🦋

“Mhmm, just fuck me to punish me then?”

He rolled his eyes but glanced at the time on your alarm clock on the bedside table.

You always did that when he had to go to work. And not the legal kind of work. Eren was a hitman and a literal criminal outside of killing people for money. He couldn't disappoint his boss for too long before being killed or, at best, tortured.

“I was here all day and you preferred to talk to me about astrology,” he sighed.

“No astrology slander in my house!”

“It’s my house, I pay the bills, you’re just here for decoration.”

You spat on his face. Deadass. Eren blinked for a few moments, trying to understand if the saliva on his cheek was a hallucination or if you really wanted him to strangle you to death.

“You want to play that game?” he asked, his voice as sinister as his expression.

You shivered, fighting the urge not to smile out of excitement. “I…”

“I’m going to play with you, don’t worry.”

He released your throat and moved away. You whined, disappointed, but swallowed hard as he went to get the object whose name was not to be spoken.

“Eren… I was joking…”

“What?” he chuckled. “You don’t think the game is funny anymore?” He leaned down to kiss the exposed parts of your stomach through your crop top, his hands slipping under your denim mini-skirt. Your legs trembled, and he lifted his head to smirk at your scared expression. He waited for the safe word, to know if you were really against it, but it never came.

“Fucking performative,” he scoffed.

He roughly pulled off your panties, and his fingers caressed your core, preparing you for the long hours of overstimulation the sex toy would provide.

“Eren, I can’t do that shit, I’m stripping tonight, I can’t be aroused during work.”

You tried to stop rolling your hips to take more of his fingers inside, but it was impossible.

“I forgot I was ‘Captain Save a Hoe’ because my girlfriend is a fucking stripper,” he grumbled.

It wasn’t that simple. He knew it was a coping mechanism for you, and he never judged you for it. You were both very troubled people. BDSM had always been the best way to externalize your traumas. So your need to regain control of your body by making money from its objectification wasn’t a problem.

The problem with stripping was that not all clients were respectful. He fought his urges to lock you up in your apartment when you came home with a new experience of unwanted touching.

“Watch your tone when you talk about me I’m gonna spit on you again.”

“Yeah?” His fingers plunged into you while his thumb rubbed circles on your clit. “I’m so excited to see that. You want me to be mean?”

You clenched your thighs around his wrist, moaning. “Shut your damn mouth.”

The stimulation of his hand didn’t last long because he put the sex toy in place, at a low intensity for the moment. He had the remote control to increase when he's at work to lead your clit to burnout.

“Rennieeeeeee!” You threw yourself at him when he got up from the bed and hugged him from behind. “Just have sex with me, stop doing that. You work too much and now you do weird stuff like this. They are exploiting you.”

“Complaining about laws for an illegal job,” he laughed and pushed you away to put on a black t-shirt.

You already missed seeing the tattoo about your own astrology sign on his lower abdomen. Eren loved to talk shit about your love for spiritual stuff, but he always respected it secretly. His whole body was just tattoos about you, your favorite things he always mocked in real life. When you were almost hurt about his mean tone, you just have to undress him to remember he is a loverboy spirit in a jerk body.

At this point, he should just accept he was a simp. The cute blue penguin keychain he has on his jeans that matched your pink one was a sign he should accept this very quickly. He didn’t fool you when he said he was a feminist and won’t do that immature stuff as a grown ass man. He had it on him the next day, and was unfazed by Connie’s reaction at his job. He was the best hitman in his organization, people needed to leave him alone and let him wear matching stuff with his woman, especially Connie who burst out of laughing every time he saw the penguin.

“You know you’re kinda cringe with that,” you mocked when he put on his sneakers.

He glanced at you, and then at the bed with many plushies of anime male characters he was forced to sleep with, and decided he wouldn’t fall for the ragebait of the queen of cringe herself.

After some whining from you, you accompanied him to the front door.

He pushed the braids that were in front of your shoulders to let them in your back, the sound of the beads at the end clashing together made him smile. He wasn't stupid, you always wore the hairstyle he found you the most beautiful with when his birthday was near. And that asshole was specific. Boho braids that stopped around the shoulders with beads. Even your braider knew it was Eren's birthday when you asked for that hairstyle.

He leaned to kiss your forehead. “Send me a video when you will cry because it's too much, I love seeing that,” he said softly, but his soft tone didn't hide his sadistic tendencies to force you to wear sex toys.

“I won't cry for your lame ass punishment.”

“You love lying, baby.”

He kissed you but pushed you away when you wanted to add your tongue. You made an indignant expression and cursed him out as he chuckled, leaving the apartment.

The pleasant late afternoon air caressed his skin as he touched his pocket outside the building. His eyes softened as he realized you'd bought him another pack of Malboro cigarettes without him telling you he was out and had slipped it into his jeans. He was an asshole, so that information didn't make him feel any guilt about his punishment. Your brave ass spat on him. You deserved it.

He sat in his car, driving unconsciously with one hand on the wheel and the other outside the window because you'd told him one day he looked sexy like that.

He parked near the organization disguised as a home cleaning company. Connie was smoking, sitting on the sidewalk across the street, and Eren took a breath to endure his umpteenth joke about his keychain.

“You wear that penguin for her here when she wears nothing at all at her job,” Connie snickered as they did their usual handshake.

“And I have hair and you don't, guess life is unfair ?”

“Man, fuck you.”

Some people walked near them, so Eren spoke in their secret language for their organization.

“What type of household chores should we do?”

“Tidy up mainly the office, there’s no big mess at the moment.”

Eren let out a groan. He hated doing the administration and logistics of drug and weapons dealing. It's sad to say but he was more comfortable killing people.

“You're the only one who applied for every job here, I don't know why you don't focus on one task.”

Eren tensed. Connie was just a good friend but he knew nothing about his father's debt he had to pay he didn't have time. The only friend who was so close to Eren, to the point that man followed him in his crimes, was Armin. But he had been murdered by his organization's enemies. Now, he avoided creating deep bonds there.

The organization was located in a remote corner of the city, its monotonous buildings bearing an old, cheesy commercial slogan for a home cleaning company. Once you entered, every floor seemed legitimate; there were even closets stocked with cleaning supplies. All criminal documents were hidden away in drawers secured with unbreakable locks.

Eren sat at his desk and began the tedious task of verifying that drug suppliers had been properly contacted with favorable prices. Then he had to contact all the associated dealers in the city to find out if they had been threatened recently, given the tensions that had arisen since Armin's murder.

He spent hours doing administrative work, ignoring his criminal colleagues who came to greet him. He was well-liked by the lower ranks and disliked by the higher ranks, who realized how much better Eren was than them and could be replaced quickly.

Joke on them, Eren had been ordered to take on more important missions, he refused and was tortured, but he kept his word. He wasn't there for loyalty, he was there for money.

It was only towards the end of his shift that he received a hidden call. He let out a heavy breath, already knowing it was his enemies. He always answered the call though, it was funny for him. They were only able to kill one man in a rivalry of 10 years when his boss killed 13 of their men. A very, very precious lost, but they were only an angry dog ​​that barks a lot and never bites.

“I fucked your girl,” one of them said on the phone first, Eren rolled his eyes. They always said that to any man in the organization who had a wife or girlfriend.

“Yeah, me too, every night. What do you want?”

“No, I really did. Look at that.”

The unknown number sends him a video. Eren frowned, thinking they wanted to install a virus on his professional phone, but clicked anyway since the phone was protected.

That's surely what the dinosaurs felt when the meteorite crossed the planet's atmosphere. The end of the world. That's the image he had in mind when he recognized the butterfly jewelry on the navel piercing of the woman in the video who was being fucked.

The angle of the video changed and he let out a painful noise when he also recognized the tattoo on her hip. The cute doodle tattoo they created when they were 15 and had it on both of their bodies. Showed on a video where multiple men fucked you.

He genuinely couldn't watch the dick comes in and out of her because the creamy arousal on it made him sick to his stomach.

He left the building without respecting his working hours, throwing the keychain in the trash before. This fuckass organization didn't even respect laws, who cares. 

He drove to your strip club in the deep darkness with his hands gripping the steering wheel far too tightly.

He should have reacted rationally. Thought. Considered whether you were capable of doing that. Found a logical explanation for why the love of his life would have done that.

But Eren was incapable of it.

Maybe his fear of being too much because of his mental issues was real. He felt things too deeply, too intensely. His impulsivity. His rage. His job as a hitman that makes him forget empathy. His morbid attachment to you. His passion and determination. Everything about him screamed borderline personality disorder. He knew that, he just refused to see a therapist. 

Was he really too much for you ?

He shook his head, he couldn't believe the hollow ache in his heart.

There was no way. There was no way the girl he knew since 10 years, was in love since he was 14 years old, engaged since he was 18 had cheated on him. With several men. He wanted to throw up when remembering the many hands on your thighs in the video.

But everything made sense. Since a few weeks, you asked for rougher sex, he had to learn knife play now for you. Everytime he wanted to be gentle, you asked him to go harder.

You felt guilty, and didn't think you deserved his gentle side.

He parked in the strip club's parking lot and lied to your manager about one of your closed ones dying, telling them you had to end your shift early when he went inside.

He couldn't hear the music while waiting for you, couldn't even look at the dancers around the poles. Everything was blurry and clear at the same time. His body was seething with the urge to blow up the entire planet, and he was bleeding so much he was surprised he wasn't crying with all the hurt you'd just caused him.

When you came in with hurried steps and a surprised voice about the supposed death, Eren just ignored you and left the strip club.

“You're that shocked about the death, who—”

“When you told me the sexual abuse made you obsessed with being objectified for money, was that a lie too?” He slammed your head violently against the hood of his car, ignoring your surprised and painful moan. “Because it seems to me, you are just a fucking traitor.”

“E-Eren, what the fuck? What are you talking about—”

“You know,” Eren cut in, his voice so cold that you trembled, “I really believed you when you told me sometimes rape victims aren't perfect victims. It made a lot of sense. But you aren't ashamed of yourself for faking a trauma just to cheat on me? Rape victims are a joke to you?”

Your whole body freezes. The most violent sentences he ever said to you and the most hurtful he could say to the helpless child you were when your mom's friend abused you.

You knew what he was talking about.

It was so dumb, so stupid, so ridiculous, but you thought what happened was a nightmare. When two weeks after it Eren still didn't know anything, you were reassured.

Deep down, you knew it was real. They told you they were gonna kill him if you talked.

“E-Eren, I—”

“I really loved you, you know that?” There was so much pain and resentment in his voice, he sounded like he was dying, breaking down in front of you. Tears prickled in your eyes, but your voice wouldn't come out to defend yourself.

You had a feeling of déjà vu.

Not just a feeling. This was the second time it had happened.

Your mother had the same voice. But tinged with a lot of misogyny. Because who in their right mind would believe a 35-year-old man saying a 13-year-old child seduced him?

Your mom, apparently, thats why she abandoned you in foster care. To cope, you thought it was good that she abandoned you so that you could meet the love of your life, even if he hated your guts now.

The trauma of her never believed your victim status was a ghost that never really left your body and mind.

And now, the ghost was as pained as you at the situation with Eren.

They could kill him if you told the truth. He could not believe you if you told the truth. Both of these options were death sentence for you, so you accepted the painful one of being seen as a cheater.

“I'm sorry, Eren,” you only could say as the tears fell on your face and accepted your fate.

“You're not sorry at all,” he chuckled darkly. “Your tears don't fool me.”

The sound of a belt being unfastened sent shivers down your spine, and you glanced around the parking lot, which was deserted except for a few unoccupied cars. Your fellow strippers were finishing at the same time as you, in three hours, so there shouldn't be too much trouble. Besides, it was the employee parking lot, behind the club.

“Eren, I—”

“Shut your damn mouth. I'm going to give you real sex since you want it that badly you searched for it from my own enemies.”

Eren's body trembled with rage. He needed to channel the destructive suffering he felt into something—sex, always sex. Because otherwise, he'd kill you in this parking lot.

For betraying him. Betraying your relationship. Betraying the ring on your finger. Betraying his initials tattooed on your finger. Betraying your name tattooed on his ribs.

You were his whole world, why did you even do that ?

Eren couldn't know. You were so scared. It was you enduring his rage or him getting killed. 

When he lowered the shorts part of your pink Juicy Couture set, your cheeks heat up at the disgusting damp thong you had on because of the sex toy.

“Always with these bimbo clothes. You should just stick to the whore clothing style, I wouldn't have confused you with the love of my life.” 

He tore down the underwear. He raised your head roughly, pulling your braids back and shoving the arousal-filled thong into your mouth, your muffled shocked sounds ignored.

“Just taste, baby. How does it taste ? The games we had ? The sexual routines ? Our hard limits ? Tell me how does it taste after you let these motherfucker be inside you.”

He nudged with his dick the feverish warmth between your legs, the disgust on his tongue making him pasty in the mouth and want to stop everything. He hated doing things like this. He wanted to make love to you, brutally, maybe, but lovingly. Not this weird hate fuck.

“I’m not your mom’s friend. I’m just mad,” he mumbled, embarrassed to even care about you. He spanked you, making the pillowy flesh of your ass bounce. “Don’t forget this.”

The brutal way he slid in, your wet folds welcoming him like a warm home, made you jolt. Your own taste on your tongue accentuated Eren's dominance. You couldn't see him, bent over the hood of his car, but his presence was everywhere. In the way he gripped your braids to harshly to make you see the starry sky, your mouth agape. In the way his dick just kept hitting and hitting the best spot, at the best pace, like he always did.

You wish you could see the anger in his eyes. The madness, the one he had when he came back at home after a paid murder. You always knew your boyfriend was mentally ill, but at this moment, his disturbed mind made you hot all over.

The loud noise of his pelvis hitting your fat ass echoed in the parking lot. You looked regularly towards the staff door to check that no one was going to see this humiliating spectacle.

But you loved that shit. You didn't want him to stop talking with you, kick you out, or block you. You wanted him to continue hating you while loving you so much that it was only when your sweaty bodies rubbed together that there was a moment of understanding.

Maybe one day he would forgive you.

A way of having a happy ending without revealing the tragedy you suffered at the hands of these men. A way of having the man of your dreams alive.

He will give you all his hatred and you will welcome it in a hug, cherishing it. Because at least, it will mean his heart still beats. And if it does, you won over these evil men.

“I need more,” I whimpered, spitting out your thong, begging him to even ruin you if he wanted.

“I think you forgot who’s taking the lead now,” he rasped, his pace picking up as he smashed your head against the car hood again.

The pain made you sobbing, part of your face swelling from the contact. But he angled his hips in such an exquisite way, your eyes closed just to savor how he killed this.

You wished things could be different as you sobbed against the hood.

It’s like you were doomed. You never had any chance in life.

If all you deserved was Eren’s violence, then you were going to take it.

At least he’s alive when he hurts you.

  ────────

You had locked yourself in the shower for hours because you couldn't hold back your tears. After coming home, Eren had destroyed all your favorite plates, the ones he'd given you for a birthday, torn down all the couple photos on your bedroom walls, and smashed the mirror by the bed that you'd specifically used for mirror sex. You had to watch him do all of that, unable to ease his pain by telling him it wasn't consensual when it happened.

Your brown skin hid the faint bruises they left when they held you down. They deliberately didn't hurt you too badly so the abuse would go unnoticed. A gun was pressed against your temple when they filmed it from an angle that showed telltale signs of you. They were so clever.

You spent so many years falling asleep on his chest, and he was the one who put on your satin bonnet. He was the one who made your breakfast when you got back from your shift. He was the one who ran your bath. He was the one who went to get your new makeup products once you'd finished using the old ones. He knew the shades of blush, foundation, and concealer by heart. 

What will your life be like now that he hates you?

You got out of the shower wrapping a towel around your body, thinking Eren was sleeping. But as soon as you came out of the shower, you encountered his murderous gauze, freezing you on the spot.

“Why didn’t you wear the waist beads I bought you during it? A way of respecting me when you let them penetrate MY woman?”

“Eren, I…”

“Answer, I don’t give a shit about you anymore.”

“I didn’t want to feel your presence during it, I forgot it there,” you whispered, your tearful eyes looking at the floor. Being raped with your boyfriend’s gift around your body was too heartbreaking.

“So loving of you. I’m gonna make your life such a nightmare. You’re gonna regret betraying me forever, love.”

You didn’t know until now we could use the ‘love’ pet name with so much hatred in a voice.

“Do you…” You struggled to speak. “Do you still want me to live with you?”

“I already told you why you can’t live alone.”

You hid your relief, your shoulders relaxing. “But you hate me now, why do you care if your enemies kill me?”

Eren tensed, looking away. “Mind your damn business.” He sat on the sofa. “You're going to sleep here. I threw away your useless anime stuffed animals.”

You took a deep inhale. “Okay.”

“Did you give them information?” Eren asked as  you sat on the couch.

“Why would I do that?”

His gaze hardened. “Why would you let them be inside you?”

I stared at the floor. You hated how he genuinely believed you let them do that, but you can't tell him. Eren will absolutely want to destroy them and they will know you talked and kill them or even both of you. Eren always told you how much they weren't very skilled, but they were. They just killed Armin, a very smart element in the organization and now they are stressing out the other one who is important.

“I wasn’t very… satisfied with you lately.”

Eren chuckled, a sad chuckle, a broken chuckle. You knew he wanted to cry. You want too, again.

He just left you in the living room and slammed the door.

You fell asleep on the couch, heart heavy.

────────

Eren looked at you sleeping, wondering how the fuck that shit could have happened. 

Was it during a sleep over with your stripper friends?

How could you do this to him?

You were getting married. He was supposed to take your last name.

You understood each other on so many levels. So many people were uncomfortable with foster kids. People didn't want to deal with your pain. Nobody had the same trauma as you. A boy abandoned by his father and used for his father's debts. A girl, a victim of sexual abuse by a family friend and abandoned by her mother. You only had the two of you to feel less alone, more seen and more heard.

So why did you do this?

The video played in his brain, constantly, all night.

Now that you were asleep, his rage left, replaced by just sorrow and pain.

He loved so badly, what did you mean you weren't satisfied anymore?

He nuzzled his head against your soft stomach, inhaling the mixture of scents between your cocoa butter oil and the Sol de Janeiro body cream he always bought you. They touched your stomach. They must have even cummed on it; his own belly twisted at the thought.

He clenched his fists, fighting the disgust inside him.

He cried a bit, but he wasn't sad. Maybe he tried to connect with you with his tears on your skin; maybe physiologically you would understand how much you had hurt him. Maybe you still didn't care.

He wiped away his tears and left the apartment. He was so tired, but he had to return to the organization at dawn. He had to alert everyone that his enemies were planning something nasty. Even if you were a cheater, he knew damn well they had found you and not the other way around.

────────

You were woken up by a torrent of water on your face, making you feel like you were choking.

“I wasn’t that mean yesterday, but I came to my senses,” Eren scoffed. “I really realized that shit. You let several men sleep with you? While you're engaged? You deserve hell.” 

You coughed but froze when you saw he was shirtless, clearly fresh from the shower, wearing only sweatpants and with damp hair. It wasn't the fact that he was shirtless that made your eyes widen in pain. It wasn't missing his abs rubbing against your thick body, his hard planes against your softer curves, that you missed.

You missed his tattoos about you. He had covered them. All of them. Your name under his ribcage had been replaced with something else.

“Eren…” 

He stiffened at your trembling voice. He hated hurting the woman he loved so dearly, but you didn't care about him. Or that's what he thought.

“What? Surprised? I don't want your name on me anymore.”

Was this really how you were going to end up?

When he's finished paying off the debt his father forced him to bear by disappearing, is this what you'll have left? You, with all your tattoos about him, hoping he'll forgive you one day, and him with all his tattoos about you forgotten under a new ink?

Maybe death would have been a better choice.

“You're going to stop stripping.”

“Eren—”

“You weren't protected during it, I saw their dicks,” he spat with disgust. “I don't know what you're doing with your clients during private dances.”

“I took a pill, Eren.”

“I hope so, I would have killed that baby.”

You shivered, a bit horrified at how mean Eren can be when angry.

“Anyway, it's not about pregnancy. Sexually transmitted diseases are a thing, if you didn't know. You disgust me anyway. Find another job. I don’t buy your coping mechanism bullshit anymore.”

Your body was vibrating with him screaming they raped you so he would stop ruining the good things in your life but you couldn't because that scream might kill him as a result.

“Can I ask Jean if I can work with him?” you asked, apprehension in your voice.

He glared at you.

“So you fucked him too?”

“Eren, you know damn well I'm only friends with people from my club. Jean left it, but kept my number. He works in another bar now.”

“I also thought I knew you loved me.”

“I do, Eren. A lot. So much.”

He burst out of laughing and you looked away, drying your wet braids.

“You're really funny,” he muttered before leaving the living room.

Getting tattooed for hours just to let go of the urgency of not having you on his skin anymore was painful, but such a relief. Ony, his tattoo artist was so talented.

But he loved you so much, it felt so strange to not see your big ass name on his sides when he looked in the bathroom mirror. You were all his life but he was just a chapter for you.

He still hadn't slept yet. When he woke up, his hand was grabbing your breast and you rubbed your ass against his morning erection on purpose, but now you cheated on him because you weren't satisfied anymore. Life was so weird.

He loved you deeply so of course he winced when he remembered what he said about your trauma with your mom's friend.

He didn't truly believe you lied. He was here when you cried during sex when you were still a teen. But he was just confused.

It didn't make any sense, and he was too hurt to even seek answers from you.

He put on a t-shirt and he flinched when you came in the bedroom to get dressed.

“Who you’re gonna fuck now?” he asked, disdain barely hidden in his voice.

“Jean.”

It's like you stopped trying to deny what he thought of you. You had already made your choice, now you had to play the game.

He let out a heavy breath.

“Have fun, since hurting me is your new kink. Must be the weird graduation of the dominance you wanted since a few weeks ago.”

You almost lost control of your resolve to tell him you need rougher sex to numb yourself from the trauma but you kept your mouth shut and tried to act bored. Even though it was still raining in your heart.

────────

“Wow, I would never thought you and Eren would be over,” Jean said, drinking his cocktail.

The Emerald, the bar where Jean worked now, used its name perfectly. Luxury green was everywhere with chairs, tables and plants. Drinking in this bar was like drinking in a comforting lush jungle.

“Yeah, time changes relationships,” you lied.

Jean looked at you nervously, not knowing if it was the right time to tell you that he had a crush on you.

“So you…”

“How can someone who cheated be forgiven?”

He widened his eyes. “He cheated?”

“Jean, please answer the question.”

“I would never forgive cheating.”

You stiffened. “Even it’s the love of your life?”

“The love of my life wouldn’t cheat on me.”

You fell silent, your eyes watering but managed to leave your slight tears unnoticed.

────────

Eren was so tired. Tired of you. Tired of his life. It's been 48 hours and he's still awake because he had to work.

As he was stalking a new target, parked in front of a restaurant, he tried not to fall asleep even though his eyes kept closing on their own.

He needed money. He never refused assassination contracts.

But as he drove behind the target's car after he finished his dinner and headed home, other cars were behind him.

“Fuck, I'm so dumb,” he grumbled. He got in his fucking car and forgot to take the ones with tinted windows from his job.

Of course, a mafia boss would want to eliminate a novice who was stalking him and realized he was being sent by someone.

He drove like a maniac and accelerated to escape the cars chasing him, his need for sleep forgotten. His life was at stake. This mafia boss was Russian, the assassination contract was from his Italian rival, they didn't know the streets of the city very well. Unlike Eren, who had grown up here.

In the deserted streets, the men behind him tried to shoot him, damaging the car. Eren let out a groan, grabbing a handbag you'd left on the passenger seat floor and putting all your personal information in it. They'll maybe find him. But he can still protect your life.

He used the car's full speed to get ahead before jumping out and running between alleyways he knew they couldn't come by car. He looked ridiculous with your Miu Miu bag in his hand, which cost him almost three thousand dollars. But it was your engagement gift; he would do anything to please you and buy everything on your wishlist. When he arrived at the apartment after half an hour of intense sprinting, he collapsed on the sofa to sleep, covered in sweat.

────────

The soft sound of the television finally woke him, and he frowned at the sight of a plate of kuru fasulye with rice on the table. He glanced at you, watching yet another Cheetah Girls movie, and it made him roll his eyes.

“You need to get off these movies.” 

Your heart swelled at his calm tone; maybe you were lucky today. You opened your mouth to say happy birthday, but fell silent at his outburst.

“Who told you to cook my favorite Turkish dish? You think I’m that stupid to forgive you for that?” 

He pushed the plate away, and it crashed to the floor with a loud clatter, the food spilling out. An uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You wanted to tell him that you'd followed the true recipe of his culture and had soaked the beans for hours in cold water, just the way it should be, while he slept, but he'd think you were trying to manipulate him.

You had enough self-respect not to just bend down and clean up the mess he'd made. You ignored him and watched the TV again, focusing on the movie.

But Eren grabbed a handful of your braids and pulled them so you fell onto his chest. You let out a groan of relief at the thought of him being close to you after hours of hatred. And he was sweaty. It was disgusting, but you nuzzled his chest.

Eren's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, inhaling your scent. His shoulders relaxed when he recognized the cocoa butter oil scent and that one popular body cream.

"You didn't fuck Jean. You still smell like yourself."

"Maybe I just sucked his dick."

“Oh my god, I’m going to kill you.” He pulled on your braids even harder, glaring at you, but you chuckled nervously at the absurdity of the situation. You kept lying and he believed your nonsense, but he thought you lied on the only real true thing: your love for him.

He was still too groggy, so he rubbed his eyes. He looked so cute like this, you leaned down to kiss his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes but stayed silent, as if he needed that kiss after all.

“Don’t open the door to anybody if I’m not here and don’t leave home without a gun.”

“Why?”

“You made me act like a moron at work with all this exhaustion,” he treated the subject in a trivial manner before looking at you better. “Do you remember how to use a gun?”

“Of course, you taught this when we were still teenagers.”

“When you still acted like you loved me.”

Your lips parted, you paused. Silence. You stared at each other, you trying not to cry because you loved him more than anything, he trying not to kill you for what he thought you'd done.

You were thinking about your engagement.

Marriage was an obligation for some. An act of love. Or a religious reason.

For you and Eren, getting married was your chance to connect with others. To be more than just foster kids. To finally be normal, to have people ask you normal questions. No more pity, embarrassment, or discomfort. You were a married couple who had gone through so much trauma together, and people would find it beautiful. Nobody would think you were broken.

But what about now?

“About…”

“Shut up, go clean up.”

“I’m not going to clean up the mess of a grown ass white man.”

Eren's eyes shot daggers but he got the message, and you chuckled again seeing him cleaning up his own mess. You wanted to cry so badly, everything hurts, but you were laughing. Maybe you will end up with dementia at this point.

  ──────── 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

Eren acted like like a fucking lunatic.

One hour, he will be teasing you, the next one you would cry because he has his gun against your temple, forcing you to show him your text messages. 

He struggled with so many stuff that stressed him out. The debt. Armin’s death. Your “cheating”.

So today, when he came home from work, dark circles under his eyes, you thought it was normal. He had always been tired of his job as a hitman, and you always took care of him when you could.

But he collapsed in the entryway of your apartment.

Worried, you wrapped your arms around him, and he let out a pained groan.

“Eren?”

“Leave me alone,” he muttered, his voice weak.

Your hands went to his back to help him up. His back was damp; you thought it was sweat. But when he rested his head on your shoulder and leaned on you to walk to the sofa, you realized with horror that you had blood on your hands.

Once he was seated, you took off his clothes and tried not to get goosebumps at the sight of his muscular thighs, abs, and how blessed nature had him.

When you saw the deep, bloody wounds on his back, you shivered.

"Did they ask you to change ranks again?"

"No," he whispered, his voice so frail it twisted your stomach, "I'm just being punished for the target I missed a few weeks ago."

"Why does your boss torture you all the time when you're one of his best men?" You started disinfecting his wounds.

“He’s not my boss. He’s the higher-ups. They’re jealous because they want to keep their positions,” he breathed.

“But you don’t want their positions!” 

He chuckled but groaned at the pain it caused since he’d also been hit in the ribs.

“That’s why they’re idiots.” 

You quickly forgot the context of your current relationship and began to tend to his wounds as best you could, gently. You gave him painkillers and herbal tea to help him relax. Then, you took his face in your hands to see if he had a scratch.

“Don’t be fooled by my state, I still hate you.”

The venom in his voice made you stiffen and your eyes sadden. He pushed you away.

“You didn’t have those sad eyes when they were pounding into you.”

I had, actually, I even sobbed, you thought.

“Are you feeling better?”

“It’s not like you’ll give a damn.”

“Eren…”

“Call me Yeager. My name is too intimate for a whore.”

It was like receiving spit on your face. You glared at him, but for what? He thought you had group sex behind his back. You were the one at fault.

“O-Okay.” You swallowed hard, you no longer had dignity. “Then… Yeager… Do you need some help with showering?”

“No, fuck off.”

He tried to get up but always fell so you helped him while he snarled insults at you.

You were undressing him and preparing his bath, but you realized he was staring at you with a particular intensity as he sat in the tub.

“Um…”

“Why don’t you kill me?”

“What?”

“Why. You. Don’t. Kill. Me. That’s what you wanted to do, right? Make me feel so exhausted from the grief of our relationship, distracted at my job because of the hurt, and still getting close to me like a poison because of my love. You wanted to kill me. You’re having fun watching me being tortured. Why didn’t you just shoot me in the head? It would be faster.” 

Your hands trembled as you soaped his neck, avoiding his gaze.

“I guess I want you to feel pain longer…”

“You know… You’re weird. The situation is so weird. Something doesn’t add up.” 

Your brain worked quickly to find something to stop him from discovering the truth and being killed.

“I was just tired of you. You promised me you would take care of me and our life is a nightmare. It was fine when we were minors. But your job as a hitman ruined everything. You just ruin everything with your mental health and your family debt problems. I want more in life.”

You immediately regretted this way of doing things with the sight of his eyes which gave a glimpse of the soul bruised by your words.

“I meant…”

“You’re right. I never had been the best man for you.”

“Eren, I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

He stared at the bathtub floor without saying anything.

What you said made a lot of sense.

He knew that.

He just ruins, ruins, and ruins.

Kills, kills and kills. 

He wasn't a good person. But he thought you liked him that way.

Maybe your romance was all a lie.

  ──────── 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

Eren tucked the stray curl of hair into your satin bonnet, pushing it back with his gun, his other hand holding his blunt. He held his breath so as not to make a sound and wake you when you stirred on the bed.

He'd always loved watching you sleep before. It was funny seeing your angelic face drooling on the pillow, a far cry from the needy expression you had when you asked him to slap you in bed.

But right now, watching you sleep made him want to kill you and then himself.

How could such a beautiful woman be such a traitor? A girl so caring, who did everything for him, with him. It didn't make any sense. He was so close to the truth. Too hurt to see it.

He stared at your forehead for long seconds and squeezed the trigger against it, wondering how he would react if you were dead. He hated you, but he'd rather you were alive somewhere on this planet. Alive with Jean, maybe. His jaw tightened as he pictured the brown-haired man with you.

He placed the gun on the mattress. His hand slipped under your t-shirt to caress your soft stomach. Was Jean going to be the father of your children now?

His whole body was churning; he wanted to reject this fate.

For the past few days, Eren hadn't recognized himself.

He kept replaying what you'd said in the bathtub. That he was destroying everything, ruining your life with his mental and family problems. That you wanted more.

He was having trouble eating and sleeping these days. The fog in his head was taking over.

"Eren?" Your hands in his hair pulled him out of his inner darkness. He hadn't noticed he'd lain down on top of you, his head on your chest.

"Why are you crying?" 

He touched his wet cheeks, confused.

“Nothing,” he grumbled, sniffling. “Acting like you don’t know why.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “It’s not my problem.”

He let out a quiet laugh—a sad, hoarse one.

“Nothing is your problem. You only care about shaking ass at the club. Aren’t you ashamed?” He snapped, his voice raising. “You could have left way before than betraying me like that.”

You wished you could make the tears in the corners of his eyes disappear.

“You fuck good.”

His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched even more. “That’s all? That’s the only thing you like about me?”

Tell him he mattered. Tell him his mental battles weren’t such a burden.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and brought his head close to yours.

“Yes. Now do something.”

“You don’t deserve it,” he spat, venom in his voice.

That’s what you wanted. His hatred. His anger. Something that proves he’s alive. You could keep the secret of what happened your whole life if it was to keep him safe.

Even if his hands between your thighs were rougher than usual when he fingered you, despite what he said. Even if it was your turn to cry when he fucked you, his hand on his bedframe, a full view of the tattoos on his chest covering the ones about you. Even if there was more pain in his gaze than lust when he finished.

Eren hurriedly got out of bed, pulling on sweatpants. Eren needed to stop sleeping with you when his emotions were uncomfortable. He needed to detach himself from his ex. It was over between you. You didn’t love him. You were going to become the mother of Jean’s children. He was nothing to you. His hands trembled as he smoked on the balcony, barely able to hold his blunt.

