn't.

By the time you reach the diner, the sky has already started shifted into evening, that soft dim light that makes everything look a little warmer than it probably is.

Inside, the place is bright in a way that feels almost exaggerated. Warm lighting, empty booths scattered near the back, the kind of space that makes everything outside feel further away than it actually is.

You slide into one across from them, finally letting your shoulders relax slightly.

For the first time all day, it actually feels... okay.

Gojo immediately leans across the table, breaking the calm like he always does. “Okay. I want fries and a milkshake. And don’t judge me.”

“I’m judging you,” you answer automatically.

“Good," he grins. “Means I’m doing something right.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a small smile there anyway before you can stop it.

Sukuna sits back in the booth, arms loosely crossed, watching the two of you like he’s half annoyed and half used to this dynamic at this point. He doesn’t really join in, but he’s not really absent either.

The food comes. Gojo talks too much. You talk back without thinking too hard about it. The conversation flows in a way that doesn’t require effort, like your brain is finally allowed to rest for a few minutes.

For a while, it actually feels like the world stopped being terrifying.

Like you’re just three students wasting time in a diner.

Then your phone buzzes.

Once.

Then again.

The shift is small, but immediate.

Sukuna notices first.

“What is it?” he asks.

You stare at your screen for a second too long, like you’re trying to decide if acknowledging it makes it real.

Then slowly set it down on the table.

"I got a call last night.”

Gojo’s expression shifts immediately, the playful edge dropping out of his face in a way that makes the change feel more noticeable than anything he actually says. It isn’t concern exactly, and it isn’t fear either, just a sharpened kind of curiosity that makes him lean forward slightly like the conversation just turned into something worth paying attention to.

“Oh?” he says, slower this time.“From who?”

You shrug first, trying to make it sound like it doesn’t matter as much as it actually does. “Unknown number.”

Sukuna’s reaction is quieter, almost subtle enough to miss if you weren’t already paying attention to him, but something in the way his posture shifts tells you he’s listening differently now, like a switch flipped without him saying anything about it.

Gojo tilts his head. “And?”

You hesitate, and for a second you consider brushing it off again, but it’s already sitting in your chest in a way that doesn’t let you fully ignore it anymore, so you end up saying it anyway.

“They knew weird stuff,” you admit. voice lower now without meaning to make it serious, “like things I never told anyone. About me being alone, the house, just… stuff like that. It wasn’t random.”

That gets a different reaction out of Gojo this time. The smile doesn’t disappear, but it loses its looseness, turning sharper around the edges as he leans in further like he’s trying to figure out where the line is between joke and problem.

He leans forward more. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” you answer, though even you can hear how uncertain it sounds, “it felt like they were just messing with me. Probably just trying to freak me out.”

But even as you say it, there’s a part of you that doesn’t fully settle with that explanation anymore.

Gojo let's out a small laugh, but it’s quieter than before, less amused and more unsettled in a way he probably wouldn’t admit out loud. “Okay, that’s actually kind of insane.”

Sukuna doesn’t react at all in the way you expect someone to. No joke, no comment, not even a shift in expression that matches the conversation, which somehow makes his silence feel heavier than anything Gojo is saying.

You glance at him without meaning to. “What?”

He meets your eyes briefly, steady and unreadable, before he looks away again like he’s choosing not to answer too quickly. “Nothing.”

But his voice doesn’t sit right when he says it. There’s tension there, restrained in a way that feels deliberate.

Gojo keeps talking, though, as if he’s trying to keep the conversation from sinking too deep. “Did they threaten you or something?”

“Yeah,” you say after a second, then shrug slightly like you’re trying to downplay it even while you remember how it actually felt, “just stupid talk. Like horror movie stuff.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightens faintly at that, so small you almost think you imagined it, except you know you didn’t, because you’ve started noticing the smallest things about him without trying to.

The diner suddenly feels warmer than before, but not in a comforting way. More like the air itself is getting tighter.

Gojo is still smiling, but Sukuna is still quiet, and you’re starting to realize you can’t decide which one of those makes you more uneasy.

The silence doesn’t last long because Gojo breaks it again, leaning back like the tension was never there to begin with and reaching over without asking to take a fry from your plate.

“So basically,” he says casually, chewing like nothing in the world matters, “you got a creepy spam call from some bored psychopath.”

You immediately slap his hand away without thinking. “Don’t touch my food.”

“Not the point,” he says, still chewing anyway like he’s proven something.

“It kind of is the point.”

Sukuna exhales through his nose, low and controlled, like he’s already tired of both of you again. “Focus.”

Gojo points at him with the fry like that proves something. “I am focused. I’m multitasking.”

You lean forward slightly now, elbows on the table, because sitting back doesn’t feel right anymore. “It wasn’t just spam though. That’s the thing. It felt intentional.”

Gojo’s expression shifts again, less joking now, more curious in a way that’s starting to feel less fun and more invasive. “Intentional how?”

You hesitate, because putting it into words makes it feel worse than it already does, like you’re giving it shape.

“They knew I was alone,” you say finally., quieter now, " they said it like they were sure.”

That lands differently.

Even Gojo doesn’t immediately joke after it.

"Okay,” he says slowly. “That’s actually kind of creepy.”

Sukuna speaks right after him, voice lower. "Did they mention anyone else?"

You glance at him. “Why?”

He doesn’t explain right away, just holds your gaze like he's waiting for you to think harder about it than you already have.

You shift a little under that stare. “ No. They just asked stupid questions. Stupid horror movie stuff. Like they were trying to get into my head or something."

Gojo leans forward again, interest returning but in a different shape now. “Like stalker behavior?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Exactly like that.”

Gojo let's out a breath through his nose, grin returning but thinner than before. "Okay, I take it back. That's not funny. That's just creepy."

Sukuna’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tap once against the table before stopping again. controlled and quiet, like a thought he didn't mean to reveal.

You noticed it anyway.

Not sure why you notice it, but you do.

“You two are acting weird,” you say slowly, watching them both now instead of the table.

Gojo points at himself immediately. “Me? Never.”

You squint at him. “You’re always weird. That’s not new.”

“Rude,” he says, offended.

Sukuna finally speaks again, quieter than both of you, but sharper in meaning. "Did they mention anyone else?"

You pause. “What?”

He leans back slightly, like he didn’t mean to push it that far. "Just asking."

Gojo clears his throat quickly, cutting though the moment like it never existed. "Anyway, not to make this more fun or anything, but if it was a stalker situation, you should probably-"

“I’m not getting a bodyguard,” You cut in immediately, like you’re ending the conversation before it can even become a thing.

Gojo grins. “I was gonna say share your location.”

“Same thing.”

Sukuna mutters under his breath, almost absent. “You already do.”

You pause. “What?”

Gojo laughs like its nothing. “He’s joking.”

Sukuna doesn’t correct him.

You stare between them for a second.

"Do I?” you ask more quietly now.

Gojo waves it off immediately. “Relax. He’s just being dramatic.”

But Sukuna is still looking at you.

The conversation shifts again after that, something completely unrelated, something stupid and exaggerated about a professor that looks like he's hidingsomethingin his basement, “you are actually insane.”

Almost pulls everything back into something normal again.

But every time there’s a gap in the conversation, the earlier words sit back down in your mind like they never left.

The way Sukuna went quiet at the wrong moment.

Eventually, you push your milkshake away slightly.

"I should probably head home,” you say.

Gojo groans immediately like you’ve personally ruined his day. “You just survived emotional damage and now you’re abandoning us?”

“ I did not survive emotional damage.”

“I absolutely carried you through it,” he says confidently.

Sukuna stands up first, not dramatic about it, just calm and final in the way he moves like he already decided something before anyone else did.

“We’ll take you home,” he says.

You blink. “I can walk—”

“No,” he cuts in immediately

Gojo grins again like he’s watching something unfold. “See? He cares.”

Sukuna ignores him completely.

And for some reason, that refusal doesn’t feel like control or protection or even concern.

It feels like certainty, like walking alone was never even an option to begin with.

Comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

You would be washing dishes and feel his palm slide over your hip, squeezing like he was testing the world’s limits. You’d gasp, shoulders rising, and he’d chuckle against your neck, breath warm as he kissed the skin there—slow, deliberate kisses that made your thoughts go quiet in startled bursts.

He touched you like he couldn’t help it.

Like his restraint was a thin thread he kept letting fray.

You were shy about it—so shy it made him worse. Your blush, your stammered little protests, your hands fluttering like you didn’t know where to place them—Sukuna ate those reactions the way starving people ate bread. “Too cute,” he would mutter, voice low, mouth at your throat.

You would whisper, “Sukuna…” And he’d answer by kissing you again.

The first time he kissed you properly—really kissed you—your whole body went still like a deer hearing a twig snap.

It happened late at night, the apartment dim and quiet, the world outside softened into distant city-noise. You were on the futon, a book open in your lap, reading softly because he liked the sound of your voice even when he pretended he didn’t. 

Sukuna had been watching you for a while.

You could feel it—his gaze like heat on your skin.

When you looked up, he was closer than you expected, crouched near you, forearms braced on his knees, crimson eyes fixed on your mouth like it had been calling him. “What,” you whispered, uncertain.

He didn’t answer with words.

He leaned in and kissed you.

Not a peck. Not a quick touch.

A real kiss—slow, heavy, thorough enough to make your lungs forget how to work.

Your mind flashed white, blank with the shock of it. Your fingers clenched around the edge of your book. Your heart pounded wildly, as if it didn’t recognize this kind of closeness and didn’t know whether to run or melt.

And then your body chose for you.

You softened.

You let out a tiny sound you hadn’t meant to make, and Sukuna’s mouth deepened the kiss like he’d been waiting for that permission. The pressure of him—his warmth, his weight, the firm steadiness of his hands holding you where he wanted you—made you tingle in places you didn’t have names for, made your skin feel awake.

Kissing was strange to you.

But it felt… good.

Too good.

Sukuna made a sound in the back of his throat—low, rough—like the taste of you hit something feral in him. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, so you lifted them hesitantly and threaded your fingers into his pale-pink buzzed hair.

His scalp prickled under your nails.

You scratched gently, uncertain, and Sukuna groaned—right into your mouth.

The sound startled you so much you nearly pulled away, but he held you there, one hand at the back of your neck, the other firm at your waist, as if he refused to let you retreat into fear. “Do that again,” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

So you did.

You scratched him again—slightly harder this time, finding some instinct you didn’t know you had—and Sukuna’s whole body tensed like you’d hit a switch. His cheeks flushed faintly, the color spreading fast across his face in a way that looked almost… embarrassed.

He broke the kiss abruptly and swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut for a second like he was trying to regain control of himself.

You blinked up at him, breathless. “Did I… hurt you?” Sukuna let out a sharp exhale—almost a laugh, but not amused. “No,” he muttered, voice rough. “You didn’t hurt me.” Then he cleared his throat, turned away too quickly, and stood. “I need—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I’ll be back.” You watched him disappear toward the bathroom, confused, cheeks still warm, lips still tingling. You sat there with your book forgotten in your lap, heart racing like you’d been chased.

When he came back, his face was calmer—but not fully. Like he’d put himself back together with too much force. He sat down beside you, pulled you into his chest, and held you there with a strange tightness, like he needed to remind himself he was in control.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured into your hair, voice lower than usual. “Do you know that?” Your throat tightened. “I’m not…” Sukuna’s hand slid up your back, firm. “You are.” His words made you feel both adored and owned, all at once.

After that night, the air between you shifted permanently.

It got steamier.

Not always in obvious ways—sometimes it was just the way he looked at you, like he was hungry even when he wasn’t touching you. Sometimes it was the way his hand would drift when you passed him, how he’d press his mouth to your neck while you cooked, how he’d murmur things that made you blush so hard you felt dizzy.

He became more bold with each passing day.

A squeeze at your hip. A kiss that lingered. His face tucked briefly against your chest when you were standing at the counter, a low hum of approval like he’d found something comforting there. He’d mutter, half irritated, half reverent, “Perfect,” like he couldn’t say anything else without breaking himself.

You didn’t always know what to do with it.

Sometimes it made you giggle shyly, hiding your face.

Sometimes it made you freeze, because you were still learning where desire ended and fear began.

But Sukuna… Sukuna looked happier when you let him be close.

Like touch turned his edges softer.

And maybe that was why you let it happen. Maybe that was why your body began to stop flinching as much. Maybe that was why, when he kissed you, your hands found his hair automatically, scratching his scalp until he made that sound again—low and helpless, like you were the only thing that could quiet him.

When he wasn’t home, you called your mother.

It became a small ritual: you’d wait until the apartment was quiet, until the light slanted just right through the window, until your heart stopped jumping at every sound in the hallway. Then you’d press the phone to your ear and listen for her voice like it was a lullaby you’d almost forgotten.

“Hello?” she’d answer, cautious and hopeful.

“Mama,” you’d whisper.

And her breath would hitch every time, as if your existence was still a miracle she couldn’t fully accept.

“How are you today?” she’d ask softly. “Do you need anything? Food? Clothes? Books? I can ship things to you, sweetheart, anything you need—”

You’d smile faintly, chest aching. “I’m okay.”

There would be a pause, then her voice would turn careful.

“Do you have your medication?”

Your fingers would tighten around the phone.

You would glance toward the door, toward the apartment, toward the life you were building with Sukuna’s hands all over it.

“No,” you admitted quietly. “I haven’t been taking it.”

Your mother’s inhale would be sharp.

“Oh, honey—”

“I feel fine,” you rushed to say. “The voices aren’t unkind.”

Silence.

Then, gently, like she was walking barefoot across broken glass, your mother asked, “What do you mean?”

You stared out the window at the street below, at people living ordinary lives with grocery bags and conversations and choices.

“They’re… kind,” you whispered. “They protect me.”

There was a tremble in your mother’s voice. “Sweetheart… voices that feel kind can still lead you somewhere dangerous.”

“I know,” you murmured, though you weren’t sure you did. “But they haven’t been mean. They tell me to be careful. They tell me when something is wrong.”

Her breath shook. “And… is something wrong?”

Your mind flicked, involuntarily, to the bruise that had once circled your wrist. To Sukuna’s hand on your waist. To the way his love felt like a wall behind your back and a hand around your throat at the same time.

You swallowed.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer. “He’s… he’s good to me.”

Your mother didn’t argue—she’d learned, over years, that pushing too hard could make you vanish into your own head.

So she only said, “I love you.”

And you said it back.

After the calls, you often sat very still, phone cooling in your palm, the apartment quiet, the air holding your secrets like smoke.

Then Sukuna would come home, and the world would tighten around him again—his presence filling every corner, his gaze assessing, his hands finding you the way they always did.

Some nights you felt cherished.

Some nights you felt watched.

And in the space between those two feelings, your mind kept whispering its own careful questions—gentle as prayer, sharp as truth:

If your touch made him calmer…

what would he do, one day, when touch wasn’t enough?

That night, Sukuna came home later than usual.

You heard him before you saw him—the heavy rhythm of his boots in the hall, the way the door slid open with more force than necessary, like the day had followed him inside and refused to let go. He didn’t say much at first. Just looked at you, eyes sweeping from your face to your hands like he was checking for cracks.

“You eat?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, setting your book down. “Yes. I saved you some.”

He grunted in acknowledgement, and the sound was low enough to vibrate in your chest even from across the room. He ate quickly, barely tasting it, shoulders still tense—then went straight to the shower like he needed the heat to rinse the world off him.

You waited on your futon, heart doing that strange thing it did lately—anticipation mixed with nervousness, like your body was learning a new language and still tripping over the alphabet.

The water ran for a long time.

When it finally shut off, you listened to the quiet after—the soft rustle of fabric, the low exhale he always made when he stepped out into cooler air. Then he emerged, hair damp, skin still warm from steam, wearing sleep clothes that clung slightly at the edges.

His eyes found you immediately.

You sat with your knees drawn up under the blanket, book in your lap, trying to look calm even though you felt like a candle in a draft—flickering too easily.

Sukuna didn’t speak at first.

He crossed the room with that slow, deliberate confidence that always made your stomach tighten, and then he lowered himself to the tatami beside you.

Close.

Close enough that your heat mingled.

Close enough that you could smell soap and skin and the faint metallic note that always lived beneath him.

You whispered, “How was work?” Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “Annoying.” You smiled softly. “Did Toji—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, not harshly, but with a tired edge. Then his gaze narrowed like he was trying to focus on something gentler. Something simpler. “Come here.” Your breath caught. “What—?” He didn’t answer with words. He reached out, caught the hem of your blanket, and pulled you—slowly—until you shifted closer without even realizing you were obeying.

Your cheeks warmed. You lowered your eyes, shy.

Sukuna made a quiet sound—half exhale, half amused. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Still blushing like I’ve got a knife to your throat.” Your stomach dipped. You didn’t know what to do with that comparison—his humor always had teeth. “I’m just…” you fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve. “I’m not used to you being so…”

“So what,” he asked, voice low. “Greedy?” You swallowed. Your voice came out small. “Affectionate.” He scoffed like the word insulted him.

But his hand lifted anyway, sliding to the side of your face—thumb brushing your cheekbone, gentle enough that it didn’t feel like a grip, even though his hands always carried the memory of strength. “Affectionate,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was foreign. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth. “I just want you.”

The honesty of it made your breath stumble, you whispered, “I’m right here.”

“I know,” Sukuna said, and the way he said it sounded like thank God.

He leaned in and kissed you.

Slow—like he was testing if you would pull away.

You didn’t.

Your lips parted instinctively, and Sukuna let out a low sound in his throat, pleased, relieved, hungry. His hand slid to the back of your neck, guiding you closer as if you might float away if he didn’t anchor you.

You made a small sound—soft, surprised—and it made him deepen the kiss, breath turning heavier, mouth moving with growing urgency.

Your fingers found his hair without thinking.

You scratched his scalp gently, and Sukuna’s breath hitched.

“Yeah,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough. “That.” You did it again—just a little firmer— Sukuna groaned, the sound vibrating through you, and his shoulders rolled forward as if he was trying to press himself closer without crushing you. “Do it again,” he murmured, like an order softened by need.

You obeyed, cheeks burning, your mind going hazy at the way his body reacted to your touch so immediately—like you held a key you hadn’t known existed.

Sukuna’s mouth drifted to your cheek, then your jaw, then the side of your neck—warm kisses that made you shiver beneath the blanket. His breathing grew heavier, uneven, and you could feel the way he was holding himself back, the restraint turning into something sharp.

He shifted, rolling onto your futon with you, careful enough not to slam you down, but decisive enough that you felt the power in it.

The futon creaked softly.

You froze for a heartbeat—old fear flickering—then forced yourself to breathe, to stay present.

Sukuna noticed.

He paused, hovering over you, eyes searching your face.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, controlled. “And I will.” The fact that he said it at all made your throat tighten, you swallowed, gaze flicking to his mouth, then back to his eyes. “I… I’m okay,” you whispered.

Sukuna’s expression shifted—something dark and satisfied, something tender threaded through it like a secret. “Good,” he murmured.

His hand slid down your side—over the blanket, over the curve of you—touching in a way that made you feel seen and claimed all at once. His palm lingered at your hip, his fingers pressing lightly as if he liked the shape of you, as if he couldn’t believe you were real. He kissed your neck again, slower this time, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured, voice thick. “So… perfect.” Your face burned. “Sukuna…” He hummed, shifting closer, and you felt the weight of him settle in—heat, strength, want—his breathing roughening as he kissed you again, deeper, needier, his mouth moving like he was starving.

A low, frustrated sound left him, and he muttered something under his breath—half curse, half praise. “God,” he breathed, voice strained. “You make it hard to think.” Your fingers trembled in his hair.

You scratched lightly again, and Sukuna’s body reacted immediately—his breath catching, his shoulders tensing, a rough groan spilling out like he couldn’t stop it. “Fuck,” he whispered, pressing his forehead briefly against yours like he needed to steady himself. “Don’t look at me like that.” You blinked, confused. “Like what?”

“Like you trust me,” he said, and the words sounded almost pained—like trust was the most dangerous thing you could hand him.

You swallowed, heart thudding.

Sukuna exhaled slowly, then kissed your cheek—gentler, grounding. “Hold on,” he murmured, voice low, as his hands slid again—over you, along you—building heat, building urgency, his breathing turning heavier with each second.

