happy thursday

Hearing Zayne's gravelly "awake?" and burying your nose in his warm throat, instead of a whispered apology and nuzzling the cooling pillow.

Playfully bumping your elbow into his when you brush your hair instead of getting ready alone in silence.

Sitting down to share a small breakfast instead of tucking a protein bar and your thermos into your bag and rushing off to the Association.

Maybe it isn't glaringly obvious how giddy you are over it all, you think as you scrub the last of the food from the dishes. Maybe you can erase the beaming smile from your face, you hope as you wipe your rolled sleeve over your mouth and reach for the dish soap.

But as the corners of your lips once again overtake your cheeks when warm palms slide around your waist, you realize that maybe you're just a lost cause when it comes to Zayne.

"Oh, I already made yours." You nod at the thermos he set beside you as your soapy hands reach for the pan.

His lips curve into the hair at your temple and it takes catching the scent of brown sugar and oat milk to realize the thermos isn't his. "And now, I've made yours," he murmurs.

You take a peek at the clock on the microwave. He leaves an hour earlier than you and he still managed to get ready with time to spare.

"Show-off," you mutter, elbowing his abdomen lightly.

He huffs a laugh through his nose, pressing his lips into your hairline. Fingers start moving over the material of your work clothes, absentmindedly rubbing out the faint creases of disuse you haven't been able to erase.

In your defense, it never crossed your mind that you'd end up going a month without wearing your Hunter's uniform, so you hadn't done the best job taking care of your office wear.

"Just a few more weeks," he encourages quietly. "You'll be back to making wanderers beg for mercy before you know it."

"Five more weeks," you grumble as your fingers hunt for silverware in the soapy water. "It feels like I've been put in time out."

You still remember the sharp, splintering heat behind your sternum, the way your vision had whited at the edges even as you forced your evol to respond during your last mission. The fear and worry on Zayne's face as he stared at your third EKG report, still searching for answers even after your symptoms faded and you insisted you were fine.

Unfortunately for you, Zayne would never be lenient about your aether core, and Jenna would never further risk an injured team member. So you weren't all that surprised when your doctor's treatment plan, coupled with a recent lull in wanderer activity, led to her executive decision to sideline you until you properly recovered.

Still, nine weeks on desk duty was a bit of an excessive sentence, in your humble opinion.

"You're not being punished, you're recovering." He gives your hips a scolding pinch that has you splashing a bit of water when you squeak in surprise. "It would be worse to send you out there before we make sure you're fully healed, no?"

"I guess you're right," you sigh, setting the clean silverware aside. "I think I'm just starting to realize how bad I am at having free time."

Ever since you joined the UNICORNS, you've been in the field. High-stakes, high-danger missions one after the other, keeping your body running and your mind active for days, even weeks, on end. So the slower pace was welcome at first: not coming home fatigued to the bone with wanderer blood staining your clothes, spending your nights being kissed by Zayne instead of stitched up by him.

But as the weeks dragged on, the novelty faded when you realized there were only so many shows to binge, only so many video games to beat, before your new day-to-day filled with admin work and reports started to make you a bit… restless.

"I disagree," Zayne says simply.

You glance back at him with raised brows, neither of you needing a reminder of your attempt to sneak out to a mission with Simone — that tattling traitor — two weeks ago, when Zayne had shown up mid-huddle, stern expression gentling into something half-empathetic, half-amused on the way home. And you call me a workaholic, he'd teased.

"Your free time has been great for many reasons. You're conserving our bandage supply, for one." You snort because of course that would be an achievement to him. "You're actually sitting down to eat your meals. You're spending more time with me." He takes the kitchen towel and wipes the water around the sink. "You've rediscovered a forgotten passion."

As was frustratingly often the case, Zayne was right. Because just as you'd started to worry that maybe you’d let work take up too much of your mind, too much of your personality even, you stumbled into a subject you used to adore but never had time to pursue properly. What had started with a social media rabbit hole had led to series of documentaries that reignited what thought had been a long-extinguished spark for anthropology.

Before you knew it, you were venturing into online forums, brushing up on research, and remembering how much it all gripped you: the way tracing human patterns across time feels like mapping constellations, how you love talking about the evolution of rituals, how the smallest of artifacts could unveil entire civilizations.

You hum in excitement, turning your head over your shoulder to face him as the mention reminds you, "Speaking of! There's a news article that just came out about an ancient burial ground near Snowcrest. It made me realize I haven't taught you about cultural burial symbolism yet."

He leans into his palms on either side of you, hazel eyes magnified by his glasses, and the way he's paused everything to focus on you makes your next question a bit breathless, "Maybe we can go to dinner after work? So I can deliver your weekly lecture."