He had your mouth forming an O in his mind as he gazed at the city lit by illuminated skyscrapers and streetlights. Your little whimpers. Your hands caressing his sculpted abs. Your pleas to go faster, harder, more intense. As if it wasn't already heartbreaking enough that he had to be so sexually rough with you to satisfy you.

Was that why you cheated on him? Always needing more. He's never enough and always too much for you.

He glared at you as you slept.

He resented you so much.

  ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“You look terrible, man,” Connie observed, his feet up on his desk, smoking a joint as he surveyed a gaunt Eren with deep-set dark circles under his eyes.

“Focus on your work. We have to avenge Armin, and you know my own reasons for wanting to kill them all.”

“You don’t look very ready to hear what I’m about to say.”

Eren slammed his fist on the desk. “Just spill the beans on what you found, damn it.”

He had asked Connie to hack into their enemies’ security cameras several weeks ago to prepare an attack plan behind his boss’s back.

“Eren, I don’t think you want to see that, I’m serious.” 

He shoved Connie’s chair aside with a “tsk” and opened the surveillance video folder. With the mouse cursor, he watched the fast-forward footage of the men entering and leaving the organization. “You’re playing with me, Con. That’s boring as hell.”

“Go back two and a half months. Don’t scream. What we’re doing is against protocol.”

He did as Connie asked. He frowned as a woman was helped out of a car trunk by several men. The hot knot in his stomach grew and grew as the cogs in his brain assembled the pieces of the puzzle. 

The woman had a bag over her head and was struggling, but it was easy to recognize you. You were wearing a House of CB dress Eren had bought you. A long, floral bustier dress. One he hadn’t seen since you came back from your night out with your stripper friends, and you were avoiding his gaze with the oversized men’s clothes on you.

You had asked for rough sex that day. No matter how much you cried, you had asked him to be even rougher. He thought it was your way of dealing with your sexual trauma.

He was right; he didn't know at that time that you had a new one. 

His whole body burned, his trembling fingers clicking on the internal cameras, but Connie turned off his computer by unplugging it.

“I know you don't want to be friends with me since Armin died, but I like you. Don't beat yourself up watching this. It was very long and painful to watch.” 

The hotness rose in his throat, and he vomited his breakfast onto Connie's desk. He winced but understood his reaction.

“Why didn't she tell me?” he murmured, lost and horrified.

“Why would she? You're going to try to kill them all, and they'll kill you. We underestimate them a lot; that's how they killed Armin.”

“Who cares?” Eren sneered, incredulous. “They hurt my baby.”

 “You’re not going to make her suffer from your death on top of everything else? She must have been so scared for you all this time.”

While Eren put you through hell.

He kicked the desk, cursing.

──────── 

He nuzzled your neck affectionately; your scent no longer made him nauseous. It was what you had been a victim of that made him feel sick now.

He couldn't talk to you right now; he would break down and show you he knew. He preferred to cuddle you while you slept and plot his revenge.

He wasn't sure he would come back alive. But he had to, for his girl. He wouldn't be able to look at himself in the mirror if he didn't do something to bring you justice.

"You're gonna be okay if I die, right?" he whispered against your skin. He lowered his head to listen to your heart—the most important sound in his universe.

You're gonna be okay if he dies getting revenge on you, you have Jean.

Even though he's already dead to the thought of you with someone else.

    ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“Give her this if I don’t come back,” Eren said to Connie in the car, handing him an envelope. “Give it to her personally. She’s not stupid enough to come to my funeral and get caught or even open the door.”

“A love confession?”

“A will of love.”

“You don’t really have to do this, Eren. You can leave the organization and have your happy ending with her.”

“Happy ending? I have a fucking debt to pay, Connie. They’re already threatening me enough because I’m not paying it back fast enough, according to them. I’ll be in a life of crime for a long time. And even then, the men who abused my girl can’t be alive. I’m going to try to kill at least one of them to rest in peace.”

Connie chuckled nervously.

“You don’t understand that’s exactly what they’re waiting for, Eren. You’re the best member of the organization. Losing you is good for them. They’ve chosen low-ranking members to carry out their massacre.” 

“And they made me hate and hurt the love of my life for weeks. They all deserve to die, I don’t care about their ranks.”

“Your girl can’t say I didn’t try to save you.” Connie watched Eren walk away toward the place where he had ambushed the enemies. Eren seemed calm, smoking a cigarette, his hand in the pockets of his baggy jeans. Connie knew he was going to kill at least two of them, we were talking about Eren. But just him against the six men who abused you? Connie gripped the steering wheel of his car, already mourning a man he wished he could call a friend.

  ──────── 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫,

It had been several days since Eren wasn't home.

You weren't stressed. Eren sometimes had to travel long distances for his assassination contracts.

You broke a glass by rubbing it too hard. You bumped your head on a cupboard door while cleaning it. Your toe stubbed on the bed while sweeping. Distracted but not stressed. Eren sometimes had to travel long distances for his assassination contracts.

You glanced at the door at least once every three minutes. Then you looked at the kitchen clock, counting the hours. Four days and eight hours since he'd come home from work.

You weren't stressed. Eren sometimes had to—

The doorbell rang, but your body remained tense because Eren never used that option to announce his arrival.

With incredible calm, you grabbed the gun Eren had bought you. A hitman wouldn't get involved with an incompetent woman.

"Who's there?" you asked loudly, pressing your ear against the door.

"A friend of Eren's. He... died. I have some things to return. Sorry, it took me a while to find his address." 

Several seconds passed in heavy silence. Connie finally knocked, but you were already back to your housework.

Eren is dead.

You scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. You didn't know if it was your own arm you were scrubbing.

Connie kept knocking, as if he had something important to give you.

But you were far away.

In a world where the sun had gone out.

  ──────── 𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞,

“Thank you for the kind words about my work. But don’t put me on a pedestal, I’m nobody.”

You reread the sentence in your email and sighed. It sounded insecure, when you wanted to be humble.

You’d been freelancing as a graphic designer with your boyfriend, Jean, for several months. He came from art school, so he had the expertise your creativity lacked.

It was the perfect job because you didn’t have to speak.

You lost your voice that day.

Your hands would tremble when you thought about him.

You were okay. You saw a therapist, you had your antidepressants, you’d stopped BDSM and learned to enjoy gentle sex with Jean after your rapes. Because life still has things to offer, even if he’s not there. That’s what you tried to believe.

“Isaree wants to go to the mall for candy,” Jean said softly, his hand on your shoulder. “We could go to the park first.”

You tensed at the touch, wishing it were someone else’s. Even your baby girl, you wanted her to be someone else’s. That’s why she was called ‘freedom.’

You said ‘no’ in sign language and plunged back into the social media story template you were creating.

“Isaree would like to spend more time with you, love.”

You paused, your hands sweating. Was it so bad not to be passionate about life, your boyfriend, and your child?

You were okay. You had a job, no insomnia, ate healthily, had shed tears of joy when Isaree was born, and you did her homework with her. An average mom. If we ignore your muteness. If we ignore the blank expression you have every day. If we forget your feeling of drowning in the depths of an endless ocean. With no way out, and with the hope of seeing him again at the end.

—

“Does Eren like the park?” Isaree asked, playing in the grass. Jean tensed at the sound of his name, but he knew that Eren was the only way your daughter could connect with you. Isaree had understood early on that something had happened to her mother. She had gone through your things and found photos of a mysterious dark-haired man with green eyes. It was the only thing you ever paid attention to.

You fed her, took care of her, took her to school, and hugged her when she cried. But Isaree kept watching the mother-daughter pairs around her, wondering what she was doing wrong to lack the sparks they shared. You signed to her that he preferred the sea, and Isaree's eyes lit up with excitement.

"Wow, he's so cool. Why is he always sleeping? I'd love to meet him." 

She had Jean's eyes, bright and enthusiastic. You didn't want to break her childlike heart, so you allowed your lie.

"He's in another country right now, but you'll be able to see him someday," You signed.

She twirled in the grass, already thinking about writing down the information about the sea in her diary. Isaree wrote about everything she cared for, because Eren was one of them in her eyes. Not a friend or a father, a secret thing where death and life create an in-between. 

Jean was painting a portrait of his daughter and you on the grass. With colors, colors that reminded you that life was beautiful, even if you weren't quite sure anymore if it was worth it.

─

As your lineage continues to reproduce, Eren has disappeared from everybody’s memory, and nobody knew who should have been the father of your children, decades after your and your daughter's death. 

  ──────── 𝐮𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫,

“Dear brat,

If you're reading this letter, it means I've failed.

I'm sorry I can't control my emotions. I feel like it's genetic. Be careful with your future children; maybe they'll have the will to fight from birth.

I hope they'll have the will to fight for you.

You deserve for everyone to fight for you.

I hope you know how hard I fought for you. My death will be proof of that.

I'm sorry our story ended like this.

I should have reacted differently. I knew you. You wouldn't have done that to me. I shouldn't have been so horrible and angry. I said things I didn't mean.

I'm sorry my fears were stronger than me. You don't know what it's like to have a baddie and not be mentally healthy for her.

Let Jean take care of you.

Never talk about me to your children, please.

I'm the worst.

I know I will die, abandon you, that I will no longer be there to protect you.

But I’m still doing it because we are still engaged. For life.

Jean can make you babies, but your soul will always have my name on it. Just like mind has yours.

Never talk about me, and please see a therapist for what happened, baby.

Take care and be happy for me, okay? 

So that I can rest in peace, while that horseface is lucky as hell.

(I took your pink keychain to be buried with it just in case, don’t panic if you can’t find it).”

You heard his growls and breathing from behind the door. The pain and pleasure filled his body as he soon started fiddling with his jeans.

"B-baby, fuck, could you–"

He didn't finish, when you slowly opened the door.

Naked, foamed, hair curling around your wet shoulders, eyes flicking up and down his miserable body with a cheeky grin.

"You don't look quite well, sweetheart," you murmured, grabbing his lip ring and pulling it harshly. "Are you perhaps in pain?"

His head shook, lavender irises turning hearts, as he let out a shuddering breath. Leaning down to match your eye level. Your hand slowly took off his leather jacket and shirt before fiddling with a belt. Fingers brushing the fat bulge straining his jeans, before you giggled again.

"That's good, sweetheart. If you were in pain, I would need to postpone your reward for another day," you popped one button, unzipping his fly. The jeans fell to the filthy floor, joining the rest of the drenched clothes.

Long, raven hair curled around his handsome cheeks as he watched your movements with a slight grin.

"What r-reward?" he pushed, trying to hide the pain that was almost twisting his face. "Fuck, baby, what reward do you have for me?"

You hummed, dropping down to your knees. Hitting the wet tiles, as the hot droplets still coated your skin. Suguru pressed his back against the closed door, groaning lowly at the sheer sight of your lovely cheeks.

"A little something for still coming back to me."

You looked oh so wickedly lovely. With the warmth caressing your swollen lips and eyes slightly fogged by the maddening desire. Hottish droplets dripped down your velvety skin, lips pouted as you placed a sweet kiss over his clothed cock.

"Acting as if you hate me, while getting yourself wet over my cock, huh?" He tried to chuckle, but you quickly dug your nail into his wound.

A painful cry filled the foggy room. His head lolled to the side, eyes shooting the most devoted promises right at your wickedly grinning face.

"I would think twice before saying anything, you psycho," you giggled, sliding down his brieds.

Fat, leaking cock smooched your cheek, leaving a thread of precum all over your skin. You let it stick to his abdomen before nuzzling your cheek against his open, pulsing wound.

"That looks quite bad, sweetheart," you muttered, giving it a sweet lick.

Suguru shuddered, his cock pulsing from the sheer sight of your lips wrapping around the nasty wound you gave him yourself.

"Mhm, it's not bad."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh, truly? You wouldn't mind getting the same in the other thigh?"

Suguru bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to press your soft lips against his cock. His fingers curled and straightened, eyes wickedly wet, as he noticed the way your back curved on the tiled floor.

"Would that make you happy?" he asked in a low groan as you pressed against his wound again. "Fuck, baby, be care–"

"Yes, sweetheart," you said, licking it again before pressing your nose into his tight, restrictive balls. You gently caught one with your teeth and kissed it softly. "That would make me very happy. But if you piss me off again, I will carve my name onto your chest."

His eyes squinted, head tilted, and you knew that he, in fact, wouldn't mind it.

"You're nasty," you giggled, before licking the underside of his cock.

The pulsing, long vein that wrapped around it up till the red head, sucking gently on his stony shaft. Your fingers played with his balls, lips wrapped around the pulsing tip, as the musty smell fully curled around your senses. The mix of sweat, his cum and your juices as you quickly took him deep inside your throat.

Till your nose nestled in his pubic hair, squinted eyes locked on him for a long time. His fingers brushed a few strands of your damp hair before gripping your head firmly at the back.

You moaned, feeling the pulsing need that almost ripped your pussy apart. Your fingers glided over your body, caressing the sensitive, perked nipples, then moved toward the swollen clit.

Your throat tightened around him in the most slutish, maddening way, and Suguru knew – oh, he knew – how many other men had the audacity to use you as he did.

"Have you moaned like a cheap whore for others too, baby?" He groaned, pinching your full cheek.

You pulled away, leaving a single thread between your lips and his cock, while rolling your hips against your fingers. With another hand pumping his slick shaft, you giggled.

"For each one of them. Moaning like a fucking slut and letting them cum deep down my throat," you kissed his swollen head, sucking it like the sweetest lollipop. "While another guy was fucking me from behind. Filling my filthy pussy wit–"

Suguru's lavender squinted in wrath.

He grabbed your hair more harshly, almost brutally, before pulling you back on his cock. Hitting the back of your throat with painful smooches, coating it in the sheer glean of precum.

You gasped raggedly as he used you with ruthless force, like a rag doll.

"It's okay, baby," he moaned, seeing how you started rolling your hips faster. Muffled cries tried to push past your throat, hitting his fat cock with trembling kisses. "It's okay, I forgive you. From now on, no one will fuck you whorish cunt, but me. Fuck–ah– try to pull another shit like that, and I will disembowel him right in front of your eyes."

His balls smooched your chin as he fully pushed your head away before quickly pulling it back in. Leaving you no space or chance to snap back.

And what irritated him the most was how you didn't gasp even once. Fuck. Your throat wrapped around him in a sinful manner, with your tongue pressed to the underside of his shaft, allowing it to slide smoothly.

Wicked, lovely eyes looked up at him from a curtain of wet lashes, fingers fiddling with your clit in desperate rolls.

When your other hand pinched his bleeding wound, he pushed you away with a hiss.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned, hearing a sweet laughter slipping past your lips.

You didn't cough or cry. Instead, you simply stood up and turned around. With your palms against the wall and back slutty arched, you glanced over your shoulder.

"Well?" Your hips brushed his leaking cock. One arm slipped behind to pull your cheek open. "She's waiting for you. Come on, stuff me full, sweetheart, till I'll be sick from your–ahhh!"

A giggly moan escaped your wet lips as he pulled your hips with a brutal force. His tip was ready to burst, and it seemed like you were on the edge too. With clit already pulsing and your head falling back, you started sliding yourself down on his cock. Hips hitting his, back of thighs pressed to his, before you felt his blood soak your skin.

"Fuck, as tight as before. Baby, you have a fucking virgin pussy," he groaned, feeling your walls give him a few short squeezes.

You wrapped your arm around his neck, pulling him closer. Your back arched painfully as his shaft pressed deep inside your still-stuffed belly.

"I can be your virgin if you want me to," you moaned to his lips, biting down on lip ring. The metal tasted sweet, almost bloody, after all the times you pulled it for the past few hours. "Do you like how tight my pussy is, hm? All drenched and dripping from your cum?"

One of his hands slips up your breasts, the other falls towards the swollen clit. He kneaed your body, rubbed all your folds, and used the sticky blood to play nastily with your pulsing bud, rolling the sweetest moans from your throat.

"All mine," he licked your lower lip. "All fucking mine. I love you so much, baby. Fuck, slash my throat, and I'll still come back to haunt you."

Your hips met his in painful, pleasuring hits. Heavy cock sliding deep inside your belly, till your pouch bulged with his fatness. He brushed all your sweetest spots, hit your womb still splashing with a nasty cum, ready to stuff you even fuller.

"I would–nghh–resurrect you and kill again, if you didn't," a crying moan slipped from your lips when he sucked on your jaw. Licking it sweet, leaving purple kisses all down the drenched skin, as he kneaded your tit with one hand, the other pinching your clit.

A splashing desire already filled your lower belly as he hit your swollen womb with brutal thrusts.

"Suguru, I–oh god–I love your cock so fucking much. Fuck, I'm going to cum," you cried, head falling back on his shoulder. "Gosh, fill me up. P-please, nghhh."

He chuckled, rolling your clit faster. Pumping his cock deeper, letting himself be wrapped by your soft, viper walls, till your pussy finally locked him in.

He shuddered, biting into your arm before flooding you with his cum. Ropes and ropes of thick cream, stuffing you full again until he noticed your little bulging pouch. Squealing with each thrust as he pushed the cum deeper.

"Fuck, baby, how about I'll make you a mommy, huh?" He muttered, feeling your soft cheek pressing against his shoulder. "You don't have to finish school, just–ah!"

Your nail dug into his bloody, nasty wound as you slid off his cock with a low tsk. With fingers clamped to his face, you turned his teary, pain-washed eyes to meet your gaze.

"Don't put stupid ideas into this filthy head of yours only because we fucked twice," your poison-lined tone wrapped sweetly around his blooming cheeks.

Suguru leaned against the door, a heartbreaking smile twisting his lips. "You don't plan to fuck with anyone else, hm?"

You took a towel hanging off the door, wrapping it around your body. He didn't comment on the fact that you didn't clean your leaking pussy, fully stuffed with his cum.

"I don't know," you said softly, noticing a flash of anger in lavender eyes. "We'll see how useful you'll be. And don't tell anyone about us, or I might have to tie you up and fuck another guy right in front of your eyes."

And with the last, cheeky smile, you left him in the bathroom stall. Alone, trembling, yet with a heart swelling with the truly enraging love.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

Just a little something, but honestly, I love their dynamics so much that now I'm thinking about the reader fucking with another guy in front of tied Suguru...

art by @thatsallitchief dividers by @uzmacchiato

Whatever Etsy witch he paid to ruin your life would have been hunted during the Salem witch trials because you never find peace following the breakup. You find out he’d been cheating on you with a plethora of girls, you find out the lady living in the apartment next to yours is moving out, and worst of all, you find out the free elective course you enrolled in specifically to take it easy gives you an assignment on love.

ARTS505: Screen Media Practice Assessment 1: Observational Short Film — “Love” Weighting: 30% Due: Friday, 11:59 p.m. Length: 3–5 minutes For this assessment, students are required to produce a short observational film responding to the theme of love.

Go fuck yourself.

The day your neighbour next door moves out, you tear up at the news and let her believe it’s because you’ll miss her and not because you’re terrified her replacement won’t be nearly as forgiving.

Because she smiles when you run into her at the bottom of the staircase and gives you small containers of food, nagging you in the way old women do about eating healthy and sleeping early. To her sweet, unassuming face, you tell her you will though you won’t, and she’ll nod like she believes you and tells you she’ll try to keep it down, kindly avoiding the fact that she can hear you wail at atrocious hours in the night when you’ve assumed everyone has already fallen asleep.

She understood the highs and lows of being a newly single woman in this current social environment. But whoever moves in next? You’re not so sure will.

Okay, so maybe you do miss her.

Because you find out someone new has moved in from the heavy thumping of feet crossing the floor, the thuds of boxes dropped onto the floorboards, the vibrations seeping into your own floors. It seems Naoya’s Etsy witch still has their grip on you because your new neighbour is horrible. They play loud music in the morning, the afternoon, late at night, usually right when you have convinced yourself that this night you will finally get eight uninterrupted hours of blissful sleep. Thuds, banging, thumping, any onomatopoeia, your neighbour has done it.

Sometimes, they leave a pair of sneakers outside their door for two whole days, directly in your path to the stairs, so you have to step around them every morning. Their moving boxes sit in the hallway for so long they might as well be furniture, and you’ve started dumping your tote on the tower of them whenever you dig around for your keys. Packages get delivered to your door instead of theirs. They seem to always be ordering DoorDash, too, the scent of something sugary-sweet seeping under your door until you start craving DoorDash yourself. 

It’s even worse today. You’d come home with groceries instead of takeout, washed your bedsheets for the first time in a long while, lit a candle called Midnight Sunset, and sat down at your desk with the firm intention of brainstorming your film assignment.  Then, from the other side of your bedroom wall, your neighbour starts assembling what can only be a large, flat-packed piece of furniture. For forty minutes, there is nothing but the intermittent scrape of wood, the clattering of metal parts, occasional low murmured curses, and one very loud crash that caused the floorboards to tremble, along with all the tiny screws that rattled in an echo. By the time the banging finally stops, your candle has burned unevenly, your tea has long gone cold, and the only thing written under love film ideas is: ‘kill him’.

shoko: utahime and i are heading to the library to lock in we’re inviting you so you can’t say shit like there’s always a duo in a trio but don’t actually come we’re probably gonna js make out

you: ?

utahime: she’s joking we’re going to study

shoko: booo u whore you’re a cockblock y/n

you: i literally didn’t do anything if anything utahime is cockblocking you but i’ll come if ygs are actually studying i need a fucking break

shoko: we aren’t

utahime: we are shut the fuck up shoko oh my god

shoko: whats with u y/n u sound grouchy

you: im going to kill my new neighbour hes playing shit music through the wall like i miss the old lady so bad

shoko: you really gotta complain to the landlord or smth

you: hell no im not a snitch

utahime: ure weirdly compassionate abt the wrong things hows the assignment going?

shoko: teacher teacher! im snitching!

you: ? do u want me to snitch or not and its not going good at all how can i think about love when theres someone playing phonk in my ear at 6pm on a random tuesday afternoon?

shoko: have u even seen this person?? go up and give them a piece of ur mind or smth also come lib

you: give me a sec i might ive never seen them though theyre usually out at weird times and doesnt really sleep in their own room ?? but what if its a 40 yo gymrat and i get bodied

utahime: yeah thats actually scary write a note or something

shoko: and then come library

you: give me fifteen minutes

Perhaps Shoko’s insistence on going to the library is contagious because you’re suddenly eager to rip out a piece of paper to spill just how much you appreciate phonk in your ears to your neighbour. Or maybe you really just want to tell your neighbour to die.

It starts off innocently enough, the last of your patience allowing kinder words and a light reminder that your neighbour isn’t the only one living in this creaky, ancient building. But then it gets to you, the music, the thudding, the inability to remove laundry from the laundry machine appropriately, and you find you’re pressing the lead of your pencil deep into the paper until it almost leaves a mark on the table beneath.

You heave out a breath of pure catharsis and read it over, giving it an approving nod. This will certainly do.

Then, with your heart much lighter and a perk in your step, you sling your tote over your shoulder and head for the door. Instead of walking to the elevator after you’ve locked up, you make a small detour to your neighbours door and bend down to slide the letter under their door.

There, problem fixed.

With a smile, you turn and walk to the library, oddly lighter for it.

Shoko and Utahime thankfully do not make out the entire time you’re at the library. Unfortunately, they’re still Shoko and Utahime and the three of you waste time gossiping about the high school dead horse that just broke up again instead of doing anything productive. Your document for planning your films remains as empty as ever, only now it’s been shared to two email addresses so they can witness your writer’s block unfold in real time.

By the time you drag yourself back from the library, night has already settled in and you have to use your phone’s flashlight to illuminate the path to your building. The hallway is hushed in that apartment building kind of way, distant television laughter, pipes clinking somewhere behind the walls, the hum of someone’s microwave. You’re fishing for your keys when you notice it, a torn corner of lined paper stuck to your door with blutack.

You blink, too tired to make the connection straight away, brain still slogging through the haze of a caffeine crash. But then you peel it free, turn it over, and squint at the scrawny handwriting on the back.

are you twelve? what’s with the note passing come talk to me if you have an issue also i told the landlord btw lol have fun with that —4b

You crumple the note in your hand.

That fucking asshole.

The landlord does, in fact, show up at your door the next morning wearing a stern expression and with even sterner words. You apologise with a tight smile, offering up the half-truth that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately and didn’t mean it. And then, because two can play at that game, you finally snitch on 4B too, feeling a sharp jolt of triumph when the landlord sighs and assures you that’ll be having a word with the resident next door.

You incorrectly assume that’s the last of it. Because when you come home at the end of another long day of classes, there’s a sticky note taped to your door.

snitch

A disbelieving huff slips out of you as you let yourself into your apartment, your tote sliding off your shoulder with a dull thump, hands too busy flattening the wrinkled paper to catch it. Five minutes ago, all you wanted was to collapse face-first into bed and sleep through the rest of the day. Now, irritation blazes through you so quickly it feels like caffeine, sharp and immediate, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re fishing a pen from your bag and scrawling a reply across the back.

you literally snitched first asshole. maybe if you weren’t playing anime music at 7pm in the evening i wouldn’t have to snitch on u at all

You stick it to his door on your way back from taking out the trash, pressing your palm against the paper just to make sure it stays there. When you leave the next morning for your usual nine a.m., another note is waiting.

you literally told me to die im not a masochist i wasn’t gonna let that slide ps. ntm on the digimon opening theme that’s something special to me

You write a reply during class, sticking it to his door when you come home.

and u’ve been loud as fuck ever since u moved in here yk the apartment has thin walls right? also what the hell is digimon

It doesn’t take long this time. You’re still boiling water for a coffee when there’s a faint tap at your door. When you open it, there’s a new note stuck smack in the middle, scrawled in hurried letters. You glance up and down the hallway and see no one, and smile as you step back inside.

then just walk those five steps to my door and tell me next time? and ofc someone as unfun as u has never experienced the highs and lows of digimon in ur childhood it all makes sense now

You sip your coffee as you pen your reply.

i swear i’ve knocked in the morning and u didn’t open the door so r u gonna keep edging me or r u gonna tell me what digimon is

It’s only after you’ve already closed your door that you realise you didn’t respond to his second comment so you quickly take a pen and walk back to his door, pursing your lips in effort as you try to add another line against the door. Maybe you’re imagining it but you swear you hear footsteps pause on the other side of the door.

also i just searched it up and i can’t believe my next door neighbour is 12 years old watching cartoons

You quickly scurry back to your apartment just in time, hearing their door open after yours just as you closed yours. A couple seconds later, there’s a knock.

digimon is NOT just for kids

You stare at the note for a second, oddly thrown by the concession considering it had seemed too easy. You’d expected another argument, maybe some smug reply, maybe an insult in even messier handwriting. But instead, he had simply folded.

For some reason, it feels less like a victory and more like a sudden end to something you hadn’t realised you were enjoying. Your other neighbours probably didn’t feel the same considering they had to listen to you and 4B open and close your doors consecutively for the past few minutes.

Still, you tell yourself as you peel the note off the door, a win is a win.

The next morning, you check your door out of habit and is immediately rewarded by a piece of a4 paper stuck to the front.

hey 4a, first of all i want to say that i’ve been very good and very quiet recently which i hope pleases you. please acknowledge my growth — 4b

Because you’re lazy, you flip the paper over and write.

4b, sure ur growth has been noted (?) i feel like there’s more to this do u need something — 4a

You slide it under his door before you can overthink it. By the time you come home that afternoon, there is another note waiting.

4a, thank you for acknowledging my progress but i fear i have received your criticism and decided not to grow from it. maybe head out for the evening also important question do u own a screwdriver ?? thanks, 4b

You frown then write back:

why?

Five minutes later, his reply slides under your door and you watch as the paper slips through completely before standing and reaching for it.

i give u a yes or no question and u still manage to dodge do u own one or not? please. — 4b

The next time you tape a note to his door, you also leave a screwdriver on the ground beneath.

u better give this back

You’re halfway to backing your things for the library when his reply slides under your door. You pick it up while locking your apartment and read as you walk, catching the tail ends of some heavy thudding and hammering from the door beside yours.

people assume just because im a man i must have five screwdriver variants in my drawers or smth anyway im making furniture for my friend and its ikea :( wish me luck 

You snort despite yourself, tucking the note into your pocket as another dull bang sounds behind his door. 

“Good luck,” you think as you walk by, and then, less generously, “and good luck to all the other people living in this building.” 

The library turns out to be the right choice. You spend three hours pretending to work, two hours ranting to the group chat about Naoya’s latest monthly photo dump, and fifteen minutes with your fingers tapping away at your keyboard which is still fifteen minutes more of productivity that you wouldn’t have achieved at your apartment so you’d call that a success.

When you come home, you brace yourself before reaching your floor. 

Surprisingly, there’s a lack of any noise at all. No thudding, no  scrapping, no IKEA-related violence. Your screwdriver sits neatly outside your door, wrapped in a sticky note. 

returned in one piece like i promised! im hoping u took my advice and left the building otherwise can u write your complaint in five words or less? im sleepy zzz

You look at his door, a reluctant smile on your face. For the first time since he moved in, you wonder if maybe the problem was never that he was impossible to live beside. Maybe the walls were thin, and he was loud, and you were miserable, and neither of you had known how to be people around each other yet. 

Maybe, if you both communicated like normal neighbours, this could actually work. 

If you assumed life would look up following this revelation, then you’re sorely underestimating the evil forces (read: Naoya’s Etsy witch) conspiring against your happiness. 

Because the next morning, it isn’t some upbeat anime opening that wakes you up. Instead, it’s the mucus trapped in your airways and the pounding at your temples, dragging you from the dead only to make you feel worse for it. You throw your duvet over your head and pray that when you resurface, your cold will have miraculously disappeared. It doesn’t work, to no surprise, though that thought irritates you too. Then again, maybe that’s just the built up annoyance from having your nose blocked. Miserable and stuffy, you close your eyes and remind yourself to take in a deep breath through your nose when you’ve healed, just to not take it for granted. 

It’s times like this when you miss your good-for-nothing ex, times like this when you remember there used to be someone you could text without thinking, someone you could badger for some chicken noodle soup and maybe a hug and a kiss on your forehead. 

Your own weakness pisses you off.

With great effort, you drag yourself upright and shuffle into your kitchen, pawing through empty pantries. Any plans of heading to that early morning tutorial this morning immediately leaves your mind at your pathetic show of strength. 

You’re halfway through grabbing cereal, any other breakfast option simply too tedious, when a loud voice cuts through the haze. 

“Yeah, she just didn’t get it. And when you have to explain a joke, it’s already over. No dude, obviously it’s her fault for not being with it and not because I’m unfunny, don’t even kid.”

You frown slightly, munching on another chip, thumb scrolling past a video you’re not even sure you watched. Who the hell says ‘with it’?

“If you don’t fuck with with it, then you’re one of the people who aren’t with it. You’re without it.” He continues.

You make a small noise of consideration, vaguely thinking that you might get along with his friend as they seemingly voice your own thoughts.

Your neighbour continues, undeterred from his friend’s unenthusiastic responses. “There’s no chance I’m seeing her again. She did text me but I’m just going to leave her on delivered. Is it cruel or is it saving myself from someone who called my Agumon keychain the deformed twin Charmander consumed in the womb?”

You laugh, sound muffled when your neighbour’s voice peaks.

“He doesn’t, Charmander is from a completely different franchise! And I’ll have you know that keychain was from an artist at Anime Con so when you’re picking on my little guy, you’re making fun of a small business.”

A pause. You scrunch your nose.

“Yeah, I didn’t mean to call it my little guy. If it helps, I gave my dick she/her pronouns like how a truck guy calls his truck a real beauty so she’s not my little guy.”

You snort, crunching down on a chip. You wonder if that sweet salesman next door is as enthralled in 4B’s love life as you were.

“Don’t make such a disgusted sound, she’ll take offence.”

There’s shuffling from above as your neighbour supposedly shifts to a different position, now closer to you such that you could faintly make out the voice of his friend.

“Is liking Agumon such a big deal breaker for you?” his friend says, voice smoother than the whiny tilt in 4B’s.

“Honestly, no. Agumon is my favourite character and I’m not really comfortable sharing him with others because he means a lot to me. But then when I started talking about Digimon she asked me why I didn’t just get a Pikachu keychain instead since everyone at least knew Pikachu and it’ll save me from the questions. Pikachu. The mainstream corporate mouse.”

“Okay,” his friend sighs, “but to be fair, most people know more about Pokemon than Digimon. At least she was trying?”

“That’s the problem!” your neighbour fires back and the image of him in your head changes around his enthusiasm about digital monsters. “No one gives Digimon the respect that it deserves. People act like it’s Pokemon’s weird cousin when really it’s more like Pokemon’s smarter, cooler, better-dressed older sibling who went overseas to continue pursuing their education.”

“And did you tell her that?”

“Yeah, right there in the restaurant."

“You’re never getting a second date.”

He snorts, apparently offended. “Please, like I wanted one.”

Despite yourself you laugh though the silence that follows is enough to rid you of all your amusement. Awkwardly, you trail off by clearing your throat, feeling somewhat like a creep for letting your eavesdropping be known. All this talk about knowing to stay quiet and yet you catch yourself slipping.

You listen as 4B says a quick goodbye to his friend. There’s a rustle, a soft thud, and then his voice comes again, closer this time, like he’s leaned right up against the wall between your apartments.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

For one fleeting second, you think that if this were a horror movie, he would absolutely be the first to die. Not that you’d fare much better, considering you answer him.