He pressed close enough that you felt the full claim of his presence, the way his want crowded the air. His mouth returned to your neck, then your jaw, then your lips again, kissing you until you forgot what time it was, until the only thing you could count was his breath and your own.

And in the dim, in the warmth, in the hush of the small apartment, Sukuna’s voice dropped into your ear like a vow made of hunger.

“Let me have you,” he murmured. “Just… let me.” Your heart raced so fast it made you dizzy, you whispered, trembling, “Okay.”

After your soft consent, Sukuna groaned as he planted you on his lap, spreading your legs over his thighs. “Keep them open,” he mumbled as he gripped your waist and pulled you into another breathtaking kiss. “Say you trust me,” He groaned into your mouth, you kissed him back urgently, “I trust you,” you said breathless and needy, gripping at his collar, “Damn right you do,” he thrusted up his clothed cock with a groan. 

But then quickly his hands moved again—sliding down your sides, thumbs pressing into the soft give of your hips—and your thoughts scattered like birds startled from a wire. "Slow doesn't mean stopping," Sukuna murmured against your mouth, voice rough and low. "It means I'm going to take my time with you."

Your breath hitched.

He kissed you again—deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made heat pool low in your belly, made your thighs clench involuntarily around his lap. You felt him beneath you—hard, insistent—and the reality of it made your face burn so hot you thought you might combust.

You'd never felt a man like this before.

Never been touched with intent.

Never had hands on you that wanted something you didn't know how to give.

Sukuna's fingers found the hem of your shirt, and he paused—just for a heartbeat—eyes flicking to yours like he was checking for permission even though his grip said he'd already decided. "Tell me no," he said, voice strained. "Or I'm taking this off."

Your mouth opened. Closed.

You didn't say no.

Sukuna's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide, and he pulled your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. The air hit your skin, cool and startling, and you instinctively crossed your arms over your chest—shy, exposed, trembling. "Don't," Sukuna said immediately, catching your wrists. "Don't hide from me."

His grip was firm but not painful as he pulled your arms away, holding them at your sides while his gaze dragged over you—slow, hungry, possessive. You felt pinned under that look, like he was cataloging every inch of you, memorizing the shape of your body the way he memorized patterns and routines. "Perfect," he muttered, almost to himself. "Fucking perfect." Your face burned. "Sukuna—"

"Quiet," he said, not unkindly, and then his mouth was on your collarbone, kissing, biting gently, tongue tracing the hollow of your throat. You gasped, head tilting back automatically, and Sukuna made a low sound of approval.

His hands moved to your breasts—cupping, squeezing, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your bra until they hardened into sensitive peaks. The sensation shot straight through you, made you whimper softly, and Sukuna groaned like the sound hurt him.

"You make the sweetest noises," he muttered against your skin. "I want to hear more." He reached behind you, unclasping your bra with practiced ease—too practiced, maybe, but you didn't have time to think about that because then it was gone and his hands were on your bare skin, warm and rough and everywhere.

You trembled.

He touched you like he was learning you—fingers kneading, palms pressing, testing the weight and softness of you. Then his mouth followed, hot and wet, closing around one nipple while his hand worked the other, and you cried out—sharp and startled—because you hadn't known it could feel like that.

"Sukuna—" Your voice broke on his name.

He hummed against you, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. Your fingers found his hair again, scratching his scalp the way he liked, and Sukuna groaned—deep and guttural—hips jerking up beneath you. "Fuck," he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His face was flushed, eyes wild, mouth wet. "You're going to ruin me."

You didn't know what to say to that.

Didn't know how to hold the weight of being wanted this much.

Sukuna shifted you off his lap—gently, deliberately—and laid you back on the futon. You went willingly, heart pounding, limbs loose and uncertain. He knelt over you, hands braced on either side of your head, looking down at you like you were something holy and breakable and his. "I'm going to touch you," he said, voice low and controlled. "Everywhere. And you're going to let me."

It wasn't a question.

But his eyes searched yours anyway, waiting.

You swallowed hard and nodded.

Sukuna's mouth curved—satisfied, possessive—and then his hands were on your waistband, fingers hooking into the fabric of your pants. He pulled them down slowly, dragging them over your hips, your thighs, your ankles, until you were left in nothing but your underwear.

You felt exposed.

Vulnerable.

Your instinct was to close your legs, to curl inward, but Sukuna's hands caught your knees and held them apart—firm, unyielding.

"Don't," he said again, softer this time. "I want to see you."

Your breath came in shallow bursts.

He looked at you for a long moment—just looked—and you felt the weight of his gaze like a physical thing, like he was touching you even though his hands hadn't moved yet.

Then he leaned down and kissed the inside of your knee.

Soft.

Reverent.

You shivered.

He kissed higher—up your thigh, slow and deliberate, mouth hot against your skin. Your muscles tensed under his lips, anticipation coiling tight in your belly. When he reached the edge of your underwear, he paused, breath ghosting over the fabric, and you felt yourself clench involuntarily. "You're already wet," Sukuna murmured, almost awed. "I can see it."

Your face burned with embarrassment, but before you could say anything—before you could apologize or explain or hide—his fingers hooked into your underwear and pulled them down.

Gone.

You were completely bare beneath him now.

Sukuna made a low, rough sound—something between a groan and a curse—and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider.

"Look at you," he breathed. "So fucking pretty." You wanted to cover your face, wanted to disappear, but then his mouth was on you—hot and wet and utterly overwhelming—and every thought in your head went blank.

You cried out, hips jerking, but Sukuna's hands held you down, kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you. His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, licking through your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision.

It felt—

God, it felt—

You didn't have words for it.

Pleasure spiked through you in sharp, electric bursts, making your thighs tremble, making your breath come in ragged gasps. You'd touched yourself before—fumbling, uncertain, always stopping before it got too intense—but this was different.

This was Sukuna's mouth on you, Sukuna's hands holding you open, Sukuna's tongue working you over like he was starving. "Sukuna—" You gasped his name, fingers twisting in the blanket beneath you. "I—I can't—"

"You can," he muttered against you, voice muffled and rough. "And you will." His tongue flicked faster, more insistent, and then his mouth closed around your clit and sucked.

You came apart.

The orgasm hit you like a wave—sudden, overwhelming, dragging you under. Your back arched off the futon, a broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashed through you in relentless pulses. Sukuna didn't stop—didn't let up—his mouth working you through it until you were shaking, gasping, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Good girl," he murmured, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh. "That's one."

Your mind struggled to catch up. One?

Before you could ask, his fingers were there—sliding through the wetness between your legs, circling your entrance. You tensed immediately, thighs trying to close, but Sukuna's other hand pressed down on your hip, holding you still. "Relax," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "I need to get you ready."

"Ready for—" Your voice broke as one finger pushed inside.

Slow.

Careful.

But still—foreign. Intrusive. Strange.

You whimpered, hands flying to his wrist, but you didn't push him away. Sukuna watched your face intently, eyes sharp and focused, reading every flicker of discomfort, every hitch in your breath. "Breathe," he ordered. "Just breathe."

You tried.

He moved his finger gently—in and out, slow and shallow—letting you adjust to the sensation. It didn't hurt, exactly, but it felt… odd. Full. Intimate in a way that made your chest tight.

Then he added a second finger.

You gasped, body tensing, and Sukuna leaned down to kiss you—deep and distracting—while his fingers worked inside you, stretching you carefully. "You're so tight," he muttered against your lips, voice strained. "Fuck, you're going to feel so good." His thumb found your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and the pleasure cut through the discomfort, made your hips roll instinctively toward his hand. Sukuna groaned, fingers curling inside you, searching, and then—

You cried out, sharp and startled, as he hit something that made sparks explode behind your eyelids. "There it is," Sukuna said, satisfaction dripping from his voice. He did it again—pressed that same spot—and you moaned, loud and helpless.

He worked you methodically after that—fingers pumping, thumb circling, mouth returning to your neck, your breasts, anywhere he could reach. The pleasure built again, faster this time, coiling tight and hot in your belly. "Sukuna—" You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. "I'm—I'm going to—"

"Do it," he growled. "Come on my fingers." 

And you did.

The second orgasm ripped through you even harder than the first, your body clenching around his fingers as you sobbed his name. Sukuna watched you fall apart with dark, hungry eyes, his own breathing ragged, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

"That's two," he murmured, pulling his fingers out slowly. You whimpered at the loss, body still trembling, oversensitive and raw. Sukuna brought his fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes locked on yours, and the sight of it made something hot and shameful twist in your belly.

"You taste perfect," he said, voice rough. "I could do this all night." Your eyes widened. "All night?" His mouth curved into something wicked. "I told you. I'm taking my time." He shifted back, sitting on his heels, and his hands went to his own waistband. You watched, breathless and dazed, as he pulled his pants down just enough to free himself.

Your breath caught.

You'd never seen a man like this before—never seen him like this—and the sight of him made your heart race with something between fear and fascination. He was hard, flushed, bigger than you'd expected, and the way he wrapped his hand around himself—slow, deliberate—made your mouth go dry.

Sukuna stroked himself once, twice, his jaw clenching, eyes never leaving yours. "See what you do to me?" he muttered, voice strained. "I've been hard since you scratched my fucking scalp."

Your face burned.

He stroked himself again, thumb swiping over the tip, and a low groan rumbled from his chest. The sound of it—rough and unguarded—made something clench deep inside you.

"Sukuna…" you whispered, unsure what you were asking for.

His eyes snapped to yours, dark and intense. "Not yet," he said, releasing himself with visible effort. "You're not ready yet." Before you could protest—or agree, or think—his mouth was between your legs again.

You gasped, hips jerking, but his hands held you down, kept you pinned and open while his tongue worked you over with ruthless precision. He licked and sucked and kissed until you were writhing beneath him, until you were begging—though you weren't sure for what—until the pleasure became too much and you tried to push his head away.

Sukuna caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them to your stomach, and kept going.

"Sukuna—please—I can't—"

"You can," he said against you, voice muffled and absolute. "One more. Give me one more." And you did—because your body didn't know how to refuse him, because the pleasure was relentless, because Sukuna demanded it and your body obeyed.

The third orgasm tore through you like a storm, leaving you shaking and sobbing and utterly wrecked. Tears slid down your temples, your thighs trembling uncontrollably, your mind blank and white and overwhelmed.

Sukuna finally pulled back, mouth wet, eyes wild, breathing hard. "Three," he said, voice rough with satisfaction. "Good girl. You're ready now."

You could barely process his words.

Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—loose and heavy and hypersensitive. You watched through half-lidded eyes as Sukuna stripped off his shirt, then pushed his pants down completely, kicking them aside.

He knelt between your legs again, one hand wrapping around himself, stroking slowly while his other hand gripped your thigh.

"Look at me," he ordered.

You did.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, face flushed with want and control and something almost desperate. "This is going to hurt," he said bluntly. "But I'll make it good. I promise."

Your heart pounded so hard you thought it might break through your ribs.

You nodded anyway.

Sukuna leaned down, bracing one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. You felt the blunt pressure of him, the heat, and your body tensed instinctively.

"Breathe," he murmured, mouth brushing yours. "Just breathe."

You tried.

He pushed in—slow, careful, but unyielding—and the stretch of it made you gasp, made your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in.

It hurt.

Not sharp, not unbearable, but a deep, aching pressure that made your breath hitch and your eyes sting.

Sukuna stopped, jaw clenched, muscles trembling with the effort of holding still.

"You okay?" he gritted out.

You nodded, even though you weren't sure.

He pushed in further—another inch—and you whimpered, body instinctively trying to pull away. But Sukuna's hand caught your hip, held you still, kept you pinned beneath him.

"Stay," he ordered, voice strained. "Don't run from me." You forced yourself to breathe, to relax, to let him in. He moved again—slow, relentless—until he was fully seated inside you, hips flush against yours. The fullness of it was overwhelming, almost too much, and you felt tears slip down your cheeks without permission.

Sukuna saw them.

His expression flickered—something almost tender breaking through the hunger—and he leaned down to kiss them away. "I know," he murmured against your skin. "I know. You're doing so good." He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, his own breathing ragged and uneven. You could feel him trembling—the effort of holding back, of not moving, of giving you time.

Then his hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and he rubbed in slow, gentle circles. The pleasure cut through the discomfort immediately, made you gasp, made your hips shift instinctively. "There you go," Sukuna muttered, voice rough. "Feel that? Focus on that." He started to move—slow, shallow thrusts that made you whimper and cling to him. His fingers never stopped circling your clit, keeping the pleasure steady, grounding you.

It still hurt.

But it also felt—

Good.

Strange and overwhelming and good.

Sukuna's breathing grew heavier, his control fraying at the edges. His hips moved faster, thrusts deeper, and the hand on your hip gripped hard enough to leave marks. "Fuck," he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. "You feel—fuck—you're so tight—" His fingers rubbed faster, more insistent, and the pleasure built again—impossibly, overwhelmingly—coiling tight in your belly despite the ache, despite the stretch, despite everything.

"Sukuna—" You gasped his name, nails raking down his back. "I know," he gritted out. "I know—come for me—I need you to come—" His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, and you shattered. The fourth orgasm hit you like lightning, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper. Sukuna cursed—low and broken—his rhythm faltering as your body gripped him.

"Fuck—" He thrust harder, faster, chasing his own release now, and you felt him lose control—felt the desperation in the way he moved, the way he held you, the way he groaned your name like a prayer.

Then he stilled, hips pressed flush against yours, and you felt the heat of him spilling inside you, felt the way his whole body shuddered with it.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

You lay there, breathless and trembling, his weight pressing you into the futon, his face buried in your neck.

Slowly, carefully, Sukuna pulled out.

You winced at the loss, at the ache, and he made a soft sound—almost apologetic—as he shifted to lie beside you instead.

His hand found yours, fingers threading through yours, grip tight.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You nodded, even though you weren't sure what okay meant anymore.

Your body felt used and tender and strange.

But also—

Held.

Wanted.

His.

Sukuna pulled you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he could keep the world from touching you. "You did so good," he murmured into your hair. "So fucking good." You closed your eyes, exhausted and overwhelmed, and let yourself be held.

Outside, the city hummed.

Inside, Sukuna's heartbeat was steady against your cheek and somewhere in the space between those two sounds, you tried to figure out if what you felt was love—or just another kind of cage you'd learned to call home.

You didn't know what time it was when you felt him move.

The apartment was dark—that deep, heavy dark that only existed in the hours when the world forgot itself. Your body ached in places you'd never felt before, a soreness that lived in your hips, between your thighs, in the tender bruised feeling of being opened and filled and claimed.

You were drifting in that space between sleep and waking when you felt Sukuna shift behind you.

His breathing had changed.

No longer the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Faster now. Heavier.

His hand slid over your hip, fingers pressing into your skin with a firmness that made you stir, made a small sound catch in your throat. "Sukuna?" you whispered, voice thick with exhaustion.

He didn't answer with words.

His palm flattened against your stomach, pulling you back against him, and you felt it immediately—the hard, insistent press of his cock against your ass, already rigid, already demanding.

Your breath hitched.

"Again?" you whispered, barely audible.

Sukuna made a low sound in his chest—something between a groan and a growl—and his mouth found the back of your neck, kissing roughly, teeth scraping skin.

"Can't help it," he muttered, voice rough and strained. "Need you again." Your mind was still foggy, body heavy with sleep and soreness, but his hands were already moving—gripping your hip, sliding between your thighs, checking if you were still wet, still open for him.

You whimpered softly as his fingers brushed your entrance, finding the slickness still there—his cum mixed with yours, the evidence of what he'd already done to you.

"Sukuna, I'm—" you started, but he cut you off. "Turn over," he said, voice tight. "On your stomach."

It wasn't a request.

Your heart thudded hard in your chest, a mix of nervousness and something else—something that made your body respond even though your mind was still catching up.

You obeyed.

Slowly, trembling, you rolled onto your belly, cheek pressing into the pillow, arms folding beneath you. The futon creaked softly under the shift of weight. Sukuna's hands found your hips immediately, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and he pulled you up slightly—not onto your knees, but just enough to angle you the way he wanted.

You felt exposed like this.

Vulnerable.

Your face buried in the pillow, your body offered up, unable to see him, only able to feel. His palm slid over the curve of your ass, squeezing roughly, possessively, and then—

Smack.

The sound cracked through the quiet, sharp and startling.

You gasped, body jolting, the sting blooming hot across your skin.

"Fuck," Sukuna breathed, and you heard the hunger in his voice, the way it shook slightly. "You look so fucking good like this." He spanked you again—harder this time—and you cried out softly, fingers curling into the sheets, the pain mixing with something that made your stomach tighten, made heat pool low in your belly despite the soreness. "Sukuna—"

"Shh," he muttered, leaning over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth at your ear. "Just let me have you." His cock pressed against your entrance, and you tensed instinctively, still tender, still aching from before.

But Sukuna didn't wait.

He pushed in—slow at first, but insistent, relentless—and you felt every inch as he filled you again, stretching you open, claiming space inside you that still remembered him. You whimpered into the pillow, hands fisting the fabric, your body trying to adjust, trying to accommodate him even though it hurt.

"Too much," you whispered, voice muffled— Sukuna groaned, hips pressing flush against your ass, buried deep. "You can take it," he said, voice strained. "You're gonna take it."

And then he started moving.

Not gentle.

Not slow.

He fucked you with a desperation that felt almost frantic, hips snapping forward hard and fast, his hands gripping your waist so tightly you knew there would be bruises.

You gasped and moaned into the pillow, the angle driving him deeper than before, hitting places that made your vision blur, made your thoughts scatter.

It hurt.

But it also felt—

God, it felt—

"Sukuna—" you choked out, drool already gathering at the corner of your mouth, your body rocking forward with each thrust. He leaned down, teeth finding the side of your neck, and he bit—hard enough to make you cry out, hard enough to leave a mark. "Mine," he growled against your skin, hips slamming into you. "Say it."

"Yours," you gasped, barely able to form the word.

He bit you again, lower this time, sucking a bruise into your skin, marking you like he needed proof, like he needed the world to see what he'd done to you.

His hand slid beneath you, finding your clit, and he rubbed in rough, tight circles that made you sob into the pillow, made your body clench around him.

"Come," he ordered, voice ragged. "Come on my cock." You didn't think you could.

You were too tired, too sore, too overwhelmed.

But your body didn't care what you thought.

The orgasm tore through you suddenly, violently, and you screamed into the pillow, back arching, thighs shaking as pleasure ripped you apart. Sukuna groaned, hips stuttering, and he came inside you again—hot and deep—his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself into you.

For a moment, you thought it was over.

You thought he would pull out, let you collapse, let you breathe.

But he didn't.

He stayed inside you, still hard, still moving. "Sukuna—" you whimpered, exhausted, trembling. "I can't—"

"You can," he said, voice tight, almost pained. "Just one more."

But it wasn't one more.

It was two more.

Three.

You lost count.

He fucked you over and over, pulling orgasms from your body like he was obsessed with the way you fell apart, like he couldn't stop himself, like the need to have you was something compulsive, something that lived in his bones and wouldn't let him rest. His hands were everywhere—gripping, squeezing, spanking, holding you down when you tried to squirm away.

Your face was pressed into the pillow, drool soaking the fabric, eyes rolling back as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you until you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.

Your body hurt.

Everything hurt.

But it also felt so good you thought you might break from it.

You felt like something shattered and then put back together wrong—or maybe not wrong, maybe just different.

Remade.

Reshaped.

His.

"Please," you sobbed at some point, though you didn't know what you were begging for anymore. "Please—" Sukuna's hand slid into your hair, gripping gently, turning your head just enough that he could see your face—flushed and tear-streaked and wrecked. "Look at you," he breathed, voice thick with something that sounded almost reverent. "So fucking perfect." He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—soft kisses that didn't match the brutal way he was still moving inside you.

"Just a little more," he murmured. "Just let me—" And then he was coming again, groaning your name, hips pressed tight against you as he filled you once more.

This time, when he finally pulled out, you collapsed completely.

Your body went limp, boneless, too exhausted to move.

Sukuna lay down beside you, breathing hard, his hand resting on your back—gentle now, almost careful.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

You didn't answer.

You couldn't.

You just lay there, face buried in the pillow, body aching and trembling and utterly spent.

Sukuna pulled you against him, wrapping around you like he could hold you together, and you felt his lips press against your shoulder.