Since the first documentary he watched with you, Zayne's done nothing but listen with that attentive focus of his. Asking questions to learn from you, picking up on details to get you rambling, remembering concepts you'd taught him by referencing them in future conversations. He's even started sparking debates with you recently, and every time he challenges you with that sharp mind of his, your lips part and your stomach tightens with more attraction for him.

Though he's never been anything but engaged and interested, a small part of you worries if you might just filling the space your missions left behind with another hyperfixation. Might be talking too much about your interests and not enough about his.

Because ever since you started your discussions about anthropology, Zayne's also been spending a lot more time on his own research. Late nights in the lab, early mornings in his office.

Which is why you aren't entirely surprised when he says, "I'm going to spend some extra time on research after work this evening, so it might get too late for that." You turn back to the last of the dishes in the sink as the tip of his nose traces from your temple to the shell of your ear. "Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?"

The last thing you want is to be greedy with Zayne's time. You'd hate to stand in the way of his research, his own passions, when he so lovingly encourages yours. So it's only with the smallest grain of disappointment that you nudge the back of your head into his chest and sing-song, "Dr. Zayne. Are you asking me out on a date?"

"No."

Gasping in indignation and surprise, you whip your head and have just enough time to see a small smirk curving his mouth before he leans in to kiss you.

"I'm simply asking to spend tomorrow evening the way I want to spend every evening," he explains, moving toward his messenger bag, slotting his books inside, and adjusting the strap over his shoulder. "With you."

You're wiping your hands dry on the kitchen towel as he makes his way to the front door, so you know it's a premeditated attack when he pairs the kiss on the top of your head with a light swat to your ass.

You yelp in surprise and he pauses with his hand on the knob, a downright cheeky smile on his face when he says, "See you tonight."

Smiling as the door shuts behind him, you grab your thermos and make your way to your own belongings, packing your stuff for yet another day of desk duty, when a small slip of paper on the chair catches your eye.

When you flip it over, you see a reservation slip with Zayne’s name next to the Linkon Library logo. It’s for a study table this evening in the regional studies section.

Your eyes narrow. For Zayne? Shouldn't he be in the biology section?

Now that you think about it, he’s been really vague about his research. Part of you had worried it was because of your aether core flare-up, but when you'd straight up asked him he'd denied it. You assumed he was just trying not to scare you but Zayne also never lies to sugarcoat things. If he was worried about your heart, he'd tell you.

So then, what was he researching?

You tuck the slip into your pocket, pull on your coat, and head to the door. You've finally got your first mission after a month of desk duty: stealth mission at the library

You can't even pretend to be productive for the last hour of work.

The reservation slip has been burning a hole in your pocket all day, your mind circling the same question as you do your best to skim reports and respond to emails.

What the hell is Zayne being so secretive about?

By the time you shut your laptop and gather your things, you're practically bursting with nosiness and curiosity.

The Linkon Library greets you with its usual hush when the automatic doors slide shut behind you. The soft hum of overhead lights taking over for the dimming daylight, the muted shuffle of pages flipping, the smell of paper and ink, and the low murmur of librarians assisting students and patrons.

You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder and head toward the regional studies section, smoothing your expression into something neutral and casual as you pass the neatly organized rows of bookshelves. This might be a self-appointed recon operation with no stakes and nonexistent danger, but it's a mission nonetheless, and you're a UNICORNS Hunter, you'd never be sloppy during a mission.

So the familiar instincts settle over you as you thread your way through the shelves, climb up the stairs, and catch sight of the section's study area.

It must be testing season because a lot of cubbies are occupied by students, textbook spines labeled everything from civics to history resting on the surfaces. A cluster of what looks like professors are at one of the tables, toggling between grading and chatting.

There’s also a trio of older gentlemen back by the window, all in neatly pressed button-ups, sleeves rolled to varying degrees. Two of them face your direction, grey-peppered hair catching the evening light, brows drawn tight in what looks like a heated discussion over the spread of newspapers between them. The third has his back turned to you, dark hair untouched by silver, posture more relaxed. He seems far more invested in the book propped open before him and the tin of cookies at his elbow than the two chatting across from him.

You scan the area again more carefully, your gaze sliding back to the men by the window just as the dark-haired man unfurls his body, turns to stretch his lean muscles and- oh.

Not an older gentleman. Anything but old, actually. You'd know the width of those shoulders, the angle of that jaw, the frames of those glasses anywhere. Have spent long days and longer nights memorizing each detail of him.

Your lips twitch when you see his hand reach into the package again. You even have that brand of cookies memorized.

If only you could see the books he's reading too.

Switching back to neutral and casual, you move deeper into the section, letting your fingers drift over book spines labeled sociology, linguistics, archaeology as if you’re deciding what to browse until you've circled the perimeter of the section and concealed yourself behind one of the empty study cubicles.