“Hi.”

There’s a small pause, then, “No way. 4A? What the hell, I thought you already left for class.”

Your heart skips, thudding against your ribs. For a second, you consider staying quiet and let the walls swallow the moment whole. Pretend it wasn’t you, pretend like the two of you haven’t been trading insults like you were passing notes in class.

There had been a fragile understanding between the two of you to never reach out. And yet, in this moment, you can’t bring yourself to remember why.

You clear your throat, thick with the tail end of your cold. “Well it looks like you guessed wrong. Do I need to send you another death threat for you to keep it down?”

You hear him wince, a quiet sound muffled by the walls. “Maybe we should go back to writing notes to each other. I didn’t know you’d sound like a 40 year old smoker.”

“I’m sick, jackass.”

He hums, unconvinced. There’s a beat of silence as he thinks of what to say. Then, “So, you’re a girl?”

Your eyes roll to your ceiling as you sigh, whatever you were expecting immediately thrown away. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

He huffs out a small chuckle like he can hear the exasperation in your voice and finds it amusing. “I’m just surprised. I mean, you’re so mean to me. Girls usually love me, you know, I’m kind of a ladies’ man.”

That pulls a laugh out of you, rough on your sore throat but impossible to stop. “You? With that personality? Consider me the one surprised.”

“I’m serious. I’m kind of a campus celebrity. Girls flock to me.”

You hoist yourself up onto the kitchen counter, angling your back against the wall where his voice comes through clearest. “You don’t have to lie to impress me.”

There’s a pause and you wonder if your playful insults had gone a little too far in your sick state.

“Oh, I might be into this.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” There’s the faint sound of movement on the other side before your mysterious neighbour talks again. “I meant, what type of person do you think I am then?”

“Considering you fumbled a first date because of a cartoon, I think you have your answer,” you coo with faux sympathy. “You should be nicer to her since I’m sure your cooldown for the next date might take a while.”

“First of all,” he says, apparently offended. “It’s not a cartoon. Second, she fumbled the date on her end. It was a necessary culling for me.”

You snort. “You got dumped over Digimon, let’s settle down.”

“You didn’t even know what Digimon was until I put you on a few days ago.”

You shrug, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “And now that I know it’s even more pathetic. Agumon is the weird orange dinosaur thing, right?”

His whine comes through the wall, only cementing the fact that whoever is on the other side might be the biggest nerd you know. You wonder if he lied about not being a masochist considering he’s taking your insults pretty well. “Hey, come on. He’s just a cute little guy.”

“Right,” you draw out, unimpressed. “Don’t glaze him when he might be the reason you’re a social shut in.”

“That’s a new one. I am now, am I?”

“Please,” you start, warming up to the idea as she speak it into existence. “If women are all over you like you claim they are, why haven’t I heard anyone come over? You and I both know just how thin the walls in this place is.”

“Exactly,” he shoots back. “So why would I bring them back here? Unless you want to be kept awake all night.”

That makes you laugh, the idea of this voice you’re hearing now having any experience at all extremely humourous, much less with the ability to go all night long. You can almost imagine the state of his room, littered with anime posters and plushies making sex feel like a group activity. If you looked up past his figure over you, you’d probably see neon light up stars on his ceilings.

“If you can talk so much about my love life,” he trails off, voice deceptively casual and airy, “do you have a boyfriend?”

That makes you freeze. Something hard and spiky settles in your stomach and you shift on the countertop, searching for a spot that’s comfortable because for some reason, it feels like you’ve lost it. “No.”

The voice doesn’t say anything for a while. “My bad. Touchy subject?”

You shrug despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture and pull your legs to your chest. “It’s fine. It’s been, like, half a year. He was a douche anyway.”

“Okay, six months, not bad.”

Hearing the slight mumble from the other side of the wall but unable to understand it coherently, you frown and press your ear closer. “What was that?”

4B clears his throat. “I’m just saying maybe don’t talk shit when I haven’t heard you bring anyone over either.”

You roll your eyes, forcing your shoulders to relax and somewhat grateful at his deflection. “At least I don’t claim to be a microcelebrity. I keep my circle small and that works.”

“Is there room for one more?”

A laugh escapes you, genuine and surprised. “Why? Asking for a friend or yourself?”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says, “You diagnosed me as a social shut in, remember? I’m clearing asking for myself.”

“We’ll see, 4B,” you say, though you’re matching his tone with a smile. It doesn’t, however, stop your voice from sounding croakier than intended and you have to painfully make an awkward gargling sound to clear your throat a number of times.

4B winces sympathetically, and he lets you get the worst of it out before speaking again. “Sounds like you might need some water and then a nap.”

“Trust me, that was the plan.”

You start to wiggle down from your counter and grab something to drink, wrongly assuming the conversation ends here.

“Are we going to talk again?” he asks in a rush, and you huff as your feet touch the ground.

“We live next to each other, genius. I don’t think I could avoid you even if I tried.”

“And would you try?”

You sip from your glass, ignoring him.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ll win you over, just wait.” There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s grinning, you can hear it in the peaks of his voice. “I’ll try to keep it down for you. And then maybe you’ll be less grouchy when you wake up?”

“Go fuck yourself, 4B.”

You roll your eyes, glad that there’s a wall between you to prevent him from seeing your smile. “Goodnight, 4A.”

Gojo Satoru isn’t a man who lacks. 

He’s got the grades (barely, but they’re there), the genes (obviously), the height (something even Suguru finds unfair), the charm (obnoxious), and a reputation on campus that both precedes and betrays him. He walks into a room and people notice. Professors sigh, girls nudge each other, guys scowl though it’ll be his friends that’ll roll their eyes at his presence first. 

He is used to winning. More importantly, he is used to having almost everything in a way that requires very little effort on his part. 

So what the hell is he doing, lying on his bedroom floor where the voice of a stranger still lingers, staring at his wall like it might crack open and offer him answers? She hadn’t even said much, not enough to leave this big of an impression. 

Maybe it was the shock that the person leaving at ungodly hours in the morning beneath him was a girl. He doesn’t know why he’d assumed otherwise. Maybe because the notes had always read so dry, so flat, so quick to snap back at him that somewhere along the way he’d started hearing them in Suguru’s voice. 

Except the voice through the wall had been unmistakably feminine, and now Gojo was having the deeply inconvenient realisation that he might, in fact, be into that. 

It wasn’t even what she said more so how she said it, offhanded and easy as if talking to him was nothing, like he was nothing. and curse his enormous ego, he was Gojo Satoru, for god’s sake. He’s got at least three people in his dms right now asking what he’s up to tonight and it would be as easy as typing back “nothing” to have any one of them. 

But none of them had left a note that told him to get his shit together. None of them made him laugh when ten seconds prior he was so ready to implode, none of them had him craning to his floor like some desperate victorian man listening to the ghostly whispers through the thin plaster. 

Gojo drags a hand down his face, then turns his head again to look at it.

The wall. Plain, off-white, slightly cracked near the skirting board, absolutely identical to every other wall in this terrible building and yet suddenly the most compelling thing in his apartment because now, you’re behind it. Separated from him by a few layers of plaster and paint and bad insulation, close enough that he can hear your laugh if the room is quiet, close enough that he can picture you leaning back against the other side without ever having seen it happen.

Gojo runs a hand through his hair, frowning. 

“This is bad,” he mutters for the second time that day as he explores the foreign feeling in his chest. 

The urge to hear from her again beats like a second heart in his chest, and the distinction between hear and see is important because now it feels less about appearances and more about something else, something he doesn’t have a smug enough name for yet.

Gojo reaches for his laptop, then drops it back onto the floor a second later when even pretending to do work feels stupid when he’s one bad decision away from knocking on the wall just to see if you answer.

Because Gojo doesn’t lack. 

Yet tonight, as he sits on his cold carpet, phone face-down beside him and no urge to answer any of his unread messages, he realises he might be wanting. 

The next time you wake, your fever has left you in an uncomfortable puddle of your own sweat, damp sheets sticking to your skin. A reluctant glance at your alarm clock confirms the worst: it’s 7 a.m. the next day, and you have a 9 a.m. lecture to attend. Somehow, you’d managed to sleep through a near-complete twenty-four-hour cycle, vaguely only remembering how you had stumbled out of bed for the bathroom or small bites of whatever you could find. 

When you open your door to make a hasty exit, jammed toast between your teeth and the delirious hope that you’ll run into a handsome guy around the corner of your block, you almost trip over something that ends your hopes (and almost your life). Thankfully, you catch yourself on your hands and glare down at the perpetrator. 

A sports drink looks back up at you, adorned with a yellow sticky note stuck to its side. After looking left and right down the empty corridor, you pick up the bottle and read the note. 

im not a fan of sick neighbour asmr —4b

You snort despite yourself, heading for the stairs. On the way, you flip the note around and pen a short reply, sticking it to 4B’s door before heading out. 

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Somehow, despite being sick, Shoko shows up to your tutorial later than you. You wave as she dumps her tote under the table and flops unceremoniously into the seat beside you. 

“Are you still sick?” she asks in lieu of a greeting. “You shouldn’t come to class if you’re not feeling well.” 

“What makes you think I’m still sick?” you ask in a voice that can only be attributed to years of smoking or recovering from sickness. 

She gives you a look. “Right. So the eyebags are just your usual go to?”

“It would be fucked up if i always looked like this and you just called me ugly.” You cover your face with your hands. “But it’s not that bad, is it? I still have a reputation I care about.” 

“I’m genuinely afraid of telling you the truth because it might push you over the edge. So yes, girl you look gorgeous.” 

You roll your eyes, slumping to rest your cheek against your arms, looking at her from the side. Her phone vibrates and you hear it loud with your ear pressed against the desk, flinching slightly until she picks it up. 

“What is it?” 

Shoko lets out an unamused huff and shows you the screen. 

gojo (DO NOT ANSWER): wanna hit me up with the pre lab questions? 

It would be a mission to go through university without hearing the name ‘Gojo Satoru’ whether in secretive whispers or muffled in laughter. For one, he’s sport captain for some sport you’ve never paid enough attention to remember. He’s stupidly charming in a way that makes people sigh even when they’re rolling their eyes with an accompanying begrudged smile. Half the girls in your course claim he’s flirted with them whilst the other half say they’d punch him given the chance, before pausing and muttering something like, “but he’s kind of funny, I guess.” 

The only other piece of information you know about him is that he’s loud, annoyingly so which places you in that category of girls that would more likely punch him in the stomach than kiss him. 

You wonder how on earth Shoko could be friends with someone her complete opposite. 

You look up and raise an eyebrow at her. “Well? Are you going to?”

“Do you read with your eyes closed? I clearly saved his contact as ‘do not answer’. If Gojo wants pre-lab questions that badly, he can go flirt them out of one of his fifty fans.”

You snort.“Glad to know you’re a bad friend to everyone and not just me.”

She shrugs. “He thinks I owe him a huge favour for something he did for me a while ago when that is not true at all. I’m sure there’s other people he can hit up for answers. You know how he is, there’s always someone trailing after him like a lost puppy.” 

“Considering I don’t know the guy, no not really,” you say, nudging your cheek more firmly into your folded arms, locking in for a storytime. “Tell me about him.”

Shoko narrows her eyes at you. “You want to know about him?”

“Girl,” you huff, “like gossip. I promise I’m not a groupie. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had a conversation with him so don’t look at me like that.”

“That makes sense. He’s usually only on lower campus so there’s little chance of him showing up randomly, anyway.” 

“Sounds like you don’t like him,” you say, intelligently. 

“I’ve been stuck with him and Geto since high school,” she starts and you actually feel bad for her. “God forbid I don’t want to see him in my formative years, too.” 

You laugh because misfortune is always better on others than yourself. “Now you have to tell me. What did he do to you?”

Shoko doesn’t seem amused. She looks you up and down, eyes narrowing at the smile on your face. “You know, I’m actually an incredible friend and as a friend who cares about you deeply, let me tell you this. You do not want to hook up with him.”

You splutter, lifting your head. “What the fuck? I just wanted to know about the guy! Can we start with being friends first, damn?”

“Let’s just say I know him,” your best friend continues, unfazed. “He wouldn’t be able to stay as just friends with someone like you.”

“Okay, and what the fuck does that even mean?”

“Look,” she says, and you open your mouth to cut her off because the telltale signs that she’s about to change the topic are there. “He’s also in Sig Kap.” The words hit like cold water. Whatever fragile lightness had been carrying you through the morning dims all at once. Shoko notices immediately, of course she does, and some of the bite leaves her expression.

“I just thought you should know.”

You slump back into your chair, crossing your arms and looking down at your table, contemplating if you should start banging your head against the hard surface and end your suffering. “What a mood killer. Did you really have to bring that up?”

“I’m just saying, if you start seeing Gojo around, the chances of also seeing your ex is very high. Sure, they’re not in the same frat but they’re both still in that same group of guys. You know, inter-fraternity relations.” 

“There’s a lot of assuming going on right now, like the fact that I would even see Gojo in the first place, but I’ll let it slide because I suddenly feel the urge to shoot myself in the head.” 

“I thought you were over your ex?”

You don’t say anything for a while, trying to muse out the complex ball of feelings in your gut. 

You had been falling out of love with Naoya for months before the breakup. Maybe even longer, if you’re being honest. It wasn’t like it happened all at once, and there wasn’t one dramatic collapse, no one, big, awful fight, just a slow and steady erosion. A hundred small disappointments, a hundred moments of realising he was more interested in having a girlfriend than being a boyfriend. He forgets the things you tell him, interrupts you to tell your own stories better, talks all pretty to your girl friends and then simultaneously talks shit to you about them when you ask him to stop requesting them on Instagram. 

So if you do miss him, then you might have a masochist streak in you. 

What you miss, maybe, is who you were before all of that. The version of you that believed romance was something soft and mutual and worth fighting for, instead of something performative that slowly hollows itself out while you stand there insisting it’s still alive.

“Y/N?”

You blink and realise Shoko is watching you. “Oh, uh. I am over him. I just wish I could have the pre-Naoya me back, that’s all.”

Shoko makes a disgusted sound on your behalf. “Do not say his name. I gagged.”

“Right?” You shake your head and dismiss whatever useless thoughts still linger, forcing yourself to relax back into something a little more light-hearted. “But it’s whatever. I’ve learnt my lesson now, frat boys are not to be trusted and dating one is like draining all the whimsy out of your body. I honestly don’t care about him anymore and I wouldn’t even think about him at all if I didn’t have that film to make.”

That makes your best friend giggle. “The one about love.”

“Is this funny to you?” you ask with a huff, but you’re grateful that she doesn't force you to say any more than you’re ready for.

“Extremely.” She nods, then dodges when you reach over to try and playfully hit her. “Look, I’m sure inspiration will hit you soon. Love always arrives when you least expect it, and all that.”

You give her a long look, face unmoving. “I don’t want the girl with the girlfriend of three years to say that. Get out of my face.”

Shoko laughs loudly, and you both trail off as the lecture starts. 

The rest of class passes in the usual blur of half-listening and half-heartedly playing minesweeper on the google chrome extension open on your laptop. By the time you make it back to the sketchy, wilted building you unfortunately call home, winter evening has settled in for real, the kind that turns everything blue-grey and has you squinting down the street every few minutes just to make sure the shape in the distance is a person and not a fire hydrant. You had to use your phone’s flashlight for this, and in the last few steps up to your apartment, it betrays you by dying. 

Thankfully, you still manage to make it to your place in one piece. 

You peel the note off your door on your way in, flick on the lights, and let your tote bag drop to the floor with a tired thud.

feeling better?

A soft smile tugs at your mouth before it fades just as quickly, replaced by a small furrow in your brow. Weird.

You’re halfway to the kitchen to find the stack of sticky notes you left on the island in a rush this morning when the world abruptly cuts out.

“The fuck—”

“Ow!” In the sudden darkness, you misjudge the turn around the counter and slam straight into the corner of it.

From the other side of the wall, 4B’s voice comes a little louder. “4A? You okay?”

You suck in a sharp breath, one hand nursing your hip as you try to steady yourself. “Yeah. Just walked straight into my counter corner. What the fuck happened?”

There’s the sound of faint footsteps, then the creak of something shifting as he leans against the wall in his kitchen. “I think this is what they call a power outage. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

“I know that, smartass,” you mutter, though not so quietly where he can’t hear. “But how did that happen? It’s not even storming or anything.”

“What’s wrong? Scared of the dark?”

You scoff, already dreading the upcoming conversation. Despite this, you fumble to where that familiar countertop sits against the connecting wall between your apartments and hoist yourself up easily, leaning back so his voice is clearer when he speaks. “No. We pay rent for this place, of course I want to know what’s happening when the lights all suddenly cut.”

“I can text the landlord. If it happened to both of us then it’s probably a building wide thing so it’ll be their responsibility. But all we can do is wait.”

You sigh, long and full of suffering. “This sucks. Couldn’t the power go off at midnight or something?”

“I’ll let the landlord know your availability.” 

You roll your eyes and make yourself comfortable, relenting to stay for however long it’ll take for there to be light again. You mourn the death of your phone then, holding the power button for some kind of miracle and get reminded that, once again, your life sucks and is only full of betrayal and tragedy. 

For a short moment, silence settles between you, and suddenly you’re struck by the irritating realisation that beyond his notes, his terrible taste in alarms, and his frankly irresponsible attachment to Digimon, you know almost nothing about the stranger on the other side of the wall.

“So,” you start.

“Yeah?”

“What were you up to? You know, before the power went out and everything.”

“Curious, hm?” your neighbour replies, that irritating teasing tilt in his tone. “I was just about to lock in for an assignment so I can focus on the midterms coming up in a week.” 

You hum. “What course are you doing?” 

“Physics. And I know what you’re going to say—”

You snort. “Nerd.” 

“You know, some people find intelligence attractive.”

“Do those people also happen to be the same imaginary campus-wide fanbase you keep bringing up?” 

He laughs and you immediately lock onto the pleasant sound, not because you particularly care, but when your vision is knocked out, everything you hear seems amplified. Including the pretty tilt in his tone, the richness in his laugh, and the fact that his voice sits somewhere deeper than you expected from his petulant notes.

“Well, what about you, then? If I’m the resident physics nerd, what are you?” 

You glance out into your dark apartment, the outline of your living room barely there in what little evening light still makes it through the windows. Your camera sits somewhere on the table, your laptop buried inside your tote, your assignment still waiting to be done. 

“Film,” you say at last. “Well, not film-film. I’m just doing one elective this semester to boost my grades but if I could go back in time I would have picked that social media class everyone else does as a GPA booster.”

Your neighbour makes a sound of recognition. “Oh, that! Yeah, I took that in my first year. Our midterm was to write a report on the significance of ‘get ready with me’s’. I’m so serious.” 

You groan, dropping your head onto your knees. “I know, my friend was telling me how she did that class too.”

“Who’s your friend? Wouldn’t it be so funny if your friend was actually in my class that year?”

You roll your eyes. Shoko would have definitely told you about someone like him. “I doubt it. We do the same course and none of our classes are ever near the physics buildings.” 

He hums. “You never know. I get around.” 

That makes you laugh. “Sure, 4B. Let’s stick to hypothetical equations instead of your hypothetical maladaptive daydreams, okay?” 

“You pick on me too much,” he whines. “Give me something to work with, I’m starting to really feel this power imbalance. What’s your film assignment about?”

You let out a long breath through your nose, already hearing his voice in your head and every possible jab he can make. “It’s a film on love.”

He snorts. “Right, because when I talk to you I’m just overwhelmed by the love seeping out of you.”

You sigh. “Kill yourself.”

“See, this is what I mean.”

“All you know about me is my voice,” you shoot back, not necessarily offended so much as annoyed. “I’ve been told that I’m a very benevolent and kind person.”

He hums. “Maybe not when you’re so grouchy then.”

“I’m not being grouchy.”

“At least try and make your point come across.”

“My point is that I’m a delight,” you say flatly. “A warm presence, a gentle soul. Campus-wide rumours actually say I’m beloved by all who meet me.”

“Now who has the imaginary campus-wide fanbase?” he laughs, and even though you roll your eyes, it’s harder to hold onto your irritation when he sounds that pleased with himself.

The dark presses in around your apartment, turning everything into vague shapes and corners, but his voice keeps coming through the wall like a little light you cannot see.

“Okay, then,” he says after his laughing fit. “Prove it.”

You frown, even though he can’t see you. “Prove what?”

“That you’re not grouchy. That you’re a person full of fun and whimsy. If your film is about love, then tell me one thing you love.”

You make a face. “That sounds like world’s worst icebreaker.”

“Someone’s getting defensive,” he sings, sounding far too amused. “Come on, 4A. one thing. It doesn’t have to be deep. Actually, please don’t make it deep, I’m not emotionally prepared for that. Just something stupid that makes you happy. That’s still love, you know?”

You open your mouth with another complaint ready, but nothing comes out. Which is annoying, because it should be easy. Before Naoya, before the breakup, before the awful assignment and the worse timing, you had liked plenty of things without needing to justify them. You liked when orange and pink bleeds across the sky on the walk back from a long day of classes, you liked smiling at dogs when they crossed your paths on the streets, you liked the warmth of a delicious heated drink in your hands on a cold, winter morning. You liked watching people reunite at train stations, you liked filming light moving across your bedroom wall because, at the time, it had seemed like something worth keeping.

Now, asked to name that something out loud, your mind offers you nothing but static.

“Jesus, okay,” he says after a beat. “The silence is very telling.”

There is a soft scrape on his side of the wall, like he is sliding down to sit more comfortably. “Okay, I’ll go first since clearly you need a role model. I love when vending machines actually drop the thing you paid for instead of holding it hostage behind the glass. I love when you think a package is coming next week and then it arrives today like a tiny miracle.”

Despite yourself, you huff. “Sounds like you just love consumerism.”

“I also love when a dog on the street looks like it has somewhere important to be. Like, where are you going? Do you have a meeting? Are you late? Should I call ahead?”

Fuck, that was on your list too. 

“Fine,” you say, shifting on the counter until your socked foot bumps against one of the cabinet handles. “I love when you’re walking past a bakery and they’re making bread, but you’re not hungry, so you just get to enjoy the smell without spending money.” 

“How very financially responsible of you. You’re like the opposite of me. Anti-consumerism.” You can hear the grin in his voice. “Okay, next. We’re making a list now. That’s how brainstorming works, right?” 

You sigh like this is a burden, like you are not already turning the question over in your hands. “I love when the train comes right as you get to the platform.” 

“Really? That sounds stressful.” 

“I love when someone in front of you in line is ordering something complicated and you get annoyed, but then they’re actually really nice to the worker, so you forgive them.” 

“Because is it ever that serious?” 

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you by pulling into a smile. It feels strange on your face, like trying on an old jacket you had forgotten in the back of your closet, something that had once been yours. It’s not a terrible feeling, you decide, perhaps just a little unfamiliar. 

“Okay, my turn again,” 4B says. “I love when you see someone running for the bus and the bus driver waits for them.” 

“That’s rare, some people have that sadistic bone in their body that wants to only see others suffer.” 

“Which is why it makes those off chance moments better. Rarity increases market value.” 

“There’s that consumerism bleeding through again.” 

A thought arrives quietly, not quite the decision you were hoping for in the library, but it’s a small, familiar itch of wanting to keep something before it passes.

“I love when someone laughs so hard they make the other person start laughing even if they don’t know what’s funny,” he continues.

Your eyes have gone to the table again. There isn’t a clean, decisive moment to it, certainly no sudden burst of artistic purpose that you might call inspiration. You simply slide off the counter while he keeps talking, careful not to knock your hip into the corner again and feel your way through the dim apartment toward your camera.

“Also,” he continues, completely unaware. “I love finishing a book or movie and getting so into it that you look it up on Twitter for everyone else’s take.”

“Sounds like you just struggle to form an original thought on your own.”

“I’m superseding my opinion.”

“Oh, what a big word! Good job, 4B.”

You finally find your dust camera hidden by more important things, and take it back to the kitchen.

The room is too dark for the lens to catch anything properly. For a second, you nearly give up, but then your gaze lands on the candle sitting untouched on your dining table, the one you bought months ago because it smelled like vanilla and cedarwood and you had convinced yourself buying one candle would somehow turn your apartment into a Pinterest board’s dream. You’ve never lit it.

But for some reason, the desire to make a mark in the wax comes to front and you set it on the windowsill without any more thinking.

The lighter takes three tries to catch.

“What’s that clicking sound?”

“What clicking sound?” you mumble, brows burrowed as the fire dies again.

“Am I going crazy? Just warning you but I have crazy keen hearing. And now with my sight gone, I’m even more locked in. Sounds like… are you lighting a birthday cake? Is it your birthday?”

“That’s what you think of first when you hear a light?” You don’t know whether to laugh or coo at his innocence in your dorky neighbour. “I’m just lighting a candle because it’s dark.”

The candle flame shivers to life, small and uneven. Throwing a weak gold light over the window ledge and the lower half of the glass. It’s frankly a terrible light source, dim but somehow managing to catch the smudge of your fingerprints on the window and turns the kitchen sink into a dark, warped shape in the reflection. When you prop the camera up against your water jug, lifted by two stacked coasters, the frame tilts slightly to the left.

You hit record.

“Okay, your turn,” he says.

You blink at the red dot on the camera screen. “What?”

“It’s your turn again. Don’t think I didn’t notice you going quiet there. Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean you can get away with not contributing your part to this list.”

“As if you’re keeping track of everything.” You settle back against the counter, close enough to the camera that your voice will catch. “Okay, here’s one. I love it when people apologise to furniture after walking into it. Oh, and, when someone saves you a seat.”

He hums, turning the thought over in his head. “That’s a good one. Could even be your thesis statement for your film, honestly. Something pretentious. Like how love is making room.”

You giggle. “Love is setting aside a space for someone.” 

“Love as chair politics,” he says smartly. 

“Love is an empty seat: an interdisciplinary exploration into effort-based decision-making.” 

“Okay, you made this not fun by actually sounding smart. What the hell is effort-based decision-making?” 

“Google is free.”

You hear the grin in his voice as he bounces off your words. “So is a tree, hang from it.” 

The laugh leaves you before you can stop it. It is sharp and ugly, startled out of you in a way that makes you clap a hand over your mouth too late. The sound echoes faintly in your dark kitchen, caught by the camera, your shadow probably distorted by the terrible angle and the water jug propping it upright. 

There is a beat of silence on the other side of the wall. Then, quietly, delightedly, “Oh, you thought that was funny. You think I’m funny?” 

“Please, it was a fluke.” 

“That was the healthiest you’ve sounded all day.”

You make an offended noise and reach blindly toward the counter until your hand lands on a tea towel. You throw it at the wall and it hits with a soft, deeply unsatisfying slap before flopping onto the floor. 

He gasps. “Did you just throw something at me?” 

“Consider it a formal complaint.” 

“I’m snitching to the landlord.” 

“Tell them to fix the power while you’re there.” 

“Fine. But I’m adding attempted murder on top of that previous violent note.” 

You shake your head to yourself, still smiling. If you were sane, you might take the time to wonder what the fuck you were doing, sitting on your kitchen counter, arguing with a man you’ve yet to seen, smiling like an idiot at your own wall. And yet, you hesitate to move. 

For a moment, neither of you say anything and a silence that isn’t quite awkward settles over you both. 

Then, with a sudden electric hum, the fridge kicks back on and the ceiling light blinks once, twice, and then floods the kitchen in a harsh yellow that makes you squint, and makes your neighbour curse in surprise. 

“Oh!” 

From the other side of the wall, he lets out a sigh. “Boo.” 

You laugh again, leaning over to check your camera. “Boo?”

“I was having fun,” he says, almost accusingly. “The dark was doing wonders for our dynamic. You were less mean when you couldn’t see.”

“You mean when I was visually impaired and vulnerable?”

“Exactly. It was bringing out your softer side. Or maybe it was all me.”

Looking at the camera, you see that the little red dot is glowing steadily on the screen, and only then remember what you were meant to be doing in the first place. Most of the clip is probably just your kitchen window, your voice too close to the mic and his voice muffled through the plaster, the two of you listing stupid things that barely count as anything. 

Still, your fingers hesitates over the stop button. 

On the other side of the wall, he shifts and the wall groans. “You alive over there? The light didn’t evaporate you when they turned back on, did they?” 

You press stop. “Now how does that make any sense?” 

You pick up the camera, thumb hovering over the saved clip. The thumbnail is dark and grainy, almost useless at first glance, but when you play the first second back, your own laugh cracks through the tiny speaker before you panic and mute it. 

Your face warms. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid. But you don’t delete it. Instead, you set the camera carefully on the counter and blow out your candle still burning against the window. 

“Anyway, since the lights are back, I’m going to pretend to do my assignment now. Keyword pretend because I like to keep my goals realistic,” 4B says and the strange mood lifts and dissipates with the candle’s smoke. 

“Good luck with that.”

“Good luck with your love thing.”

You look down at the camera again.

“Yeah,” you say, picking it up before you can change your mind. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

You pause. Then you tuck the camera against your chest and head out of the kitchen. “Nothing.”

Behind the wall, 4B laughs like he does not believe you at all, and you leave before he can ask.

You don’t remember when but sometime along the semester, you begin to enjoy waking up. You hadn’t grown a newfound appreciation for your alarm, no that was still a work in progress, but something about opening your eyes to start a new day no longer evoked a groan. Your next door neighbour did that for you instead.

One morning you were waking up to a quiet early morning and the next, you hear an alarm ring parallel to yours.

You hear it again this morning as you rub the sleep from your eyes as some anime opening plays, muffled by the distance. When you step into your kitchen, it’s louder, and you hear the soft padding of feet against floorboards as 4B wakes.

“Morning,” he’ll mumble, voice rough from sleep, just as he did now.

“Good morning,” you’ll say back and hope he doesn’t hear the smile in your voice.

He’ll grunt in acknowledgement, heading for his bathroom which you’ve come to realise shares a wall with your bedroom. You’ll get started on packing a lunch to take to campus while he takes his sweet time getting ready. You wake far too early for him, after all.

You’ll pause on your way out, just as you did now, tilting your head slightly to listen. If he hears your door open, he’ll call out, “Good luck with your classes!” and if he doesn’t, water too loud or too immersed in something else, you’ll say, “See you later!”

It’s a routine you’ve come to love.

Sometimes when he hears you sigh coming back from campus, you’ll hear him close his fridge and fall into his couch. “Grey's Anatomy?” he’ll ask loudly and you’ll laugh softly, hand already reaching to grab your remote despite your drowsiness.

You tell yourself it isn’t a big deal. Plenty of people have neighbours and plenty of people talk to said neighbours. Plenty of people probably know the exact sound of their neighbour’s footsteps in the morning, the difference between their sleepy voice and their smug voice, the exact pause before they say something annoying just to get you to react. 

Probably. 

Still, the thought follows you out of your apartment and all the way to campus, sitting somewhere uncomfortable behind your ribs. It’s there when you catch yourself slowing down near the front steps because someone ahead of you laughs a little too loud and, for one stupid second, you think it might be him. It is there when you buy coffee and almost order an extra pastry because 4B once mentioned he loves sugary things first thing in the morning and frankly any other time of the day. 

It is there when you realise, with a kind of quiet horror, that you might actually like him. 

Recognising the telltale signs that you’re about to spiral, you decide to at least try and prevent it by taking a walk and touching grass. Unfortunately, you forget that there are evil forces against you because when you step into the main courtyard on campus on your way out, you immediately find yourself in hell. 

Like, actual hell. Like there’s a frat car wash happening in the middle of the campus kind of hell.

A row of cars lines the curb beside the courtyard, soapy water running down the pavement in bright, bubbly streams. Someone has set up a folding table with a cardboard sign that reads SIG KAP CHARITY CAR WASH in marker thick enough to be seen from across the street. A group of people have already crowded around the main attraction snapping away and laughing, the men scattered around yelling over each other as they try and organise the mess. There’s a JBL speaker playing Cbat and other such EDM trap that has you wondering if you’ve walked yourself into a rave. 

And standing in the middle of it all, shirtless and holding a sponge as flexes for his groupies, is Gojo Satoru. 

He’s hot. There’s really no polite way around it. His hair is damp from the spray of the hose, white strands pushed messily off his forehead and curling slightly at the ends. Water runs in thin lines down his throat, over the sharp cut of his collarbones, then lower and lower, disappearing along the hard planes of his stomach and tapering down into droplets that catch the sun on his abs. 

Your eyes follow a line of water that continues further down which is definitely a mistake. 

A deeply human mistake, but still a mistake nonetheless because it means you get an unwillingly thorough look at the narrow dip of his waist, the low-slung band of his shorts, the way his abdomen tightens when he twists the sponge out over the hood of a car. 

You shake your head, rattling any more indecent thoughts from your head. Sure, fine, he’s hot as fuck. But who is genuinely stupid enough to get seduced into donating money because some guy with abs and wet hair smiles at them whilst simultaneously wiping bird shit off a windscreen?

A group passes by the table and drops a note into the donation jar. 