"Sleep," he murmured.

And you did.

You woke to the feeling of him moving again. The room was lighter now—not bright, but no longer the deep black of night. Early morning. The kind of gray light that came before the sun.

Your body was so sore you could barely move.

Every muscle ached. Your thighs were sticky and tender. Your hips felt bruised from the inside out and Sukuna was already hard against you.

"No," you mumbled, voice hoarse. "Sukuna, I can't—"

"Shh," he whispered, his hand sliding between your legs. "I know. I'll be quick."

You wanted to protest.

You wanted to tell him you were too tired, too sore, too broken.

But his fingers were already stroking you gently, coaxing your body awake, and despite everything, you felt yourself respond—felt the heat start to build again, slow and reluctant but undeniable. "Just like this," he murmured, shifting you onto your side, lifting your leg slightly. "You don't have to do anything."

And then he was inside you again.

Slow this time. Careful.

But still insistent.

Still taking.

You whimpered softly, face pressed into the pillow, too exhausted to do anything but let him move, let him use you, let him take what he needed. His hand stayed between your legs, rubbing your clit in slow, lazy circles, and despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, your body started to tighten again. "That's it," Sukuna breathed against your neck. "Just feel it."

You came quietly this time—a soft, broken sound, your body clenching weakly around him. Sukuna groaned, hips stuttering, and he came too, spilling inside you one last time before finally, finally stilling. He stayed there for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

Then he pulled out carefully and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck.

"I have to go to work," he said quietly.

You made a small sound—acknowledgment, maybe, or just exhaustion.

Sukuna dressed quickly, moving around the room with that controlled efficiency he always had, and when he was ready, he crouched beside the futon, brushing your hair back from your face.

"Stay in bed," he said softly. "Rest." You nodded weakly.

He kissed your forehead, then stood and left.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you lay there in the quiet, body aching, mind hazy, feeling the ghost of him still inside you, still all over you.

Marked.

Claimed.

Owned.

You closed your eyes and tried to remember what it felt like to belong to yourself.

But the memory was already fading.

its my birthday month!!

you loved school.

not because you were some overly studious nerd who couldn't get enough of textbooks and homework, but because school felt freeing. it was the only place where your lungs didn’t burn with the suffocating scent of alcohol.

home was different.

you dreaded walking back every afternoon, fingers tightening around your bag as you stood outside the front door, already knowing what waited on the other side.

the smell hit first.

sharp. bitter. stale.

it clung to the walls, the furniture and your clothes like it had permanently seeped into every corner of your life.

you hated it. you hated what caused it even more.

your dad.

ever since your mom died from a brutal car accident, your life had never been the same.

what was once a warm, happy family slowly fell apart piece by piece. your dad changed after her death. at first it was only a drink or two after work, small enough for you to pretend it wasn’t becoming a problem.

but as the days turned into months, and the months into years, his grief only grew heavier.

and so did the drinking.

he drowned himself in alcohol so often that eventually, it felt like he stopped being your father altogether. the man who used to laugh with your mom in the kitchen and drive you to school every morning became nothing more than a stranger passing through the house.

now, you couldn’t even remember the last proper conversation the two of you had without it turning into some sort of argument.

it had probably been almost two years.

you kept your bag slung over one shoulder as you sat in class, staring at your notebook without really seeing it.

you blinked slowly, forcing yourself to write a few words down just so it looked like you were listening.

around you, everyone else seemed more awake than you felt.

moka was somewhere nearby, probably already done copying notes and now quietly kicking your chair just to get your attention.

“psst,” she whispered. “you’re literally spacing out again.”

you turned your head slightly, forcing a small hum of acknowledgment.

“i’m not,” you mumbled.

instead of turning back to her work, she leaned forward a little.

“hey,” she whispered again. “random question.”

“do you think minju likes anyone?” that got your attention.

you glanced at her. “what?”

moka tried (and failed) to look casual.

“nothing. i was just wondering.”

you stared at her for a second, “you like her.”

“shh!” moka immediately hissed, looking around even though nobody was paying attention. “keep your voice down.”

you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips, “wow.”

you let out a quiet laugh.

for the first time all lesson, moka looked more distracted than you did.

the bell eventually came like a relief you didn’t realize you were waiting for.

chairs pushed back, the room filled with noise again, and people started packing up faster than the teacher could even finish speaking.

you moved a little slower, slipping your notebook into your bag while everyone else rushed out.

moka waited for you by the door, rocking back on her heels.

the hallway was crowded, loud with students spilling out of classrooms, lockers slamming shut, voices overlapping everywhere.

you kept your gaze forward, letting moka talk beside you about something random—someone’s drama, a test she barely studied for, a teacher she didn’t like.

you responded here and there, but your answers were short, half there.

at one point, minju passed by with a few friends and moka's sentence immediately cut off.

you watched her eyes follow minju for a second before she quickly looked away.

“you are so obvious,” you said.

“i literally didn't do anything.”

“right.”

“i didn't!”

by the time you reached the school gates, the air outside felt slightly better.

you slowed down without realizing it as you began to focus on what moka had to say.

“come on, y/n!” moka whined, dramatically tugging on your arm as the two of you walked out of school. “it’s been forever, and we’re always hanging out at my place. i wanna go to yours for once too.”

you let out a quiet sigh, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder.

“maybe another time.”

“that’s what you said last time,” she pouted, narrowing her eyes at you suspiciously. “and the time before that. are you secretly hiding something in your house or something?”

if only she knew.

your grip tightened slightly around your bag. “it’s just messy.”

“messy?” moka scoffed. “y/n, my room literally looks like a tornado hit it every other day. i don’t care.”

you forced out a small laugh, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

moka slowed her steps, her expression softening almost immediately. “hey,” she said quietly, nudging your shoulder. “you know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

the words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.

because something was wrong.

something had been wrong for years now.

but no matter how many times moka asked, you could never bring yourself to say it out loud. admitting it would make everything feel too real.

so instead, you smiled. "nothing’s wrong,” you lied.

moka stared at you for a moment longer before sighing dramatically again. “fineee. but one day i’m showing up at your house uninvited.”

your heart nearly stops. "don't do that," you give her a playful smile to cover up the anxiousness that filled your heart.

"there’s a convenience store near your house, right? we can just go there.” she suggests.

you paused for a second. “…okay,” you said quietly.

moka immediately lit up and the two of you started walking. her chatter filling the space as she talked about random things you barely registered. your steps slowed slightly the closer you got to your neighborhood, that familiar weight settling in your chest again.

same streets. same air. same feeling you always tried to escape after school.

moka, however, didn’t notice. she was too busy skipping ahead a few steps, pointing at random things like she always did.

inside the convenience store, everything felt almost normal again.

the soft buzz of the fridge, the quiet beeping at the register, the crinkle of snack bags as you and moka wandered the aisles like you had all the time in the world.

moka had already claimed half the store in her arms again. “this is for later,” she said, dropping a pack of chips into her basket. “and this is for now. and this is just… because i feel like it.”

you shook your head slightly, picking out a drink and tossing it into your own hand-held basket. for a moment, it almost felt easy.

then the door slammed open, the bell above it rang too loudly.

you both paused.

a man stumbled inside, slightly off balance, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. his breath was heavy, his eyes unfocused, and he walked straight to the alcohol section without even looking around.

he grabbed a few cans of beer then stopped at the counter.

the cashier greeted him politely, but the man didn’t respond properly. he just stared for a second too long, like he was trying to understand something that wasn’t making sense.

and then his voice suddenly snapped through the store.

“why are you charging me this much? are you trying to rob me or something?”

you stiffened a bit.

the cashier blinked, clearly startled. “sir, that’s the price—”

“don’t lie to me,” the man barked, slamming the cans down harder than necessary. “you think i don’t know what you people do?”

the entire store felt like it had gone quiet.

a few customers glanced over. someone near the entrance stepped back. moka slowly lowered her basket.

you weren’t looking at the cashier anymore.

you were looking at the man.

and something in your chest tightened, cold and familiar, before you could stop it. the moment you realized who it was, everything in your body went still.

the voice. the posture.

no.

no, no, no.

your basket slipped slightly in your hand.

“y/n?” moka whispered, noticing your sudden change. “hey… what’s wrong?”

you couldn’t answer, your throat felt tight like something had wrapped around it and pulled.

your dad’s voice cut through the store again, louder now, more unsteady.

“what are you staring at?”

he turned and his eyes landed on you.

for a split second, there was nothing there. no recognition, just confusion. then it hit him.

“oh,” he said, voice sharpening instantly. “so you’re here.”

moka frowned, looking between you and him. “wait… you know him?”

you still couldn’t speak.

your dad stepped away from the counter, unsteady but suddenly focused on you in a way that made your skin crawl.

“don’t look at me like that,” he snapped, pointing vaguely. “why are you even out? what, you think you can just—”

his voice rose, drawing attention again.

you took a small step back without realizing it.

your breathing was wrong now. too fast. too shallow. like your body didn’t know how to stay inside itself properly.

moka grabbed your arm, panicked. “y/n, hey—hey, look at me.”

his face twisted as he noticed your reaction.

“oh, don’t start with that,” he barked suddenly, louder. “don’t do that, you guilt tripping bitch.”

his words blurred together after that.

all you could feel was the noise. the store. the breathing. the weight of being seen like this. and moka, beside you, suddenly very, very unsure of what she was watching.

your dad’s eyes stayed on you, unfocused and unsteady, like he was seeing you through something warped.

“stop standing there like that,” he snapped suddenly. “you always do this. you always show up at the worst times and make everything—”

he cut himself off, jaw tightening as he dragged a hand down his face.

“you don’t get it,” he muttered, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “the way you look at me.. it's just like her.”

your chest tightened.

he pointed vaguely in your direction, not even fully steady on his feet.

“i wish i never had you.” he said sharply.

it wasn’t a big sentence but it landed like one.

something in you cracked open, too loud in your head. your vision blurred before you could stop it.

moka said your name again, more urgent this time, but it barely reached you. you took a step back before you ran out of the store. vision blurred which completely blind sighted you.

it didn’t matter, you kept moving anyway.

the park had gone quiet by the time midnight rolled in, leaving only the distant hum of cars and the soft rustle of trees moving in the cold air.

you had stayed there for hours without really meaning to, just sitting through the weight of your thoughts until everything blurred.

eventually, your legs carried you home on their own. the closer you got, the heavier everything felt, the familiar streets and dim streetlights doing nothing to ease the tight feeling in your chest.

when you finally reached your building, you paused in front of the door longer than you should have. for a moment, you just stood there, staring at it, as if waiting for something to change if you delayed it long enough.

but nothing did, so you went inside.

the smell hit you the second you stepped in.

stale alcohol, thick and sour, already filling the air like it had nowhere else to go. it clung to everything instantlu, slipping into your lungs before you even had time to brace yourself for it.

then, slowly, you stepped in and let the door close behind you.

you paused in the doorway for a moment, eyes instinctively moving to the living room, expecting to see your dad like usual—slumped on the couch, tv on, bottle in hand.

but the couch was empty, no tv, no movement, no sign of him at all.

your chest tightened slightly as you stepped inside, realizing pretty quickly what that meant. he wasn’t home. he had gone out again.

you did enjoy these moments when he was out, when the apartment didn’t feel as suffocating and you could move around freely without the fear of running into him.

you made your way to your room, closing the door behind you a little too softly, like even sound felt dangerous tonight.

once you were inside, you sat on the edge of your bed and finally reached for your phone. the screen lit up immediately, a few notifications already waiting for you.

there were multiple messages, all sent not long after you ran out of the store.

where are you?? please answer me im so sorry about him, i didnt know your dad was like that are you okay??

you stared at moka’s messages for a moment longer, your thumb hovering before you finally typed back.

im okay

you didn’t wait for a reply.

instead, you locked your phone and set it aside, like that alone could shut the world out for a while. then you got up and headed to the bathroom, moving on autopilot.

the shower helped a little, but not enough to really fix anything. just enough to blur your thoughts at the edges, to make the day feel slightly farther away than it was before.

when you were done, you changed into something comfortable—an oversized shirt that swallowed your frame, soft shorts, and a pair of socks that made your steps quieter against the floor.

you didn’t feel better.

but at least you felt a little less like you were holding everything together.

you eventually made your way downstairs, more out of habit than hunger, opening the fridge and staring at it for a moment before grabbing whatever was easiest to make.

a classic nutella sandwich.

the quiet of the apartment helped a little while you moved around the kitchen, focused on the small task in front of you.

suddenly, you hear from the front door a soft click, followed by it opening.

your hands froze mid-motion.

for a second you didn’t even breathe, just standing there as the sound of footsteps reached the entryway.

your mind immediately filled in the worst possibility.

him.

without thinking, you crouched down quickly and slid under the kitchen counter, pulling your legs in close and pressing yourself into the small space as quietly as you could.

your heart was already racing.

a heavier sound, like someone struggling slightly with weight, something being shifted carefully rather than dropped or thrown. the kind of sound that made your stomach tighten all over again because it didn’t fit the scenario your brain had already prepared for.

you hesitantly shifted just enough to peek out from your hiding spot.

what you saw made you freeze completely.

a man you didn’t recognize was inside your apartment, steadying your dad’s unconscious body with a firm grip as he guided him toward the couch. your dad looked completely out of it, barely supported, his weight slumped against the stranger’s shoulder.

the man set him down carefully, adjusting his position so he wouldn’t fall off, before straightening up and finally glancing around the room.

that was when you really saw him properly.

he was really good-looking. like genuinely breath taking. sharp jawline, straight nose that gave his face a clean, structured look.

holy shit.

you slowly rose from under the counter, the man hadn’t noticed you yet, his attention still on your dad as he adjusted him slightly on the couch, making sure he was stable.

carefully, you stepped out into the open, each movement slow and hesitant. only when your footsteps lightly brushed against the floor did he pause.

he turned.

his eyes landed on you, and for a brief second his expression shifted—subtle surprise flickering across his face, like he genuinely hadn’t expected anyone else to be there.

his gaze stayed on you for a moment longer before he spoke, voice calm but curious.

“oh? i didn't know he had a daughter.”

of course that fucker wouldn’t have told anyone about you.

you stepped a little closer, your eyes drifting past the stranger to where your father now lay on the couch, completely out of it. the sight made something in your stomach twist. slumped, unresponsive, the reality of it settling in all over again in a way you didn’t want to look at for too long.

you forced your gaze away.

the man noticed the shift in your expression almost immediately. without saying anything else, he turned and started walking toward the kitchen. a silent cue to go with him.

after a brief hesitation, you followed him.

the apartment felt quieter the farther you moved from the living room, like the tension there stayed behind with your father. the kitchen light was softer, warmer somehow, and he leaned slightly against the counter as he waited, glancing at you once you stepped in behind him.

“sorry, should’ve introduced myself,” he said, glancing at you properly. “i’m sunghoon.”

you noticed the way his eyes lingered on your face for a moment, like he was quietly trying to place you in the picture he already had in his head.

“i’m y/n,” you said softly, your voice coming out smaller than you intended.

there was a brief pause after that.

you found yourself looking back at him properly too, the thick brows that gave him a naturally composed look. the moles on his face, one sitting close to the bridge of his nose, another a little lower on his cheek.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers for a second before lighting it. the small spark briefly lit his face, then faded as he took a slow drag, his eyes still resting on you like he hadn’t missed a single thing you’d said or done.

the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was heavy in a way you couldn’t quite name.

“sorry about your dad,” he said after a moment, exhaling faintly to the side so the smoke didn’t drift toward you. his tone stayed calm, almost matter-of-fact, but there was something softer underneath it. “i know he’s… not easy to deal with.”

you weren’t sure what to say to that.

“it’s okay… i’m used to it,” you said quietly, lowering your gaze to the floor instead of looking at him.

sunghoon watched you for a moment, his cigarette still between his fingers as he took another slow drag. there was a slight smirk at the corner of his mouth, not mocking, just faintly amused in a way that made him look even more unreadable.

“we were out having drinks and he passed out like usual,” he said casually, exhaling smoke to the side. his eyes never really left you. “normally i wouldn’t see anyone home. this is the first time i’ve seen you.”

his tone made it sound simple, like he was just stating a fact, but the way he looked at you suggested he was taking in more than just the situation. the way his eyes roamed from your face, down to your chest and legs.

was he checking you out?

he tilted his head slightly, cigarette still between his fingers as he held it out a little in your direction, like it was an offer that didn’t require much thought.

“want one?”

your eyes dropped to it for a second before flicking back up to him, “actually, are you even old enough to?” he asked, tone flat but with a hint of amusement under it.

you scoffed under your breath, the smallest bit of defiance slipping through. “i’m 18. of course i can.”

then your gaze dropped again, voice quieter this time.

“i’ve done it before...”

sunghoon didn’t say anything right away.

he studied you for a moment longer, like he was weighing your words instead of just hearing them. then, without much ceremony, he pulled another cigarette from the pack and offered it anyway.

“then take one, little girl,” he said simply.

your heart skips a beat at the nickname. cheeks flushing before you hesitantly grabbed it.

a lighter flicked between his fingers a second later, and soon enough the quiet of your kitchen was filled with that faint, drifting smoke curling into the air between you.

the kitchen stayed quiet, only the faint hum of the fridge and the slow burn of the cigarette filling the space between you.

sunghoon leaned against the counter like he had nowhere else to be, eyes drifting over you for a moment before settling again. not intense, but observant in a way that made it hard to ignore.

you shifted slightly under his gaze, unsure what to say or do with the silence.

a small exhale left him, almost like a quiet laugh.

“not much of a talker, are we?” he said, voice low and calm, like he was commenting on the weather rather than you.

your eyes flicked up to him briefly before dropping again. “i just don’t know what to say.”

that seemed to amuse him a little more. he took another slow drag, watching you through the smoke as if he was figuring you out.

sunghoon’s gaze drifted away from you, slowly scanning the room like he was taking it in properly for the first time instead of just standing in it.

that’s when he stopped and his eyes settled on the wall behind you.

there was an old framed photo hanging slightly off-center, like it had been put there a long time ago and never adjusted since.

you followed his gaze.

it was a picture from years ago, before everything changed. you were thirteen, caught in a moment you barely felt like belonged to you anymore. smiling too brightly, arms wrapped around your mom and dad in a way that looked so easy, so normal, it almost didn’t feel real now.

sunghoon didn’t say anything right away. his expression shifted slightly, something unreadable passing through his eyes as he looked at it longer than expected.

then he glanced back at you, like he was comparing the photo to the person standing in front of him now.

“you look so happy in that,” he said after a pause.

your throat tightened immediately.

“i was,” you said, then quickly added, softer, “i guess.”

the words hung in the air longer than you meant them to. sunghoon’s expression shifted slightly, something quieter settling in his eyes as he looked at you instead of the photo now.

“he's been like this since your mom died?” he asked. “that man always complains and goes on and on about his dead wife, especially moments before he passes out.”

you chuckled lightly, the words hitting a little too close. “yeah,” you managed.

sunghoon glanced back at the photo “he must've loved her a lot.”

the smile on your face faltered.

“i guess.”

a quiet silence settled between you. your fingers tightened slightly at your sides.

“sometimes i think he forgets he still has someone here.”

the words left his mouth so casually that he probably didn't realize what he'd just said. but you felt them.

all at once.

because he was right.

your father talked about your mother constantly. missed your mother constantly. drank because of your mother constantly.

and somewhere along the way, you'd stopped being his daughter and started becoming just another thing in the house.

you let out a shaky breath, looking down because you couldn’t really look at either him or the photo anymore.

you couldn't even give a response back and that alone was enough to make your chest feel worse.

then sunghoon moved closer. he put down the cigarette before his hand lifted slightly, hesitating for a second like he was deciding whether or not to cross that line, before gently resting on your shoulder and pulling you in.

safe in a way you weren’t used to.

you didn’t even realize you were crying until your face pressed into his shoulder, the tears coming out quieter at first before you couldn’t hold them back anymore.

sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. he just stayed there, one hand lightly at your back, the other at the back of your waist, rubbing a small circle with his thumb.

“i'm sorry baby,” he said eventually, low and close enough that only you could hear it.

his words suddenly crash all over you. reminding you of the times of when your father would comfort you like this in his arms.

he exhales once, small, like he’s pulling himself back.