He's only a few feet away from this angle, an ankle resting over his opposite knee with one book in his hands and two stacked to his right. You rise subtly onto your toes to catch the titles on the spines that face you but his forearm reaches into the cookie tin right as you do.

It would be easier to be annoyed by the obstruction if the muscles of his forearms didn't flex like that when he reached for his snack. If he didn't push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his index and middle finger like that. If he-

You duck back behind the cubicle when he shifts in his seat, concealing yourself a split second before his line of sight is able to sweep over your gawking face. Taming your galloping heart with your palm, you enjoy the familiar way the adrenaline and determination to succeed rush through you as you peek around the edge again and finally have a clear view of the books stacked by his elbow.

Rites of Passage: Comparative Burial Practices in the Arctic

Regional Funerary Symbolism and Mortuary Theory

The Ancient Arctic: Death Rituals and Burial Symbolism

Before you can fully process what you're seeing, someone bumps into your shoulder and if you were anything but a trained Hunter, you're certain your surprised squeal would've been deafening.

An elderly lady peers at you over the rim of her glasses, a few magazines folded under one arm. “Miss, this cubicle is reserved!”

You wince at the volume of her voice, not even sparing a glance behind you as you whisper a quick "sorry," reach blindly for the nearest book on the anthropology shelf next to you, and do your best to calmly retrace your steps back toward the staircase.

You only exhale once you spot the circulation desk downstairs, checking out the book you'd snagged on autopilot. Your pulse buzzes faintly under your skin as you recall your words from that morning.

I haven't taught you about cultural burial symbolism theories yet.

And here he is, reading about it. The librarian scans the barcode, and you listen to the soft mechanical chirp of the system logging the loan as something warm unfurls in your chest when you realize he must've been coming here after work for weeks. After spending his days helping patients, saving lives, he came here to be a bigger part of yours.

That's why he's been able to ask you insightful, in-depth questions. Why he's had that downright bashful smile on his face when you've praised his questions or observations.

He's been studying.

When you take your stamped book and nod your thanks, that warm feeling makes its way from your ribs to your cheeks and once again there's a beaming smile on your face because of Zayne, somehow even wider than this morning.

You’d been worried that maybe you've been talking too much and asking too little, but all Zayne wanted to do was keep up with you. Maybe even impress you.

You clutch the book to your chest as you step outside, feeling embarrassingly like a university student with a crush when a small giggle bubbles out of you. The evening air cools your flushed cheeks and a familiar sense of triumph hums through you: stealth mission complete.

As make your way home, you assign yourself a new one.

Tomorrow’s dinner lecture is officially being rescheduled.

“So, how’d your research go? Learn anything new?”

The barest hesitation stutters Zayne's hand as he lifts one of the macaroons to his mouth. You still aren't sure how he can stomach them after eating all those cookies at the library as well as dinner, but you're glad you picked them up on the way home as you follow suit and bite down on your own. 

When you shoot him an expectant look he pops the macaroon in his mouth with a hum, nodding his head as he chews.

“Good,” you reply with an innocent smile, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. “I actually got up to something after work too.”

“You did?” he asks curiously, finishing off the plate and setting it aside.

Your body is still humming from your discovery earlier. From the sight of renowned medical researcher and the city's top cardiac surgeon tucked into the library so he could impress his partner by learning more about your favorite subject.

You'd thought of a few ways to go about this as you waited for him to get back from work this evening: bringing it up point blank that you know and seeing what unfolds. Whipping out the reservation slip that fell from his bag that morning for a flare of drama.

But then you remembered the way he’d looked in the library, entirely absorbed as he traced his long fingers over the pages. Glasses low on his nose, dark lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. A seeker of knowledge in his element, unaware of the world beyond his studies. The same look he gives you when you get excited to share new things with him.

That's how you knew you wanted, no, deserved to see your confident brainiac flushed and bashful. Which is why your next statement is said with the most amount of provocation and the least amount of remorse. "I did! Linkon Library."

He couldn't have reacted better if you'd staged it, you think, as he coughs into his fist and swallows.

"Oh?" He clears his throat and you pretend you don't notice faintest hue of peach starting to stain the tips of his ears. "You haven't gone there in a while. Were you looking for something in particular?"

"I was." You spring up and go to your bag, using the chance to tamp down your smile as you take your new library book out. "And you'll never guess what I found."

His ears deepen from peach to crimson when you set your new anthro book on the table.

“I also found this really hot guy in the study section. Dark hair. Glasses. Very serious about his… research." Your teasing smirk finally breaks through. “He had a very impressive stack of textbooks and cookies in front of him too. What was it again… burial practices? In the Arctic?”

Colour continues creeping across his temples, along the sharp crest of his cheekbones, setting high into his cheeks like ink. You lean forward and resist the urge to bat your lashes as you rest your chin on your palm.