You stare. Okay, nevermind. Apparently some people really will. Still, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You don’t have a car, you don’t carry cash on you, and you don’t want to entertain a bunch of frat guys especially after all you’ve learnt this year. So, you adjust the strap of your tote higher on your shoulder and keep walking. 

“Hey, you in the band shirt!” 

Your foot catches slightly on the uneven pavement, and you make an embarrassing gesture getting back on two feet. Blind panic and something warmer, something more traitorous, jolts through you like a beam of lightning. 

No. 

No, because that voice—

You’ve barely rationalised anything before your head is whipping so fast over your shoulder you think you’ve given yourself a cramp. It’s instinctive more than anything, a kind of desperate hope for something indescribable, heart leaping up to your throat at the thought that a voice behind a wall has suddenly become attached to a body. 

And what a body. 

Gojo jogs toward you, shirtless and damp and unfairly attractive under the sun, towel bouncing against his neck with each step. There is soap clinging to his hands, water sliding down the firm line of his chest, one hand running through his hair as he shakes it of loose droplets. 

He comes to a stop in front of you, grin already loaded. You don’t even flinch when he flicks water onto your face accidentally. 

“Band shirt! Running away already?” he asks. “I didn’t even pitch you yet.” 

Gojo Satoru just spoke with 4B’s voice.

Your 4B. Except he’s no longer a faceless voice in the dark. He is Gojo Satoru. He is shirtless in front of you. He is looking at you like he’s waiting for an answer. 

“You cryin’? he asks, head tilting slightly as he glances at the droplets on your cheek. “Is the sun getting to you? We have buckets of water back there if you want to dunk yourself. Or maybe you want to dunk me and live vicariously through that? I noticed you staring.”

You force your mouth to move. “I don’t have a car.” 

Unfortunately, the voice that comes out is wrong. It’s too high like you’ve swallowed your own throat and replaced it with someone doing customer service over the phone. 

Gojo blinks. 

You clear your throat. “I mean, I don’t have a car,” you repeat, lower this time. 

Great, now you sound like you’re about to rob him. 

His smile twitches, one eyebrow raising slowly as he regards you. 

“Right,” he says, slowly. “No car. I think I got it the first time. What about a bike? We can wipe down the seat or something.”

You shake your head. 

“Scooter? Skateboard?” 

“No.”

“How do you get around?” 

“Feet.”

He looks down and you suddenly feel self-conscious of your shoe choice. 

“We don’t typically offer pedicures but I could make an exception for you,” Gojo says with a wide grin. “Or we could give your shoes a good scrub.”

“I don’t have anything for you to wash.” 

“What? Don’t tell me you’re attached to that layer of grime you have on them.” 

You’re so offended you temporarily blink of your stupor to splutter. “They’re not that dirty! They’re just well-loved!” 

“They’re clearly crying out for some divine intervention. Lucky for you, I might as well be the second coming of Jesus.” 

You scoff. “No way. Maybe I like them ugly, okay?” 

Gojo’s grin widens. “So you admit they’re ugly.”

You hate that he catches it so quickly. You hate even more that your heart picks up like a trapped hummingbird beneath your skin. 

Behind him, someone whistles. “Satoru, stop flirting and actually help!” 

“I’m not flirting,” he calls back without looking away from you. “I’m recruiting customers!”

He lowers his voice so it’s just for you. “You are planning on being a customer, aren’t you?”

You scoff. “Is this what the whole pitch is? Bullying people’s shoes until they donate?”

“No, that was just tailored marketing.” He leans slightly closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal a conspiracy. “The real pitch is much more moving.”

“Okay,” you say, because apparently you’ve lost the will to survive. “Go on then.”

Gojo flashes you another smile, or maybe he hasn’t stopped smiling not even once throughout this entire encounter, and steps back, pressing one wet hand dramatically to his bare chest. He adopts a pitiful expression as he gazes at you. “Every year, hundreds of cars on this campus are forced to suffer through bird shit, pollen, and the mysterious sticky stuff that appears under trees for reasons science refuses to explain.”

You grimace.

He continues, undeterred. “For just five dollars, you can help one of these poor vehicles experience dignity again.”

“I don’t have five dollars.”

“For just three dollars—”

“No cash.”

“For one encouraging word—”

“Not happening.”

“—you can support a hardworking student athlete in his fight against grime,” he finishes calmly. 

“I think you just want to be shirtless,” you say what’s been on your mind the entire time, letting yourself steal another glimpse of his chest. Is it just your imagination but did he just flex his pecs at you?

He looks down at himself like he has only just remembered the state he is in. “This? It’s a uniform. Works wonders for pulling in interest.” He gestures vaguely over his shoulder where another person has just dropped money into the donation jar without taking her eyes off his back. “See? The system works.” 

“How are you so blatantly shameless?”

He shrugs. “Shame only slows you down.” 

Gojo steps slightly to the side when someone passes behind him with a bucket, and the movement brings him just close enough for you to catch the clean, cozy smell of soap and sunscreen underneath the damp heat of him. The towel around his neck drips onto his chest and a bead of water slips from his collarbone, trailing lower. 

Your eyes follow it again. Good lord. When you force your gaze back up, he’s watching you smugly. 

“So,” he says, voice dropping a little, “should I put you down as morally opposed to charity, or just immune to my charm?” 

“Those are the only options?” 

“Hey, I’m open to feedback. If you have a complaint, I’m all ears.” 

“Add a financially unavailable option.” 

“Okay.” He nods gravely. “Morally opposed, charm-resistant, and broke.” 

“I didn’t say broke.” You cut yourself off when you realise you’ve spent too long arguing with him when you had been so determined to walk away moments before. “Forget it, I’m walking away.” 

Gojo laughs and steps directly into your path, head tilting as he studies you like he’s trying to place a song from the first few seconds.

“You have quite the mouth on you,” he says, and something foreboding settles in your gut. “What’s your name, band shirt?”

Something about his voice tricks you into almost answering, perhaps because 4B has spent weeks training a response out of you. He says something stupid, you respond with something worse, and you fall into conversation that way. But while they sound the same you force yourself to remember this isn’t 4B through the wall. 

You have only one goal here: get out before he starts connecting ‘band shirt’ to ‘familiar voice’ that becomes ‘girl through the wall’ because then you’ll have to move apartments and potentially countries. So, you straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and speak in the blandest tone you can manage. 

“No,” you say. “Short for none of your business.”

“That’s a terrible name,” Gojo says, nose scrunching up. “What did you do to your parents to deserve that? It’s going to look quite hurtful on the donation receipt.” 

“I’m not donating,” you say, already looking for the cleanest route around him. “So thankfully, your admin concerns are none of my concern. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“You won’t donate, you won’t volunteer, and you won’t give me your name,” he says, still watching you too closely. “But you’ll stand here and argue with me.”

“That’s because you seem like the type who needs things explained slowly,” you quip back. “And besides, you’re in my way.”

His gaze flicks briefly to the open space beside him. You both look at it.

Then he looks back at you, smile unbearably smug. “Am I?”

You hate him because he is right, and because the longer you stand here, the more his voice settles into place with his face, and the more impossible it becomes to separate Gojo Satoru from 4B. You can feel it happening in real time, the two versions of him overlapping until the faceless boy through the wall starts becoming this shirtless jerk with wet hair and water dripping down his chest. 

“You’re very intense about names,” you say, forcing your voice into that same bland, too-flat register. “Maybe work on that before the next person you corner.” 

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping into something smoother. “I’m just saying, if a girl insults me this much, I feel like I should at least know what to call her.” 

“Band shirt is working fine for you. And if it’s not going on a donation receipt then I don’t see why you really need it.”

“Can I guess?” he asks instead, already leaning forward like the idea has thrilled him. 

“Absolutely not.” You take a step to the side, causing him to promptly mirror you. “Dude, quit it.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, immediately stepping back with both hands raised to showcase his harmlessness though it’s ruined by his smile. “Got excited. You’re so nonchalant and mysterious it just draws me in, you know? Come on, I’ll leave you alone if you just give me a name, your real name.”

“No.” 

“Okay, not a real one,” he concedes far too quickly. “Just so I have something to call you in my head when you’re already running through it so much.” 

“I’m not giving you a fake name either.” 

“That’s so much worse,” he says, sounding wounded. “Now you’re not even trusting me with a lie? I’m shirtless for charity, band shirt, I’m vulnerable.”

“Vulnerably harassing a stranger for her name in the middle of campus?” 

“Stranger feels harsh.” His smile shifts a little, still playful yes, but the focus underneath it becomes visible. “You don’t exactly feel like a stranger.” 

You need to get out here right now. 

You tighten your hold on your tote bag and start walking, not caring where your dirty shoes led you, not caring if it even led you back to that God forsaken carwash. Gojo doesn’t give up, trailing after you and eating up the distance you try to place with his long legs, body facing yours even as you speed walk. 

“Do I know you?” 

“No,” you say. “We don’t know each other.”

“But it feels like we know each other.”

“We? There’s no we. Maybe you’ve seen me in passing but it’s not something to obsess over. Okay, bye.” 

“Possible,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I do have a wide reach. I’m trying to expand it, actually, which is why I need your name.”

You pass the front of the carwash table once more and someone at the front turns, practically jumping on the spot upon seeing Gojo. He ignores them, still drilling holes into the side of your face. 

“First initial?”

“N. For No.”

“Last initial?” 

“O.”

“Does it have an A in it?” 

“Do you know when to quit?” 

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“No, it doesn’t or no, you won’t tell me? Or secret third option, No as in No your name.” He clicks his tongue like you’re the one being difficult. “See, this is getting really confusing. You could solve this entire problem by telling me your real name.”

You keep walking for a few more steps but it’s getting harder to pretend you don’t have a golden retriever trailing after your every step, and word, especially when he’s shirtless and a microcelebrity on campus. 

“Look,” you say, stopping and turning to give him a piece of your mind. “I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so this has been deeply unnecessary. Let’s just leave it at that okay?”

His smile softens as he also stops, looking at you. “Then tell me your name and we can fix that.”

For one stupid, horrifying second, you almost do. His voice dips around his words, warm and familiar, and your brain gives you 4B through the wall saying morning, 4A, soft with sleep, and suddenly your name feels like something dangerously close to being handed over.

His hand lifts, reaching for your wrist at your hesitation but hovers short of actually touching, eyes holding yours for permission. 

Then someone calls, “Satoru!”

His face twists, mouth opening like he is ready to spit out another excuse, when a towel hits him square in the back of his head.

He jolts, hand leaving the space between you to grab at the towel before it falls. “What the fuck?” 

You both look over in the direction of the carwash. 

Sukuna stands by the donation table with another towel hanging from one hand, looking like he would rather be dragged behind one of the cars than be there voluntarily. He is also shirtless, because can you even see a guy with his shirt on in a fifty metre radius around you? Water drips from the ends of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his neck and over his chest, his skin still shining from whatever girl had convinced him to stand under the hose for a photo. 

“Oi,” Sukuna calls, lifting the towel like he might throw it again. “Are you done begging, or should we put a bowl out for you too?” 

Gojo’s expression immediately collapses into offence. “I’m not begging. I told you I was networking! You’re really cramping my style.” 

“Whatever you want to call it.” Sukuna jerks his chin toward the cars. “Get back here. Some girl paid ten dollars because you promised to write her name in soap on the windshield.” 

Gojo ruffles a hand through his hair and you catch a glimpse of his undercut before he groans, ducking his head. “Shit! I forgot I said that. Can’t you take one for the team, Sukuna?”

“She asked for you.”

The imaginary campus-wide fanbase turns out to be true, you think mournfully. 

A few people around the table laugh, and Gojo turns just enough to argue back, towel clutched in one hand, wet hair sticking messily to the back of his neck. You take the sight of his back muscles as a sign to leave. So before he can turn back around, you step away. 

Then another step. Then several more, fast enough that your tote bumps against your hip and your grimy shoes slap loudly against the wet pavement. It’s not running, because running would imply guilt, and you are innocent of everything except being cursed. 

“Band shirt,” Gojo calls behind you and because it’s not your name, you don’t turn around. 

You especially don’t turn around when Gojo’s half-groan, half-laugh follows you across the courtyard, short yet familiar enough to make your stomach twist. 

4B is Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru is 4B.

Someone needs to take down the Etsy website.

You never do wear that band shirt again. 

Not that it mattered much because you also don’t really go outside for a week, not if you could help it. You want to call it locking in because the midterms are coming up but in the brief moments when you allow yourself the truth, you admit it’s because you’re preventing any chance of running into Gojo again. 

It’s difficult to do that when he’s your neighbour. Or, well, when 4B is your neighbour. 

That distinction becomes very important to you. Gojo Satoru is someone you saw shirtless in the middle of campus using charity as an excuse to flex obscenely at the general public moving through their day. Gojo Satoru has wet hair, a stupid grin, and is highly dangerous because he has a face and a body and a set of eyes that pins you down, 

4B is a voice through the wall. 4B is his alarm going off too loudly in the morning, all groans and curses as he heaves himself from the warmth of his bed. 4B is ranting about the latest anime he’s watched, whispering through plaster when it gets late, knocking twice against the wall when he wants your attention but isn’t sure if you’re in.

So you let yourself have it. You avoid Gojo, and you keep talking to 4B.

After a while, there aren’t many problems with having Gojo as your next door neighbour. Sure, he can get loud during phone calls with his friends but you quickly forgive him when he gives sheepish apologies and dials down his volume. And sure, his alarm is loud but after that initial morning when you grilled him on the cheerful tune, he had changed it to something more appropriate.

The way he laughs is loud, the way he sings as he cooks is loud, the way he says your unit number is loud, all bright like he’s been waiting to catch you the moment you step into your apartment.

It seems Gojo can’t help but be loud. In every aspect.

You wonder if you should bring it up.

It really was unfortunate that your bedroom and his bathroom shared a wall. Whoever constructed this building many, many years ago must not have planned it out too well and simply settled for fitting rooms of different apartments together like tetris. And because of this, his bathroom ends up right next to your head when you sleep. 

You also gather that his shower is pressed against the said wall that you share with him, if his groans are any indication. 

You should probably bring it up. 

But how does one even bring up such a conversation? Hey neighbour! Not that I’ve been listening but I can hear you jerk off in the shower. Could you stop? 

In his defence, you relent, rolling over and pressing your pillow against your ears, he was trying to be subtle about it. You appreciate that he wasn’t doing it in his room since that would certainly turn you off from whatever you’re eating in your kitchen next to him. But if he believes the rush of water is enough to muffle his moans, he’s sorely mistaken. 

You roll onto your other side, shuffling when even this position isn’t comfortable. Your thin sheets are tangled around your legs and you’re desperately trying to focus on the book you’re reading on your phone. But who are you kidding, your thumb has been frozen on the same paragraph for the past five minutes, mind a million miles away. 

There’s a thud of something being placed down on the tiled floor, a slight rustle. And then, a low, breathy groan—so faint you could almost convince yourself you imagined it. 

But you definitely did not. 

You breath catches as you place your phone down and stare at the ceiling as if that will make the sounds stop. It never works. You tell yourself to just roll over again, put in your airpods and drown it out. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. 

But your hand is already drifting down, sliding over your stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts. 

The first stroke is unintentional, a simple slow press through cotton just to feel something. But then you hear him again, a sharper exhale, a whispered word you can’t quite make out, and your hips shift, pressing your palm harder against your cunt. 

Fuck. 

You close your eyes and instead of the dark of your room, you see steam. A shower, his shower, the one right on the other side of this wall. 

You don’t want to think about Gojo like this so you settle instead on your 4B. All you know is the sound of his footsteps in the hallway, the messy scrawl of his handwriting, the sound of his door opening and closing, the low rumble of his laugh when he teases you. It’s deep and a little rough around the edges. You’ve built a version of him from the sound alone, and right now, that’s more than enough. 

Fingers tracing the outline of your clit through the fabric, circles so light they’re barely there, you let your mind wander. 

You imagine stepping into that shower. The air is thick and wet, fogging up the glass. He’s already under the spray, back to you, water streaming down his shoulders. You don;t want to see his face, but you can see the way his muscles shift as he turns his head ever so slightly, giving you the slightest glimpse of his side profile before the steam whisks it away. 

It would be foolish to hesitate. You slide your hands around his waist from behind, palms flat against his stomach, and he laughs, the vibrations meeting your chest. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice deeper, lower with him so close to you. “Look at you, giving me a helping hand, hm?”

“Shut up,” you’d probably mumble against his shoulder blade, fingers already trailing lower, through the thatch of hair at the base of his cock. “You’re always so loud.”

He’d be hard already, and you can feel the heat of him, the slight twitch as your fingertips brush the underside of his shaft. 

“No, I don’t think that’s right,” he says. “Because you’ve been listening, haven’t you? All those nights wrapped up all pretty in your blankets, thinking you can get away with using me to feel good, thinking you’re an angel for trying not to listen. But you know exactly what I sound like when I’m close, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches as you wrap your hand around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, exactly the sound that’s coming through the wall right now. Your hand moves in time with the fantasy, slow strokes, thumb pressing into the slick tip, and he leans back into you, letting his head fall against your shoulder. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “Such a good girl. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you to touch me. Wanted to feel your hand on my cock for so fucking long, angel.” 

“Since when?” 

You stroke him faster, twisting your wrist the way you imagine he does, and his breathing turns ragged. 

“Since the moment you opened that pretty mouth and told me off. Fuck—faster, angel. Just like that, don’t stop. Your hand feels so perfect.”

Your own fingers press harder against your clit through your shorts, and you let out a tiny whimper you hope he can’t hear through the wall. Maybe he can, maybe he really does know exactly what you’ve been doing. That thought makes you even wetter, a choked gasp escaping. 

In the fantasy, his body tenses. His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your grip tighter around him. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he says, voice strained. “I’m gonna paint the tiles with it, and you’re gonna watch. You’re gonna listen to me fall apart because of you. And then—fuck—then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

His hips jerk forward, and you feel the hot pulse of his release against your hand, the way he shudders and moans your name (which he doesn’t know, but you give it to him anyway, a whispered invention). His cum slicks the inside of your fingers, and you keep stroking until he pushes your hand away with an overstimulated whimper that might be your own. 

He turns around. 

You still don’t see his face, just the broad outline of his chest you saw during the carwash incident, the water catching in the hollow of his collarbone. He pushes you back against the cool tile with one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding down your stomach, between your legs.

“My turn,” he purrs. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, in my shower, where you can hear every sound I make. And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? Gonna be an angel for me and let me use this pussy like I’ve been dreaming about.”

You nod, mouth open, and he sinks two fingers into you without warning.

The gasp that escapes your lips is real. “Gojo—!”

“Nuh uh, pretty,” he coos in your ear. “Call me Satoru. C’mon, say my name, angel.” 

You shake your head against your pillow, back arching. “That’s—that would be weird.” 

He slows down, taking his time with you, dragging his fingers against your gummy walls before sliding over that spot that makes you see stars, chuckling when you gasp. “I’m making you feel this good and you’re still talking back? Gonna need to fuck that attitude out of you.” 

You bite your lip hard. “Satoru…”

He stills, before he presses down hard. “Hm? What was that?”

“Satoru!”

His voice is a rough, airy thing in your ear. “That’s it, pretty, you’re doing so good for me.”

Your own fingers mimic the motion, pushing inside yourself while your thumb circles your clit. You can hear him through the wall—a wet, rhythmic sound, faster now, and a string of words you catch in fragments. “Yeah… that’s it… take it…”

You imagine his cock,thick, already half-hard again from the feel of you, sliding between your thighs. He lifts your leg, hooks it over his arm, and presses the head against your entrance.

“Look at me,” he says, and you try, but his face is a blur of heat and water, just shadows and the gleam of wet skin. “Look at me while I fuck you. I want you to remember this.”

He pushes in slow, and you feel the stretch in your fantasy and in your own body as your fingers sink deeper. You bite your lip to keep from moaning out loud.

“Shit, you’re so tight,” he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. “You feel that? That’s my cock filling you up. That’s what you get for listening in, for touching yourself to the sound of me cumming.”

He sets a hard rhythm, the slapping of wet skin echoing off the shower walls. Your fantasy-self clings to him, nails digging into his back, and he keeps talking, his voice ragged and dirty, exactly what you need.

“That’s it, it feels so fucking good, huh? Bet you love this, love that you didn’t know what I looked like but you know the sound of my balls slapping against your ass. You’re such a fucking slut for it. Is it hotter now that you know who I am? Open your mouth and tell me, Y/N.”

You whimper, hand curling into the sheets. “I—I can’t. You’ll hear.”

“I know, I know, you’re trying so hard to be quiet for me,” he mumbles, so soft and understanding even as he drives into you. “But I’m going to need to hear you, okay? Need to hear how much you want this.” 

Your fingers move faster, matching the pace in your head. Your breathing is ragged now, little moans falling from your lips that you can’t hold back. You don’t care if he hears, and maybe if you’re slightly truthful, you hope he does. “Oh god, Satoru, it feels so good!”

In the fantasy, he’s close again. You can feel it in the way his thrusts lose rhythm, in the way his grip tightens on your hip.

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he growls, and it’s a question and a statement all at once. “You want that? Want to feel my cum dripping down your thigh?”

“Yes,” you whisper out loud, into your empty room.

He buries himself deep, and the fantasy explodes in a rush of heat and words: “Fuckfuckfuck—take it—take my cum, you dirty little thing—gonna fill you up so full—”

You climax with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress, your fingers pressing hard against your clit as waves of pleasure roll through you. You hear yourself moan, a high, broken sound, and you don’t care.

The sounds from his side of the wall change.

There’s a final, shuddering groan and the squeak of a hand against tile. And then silence, broken only by the rush of water from a showerhead.

You lie there, panting, hand still between your legs, your skin flushed and damp. You can almost smell the steam, almost feel the ghost of his fantasy-body pressed against yours.

The shower turns off and you climb out of bed, running away to the living room. 

You’re not a freak. You can’t be. 

You’re a kind, virtuous person who knows no sin, who is gracious and angelic and trustworthy and not someone who listens in on her neighbour jerking it in his shower. That’s simply not who you are and not something you’d ever do. 

Despite this obvious fact, your brain tells you otherwise. And when you are at war with yourself, what else is there to do but consult your friends?

You find Shoko outside the campus cafe, sitting at one of the metal tables with an iced coffee and her laptop open, clacking away with a frown. The chair opposite her is empty though not welcomingly. It’s buried under her tote bag, a packet of cigarettes jutting out that would have her girlfriend at her throat if she saw. 

You walk over, tuck the box further into her bag and under her jumper, before putting her bag on the ground. “You’re smoking again?” 

“Hi,” Shoko says, looking up briefly before slumping down over her laptop. “Just to get the edge off. Midterms are coming around and I’m already feeling the effects.”

You nod, stealing her drink and taking a long sip. She looks at you again, squinting. 

“You don’t look as bad as I thought you would.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Isn’t that film of yours due next Friday? Where’s the panic and stress? Also, that’s my coffee you whore.” 

You take one last long sip and slide it back over. “I have bigger fish to fry. But shit, Shoko, you look completely under it already. We can call off girls’ talk for another day, I promise it’s not that serious.”

“Not that serious?” Shoko scoffs, hitting enter before closing her laptop. “You triple-texted last night at 3 a.m. not making any sense at all. What happened? Did Naoya text you again? You didn’t unblock him, did you?” 

“What? No! It’s…” you groan, covering your face. “It’s worse. It’s so much worse. I think I’m at the edge of the abyss staring down. Like whatever I do here on out will either make or break me.”

“Okay,” she replies slowly, clearly not expecting your response. “And who is this about exactly?” 

You wonder if you can tell her the truth. Hey Shoko, you might decide to start with, I’ve been crushing on the voice of my neighbour for the last month who I just found out is Satoru, you know your friend? Also, I’ve been listening to him jerk it for a while now and I have an inkling that he knows.

Instead of any of this, you whisper, “Satoru.” 

She flinches as if you’ve slapped her. “What?”

Your finger comes up to point before you stop yourself, realising it was impolite to point, but your gaze is far too telling. She hesitates, taking in your horrified expression before looking over her shoulder to find Gojo stepping into sight, head turning about as if searching for something. 

You almost delude yourself into thinking that when his gaze stops at your table, his eyes light up because he’s looking at you. You almost delude yourself into thinking that he’s making his way to your table. You almost delude yourself into thinking the smile he wears is for you. 

Only one of these things is true because the moment you see him, you’ve pulled your hoodie up until it’s almost flopping back over your eyes, leaning back and tucking your chin in.

Gojo saunters up to your table and stops just beside Shoko. Your friend groans, dropping her head into her hands. 

“He’s right behind me, isn’t he?” 

Not wanting to speak, you only shrug uselessly. Gojo doesn’t even spare you a glance, whining as he tugs on her sleeve to grab her attention. 

“Come on, Shoko, I’ve been trying to text you for hours now. Ignoring me isn’t going to make me disappear, you know.” 

“I know now,” she mumbles before yanking her arm away from his touch. “Okay, out with it, Gojo. I refuse to be seen in public with you so let’s get this over with.” 

“I need your help with something.” When Shoko only stares, unimpressed and not surprised, he presses on. “It’ll be quick, I swear! And it isn’t about the pre lab questions this time, I promise. I’m cashing in that one favour you owe me from last year.” 

“What favour?”

“Me hosting a party that got you and Utahime together.”

Shoko shoots him a withering look. “That wasn’t a favour, we just happened to meet at your party. You didn’t even know her back then.”

Gojo grins, and for a moment, you get lost in it. It would be so easy to tell him now and have that smile directed at you with recognition instead of casual politeness. You don’t think he’s doing it on purpose, but you feel yourself getting smaller as he keeps talking to Shoko and only Shoko, sitting there silently as if being quiet and sipping at Shoko’s coffee might excuse your lack of presence. 

Shoko rolls her eyes, turning to look at you. “Sorry, Y/N. We’ll talk after I’m done dealing with this kid.”

You wave her off stiffly and she narrows her eyes at you, sensing something off when you don’t say anything. Gojo seems to notice you then, looking over at you briefly. He tilts his head at you before Shoko’s voice pulls him back. 

“So? What do you want?”

“I need help finding someone.” 

You choke on your drink, hastily wiping at your chin when they both turn to look at you, a range of concern across both their faces. You wave them off dismissively, making small sounds to clear your throat as they continue. 

“For revenge or…?”

He hums, seriously considering her quip. “Maybe the opposite?” 

She narrows her eyes at that. “I don’t know everyone on campus. How are you so confident you can come to me for this?” 

“Because you’re doing the same degree as her and you’re a girl and so is the person I’m trying to find.”

There's still liquid in your throat and it’s getting harder for Gojo to pretend like his friend’s friend isn’t slowly dying from across the table. He lifts his eyes to study you, taking in the way you’re clearing your throat, struggling to keep quiet, and he sighs. 

“Hey, breathe through your nose.” 

You finally look up at him, the hood obscuring most of your vision though you still try to shoot him a look as if to say, oh no, really? and he smirks at that.

“I'm serious, just breathe for a second. Through your nose, come on. It’ll get rid of that coughing fit.” 

You close your mouth with effort and take a deep, shaky breath in. It goes in smoothly though the urge to cough still persists and you have to concentrate to not relapse. 

Gojo pushes your iced coffee closer to you, wiping his wet hand on Shoko’s sleeve after despite her protest. You take it gratefully, taking in a few sips before clearing your throat. 

Realising you couldn’t get out of this without speaking at least once, you lower your voice as much as you can and mumble, “Thanks.”

Gojo hums, accepting it easily, but his eyes linger on you for half a second too long before he turns back to Shoko. “She's someone in your course doing cardiovascular physiology. She has a lab on Tuesday and morning tutorials on Friday." 

You don’t miss the way Shoko has been staring bullets into you though her eyes flicker over to Gojo every once in a while. “A lab on Tuesday, you say.” And there’s something in her tone that has you looking up frantically. 

Gojo doesn’t seem to notice, nodding instead. “She usually comes back late, at around 5:20? Which means her classes end around 5 p.m.”

“5 p.m,” she repeats, her eyes never straying. 

You try to shake your head as subtly as possible. 

“She has the prettiest voice you’ve ever heard and the softest laugh when she finds something amusing. But then when she finds something funny, like really funny, her laugh is super loud and bright and it’s honestly cool the way she doesn’t seem to care.”

You kick Shoko’s foot under the table and she barely winces, realisation or something similar dawning on her. 

“I don’t need to know any of that, that won’t help.” Her lips quirk upwards slightly. “And why are we looking for this girl, Gojo?” 

He pouts at her words. “I’m looking for my neighbour.”

Shoko makes a gesture as if to ask if he’s serious. “Just go knock on her door? You literally know where she lives. That’s probably more than I could ever tell you.” 

“You don’t get it,” he says, tutting, wagging his fingers even. “We have this thing going on and I don’t want to ruin her trust by camping outside her door, for example. So instead, I’ll just conveniently come across her on campus because somehow our timetables seem to line up.”

 Shoko stares at him blankly. “So stalking.”

“Don’t be so crude, Shoko. It’s not stalking if I’m being emotionally considerate about it.” He leans forward slightly, hands on the table, and for a moment his voice loses some of its usual shine. “I don’t want to scare her off, okay? I know where she lives, but that feels like cheating. If you know her, ask her first. Ask if she’s okay with me knowing, or if she wants me to stay clueless and suffer with dignity.” 

Shoko’s expression barely changes. “You don’t do anything with dignity.” 

“I could start for her,” he says, then seems to realise what he’s admitted because he looks away with a small, helpless laugh. “Look, I know it sounds stupid, but I like talking to her. I like not knowing too much. I like that she can hang up on me by walking away from the wall whenever she wants. If I just knock on her door, then I’ve taken that choice from her.” 

For once, Shoko doesn’t interrupt. 

Gojo rubs at the back of his neck, grin returning but weaker this time, more embarrassed than smug. “But also, I’m going a little crazy. Call me pathetic, but sometimes she says something and I forget what my own point was. She’s mean in this really specific way, and funny, and then every now and then she’ll be nice like she didn’t mean to, and it fully ruins me. So yeah, I want to know who she is. I just don’t want to find out in a way that makes her regret talking to me.” 

You kick her foot again. 

“And what happens if you do find her?” she asks, rubbing the toe of her shoe against the floor like you have injured her beyond repair. “You’re going to walk up and say, hi, I’ve been listening to you through the wall for weeks and I reverse-engineered your timetable?”

Gojo makes a face. “No, obviously not. I have charm. I’ll make her fall for me first.”

You stand with a start, slamming your hands on the table, knocking your empty cup over. You hastily pick it up, shooting Shoko as many SOS signals as it’ll take for her to follow your lead. She lets out a slight laugh, especially after seeing Gojo’s bewildered face, and stands, albeit slowly. 

“I think I have an idea of who you’re looking for.”

“You do?” Gojo says, eyes wide and smile hopeful. 

“I have a feeling.” Her eyes leave yours after a pause, moving to shove her laptop into her bag. “But I’m going to need to confirm it before I tell you. Wouldn’t want to drag an innocent into your life.” 

He nods quickly and you mournfully think that he looks like a puppy. You didn’t need that imagery, especially not right now. You tune out the rest of their conversation though it mainly consisted of Gojo demanding more details and Shoko shooting him down firmly. When you have your tote over your shoulder, Shoko tilts her head towards the door. 

You all but run out. Vaguely, you hear Gojo ask, “What’s up with her?”

“Boy problems,” Shoko says before she catches up to you and the two of you walk out. 

“Where are we going?” 

You look over your shoulder, heart only settling when you don’t catch any glimpse of white hair. “Away.”

“Oh, so now you feel like talking.”

“Please, Shoko. Please.”

She laughs, loose and unrestrained. “Want to tell me what that was all about? Gojo looking for some Cinderella and you looking like you’re about to choke to death?”

You spin around, hands coming up to hold her still by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s exactly that. Shoko, stop looking at me like that, I’m going to freak out.” 

“Okay, okay.” Her hands come up to wrap loosely around your wrists, not pushing you off, just holding you there. “Take a breath. He doesn’t know.” 

“He almost knows.”

“I’m pretty sure he only suspects something,” she corrects. “Those are two very different things. And if you really don’t want him to know then I’ll tell him that. He might seem a little clueless in areas such as personal space, but he’s not a complete jerk. He’ll respect that.”

You let go of her shoulders slowly, though your hands stay half-raised between you like you might need to grab her again if she starts looking too entertained. “He was describing me.”

“He was describing his neighbour,” Shoko says, softer now. “You are only panicking because you know that’s you.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

“It should a little.” She tilts her head, cigarette-less and serious in a way you rarely get from her before noon. “Look, if he wanted to corner you, he could’ve knocked on your door. He literally knows where you live. But he didn’t. He came to me because, in his own stupid Gojo way, he’s trying not to scare you.”

“That’s the complete issue,” you sigh, folding your arms tighter across your chest. “The issue is that he’s Gojo, the exact kind of guy I said I was done with. I know what these kinds of guys are like, hell, I dated the textbook example of one.”

Shoko’s expression softens and in the silence, something bubbles up. 

“4B wasn’t that,” you say, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “4B was just mine.” 