“it must be hard,” he says. you nod faintly, but don’t move away.

you cried pathetically into his shoulder as he embraced you even tighter, before pulling his head back.

“how about we go to your room?” he said quietly. “we wouldn’t want your father waking up and seeing you like this.”

you blinked, still trying to steady your breathing, and gave a slow nod.

sunghoon knows he shouldn't.

especially not with one of his friends daughter.

he knows he shouldn't be doing this, yet he can't help but continue placing small hickeys across your neck, spreading them down till your collarbone.

youre resting on top of his lap, hands cramped up against his chest as you nervously grasp onto his shirt, feeling confused how you even ended up here.

"i- i don't know if we should be d-doing this..." your voice shakes as he licks over one of the many spots he marked on you.

he chuckles at your words, "shh.. baby, let daddy take care of you alright?"

his hands grip firmly at your waist before he goes back in for another kiss. it's gentle and slow, almost like as if he's savouring the taste of your lips.

you try matching back the rhythm and movement of his lips, but fail miserably as you accidentally bite too hard on your own tongue. you wince lightly from the pain as sunghoon pulls back and smirks at you.

"poor bunny doesn't know how to kiss?" he smirks, almost mocking you for not knowing how to.

you bite your lip, attempting to hide the embarrassment spreading across your face. sunghoon notices and brings his thumb to your lip.

"don't worry my little girl, daddy'll teach you everything."

fuck, his words. the way he comforted you. the way he held you. why was it enough build up the wetness between your legs now?

before you can react, his mouth is on yours again. it's soft, slow and warm, "don't overthink it, just follow my lips," he mumbles against your mouth.

you start to follow the movement of his lips, your hands roaming towards the nape of his neck as he deepens the kiss. his mouth opens slightly as he slowly brings his tongue inside your mouth, meeting yours.

you quiver slightly, unsure of what to do but when sunghoon slides his tongue against yours, your tongue is able to naturally follow his. the kiss had gotten so heated, so wet and sloppy.

as the kiss continued, you felt his growing erection form harder beneath you. in the desperate state you were in, your body instinctively grinded forward on its own, earning a groan from sunghoon.

sunghoon pulls back from the kiss and looks at you. your eyes were hazy, almost like as if you were hallucinated from the kiss.

"keep doing that f'me, you wanna feel good yeah?" you nod your head at his words.

at his orders you continue to grind your clothed core against the large bulge in his pants. your whimper at the friction as you hold onto his arms to balance yourself.

"fuck.. you're doing so well for me," he groans at the pleasure.

his hand suddenly comes to grip your jaw, forcing your mouth open. "stick out your tongue," you're confused but you do as he says, slowly sticking it out. he spits in your mouth, letting it slowly drip until it reaches your tongue.

sunghoon smirks at the sigh infront of him, you with your tongue out thats all covered in his spit, "swallow it all f'me, get a good taste."

without hesitation, you swallow. sunghoon nods his head in approval before his hips continue to move against yours again. his pace is faster now as youre both desperately grinding against each other for release.

"f-fuck.. feels so good.." you moan out as you grip his arms even tighter now.

suddenly, sunghoon grips your shoulders and pushes you back down onto the bed, hovering on top of you. "you look so pretty baby," he leaves a peck to your lips before slowly trailing down from your jaw to your neck, "have you ever done anything like this before?"

when you shake your head, sunghoon gives you a sly smile. "my bunny is still a virgin huh? how cute."

sunghoon doesn't waste time to lift your shirt up, exposing the cute pink bra you wore underneath. he brings his face closer to your clothed chest, placing a kiss right in the middle of your breasts.

he then lifts your bra up aswell, your breasts finally exposed as the cold air hits your skin. your nipples slightly harden at the sudden temperature drop.

sunghoon licks his lips before attaching his mouth to one your nipples, flicking his tongue over it. you gasp at the warmth of his mouth on your chest as you hold onto the bedsheets.

his hands trail from your shoulders down to your thighs, massaging them slowly before his hand makes its way over to your clothed core.

you're absolutely soaked through your shorts, sunghoon smirks at the feeling of your wetness before slowly rubbing your clit through the soaked fabric.

"fuck baby.. you're so wet, all this for me?" he coos at you as you nod your head while gasping at the pleasure his fingers are offering you.

sunghoon grabs onto the hem of your shorts, tugging them once before pulling them down along with your underwear, leaving you completely bare underneath him.

he curses under his breath at the sight of you. you're so undeniably innocent yet so sexy, he can't believe his friend was able to create someone like you.

your legs close together as you feel the embarrassment of being nude hit you. sunghoon notices and forces them apart again, "keep 'em open for me,"

sunghoon doesn't wait any longer before removing his clothing too. he first removes his shirt, revealing his slightly toned abs and biceps which he catches you staring at before smirking to himself.

his hands grip onto the sides of his pants before he pulls them down just below his boxers, his bulge being even more prominent now. his thumbs tug inside his boxers before he slides them down too just half way, revealing his thick cock which was already leaking precum.

your mouth dropped slightly. you were shocked or more should you say... scared? nervous? he was huge. even his tip seemed like it'd be painful enough for you.

sunghoon noticed the nervousness on your face and chuckled, "aw, is my little girl scared? 's okay, daddy's cock will make you feel reaaal good." he says before he leans down and places a kiss on your forehead.

your heart beats like crazy as the wetness continues to pool up underneath you. sunghoon's hands make way to your clit, rubbing it gently in circles.

you grind against his hand, desperate for more. sunghoon only continues to keep slowly rubbing your clit, not giving you the full attention your body craves.

“p-please…” you whispered, the word barely making it past the lump in your throat.

“please what?” he asked quietly.

"your f-fingers.. nghh.. please!" you cry out. sunghoon smirks at the way you beg for it.

"since my bunny's been so good, she deserves it." he whispers loud enough that you can hear it.

his fingers go down to your hole, which was already oozing out the slick and wetness that has been building up for the past 30 minutes since he's been in your room.

he slowly circles over your hole before pushing a finger in slowly. you let out a pleasured moan at the feeling, your body immediately feeling the heat of his fingers.

he starts thrusting his finger in and out slowly, the wetness coating his finger as you moan at the sensation. you continue to grind forward, still desperate for more.

"you know if you want more, you're gonna have to earn for it." he murmured before tapping his cock against your thigh, signaling for what you should do.

you look up at him nervously before looking down at his huge cock, the precum already leaking out. before your hand can fully reach out, sunghoon grabs your wrist with his free hand before spitting onto your palm.

with his spit all over your palm, you sit up slightly as your hand spreads the wetness of his saliva all over his cock before slowly rubbing his tip against the palm of your hand.

sunghoon hisses at the feeling, "fuck, keep doing that baby," he groans before adding a second finger into your cunt, earning a loud moan from you.

and before you both know it, you're both now like two animals in heat desperate to get each other off. you stroke sunghoon's cock at a medium pace, taking in whatever you can as sunghoon keeps fingering you at a faster speed.

"ngh.. shit if you keep doing that.. 'm gonna cum," sunghoon groans loudly.

you bite your lip as you continue to stroke his cock faster, a desperate attempt to match the speed in which he was fingering you at. he was relentless, abusing your little cunt like it didn't matter.

"feel's weird.. i think 'm gonna pee! s-sunghoon stop!" you whimper loudly, the heat in your stomach continuing to boil up. "then do it baby. do it all over me." he demands.

and with that, you cum. more like you squirt, all over him. your legs tremble as your orgasm hits you, your grip on sunghoons cock getting slightly loose but just enough for him to reach his climax and start shooting his cum all over your stomach.

"fuck.. was that your first time squirting bunny?" he questions, looking at the sight beneath him in awe before looking back up at you, seeing you nod your head in fluster.

gosh, you're really going to kill him.

he can't wait to ruin you.

without hesitation, sunghoon pushes you back down again, making you flat against your bed as he spreads open your legs again.

you look down and see that he's still hard. fuck, his sex drive is insane.

he grabs the base of his cock, positioning himself perfectly as he starts to slide his cock up and down your wet cunt, holding onto your thighs for support.

you let out a moan, your cunt still sensitive from your previous orgasm but the pleasure overtakes the sensitivity. he continues to grind against your cunt until he pulls back, slapping his cock against your clit.

"'s not gonna fit.. way too big.." you bite your lip in nervousness as sunghoon lets out a smug smile.

"shhh, daddy'll make it fit. just hold on f'me my little girl," he mumbles into your ear.

he slowly starts pushing the tip in, the pain immediately hitting you, "'s so painful.. daddy it hurts.." you whimper out in pain as your eyes begin to tear up, the nickname coming from your lips too naturally.

sunghoon could cum from your words just now, but it only encourages him to keep going as he continues to push himself in further, filling you up nice and slowly.

sunghoon leans down to kiss you as you whine against his lips, as he finally pushes himself all the way in, having you fully filled up with him now, "fuck, you're so tight. daddy's gonna fuck your little cunnie so good."

you squirm as he starts thrusting into your cunt, his cock ramming in and out you as the sound of your wet cunt and his sloppy thrusts echo throughout your room.

you're so sure that you're moaning loud enough that it could even wake up your dad, but you didn't even care anymore as the pain quickly turned into pleasure as sunghoon was balls deep in you.

"fuuuuck... so good, your pussy is clenching around me. you really love daddy's cock hm?" he almost mocks you but sees as you desperately nod your head.

"yes.. yes! fuck yes 'm loving daddy's cock so much! want m-more!" you whine loudly, drool spilling out of your lips as pleasure overtakes you.

sunghoon continues to quicken his pace, ramming his cock in and out you so deeply as he brings his hand to your stomach and presses down. you could've sworn you almost saw stars at that.

"d-daddy fuck..! nghh... 'm gonna cum.." you whimper.

sunghoon bites your earlobe, "mm, cum for daddy. let it all out," he whispers into your ear.

and with that, you come undone. you grip onto the bedsheets tightly and your legs shake violently as you cum all over his cock, your vision turning white for a few seconds as the orgasm hits you hard.

sunghoon chuckles at how hard you came, slowing down his thrusts to let you ride out your orgasm. your grip slowly loosens on your bedsheets as your breathing starts to slow down and become more calm.

suddenly, sunghoon starts to continue his relentless thrusting,"i still haven't came yet, gonna abuse and use up your lil cunnie." he groans as he quickens up his pace.

the dirty wet sounds of your intimate areas meeting each other fill up the room. one of his hands hold onto your hip as the other goes up to your breast, grabbing and squeezing it as he watches the way they bounce with each thrust.

sunghoon can finally feel the heat in his stomach brew up, "shit, 'm gonna cum inside this pussy," he groans before he quickly grabs his phone and starts to record.

his angles it just right to show how his cock thrusts into you just right while also showing how perfectly your breasts bounce with your mouth open from the pleasure.

sunghoon groans loudly as his orgasm hits him, his cum immediately filling you up. gosh you feel so thick and filled. sunghoon brings down the camera, showing a close up of his cock inside you before pulling out.

as he pulls out, he records how his cum mixed with your wetness oozes out of your hole. he smirks at the sight, bringing the camera up to show the cum over your stomach and then your dazed face as you breathe heavily.

he grabs your face making you look at the camera, "who does this little cunt belong to?" he demands an answer, placing a gentle slap to your clit as you let out a yelp before answering, "y-yours!"

he smirks before rubbing your thigh to soothe out the pain, "yeah? you belong to daddy now. i'll treat you so good, my little girl."

he ends the video before putting his phone back into his pocket. he falls onto the side next to you, wrapping his arms around you as he rubs your back gently.

your face stayed buried against his chest, his presence warm and grounding in a way you didn’t realize you needed until now.

“you did so well my bunny,” he murmured softly after a moment. “i’m so proud of you.”

his voice was quiet, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. you held onto him a little tighter at his words, your breath uneven.

“don’t leave me… please,” you said, barely above a whisper.

he went still for a second, then shifted just enough to look down at you.

his hand came up to gently hold your cheek, thumb brushing lightly as he steadied you.

“i’m not going anywhere,” he said softly.

and after a pause, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, a silent reassurance.

you stayed there for a moment longer, holding onto him like you were afraid the feeling might disappear if you let go too soon.

jake: dude shes fucking gorgeous jay: holy shit, there's no way thats his daughter. im so jealous. heeseung: I wanna use her up too. Not fair Sunghoon.

sunghoon smirks at his friends messages. of course he had to send it to the groupchat (which obviously did not include your dad).

the video of which his cum dripped out of your pussy and where you said that you belonged to sunghoon was enough to drive him and all of his friends crazy (and get all of them hard).

sunghoon: she's totally innocent too, her pussy was so tight. jay: sounds like heaven. jake: this isnt fair howd you find this angel wtf?? heeseung: Lets pass her around, she'd probably enjoy that. jay: we can tell. jake: shes definitely secretly a slut who likes older men. jake: cmon hoon.

sunghoon chuckles at his phone.

sunghoon: maybe.

@evanificais do not steal or recreate.

authors note: hii :3 first ever fic, hope y'all enjoy. not proofread cus i physically cannot read my own work but i hope theres not too many mistakes. if i missed any warnings pls lmk!

The thing about Havenmore High is that nothing interesting ever happens there.

Chihiro had decided this somewhere around sophomore year, when she realized that the most exciting thing to occur in the school's recent history was the vending machine on the third floor dispensing two bags of chips for the price of one. People had talked about it for a week. An entire week.

So when the classroom door opened in the middle of first period on a grey Tuesday in October, and the new kid walked in, she noticed. Not because he was particularly dramatic about it, he wasn't. He handed Mr. Yoon his transfer slip without a word, stood at the front of the room with the specific stillness of someone who had done this before and found it deeply uninteresting, and waited.

The class did what classes always do. They stared.

Chihiro stared too, but she liked to think she did it more carefully than everyone else.

He was tall. Dark hair that fell slightly over his forehead like he hadn't bothered to fix it this morning, or possibly ever. A face that was almost unreasonably symmetrical, which Chihiro noted the way she noted anything factual, with detachment. He was wearing a school uniform that looked the same as everyone else's and somehow didn't look the same at all, the way certain people can make a blank wall look intentional just by standing in front of it.

Nishimura Riki, Mr. Yoon announced to the class, mangling the pronunciation just enough. Transfer from Osaka. Let's make him feel welcome.

Nobody clapped. A few people nodded. Someone in the back whispered something Chihiro didn't catch.

Riki's eyes moved across the room in one slow, even sweep, not nervous, not curious, just methodical, like he was cataloguing exits, and then stopped.

On her.

Chihiro didn't look away. She rarely did.

He did, after exactly one second, the same way you'd look away from a lamp or a window or something that had no particular relevance to you. Then he walked to the empty seat in the third row, sat down, and took out a notebook.

Wonbin leaned over from the desk beside her.

"He looked at you weird," he said.

"He looked at the whole class."

"Yeah, but then he looked at you weird."

Chihiro turned back to her own notebook. "You're projecting."

"I'm observing," Wonbin said. "There's a difference. I observe things too, you know."

"You observe things and then assign them emotional significance they don't have."

"That's just called being a person, Chihiro."

She didn't answer. She was already writing.

October 14. New transfer student: Nishimura Riki. Osaka. Looked at the room like he was counting doors.

She paused. Added:

Didn't smile when Yoon made the welcome-to-Havenmore speech. Everyone smiles at that, even if it's fake.

It was a small thing. Most people wouldn't have filed it away. Chihiro filed everything away, though, it was less a choice than a compulsion, the same way some people crack their knuckles or chew their pens. She collected details. She always had. Her mother called it a gift. Her last boyfriend had called it unsettling. Wonbin called it the reason she was terrible at parties.

The morning moved on. Mr. Yoon resumed talking about The Great Gatsby with the particular resignation of a man who had taught the same book for fifteen years and stopped believing in the green light somewhere around year four. Chihiro took notes. Wonbin drew something in the margins of his textbook that may have been a dragon.

From two rows away and slightly to the left, she was aware of Riki the way you're aware of a window in winter, not looking directly at it, but conscious of the cold.

Which was strange, actually. She wrote that down too.

The room feels colder on his side. Check if the heating vent is broken.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

She saw him again at lunch.

This was not unusual, the school had exactly one cafeteria, and unless you ate in the library (Chihiro had a long and storied relationship with that particular option), you ended up there. What was unusual was that Riki was sitting alone at the far end of the room with a lunch tray in front of him that he wasn't touching.

Not hadn't gotten to yet. Not was waiting for something. Just, wasn't touching. The food sat there and he sat there, and he was looking at his phone with the focused blankness of someone who was using it as a prop rather than actually looking at it.

"He's not eating," Chihiro said.

Wonbin didn't look up from his own food. "Some people aren't hungry."

"He hasn't moved in ten minutes."

"Some people eat slowly."

"He hasn't touched it, Wonbin. The fork is in exactly the same position it was when he sat down."

Now Wonbin looked up. He studied Riki for a moment with the expression he used when he was deciding whether or not something was worth engaging with.

"Maybe he's not into whatever they're serving," he said finally.

"It's rice."

"Maybe he's not into rice."

"Nobody's not into rice."

Wonbin pointed his own fork at her. "You're doing the thing."

"I'm not doing the thing."

"You're absolutely doing the thing. You've got the notebook face."

Chihiro did not have a notebook face. She had a normal face. "I'm just making an observation."

"You're collecting data on the new kid after half a day." He lowered his fork. "Chihiro. He's probably just nervous. It's his first day."

She looked at Riki across the cafeteria. He didn't look nervous. He looked like someone who had sat in a hundred cafeterias and found all of them equally unremarkable. He looked, she thought, like someone who was very good at waiting.

"Sure," she said, and ate her rice.

But she kept the note.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ ʚɞ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The last time she saw him that day was at the end of sixth period, in the hallway outside the science labs.

She was going one way. He was going the other. The hallway was crowded and loud with the particular chaos of end-of-day, everyone moving fast, bags hitting shoulders, someone's earbuds trailing on the floor. Normal Tuesday afternoon noise.

They passed each other.

It lasted less than two seconds.

But she was close enough to notice, and she was always noticing, that he didn't smell like cologne or laundry detergent or sweat the way everyone else did at the end of a school day. He smelled like cold air. Like the moment before it rains. Like standing outside at night when the temperature has finally dropped and the world has gone quiet.

Chihiro stopped walking.

She turned around. He was already gone, absorbed into the crowd, just the dark of his jacket disappearing around the corner.

She stood there for a second. Around her, the hallway moved.

Then she took out her notebook.

He smells like outside. Like cold. Not cologne. Not anything manufactured. Just-

She stopped. Crossed out the last line. Started again.

The heating vent in Room 204 is fine. It's not the vent.

She closed the notebook and went home.

That night, she added a new page.

At the top, she wrote: NISHIMURA RIKI.

Below it, so far, she had three things.

1. Doesn't smile.

2. Doesn't eat.

3. Makes rooms feel cold.

She looked at the list for a long time.

Then she wrote:

4. Worth paying attention to.

“don’t make me laugh. as if you can keep your hands off me,” the man scoffs, followed by his mocking laugh, “did you forget that i’m park sunghoon?”

“and did you forget who i am?” you were quick to spit back, “i’m the one you chased after for six months. so who do you think wants who more?”

what started out as a light hearted conversation over dinner about the recent sex ban bet amongst the other couples, turned into this. a useless, heated disagreement over nothing.

“fine. then lets see who’ll last longer.”

“you’re on park.”

if there’s one thing you and your boyfriend have in common, it’s stubbornness.

you love sunghoon, you really do and you know that he loves you so much too. but god are you both stubborn.

because you’re both at jake’s party two days later, standing on either sides of the house like total strangers. it had become rather awkward to say the least, with the two of you barely talking to each other ever since. at first it was more of a trying to prove my point kind of thing but when it got to the second day, you both realised it was rather stupid...

but of course none of you wanted to admit it before the other.

“how can someone this pretty be alone? there’s just no way.”

ew.

this was the second tipsy guy to approach you within the last hour, throwing the same cheesy pick up line in hopes of a quick hook up.

“i’m here with my boyfriend, he just went to the bathroom.”

“no need to lie to me babe,” he steps closer towards you, gradually cornering you into the wall, “you’ve been standing alone for the past hour. come on, lets head upstairs.”

and now you’re pissed off, annoyed by the audacity to blatantly suggest such a thing when you’ve just told him you had a boyfriend. you readied yourself to teach him a lesson of your own when someone suddenly steps in between, forcing the stranger to stagger backwards.