The second it leaves your mouth, your face warms. Mercifully, Shoko doesn’t pounce on it and instead nods slowly, looking away from you. 

“I get that,” she says and when you glance at her, she repeats herself. “I do, you’re not crazy. But Gojo being in a frat doesn’t automatically make him Naoya variant 2.0.”

“I know that,” you grumble. 

“Do you?” Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You don’t have to trust him just because he’s 4B. You also don’t have to punish him just because he looks like the kind of guy who would have ruined your life last semester.” 

“So what am I supposed to do?” you ask. 

“For now? Nothing. You don’t have to suddenly jump out and introduce yourself, but you also don’t have to shut up and ghost him forever. See for yourself what kind of guy Gojo really is now that you know both sides to him.”

Sometimes, Shoko’s rationality surprises you and you find yourself nodding along to her words, a small, dawning hope struggling out of its shell inside your heart. Just as you’re about to thank her profusely for her wise words, she opens her mouth and says, “You should come to Utahime’s this weekend.” 

“Uh.” You blink. “What?”

“It’s a small party, like actually small,” she says before you can look horrified. “Not a frat thing. It’ll just be a few of Utahime’s close friends, some drinks and food, you know. I haven’t seen you come out of your apartment for an entire week, Y/N, it’s setting off alarm bells. You’re hot. Funny. Maybe you’ll meet someone there that doesn’t remind you of Gojo or Naoya.” 

“Oh my God,” you say slowly, disgusted. “Why are those two people my only options right now? You’re right, I need to go out.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mean it,” Shoko says with sympathy before groaning. “Can I say ‘I told you so’ yet or are you still spiralling? Because I told you so, I told you to stay away from Gojo but lookie here, who’s scouring the campus for even a whiff of you?” 

You glare at her. “Not helping, Shoko.” 

Shoko bumps her shoulder against yours. “You can tell him when you’re ready. Or let him figure it out slowly if you want to be annoying about it.”

You shove her shoulder back in return, and she laughs, and for a few steps, it almost feels like a normal afternoon. Like you are just two girls walking across campus, talking about weekend plans, not one girl trying to outrun the consequences of accidentally falling for her neighbour through a wall. 

Then Shoko tilts her head toward the bus stop. “So. Do you want to go back to your apartment or not?” 

You think of the wall, of 4B’s—Gojo’s—voice slipping through it, probably asking why you were so quiet this morning, probably making some stupid comment about your sleep schedule, probably having no idea that your whole life has just rearranged itself around his face. 

You sigh. 

“Unfortuntely,” you say. “I live there.”

Gojo wonders if he has an addictive personality. 

Or maybe it’s just you. 

But when it’s just him alone in his mind, hands running through his hair to try and catch every last runaway thought about you, he allows himself the truth. It’s probably just you. 

And the kicker is that he was only 90% certain you even existed. Suguru was the one who planted the idea in his head, that the physics had finally fucked him over and he was hallucinating the voice of a sweet, snarky girl, If he hadn’t collected your sticky notes over the last few months, that statistic might have even fallen to a good 38% and even then he wouldn’t be too sure if it was the twisted humour of his friends or if he genuinely had his own Wattpad neighbours-to-lovers arc. 

He sighs and leans back into his chair, feeling it give way under the motion with a creak. He wonders, as he so often does these days, if you heard it. His body stills and he waits for an indication that you might be home, a soft chuckle, an exasperated sigh, or his favourite, that soft way you say his name (read: unit number). 

When it doesn’t come, he slumps. 

Fuck, he was so far gone. 

It’s not like this is new to him, the wanting. Gojo wants things all the time. He wants the last pudding cup from the convenience store, wants Suguru to stop pretending he’s above gossip when he’s the nosiest person alive, wants Shoko to stop stealing his lighters despite the fact that he doesn’t smoke because he needs them to light up his birthday candles. He wants good grades with minimal effort and attention when he enters a room and for his hair to sit right without having to do anything about it. 

He also wants you. 

Gojo’s phone buzzes against his desk and he only looks at it because he’s desperate from his own thoughts. Though he immediately regrets this when Utahime’s name lights up on his screen. 

utahime: party this weekend

show up or dont 

idc

He snorts. 

gojo: woww dont get too excited inviting me im basically suffocating in ur enthusiasm 

its chill though if u dont want me there

i wont go ive got plans anyway 

Another notification drops down after he hits send. 

shoko: do NOT come to utahime’s this weekend 

that was a mistake 

DO NOT COME 

Gojo freezes, eyes blinking at the message. He taps it, opening up his chat history with her that consists of many, many time stamps and read receipts, and very slowly, something that critical thinking sparks behind his blue eyes. 

Do not come, said so blunt and immediate and so suspiciously timed right after Utahime’s invitation as if Shoko had decided his presence would cause a problem. 

A problem for who? 

Gojo’s mouth parts. Then, slowly, his grin spreads. His thumb quickly swipes out to re enter the chat with Utahime and glides across the keyboard. 

gojo: actually ykw 

wouldn’t miss it for the world <3

utahime: wait im uninviting u 

gojo? 

i said u cant come

dont leave me on read you dick 

Gojo laughs, turning off his phone. 

He turns his head toward the wall, still grinning like an idiot, thriving off the single crumb he’s been graciously fed after days of searching for you. 

“You going to Utahime’s this weekend, 4A?” he asks softly, knowing you are not there to answer.

The wall says nothing but Gojo’s grin doesn’t fade.

“That’s okay,” he murmurs, phone warm in his hand. “I’ll find out.”

There are two possible explanations for your current situation. Either Shoko is a liar (completely and utterly plausible) or her girlfriend has around 50 close friends. You don’t put it past Utahime either but at least Utahime did you a favour and made sure not to invite anyone from TDP so you settle for shooting Shoko a withering glare.

Music thrums through the floorboards, bass rattling the soles of your shoes as you tap your feet subconsciously against the beat. It’s loud, too loud for talking unless you enjoy shouting directly into someone’s ear, though no one seems to mind. Certainly not Shoko as she leans close to Utahime, mouth brushing against her ear, eyes half lidded as she practically has her on her lap.

You roll your eyes, feeling slightly sour.

Shoko notices your bitter look and acknowledges it with a slight chuckle, taking your cup of orange juice and switching it with hers. “Loosen up!” She yells over the music.

Without many other options, you take the drink and cup your hand around your ear as if you can’t hear her, just to piss her off.

Utahime snickers when your friend swats you away, her hand comfortably wrapped around Shoko’s. The sight of a happy couple sickens you and when Shoko yells for you to “go find someone to make out with!” you do decide to stand up and leave, though not because of her words, obviously. 

You’re just getting air, maybe a refill. And maybe putting at least one wall between yourself and Shoko’s terrible, smug, in-love face. 

The rest of the apartment is no better. Utahime’s place is bigger than yours, of course, because some people get exposed brick and large windows while others get mysterious ceiling stains and a neighbour loud enough to seep into your own personal life. 

Bodies crowd every available inch of space. Someone is sitting on the arm of the couch with a drink in one hand and someone else sprawled across their lap, fingers pushed into their hair. A group by the kitchen is screaming the lyrics to the song currently playing and there’s two girls taking photos in the hallway mirror, swaying together, cheek to cheek. 

You’re halfway through to the kitchen when you see him. For a second, your brain doesn’t even attach a name to the sight. It only registers white hair, too tall, black shirt, one hand loose around a red cup as he leans against the wall near the hallway. 

Then your stomach drops. 

Gojo. 

The thought arrives with immediate, unreasonable betrayal. 

What the fuck? Didn’t Utahime promise you she wouldn’t invite any frat guys? 

Not that you care. You absolutely do not. Gojo Satoru could attend every party in the city and you would remain unaffected, obviously. It is just the principle of the thing. You had been promised a Gojo-free environment, and there he is, laughing at something one of the girls around him says, head tilted down so he can hear her better over the music.

There are three that you see, maybe four. It’s hard to count when they keep shifting, hair shining under the cheap coloured lights, shoulders angled toward him like flowers reaching for the sun. 

It would be easier to be angry, to roll your eyes and hate him in the clean, uncomplicated way you usually do. Instead, something dull and familiar settles under your ribs. 

You turn away before he can look your way. 

The drink in your hand is half-empty and you make it fully empty in one long swallow, grimacing only after it burns the way down and cursing Shoko’s name in your head. Someone near the kitchen cheers for no reason and you suddenly decide that if the universe wants to be annoying, if that stupid Etsy witch wants to fuck with you that bad, you might as well ruin yourself first. 

By the time Shoko finds you again, you have acquired another drink. And then another, and then even more. She squints at you with the vague concern of someone who knows your limits better than you do but you’re already being dragged toward the cleared space in the living room by one of Utahime’s pretty friends, and the music there is cathartic. 

So you stop thinking. For the first time all night, you let yourself move without checking who is watching. Your drink is gone, your cheeks are warm, and the room is soft and bright, all coloured light and laughing mouths and hands in the air. There is no assignment, no terrible apartment, no faceless neighbour slipping into your life through the poor insulation, no Gojo leaning against a wall with half the party orbiting him. The houseparty is bumping, the ladies look good, the alcohol is flowing. There is much pain in the world, but not in this room. 

Then an arm slides around your waist. It’s muscled, warm, steady in the way it wraps around you, the scent of something masculine and fresh entering your peripherals. 

For one stupid, glittering second, you let yourself hope. It’s only the alcohol, probably. The music, even, the heat of the room or the betrayal of coloured lights making everyone look better than they are. 

But the arm is firm around you, and the body behind you is tall, and when he leans in, his breath skims close to your ear. 

Maybe. 

The thought is so sweet it makes you dizzy and you almost lean into the hope. 

“Having fun?” 

Your stomach drops so fast the whole room seems to go with it. You turn, and Naoya’s ugly face is looking down at you. What the fuck is he doing here? Oh, you are so having a word with Utahime about this. 

And okay, Naoya isn’t actually ugly, not in a way that has anything to do with his features. What’s really ugly is his expression, the entitlement in his smile and the slow drag of his eyes over you like he’s appraising something he believes is his. 

His mouth curls and all at once, the music goes thin and static-y. 

You shove him away and stumble a few steps at your own strength. “Don’t touch me.” 

Naoya lets his hand fall, but not before making a show of it, palms lifting like you are the unreasonable one. “Relax. I was just saying hi.” 

“Okay, well you’ve said your hi. Now leave.” 

He laughs, eyes dropping to your mouth, then back up again. “You’re still so dramatic. I forgot how much effort it takes to talk to you when you’re like this.” 

You step back, but the floor tilts slightly beneath you. Fuck, too much alcohol, too much heat. There’s too many bodies pressing around the living room, none of them paying enough attention as you try to place distance between you and your ex. Your shoulder knocks against someone behind you and you mumble a sorry without taking your eyes off Naoya. 

He notices the stumble and his grin sharpens. “You’re drunk. Haven’t learnt how to control yourself in this kind of places yet, have you? It’s cute.” 

He leans closer, voice lowering as if the two of you are sharing something intimate. “Did you dress up for someone tonight?” 

Your face twists. “As if it’s any of your fucking business anymore, Zenin.” 

“No, I’m serious.” HIs eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and your skin crawls. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about being blacklisted. Sometimes things happen to teach you a lesson, you know? Looks like you’ve learnt to finally put more effort into what you’re wearing again. You should be thanking me.”

“I am not doing this with you.” You try to sound confident but you both hear the pathetic slur to your words. 

“You’re not doing much of anything,” he says. “You’re just dancing around hoping some desperate fucker takes pity on you and notices.” 

“Fuck off, Naoya.”

His expression hardens, that little thread of irritation pulling tight because you did not blush, did not smile, did not give him even a crumb of the reaction he came looking for. “You know, this is exactly why people get so tired of you. You make everything so fucking difficult. I’m trying to be nice, and you’re acting like I cornered you in a damn alleyway.” 

“You put your hands on me!” 

“An arm, Y/N. I put my arm around you,” he corrects, like you’re the one being embarrassing. “Don’t make it sound so ugly.” 

“Well, it felt ugly.” 

For a moment, you think he might finally drop the act. But then his mouth curves again, albeit thinner and meaner at the edges. 

“Come on,” he says, taking a step closer and the crowd seems to bunch in to prevent you from leaving. “Don’t be like that. We know each other, don’t we? You don’t have to do the whole untouchable thing with me.” 

The alcohol is making everything lag a second behind. The music, the lights, the heat under your skin now sickening, the disgust rising sharp and sour in your throat. You know what he’s doing, you know it so clearly it almost sobers you. That glint in his eyes as he shamelessly trails his gaze down your face and between your tits, the way his hand is already lifting to grope you, how his voice has softened to be more convincing. 

You take another step back. 

“I said leave.” 

Naoya laughs. “You’re seriously going to act like you weren’t leaning back into me a second ago?”

“I thought you were someone else.” The words are out before you can catch them and shove them back down. 

His expression drops in a way that’s almost satisfying, if not for the fact that it twists into something worryingly familiar seconds later. You hate that your stomach sinks. You hate that, even now, some stupid trained part of you expects the punishment that comes after disappointing him. 

Naoya leans in again, close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath under whatever expensive cologne he sprayed on himself. “So what was the plan? Get drunk enough that you could pretend it was an accident when you went home with someone?” 

Your fingers curl into a fist by your sides. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake innocence. “I’m just saying, you’re the one dancing around like you want attention looking like that. You can’t get mad when someone gives it to you.”

“Move,” you hiss. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “You always do shit like this. You act so above everything it’s a surprise you haven’t been humbled yet. Is that going to have to be my job now too?” 

“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” 

“Don’t get such a big head,” he sneers. “You’re still so easy to read. Still so fucking pathetic. Still need to feel someone’s attention on you, need to feel wanted, just so damn needy all the time.”

Your hand comes up so fast that you know the weight in which it’ll strike across Naoya’s face will give you the nicest, most satisfying crack. 

But before you can bring it down against his stupid fucking face, someone grabs your wrist and gently redirects it.  It takes you a moment to register what just happened. Someone had cut cleanly into the space Naoya had taken from you, still holding your wrist behind his back, and you blink at the grey shirt until you look up and see white hair. 

“Is there a problem?” Gojo’s voice is light enough that, for a strange second, it almost sounds like he’s walked into the wrong conversation. 

Something imperceptible flashes across Naoya’s face, something easily missed if you didn’t know his every tell. 

“Not your business, Gojo.” 

“Oh,” Gojo says, “don’t be like that. It looked fun over here. What were you guys talking about?” 

You don’t care for this passive aggressive approach of his. You yank at your arm. “I was about to slap him.”

Gojo glances back at you. 

You’re too drunk and too angry and too humiliated to care that his face is suddenly closer than expected, all pale hair and blue eyes and a mouth pressed into a thin line. You tug again, uselessly. 

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Let me slap him.” 

Naoya scoffs and takes a step back like he has other things on his agenda than to be publicly embarrassed. “This is insane. You’re both insane. Whatever, I’m done here anyway, what a fucking turn off.”

He turns to walk away, one hand running through his piss-coloured hair. 

Gojo’s other hand snaps out so fast you barely catch the motion. One second, Naoya is tilted to walk forward and the next, Gojo has his wrist caught in one hand, fingers locked around him with an ease that makes Naoya’s whole body jerk to a stop. 

Naoya suddenly hisses. There’s a thin red line where one of Gojo’s rings has bitten too hard into the skin. Despite this, Gojo does not give him the time of day. Instead, he looks at you. 

“Hm,” he says, tone casual, as if you have asked him whether he wants another drink. “I hear you, band shirt, but there’s an issue. If you slap him, you might get into trouble.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“He’s the president of—”

You squeeze his arm holding yours. “I don’t care. He’s never been slapped before in his life and it’s obvious. He needs to be slapped, Satoru, he deserves this.” 

Gojo pauses. Then, very seriously, he starts to nod slowly,  “I suppose that does make a lot of sense.”

Naoya jerks against his grip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Gojo’s hand only tightens, short nails digging into the skin, though he still doesn’t look away from you, not even when you whip your gaze over to your ex, wishing that looks could indeed kill. 

How did you ever date a guy like him? You stare at Naoya, at his ugly, furious, blotchy-red face, at the way he keeps looking around like there should be someone here to save him from the consequences of his own mouth. He keeps tugging and pulling but Gojo effortlessly keeps him there. 

“But it looks like you just got your nails done,” Gojo ponders. “And you could hurt yourself.” 

“It has to be me, Satoru.”

Gojo’s eyes soften at that and he finally smiles, voice going lower. “I know.” 

Then he shifts, letting go of your wrist. For a second, you think he’s going to tell you not to do it after all, that he is going to be sensible in ways that severely go against his reputation. Instead, he lifts his free hand between you, palm up. 

“Okay,” he says. “Then don’t hurt yourself doing it.” 

You blink. “What?” 

“If you’re going to do it, then do it properly,” he says, still speaking to you like Naoya is not standing there trying to pull free. “No weird wrist thing, And don’t throw your whole body into it just to put more force behind it. It’ll just make you fall over because you’re a little drunk and unsteady. You’ve gotta plant your feet.” 

Naoya laughs, no humour behind it. “Gojo, are you serious?” 

Gojo ignores him. “Also,” he adds, glancing at his own hand, “now that I think about it, rings might help.”

He holds your gaze for a little longer before offering you a kind smile and lowering his hand to you, fingers pointing towards you. 

“Are you sure?” you ask, gaze flickering up to his face then to his rings. “They might get bloody.”

“It’s okay, just take your pick. I can always clean them. This chance might not come again for you,” he tells you in a similarly soft tone. 

You reach out and take the one from his pinky finger because any other ring might be a size too big, and slide it onto your middle finger. 

Naoya’s face pales. 

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snaps, trying again to wrench his wrist free. “You’re going to let her hit me?” 

Gojo finally looks at him. The smile he gives Naoya is bright enough to be mistaken for friendly. “Hey, man, it’s none of my business.” 

The ring is still a little too loose, the metal heavy and cold against your skin, and your hand trembles once before you curl it into a fist and open it again. 

Gojo notices and his attention is back on you. His voice drops just enough for only you to catch it again. “You sure?” 

You look at him, then past him, at Naoya’s pale, furious face. “Yes.” 

Gojo studies you for half a second longer, something soft passing through his expression before it disappears beneath a bright, almost cheerful smile. 

“Okay!” he says. “Then first, plant those feet and let your shoulders relax a little. If you hit him like that, it’ll go through your wrist, and then you’ll be mad tomorrow because he got your hand and your mood.” 

You nod and adjust. 

Naoya jerks in grip. “No, wait—”

Gojo doesn’t look at him. “You don’t need a big wind-up. It’ll be painful even if you don’t hit hard so no pressure.” 

“Hey,” Naoya snaps, voice pitching higher. “Someone get him off me.” 

“But I want to hurt him,” you say to Gojo. 

“You will,” Gojo says, very simply. “But you don’t have to hurt yourself to do it. You’re doing this for you, remember? To get it off your chest.” 

Naoya tries to laugh. It comes out wrong. “Come on, man. I said I’m sorry. Tell her to stop being dramatic.” 

Gojo tilts his head at you, as if listening to a distant appliance hum. “Do you hear something?”

You stare at him, cocking your head in a mirror of his own gesture. “The music?”

“No.” He waves his question away. “Something annoying. Anyway. Hand open, shoulders down and feet on the ground. You’ve got this.” 

You do as he says and then turn to look at Naoya. 

For months, he had made you feel like every reaction you had was too much, too loud or too needy, too embarrassing, too difficult to love. He had taught you how to swallow anger until it sat heavy in your stomach and called that maturity. He had always walked away with his shoulders up because you were always the one trying not to make a scene. 

And now, you’re finally going to leave a mark on him. 

You slap him. 

The sound cracks across the room, sharp enough to split cleanly through the music. Naoya’s head snaps to the side at the force of it, mouth open, but finally, finally, nothing leaves it. 

Your palm burns immediately, a bright sting rushing up your arm and the ring presses back into your finger, cold against the heat of your skin. It hurts a little. But it hurts so good. 

Gojo lets go of Naoya at once. Your ex stumbles back, one hand flying to his cheek, eyes wide with shock. “You fucking—”

“Holy shit!” Gojo says loudly. “Is that Naoya from TDP? Dude, what are you doing here, do you even know Utahime?”

Naoya’s face drops slightly in confusion. “What?” 

Gojo’s voice carries easily over the music now. “No, seriously. Aren’t you the guy that one post was made about in the group chat? I wouldn’t have come to a party when you haven’t even said anything about the allegations.” 

The crowd surrounding you instantly starts murmuring amongst themselves, shooting Naoya dirty looks. 

Naoya grits his teeth, anger flooding his face all over again. “I didn’t—”

“It’s weird, I really don’t think Utahime would have invited you.”

“I was invited.”

“By who?”

Naoya opens his mouth but nothing comes out fast enough.

A girl by the couch scoffs. “Utahime would never invite him.”

“Yeah, didn’t she literally say not to let him in?”

“How did he get inside?”

Someone near you nods along to his words, and a girl wraps her arms around you, running her hand up and down your side. It could have so easily gone wrong, Naoya yelling something about being hurt and suddenly you became the problem. The drunk girl, the angry ex seeking vengeance. The one who slapped someone in the middle of the party. 

But now everyone is looking at him. And Naoya seems to realise this too because his eyes dart around the room, searching for sympathy and finding none. 

“Creep,” someone mutters.

“Get him out,” another voice says.

Naoya points toward Gojo, furious and scared in a way you have never seen before. “He’s lying. She’s drunk and she’s always been—” 

“Ugh, spare me, I know you were creeping around me too!” 

Gojo doesn’t stick around for the aftermath and you don’t either, his hand closing around your other hand to gently tug you through the growing crowd, his broad back guiding the way. 

It’s nice, you realise, which is a stupid thing to immediately think of next after slapping your ex-boyfriend in the middle of a party. Still, it is. 

The way he moves through the room without dragging you behind him, the way people part for him easily, but he keeps glancing back anyway, like he’s making sure you’re still there  and not swallowed by the music and body and the roaring awareness of what you’ve just done. His hand is warm around yours, loose enough that you could pull away if you wanted to, firm enough that you don’t have to think too hard about where you’re going. 

You let yourself follow. Past the kitchen, past the hallway mirror, past two girls whispering near the wall,  both of them looking over your shoulder toward where Naoya had disappeared, their expression twisted with disgust. 

The noise dulls a little near the back of the house. The music still reaches here, bass-heavy and insistent, but the air feels cooler, less packed with breath and perfume. Just before the back door, Gojo stops. 

You nearly bump into him and he chuckles, turning around.

“Careful.” He looks you up and down not unpleasantly. “How’s the hand?” 

“It’s fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, looking down. 

His ring is still sitting crooked on your middle finger, too loose and faintly warm now from your skin. Your palm is red and your fingers tingle but the slap keeps replaying in your head in satisfying flashes: the crack of it, Naoya’s face turning, and any regret you might have felt dissipates. 

“Okay, it might sting a little.” 

Gojo’s expression softens. “Let me see it.” 

You lift your other hand not in his, and he reaches out to take it, a sharp thrill running up your arm when he makes contact. He turns your hand over carefully, fingers light and ticklish against your palm as he inspects it. For a moment, you wonder about this gentleness that he shows you, how sharply it contrasts with the way he had held Naoya hard enough to draw blood. His fingers move over your palm with careful attention, thumb brushing beneath the base of your fingers, moving down to the sensitive skin of your wrist and making you shiver. The hallway is too warm and too cold at once, music pulsing behind you in dull waves, but all you can really feel is the shape of his hand around yours and the ridiculous, traitorous flutter under your ribs. 

“You’ll live,” he says eventually, fingers splaying over your wrist and forearm before dropping. “And you’re staring.” 

You blink when you process that he’s looking right into your eyes, his lips quirked into a small smile as he watches you.  “Thanks for helping me slap my ex.”  He shrugs. “It’s no problem, band shirt. I think my ring did the bulk of everything.”  You look down at your hand and notice that he’s right. The silver sits crooked on your finger, too loose and too pretty, catching the hallway light like it has any right to look innocent after drawing blood across Naoya’s cheek. Thank you, pretty silver ring, for your service. May your efforts haunt him for at least a few business days. Gojo lowers his hand under yours again and for a second, you think that he’s going to ask for it back. Instead, he lifts your hand slowly such that you have the chance to pull away. His eyes stay on yours until the last moment, before he lowers his mouth and presses a soft kiss to the ring.  Technically, it’s his ring and not your hand he kissed. Still, the warmth of his breath brushes your skin, and something bright and winged breaks loose in your stomach. Your fingers twitch once in his hold as your breath catches. His lashes lower into the kiss, before he opens his eyes again and looks up at you through them.  He smiles at you cheekily.   “Can’t run away from me now, can you?” he asks, lowering your hand just enough to comfortably interlace his own fingers with yours. “I never did give you my name that one time before but it’s Gojo Satoru, though it looks like you already know. Come sit with me.” 

‘Me’ ends up being him, and also his friends. Which is not as awkward as you thought it would be, mostly because the second Gojo opens the back door, Utahime and Shoko both sit up from where they’ve been lounging together on an outdoor chair like two cats disturbed mid-nap. Their fingers point at you at the exact same time.  “You!” “With him?”  “Hi guys.” You drop your hand from his under the piercing gaze of your friends. “How’s the party?” Gojo doesn’t say anything, only stepping around you with that easy, unbothered smile of his, and joining a conversation with some guys standing around the bonfire. 

Utahime’s backyard has been transformed into something of a cozy hangout spot. Cheap fairylights hang crooked from the overhead roof, blinking out of sink, and a few mismatched outdoor chairs and beanbags sit in a loose circle around a low table cluttered with cups, jackets, and a neat stack of cards. There’s a small lit fire further out, but you drag your eyes away from its company to focus on the people you do know.  Shoko shuffles closer to her girlfriend, patting the space next to her which you gratefully take. “Hold on, so did you find someone to make out with after all? And was it…?”  You quickly look back at Gojo who is now talking quietly with someone you don’t know, the long-haired boy nodding in serious thought at whatever is leaving his mouth. His eyes slide to you and when they meet yours, you flinch, looking away. “No! That’s not—God, my head is killing me. I didn’t make out with anyone, okay? I’m not here to find someone to hook up with.”  “Why are you here then?”  “You threatened me to come.” You point out.  “Well, you weren’t going to not come, that’s not in the cards.” Shoko presses you another cup into your hands and, because you have yet to learn your lesson from earlier, you take a trusting sip.  You almost choke out the battery acid when it hits your tongue, covering your mouth with your arm as you glare at your friends. “Oh, ew, Shoko. Seriously? Can’t you make something good for once? Your jungle juice is always so ass.”  “That’s how you know it works. Tongue loosened up yet? Why did you just walk out with Gojo? What’s going on between you two? Does he know now?”  You lean back into the seat at Shoko’s interrogation, and take another deep chug of Shoko’s disgusting drink. “Before you grill me, I have to grill you. Want to tell me what Naoya is doing at your party, Utahime?”  Utahime blinks. “Naoya is at my party?” 

“Was,” you correct yourself. “I think he got the message after I slapped him that he shouldn’t be here.”  “You slapped him?” Utahime sits up with a bright smile. “Oh my God, tell me you got that on video! To clear my name though, I definitely did not invite him. He must have snuck in or something.”  “Well, basically everyone saw so I’m sure there’s a video on someone’s story by now.” You look back at Gojo now standing with just one other guy. “Satoru just happened to be there at the right place and time to help. That’s it.”  When your friends don’t immediately press for more questions, you turn back and find them whispering and giggling to each other. When they feel your suspicious gaze, Shoko looks up. “Sorry, yes, right. Gojo saved you.”

Utahime clears her throat suddenly. “Wait, shut up. Three o’clock.”  You stiffen when a weight presses against you, someone’s body dropping into the narrow gap between you and the armrest. 

You instinctively shuffle closer to Shoko to make room, though there is not enough room to make. Your thigh presses ages his, shoulder brushing against yours, and his arm slides along the back of the chair, not quite touching your neck, but close enough that your skin tingles.  Shoko mutters, “This chair is clearly only meant for three.”  “I’d hate to think you don’t want me here,” Gojo says cheerfully. “What are we talking about? Me?”  “Your head is so far up your ass you only ever think of yourself,” Utahime grumbles.  You freeze, unsure where your limbs should go when you’re pressed up to the person behind the faceless voice in your walls. Admittedly, this realisation comes a little late. You should have armed your walled defenses the moment Gojo had grabbed your wrist and pulled you behind him, should have simply walked away after slapping Naoya (that was a non-negotiable, canon event) instead of letting him drag you back where you’re now trapped. Because he doesn’t know you’re her. And right now when you’re drunk and unsteady on your feet and thoughts? This might be the worst possible time for him to find out.  “That over there is Suguru,” Gojo suddenly leans in to say, breath ghosting the shell of your ear. His voice sends shivers down your neck and along your spine, every sensation suddenly all too much. The fabric that isn’t your own grazing high on your thigh, his hair tickling your cheek, his feet nudging yours slightly so you can move over just a little bit more for him.  “That’s Kento, with the frown and beside him is Yuu, without the frown. And those, on the table, are my Digimon cards. Who the fuck brought them out here?”  Haibara laughs. “Geto did! We were playing truth or dare with them!”

“You’re lucky that’s my dupe deck or I’d end this friendship right here and now,” Gojo says, an easy grin on his face as if he wasn’t pressing up against you, his chest warm and hard against your side, your elbow awkwardly jutting into him.  Your hand flexes around the cup, and the ring shifts slightly on your finger. Gojo’s gaze drops to it for half a second, a private little smile cutting across his mouth before he looks back at the table.  “We heard about what happened inside,” Geto says. “Are you okay?”  Would it be too late to suddenly go mute? If you’re able to recognise Gojo by his voice, then the chances of him putting name to face with the girl next door and you is also very high. Though, considering the way he isn’t immediately pulling you aside to ask if you are indeed the voice in his walls, you want to believe that he has yet to figure out your identity.  So no, it isn’t too late to go mute.  You nod in response to Geto’s question and flash him a smile, hoping none of it comes off as rude.  Gojo hums beside you, the vibration travelling through your bodies. He leans down to speak into your ear, a conversation just for you. “Not much for words? What happened to all the snark earlier?” You stall for time by taking a long sip of Shoko’s concoction, the sting temporarily skyrocketing to the top of your concerns. This may or may not be a bad idea because now that you’re seated, all the previous drinks sloshing around in your stomach and this adding sip burning down your throat, you feel the world tip a little. You probably can’t deflect this question, not when he asks like this, so you settle for something else.  Clearing your throat, you try for a lower octave than usual. “I only talk to the people that deserve it,” you say, then let out a small huff at how ridiculous you sound.  The grin he shoots you is all confidence and self-assurance, leaning in a fraction closer. “How would you know if you’ve never given me a chance?”  “It’s pointless, I already know what you’re like.” Maybe it’s the bonfire or the drink in your hand but you are getting really warm. You take another long sip. 

“We talked for ten minutes max the other day, I highly doubt that,” he cocks his head at you. “Do I know you from somewhere else?”  You hum. “Maybe.” 

“I think I would remember someone like you.”  That causes you to raise an eyebrow, letting his casual flirt roll off you.  “Flattery,” you start, poking his chest. You let him catch your hand in his, holding it there against his heart, “won’t get you anywhere especially when it’s empty.” “Who said it was empty? Besides, I know I wouldn’t forget such a pretty girl.” “Oh, you would. You are.” You laugh again, finding the inside joke hilarious. “Try a little harder to remember, hm Satoru?”  The challenge makes his eyes glow just like you knew they would, always have known from the moment when a wall still separated the two of you and he had laughed at your provoking, all dark and not humourous at all.  “Maybe if you gave me a name.” You’re not quite ready to hear his name from your lips just yet so you only shake your head, wagging your finger at him playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” “I’m usually a patient man and I’m all for the chase,” he starts, fingers inching closer, brushing hair from the back of your neck as he leans in, “but you’ve left me high and dry for so long.” His words go in one ear and out the other, your breath hitching at the slightest touch. Despite yourself, you gulp and taste the bitter alcohol in your mouth. You feel it too, warmth pooling in your gut and making your head spin.  “I’m not an easy person,” you whisper, eyes flickering down to his lips and you bite your own, the rush of all your fantasies suddenly overwhelming you. In all other them, you’ve never once imagined his lips on yours, not until now. And you don’t doubt that after this, you'll be thinking of them often.  “Trust me,” he chuckles. “You’re not easy, you’re stubborn as hell and you always give me a hard time.” As if sensing your temptation, Gojo’s eyes trace the way your teeth dig into your lip, watching the pull before you release it, red and slightly jutted out. It makes him want to sink his teeth into your bottom lip and lick the marks it leaves behind. 