“why, what’s up stairs? wanna show me instead?” you could recognise that voice anywhere, that deep tone sunghoon only used whenever he was irritated. and judging by his face, you could tell that the man was definitely irritated.

it didn’t take long before the stranger was off on his way, finally leaving you alone with your unpleased boyfriend. he turns around to look at you then, one of his hands immediately wrapping around your waist to keep you safe in his hold.

“are you okay?” he mouths, his expression more worried than angry now.

“i'm fine hoon, just tired of these drunks.”

“i shouldn’t have left you alone,” he sighs, eyes racking over your short outfit, one he personally loved you in, “what do i even expect? just look at you.”

your lips immediately react to his cheesy words, curving into a toothy grin that has the man mirroring as well. it’s the first sweet moment you’ve shared in the past two days and to be honest... you wanted more than just a sweet moment.

especially when the man looked the way he did. a white top, some denims and that damn leather jacket that you loved on him so much. sunghoon is handsome, duh, but just something about tonight’s look just had you leaking through your clothes.

you could feel your body heating up from where he’s touching you through your thin shirt, where his fingers are already drawing small, soothing circles at. two days of not having these types of interactions with your boyfriend has felt like an eternity, so even these feather like touches were driving you insane.

“sunghoon...”

it’s as if he could read your mind from your tone alone, the man now pulling you even closer with his hand. he’s looking down at you with half lidded eyes, the very same ones he gives you when making love to you.

“i missed you hoon.”

“i missed you too baby, so much.”

if the room wasn’t currently filled with a hundred other people, you surely would’ve gotten on your knees for your man. so you move onto the next best option. jake sim’s bedroom upstairs.

one moment later and you’re both inside jake’s dimly lit bedroom, with you straddling over sunghoon’s lap while he sat on the edge of the massive bed. his hands are all over your body, the man wanting to feel more of you underneath your shirt. your lips are working against each other, moving in sync, desperately trying to taste every part of each other’s mouths.

“sunghoon...”

“how can i survive a sex ban when my baby looks like this,” his lips move down towards your jaw, marking up every part of your skin along the way, “i’ve missed you so bad.”

if there’s one other thing you and your boyfriend have in common besides being stubborn, is that you’re both crazy for each other.

since day one.

“forget the sex ban hoon. j- just fuck me-”

“seriously?! in my room?!” you both immediately turn to the sudden squeal, just to see the room’s owner standing at the door with his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth wide opened, “just lock the door and... please clean up before my missus has a heart attack.”

the room erupts into laughter as the door closes again, both of you more amused than embarrassed at being caught. you were beginning to feel bad though, knowing how excited jake’s girlfriend was for their new, pretty bedsheets aka the ones you and your boyfriend were mucking around on right now and about to do some damage to.

“baby,” sunghoon’s soft call has you immediately focused back on him, his tone noticeably lower than usual, “what’s that pretty head of yours thinking about?”

“you and everything you’re about to do to me.”

the goofy smile that instantly appears on your boyfriend’s face is one your poor heart can barely take, the view a reminder of why you fell for the man in the first place.

he leans right in without hesitation, smashing his lips onto yours as one of his hands grasps onto the back of your neck. his arm that is already around your waist pulls you in even closer, just enough so you’re now sitting atop his very obvious hard on.

“hoon...”

“i love you,” the man whispers against your lips, “and i’m going to show you just how much i do.”

end.

𝕯ᥲrk 𝕸᥆᥆ᥒ ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

†༙ 00: PROLOGUE

†༙ CHAPTER I : GHOST TOWN

†༙ CHAPTER II : UNTOLD TRUTH

†༙ CHAPTER III : SAINT

†༙ CHAPTER IV : PLAYING WITH FIRE

†༙ CHAPTER V : WITNESS

†༙ more to come... †

🩸 taglist open: comment on this post, dm or inbox is fine (must have an age indicator on your blog pls !!).



DISCLAIMER 🦇༉‧₊˚. NOTES 🦇༉‧₊˚. AUTHOR’S NOTE

— characterization of enhypen members, this is purely fictional !! i am not trying to damage their image. sorry if the serial killer theme is not your thing. tags were there. but i’ll never romanticize murder or any kind of violence (and this fic won’t be the exception). it’s just for writing purposes.

— everything’s fictional. even the town, “located” in South Korea, so I can be geographically and historically wrong, but i’ll do my best.

— contains crime elements and i’ll do my best to put them out there!! haha i’m not a criminologist, a forensic scientist, or a police officer.

— not related to enhypen’s dark moon lore. i just loved the name :3

— inspired by enhypen’s songs and their vampire concept, ofc, as well as a lot of other vampire content/media: my chemical romance, twilight, the vampire diaries, interview with the vampire, Dracula, etc. inspo movies like The Silence of the Lambs, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Se7en, zodiac. (a/n: lot of references/inspo of twilight i love twilight haha).

— i’ll create a playlist later, be ready for all enha discography in it lol

wen’s note: first enha series kinda nervous!! tysm if u decide to give it a try♡

i had this idea since december of last year lol tysm for reading (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

He'd been quiet all the way home from the party — that particular kind of quiet that wasn't peace but pressure, the silence of a pressure cooker before it blows. The kind of quiet that meant his brilliant mind was chewing on something sharp, turning it over and over behind those dark eyes until it drew blood, until the wound festered and throbbed and demanded attention. 

He'd walked beside you on the sidewalk with his jaw set, his hand in yours but gripping too tight, his thumb rubbing anxious circles against your knuckles like he was trying to soothe himself more than you. 

You'd let him have his silence. You'd let him stew.

You'd seen him at the party too. 

You'd watched him over the rim of your glass, watched him standing by the drinks table with that frozen smile plastered across his handsome face, the one that didn't reach his eyes, the one that made him look like a beautiful mannequin of himself, while some guy from his department had leaned in close to you and laughed a little too hard at something you'd said, touched your shoulder a little too long, let his fingertips drag across the bare skin where your sleeve had slipped. 

You'd watched Riki's knuckles go white around his drink, watched the muscle in his jaw tick once, twice, three times. Watched him set his glass down with a controlled, deliberate care that was somehow more dangerous than if he'd slammed it.

Riki, who had graduated top of his class — summa cum laude, his thesis on epistemological frameworks cited in two journals before he'd even received his diploma. 

Riki, who had won national debate championships and math Olympiads, who could recite poetry in three languages and argue the finer points of Schopenhauer in two. 

Riki, whose mind was a cathedral of thought, vaulted and soaring and meticulous in every arch. 

Riki, who was currently pressed against your back like a drowning man clutching driftwood, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, his fingers digging into the soft flesh above the waistband of your dress like he needed to anchor himself to something real, something his, something that wouldn't float away.

"You're jealous," you said. It wasn't even a question. It was a statement of fact, the way you might observe that water is wet or that the sky is dark at night.

"I know." His voice was muffled against your neck, the words pressed hot and damp into your skin like a confession he couldn't bear to say to your face. 

"I know it's stupid. I know I have no right to be. I know—god, I know how this makes me look. He just—" You felt his breath hitch, felt his fingers tighten on your hips. "He kept looking at you. The way your dress caught the light. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear. And you laughed at his joke, that laugh you do, the real and cute one, the one that crinkles your nose, and I—" He broke off, and you heard the click in his throat, the swallowed-back frustration. "I wanted to put my hand on your waist. Right there. In front of everyone. So he'd know. So they'd all know."

"Turn around."

He obeyed instantly, that brilliant body moving before his brain could catch up, before the part of him that calculated and reasoned and overthought could step in and apply the brakes. 

You guided him backward, your hands flat on his chest, feeling the hard planes of his pectorals flex under your palms as he shuffled one step, then another, then another, until his knees hit the edge of the couch and he dropped onto it with a soft grunt, the cushions sighing under his weight. 

He looked up at you with those dark eyes, the same eyes that had dissected Kant and solved impossible equations and reduced philosophy professors to stuttering silence in seminar rooms, now wide and wet and full of desperate want, pupils blown so wide that the dark iris had nearly swallowed the whole, his lips parted, his chest heaving with shallow, uneven breaths.

"Listen, Ki," you said, stepping between his spread legs, your thighs pressing against the inside of his knees. You looked down at him, and felt the power of it settle warm and heavy between your hips. "You're going to earn your way back into my good graces. I'm going to ask you questions. Simple ones. Things you should know if you really pay attention to me — if you really see me the way you say you do."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, the Adam's apple shifting beneath the golden skin. His hands came to rest on your thighs, fingers curling lightly into the denim, not pulling, not pushing, just holding on.

"For every right answer, you get a reward." You reached down, tracing your fingernail along his jaw, the sharp angle of it, down the taut line of his throat, watching the skin pebble into goosebumps in the wake of your touch, watching him shiver like you'd run a current through him. 

"For every wrong one..." You let your nail press just slightly harder, dragging a thin white line across the column of his throat before releasing. "I tease you until I decide you've suffered enough to try again. And I can be very, very patient."

"Yes." The word came out rough, wrecked, scraped raw from somewhere deep in his chest like it had been dragged over gravel. His fingers dug into your thighs. "Yes, please. Please—I want to earn it. I want to be good for you."

"First question." You tilted your head, studying him the way he studied texts, the way he parsed arguments — methodically, relentlessly. "What color were my eyes in the light at the party?"

He didn't hesitate. Not even a fraction of a second. 

"Green," he said, and his voice was steady now, sure, the way it got when he knew something with absolute certainty. 

"They looked green because you were standing under the stained glass lamp by the window, the one with the amber and emerald panels. But they're actually hazel, more brown than green, with gold flecks that show when the sun hits them just right. Especially in the morning. When you're lying in bed and the light comes through the curtains, they look almost amber. Like honey."

The precision of it, the obsessive, granular observation, sent a pulse of heat straight to your cunt, thick and immediate, your clit throbbing against the seam of your safety shorts. 

"Correct," you breathed, and you watched something shift in his expression, relief and pride and raw hunger all tangled together.

You sank to your knees in front of him, the hardwood cool under your kneecaps, and the sound he made, a sharp, desperate inhale that stuttered in his chest like an engine trying to turn over, was the most satisfying thing you'd heard all night. 

More satisfying than the guy at the party's laughter, more satisfying than the jealous tension that had coiled in Riki's jaw all evening. 

Your fingers found the button of his jeans, popped it open with a practiced flick, dragged the zipper down tooth by tooth, slow enough that you could feel him trembling through the denim, feel the vibration of his body humming through the metal teeth as they parted.

"Lift up."

He lifted his hips off the couch, bracing his weight on his palms, and you pulled his jeans and boxers down together in one smooth motion, dragging them to mid-thigh. His cock sprang free, already hard, thick and heavy and flushed, the head a deep, angry red-dark against the flat plane of his stomach, a bead of precum already gathering at the slit and sliding in a slow, obscene trail down the crown. 

You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the heat of him, impossibly hot, like he was running a fever, the pulse thrumming through the sensitive shaft in quick, urgent beats that matched the hammering of his heart. 

He was so hard for you that it looked almost painful, every vein visible along the length of him, straining.

"Such a smart boy," you murmured, leaning in close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath ghosting over the slick head. "You deserve this. You've been so good, paying attention, remembering every little thing."

You took him into your mouth without warning, deep, all at once, your throat opening to accept him, your lips sealing tight around the root. 

The groan he let out was punched from somewhere deep in his chest, guttural and broken, his hips jerking instinctively upward, his hand flying to your hair and gripping hard enough that you felt the pull at your scalp. 

You held him there, letting your throat contract around the head, swallowing against him, your tongue working the underside in long, flat strokes, pressing into the thick ridge of flesh, tracing the vein that ran from root to tip. 

Saliva pooled around him, warm and thick, spilling from the corners of your stretched lips, making everything slick and wet and obscene, the sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room, wet and gulping and pornographic.

You pulled back slowly, sucking hard, letting your lips drag along his length with a pressure that made his thighs tremble on either side of your head, until only the tip was in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the head in a slow, deliberate circle, tasting the salt of his precum, tracing the sensitive ridge where the head met the shaft, then sank down again, taking him to the hilt, your hand joining your mouth, working the base in a tight, twisting rhythm while your throat took the rest, your nose buried in the coarse dark hair at his root, breathing him in, skin, salt, and the warm, musky scent of his arousal.

"Fuck—fuck, that's—" His voice broke into a moan, raw and fractured, and you felt his cock pulse against your tongue. "Your mouth—god, your fucking mouth—"

You pulled off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your swollen bottom lip to the head of his cock, glistening and elastic in the low light. "I didn't say you could talk."

"Sorry." He was panting, his chest heaving, his fingers still tangled in your hair but loosened now, trembling. "I'm sorry, baby. I'll be quiet. I'll be good."

"That's better." You licked a long, slow stripe up the side of his shaft, from the root where your hand still gripped him to the tip where precum was welling up fresh, flattening your tongue against the underside and dragging upward with deliberate pressure, then took him deep again. 

You set a rhythm, deep and slow, swallowing him until your eyes watered, then fast and shallow, your lips tight around the head, your hand working the slick shaft in counterpoint — then deep again, each time building him up, feeling his thighs tense and shake against your shoulders, hearing his breath quicken into short, sharp pants, feeling his cock throb and jump in your mouth.

When you pulled off again, his cock was glistening, slick with your spit from root to tip, and he was panting like he'd run a marathon, his chest heaving, his shirt rucked up to expose the hard ridges of his stomach, every muscle clenched tight, a sheen of sweat gathering at his hairline.

"Second question," you said, your hand still stroking him slowly, your thumb circling the head, spreading the precum that was leaking steadily now in a slick, slippery film. You squeezed gently and watched his abs contract. "What's my favorite book?"

"The Secret History," he said immediately, without pause, the answer tumbling out like he'd been waiting his whole life to give it. 

"By Donna Tartt. You read it every autumn, you start it the first week the leaves turn, every single year without fail. You have three different copies — the paperback with the broken spine and the coffee stain on page 207, the hardcover your sister gave you for your birthday the year you turned twenty-two, and the e-book you keep on your phone for when you're waiting in line or sitting on the subway and you need something to anchor you." He swallowed, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "You always cry when Henry dies. Every damn time. Even though you know it's coming."

Your cunt clenched hard around nothing at how easily the answers came to him, how much he actually paid attention, not the broad strokes but the fine details, the small sacred things you thought no one noticed. 

"Correct," you said, and your voice was hoarser than you intended.

You leaned in and took him in your mouth again, but this time you made it sloppy, abandoning any pretense of technique or restraint. 

You let the drool run freely down your chin, let it drip onto his balls and pool at the base of his cock, let your nose press onto base and inhale the raw, animal scent of him, let your throat work him with wet, sucking sounds that filled the room, obscene, rhythmic, the kind of sounds that would make a saint blush. 

Your hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them heavy and tight, feeling them draw up closer to his body as you worked him closer and closer to the edge, your other hand braced against his trembling thigh, fingernails leaving little crescent moons in the skin.

"Please," he gasped, and his voice was barely a voice anymore — just breath and want and desperation given sound. "Please, I'm—I'm close—I can't—it's too much, baby—"

You pulled off immediately, leaving him swollen and desperate, your hand gone too, hovering just above his cock without touching, a thin string of saliva still connecting your wet, swollen lips to the head. 

His cock jerked in the open air, flushed and angry and leaking, abandoned.

"I decide when you come," you said, and your hand wrapped around the base of his cock and squeezed hard with firm, deliberate pressure, cutting off the orgasm before it could crest, before it could spill over. "Not you. Do you understand?"

"Fuck—" His whole body seized, his hips bucking into nothing, his head thrown back against the couch, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief. "Okay, okay—I understand—please —"

"You're doing so well, baby." You kissed the tip of his cock, soft and teasing, barely a brush of your lips against the slick head, the ghost of a touch, and watched his entire body shudder. 

"Such a good boy for me. Let's try another question." You sat back on your heels, looking up at him through your lashes, your lips still glistening. "What's the first thing I do when I wake up?"

"Reach for me," he breathed, and his voice cracked on the second word, breaking right down the middle like thin ice. "You—you always reach your hand across the bed before you open your eyes. Before you're even awake. Your fingers go searching across the sheet until they find my arm or my chest or my hip. To check if I'm still there. Every morning. Even when I'm right beside you. Even when I haven't moved."

Something in your chest tightened, a fist around your heart, a constriction that had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the aching, terrifying tenderness of being known like that — being known so completely, so carefully, that someone had memorized the unconscious language of your body. 

"Correct," you whispered.

You rewarded him with your hand this time, a tight, twisting handjob, your palm slick with spit and precum, the wet sounds of it filling the space between you as you worked his cock from base to tip in long, dragging strokes, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, your thumb pressing hard against the frenulum on every pass. 

He was so hard, so hot in your hand, burning and pulsing, and you watched his stomach muscles jump and twitch with every pass of your thumb over the sensitive head, watched his hands claw at the couch cushions, watched the sweat trail down his temples and into his hairline.

"You like that?" you asked, stroking him faster, tightening your grip until he gasped, your hand a slick, relentless piston. "You like being rewarded for being such a good, attentive boy? For knowing me better than anyone else in that room ever could?"

"Yes—god, yes—" The words were ragged, torn out of him between harsh breaths. "Your hand feels so fucking good—I've been thinking about this all night, about you—only you—"

"What do you like about it?" You slowed your hand just slightly, making him feel every inch of the stroke, and he whimpered — actually whimpered, a small, broken sound that made your cunt throb.

He struggled to form words, his hips twitching up into your grip, chasing the friction. "You—your hand—the way you look at me, like you're proud of me—like I'm—like I'm yours—like I belong to you, fuck—"

"I am yours, handsome," you said, and you squeezed him harder, watching his eyes roll back in his head, his mouth falling open, a strangled moan escaping from deep in his throat. "But more importantly—" 

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. "You're mine. This cock is mine. These sounds you're making are mine. Every desperate, jealous, brilliant inch of you belongs to me. And I don't share."

His whole body arched off the couch, a sob caught between a moan and your name tearing from his throat, his cock jumping and pulsing in your grip, precum spilling over your knuckles in a hot, sticky flood. "Yours," he gasped. "I'm yours—only yours—please—"

You didn't let him breathe. 

The moment your lips sealed around the head of his cock, you swallowed him whole — no hesitation, no teasing. 

Your throat opened for him, a hot, slick channel that gripped his shaft as you forced him deeper. 

The urge to gag was a distant reflex, one you crushed by sheer will, holding him there while your throat pulsed and clenched around the thick ridge of his cockhead. Saliva flooded your mouth, spilling out the corners where your lips strained to keep the seal tight.

Your hand worked the base, a relentless jacking motion that kept the rhythm brutal and unyielding. Palm slick with spit, fingers wrapped tight around the root, you stroked him in counterpoint to the bobbing of your head, up when you pulled off, down when you dove. 

The obscene sound of your mouth working him filled the room, a chorus of choked breaths and thick, sucking noises that made your own pussy ache.

He was shaking. Not just his legs—his whole body, a tremor that started in his hips and rippled up through his stomach, his chest, his clenched jaw. You could feel it in the way his cock pulsed against your tongue, in the desperate hitch of his breathing. 

Every time you took him deep, his hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, a shudder running through him like he was trying to hold back a scream.

You pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his glistening cockhead. 

Your hand didn't stop — two hard, fast strokes that pumped him through the air, the slick sound of your palm against his shaft loud and filthy. 

Precum leaked from his slit, glossy and salty, mixing with your saliva until his entire length was dripping. You watched the way his cock twitched, the vein on the underside bulging, the head dark and swollen. He was literally right there — on the edge, balanced on a razor of sensation.

You didn't let him fall. Not yet.

You leaned back in, mouth open wide, and took him deep again. 

Throat swallowing him down, your tongue pressing flat against the underside, the taste of him and the faint bitterness of precum, flooding your senses. A low, guttural moan escaped you, vibrating around his shaft, and his whole body jerked.

Pull off. Stroke, stroke. Breathe. 

His cock slapped against your chin, your fingers pumping him fast, the head slick and shining. He was whimpering now, tiny, broken sounds that were more air than voice. His hips twitched, trying to thrust, but you held him still with your hand, the other pressing flat against his stomach to feel the muscles jumping under your palm.

Deep again. 

You took him to the root, your throat convulsing around him, the gag reflex sharp but overridden by pure need. Saliva spilled out, running down your chin, down your neck, pooling on his thighs. You could taste his desperation, the sharp, almost metallic edge of his restrained climax. His balls were tight, drawn up against his body, heavy and full.

Pull off. Stroke, stroke. 

Precum beaded at his slit again, a pearly drop that you caught with your thumb, smearing it over the head. His cock jumped in your hand, a violent twitch that made him gasp. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, glistening, threatening to spill. You watched them, felt the tremor in his thighs, the way his breath hitched and stuttered.

Deep. 

Your throat swallowed him, and you held him there, letting the tight ring of your lips press against his base. Your tongue moved, laving the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed with every beat of his heart. You could feel him straining — every muscle locked, every nerve firing, his body begging for release. A sob escaped him, raw and broken, and you knew he was close.

Pull off. Stroke. Wait.

His cock was slick with spit and precum, your hand working him slowly now, deliberately, just enough to keep him teetering. His knees buckled, and he sagged against the couch, eyes screwed shut, tears tracking down his flushed cheeks. 

He was beyond words, beyond thought, he was just a trembling mess of need, held together by your will.

You leaned in again, tongue flattening, and dragged the flat of it from his balls to his tip, the long, wet stripe making him cry out. Then you took him deep, one last time, your throat working around him, the convulsions matching the rhythm of your hand on his base. 

Saliva dripped, and you held him there, on the edge, perfect, trembling, totally yours.

"Fourth question," you said, and your voice was rough now, scraped raw from the abuse on your throat, from having him deep, thick, and relentless in your mouth, the sound of you hoarse and used and unmistakably filthy. "What's my favorite position?"

"Riding," he gasped, and the word came out like a prayer, like a confession, like something he'd been dying to say. "You like—being on top. Controlling the pace. Controlling me. Watching my face when you take what you want."

"Correct."

You stood up slowly, your knees aching pleasantly from the hardwood, and he watched you with desperate, hungry eyes, those brilliant dark eyes tracking every inch of movement like a man watching water in a desert. 

You reached for the hem of your dress and pulled it over your head in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. 

Then your safety shorts, shimmying them down your thighs, kicking them aside. 

Then your panties, you hooked your thumbs under the waistband and dragged them down slowly, letting him see the wet patch that had soaked through the cotton, the slick shine of arousal on your inner thighs. 

You stepped out of them and stood before him completely naked, and he was still half-dressed, shirt rucked up, jeans bunched at mid-thigh, cock jutting obscenely from his lap, and the power imbalance made your skin flush with heat, made your cunt throb with the rightness of it, you bare, exposed, and in control while he sat there desperate, disheveled, and utterly at your mercy.

"Get these off," you said, gesturing to his shirt with a flick of your fingers.

He tore it off over his head so fast the fabric made a snapping sound, and you took a moment, you let yourself take it, to look at him. 

The lean muscle of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen still trembling with restrained tension, the sharp cut of his collarbones that you'd bitten marks into before, the flush that spread from his cheekbones down his neck and across his chest like a wildfire, pink and blotchy and so pretty. 

A thin sheen of sweat made his skin glow in the low light. He was beautiful, and he was yours, and he'd spent the whole night seething with jealousy over the mere idea of someone else having you, and now here he was, laid out, waiting, and so, so fucking hard.

"On the bed. Back against the headboard."

He scrambled off the couch with an eagerness that was almost clumsy, all that controlled brilliance reduced to fumbling urgency, and you watched the flex of his back muscles as he moved. 

He walked ahead of you toward the bedroom, and you followed close behind, your hand pressed flat against the warm skin between his shoulder blades, feeling the knobs of his spine, the way his muscles shifted under your palm with every step. 

When you reached the bedroom, he turned, meaning to climb onto the mattress, but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.

"Let me," you said.

Before he could respond, before that quick mind of his could calculate what you were doing, you hopped up onto the bed yourself, settling back against the headboard with your legs slightly parted, letting him see the wet, glistening mess between your thighs. 

You patted the space in front of you.

"Come here. Face me. Back against the headboard."

He moved like a man in a trance, climbing onto the bed and sliding back until his shoulders pressed against the headboard, positioning himself exactly as you'd asked, right beside you at first, but you reached over and grabbed his hip, tugging him in front of you, guiding him until he was settled against the wood with his legs stretched out and his cock standing hard and slick against his stomach, the head dark and swollen and leaking steadily, and he was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever been asked, every equation he'd ever solved, every argument he'd ever won.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, but you didn't sit on him yet. 

You held yourself there, hovering, the wet heat of your folds just inches from the tip of his cock, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you. Instead you reached down between your bodies, wrapping your hand around his cock, feeling him pulse in your grip, and positioned the head at your entrance. 

You held there, and you watched him fight the urge to thrust up. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of his hips, tendons standing out in his forearms, every line of his body singing with the effort of holding still.

"Question," you said, your voice steady even as your cunt throbbed against the head of his cock, even as your own body screamed at you to sink down. "What's my safe word?"

"Red," he said, and his voice was strained, thin, barely holding together. "And—and if I say yellow, you slow down. You check in. You don't stop, but you give me a moment."

"Correct."

You lowered yourself onto him. Inch by devastating inch.The stretch made both of you moan, your voices tangling together in the quiet room, yours high and breathy and breaking, his low and guttural and wrecked. 

He was thick, so fucking thick, impossibly thick, and you took him slowly, feeling every ridge and vein as your walls gripped him, pulled him deeper, your body opening for him like it had been made to. 

You could hear it — the wet, obscene sound of your pussy taking him in, the soft squelch of arousal as he sank deeper, the slick friction of your bodies joining. 

The sounds he made, made you even crazier. 

A sharp hiss through clenched teeth as the head pushed past your entrance. A broken, stuttering groan as you sank lower, as your tight heat swallowed another inch. 

A whimper when you clenched around him involuntarily, your walls fluttering and gripping. Then a full, deep moan from somewhere in his chest as you took him to the root, the sound vibrating through his body and into yours where you were pressed together. 

You loved those sounds. You wanted to live inside them. You wanted to pull them out of him one by one and keep them in your mouth like hard candy.

When you were fully seated, his hips flush against yours, his cock buried so deep inside you that you could feel him in your stomach, you paused, letting yourself adjust to the fullness of him, letting your walls stretch and soften around his girth. 

You could feel him twitching inside you, feel every pulse and throb of his cock against your sensitive walls, and you could feel your own arousal dripping down his shaft, pooling at the base where your bodies joined.

"Look at that," you breathed, grinding your hips in slow circles, feeling him shift inside you, feeling the head drag against that spot that made your vision blur. "Feel that, baby? Feel how tight I am for you? How my pussy is just—gripping you? Squeezing you?"

"Yes—fuck, you feel—you're so tight—you're so fucking tight and wet and—"

"So tight. So wet." You reached down, pressing your fingers against where your bodies joined, against the stretched, slick skin where his cock disappeared inside you, and you felt your own wetness coating your fingertips, felt the heat of it. 

You brought your fingers up and showed him, glistening and dripping, then pressed them back down, smearing your arousal over your swollen clit. "You feel how wet you make me? This is all for you. This pussy—" you clenched around him hard, making him choke on a moan, "—all yours. No one else's. Only yours."

He made a sound that was almost a sob, his head falling back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut, his throat exposed and vulnerable. "I love you—I love you so much—I'm so fucking in love with you—"

"I know you do." You started to move, slow at first, rolling your hips in lazy circles that made his cock drag against every sensitive spot inside you, grinding down onto him with a deliberate, unhurried rhythm that let you feel every inch. 

The sounds he was making were making you insane, making your cunt drip around him, making you want to tear him apart and put him back together. 

"But I need you to show me. Can you do that? Can you show me how much you love me? With your hands—your mouth—every part of you?"

"Yes—yes, anything—anything you want—"

You reached up, cupping your own breasts, squeezing them together, rolling your nipples between your fingers, pulling and twisting until they were tight, peaked points, until the sharp little sparks of sensation traveled straight down to where his cock was buried inside you. 

The sight of you touching yourself while riding him made his eyes go dark, his pupils swallowing everything, and his hands flew to your hips like they were pulled by a magnet, gripping hard.

"Touch me," you commanded, and your voice was breathless and authoritative all at once. "Touch my tits. Show me how much you want me. Show me what you wanted to do to me all night while that asshole was putting his hands on me."

His hands moved immediately, replacing yours, cupping your breasts, his palms warm and slightly rough against the soft skin, his thumbs finding your nipples and rolling them, circling them, pinching them with just enough pressure to make you gasp and your walls clench around his cock. 

He was touching you like you were sacred and profane all at once, worshipful, desperate, reverent and hungry in equal measure, like he couldn't believe he was allowed to have you, like at any moment someone might rip you away. 

His fingers squeezed and pulled and teased, and every touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to your cunt, made you grind down harder onto him, made the wet sounds between your legs louder, filthier.

"That's it," you moaned, your head falling back, starting to ride him in earnest now, picking up the pace. "That's my good boy. My perfect, jealous, brilliant boy."

You found a rhythm, your hips slamming down onto his, your thighs burning with the effort, the muscles in your legs screaming and you didn't care, you didn't care about anything except the drag of his cock inside you and the obscene symphony of sounds filling the room: skin slapping against skin, sharp and rhythmic, the wet squelch of your arousal every time you sank down onto him, the creak of the headboard against the wall.

"Who does this cock belong to?" you asked, your voice low and filthy, ragged with exertion and want.

"Yours," he said immediately, no hesitation, the word ripped from him like it was the only truth he'd ever known. "It's yours. Always yours. Only ever been yours."

"And this pussy?" You clenched around him as you asked, making him jerk underneath you.

"Mine," he groaned, and the word was guttural, possessive, desperate. "Please—please, it's mine—say it's mine—I need to hear it—"

"Correct."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and rode him harder, faster, using the new angle to drive him deeper, the head of his dick slamming against your cervix with every thrust, a bright sharp pulse of pleasure-pain that made you cry out. 

Your clit was aching, swollen, desperate for attention, and you reached down, pressing two fingers against it, circling in tight, fast movements while you fucked yourself on his cock, the combined sensation making your thighs shake, making your vision go white at the edges.

"Look at me," you commanded, and your voice was barely a voice anymore, just heat and want.

He did. 

Those dark, brilliant eyes locked onto yours, and the vulnerability in them, the raw, open need, the surrender, the way he was giving you every last piece of himself without reservation, made your pussy clench around him hard, made your fingers falter on your clit, made something crack open in your chest.

"You're so big," you moaned, your voice breaking, fracturing into something high and desperate and completely undignified, and you didn't care, you didn't care about anything except how he felt inside you. "So fucking hard—so deep—all for me? This perfect cock, all for me? No one else gets this—no one else ever, shit—"

"All for you—all of it—every inch—everything I am—everything I have—it's all yours—it's always been yours—"

"Then take it," you said, and you pressed your mouth to his ear, your breath hot and damp against the shell of it. "Take what's yours. Grab my hips and fuck up into me. Show me who I belong to."

His hands clamped onto your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises tomorrow, ten points of pressure digging into your flesh, and he started thrusting up into you, hard, deep, relentless strokes that punched sounds out of you that you didn't even know you could make, that made you glad the neighbors were far away. 

The sound of his hips slapping against your ass, he was groaning on every thrust, groaning and cursing and saying your name like it was the only word left in his vocabulary.

You felt the orgasm building — that hot, coiling tension deep in your stomach, the way your walls started to flutter and clamp around him in irregular pulses, the way your thighs started to tremble uncontrollably. 

You slowed down, grinding in slow circles, squeezing him tight inside you, watching him fight and lose the urge to thrust up into you, his hips jerking in short, aborted little movements that made the most delicious broken sounds spill from his throat.

"Question," you said, your voice breathless, barely more than a whisper. "What's my biggest insecurity?"

He didn't hesitate. 

"That people only want you for what you can give them, not for who you are," he said, and his voice was rough and raw and so fucking earnest it hurt. "That if you stopped being useful—if you stopped giving, stopped performing, stopped being what they needed—they'd leave. That you're only as valuable as what you can do for people. That no one would stay for just—just you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. The answer was so precise, so perfect, so devastatingly complete that it stole your breath, made your eyes sting, made your walls squeeze around him involuntarily not from pleasure but from the aching, terrifying fullness of being seen like that.

"Correct," you whispered, and your voice cracked on the word.

You rewarded him by speeding up again, slamming down onto him with everything you had, your fingers working your clit in frantic circles, your palm slapping wetly against your slick skin with every movement. 

You were close, you could feel him getting there too, his cock pulsing and twitching inside you, his thrusts getting sloppier, more desperate, his rhythm falling apart, and those deep, guttural moans that cracked into whimpers on the upstroke, these broken, bitten-off groans every time you clenched around him, these shaky exhales that sounded like they were being dragged out of him against his will.

"Can you come inside me?" you asked, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, before you could think, before you could be anything other than a desperate, trembling thing riding his cock. "Can you—come with me? Inside me? I want to feel it—I want to feel you filling me up—"

"Yes—yes, please—I want to—I want to fill you up—want it so bad—want you to feel me dripping out of you for hours—"

"Then wait for me," you commanded, and you grabbed his face with your free hand, your thumb pressing into his cheek, forcing him to look at you. "You don't come until I tell you to. Hold it. Be good."

His hand flew to your clit, replacing your fingers, and he rubbed in tight, firm circles — not too soft, not too hard, just right, just the way you liked it, because of course he knew, of course he'd memorized this too.

His other hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, guiding your movements, pulling you down onto him with every thrust. 

His touch was perfect, devastatingly perfect, and you let yourself fall into the sensation, let the pleasure build and build and build, a wave swelling higher and higher, your walls clenching and releasing around him in a rhythm you couldn't control anymore.

"Is this what you wanted?" you asked, your voice ragged, shredded. "Is this what you were thinking about all night while you were being jealous? While you were watching him touch me? Were you thinking about bending me over and reminding me whose I am?"

"Yes—fuck, yes—I just wanted you—only you—I wanted to drag you out of that party and take you home and—and show you—"

"You have me." You pressed your forehead against his, your breath mingling with his, your noses brushing, so close you could see the wetness in his eyes, the way his pupils had swallowed everything dark and desperate. "You've always had me. You've always been the only one. Now come for me. Fill me up. Show me I'm yours."

The orgasm hit you like a wave, crashing through you with a force that made your vision go white, made your back arch so hard your spine cracked.

Riki followed with a broken cry, your name and a sob and a moan all tangled together into a sound you'd never heard him make before, something raw and utterly undone.

His hips bucking up into you, grinding deep, spilling hot and thick and deep inside you, pulse after pulse after pulse, his cock jerking inside you with every wave, filling you until you could feel it, feel the heat of him flooding your walls, feel it dripping down his shaft and out around the seal of your bodies.

You rode him through it, through every twitch and shudder and aftershock, your hips moving in slow, lazy circles, your walls still fluttering around him, milking every last drop, until you were both trembling and spent, his cock softening inside you, your thighs shaking and weak, your bodies slick with sweat and slick with each other. 

You collapsed against his chest, your forehead pressed into the curve of his neck, tasting salt on his skin, his arms coming around you immediately, his cock still buried inside you, soft and warm, neither of you moved.

"Was that a good enough apology?" he whispered, and his voice was hoarse, wrecked, barely a sound at all.

You laughed, soft and breathless, the vibration of it traveling through your body and into his, and you felt him twitch inside you. "It was a start."

He kissed the top of your head, long and lingering, his lips pressed into your hair, his arms tightening around you. "When can I start earning more?"

You pulled back just enough to look at him — at the flush still burning on his cheekbones, at the sweat drying at his temples, at the fire still burning low and hungry in those dark, brilliant eyes, not sated at all, just banked, waiting. "How about right now?"

You felt him harden inside you again, felt the stretch and the pulse of it, his cock swelling against your walls, filling you back up, and you smiled, slow and wicked.

"Question number five," you said, and you started to move again, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips that made him hiss through his teeth. "What's my favorite sound?"

"You moaning my name," he said, without hesitation, without a fraction of a second's pause, and his voice was low and rough and certain.

"Correct."

You lowered yourself onto him again, taking him to the hilt, and his groan, deep and broken and reverberating through both your bodies, was the most beautiful thing you'd ever heard.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . glory box by portishead

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"…I hate your family's timing" he muttered, kissing the top of your head. "next time i'm locking the door and pretending we're dead."

You lightly smacked his stomach.

He just laughed quietly and pulled you closer, both of you still buzzing with unreleased tension.

After your mom left the room, the tension in the air was still thick, but exhaustion was hitting you hard. you stayed curled up against Riki's chest for a few minutes before sighing.

"Baby… i'm really tired" you whispered, voice soft. "today was long. can we just sleep tonight? i don't think i can do the quiet sex thing right now."

You really did want to, but the shame on your face prevented you from even wanting to look Riki directly in the eyes, knowing he would say something about it...

Riki was quiet for a second, clearly disappointed, but he nodded without hesitation.

"Yeah, of course" he said gently, kissing the top of your head. "no pressure, dwarf. get some rest."

You both got up

Changed into pajamas — you in a loose tank top and soft shorts, Riki in black pijama pants and no shirt.

You talked quietly for a few more minutes about the water park tomorrow and how Seonghyun was already obsessed with Mina. eventually, Riki pulled you into his arms, spooning you from behind, and you both drifted off.

At 5:07 AM, the room was still dark, only the faint sound of waves outside.

You stirred awake as you felt Riki's hips slowly rolling against your ass.

He was rock hard, grinding his morning wood against you through his sweatpants while his lips pressed open-mouthed kisses and soft bites along your bare shoulder.

"Riki…" you whispered sleepily.

He let out a shaky breath against your neck, voice low and needy.

"Baby… it hurts" he murmured, grinding a little harder. "my morning wood is fucking killing me. i can't sleep like this. i need to cum so bad… please."

You let out a quiet, teasing laugh even though you were still half-asleep.

"You're so needy… even at five in the morning" you whispered, sounding bratty. "can't even control yourself for one night?"

Riki didn't answer with words. instead, he bit your shoulder a little harder and kept rolling his hips, pressing his thick erection firmly between your ass cheeks.

You bit your lip, feeling heat pool between your legs. you pushed your ass back against him on purpose, grinding slowly.

"…Fine" you whispered. "but we have to be really quiet. everyone's still sleeping."

Riki didn't waste a second.

He quickly pushed his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his hard cock. you felt the hot, heavy length slap against your ass before he hooked his fingers into your shorts and panties, pulling them to the side.

He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and pushed in slowly, stretching you open with a quiet groan right next to your ear.

"Fuck… so warm" he breathed, burying himself deep in one smooth thrust.

You gasped softly, gripping the pillow.

He started fucking you in spooning position —slow, deep rolls of his hips that made almost no sound. every thrust was controlled, but the angle made him hit so deep it was hard to stay quiet.

The new angle made him hit so deep it was hard to stay quiet.

Every slow, deliberate thrust pushed the head of his cock right against that sensitive spot inside you, making your toes curl and your breath hitch.

Riki kept one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you flush against his chest while his other hand explored your body lazily.

"Fuck, baby…" he whispered hotly against the back of your neck, voice hoarse with restraint. "you're squeezing me so tight. feel that?"

You nodded frantically, biting your lip hard. "mhm… you're so deep like this" you breathed, barely audible. "Riki… slower, they're going to hear…"

He chuckled quietly, the sound vibrating against your skin, and slowed his hips even more, dragging his cock almost all the way out before sliding back in deep and grinding.

His hand slid up under your tank top, cupping one of your breasts and squeezing it firmly, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

"You like it when i fuck you slow like this?" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "all quiet and deep… while your parents are sleeping just one room away?"

"Yes…" you whimpered softly, pushing your ass back against him. "feels so good… but i'm trying so hard not to moan…"

Riki smiled against your shoulder and pinched your nipple, making you gasp.

His other hand traveled lower, slipping under the waistband of your shorts. his fingers found your clit and started rubbing slow, tight circles.

"That's it… stay quiet for me, love" he cooed, voice low and teasing. "such a good girl taking my cock so nicely. you're dripping down my dick, baby. so fucking wet."