Your breath hitches. He leans in slightly, looking up to search your face and wait to see if you’ll pull back. When you don’t, when he accepts whatever look is in eyes, he leans forward more. The anticipation builds and morphs into budding frustration when he continues to play this game of chicken, giving you countless moments to pull away if needed even when you’ve shown no sign of stopping.  Shoko clears her throat and you jump, accidentally crushing your solo cup. The liquid bursts up and flows down your wrist and into your lap.  “Shit!” you curse, immediately jumping up and pulling the fabric away from your skin.  Gojo quickly follows, one hand hovering on your lower back in case you tip back.  “Oh, fuck,” Shoko says. “You okay?”  “Yeah, it’s just super sticky.” You wince, accepting the tissues Nanami hands you though they do little good. “Ew, it’s, like, sticking to my skin.”  Utahime speaks up, watching you from over the rim of her cup. “There’s a bathroom down the corridor. Gojo knows where it is, he can show you.” “And maybe the two of you can make out there instead of right in front of us,” Geto says offhandedly, though his cup can’t completely hide his grin. The people around the table giggle at his words, Shoko probably the loudest.  You blush, immediately going to deny his accusations but Gojo beats you to it. “Shoko and Utahime are one second away from eating each other’s faces off but no one says anything about that!”

“That’s because this is my party, Gojo.”  “Yeah, well it was my party that got you two together,” Gojo shoots back childishly.  Everyone laughs again, chattering as they descend into the topic of other inside jokes, playing word association as they leap from memory to memory. There’s a sense of belonging that oozes from everyone as they lean into one another and talk and gossip. You might have appreciated this moment more, enjoyed the fact that they’re allowing you into this intimate moment, if not for the sudden blossoming warmth inside you. Before you can really think about it, you tug on Gojo’s shirt.  He immediately leans down, angling his ear to you. “Hm?” 

“Take me to the bathroom?”  Gojo stiffens, eyes flickering to your face then down your body. He bites his lip hard to focus, ignoring the temptation to let his mind wander at your innocent words. They had to be innocent, right? You, who was now looking up at him through your lashes with a pout playing on your lips, one hand tugging on the hem of his shirt, thumb rolling over the fabric slowly. You who was fidgeting ever so slightly, thighs rubbing together due to the cold. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, all humour gone. “Let’s go.”  Someone cheers behind you as Gojo helps you up and opens the back door for you, though neither of you seem to care. He doesn’t bother with answering greetings, only smiling shortly as you pass familiar people, something more impatient when he guides you than before.  He leads you down a corridor and into a dark room, closing the door behind you. Your heart leaps to your throat until he turns on the light, and you wince at the brightness.  “Sorry, pretty. Should’ve warned you,” Gojo says, only looking vaguely apologetic as he leans against the closed door, one hand still on the knob like he’s giving you a chance to back out.  He watches you carefully, tracing the line of your jaw, the slightest twitch of your brow and then, his favourite part, the flush climbing your cheeks. “The bathroom should be safer than a spare room. Who knows who is in there doing what.” You hesitate. “You didn’t have to follow me in.” 

“No?” He tilts his head, eyes roaming over you before settling smugly on your face. “You’re still holding onto my shirt. Maybe let go if you want to sound convincing.”  You shiver, letting go immediately and stepping back closer to the sink. You open your mouth to say something, a stupid excuse perhaps, but he beats you to it.  “You cold?”  “What?” “Earlier.” His eyes fall to your legs. “You were fidgeting. Thought maybe you were cold. Call me a desperate guy if you want, but don’t ask a guy to take you somewhere private while looking at me like that.”  “Like what?”  Gojo pushes off the door and you take a step back instinctively. “Like you wanted me to misunderstand you.”  You hesitate, looking around the bathroom. He seems to notice, and stops immediately, eyes softening. “Hey, I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Just shove me away and I’ll go, I promise.”  “It’s not that,” you bite your lip.  “Then what is it, pretty?”  “You talk too much. You’re too loud,” you manage to say, warm despite the chill of the drink on you. “Always have been.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Yeah?”  “Yes.”  “Good.” He takes one step closer. “Then make me shut up.”  Your back meets the sink before you realise you have moved, the contrast of cold porcelain against your overheated skin making you gasp. He’s on you in an instant, hands roaming down your side until they’re gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.  “You’re so tense,” he murmurs against your neck. “You have no idea I’ve been watching you all night, do you? That little skirt? This tiny little top?”  He slaps your tits and you jolt, looking up at him in surprise to which he only grins down at you. You can’t seem to form a coherent thought, not when there’s alcohol swimming in your veins and turning your limbs to jelly, mind to fog. Still, you manage to say, “Did you just slap my boob?” “Don’t act like you didn’t like it. If I shove my hand down your skirt, am I going to find you wet, pretty?”  His knee nudges between your thighs, spreading them open as he steps closer.  “You are so gross—” you start, but he cuts you off with his mouth on yours.  The kiss is brutal and demanding all at once. His tongue slides against yours, tasting of expensive liquor and something sweet, or maybe that’s just your taste and he’s shoving it back against your mouth. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, tilting your head back. 

He breaks the kiss only to trail his lips down your throat, sucking hard at the pulse point. “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve wanted this since the first time I heard you. You have quite the perverted streak to you, don’t you?” Your breath hitches. His hand slides down, palm flat against your stomach, then lower. He doesn't bother with the fabric of your panties, just pushes them aside and drags his fingers through your slick folds. “Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re soaked. And you're gonna tell me you weren't dreaming about this? Getting yourself off to the thought of me touching you like this?”  His middle finger sinks into you without warning. You cry out, a sound that would be embarrassing if you had any sense left. But all you can feel is the stretch, the fullness, the way your body clenches around him desperately. “That's it,” he coos, tone shifting to something truly mocking. “You’re really feeling it now, aren’t you?”  He adds a second finger, fucking them into you with a rhythm that has your knees buckling. His thumb circles your clit in lazy, torturous circles. You're already so close, the buildup of tension from hours of dancing, of drinking, of watching him across the room, it all crashes toward a peak. “Please,” you whimper. “Please what? Use your words, pretty.” “Please fuck me,” you manage to gasp, fantasy and reality crashing together in a dizzying mess.  He pulls his fingers out abruptly, and you groan at the loss. But then you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, the zipper of his pants, and your mouth waters. He takes himself in hand, strokes once, twice, and then the blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance. “Look at me,” he commands.

You force your eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, a little furrow between his brows. 

“Are you with me?” he asks, brushing your hair out of your eyes.  You nod, rutting forward pathetically.  “Come on, pretty, I need to hear you say it.” “I’m here!” you choke out, gasping. “Please, I want this, I promise I—I want you. Satoru, please.” He groans, the tip of his cock pressing forward beyond that little ring of resistance, swearing at the involuntary thrust. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you.”  He noses into your temple, inhaling deeply, one thumb holding you open as he presses in and groans, filthy and depraved.  “Fuck—you’re so tight,” he gasps, cock stuttering through until he’s buried deep.  The sensation of being stretched wide open on his cock makes you tense, before a ragged, grateful cry escapes your swollen lips. You can barely breathe through your nose, head spinning with pleasure.  “Oh god, oh my god!” you cry out, head thrown back. 

“Shh,” he hisses against your ear, his breath hot and sweet. His cock rams into you—a thick, punishing rhythm he picks up easily—and every thrust pushes your back against the sink. “You gotta stay quiet, angel. We don't want anyone hearin’ how much of a slut you are, do we?” But of course, all good things have to come to an end because through the hazy pleasure, you hear a grating voice.  “Hey! Y/N! I know you're in there!” You can recognise Naoya’s voice anywhere even, it seems, when you’re being fucked for every inch of your life.  Gojo’s hand closes around your mouth as he looks at you, grunting softly with every thrust. He pulls out briefly and you whine until he turns you around and presses you up against the cold tiles, driving up into you like he never left. His rhythm doesn’t falter, if anything, he pounds harder.  “Mm-mm,” you try to say, shaking your head, panic rising. He doesn't stop. He slams into you and your body jolts, your forehead knocking against the tile. “I said I know you're in there!” Naoya's voice is slurred, angry. He kicks the door. “Open the fuck up! We need to talk!” Gojo’s hand slides off your mouth though not enough to leave completely. It’s just his palm moving, his fingers hooking into the corner of your lips, prying your mouth open. Two of them slip inside, salty with your own slick, and he pushes them back until you're gagging.

“Answer him,” Gojo whispers, his lips brushing your ear. “Go on. Tell him you’re busy.”

You can’t. His fingers are deep in your throat. You gag, tears springing to your eyes, and he just laughs, low and dark. “Oh, right. You can't talk with my fingers in your mouth, can you?” He pulls them out, slick and wet, and wraps them around your jaw, tilting your face toward the door. “Try again. Use your words.” “Naoya,” you choke out, your voice wrecked, breathless. “I’m—I’m fine. Just—” “Just what?” Gojo thrusts, hard, and your sentence crumbles into a gasp. His cock sinks so deep you feel it in your stomach. “Just getting fucked stupid? Tell him the truth.” There’s a beat of silence. You can picture Naoya on the other side of the door, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, certainly enraged. “You’re lying. I can hear you breathing. Open the fucking door.” Gojo’s hips slow. He pulls almost all the way out, leaving just the tip, and then drives forward in one smooth, devastating motion. You cry out, quickly muffled by your own hand. “Don't make me break this door down,” Naoya warns. Gojo chuckles, right in your ear. “He sounds mad. Poor guy. You really do know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” He leans closer, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re not his anymore, are you? You're mine. For tonight, anyway.” He fucks you slow now, deep and deliberate, his cock dragging along every inch of your walls. You feel every ridge, every vein and your legs tremble in the delicious drag.

“Tell him,” Gojo whispers, “that you’re busy. That you don’t have time for him anymore. ‘Cause he’s nothing to you now, right? Tell me he’s nothing to you.”  You swallow, wanting nothing more than to open your mouth and babble about how incredible it is to get railed in a bathroom, how brainless Gojo’s cock is making you but you have to be good, he’s waiting for you. So instead, you manage to say, “Naoya, leave me—ngh—alone!” Naoya growls at the closed door before him, even going so far as to stomp his feet like a petulant kid. “Fine! Fucking fine, Y/N! But I promise you, you’ll regret this! I’ll make sure you do!”

Sure, you think, eyes rolling back, as if your Etsy witch can touch me anymore when Gojo is fucking me. You slump forward, relief flooding you when you hear his footsteps retreating, but Gojo doesn’t let you rest. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and resumes his brutal pace. “Good girl,” he purrs. His voice is different now, softer, honeyed and  almost affectionate. “Such a good fucking girl. You did so well. You listened. You obeyed.” He kisses your shoulder, open-mouthed, wet. “See? I knew you could be good for me.” The whiplash is dizzying and it only makes you arch more, something inevitable and delicious approaching in the far distance.  “That's right,” he murmurs, still fucking you deep and slow. “You took that so well. Pretended you weren’t getting your tight little cunt stuffed while your ex was right outside. That takes skill, pretty. You’re so fucking perfect for me.” His hand snakes around your front, fingers finding your clit. He rubs slow, tight circles, and your hips buck. “Bet you've been practicing, haven't you?” His voice is a low, knowing drawl. “All those nights you thought nobody was listening. Thought nobody could hear you moaning. But weren’t you the one to tell me? The walls are thin as shit, angel.” He’s ramming into you now, fast and rough again, his words spilling out between each thrust and all you can do is be a ragdoll in his hold.  “You'd lie in bed, late at night, fingers in your pussy, listening to me stroke my cock. I’d hear you. The wet sounds. The little ‘oh, yes’s. And I’d think... fuck, I need to have that. I need to feel that cunt clench around me.” You're dizzy, overwhelmed. His hand on your clit, his cock in your cunt, his words in your brain, it’s all too much. “Did you think I didn’t recognize you at the party tonight? The girl with the needy little moans?” He bites your earlobe, hard enough to sting. “I’ve been waiting for an excuse to corner you. And then you showed up drunk and sad, with that asshole on your heels, and I knew tonight was the night.” He’s watching you in the mirror and you catch his reflection. His eyes are dark, lips parted, face flushed. He’s absolutely beautiful.

“I'm gonna fill you up,” he growls. “Gonna pump my cum so deep inside you it leaks out for days. And when you walk past my door tomorrow, you're gonna know. You’re gonna remember this. You’re gonna touch yourself to the memory, and I’ll be right there, on the other side of the wall, stroking myself to the sound of you coming undone.” His hips slam into you. Once, twice, three times. You feel the pressure building, the coil in your belly tightening to the point of pain. “Satoru—” you gasp, hands fumbling for purchase on the wall.  “I know, angel, I know. Cum for me,” he demands. “Wanna finally feel you cum on my cock—fuck.” You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around him, your body shaking. You cry out his name—Satoru—and he follows a second later, buried to the hilt, his cum hot and thick inside you. He holds you there, both of you breathing hard, sweat-slick and sticky. Then he pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip down your thigh. “Good girl,” he says again, his voice a warm, approving caress. He turns you around, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you, soft, tender, unhurried. “You did so well, pretty. So, so good for me.” Your knees are weak and he notices, turning you and pressing you to his chest to keep you upright. He continues to whisper in your ear as your senses return to you, and when you finally lift a hand to gently push at his chest, he lets you, eyes immediately flickering down to your eyes.  “Still with me?”  You nod, before you fall forward into his arms. 

When your body breaks down alcohol, it converts the ethanol into acetate, a process that produces a lot of NADH from NAD⁺. The imbalance of the NADH⁺ ratio leads to the feelings of weakness and grogginess that come from a horrible night out.  You wake now, approximately ninety percent NADH and ten percent regret.  For a while, you refuse to move. You only stare at your ceiling, blinking slowly at the familiar crack in the paint above your head, the soft grey light pressing through the curtains, the horrible cotton-dry feeling your tongue against the top of your mouth.  How the fuck did you get home? Your own bed, in most cases, the preferred place to wake up after all. It’s safe, it’s familiar, and most importantly, it’s yours. But the last thing you remember is not collapsing into the warmth and security of your own bed. The last thing you recall comes in fragments: Utahime’s party, Gojo’s hands on your body, the bathroom light flickering too bright overhead, the sink cold behind you and his voice low in your ear.  And then nothing. You suppose there are brief pieces after that, blurry and soft around the edges. Glimpses of a car window, someone cursing under their breath, the sound of your keys jingling and the vague sensation of being carried. That one must have been a drunken hallucination because it’s humiliating and therefore cannot be the truth.  You fumble for your phone which is not beside your pillow where you usually place it after your nightly doomscroll before bed, but placed neatly on your bedside table. There’s a few texts from friends on your lock screen, but there’s only one person you want to text. 

shoko: alive?

actually don’t answer if you’re dead

if you’re alive though please drink some water and let me know that you’re ok 

You laugh softly. Why did you jump to conclusions so quick? Of course it was Shoko that took you home! Who knew her upper body strength was so good that she managed to carry you into your own bed after a night of drinking. 

you: im alive!!

thank u so much for taking me home btw 

i owe u :3

She quickly reacts to your message with a heart before the typing indicator appears. 

shoko: i didn’t take u home (?) 

gojo did obv

he WHAT? is probably what you’re thinking but please remember to breathe and drink some water before you crash out 

You are, in fact, thinking he what?And because Shoko accurately called you out on that, you decide to follow through on the rest of her advice. You turn your head and stop a sticky note stuck to the glass of water beside your head, bright yellow and neat as a warning label. 

water is important when you’re recovering from a hangover! — satoru

Then, a little to the left, attached to a packet of painkillers, 

because i know your head probably feels like shit rn — still me 

“Oh my god,” you whisper, unsure whether to laugh or to run away. 

You do neither because your head really does hurt like a motherfucker, and take the painkillers along with a generous gulping or two of water. The cool liquid does little against the parched nature of your throat, but when you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, you feel alive enough to venture out of your bed.  There’s a sticky note on the ground next to a pair of slippers you swore you had separated, one in the kitchen one somewhere in the living room. 

the ground is cold! wear slippers! — forever urs :3

“Forever yours?” you repeat aloud, voice wrecked with sleep and dehydration even as you shove your toes in. 

There’s another note on the back of your bedroom door. 

no matter what u see in the mirror remember you’re beautiful! — shrek to ur fiona?

You open your bedroom door and make your slow, regretful way to the bathroom where you lay your tired eyes on your puffy face. You have definitely seen better days. There’s another note stuck to your mirror. 

face wash is on the left toothbrush is on the right if you use the face wash as toothpaste, that’s between you and god — not your doctor 

Huffing out a sound that might be amusement, you pick up your toothbrush and ensure you squeeze toothpaste onto its bristles. The toothpaste is minty and makes your eyes water slightly, but by the time you rinse your mouth, you feel one step closer to not feeling like the undead. 

There’s another note stuck to the towel rack. 

if ur eyes are puffy, put a cold compress over them! — still not a doctor

From the bathroom back to your room for a change of clothes and even on your way to the kitchen, you’re guided by a series of sticky notes. 

clean clothes! i didn’t look through your drawers dw — feminist 

welcome to the kitchen! huge milestone for you — ur biggest fan 

water already boiled in here so when you wake up to reboil it it’ll take less time — the kettle knower 

drink real water first before the coffee !! seriously don’t put coffee in me just yet — mug 

soup inside on the second shelf :3 not homemade so don’t get too excited i’m handsome, not magical i couldn’t have it both ways — :(

in the microwave for two minutes with lid half on! take it out when it’s boiling — the soup sipper 

You finally feel alive enough to laugh, embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your kitchen. You stand there in your slippers, teeth brushed, face washed, and dressed in clothes when any other time you might have still been under the covers. 

The apartment feels full of him. A note when you open your utensil drawer for a spoon, a note sitting on top of a coffee pod conveniently placed on your counter, a note against the body of a vase you’ve placed on your dining table to feel more homey. 

eat slowly, you get hiccups when you rush! 

The notes take you away from your drying rack when you’ve finished the store-bought soup and washed your spoon, taking you to your living room. Your camera sits on your coffee table, a sticky stuck on the surface that reads: “turn me on ><” You roll your eyes but do so, lifting it up and framing the sorry state of your living room before hitting the record button. The first shot captures just how many sticky notes litter the surface of almost every object, the words telling you a funny joke or reminding you to put something back. You take your time walking through all of them, his handwriting everywhere, his name everywhere (except when he decides to write down a silly nickname). 

Satoru.

Satoru.

Satoru.

Then, you find the last one on your front door. 

if you’re overwhelmed, you don’t have to open this today. if you’re angry at me, just yell at me through the wall :( if you’re okay, i’d like to see you — satoru

And then, before you can think it through, you reach forward and open your door.  Gojo stands in the hallway, a bouquet of flowers clutched in both hands like he’s praying. His eyes light up when you open your door and he moves forward instinctively. He’s so close that the toe of one sock is nearly edging over the threshold of your apartment.  You let out a short scream.  He startles just as badly, eyes going wide as he reaches forward on instinct to steady you, and your camera slips from your hand. “Oh—”  It hits the floor before either of you can grab it, bouncing once, then sliding sideways across the carpet until it knocks gently against the leg of your couch. The camera keeps recording from there, tilted on its side. It catches the lower half of your open door, Gojo’s socked feet in the hallway, your bare feet on the carpet, and the hem of your sweater falling over your shorts. “Are you okay?” he asks in a rush. 

“What are you doing standing right in front of my door, you creep?” you shoot back, one hand pressed to your chest. “Were you standing there the entire time?” 

“I was trying to be romantic.” He shoves the bouquet toward you, panic making his voice crack at the edges. “I literally got you flowers!”  You take them automatically, bewildered by the weight of roses in your hands. “Thank you? Is that why you’ve littered all over my apartment?”  His face falls. “Was that not cute?” 

You blink. “Cute?”  “Did you not think it was cute?” he asks, suddenly horrified. “Because I thought it was cute. I mean, not in a weird way. Well, maybe a little weird. But intentional weird. Charming weird.” 

“The sticky notes?” He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I’ve never done anything like this before, okay? This whole romance thing is seriously above me, I have no idea how I’m meant to ask you this without scaring you away.”  You stare at him for a long while before laughing. The sound pulls from your throat loud and bright that it almost hurts with an incoming headache, but it’s so funny you just can’t stop. “I knew you had no experience with women. I called it all along, didn’t I?” “Please, this and that are completely unrelated.” His shoulders seem to relax at your laugh, and he finally cracks a smile, running a hand through his hair. “You never were going to make it easy for me, were you?” 

“Easy? When you’ve just left forty sticky notes in my apartment and then lurked outside my door?” His smile trembles, trying to stay bright, but the nerves are still there beneath it. You can see them now that you know to look. The way his fingers flex at his side, the way his eyes keep flickering from your face to the threshold like he is measuring the exact line he is not allowed to cross.  “I wasn’t lurking,” he says, quieter. “I was waiting.”  Your fingers tighten around the bouquet.  Gojo looks down at it, then back at you. “I wanted to knock earlier, but I thought if you woke up and saw me before you were ready, you’d panic.” “Please, I wouldn’t have panicked.”  “You literally panicked ten seconds ago.” “Touche.” You look at him for a short while before glancing down at your slippered-feet. “I’m still scared, honestly. I think I’ve been cursed in every possible aspect of love. That’s why when I heard your voice all the way back during that carwash event, I didn’t want you to know it was me. It would break what we had going on through the wall and I liked that. It felt like something I could just keep to myself. And then I found out you were Satoru and it was obvious you weren’t just mine anymore.”  Gojo lets you talk, lets you call him Gojo again without saying a single word until you finish. Then he says, “Were you disappointed?”  “No,” you say immediately. “It wasn’t like that.” 

He smiles then, head tilting to the side. “Then I can be just Satoru. Just your Satoru, if that helps.”  It’s so stupidly cheesy that you have to scoff, even as your cheeks warm.  “I’m serious,” he chuckles along with you, stepping a little closer. “I liked being 4B. I liked that you knew me when I was just some guy through the wall that you liked talking to. I liked talking to you through blackouts and through shitty phone calls. I liked what we had too. Have, if you’ll let me.” “Are you asking me out?” He huffs, a weary smirk on his face. “Isn’t it obvious?”  Instead of answering him, you shove the bouquet of flowers back into his chest, watching as his brows furrow in confusion, before you’re reaching forward to cup his face and kiss him. In one suspended second, Gojo simply stands there doing absolutely nothing. He freezes so completely beneath your hands that, if you risked opening your eyes, you might find his bright blue ones staring back at you. His lips are still against yours, the rest of him gone rigid, roses crushed between his chest and yours, fingers locked around the stems not quite sure what else to do.  You almost pull back. 

But then, in a rush of movement, the bouquet is gone.  He throws it blindly into your apartment with a kind of urgent, graceless force that makes several roses scatter across your carpet. Before you can laugh, his arms are around you.  One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close enough you half tread on his feet, other hand coming up to cradle the side of your face, warm and shaking just slightly. Nothing in the world has ever felt so right.  There’s too much smiling in the kiss, and your noses are pressed awkwardly for the kiss to be smooth but then he tilts his head and gets it right.  You kiss him until your lungs begin to object and then slowly, you pull away. Gojo follows you for half a second before he catches himself, eyes opening slowly. His pupils are blown wide, hair a mess, and his mouth is parted without anything clever coming out of it.  “So,” he licks his lips, eyes flickering down for a moment. “Is that a yes?”  From the floor, your camera continues recording from its crooked angle. It captures none of it neatly, not your face and not his, not the way his thumb brushes your cheek. It catches the fall of the roses, the way your bodies draw the other in in a rush, the stumbling as he walks you back into your apartment and you both disappear from the frame in a fit of giggles and whispered words.  “Yes, Satoru,” you laugh, letting him guide you further into your apartment. “It’s a yes.”  Later, when you edit the film, you leave the shot in. It isn’t as graceful as it could be nor will it win an Oscar in cinematography, but for your love assignment, you decide that this will do. 

You don't hesitate, tossing your bag to your feet and climbing over the console until both of your thighs are on either side of him and your pussy is pressing against the print of his hard cock.

The windows were tinted dark. Nobody could see. Nobody would know.

"You talk to him about chemistry?"

He twists your necklace before he starts to unbutton your cardigan, fingers brushing against your skin. You're too stupefied to talk as he pushes the fabric off your shoulders, his hand sneaking under your t-shirt to unsnap your bra and pull it off.

"Let's talk about biology instead."

He pushes your shirt up and lowers his mouth to your chest, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking hard. You toss your head back and let out a loud moan, fingers finding his hair to hold onto and gripping tight.

"You're s-so needy when you get j-jealous." You whimper, grinding against his jeans, skirt rising up your hips, body shivering when he bit down gently.

"Hmm, you like that?" He pulls back, his lips wet as he smirks at you.

You nod shyly, wrapping your arms around his neck and settling deeper onto his lap.

He slid his hand up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher until he found the damp heat between your legs. Your panties were soaked and he grins, an annoyingly cocky grin that made you want to slap him and ride him at the same time.

“This f'me? Or were you thinking about his big brain?” He pressed two fingers against your clit through the thin fabric, rubbing slow circles.

“You!” You gasp, chest heaving. “Always you. He’s nothing—ah!”

He shoved your panties aside and pushed two fingers inside your dripping cunt, curling them just right. Your hips bucked as you cried out, and he used his other hand to pin you down.

“Say it again.”

“You, Gojo. Only you.”

“That’s my good girl.” He finger fucks you hard, the wet sound obscene in the quiet car, your juices dripping down his fingers while kisses you to shut you up.

The way your pussy was clenching around Gojo's fingers had him leaking pre and staining his boxers. He felt like he was going to burst if he didn't fuck you soon.

He can feel you shaking, getting closer but before you can cum, he's pulling his fingers out of you and into his mouth, ignoring the shocked look on your face. His tongue swirls around his fingers, licking them clean and pulling off with a pop.

"Lift your hips."

When he smacks the side of your ass, you yelp but do as he says, lifting high enough for him to unzip his jeans and pull them down with his boxers.

He strokes his hard cock once, twice, watching you watch him and it has his own cheeks heating. Your glasses were crooked, lips swollen and red from his kisses and his self control snapped.

He didn’t tease, growing annoyed again when an image pops up of you smiling at that fucking loser. He grips your hip with one hand and uses the other to line himself up with your entrance. He uses his cock to push your panties aside and with one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside of you to the hilt.

"Satoru! Oh fuuck."

Gojo gives you a minute to adjust to his size, hand rubbing up and down your spine in a soothing manner while you whine against his neck. Slowly, he lifts your hips, teeth grinding from the grip your pussy has on his cock, and slams you back down.

He loves the way you're crying out and it only motivates him to go faster, his own hips rising to meet yours. Fuck, you were so wet and warm and he had to actively fight back his moans.

He knows you love when he's vocal but right now he was punishing you, so he bit his lip and fucked you harder.

"Who do you belong to?” he asked again, his voice cracking when you clench around him.

"Y-you. I'm sorry Toru, I'll n-never talk to him again."

He chuckles, pulling your mouth down to his and sucks your bottom lip into his mouth. Your lipgloss tastes like strawberries, so sweet he can't help but nibble on it a little.

"Such an obedient girl." He fucks you faster, his abdomen wet and sticky with your arousal, your ass smacking against his thighs whenever your bodies meet.

When Gojo presses his thumb against your clit and flicks it, the knot in your stomach tightens harder, twisting as you get closer to your high.

"Haaah, m'gonna cum Toru!"

He doesn't stop, just grunts and rubs you faster until you're spilling over the edge, body glitching as you buck wildy against him, head dropping to his neck as your orgasm rocks your world.

Your breath is hot against Gojo's neck and his balls swell before he's busting a fat nut inside of you, hot ropes of gooey cum painting your walls in his DNA.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Despite his best efforts he can't stop the groans that escape his lips, deep and long, his hands squeezing your thighs as he twitches and empties himself inside of you.

Gojo's hips stutter as he pushes the last of his orgasm out, arms wrapping around your body and pulling you tight. Maybe you should keep talking to other guys so he can relive this moment over and over.

You grunt when his cock slips out, his cum instantly oozing out but he uses two fingers to rub at your clit, moving to your hole and pushing it back inside. He keeps them snug in your cunt, cocking jumping back to life as he uses his other hand to pull your lips to his.

The kiss is filthy, his tongue swirling against yours as you swap spit. His stomach flutters when you grind against his hand, his nerdy little slut.

When Gojo pulls back, he fixes your glasses and lifts your hips again, lining his once again, hard cock back up with your entrance and slowly pulling you down.

"Now what did we learn?" He asks once he's buried deep, his balls pushing against your ass.

"T-that, huuhh, that I shouldn't laugh at other g-guys jokes."

He kisses you again before pushing his seat back until he was almost laying down, his hands holding onto your waist.

"Atta girl. Now ride me until I tell you to stop."

❦ lisa's note: thanks for this request, it was fun to write! can you tell I love car sex? anyways something quick while I work on the arrangement ♡

gojo sluts: @rhaewinsdaughter @timgiohlover1767 @kissprl @lunevarin @keiito066 @pinkpantherrrrss @lounastar @luvs-angel @luvbambiboo @scramblenigojo @nationalmegumidihhopper @jisojoriver @lilactaro @mimicosmos8 @billiondollarworth @ayla111 @lesyeuxdeginana @miizuzu @vivillow @biggkayyss @darkcatsxs @suguru4life @majemki @amayaaaxx @rachelily @rae06-12

perm tags: @icebearcucumber @tojisfavoritegun @writingintheskin @saturneni @sakurasweetiesworld-blog @sleeeepybee @locallyclementine @butterbeanandsparkleface @butterbeanandsparkleface @writtenbyjil @sukunas-one-n-only-peach @alliesheartsss @kookiieeswirl @mrskamikazekaito @blogster-b33 @stvsgsb @meowguumi @a-court-of-smut-and-sluts @mutsu422 @love-d-luxe @xojoln @stillhollow-kindofthere @srslyoceans

today’s first excursion is mount batur. the air is warm and humid, thick with the scent of earth and distant incense from nearby temples. volcanic steam rises in soft curls against the bright sky as your group makes its way up the trail. you’re practically glowing beside him, eyes wide with curiosity, leggings hugging your curves and one of his oversized shirts tied at your waist.

the tour guide some tall, friendly guy with an easy smile keeps talking, pointing out different rock formations.

“mount batur is still an active volcano,” he explains. “it last erupted in 2000, but the caldera lake below us is over a thousand years old. the balinese people consider this place sacred home to the goddess of the lake, dewi danu.”

you tilt your head, genuinely fascinated. “wait, so people actually cook breakfast with the steam from the volcano?”

the guide laughs warmly. “yes! you’ll see when we get closer to the top. the locals use the geothermal heat to boil eggs and even make babi guling sometimes. it’s one of the coolest things about living near an active volcano.”

“oh my god, that’s so cool.”

eren glances over at you. you’re asking question after question, completely in your element, and the guide is happily answering every single one. he can’t even be annoyed at that. you get excited over everything, and it’s one of the things he loves most about you.

still…

the guy sure is smiling a lot.

the trail gets steeper. loose rocks shift underfoot.

“careful,” the guide says, reaching a hand toward you as the path narrows. “this part can be tricky. the volcano’s last major eruption in 1963 actually reshaped a lot of this landscape.”

before eren can step forward, you’ve already taken the offered hand for half a second to steady yourself over the uneven ground.

“…thanks!”

“my pleasure.”

eren stares at the back of the guide’s head.

really?

he knows it’s literally the man’s job. he knows. doesn’t mean he has to enjoy watching another guy hold your hand even for a second.

i was right there.

i have hands too.

very capable hands.

you dust the dirt off your leggings and continue walking like nothing happened, already asking another question about the temple at the base of the mountain and its connection to the volcano’s spiritual significance.

eren catches up quickly, slipping his arm around your waist and pulling you a little closer than necessary.

the next day, eren told himself yesterday was just yesterday.

one overly friendly guide. a coincidence. that was all.

today would be better.

you guys are visiting uluwatu temple dramatic cliffs, ocean views, and ancient balinese architecture perched high above the sea. the air smelled like salt and frangipani, and the sun warmed everything in that perfect bali glow.

eren wanted to enjoy it. he really did.

but the moment the new guide greeted the group and somehow ended up walking right beside you within the first five minutes, that familiar pout started creeping back in.

“…and this part here,” the guide said, smiling warmly at you, “is one of the oldest sections of the temple. it survived multiple earthquakes and even a major fire in the 1800s.”

you looked up in awe, eyes sparkling. “seriously? it’s still standing after all this time?”

“it is. the balinese believe the gods protect it.”

“that’s so beautiful.”

eren watched the exchange from half a step behind.

of course.

you asked another question about the monkey forest nearby and the temple’s connection to the sea goddess. the guide answered enthusiastically, walking a little closer than eren liked.

you smiled.

the guide smiled back.

eren looked away, pinching the bridge of his nose.

not again.

as the group continued through the temple grounds, he caught more people glancing your way. some looked twice. one guy nearly walked into a low stone wall because he was too busy staring. another tourist fumbled his phone while looking at you trying to take it out of his pocket.

eren sighed internally.

i know she’s beautiful.

trust me. i know.

but does everybody else have to know too?

without saying a word, he slipped his fingers between yours, holding your hand a little tighter than usual.

you looked over at him. “hm?”

“nothing.”

“you sure?”

“yep.”

five minutes later, his arm had found its way around your shoulders. a few minutes after that, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek while the guide was busy explaining another shrine.

you laughed softly. “what was that for?”

“felt like it.”

you tilted your head, studying him. “you’ve been really clingy today.”