You turned your head slightly, trying to look at him. "you're so needy in the morning… couldn't even wait a few hours…"

"Whose fault is that?" he whispered, thrusting a little harder while still keeping the movements controlled. "you spent all day teasing me. now you're gonna take care of me."

Deep, lazy thrusts combined with his fingers playing with your clit and his other hand massaging your breasts. the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, occasional soft whimpers you couldn't hold back, and the faint wet sound of him moving inside you.

After several minutes, Riki pressed a kiss to your neck and whispered, "i want you on top. turn around."

He pulled out slowly, making you whine at the emptiness. you turned around and straddled him backwards, facing away from him.

Riki helped guide you as you sank back down onto his cock, taking every inch until your ass was flush against his pelvis.

"Fuck— yes" he groaned quietly, hands gripping your hips. "ride me just like this, baby. nice and slow."

You started moving, rolling your hips in deep, sensual circles instead of bouncing. the position let him hit even deeper, and you had to cover your own mouth with one hand to stay quiet.

Riki sat up slightly behind you, wrapping one arm around your waist while his other hand returned to your clit, rubbing it steadily.

"God, you look so good riding me like this" he whispered, kissing your back. "ass bouncing on my cock while you try so hard to be quiet… my perfect little brat."

You leaned back against his chest, head falling onto his shoulder as you kept grinding on him.

"Riki…" you moaned softly "you're so hard… i can feel you throbbing inside me."

"Yeah?" he thrust up gently to meet your movements. "that's what you do to me. all day long, walking around in that tiny bikini, teasing me under the table… now you're gonna make me cum like this."

His fingers moved faster on your clit while you continued riding him in slow, deep motions.

The pleasure built gradually, thick and heavy in the quiet morning air. Riki's breathing grew more ragged against your neck as he fought to stay silent.

"Baby… i'm getting close" he warned, voice strained. "you feel too good."

You turned your head and whispered against his jaw, "then cum inside me… i want it."

Riki groaned softly, burying his face in your neck as his hips started moving a little faster, chasing his release while still trying to keep the bed from creaking too much.

You kept rolling your hips in deep, sensual circles, grinding down onto his cock while facing away from him.

The position made everything feel thicker, fuller. every time you sank down, he stretched you perfectly, pressing against that spot that made your thighs tremble.

Riki's hands were all over you. one stayed on your clit, rubbing slow, slick circles, while the other slid back under your tank top to grope your breasts, squeezing and tugging at your nipples.

"Fuck, babe…" he whispered breathlessly against your back, voice strained with the effort of staying quiet. "you're riding me so well. such a good little slut for me this early in the morning."

You bit your lip hard, trying to suppress a moan as you ground down harder.

"Shut up… you're the one who woke me up because you're so fucking needy" you whispered back, voice shaky.

Riki let out a quiet, breathy laugh and pinched your clit lightly, making your hips jerk.

"Yeah? And yet here you are… creaming all over my cock like you've been waiting for this too." He thrust up gently to meet your movements, burying himself deeper.

You leaned back against his chest, head resting on his shoulder as you continued rolling your hips.

"Riki…" you whimpered softly, "… i feel so full."

He groaned quietly into your neck and bit down gently, sucking on the skin as he started rubbing your clit faster.

"that's right, baby. take every inch. this pussy is mine" he murmured, voice husky. "even when you act like a brat all day… this tight little cunt still gets so wet for me."

You reached back with one hand, gripping his thigh for leverage as you started moving faster, still careful not to make the bed creak too loudly.

Riki's breathing grew heavier. his fingers on your clit never stopped, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"I'm close…" you whispered desperately. "Riki, i'm gonna cum—"

"Me too" he groaned softly, thrusting up to meet you. "cum on my cock, baby. let me feel you."

His fingers moved faster on your clit while his other hand squeezed your breast hard. the combination finally pushed you over.

You came with a broken, muffled whimper, burying the back of your head into his neck as your walls clenched tightly around him. your whole body trembled in his lap as the orgasm washed over you.

Riki followed right after, burying himself deep and holding you down on his cock as he came. he let out a low, shaky groan against your shoulder, pulsing inside you as he filled you up with hot spurts of cum.

For a few long seconds, neither of you moved — just heavy breathing and the sound of waves outside the window.

Riki kissed your neck softly, still buried inside you. "good girl… you did so well staying quiet" he praised, voice hoarse.

You stayed like that for a little longer, enjoying the warmth and closeness, until he finally lifted you gently and pulled out. a trickle of his cum leaked down your thigh.

He quickly grabbed some tissues from the nightstand and cleaned you up carefully, then pulled your shorts and panties back into place. after fixing himself, he pulled you back into his arms, spooning you again.

"You okay?" he whispered, kissing the back of your head.

"Mhm…" you mumbled, already half-asleep again, feeling satisfied and exhausted. "but if my parents wake up early because of us, i'm blaming you."

Riki chuckled softly and wrapped his arm tighter around your waist.

"Worth it" he murmured.

Within minutes, both of you drifted back to sleep, bodies tangled together as the sky slowly began to lighten outside.

At 7:47 AM, the soft morning light filtered through the curtains of the cabin. you were still half-asleep when you heard your mom's voice gently calling from the hallway.

"Seonghyun, honey, time to wake up. we're going to the water park today!"

A few minutes later, her footsteps approached your door. she knocked twice before slowly opening it.

"Riki… sweetheart, it's time to wake up" she said softly. then her eyes landed on you. "and you too, sleepy girl. we need to leave around nine."

You murmured a tired "okay, Mom…" and tried to sit up.

But Riki had other plans.

His long arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling your back flush against his bare chest. his face was buried in the crook of your neck, messy black hair tickling your skin, and his warm breath fanned steadily against your shoulder.

He didn't move even an inch.

Your mom smiled softly at the sight, a fond look in her eyes.

"Look at him… he really doesn't want to let you go" she whispered with a quiet laugh. "i'll leave you two for a bit. breakfast will be ready soon — i'm making pancakes."

She closed the door gently, leaving the room in soft morning silence again.

You let out a small sigh and tried to wiggle free, but Riki only tightened his hold, pulling you even closer with a sleepy grunt.

"Riki…" you whispered, reaching back to poke his arm. "wake up. we have to get ready."

He didn't respond at first. Instead, he nuzzled his nose deeper into your neck, pressing a lazy kiss there before mumbling in his raspy morning voice:

"...Don't wanna."

You couldn't help but smile. even half-asleep, he was clingy. you turned slightly in his arms so you could see his face.

His eyes were still closed, lips in a slight pout, hair completely messy from sleep. he looked unfairly cute like this.

"We have to go to the water park, remember? Mom's already making breakfast. if we're late she'll drag us out herself.",

Riki let out a long, dramatic sigh, his arm still locked around your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

"Five more minutes…" he mumbled, voice deep and hoarse. "just… stay here. you're warm."

You ran your fingers through his messy hair, trying to wake him gently. "you were the one who wanted to go to the water park since years... now you're acting like this?"

He finally cracked one eye open, looking at you with a tired but playful expression.

"Maybe i changed my mind" he said, voice still sleepy. "we could stay in bed all day instead… i'll behave. mostly."

You raised an eyebrow. "mostly?"

Riki's lips curved into a small smirk. he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your collarbone.

"Mostly." he repeated, teasing. "unless you want me to keep moving against you like that. then i might need to tire you out again."

You smacked his chest lightly. "stop it. my mom is literally making pancakes right now."

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your skin, but finally loosened his grip.

He rolled onto his back with another groan, stretching his long arms above his head. the blanket slipped down, revealing his toned torso and tattoos.

"Fine… i'm getting up" he said, though he made no actual effort to move. he reached out and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back down onto his chest. "one kiss first. then i'll behave... dwarf."

You rolled your eyes but leaned down and gave him a soft morning kiss. Riki hummed happily against your lips, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

When you pulled away, he finally sat up, rubbing his face with both hands.

"Water park at 9… your mom is scary when she's on schedule" he muttered, standing up and stretching. His sweatpants hung low on his hips as he walked over to start packing a small backpack.

You both moved around the room quietly, gathering towels, sunscreen, extra clothes, and snacks. a few minutes later, your mom opened the door again.

She paused when she saw Riki still shirtless in his pajama pants and you in your tiny sleep shorts and tank top. her eyebrows rose slightly in suspicion, but she kept her tone light.

"…Breakfast is almost ready. pancakes with chocolate chips. you two should get dressed soon."

Before she could leave, Seonghyun came barreling into the room and dramatically collapsed onto your bed.

"I don't want to go…" he whined, face buried in the pillow. "even Dad is still sleeping. Mom had to yell at him three times already."

From the kitchen, your mom’s voice rang out:

"If your father doesn't get up in the next two minutes, i'm eating all the pancakes myself!"

Seonghyun's head shot up instantly. "did i just hear... pancakes? with chocolate chips?"

The second your mom confirmed from the kitchen, he jumped off the bed like someone had lit a fire under him.

"I'm packing right now!" he yelled, sprinting out of the room and slamming his own door behind him.

The bedroom fell quiet again.

You were still standing near the bed folding a towel when Riki quietly walked up behind you.

Without saying a word, he wrapped his long arms around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against his bare chest. he rested his chin on your shoulder, his messy hair tickling your cheek.

You smiled softly, leaning back into him.

"You're still tired?" you asked quietly.

"Mhm" he hummed, voice low and raspy.

His arms tightened around you as he pressed a slow kiss to the side of your neck. "but mostly i just like holding you like this."

He swayed both of you gently from side to side, still half-asleep. one of his hands slipped under the hem of your tank top, tracing lazy circles on your stomach with his fingers.

"You smell like me" he murmured against your skin, sounding pleased. "i like that. makes me want to keep you in this room all day."

You let out a soft laugh. "we can't. my mom will actually kill us if we're late."

Riki sighed dramatically but didn't let go. instead, he hugged you tighter, nuzzling into your neck.

"You're so warm… and soft" he whispered, voice drowsy and affectionate. "i like waking up next to you. even if you hit me and call me needy."

You turned your head slightly to look at him. "you are needy."

"Yeah" he admitted with a small smirk, kissing your jaw. "only for you though."

From the kitchen, your mom's voice rang out again, loud and playful:

"Love! if you don't get up right now i'm giving all your pancakes to Seonghyun!"

Riki chuckled quietly against your shoulder, clearly amused by the chaos of your family.

"Your dad is fighting for his life out there" he said, still refusing to release you. "should we help him?"

You shook your head, staying comfortably in his arms. "he dug his own grave. let him suffer."

Riki hummed in agreement and pressed another slow kiss to your neck, then your shoulder.

"I'm really glad i came on this trip" he whispered, more seriously this time. "even with all the sneaking around… being with you and your family feels nice. normal."

You placed your hands over his arms, gently squeezing. "you fit in really well. scarily well, actually."

He smiled against your skin. "good. Because i'm not planning on going anywhere."

Just then, your mom's voice got louder again as she continued scolding your dad from the kitchen. Riki finally loosened his hold, but not before stealing one last kiss on your cheek.

"Alright… let's get ready before your mom comes back and sees me hugging you like this" he said with a lazy grin. "she already looked suspicious earlier."

You both continued preparing the small backpack for the water park, stealing small touches and glances the entire time.

The morning light was getting brighter, and the smell of pancakes was starting to fill the entire cabin.

By 8:17 AM, the entire family was finally awake, dressed, and had their backpacks ready by the door.

The smell of breakfast filled every corner of the cabin. your mom had truly outdone herself — a huge stack of fluffy pancakes sat in the center of the table, surrounded by bowls of sliced strawberries, bananas, chocolate chips, maple syrup, honey, and whipped cream.

Everyone sat down. Riki was right next to you, still looking a little sleepy but trying his best to appear awake.

"Ms. Mom, these pancakes look incredible" Riki said, though his voice was quieter and less energetic than usual. "you really woke up early just to make all this… thank you."

Your mom smiled brightly. "eat as much as you want, Riki."

For the first few minutes, breakfast was peaceful.

The sound of forks and quiet conversation filled the air. that is, until your mom suddenly spoke while pouring more syrup on her pancakes.

"By the way…" she started casually, "when i walked into your room earlier, Riki was shirtless and you were in those tiny shorts. you two weren't… doing anything, right?"

The entire table went dead silent.

You froze mid-bite. Riki's eyes widened slightly. even Seonghyun looked up from his phone for a second.

"Mom!" you quickly said, face burning. "Seonghyun is literally sitting right here. can we not?"

Your dad slowly turned his head to look at Riki with a raised eyebrow. the pressure was immediate.

Riki, who had been caught off guard, sat up straighter and cleared his throat, panic flashing across his face for a split second before he put on his perfect-boyfriend mask.

"Sir, Ms. Mom..." he started, voice respectful and slightly dramatic.

"i have a lot of respect for your daughter and for this family. i would never do anything inappropriate, especially not under your roof or while we're all here together. i really care about her, and i respect you both too much to ever cross that line in a situation like this."

Your dad stared at him for a long second… then simply nodded, reached over, and took your mom’s hand.

"Alright, that's enough of that topic" your dad said calmly, changing the subject. "let's just enjoy breakfast."

Your mom sighed softly, looking a little guilty. "i'm sorry, Riki. i didn't mean to put you on the spot. i just… you two are still very young. i want you both to be careful and responsible. that's all."

You shot Riki a sharp side-eye that very clearly said i told you so.

Riki gave you a tiny, defeated smile and went back to eating his pancakes in silence.

Seonghyun, completely unbothered by the whole conversation, kept playing Battlegrounds on his phone while stuffing his face with chocolate chip pancakes. "these are so good…" he mumbled with his mouth full.

Once breakfast was over, your mom switched back into full boss mode.

"Alright everyone, let's move! put the backpacks in the car. check that you have everything. we're already running late!"

It was 8:34 AM.

Riki helped carry the big cooler filled with ice, drinks, and the ice creams you two had bought yesterday. your mom was already stressing in the driveway.

"We should've left ten minutes ago! why is everything always last minute in this family?"

Your dad walked beside her, rubbing her shoulder. "relax, honey. we're on vacation. the water park isn't going anywhere."

Seonghyun, already in the car, stuck his head out the window and pointed at you. "she's the last-minute one! she was still packing stuff while we were eating!"

Riki, who had just closed the trunk after putting the cooler inside, turned to you with that signature teasing smirk.

"See? you suck at packing, dwarf" he said quietly, just loud enough for you to hear.

You elbowed him in the ribs.

"Shut up. you're supposed to be on my side."

Riki laughed under his breath, rubbing the spot you hit. "never said i was on your side. i'm on the side of truth."

Your mom clapped her hands. "everyone in the car! Now!"

Riki opened the door for you like the perfect gentleman

The car engine started, and your mom kept muttering about being late as your dad backed out of the driveway.

The water park day had officially begun.

The car rolled into the huge parking lot of the water park at 9:14 AM. The sun was already intense, reflecting off the asphalt and making the air feel thick with heat.

The moment the engine stopped, your mom let out a long sigh.

"9:14, honey. nine fourteen" she said, turning to your dad with clear frustration. "i told you we should've left earlier. now we're late."

Your dad, ever the calm one, simply nodded and turned off the car. "you're right, love. i should've driven faster."

Seonghyun was the first one out, practically launching himself from the backseat. he ran to the trunk and started pulling out his backpack and two deflated floaties, his excitement impossible to contain.

Riki got out right after, rolling his shoulders before immediately helping with the heavy stuff.

He lifted the big cooler full of drinks and ice with ease, then grabbed two more heavy bags, muscles flexing under his black tank top.

You stepped out more gracefully, sliding your sleek black sunglasses onto your face.

A fitted black sleeveless top that hugged your body perfectly, a thin black open vest over it, and a white skirt that showed off your legs. your hair was straightened and glossy, falling beautifully over your shoulders.

Riki's eyes found you instantly. he paused for a second, openly staring as you adjusted your skirt, the one that has been a distraction for him throughout the trip.

"Shit…" he muttered under his breath, eyes trailing down your figure.

You walked over to him confidently and took one of the lighter bags from his hand, smirking.

"Stop staring and help, Riki."

He leaned slightly closer while your parents weren't looking. "how am i supposed to not stare when you look like that? you're actually insane."

You gave him a small, satisfied smile and headed toward your mom, who was now lightly tugging on your dad's ear while scolding him.

"Mom" you said, interrupting her lecture. "do you mind if we go ahead? we can find the table and wait for you guys there."

Your mom nodded, pulling out her phone and opening the QR tickets. "Yes, go ahead. here, take this. scan it at the entrance. we'll catch up soon. don't wander off too far."

You took the phone and nodded.

The three of you started walking toward the entrance. Seonghyun was practically skipping between you and Riki, full of energy.

"Hyung" he whispered excitedly, looking up at Riki. "when we see Mina… what should i do? should i act cool? or should i make jokes?"

Riki adjusted the heavy cooler on his shoulder and gave serious advice like a true older brother.

"Be yourself, but confident. make her laugh, but also tease her a little. girls like when you're playful. don't try too hard though, or it looks fake."

You were walking a bit ahead, chin slightly raised, fully aware of the looks you were getting from other people. you were in full baddie mode.

Riki noticed immediately and chuckled.

"Look at her, Seonghyun" he said loud enough for you to hear. "she's out here farming aura like her life depends on it."

You turned your head with a proud little smile. "i do look good today, don't i?"

Riki’s eyes scanned you again, slower this time. "you look fucking beautiful. that skirt is actually... insane."

Seonghyun made a disgusted face. "you two are so gross."

Thankfully, the line at the entrance wasn't too long. while waiting, Seonghyun's eyes widened as he took in the massive slides towering in the distance and the endless pools.

"Hyung, look at that one!" he pointed excitedly. "it's so tall! and there's a wave pool over there! this is going to be the best day ever!"

You fanned yourself with your hand, already feeling the heat. "it's so hot already… and it's not even 10 AM yet."

Riki stepped closer to you, his arm brushing against yours. "as soon as we put the stuff down, we're jumping in the water. you'll cool off fast.”

You turned to him with a teasing smirk. "are you a kid? so excited to get in the water this early in the morning?"

Riki raised an eyebrow, smirking back. "says the girl who was complaining about the heat two seconds ago. at least i'm honest about wanting to have fun."

Seonghyun laughed. "she just wants to keep walking around looking pretty instead of getting wet."

You smacked Riki's arm again. "both of you are annoying."

A few minutes later, your parents finally caught up, slightly out of breath.

"Found you!" your mom said. "let's go find our table. it should be in the shaded area."

The five of you walked together through the park. Seonghyun kept pointing at different attractions while Riki carried most of the heavy bags without complaining.

Every now and then, Riki would bump his shoulder against yours playfully.

You smiled, glancing at him.

Seonghyun turned around again. "are you two being gross again?"

Riki laughed. "relax, shortie. i'm just annoying my girlfriend."

You eventually reached your assigned table under a large shaded canopy with five comfortable lounge chairs and a small fan. it had a perfect view of the wave pool and several big slides.

Your mom clapped her hands happily. "this is perfect! rveryone put your stuff down and let's have fun!"

Riki set the heavy cooler down with a relieved sigh and looked at you with a small, secret smirk — the kind that told you this water park day was going to be full of teasing, stolen touches, and probably a lot of trouble.

It didn't take long for Seonghyun to start his mission.

"Riki-hyung! Please, let's go to the wave pool! i saw they're starting the big waves soon!" he begged, shaking Riki's arm like a little kid.

Riki, who was sitting under the shaded table, looked at you first before answering. "alright, i'm down bro… but only if we convince your sister to come with us.”

Seonghyun's eyes lit up as he turned to you with full determination.

You were sitting comfortably with your feet resting on Riki's lap, sipping a cold bottle of water while scrolling through your phone. the sun was getting stronger by the minute, but under the umbrella it was still bearable.

Riki's hand gently rested on your ankle, thumb slowly stroking your skin.

"Babe" he started sweetly, "it's already hot. we should go enjoy the water for a bit. the wave pool looks fun."

You didn't even look up from your phone. "i'm good right here."

Riki didn't give up. he started massaging your feet with both hands, pressing his thumbs into the soles with just the right pressure.

"C'mon, dwarf… please" he said softly, using that low, persuasive tone he knew usually worked on you. "just for a little while. we can float around, cool down…"

You hummed, still focused on your phone. "not in the mood."

From a few meters away, Seonghyun put on his best puppy eyes, clasping his hands together dramatically.

"Please, noona…? i'll share my floaties with you!"

You sighed, finally lowering your phone. "fine. but if i hear even one single teasing comment from either of you, i'm coming straight back here."

Riki smiled victoriously. "deal."

You stood up and looked around. "Riki, come with me to the bathroom. i need to change."

Riki got up immediately. "of course, baby."

He picked up your bag like a perfect gentleman and walked beside you toward the changing rooms. you walked with confidence, hips swaying slightly in your outfit.

When you reached the entrance of the women's bathroom, you turned to take your bag from him.

Riki quickly glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention, then gave you a firm, playful spank on your ass.

You gasped and turned to him with wide eyes. "Riki!"

He smirked, completely shameless. "what? you look too good in that skirt. couldn't help it."

"You're actually annoying" you muttered, but there was no real anger in your voice. you took the bag and disappeared into a cubicle.

A few minutes later, you came out wearing a new bikini — this one was a soft pink, same revealing than the black one from yesterday. the top was tiny, and the bottoms sat high on your hips with thin strings.

Riki's eyes darkened the moment he saw you. he let out a low whistle, biting his lip and moving his tongue to his cheek inside his mouth.

"Fuck… you're serving today, huh?" he said, voice quieter. "that pink looks perfect on you"

You posed for a second, feeling confident with him watching. "you like it?"

"I love it" he replied, eyes scanning you up and down. "but i'm gonna have to fight every guy here who looks at you. you're too pretty."

You smiled and walked closer, lightly hitting his chest. "then you better stay close and protect me."

Riki grinned and took your hand as you both walked back.

When you returned to the table, Seonghyun was already waiting impatiently.

"Finally!" Seonghyun cheered.

Your mom immediately started giving instructions. "put on sunscreen before you go in the water. and take care of Seonghyun, okay? you two are in charge. stay safe and don't do anything crazy."

Riki nodded seriously, slipping perfectly into his responsible boyfriend role. "don't worry, Ms. mom, i'll watch them both."

Your mom smiled, satisfied.

The three of you headed toward the wave pool, the sun was already blazing. luckily for Seonghyun, a group of kids he had met at the beach yesterday were there. they waved at him excitedly.

"Can i go play with them?" Seonghyun asked, bouncing on his feet.

You nodded. "yes, but put on sunscreen first. if you don't, i'll rub it on you like a baby."

Seonghyun quickly applied some and ran off to join his friends in the wave pool.

You and Riki stayed near the edge.

You were already putting sunscreen on your face, arms, and so on. you handed him the sunscreen bottle and turned around, pulling your hair over one shoulder.

"I can't reach my back" you said.

Riki took the bottle with way too much enthusiasm. "i got you, babe"

He squeezed a generous amount onto his hands and started applying it to your shoulders, then slowly down your back.

His hands were warm and thorough, massaging the lotion into your skin. when he reached your lower back, he glanced around to make sure Seonghyun wasn't watching…

Then he gave your ass a firm, playful spank, the sound slightly muffled by the loud park noise.

"Riki!"you hissed, turning your head.

He just smirked, continuing to rub the sunscreen like nothing happened. "sorry. couldn't resist. this bikini is too good."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "you're really asking for it today."

Riki leaned closer, whispering in your ear while his hands kept working on your lower back.

"Maybe i am" he said, voice low and teasing. "you look way too hot. if you want, we can hide and...—"

You turned around and snatched the bottle from his hands, smirking.

"Stop it, now... just... turn around." and of course, he obeyed.

You squeezed a generous amount of sunscreen onto your hands and began spreading it across his skin.

Your fingers moved slowly, almost reverently. You couldn’t help but admire him — the way his muscles shifted under your touch, the smooth expanse of his back, the few moles scattered like stars, the sharp line of his shoulders tapering down to his narrow waist.

Even though he could be ridiculously childish sometimes, your heart swelled with quiet affection.

You cleared your throat softly, trying to sound normal.

"Ready." you murmured, your voice suddenly gentle.

Riki turned around immediately and pulled you into a tight hug, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then another softer one on your temple.

"Thank you, baby" he whispered against your skin.

You stayed in his arms for a moment before pulling back slightly.

"Actually… i don't really feel like going to the wave pool" you admitted. "it's too loud and crowded now. i want to go to a normal pool… a calmer one. just with you."

Riki glanced around quickly. right in front of the wave pool was a large, standard pool with crystal-clear water and far fewer people.

"Perfect" he said. he turned toward Seonghyun, who was already splashing with his friends, and shouted, "Seonghyun! we're going to the pool right in front! don't do anything stupid and don't leave without telling us, okay?"

Seonghyun gave him a thumbs up.

Riki took your hand, intertwining your fingers as you both walked toward the calmer pool.

You stepped in first, sighing in relief as the cool water touched your skin.

"Hurry up" you called to him, already waist-deep.

Riki smirked.

Without warning, he took a running start and did a dramatic flip, tucking into a clean somersault before crashing into the water right next to you.

A huge splash hit you directly in the face.

You stood there, mouth open in shock, water dripping from your hair and lashes. a few people nearby laughed at the scene.

"God, Riki" you said sarcastically, wiping your face. "so mature."

Riki resurfaced laughing, shaking his wet hair like a dog. "don't be a party pooper. you know that was cool."

He swam closer and wrapped his arms around your waist underwater, pulling you against him.

Before you could protest, he leaned in and kissed your neck playfully, a little too passionately for a public pool.

"Riki—" you whispered, pushing him back gently. "people are watching…"

He grinned, clearly unbothered. "let them watch."

You two stayed like that for a while — floating, talking quietly, his arms around you as the water gently moved around your bodies. it felt peaceful.

Eventually Riki pulled away.

"Wait here. i'm gonna do another flip."

He swam to the edge and climbed out. just as he was about to run and jump in, a girl around your age approached him.

"Excuse me… sorry to bother you" she said, fidgeting. "my friend over there thinks you're really cute. could she maybe have your insta?"

Riki's expression turned cold and uninterested in less than a second.

"I have a girlfriend" he replied flatly. "No thanks."

The girl smiled awkwardly and walked back to her friend, who was staring from a distance.

You had already spotted her — she was pretty, but definitely not Riki's type.

You found it completely ridiculous that even after spending all this time in Riki's arms, some girls still tried as if you didn't exist.

Riki didn't even glance at her again. He took his running start and did another acrobatic flip into the water, landing with another big splash.

When he swam back to you, he immediately cornered you against the edge of the pool, arms on either side of your body.

"Did you see that flip?" he asked proudly, smiling.

You looked him up and down slowly, then answered with a clearly fake tone.

"Yeah… i saw it."

Riki noticed immediately. he tilted his head, that knowing smirk appearing.

"You're jealous."

"I'm not" you denied quickly, turning your face away.

He laughed softly, leaning in closer until his forehead almost touched yours.

"You are. i can tell. your voice gets all weird when you lie."

You stayed quiet, refusing to admit it.

Riki's expression softened. he cupped your cheek with one wet hand.

"Hey" he said gently. “You know i only want you, right? no one else even comes close."

He kissed the corner of your mouth sweetly, then whispered against your lips:

"My bratty, jealous little dwarf."

You tried to push him away, but you were smiling.

"Shut up."

Riki just laughed and pulled you closer again, the water rippling around you both as the sun continued to shine brightly above.

The hours passed in a blur of laughter, slides, and bright sunlight.

From 10:30 until almost 1 PM, the three of you went from one attraction to another — massive slides, the lazy river, the wave pool again, and even a few adrenaline-pumping drops. Seonghyun was in heaven, dragging Riki everywhere while you tried to keep up.

But something kept bothering you.

Everywhere you went, girls stared at Riki.

Openly.

Some whispered to their friends, others smiled at him, a few even tried to get closer when you weren't right beside him. you knew Riki was handsome. you knew he turned heads. but today it felt constant, and it slowly chipped away at your mood.

By the time you returned to the table, your parents had already set out containers of food — kimbap, fried chicken, fruit, and cold drinks.

Seonghyun threw himself into a chair dramatically.

"Mom, Dad, we went on the tallest slide like five times! and the wave pool was crazy! i'm so hungry"

Your mom smiled. "eat a lot then."

You forced a small smile. "i'm going to the bathroom first. i need to fix my hair"

Riki noticed immediately. the way you said it, the slight tension in your shoulders — he knew you too well. he stood up right after you.

"I'll go with her" he said casually.

You didn't argue.

The two of you walked in silence toward the bathrooms. This area of the park was quieter, and the family bathroom/shower area was almost empty.

Once you reached the entrance, you tried to walk in alone, but Riki gently grabbed your wrist.

"Wait" he said, voice low.

You stopped but didn't turn around immediately.

The noise of the water park felt distant now, muffled by the walls. the area was surprisingly empty— most people were out enjoying the slides and pools.

Riki stepped closer, still holding your wrist. "talk to me. what's going on with you?"

You pulled your hand away and finally faced him. your chest felt tight, a mix of irritation and something heavier sitting right behind your ribs.

"Nothing" you replied, a little too quickly. "i just need to fix my hair. it's all messed up from the water."

Riki studied your face for a second, eyebrows slightly furrowed. He wasn't buying it.

"You've been weird since we left the wave pool" he said, leaning against the wall. his tone wasn't angry, but there was a hint of frustration in it.

"You barely talked on the way back. did i do something?"

You let out a short, bitter laugh and crossed your arms.

"You really don't get it, do you?"

Riki raised an eyebrow. "get what? i've been with you the whole time. i didn't talk to any girl, didn't smile at anyone, didn't do shit. so what exactly is the problem?"

You felt the words bubbling up before you could stop them.

"The problem is that everywhere we go, they look at you like you're a fucking meal" you said, voice lower but sharp. "and they don't care that i'm right there. like i'm invisible. like it doesn't matter that you have a girlfriend standing next to you."

Riki exhaled through his nose, looking away for a second before turning back to you.

"So… you're mad at me because other people look at me?"

His tone was calm, but there was a clear edge of disbelief. "i can't control what other people do, you know that, right?"

"It's not just that they look" you snapped, voice cracking a little. "it's the way they look. like they're hoping i disappear. lile they think they have a chance. and you just… walk around like it's nothing."

Riki ran a hand through his damp hair, clearly trying to stay patient but failing a bit.

"Because it is nothing" he replied.

"I don't care about any of them. i'm here with you. i chose you. i'm holding your hand the whole damn day. what more do you want me to do? wear a sign that says 'taken'?"

His words stung more than you expected.

"You don't get it" you muttered, looking down. "it makes me feel… small. like I have to compete just to stand next to you."

Riki was quiet for a moment. then he stepped forward, gently but firmly taking your hand again.

"Come here."

You resisted at first, but he gave a small tug and pulled you toward one of the larger shower stalls at the end of the row.

He slid the curtain closed behind you both with a sharp snap.

The space was small, the air still slightly humid.

Riki gently backed you up against the tiled wall, not rough, but not giving you much room to escape either. his hands rested on the wall on either side of your head, caging you in.

His eyes searched yours.

"I'm not trying to be an asshole" he said, voice lower now. "but you can't keep doing this every time, i haven't given you any reason to doubt me. not once."

You looked up at him, throat tight.

"I know you haven't" you admitted, voice quieter. "but it still bothers me. it makes me feel like… like i'm not enough to make them stop looking."

Riki's jaw clenched. He let out a slow breath, clearly trying to choose his words carefully.

"You are enough" he said. "more than enough. but i can't stop other people from existing."

The silence that followed was heavy. you could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. part of you knew he was right. another part still felt hurt.

"I hate feeling like this" you whispered, eyes stinging. "i hate that it affects me so much."

Riki's expression softened just a little. he brought one hand down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin.

"I know" he murmured. "but shutting down and pulling away from me isn't going to fix it. talk to me next time. don't make me chase you into the bathroom like i did something wrong."

You nodded slowly, but the knot in your chest didn't fully disappear.

The tension between you two was thick — not angry, but emotionally charged.

Riki was close, very close, his body heat mixing with the leftover humidity in the stall.

He leaned his forehead against yours for a moment, breathing steadily.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and warm. Riki's breath fanned across your lips, slow and deliberate.

You could feel the tension radiating from his body — not just from the argument, but something deeper, something hotter.

He let out a long, frustrated sigh that brushed right against your mouth.

"…you're such a fucking brat, you know that?" he murmured, voice low and rough.

Before you could answer, he closed the small distance and kissed you.

It wasn't gentle.

The kiss was slow, wet, and deliberately filthy.

His lips moved against yours with purpose, tilting his head to deepen it almost immediately. his tongue slipped into your mouth without hesitation, sliding hot and heavy against yours in long, sensual strokes.

You could taste the faint salt of the pool water on him, mixed with the sweetness of the drink he'd had earlier.

The kiss was messy — wet sounds filling the small space as your tongues moved together, slow and indulgent, like he was savoring every second.

A soft, involuntary sound escaped your throat.

Riki's hands weren't shy.

One stayed cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek almost tenderly, while the other slid down your body without hesitation.

His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your pink bikini bottoms, palm flattening against your lower stomach before moving lower.

He cupped you possessively, two fingers pressing between your folds, feeling how wet you already were.

You gasped into his mouth.

"Riki…" you breathed against his lips, voice shaky. "we're in public… someone could walk in."

He didn't pull his hand away. instead, he rubbed slow, deliberate circles against your clit, kissing you even deeper, tongue stroking yours in time with his fingers.

"Just a little bit" he whispered hotly against your mouth, the words barely audible. "i just need to touch you for a second."

You tried to protest again, but it came out as a quiet whimper when his middle finger teased your entrance, not pushing in, just circling, spreading your wetness.

Your hand stayed in his hair, fingers tightening slightly as you kissed him back, still affected by your earlier jealousy but unable to resist the pull between you.

Riki groaned softly into the kiss, the sound deep and frustrated.

"You drive me mad" he muttered, lips brushing yours with every word. "one second i'm trying to talk to you, the next i just want to bend you over"

His fingers kept moving — slow, teasing strokes that made your hips twitch against his hand.

He kissed you again, slower this time, sucking on your bottom lip before sliding his tongue back into your mouth, wet and sensual. the kiss was so deep it felt almost obscene, saliva mixing as he explored your mouth like he had all the time in the world.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, foreheads still touching.

"I hate how much i want you even when i'm annoyed at you" you whispered, voice unsteady.

Riki let out a low, breathy chuckle, almost dark.

"Yeah?" His fingers pressed a little firmer against your clit, rubbing in tight circles. "that makes two of us. you're standing here jealous as hell… and i'm still so fucking hard for you it hurts."

He kissed you again, hungrier this time, tongue licking into your mouth as his hand worked between your legs with practiced ease.

Your breathing was getting heavier, small whimpers slipping out between kisses despite how hard you tried to stay quiet.

Riki's free hand moved up to cradle the back of your neck, keeping you close as he kissed you slow and deep, almost lazily, like he wanted to drown in you.

The contrast between his filthy touch below and the almost romantic way he was kissing you made your head spin.

You moaned softly into his mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as his hand continued its slow, torturous movements between your thighs.

The tension in the small shower stall was thick enough to cut with a knife — a messy mix of lingering hurt, frustration, desire, and love.

Riki kissed you like he was trying to erase every doubt in your mind, while his hand reminded your body exactly who it belonged to.

He groaned quietly into your mouth as two of those long fingers glided between your folds, coating themselves in your wetness before slowly pushing inside you.

You gasped against his lips, your body tensing for a second before melting into the sensation.

Riki's fingers were thick and skilled, curling perfectly as he pumped them slowly, deliberately, stroking that sensitive spot inside you with every movement.

"Always so wet for me…" he whispered against your mouth, voice deep and intimate. "even when you're mad at me."

You moaned softly, trying to stay quiet as his fingers worked you open.

The wet, slick sound of his fingers moving in and out of you was unmistakable in the small stall.

Riki kissed you again, slower this time, tongue licking into your mouth while his fingers continued their steady rhythm — not too fast, but deep enough to make your knees weak.

Your hand stayed in his hair, fingers gently tugging at the damp strands as your other hand pressed against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Your eyes eventually drifted down between your bodies. his cock was straining hard against his swim trunks, the outline obvious and almost painful-looking. guilt twisted in your stomach.

You reached down and gently stopped his wrist.

"Riki… wait" you whispered, breathing heavily.

He paused, fingers still buried inside you, and looked at you with dark, questioning eyes.

You didn't say anything else.

Instead, you leaned in and started kissing his neck — slow, open-mouthed kisses along his sharp jawline and down the column of his throat.

Your hands slid down his toned torso, tracing every ridge of muscle, every faint scar, every mole. when you reached the waistband of his trunks, you dropped to your knees in front of him.

You pressed soft kisses to the small kiss-shaped tattoo right above his inguinal line, then licked it slowly, savoring the taste of his skin mixed with chlorine.

Riki let out a shaky breath, one hand gently resting on top of your head.

You looked up at him with those big, beautiful eyes — a silent question.

Riki swallowed hard, jaw clenched. his voice came out low and real, a little hoarse:

"…You don't have to."

But you wanted to.

You hooked your fingers into his waistband and slowly pulled his trunks down just enough to free his cock. it sprang out, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening.

Riki exhaled sharply through his nose, his abs tensing visibly.

"Shit…" he breathed, looking down at you. "you look so pretty on your knees like that.”

You leaned in and kissed the base of his cock, then slowly dragged your tongue up the underside, savoring every vein. Riki's hand tightened gently in your hair, not pushing, just holding.

"Fuck, baby… you're really gonna do this right here?" he whispered, voice thick with both disbelief and want. "after arguing with me and everything?"

You nodded, eyes locked on his as you took him into your mouth.

Riki groaned deeply, head falling back for a second before he looked down again, watching you with hooded eyes.

"That's it… just like that" he murmured, voice rough but tender.

You worked him slowly at first, starting to take him deeper little by little, your hand stroking what you couldn't fit.

The wet sounds were lewd, but the shower noise from earlier still helped cover them slightly.

Riki's breathing grew heavier, his fingers flexing in your hair as he fought the urge to thrust into your mouth.

You hummed around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. he let out a low, shaky groan and gently caressed your cheek with his thumb.

"Look at me" he whispered.

When your eyes met his, the intensity in his gaze made your stomach flip.

"Yeah… just like that" he breathed. "my pretty girl."

“Fuck…” he muttered, voice thick.

You wrapped your lips around the head and sucked gently, swirling your tongue around the sensitive tip.

You sank down until he hit the back of your throat. you relaxed your jaw and swallowed around him, earning a deep, guttural groan from Riki.

His hand came to rest on the back of your head, not pushing, just holding you there as you began to bob slowly.

The wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working his cock filled the small shower stall — soft, slick gluck noises every time you took him deep.

You looked up at him through your lashes as you sucked him harder, hollowing your cheeks. your hand stroked the base of his cock in perfect rhythm with your mouth, twisting slightly on every upward stroke.

Saliva dripped down your chin, making a mess, but you didn't care. you wanted him to feel everything.

Riki's breathing grew heavier.

His hips twitched forward slightly, but he held back, letting you control the pace. you pulled off for a second, gasping for air, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to his glistening cock.

You stroked him fast with your hand while licking and sucking on the underside, paying special attention to the sensitive spot just below the head.

"Goddamn…" Riki groaned, his voice rough and low.

You hummed around him in response and took him deep again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushed against his pelvis.

You held yourself there for a few seconds, eyes watering, before pulling back and gasping.

Riki's hand tightened gently in your hair.

"So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth" he said, almost reverently. "keep going, baby. just like that."

You did.

You sucked him with renewed enthusiasm — faster, sloppier, wetter.

Your hand pumped the part you couldn't fit while your tongue worked the head every time you pulled back.

Drool ran down your chin and dripped onto your chest. the sounds were filthy, loud in the small space, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

Riki's thighs started to tremble. his breathing was ragged now, low groans escaping him with every deep suck.

"Fuck— i'm getting close" he warned, voice strained. "you want it in your mouth?"

You pulled off just enough to answer, lips shiny and swollen.

"On my face" you whispered, looking up at him with hazy eyes.

Riki cursed under his breath.

He pulled his cock out of your mouth with a wet pop and started stroking himself fast, the head aimed directly at your face. you kept your mouth open, tongue out, eyes locked on his as he pumped his fist.

"Shit… look at you" he groaned, voice breaking. "so eager for my cum."