“i have not.”

“you literally haven’t let go of my hand since we got here.”

“…it’s crowded.”

“eren.”

“what?”

you smiled to yourself, squeezing his hand. “you’re jealous.”

“i’m observant.”

“mm-hmm.”

“i’m protecting my wife.”

“from who?”

he glanced around at the handful of tourists pretending not to stare, at the guide who kept finding reasons to talk directly to you.

“…everybody.”

you bit back a laugh, leaning into his side as you kept walking. eren’s arm stayed firmly around you, his thumb brushing your waist in slow, possessive circles.

he knew he was being a little ridiculous.

but with the way the sunlight kissed your skin and the ocean breeze played with your hair, making you look like you belonged on the cover of a romance novel… he couldn’t help it.

my wife.

mine.

and he was more than happy to remind the entire island of that today.

back at the villa, the afternoon light filtered softly through the open balcony doors, carrying the sound of waves and the faint scent of frangipani.

eren had already showered. he sat on the edge of the bed in nothing but loose black shorts, elbows on his knees, replaying the last two days in his head.

she’s beautiful. of course people look.

it’s not her fault.

it’s really not a big deal… right?

he tried to calm himself down. people look at pretty women. that’s just life. as long as no one actually approached her she was his wife, after all it shouldn’t matter.

but the more he thought about it, the more it irritated him. the smiles. the lingering glances. the way that guide kept finding reasons to stand next to her.

damn.

he ran a hand over his face, sighing.

the bathroom door opened.

you stepped out, skin still glowing from the shower, wrapped in a soft white robe. your boho braids were pulled up into a bun framing your face. you looked effortlessly beautiful relaxed, warm, and completely his.

eren lost his train of thought completely.

“whoa…”

you caught his stare and smiled, tilting your head. “what?”

he didn’t answer right away. just drank you in. then he leaned forward a little on the edge of the bed.

“come here.”

you walked over slowly, stopping between his spread legs. eren looked up at you like you were the only thing in the world.

“wow,” he murmured, hands sliding up the back of your thighs.

you leaned down and kissed him softly. he kissed you back, deep and slow, one hand cupping the side of your face.

you pulled back just enough to tease, “you like what you see?”

“yeah… i do.” his voice was low, sincere. “i love what i see.”

you raised an eyebrow, still smiling. “you don’t feel any type of way anymore?”

eren let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “hell no. i know i see you every day. i know i’m the one married to you.”

“mhm. thought so.”

you kissed him again, deeper this time. eren groaned softly into your mouth, hands tightening on your thighs. as the kiss grew hotter, you stood up straighter between his legs. he reached for the tie of your robe and gave it a gentle tug. the robe slipped open and fell to the floor in a soft heap, leaving you completely naked in front of him.

“oh my gosh…” he breathed, eyes roaming over your body like he was seeing you for the first time. “baby…”

you giggled, feeling both shy and powerful under his gaze. you pushed gently on his chest until he leaned back on the bed. then you climbed on top of him, straddling his lap.

eren’s hands immediately went to your ass, gripping firmly as you leaned down to kiss him again. the kiss turned messy fast tongues sliding, breaths mingling, little moans escaping. you started grinding slowly on him, feeling how hard he already was under the thin fabric of his shorts. he wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and the friction made both of you groan.

“fuck…” he muttered against your lips, hands squeezing your ass as he guided your movements, rocking you against him harder.

you kept grinding, rolling your hips in slow, deliberate circles while making out with him like you had all the time in the world. his shorts did nothing to hide how much he wanted you. every roll of your hips pulled desperate little sounds from both of you.

eren kissed you like he was trying to pour every bit of that lingering jealousy and love into it deep, hungry, and completely wrapped up in you.

you kept grinding on him, rolling your hips in slow, teasing circles, feeling how hard and ready he was beneath the thin fabric of his shorts. the friction was driving both of you crazy.

with a soft, mischievous smile, you reached down and tugged his shorts down. eren lifted his hips to help you, groaning as his cock sprang free, thick and heavy against his stomach.

“oh shit…” he breathed, eyes dark as he watched you.

you wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly a few times before lining him up. you sank down inch by inch, gasping at the stretch. he was so big you had to pause halfway, breathing through the intense fullness, adjusting to the way he filled you completely.

“easy, baby,” eren murmured, hands gripping your hips. “take your time. that’s it… just like that. you feel so fucking good already.”

once you were fully seated, you stayed there for a moment, both of you breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. then you started to ride him.

slow at first. deep rolls of your hips that had you moaning softly. eren groaned, head falling back against the bed as he helped guide you, hands squeezing your ass.

“fuck, look at you,” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. “riding me so pretty. you like how deep i am, baby? huh?”

“yes… oh my, eren,” you moaned, eyes rolling back as you picked up the pace. every bounce sent sparks through your whole body. he felt incredible thick, hard, hitting every perfect spot.

he started helping you more, bouncing you on his dick with strong hands, thrusting up to meet you. the wet, filthy sounds of skin slapping filled the room along with your moans.

“that’s my girl,” he groaned, eyes locked on where you two were connected. “look at you taking all of me. so wet… so fucking tight. you’re creaming all over me, baby. shit.”

your head fell back, moans getting louder as the pleasure built fast. eren sat up slightly, one arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer, sucking on your neck while he fucked you harder from below.

“you close already?” he whispered hotly against your skin. “i can feel you squeezing me. go ahead, baby. cum on this dick. let me feel it.”

you came hard with a broken cry of his name, body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed through you. eren groaned at the feeling of you pulsing around him, but he didn’t stop he fucked you through it, drawing out every last tremor.

before you could catch your breath, he flipped you over onto your back. he hovered over you, eyes dark and hungry.

eren pushed back inside you in one smooth thrust, your legs folding up toward your chest as he leaned over you. he started pounding into you deep and hard, the new angle making you see stars.

“oh—” you moaned, hands flying up to grip the back of his neck. his head dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing your skin as he fucked you relentlessly.

“feel so good,” he groaned against your neck. “this pussy is mine, baby. all mine.”

your moans turned into desperate cries. the pressure built fast again, overwhelming and intense. eren could feel it the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders.

“you’re close again, aren’t you?” he panted. “go ahead, baby. cum for me. squirt on this dick. i want to feel it.”

you came hard, squirting around him with a loud, broken moan. your whole body shook as the orgasm ripped through you. eren pulled out just in time, stroking himself fast as he watched you fall apart.

“shit—fuck, you look so good,” he groaned, head tilted back, muscles flexing as he stroked himself over you.

he came with a deep, guttural moan, thick ropes of cum landing across your breasts and stomach. he kept stroking himself through it, breathless and sexy, until he was spent.

for a moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing.

eren looked down at you, eyes soft and full of love despite the heat.

“damn, baby…” he whispered, leaning down to kiss you slow and deep.

eren pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard, eyes soft and full of love as he stared down at you. for a second, everything felt perfect just the two of you, tangled and warm.

then you wrinkled your nose.

“ew, eren,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “wipe your cum off of me. i literally just showered and now i’m all sticky!”

he blinked, then burst out laughing, the sound deep and genuine.

“my bad, baby,” he said, still chuckling as he went get a warm cloth in the bathroom.

“i got you.”

he cleaned you up carefully, gentle and thorough, pressing soft kisses to your stomach and between your breasts as he went. once you were clean, he went into the bathroom washing the cloth hanging it ,he came back laying on the bed next to you

holding you close against his chest.

you nestled into him, legs tangled, one hand resting over his heart.

after a comfortable silence, you tilted your head up. “you not jealous anymore?”

eren smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “nah. i’m good.”

“you sure?”

“yeah. i know who you come home to every night.”

you both stayed quiet for a moment, just enjoying the sound of the ocean outside and each other’s warmth.

then eren’s voice broke the silence again, a little too casual.

“…but real talk though. did you think that guide was cute?”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes wide. “eren! oh my gosh.”

he grinned, trying (and failing) to look innocent. “what? i’m just asking.”

you laughed, swatting his chest. “you are so annoying. no, i did not think he was cute. i was literally just asking questions.”

“mhm.”

“you’re jealous again already?”

“i’m not jealous,” he said, pulling you back down and burying his face in your neck. “i’m… observant.”

you giggled, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “yeah, okay, observant.”

eren smiled against your skin, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

“that’s my wife,” he mumbled happily.

And you’re so used to it, the casual touching, the way they both smell faintly of cedar and whatever cologne they stole from each other, that you never question how heavy their breathing gets when you shift and your ass presses back against Eren’s hips.

You yawn, stretch like a cat, and announce it without thinking.

“I’ve got a date tomorrow night.”

The room doesn’t freeze. Not exactly.

But the lazy thumb on your thigh stops dead. Toru’s fingers pause mid-scratch against your scalp. The only sound left is the muffled explosions from the television and the sudden harsh rhythm of Eren’s exhale through his nose.

“A date,” Eren repeats. Flat. Like he’s tasting something bitter.

“Yeah,” you hum, oblivious, scrolling through your phone now. “This guy from chem. He’s cute. Kinda tall. Said he’d take me to that new ramen place downtown.”

Toru’s voice comes quieter than usual. Almost gentle. “Tomorrow.”

“Mhm.” You tilt your head back to look up at him, smiling all sweet and glassy-eyed like you always do when you’re happy. “Why? You guys wanna come third-wheel? I can ask if he’s cool with it.”

Eren laughs, but it’s wrong. Sharp, with no humor in it at all.

He shifts under you suddenly, strong hands clamping around your hips, keeping you pinned right where you are. You squeak in surprise, thighs squeezing together on instinct.

“No,” he says. Low and dangerous. “We don’t wanna third-wheel, princess.”

Toru’s hand slides from your hair down to your throat…not choking, just… holding. Collarbone to jaw. His thumb brushing the soft skin under your chin so you have to look at him.

“You’re not going,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Huh?”

“You’re not going on a date,” Eren cuts in, voice rougher now, hips rolling up just enough that you feel exactly how hard he is. Not subtle. Not pretending anymore. The thick outline of him presses insistently against your ass through thin layers of fabric. “Not with him. Not with anyone.”

Your breath catches. You’re still trying to process, still trying to stay in that sweet, fuzzy headspace where they’re just your overprotective best friends so when Toru leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth soft, teasing and barely there, you're a bit stunned to say the least.

But Eren doesn’t tease.

He grabs your chin, turns your face towards him, and kisses you like he’s been starving for it. Deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours before you can even gasp. One hand fists in your hair while the other slips under the hoodie, rough palm skating up your bare stomach until he’s cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple like he’s done it a thousand times in his head, he grabs it and balls up the fabric in his palm and tugs it off you, throwing it behind the couch without care.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathing hard. Your lips are swollen. His eyes are dilated, black eating the emerald green.

“We’ve been good,” he rasps. “So fucking good. Letting you prance around in those tiny shorts, letting you sleep between us, letting you rub that pretty little body all over us every night like it’s nothing. But a date?” He laughs again low and bitter. “Nah, baby. That shit ends tonight.”

Toru’s mouth finds your neck. Open-mouthed, he sucks a bruise right under your jaw while his hand slides between your thighs, not touching your pussy yet, just cupping you over your panties, letting you feel the heat of his palm.

“You’ve been so sweet to us,” Toru whispers against your skin. “Letting us hold you. Letting us get hard and pretend it’s an accident. But we’re done pretending, baby.”

Eren’s fingers pinch your nipple harder and you whimper embarrassingly which makes them both look at each other in unison and smirk.

“We both think about this cunt every single night,” he growls. “Every time you fall asleep between us, we’re rock fucking hard imagining how tight you’d feel. How wet you are, how you’d cry our names when we finally stretch you open.”

Toru hums in agreement, middle finger pressing just enough against your clit through the cotton that your hips jerk.

“You’re ours,” he says simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been obvious. “Always have been. You just didn’t know we were waiting for permission to take what’s ours.”

Eren leans in again, lips brushing yours.

“Tell us you want it,” he murmurs. “Tell us you want both of us. Or we stop right now… and you can go on your little date tomorrow like a good girl.”

His thumb brushes your bottom lip.

“But if you do…” He smiles slowly, a feral glint in his eyes,"We're not letting you leave this couch until your pussy’s so full of us you can’t even think about another man’s name.”

Your thighs tremble.

Your heart hammers, you aren't entirely sure if the imagery Eren’s just conjured up is what has your body on fire and mind in disarray with boiling want. Do you really want them both at the same time, your best friends…were you always this naive about them or did you just realise that you want them too.. God, yes you fucking do.

And between them now, with their warmth, dicks hard and unyielding tension, you feel something inside you finally give in.

Soft and sweet and a little dumb with want.

“…please,” you whisper.

Eren groans like you just handed him the keys to heaven.

Toru smiles against your throat.

“Good girl.”

You’re still trembling from the way they pinned you down, Eren’s mouth bruising yours, Satoru’s teeth grazing your throat and when Toru shifts, sitting up straighter on the couch. His hoodie is rucked up just enough to show the sharp cut of his hips, the light trail of hair disappearing into gray sweats that are doing nothing to hide how fucking thick he is.

“Baby,” he says, voice all soft velvet now, “need your mouth.”

Your eyes drop automatically. His hand catches yours, guides it down slow until your palm presses flat over the obscene bulge. Even through the fabric you can feel the heat, the heavy throb. He’s so hard it looks painful, long, thick and curving up toward his stomach like it’s begging.

“See, baby? m’hard for you,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your knuckles while he makes you feel every inch. “Been like this every night you sleep between us. Couldn’t help it. Your little ass grinding back, those tiny whimpers you make in your sleep… fuck.”

You swallow. Your mouth feels too wet, too empty.

He tugs the waistband of his sweats down just enough. No underwear.. you think thats gross but also fucking hot ugh. Just him and his fat, flushed cock, the tip already slick and shiny with precum that beads at the slit and drips slow down the underside. It twitches when the cool air hits it. So pretty. So stupidly big. The kind of cock that makes your thighs clench on instinct.

You’re sweet about it. Always sweet. You lean forward without being told twice, pressing the softest, open-mouthed kiss right to the fat head. Your lips brush the sticky tip and he hisses through his teeth, hips jerking like he can’t help it.

“Good girl,” Toru breathes. One hand cups the back of your head, not pushing, just holding. “Just like that. Kiss it again. Taste me, pretty please.”

You do. Another slow, filthy kiss. Then another. Letting your tongue flick out to lap at the precum, salty and warm. He groans low in his throat.

“Open up, baby. Gonna teach you exactly how I like it.”

You part your lips. He guides himself in slowly, inch by thick inch, until the head sits heavy on your tongue. Your eyes water instantly at the stretch, but you don’t pull back. You just look up at him with those big, glassy eyes while he starts telling you what he wants.

“Suck the tip first.. yeah aaaah- just like that. Swirl your pretty tongue around it. Fuck… goodness baby. Now take a little more. Relax your throat for me, sweet thing. Breathe through your nose.”

You try. You really try. He’s so big it makes your jaw ache already, but the way he’s looking at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen makes you want to take all of him. You hollow your cheeks, suck soft, letting your tongue drag along the thick vein underneath.

Behind you, Eren’s been patient. Too patient.

His hands find the backs of your thighs, prying them apart until you’re spread wide across his lap. Cool air hits your soaked panties and you whimper around Toru’s cock.

“Come on, baby girl,” Eren growls against the shell of your ear. “Won’t you let me see this pretty pussy? Been dying to look at it properly.”

His fingers hook into the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side. You’re dripping. Embarrassingly so, strings of slick connecting your folds to the fabric when he pulls it away and he groans like he’s in pain.

“Fuck. Look at her, Toru. She’s fucking soaked.”

Toru’s hips stutter forward, pushing a little deeper into your mouth at the sight. You gag softly but keep going, drool's already slipping down your chin.

Eren’s fingers slide through your folds slowly with deliberate care, coating themselves in your wetness before he finds your clit. Cute little swollen thing, peeking out and begging. He rubs it in tight, mean circles with his thumb while two fingers tease your entrance, not pushing in yet. Just circling. Spreading you open.

“So wet for us,” he mutters. “This little cunt’s been waiting, huh? Knew you needed both of us stretching you out.”

You moan around Toru’s cock, the vibrations making him curse under his breath. Your hips buck forward into Eren’s hand without thinking, chasing the pressure on your clit.

Toru’s grip tightens in your hair. “That’s it, baby. Keep sucking. Gonna fuck your mouth slow while Eren plays with this perfect pussy. You’re doing so good for us.”

Eren slips one finger inside you, then another immediately, curling them just right while his thumb keeps working your clit in relentless little strokes. You’re shaking now, thighs trembling, drool dripping down Toru’s cock as you try to take him deeper. 

Eren hooks his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties now, tugging them down with slow, patient care, down the swell of you ass and the crotch is soaked, from his spit and your sticky slick. Once he gets it off he presses an open mouthed kiss to your pretty cunt, his mouth fully englufing you with no barrier stopping him anymore.

They’ve got you right where they want you, split open between them, mouth full, cunt dripping, completely theirs.

And they’re only just getting started.

Toru’s grip in your hair turns firmer but not cruel, just enough to remind you who’s in control. He rocks his hips up slow, feeding you another thick inch until the head bumps the back of your throat and your eyes water instantly. You gag around him, soft and wet, helpless little sound that makes his abs flex and his breath hitch.

“Fuck, baby… that’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gag on it. Let me feel that tight little throat squeeze me. You’re so sweet when you try to take it all.”

Tears prick your lashes. Drool spills from the corners of your mouth, slicking down his shaft, dripping onto your chin and the couch beneath. You’re messy for him, always so eager to please and he loves it. Loves the way your tongue still tries to swirl even when you’re struggling, the way your cheeks hollow every time he pulls back just to push in again.

Behind you, Eren’s done playing nice.

He’s got your thighs shoved wide, knees hooked over his shoulders now so your ass is lifted just enough for him to bury his face where he’s been dying to be. Rough hands spread your cunt open, his fingers digging into soft, slick flesh, holding you apart like he’s displaying you. You’re so wet it’s obscene: glistening folds, clit swollen and throbbing, strings of arousal clinging to his fingers when he pulls them away.

“Look at this sloppy little pussy,” he mutters against your inner thigh, hot breath fanning over your core. “Dripping all over my hand just from sucking him off. You love being used like this, don’t you?”

Before you can even whimper around Toru’s cock, Eren slaps your pussy, a sharp, wet smack that makes your whole body jolt. The sting blooms fast into heat, clit pulsing harder. You cry out muffled around the thick length filling your mouth.

Eren does it again. Harder. The sound is filthy, each wet smacks echoing in the quiet room. Your hips buck uselessly, cunt clenching around nothing.

“Sensitive already?” he taunts, voice low and mean. Then he spits, right on your clit, a thick glob of saliva landing perfectly, sliding down your folds. He watches it drip with dark eyes before leaning in and dragging his tongue flat from your entrance to your clit in one long, slow stripe.

You sob around Toru. The vibration makes him curse and thrust deeper, holding you there until your nose brushes his pelvis and you’re choking sweetly, and tears streaming.

Eren eats you like he’s starving. Tongue flicking fast over your clit, then sucking it between his lips with hard pulls that make your thighs shake. He alternates: sloppy open-mouthed kisses to your folds, tongue dipping inside to fuck you shallow, then back to circling that needy little bud. Every time you get close, your hips grinding and muffled moans turning desperate, he pulls back. Just enough.

Edging and Torturing you… keeping you right on the brink.

“Uh-uh,” he growls when your cunt flutters, so close you can taste it. Another slap, lighter this time, but it still makes you yelp around Toru’s cock. “Not yet, baby girl. You don’t come until we say.”

Toru’s breathing is ragged now, hips stuttering as he fucks your throat in shallow thrusts. “She’s gonna make me come if she keeps moaning like that,” he warns Eren, but there’s no real complaint in it, just raw need. “Fuck… her mouth’s so warm. So fucking wet.”

Eren hums against your clit, the vibration ripping another choked sound from you. He spits again messily then sucks your clit back into his mouth while two fingers slide inside, curling against that spot that makes your eyes roll back.

You’re shaking. Drooling. Gagging sweetly every time Toru bottoms out. Cunt clenching around Eren’s fingers while he edges you mercilessly with every lick, suck, slap, spit, repeat.

They’ve got you trapped between them, mouth stuffed full, pussy spread and devoured, body trembling on the edge of something massive.

Toru’s thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, almost tenderly and he slips his cock out of from your mouth and taps the tip of his cock to your lips as you catch your breath, smearing bubbly saliva and pre over your lips messily.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. “Taking us both so pretty.”

Eren pulls back just long enough to murmur against your dripping folds:

“Gonna let you come soon, baby… but only when you’re choking on his load and begging for mine.”

Your whole body clenches at the promise.

They’re not stopping.

Not until you’re ruined for anyone else.

Eren pulls back from your dripping cunt with a wet, obscene sound, his lips shiny, chin slick with you. He’s breathing hard, eyes dark and blown out like he’s high off the taste. Without a word he shifts, lying flat on his back along the couch, one arm hooked behind his head while the other reaches for your hip.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, voice rough from all the growling and licking. “Sit on my face. Need this pretty pussy grinding on my tongue right fucking now.”

You’re still dazed, mouth swollen from Toru, thighs shaking from the edging, but the command cuts through the fog. You crawl forward on shaky knees, straddling his head. He doesn’t wait for you to settle. Big hands clamp around your hips and yank you down hard until your soaked cunt is pressed flush to his mouth.

The first swipe of his tongue is filthy, long and flat dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans into you like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted, vibrations ripping a broken moan from your throat. Then he’s eating you messy: lips sucking at your folds, tongue fucking inside shallow and greedy, nose bumping your clit with every tilt of his head. He’s loud about it slurping, sucking and growling against your core like he’s trying to drink you dry.

Your hands scramble for purchase, fingers digging into the back of the couch as your hips rock instinctively, grinding down on his face. He loves it. Encourages it with bruising grips, guiding you to ride his tongue harder and faster.

Toru’s been watching the whole time, stroking himself slow and lazy while you gagged on him earlier. Now he stands up beside the couch, his sweats shoved down to his thighs, cock flushed dark and glistening from your spit. He steps closer, one hand fisting the base while the other cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him.

“Open up again, baby,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth while he eats you out.”

You part your lips on instinct, still so sweet, so pliant and he slides back in. Not gentle this time. He pushes deep right away, hitting the back of your throat until your eyes water fresh and you gag around him, sloppy and wet. Drool spills immediately, running down your chin, dripping onto Eren’s chest below you.

Toru starts thrusting in, slow at first, letting you adjust, then deeper, harder. One hand tangles in your hair to hold you steady while the other braces on the back of the couch. “That’s it… throat me like a good girl. Fuck, look at you nmgh taking it so sloppy, making such aaah mess.”

Every time he bottoms out you choke. Sweet, wet gurgles that make Eren groan louder into your cunt. The sound vibrates straight through your clit and you buck harder against his face, smearing yourself all over his mouth, his nose, his chin. He doesn’t care. He just spreads you wider with his thumbs, tongue flicking fast over your clit before sucking it between his lips again, relentlessly.

His own hand slips down, his fingers wrapping around his neglected cock, stroking himself in rough, tight pulls while he devours you. The wet schlick of his fist mixes with the filthy sounds of his mouth on your pussy and Toru’s dick sliding in and out of your throat.

You’re caught perfectly between them: hips grinding desperate on Eren’s tongue, throat stuffed full of Toru’s thick length, drool and slick everywhere. Your moans are muffled and broken, vibrating around him every time Eren licks that perfect spot inside you with his tongue.

Toru’s hips stutter, breath hitching. “Fuck… gonna cum soon if you keep choking on me like that, baby.”

Eren pulls back just enough to growl against your folds, words muffled but clear. “Not yet. She comes first. Then we both fill her up.”

He dives back in, sucking your clit hard, tongue flicking merciless while his fingers dig into your ass, spreading you even wider so he can bury his face deeper.

You’re trembling, thighs quaking, so close it hurts.

Toru fucks your mouth faster. Shallow,  sloppy thrusts that make spit drip down onto Eren’s abs.

Eren strokes himself harder, hips bucking up into his fist like he can’t help it.

They’ve got you right there teetering, dripping, stuffed full and theirs.

Just a little more.

And you’re going to shatter.

It hits you like a wave you can’t outrun.

Eren’s tongue is relentlessly sucking your clit in hard, pulsing pulls while his fingers dig into your hips, holding you down so you can’t escape even if you wanted to. Your thighs lock around his head, whole body seizing as the pressure snaps. You cum hard shaking. Cries muffled around Toru’s cock, hips grinding down messy and desperate onto Eren’s face. Slick floods his mouth; he drinks it up greedily, groaning deep vibrations straight into your core that drag the orgasm out longer, sharper, until you’re sobbing with it.

Your cunt pulses around nothing, clenching on air, dripping down his chin, his neck. He doesn’t stop licking, not even when you’re twitching and oversensitive. Just softer laps now, soothing the raw edges while you shudder through the aftershocks.

Toru’s been fucking your throat steady, but the way you choke and moan around him when you come tips him over. He pulls back suddenly. Only the fat, swollen tip still resting on your tongue and strokes himself faster and rough.

“Fuck ngh open wide, baby,” he pants. “Gonna, fuck- give it to you.”

You do. Tongue out, lips parted, eyes glassy and teary from everything staring up at him. He groans low, hips jerking, and comes thick, rope after hot, heavy rope painting your tongue white. It’s so much it spills a little at the corners of your mouth before you can catch it all. Warm and salty, thick enough that it clings n pools heavy in the center of your tongue.

He milks the last drops out with slow strokes, smearing the tip across your lips like he’s marking you.

“Don’t swallow it yet, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and soft all at once. “Need to see it first.”

You stay like that, kneeling between them, thighs still trembling from Eren’s mouth, mouth full of Toru’s load. Eren finally eases you up just enough to sit back against the couch arm, pulling you half into his lap so you’re still facing Toru. His hands slide up your sides, possessively, while he watches with dark emerald, hungry eyes.

Toru steps closer. Cups your jaw gently but firm, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where a little escaped.

“Show me,” he says.

You part your lips slowly, careful not to let any spill. Your tongue coated, its thick, pearlescent-white, his cum sitting heavy and pooling in the middle, strings of it connecting to the roof of your mouth when you part wider. It’s obscene. Beautifully yours.

Toru exhales shaky. “Fuck… look at that. All for us.”

He reaches in, two long fingers sliding past your lips, pressing into the warm pool of his own release. He stirs it lazy, coating his fingertips, feeling how thick and sticky it is while you whimper softly around the intrusion. Your eyes flutter, lashes wet.

Then he pulls his fingers out, glistening, dripping, and brings them straight to his own mouth. Sucks them clean and slow, tongue swirling around the digits, tasting himself mixed with the faint sweetness of your spit. His eyes never leave yours, cerulean eyes a hint darker and possessive, like he’s claiming every part of this.

“Sweet,” he murmurs against his fingers. “But not as sweet as you’re gonna taste when we both fill that pretty cunt next.”

Eren’s hand slips between your thighs again, fingers brushing your still-throbbing clit, making you jolt.

“Our turn to mark you inside,” Eren growls low against your ear, nipping the lobe. “Gonna stuff you so full you’ll be leaking us for days.”

You’re still holding Toru’s cum on your tongue, thick, warm and waiting.

Toru leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth softly.

“Now swallow, baby,” he whispers. “Take all of me… then we’ll give you both.”

Your throat works. You swallow slow, feeling it slide down, warm and heavy while they watch like it’s the hottest thing they’ve ever seen.

And when your lips part again, empty now, Eren’s already shifting you, lining himself up.

They’re nowhere near done.

Not even close.

Eren’s hands are already on your hips the second you finish swallowing, rough palms sliding up your sides, guiding you with that same possessive grip he’s always had but never let loose like this. He pulls you forward until you’re straddling his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of his thighs. Your arms loop around his shoulders automatically, fingers digging into the back of his neck, forehead dropping to rest against his as you try to catch your breath.

He’s hard again, thick and flushed, leaking at the tip from stroking himself while he ate you out. The head nudges against your soaked entrance, slicking itself in your arousal without even trying. You whimper at the contact, hips twitching forward on instinct.

“Easy, baby girl,” Eren murmurs, voice low and wrecked. One hand stays clamped on your hip while the other reaches between you, guiding himself right to your opening. “Gonna take me slow and let me feel every inch of this tight little cunt finally wrap around me?”

You nod dumbly and eager, still hazy from coming so hard, and you start to sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Intense. He’s thick enough that your walls flutter and grip around the head the second it pops inside, and you gasp sharply against his mouth. Eren groans like he’s been punched in the gut, head falling back against the couch for a second before he snaps it forward again to watch your face.

“Fuck… look at you,” he breathes. “Taking me so pretty already.”

You keep sinking down slow and carefully, until he’s buried halfway in. Your thighs tremble from the burn of it and that’s when Toru moves.

He’s been right behind you the whole time, silent and patient, stroking himself lazy while he watched. Now he presses in close, chest flush to your back, one arm banding around your waist to hold you steady while his other hand slides down between your spread thighs.

As you take another inch of Eren, Toru shoves two fingers into your dripping cunt right alongside Eren’s cock.

The stretch doubles instantly. Your walls clamp down hard, fluttering wildly around the sudden fullness. You cry out high and broken, head tipping back against Toru’s shoulder.

“Fuck, baby,” Toru whispers hot against your ear, fingers curling deep, pressing against that spot that makes your toes curl. “So tight. So fucking full already and we’re just getting started.”

Eren’s hips jerk up on instinct, pushing deeper while Toru’s fingers thrust in shallow, matching the rhythm. The drag is obscene, Eren’s thick length stretching you open, Toru’s fingers rubbing against him through your walls, slick sounds filling the room every time they move.

“You’ll let me stretch this pretty pussy out too, hm?” Toru murmurs, voice all soft velvet as makes it sounds more like a promise than a threat. He scissors his fingers in slower, spreading you wider around Eren’s cock, making room. “Gonna open you up nice and slow so you can take both of us. Gonna feel so good when I slide in right next to him… gonna ruin this little cunt for anyone else.”

You’re shaking between them, overwhelmed and suffed, dripping down Eren’s shaft and Toru’s wrist. Eren’s mouth finds your throat, sucking a fresh bruise while he bottoms out fully, hips flush to yours. The pressure is insane, Eren’s cock throbbing deep inside, Toru’s fingers still working you open, curling and thrusting until you’re clenching so hard it hurts in the best way.

“Goddamn,” Eren growls against your skin. “She’s gripping me like a fucking vice. Keep going, Toru ngh stretch her more. Wanna haah feel you in there with me.”

Toru adds a third finger in slow and carefully and you sob, nails digging into Eren’s shoulders. The burn blooms into heat, into pleasure so sharp it whites out your vision for a second.

“That’s it,” Toru praises, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Such a good girl. Taking us both already. Gonna fuck you together soon… gonna fill you up until you’re leaking us for days.”

Eren starts rocking up into you with shallow thrusts that make his cock drag against Toru’s fingers with every stroke. You’re so full you can barely think, just feel. Just take.

They’ve got you pinned perfectly, in the front and back, cock and fingers, mouths and hands everywhere.

And they’re only warming you up.

Toru’s fingers are still buried deep, three thick digits stretching you wide around Eren’s cock. When he finally starts to pull them out, slow. Every inch drags against your fluttering walls, against the heavy length already filling you, making you whimper and clench harder around Eren.

You’re shaking in Eren’s lap, arms locked around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his as you try to breathe through the overwhelming fullness. Eren’s hands grip your hips like anchors, keeping you seated deep on him while he watches Toru over your shoulder with those emerald, impatient eyes.

Toru’s voice is low against the back of your neck, lips brushing skin. “Gonna replace these fingers now, baby. Gonna slide right in next to him… gonna make this pretty pussy take us both.”

He shifts closer, chest flush to your back again, one hand steadying your waist while the other guides his cock down. The fat, slick head nudges right against your already-stretched entrance, pressing insistently beside Eren’s shaft. You feel the pressure immediately, hot, blunt, and impossible… fuck- it feels impossible and your breath hitches into a soft, panicked whine.

“Shh,” Toru soothes, kissing the curve of your shoulder. “Relax for me. You’ve been so good… you can take it. Just breathe.”

Eren groans low when he feels Toru start to push, feels the thick head crowding in, stretching you further. “Fuck… yeah, push in slow. Let her feel every inch.”

You’re so wet it helps, slick dripping down Eren’s balls, coating Toru’s tip but the stretch is blinding. Toru rocks forward gently at first, just the head breaching you alongside Eren. Your walls burn, fluttering wildly, trying to accommodate the impossible double thickness. A broken sob tears from your throat; your nails dig crescent moons into Eren’s shoulders.

“Too much?” Eren murmurs against your lips, kissing you soft and messy to distract you. “You’re doing so good, baby girl. Look at you, taking two cocks like you were made for it.”

You whine, embarrassed by the fact of his words. Eren soothes you gently, petting your back with slow strokes, shushing you in his arms.

Toru takes that as a sign to sink in deeper, inch by slow, torturous inch, until he’s buried to the hilt right next to Eren. The fullness is obscene: two thick lengths pressed flush together inside you, walls stretched thin and tremble around them. You can feel every vein, every throb, the way they twitch against each other through the thin barrier of your body.

“Goddamn,” Toru breathes, voice wrecked. His forehead drops to your shoulder, hips flush to your ass. “So fucking tight… can feel him right next to me. Feel how full you are, baby?”

You can’t speak… the words are stuck, you just nod frantically, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity. Eren starts moving first. Shallow, careful rolls of his hips that make both cocks drag inside you at once. The friction is electric; every slide rubs them together, rubs against that deep spot that makes your vision blur.

Toru matches him after a moment, pulling back slow while Eren pushes in, then switching. They find a rhythm quick: one in, one out, seesawing deep inside you so there’s never a second you’re empty. The drag is relentless, stretching, filling. Utterly overwhelming.

You’re crying now, soft and overwhelmed sobs into Eren’s neck while your hips start rocking back on instinct, chasing more even though you’re already so full it hurts in the sweetest way.

“That’s it,” Eren growls, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb flicking your nipple. “Ride us, baby. Fuck yourself on both our cocks. Show us how much you love being stuffed like this.”

Toru’s hand slips around to your clit, fingers finding the swollen bud and rubbing tight, fast circles while they keep thrusting. The added stimulation sends sparks up your spine; you clench hard around them both, making them groan in unison.

“Gonna come again?” Toru whispers hot against your ear. “Gonna soak us both? Milk us until we fill this little cunt up?”

Eren’s thrusts get harder, deeper. Hips snapping up to meet yours. “Come on our cocks, pretty girl. Let us feel it. Then we’re gonna pump you so full you’ll be dripping for us so beautifully.”

You’re trembling, teetering, so close again, your body stretched to its limit, clit throbbing under Toru’s fingers, two thick cocks ruining you from the inside out.

They’ve got you pinned, claimed and completely theirs.

And when you shatter this time it’s going to be devastating.

They’re moving in perfect, brutal sync now, Eren thrusting up deep while Toru drives in from behind, cocks sliding against each other inside your stretched, fluttering walls. Every push rubs them together through the thin membrane, friction so intense it makes your eyes roll back. You’re creaming around them. Thick, milky slick coating both shafts, dripping down Eren’s balls and Toru’s thighs with every wet slap of skin on skin.

Your tight walls grip them like a vice, milking desperately as they fuck straight into your cervix, blunt heads battering that deep, sensitive spot over and over. The pressure builds fast, sharp and overwhelming; your tummy bulges visibly with each thrust, the outline of their cocks pressing outward against your lower belly.

Eren notices first. His hand slides down from your hip, palm flattening over the soft swell. He pushes on it firmly, gently and deliberately, right where the bulge is most pronounced.

“Fuck, look at that,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Can feel myself right here… feel how deep we are inside you, baby girl? Stretching her little pussy so wide she’s bulging for us.”

You whimper broken and high, hips jerking between them. The pressure of his palm combined with the relentless pounding sends sparks shooting up your spine. Toru’s hand joins, fingers splaying beside Eren’s, both of them pressing down in tandem as they thrust harder, deeper.

“Gonna make you come like this,” Toru murmurs hot against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Gonna feel you cream all over both our cocks while we kiss your cervix, hm baby want us deep in there?.”

You bite your lip, and it hits you suddenly and violent.

Your whole body locks up, back arching, thighs quaking, a raw sob tearing from your throat as you come harder than before. Walls spasm wildly around them, clenching so tight it drags broken groans from both their throats. Slick gushes out in messy pulses, soaking their cocks, dripping down in thick rivulets. Your vision whites out for a second; you’re shaking, crying, completely lost in the overwhelming fullness and the way Eren’s palm keeps pushing on that bulge, making every pulse of your orgasm feel deeper, sharper.

They don’t stop, can’t stop. They bury themselves to the hilt in one final, synchronized thrust, Eren’s hips snapping up, Toru slamming forward until there’s no space left inside you. You feel them throb, swell, and then they’re coming hard.

Hot, thick spurts flood you at the same time, Eren's cock pulsing deep against your cervix while Toru unloads right beside him, ropes of cum mixing, filling every inch until you’re overflowing. The pressure is insane; your walls flutter helplessly around the double load, trying to take it all but failing beautifully.

Toru pulls back just enough, barely an inch while staying buried deep. His free hand slides down between your thighs, thumb hooking one swollen lip and spreading you open wide. The sight is filthy: your pussy stretched obscenely around both cocks, creamy white cum already leaking out in a fat, slow spurt. It slips from between their shafts thick and pearly dripping down Toru’s length in a heavy trail, coating his balls, pooling on Eren’s thighs beneath you.

“Fuck… look at her leaking us,” Toru breathes, thumb rubbing slow circles through the mess, spreading it over your clit. “So full she can’t even keep it all inside.”

Eren groans low, hips twitching with aftershocks as another small spurt escapes him. His palm stays pressed to your tummy, feeling the faint throb of their cocks still buried deep.

“You’re ours now,” he rasps, kissing your sweaty temple. “This pussy’s marked. Stuffed. Leaking both of us.”

You’re trembling between them overstimulated, full to bursting, cum dripping slow and steady down your thighs. They don’t pull out. Not yet.

They just hold you there, cocks softening slightly but still thick inside, keeping every drop plugged deep while their hands roam lazy over your body.

Claimed.

Ruined.

Theirs.

The room feels heavier now, thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and the faint salt of cum. You’re still straddling Eren’s lap, thighs quivering, body limp and boneless between them. Their cocks are softening inside you, but neither has pulled out yet, just resting there, keeping you plugged full, every tiny shift making a fresh trickle of their mixed release slip out.

Toru moves first.

He eases back slow and carefull, so so gentle, until his cock finally slips free with a wet, obscene sound. A thick gush of cum follows immediately, spilling from your stretched hole, running hot down your inner thighs and dripping onto Eren’s lap. You whimper at the sudden emptiness, walls fluttering around Eren’s length like they’re trying to pull him deeper to compensate.

Toru doesn’t go far.

He leans in close behind you again, chest pressed to your back, arms wrapping around your waist in a loose, possessive hold. His lips find the side of your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses. Trailing up the curve where he’d bitten earlier. Gentle now. Soothing. Each press of his mouth feels like an apology and a promise at once.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice low and wrecked. “Took us both so perfect. Look at you… all messy and full of us.” Another kiss, slower, right under your ear. His tongue flicks out to taste the salt there. “Gonna take care of you now. Promise.”

His hands slide up your sides, warm palms smoothing over ribs, petting you like you’re something fragile and precious. One hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing the base of your skull while he keeps kissing your throat, your jaw, the soft spot behind your ear.

Eren’s still buried inside you, half-hard, twitching lazily every time your walls flutter. He shifts just enough to sit up straighter, pulling you flush against his chest so your breasts press to him. His mouth finds yours immediately, a slow, deep kiss that tastes like your own slick and his tongue. Lazy. Unhurried. Like he’s savoring every second now that the frantic edge is gone.

One hand slides up to cup your breast, thumb circling the nipple soft and unhurried, teasing it back to a stiff peak. He pinches gently, rolls it between his fingers, then soothes with the flat of his palm. The other hand stays low, splayed over your lower belly where the bulge has softened but you can still feel the faint throb of him inside.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful like this,” he mutters against your lips, kissing you again, messy and open-mouthed, tongue sliding slow against yours. “All flushed and leaking us. Our pretty girl.”

He keeps playing with your tits, kneading one while he kisses you deeper, then switching to the other, thumb flicking the nipple until you arch into his touch with a soft whine. Every tug sends little aftershocks through your oversensitive body; your cunt clenches weakly around him, milking another small bead of cum that drips out around his base.

Toru’s mouth never leaves your neck, kissing and sucking soft bruises into fresh skin, whispering praise between each press of his lips.

“So sweet… so fucking perfect… ours, baby. All ours.”

Eren breaks the kiss just long enough to murmur against your mouth, “Gonna stay like this a while. Keep you full. Keep you warm.”

His fingers keep teasing your nipple with gentle pinches and slow circles, while Toru’s hands roam your sides, your back, your hips. They’re everywhere and nowhere all at once, soft touches and warm mouths, their low voices rumbling praise into your skin.

You’re boneless between them, head lolling back against Toru’s shoulder, lips parted on shaky breaths, body humming with the quiet afterglow.

They don’t rush.

They just hold you.

Kiss you.

Pet you.

Like they’ve got all night.

Like they’ve finally got what they’ve wanted for so long.

And they’re never letting go.

itadori yuji

whiny. moans quietly into the crook of your neck 

grunts and groans when it’s rough, furrowing his cute ‘lil brows 

giggles a lot + messes around during it, lmao. makes some dumb joke while he’s literally balls-deep inside you. tried to dap you up after cumming one time  

laughs softly, scrunches his nose with endearment when you get too loud 

big nickname guy. his favs: 

babe, baby  pretty bunny  sweet girl / pretty girl

jean kirschtein

groanerrrrr

growls your name like he’s in pain, voice raw and broken and so needy

loves praise, it’s all tooth-rotting sweetness mumbled against the skin of your throat—all of this while he’s sliding himself into you slow n’ easy n’ deep 

“that’s my perfect girl, you take it so well” 

“made for me, made for my cock” 

says he loves you, like a LOT. mutters it against your lips when he’s first pushing into you, makes you lock eye contact with him and say it back to him while you cum

fav terms of endearment:

sweet thing darling  love / my love  honey

eren yaeger

he has the filthiest fucking mouth 

talks a lot and talks dirty 

he’s so graphic with it bro. and he lays it on thick with the praise:

“tight fuckin’ cunt” 

“pretty ‘lil pussy takes me so well, huh?” 

he likes fucking you rough, but he’s really not one for degradation. calls you things like: 

pretty / pretty girl  baby  angel  sweetheart

fushiguro megumi

at first, quiet. 

used to swallow back all his noise, throat bobbing with the effort. would bite down on a knuckle to choke back his groans when he came

you finally convince him that you wanna hear it. and it takes him a bit to let go completely, but eventually: 

he’s a moaner. 

he’s loud and wanton, head tipping back and eyes going teary as he bucks his hips into your tight heat 

cries your name out a lot, and also: 

baby honey  darling  ma’am

higuruma hiromi

groaner + grunter 

snarls with approval when your walls clench around him. smooths his dark hair out of his face, canine flashing in a crooked smile 

talks a lot. praises + degrades, switching between the two so fast it gives you whiplash

lots of “love this pussy” and “dirty fuckin’ girl” 

calls you: 

darling pretty / pretty thing  babygirl  my slutty girl

Your parents had left for their annual end-of-summer trip to visit your grandparents for a week. It used to be a mandatory family event, but now that your parents had deemed you and your brother old enough, you had more say in whether you tagged along. 

Collin skipped the last two summers, but now that you were eighteen, this was the first year you could stay home. You thought anything must be better than a week spent cooped up in your grandparents’ house, but what you didn’t expect was for Collin’s three best friends to join in, too—for the better half of the week, so far.

It had become a tradition, apparently, as they’d gotten together the last two years. Honestly, you were just impressed your brother was able to pull it off without your parents catching on, considering he was never the one to pick up after himself when you were kids. 

No matter, though; their presence hasn’t bothered you much. The three of them had been your brother’s friends since the sixth grade. Having them around was nothing new. Of course, it was more fun when you were younger—back when you could play Mario Party together and force Collin to sit out. Now, you didn’t have as much in common with them, if anything. 

So, the four boys did their thing, and you did yours. 

Even so, while you were off minding your own business, someone else just couldn’t seem to do the same. He couldn’t prevent his thoughts from wandering and his eyes from lingering longer than they should.

It wasn’t Armin, of course. He wouldn’t dare look at you that way, the girl he tutored in algebra all those years ago. It wasn’t Jean, either, hopelessly consumed by texting his class crush, determined as ever to win her affection.

No, it was Eren. Also known as ‘the cute one’ by you and your friends once he hit a growth spurt and grew out his hair in high school. Though Eren was unaware of the epithet, he’d finally return the sentiment, thinking of you as Collin’s very cute sister. 

It had been a couple of years since he’d last seen you, and you appeared to have… really grown into yourself, to put it delicately. 

Listen, the thought was harmless. It wasn’t as if Eren expected this to happen, and there was no way in hell he’d act on the feeling. You were his best friend’s sister—and not just that, but his little sister.

Eren thought he was playing cool, but man, did you have to make it so tough on him? Did you really need to lie out by your parents’ pool every single day? As a matter of fact, when was the last time it rained? That would help right about now, wouldn’t it?

Back to the point here: Eren was, in fact, not playing remotely cool. Armin brought this to his attention as they went off together to grab another beer. You happened to be in the kitchen too, just to grab a snack, and damn it, why did you have next to nothing on? Like, yeah, the place was a little warm tonight, and it was your house and all, but seriously? Tiny shorts rolled extra high on your waist; a tank top that looked extra clingy as you reached for a plate on the very top shelf? For real?

“You can’t be serious,” Armin grumbled. After you left, obviously. 

Eren should have known what he meant, but he was wholly convinced he’d been treading carefully this past week. “What do you—”

“You can’t bang Collin’s sister!”

Who even says ‘bang’ anymore?

“Whoa, hold on a second.” Eren held up his palms in innocence, waving them as if he could shake the wicked accusation. “That’s taking things a little far, isn’t it?”

Armin shot him a look. He knew better than to take Eren’s word at face value. “Well, it sure looks like you want to bang his sister.”

“Who’s trying to bang whose sister?”

Both Armin and Eren startled. Heads on a swivel, they turned to find Collin emerging from the basement, Jean trailing just behind with a suspicious, low-browed expression. 

“Oh,” Eren stammered. He had to come up with something quick; Armin was a notoriously awful liar. “Armin was just telling me about some porn he watched the other night.” Eren threw in a shrug. “You know, where the guy tries to bang someone’s sister.”

Armin glared at Eren for throwing him under the bus like that. He reluctantly went along with the lie for the sake of keeping the peace. “Yeah, and then he, uh… bangs the sister?”

Idiot.

Whatever. The lie seemed to work well enough. Collin stared back at them like they were no better than a couple of horny morons. Jean dismissed it, too, complaining, “Can we stop saying ‘bang’ now?”

With the crisis only half-averted—Eren would have to deal with Armin more later, he was sure—the four returned to the basement, freshly cracked cans of beer in tow, where they spent the rest of the night playing video games until they eventually passed out. 

Well, three of them did. 

Eren couldn’t sleep, but that wasn’t entirely surprising. Tossing and turning on a wobbly air mattress didn’t make sleep come any easier. With the basement only marginally cooler than the rest of the house, he figured a glass of water might help him reset. 

Unluckily (or perhaps luckily?) for Eren, he was interrupted on his way to the kitchen. The sight of you, simply existing, lounged on the couch, spooked him.

“Someone’s jumpy,” you giggled while he cursed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“What are you doing here?” Eren asked.

“I live here, last time I checked.”

He made a face lacking the amusement your voice carried. “You know what I meant. Why are you still awake?” 

It was the first time you’d been alone together. Not the first ever, but the first time it felt different—since Eren had those thoughts about you. 

“Do I need a reason?” you airily replied, sort of on a yawn, as you stretched your arms. “It’s summer break, and I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

He didn’t offer more than a small nod of acknowledgment before moseying across the room, hands shoved in his pockets. Unsure of where this was going, you reached for the remote to pause your TV show. 

“Whatcha guys doing down there?”

“They’re all asleep,” Eren said. He stood idly because, like you, he found himself curious about what might happen next.

“And you’re not asleep because?”

No, he couldn’t think like that. Nothing would happen next; this was going nowhere. 

“I came to grab some water,” he rushed to say. Or, at least, you thought he sounded rushed. Before you could comment, he disappeared around the corner and into the kitchen. 

You listened for a moment, finger hovering above the pause button as you debated starting your show back up. But when the running faucet flicked off, Eren didn’t return to the basement in the apparent rush he was previously in. Instead, he stayed there, with you. 

Eren sipped his water as he mulled over what he should say. His mind was utterly blank. There was nothing to say, no reason he needed to have a conversation with you—what did you even have in common? And yet, there he was still, leaning up against the wall, dumbly scratching his midriff as he—

Wait. Were you checking him out? 

If there was one thing Eren learned in college—because let’s be real here, he had a nasty habit of skipping lectures—it was that he did pretty well for himself when it came to girls. Decent enough, he’d say. He at least had enough sense to know when a chick was interested in him. 

And now that you creaked that door open, ogled where his hand lifted his shirt and revealed his stomach, he felt he had no choice but to step inside and explore around. Just a bit.

Armin’s warning blared in the back of Eren’s head—after years and years of friendship, his conscience tended to have Armin’s voice—but there wasn’t anything wrong with casual conversation, was there? 

“So, are you excited to leave for college soon?”

There was no turning back now. 

You perked up in your seat. “Yeah, for sure. It’ll be nice to be somewhere new. Meet new people, make new friends—”

“Maybe you’ll finally find your Fabio.”

There was a joke there, unfortunately. One you hadn’t heard in so long that you physically cringed at the memory.

As Collin’s younger sister, his friends were first-hand witnesses to your boy crazy phase and all the dating flops that came along with it. Perhaps they even picked up that you were quite the hopeless romantic. And by that, you meant Jean had found a smutty novel you’d stolen from your mom. Yes, it even had that signature Fabio-esque cover, hence the joke. Anyway, he read the book aloud in front of your brother and the rest of their friends until Armin snatched it from him, which somehow made the whole ordeal even worse.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” you offhandedly chuckled, trying to mask the twinge of embarrassment you felt. “I was sort of hoping that would happen before college. But, you know—I’m sure plenty of people go to college inexperienced.

Your voice trailed off there at the end, almost like the notion bothered you more deeply than you wanted to let on. Eren scrutinized what you’d said, and it felt like a conversational game of hot potato. Why were you bringing this up, and what did you want him to do? Were you looking for advice?

Eren set down his glass and moved to join you on the couch, on the far side. “Is that what you’re worried about?” 

“No,” you blurted. You kicked yourself for having said anything in the first place. Your abruptness sounded just as bad, so with a sigh, you confessed, “I mean, I guess. I don’t want people to think I’m a loser for being a virgin.”

Again, why were you telling him this? Eren felt like he was playing with fire, and you had not the slightest clue. He knew the longer he stayed, the more likely he was to end up burned. Maybe even scorching everything around him, even you, in the process. 

Still, he poked at it. He added some kindling because there was a desperate part of him that was unwilling to let the fire snuff out. “I think there’s a fairly simple solution to that.”

“What, getting laid? I think I know that,” you scoffed. “And it’s easy for you to say that, looking like,” lacking the words, you loosely gestured a hand at him, “you. Believe it or not, I don’t exactly have suitors lining up outside my door.”

Okay, so he was right. He was picking up on something between you. You found him attractive, and he found you attractive. The answer was easy enough; he might as well go on and say it outright then.

“What if I did it?” 

You didn’t know what Eren meant. His casualness threw you for a loop. He couldn’t be talking about that, could he? 

“You know,” he said, “took your virginity.”

There was no misunderstanding now—but the crazy thing was, why were you actually considering it? 

Your brother’s friends, Eren included, had taught you all sorts of things before. Things they probably shouldn’t have, but ultimately came with having an older brother around. They told you to flush the toilet to mask your squeaky front door when you snuck out at night. Taught you how to roll a joint, and how to take a proper hit after you confessed you’d never ‘felt high’ when you smoked. So, would this really be any different?

While you considered his proposition, Eren took the far-away look behind your eyes as a horrible sign. He realized how insane he sounded, offering such a thing. Before he could take it back, blame it on the one too many beers, that’s all, you piped up. 

“Really?”

He certainly didn’t expect that. “I—yeah. Why not?”

Another lengthy pause passed before you accused, “Are you just fucking with me? Because it’s not funny.”

“No—no! I wouldn’t.” Eren started rambling, a jumbled mix of ‘I just’ and ‘I shouldn’t have’ until you decidedly cut him off before he could talk himself into a hole.

“Okay.”

“Huh?”

“I said okay. You can… take my virginity.” You felt strange saying it out loud, to Eren, of all people. Who would have guessed?

Then again, maybe this was the most logical outcome. You never wanted to make a big deal of losing your virginity, and you certainly weren’t looking for something romantic, with rose petals or a waterbed or any of that corny-porny crap. You simply viewed your virginity as an obstacle to get past. That way, when you inevitably meet the love of your life in college (okay, so maybe you were a hopeless romantic), you wouldn’t humiliate yourself the first time you hooked up. 

“Okay,” Eren replied on a sharp inhale, a breath sucked through his teeth, like the word was a sin to say aloud. 

He scooted closer, settling on the couch that once separated you. You expected him to kiss you then, and you leaned into him with closed eyes. Your lips barely brushed his before he stalled, not coming any closer than that. 

He asked you, “Do you trust me?”

You nodded, and your noses bumped. 

“I need to hear it.”

“I trust you,” you said, even quieter than him. You could barely hear yourself over the sound of your heart, thumping so hard you swore it might burst into your throat. 

Eren finally kissed you, tentatively, with his hand cradling the side of your face. He didn’t move until you did, and when you returned the kiss, he followed and let you take the lead.

The kiss was cut short when the basement door squeaked open. You jumped away from one another, back to the opposite sides of the couch. The panic quickly subsided when you caught a glimpse of the family cat’s bright eyes, her little head poking out from the shadows.

You clutched a hand to your chest, trying to steady your breath and your racing heart as if both were possible right now. When you met Eren’s gaze again, he was already staring back at you with a brittle look. You couldn’t guess what he was thinking. Did he regret what he’d just done? You didn’t, and you prayed he didn’t either. 

Before you had the chance to ask, he finally said, “Should we go to your bedroom?” 

“Good idea.”

Eren knew where your room was, but he still followed right behind you. At the top of the staircase, just before your bedroom door, you split. You turned to see Eren sneaking into Collin’s room. An anxious minute passed while you listened to rustling, and when he returned, he held that infamous, shiny foil between his two fingers. 

You grimaced, hard. “I’m not going to use one of my brother’s condoms.”

“Do you have one then?” Eren asked, already well aware of your answer.

“Fine.”

Eren had never been in your bedroom before. It felt foreign and, weirdly, wrong to have him there. He looked out of place, too big, too mature, especially compared to all your girlish knick-knacks and old photos. You wished you could have tucked everything away into some lonely drawer. 

You avoided Eren’s eyes and fixed your attention on adjusting the lights. Your bright ceiling light was far too unforgiving for this, so you switched it out for your bedside lamp. The drone of the old bulb buzzed in the back of your ears, its light a fizzy yellow glow. 

You were nervous. Eren didn’t need to see your face to know; he could feel it as you skittered around the room like a cornered mouse. He expected as much, considering this was about to be your first time having sex.

Eren felt his heart drop into his stomach, like that sick feeling you get on a rollercoaster, yet somehow you always want to ride again. Maybe he was just as nervous as you. You had to put your trust in him, enough to take your virginity on a whim. Handing it over to him as if it were some sentimental treasure he could watch over, for safekeeping.

Sure, he knew the optics were bad. Not just bad but downright horrendous, actually. He was about to sleep with his best friend’s little sister. Not just sleep with her, but be the first person to sleep with her, ever, while everyone was asleep downstairs. The situation sounded like a second-rate porno, like the one he had made up with Armin in the kitchen.

This was as much a blessing straight from heaven as it was a curse. But Eren couldn’t bother with optics now. Not after you took a seat on the bed, looking at him with these come-and-get-me eyes that may or may not have been intentional. 

No, this wasn’t a curse at all. If it were so wrong of him, then why did it feel so right? His cock already strained against his sweatpants at the mere thought of how delicate he’d be with you tonight. He needed to be. The last thing he wanted was to ruin your first time. He’d be the first to show you what pleasure could be with another person—what you were truly deserving of before going off and letting other boys touch you. 

He set the condom on the nightstand and sat on the edge of your bed beside you, his knee grazing yours. He was about to ask if he could kiss you again, but you entirely side-skipped any and all conversation, picking right back up from where the two of you had left off. 

Again, Eren relinquished control to you, except he was the one to take the initiative to swipe his tongue into your mouth. You tasted him and the bittersweet flavor of light beer. He was nothing like the last boy you kissed. He didn’t ram his tongue down your throat but kissed you like he wanted to muse over and memorize you. You let him, of course, lips languidly caressing one another with little point or purpose, solely running on instinct. 

You balled his shirt in your first, twisted the fabric between your hands to pull him close. Closer. With hands at your waist, he hoisted you onto his lap, and you went along with him more than willingly. You draped your arms over his shoulders, crossing them at the wrist, and you didn’t let your lips break from his even once. 

Eren smoothed his palms up and down the small of your back until he eventually garnered the courage to venture lower. He pawed at your ass, pulling you down to grind over him. Just once. Just to give you a hint of how achingly hard he was for you. After that, you did it again all on your own. Lightheaded and teeming with desire, the pressure against you, even through layers of clothing, was an addicting relief. You moved against him, again and again, until you were dragging yourself over him, practically about to get off from that alone. 

But Eren didn’t let that happen. Before you could get there, Eren gripped your hips to a halt. His voice was a mumble against your mouth as he asked, “How far have you gone?”

“This,” you professed breathlessly. “This is the farthest I’ve gone.”

Fuck.

He said the word of the night:

“Okay.” 

He breathed it out as if he were talking to himself. The type of sigh you’d give yourself in the mirror when you needed to calm down—which was precisely his goal. 

Eren lifted you with little effort, had you lie back on the pillows before he crawled atop you. He kissed at your jawline, then placed another on the side of your neck. He stayed there, left a few kisses, all lip, all wispy, like he thought he might break you. Gentle or not, still you felt each of them like an electric spark at the base of your spine. 

His fingers trailed over your collarbone before stopping short of your tank top.

“Is it all right if I touch you here,” he asked, punctuating it by toying with the neckline. 

“Yes,” you whispered.

With your confirmation, his hand massaged over your breast, thumb caressing over your nipple through the thin fabric. 

He began kissing you again, his tongue meeting yours while he rolled your nipple between his fingers. Your back arched instinctively, needing more. He listened to your body, learning as he went, and tugged down your top. He lightly pinched your nipple, pulling a whine from you.

“Can I kiss you there,” he murmured, referencing your tits as he gave another squeeze. Before you could answer, he started mouthing at your throat. 

“Mhm,” was all you managed. Your voice was long gone, lost somewhere between the open-mouth kisses he left along the dip between your breasts. 

It tickled a bit when he flicked his tongue over your nipple. Even more when he latched onto it with his lips. Your helpless wiggling beneath him drove him wild, and you hadn’t the slightest idea. He found it sweet how sensitive you were, his mouth being the first to kiss you there and learn the taste of your skin. So soft. And warm, too, heating up the longer he sucked at your tits, anywhere he pleased. 

Eren kept one hand at your waist, palming over your stomach but never risking any lower than that. Though his touch was heated and urgent, he only showed restraint. 

He pulled back to ask, “Have you ever touched yourself before?”

He was strangely calm for asking such a personal question. Face ablaze, you huffed, “Of course I have.”

What did he think? That because you were a virgin, you never thought about sex? Hadn’t even seen porn? Yes, you hadn’t actually done it, but you weren’t exactly heading into the situation blind. 

“Then—” The sight of you slipping out of your sleep shorts interrupted him. You caught the bob of his throat when he swallowed, but you weren’t sure he was trying to hide it. “Show me how you do it.”

Eren sat back on his knees, just shy of sitting between your legs as you rested back against the pillows. You hoped he didn’t notice your jittery fingers as you slid them beneath the band of your underwear. 

You began whining, “This is—”

“It’s not embarrassing,” he interjected, which only made you more nervous. Could he read your mind or something? 

But he was genuine, assuring you even while struggling to maintain eye contact. His attention flitted from your face to between your legs, where your flimsy panties separated you from him. 

“Show me how I can make you come,” he said. 

How on earth could he be so open about this? There wasn’t a shred of hesitation in his voice, not an ounce of shame. You wondered how many people he’d been with, how many times he’d rehearsed before he could speak with such confidence. Enough confidence to have you listening like a loyal puppy and plunging your hand beneath your underwear. 

You had the pads of your fingers pressed against your clit and began rubbing. Slowly at first, but already, that smidgen of relief was enough to pull a gasp from you. You were sensitive, throbbing, and so incredibly turned on that you didn’t shy away from his unabashed staring, eyes blown with pure infatuation. 

Eren rested a hand on your thigh before reaching for your panties. “Can I take these off?”

You stopped only to help him work them down your legs. Shimmying until he had them thrown to the foot of the bed. You were hesitant to spread your legs again, but he did it for you, placing one at either side of him. He took your hand into his and returned it to your pussy, eager for you to continue. So you did just that.

There wasn’t any doubt he could see everything now—how wet you were, how it coated your fingers as the circles you rubbed became tighter. Your head was in the clouds, playing with yourself just as indecently as you would if no one were watching. You couldn’t even bother to stifle the chant of gasps spilling from you. 

“Can you put a finger inside for me?” Eren requested. 

You didn’t think twice. You nodded and pushed your index finger inside before slipping it out again. With each pump, your muscles relaxed, letting you take more than before. 

“Yeah, like that,” he whispered. You heard the ‘fuck’ he cursed under his breath. “How’s that feel?”

Your eyes fluttered shut. “Good.”

“Try a little faster.”

You did, then bit back a whimper. 

“Add another.”

He needed you stretched. He needed you ready for him.

You took your second finger well; you’d done it before. 

“You’re doing so good,” he told you. He leaned in closer than before. “Can I help you now?”

“Please,” you breathed. 

But he didn’t touch you where you’d expected. At least, not at first. He held his fingers before your mouth. 

“Open up.”

You weren’t sure what he was after, but you obeyed, feeling lusty enough that you found yourself trusting him implicitly. He placed his middle and index fingers against your tongue, telling you, “Get them nice and wet for me.”

You sucked on them lightly. Saliva pooled on the back of your tongue as he pressed down. He pulled them from your mouth with a lewd sound and smiled at you. Something about it made your chest swell a bit. 

Eren moved to sit at your side. His presence felt engulfing as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, holding you close. The intimacy of it surprised you, but you didn’t have any time for second-guessing before he urged, “Keep going.”

You returned to circling your clit as his hand met yours. He traced a finger through you, and it set every nerve in your body aflame. 

“Can I?”

“Yes,” you said, practically moaned. 

He took his time as he pushed his finger inside you. It was much larger than your own, thicker, reaching deeper than yours had ever gone. Your stomach tightened as your body tried to adjust. 

“That okay?” he asked.

“Yes.” It was better than okay. “More. Please.”

The laugh Eren gave through his nose was warm. He moved his finger in and out of you, curving it just right to have you squirming in his arms. You understood now why he held you so tightly. He wanted to keep you still so that once he figured out what you liked, he could maintain his pace through your needy bucking. 

Eren had a hand on the back of your head, petting your hair as he asked, “You close?” He’d gone ahead and added a second finger, and you couldn’t answer outside of a rapt hiss. “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you panted against him. His body was dizzyingly hot, even through his t-shirt. 

It was becoming quite the task to keep your fingers moving, what with Eren’s hitting a spot you didn’t even know existed before today. It had you—fuck, it had you coming. So hard that you thoughtlessly rode his hand, eyes screwed shut as you fucked yourself on his fingers, prolonging the bliss for however long you could before turning to goo in his arms. 

Your chest heaved, body still twitchy, when he started asking, “Did you—”

“Yes,” you said on a drawn-out exhale.

Eren pecked your forehead. You could still feel the stamp of it as he maneuvered on top. He held himself above you, kissing you full on the mouth. Still hazy, you didn’t move much, letting him make out with you all he wanted until his lips traveled down to the dip behind your ear, then to the delicate crook of your neck. 

He bunched your tank top higher up your chest until you both tore it over your head. With that out of his way, Eren continued kissing lower—even lower than before. His breath tickled over your nipples, leaving you a needy, rutting mess. For what exactly, you didn’t know. Just more. 

“Too much?” Eren asked, looking up at you with his big green eyes.

“No,” you assured, mouth agape, in awe of him. “I like it.”

He pressed his smile against your skin, kissing and licking his way down your sternum.

When he reached your navel, you asked, “What are you—”

“Making sure you’re ready.” He kissed your hipbone.

“It’s really okay,” you said, slightly wary. “We should just get this over with, right?” 

“What if I don’t want to get this over with?” Eren kissed just above your pussy. “What if I want to take my time?”

He wanted you as comfortable, as relaxed, as possible. And since he was already about to fuck his friend’s little sister—with one of his condoms, for fuck’s sake—Eren certainly wasn’t about to go digging for his lube next. Thankfully, there was another, more fun way he could ensure you were wet enough to avoid any unnecessary pain that may arise from him splitting you with his—

Focus.

“I need you to tell me what feels good and what doesn’t,” Eren said, a grounding reminder more for himself than for you.

You yelped, almost choked, when he kissed the top of your thigh, then the inner part of it. 

“Can you do that for me?”

“Eren, I—”

“Please.” He licked a broad stripe up the crease of your thigh. A tiny ‘oh’ escaped you. He wanted to taste you already, he was begging for it. “Let me. I want to.”