“And the way he pushed his glasses up when he was concentrating?” You exaggerate a groan of appreciation. “Unfair. Honestly, I almost introduced myse-”

Two fingers press gently to your lips, his mouth twitching at the corner. “Even soldiers are granted the mercy of surrender before they’re tortured.”

"Oops." You finally break with a laugh, thoroughly enjoying the way his flaming cheeks warm your hands when you lean in to cup them. "I guess I have no mercy when it comes to you."

Hazel irises sprout into sage. "My cruel mistress," he murmurs.

“What’s truly cruel,” you counter, sliding your hands down to rest against his collarbones, “is you studying my favorite subject without me. Were my lectures not good enough?”

“Your lectures are perfect." He says firmly, hands making their way to your sides to squeeze teasingly. “They may have actually ruined all future medical conferences for me permanently.” He smiles when you laugh. “I just… needed additional help after class.”

"Are you trying to impress me?" You raise a brow in suspicion. 

He shakes his head with a huff. "I'm always trying to impress you."

“No wonder you knew so much,” you grumble. "I should've suspected when you started bringing up topics that even my forums weren't discussing."

“How else could I keep up with your brilliant mind?”

“Zayne.” You roll your eyes, but this time you're the one unable to stop the flush that betrays you.

Wisps of hair brush against your forehead when he leans in, voice softening. “How else could I keep making you smile at me for so long?”

His hand comes to your jaw, thumb tracing from cheek to chin before he kisses you. It's deep but slow, languid, a hungry beast finally holding the prey he's been waiting for. Pulling his lips away every few kisses to study the tremble of your lips only to dive back in and consume them.

Your hands slide around his shoulders, bringing your chest close as he pulls your hips closer, humming against your mouth as he sets you on the table and slots your hips against his. You suck in a few unsteady breaths when he pulls a few centimetres away again, knowing it's doing nothing to fan the flame of your cheeks.

His voice scrapes over you, “How else could I keep putting this look on your face?”

"What look?" you ask cooly, though the way your gasps are gusting out of your lungs probably ruins it. You don't even remember how you got here, if you're honest. Onto the table, onto this topic.

“The one you make when I asked you if languages shaped the way people fell in love,” he reminds you, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“Or when we debated how different cultures defined beauty." He licks each word into your skin.

Zayne continues trailing slow kisses over your chest, over your ribs, until he's lifting your shirt and sucking louder kisses into your stomach, nipping the skin at your waistband.

You gasp when he does it, eyes wide, lips parted and he finally looks up, smiles a secret smile, and whispers, "This one."

The rest of the conversation dissolves as heated skin and wandering hands take over. As quiet laughs are swallowed by moaning mouths.

He knows without thinking where to touch, where to trace. He doesn't need to read any books know how to make your breath hitch, how to coax those soft sighs from your throat. Doesn't need any extra help to figure out how to hold you so you feel steady when you tumble over the edge.

Because Zayne doesn't need to study you, he knows you by heart.

➻➻ MORE ZAYNE FICS

that was the thorn under your skin. he was leaning in, a small, genuine tilt to his lips as a daughter of a high-ranking magistrate whispered something into his ear. he looked comfortable. he looked like he belonged to them, to the nation, to everyone but you. the jealousy was a living thing in your throat, hot and jagged like a piece of flint. you couldn't breathe. the heat of the thousand flickering lanterns felt like they were blistering your skin, and before the first tear could even track a salty path through your powder, you turned on your heel.

the corridors of the palace were long and winding, lit by the low, flickering glow of dragon-bone torches that cast dancing, distorted shadows against the walls. you hurried, your silk skirts swishing with an agitated rhythm as you sought the silence of the royal gardens. the night air hit you with the scent of midnight-blooming jasmine and the dampness of the koi pond, a welcome relief from the stifling perfume of the banquet. you let out a ragged, choked sob, the sound small and pathetic against the vast silence of the stone courtyard.

"go away!" you cried out, not even looking back when the heavy thud of familiar boots echoed against the pavement. you knew that stride anywhere. it was purposeful, slightly heavy, the gait of someone who spent years chasing shadows and was no longer willing to let one slip away.

"no," zuko's voice cracked the stillness, sounding deeper than it had moments ago when he was charming the nobility.

you didn't stop. you tried to walk faster, the heels of your shoes clicking rhythmically, but he was faster. he was a master of the hunt and within seconds, he was there. his fingers, calloused from years of broadsword practice and firebending forms, wrapped firmly but gently around your wrists. you tried to yank your hands back, your face burning with a shame so intense it felt like physical heat, but he held fast.

"leave me alone, zuko," you hissed, your voice wet and thick. you used your shoulder to try and scrub at your eyes, desperate to hide the evidence of your crumbling composure. "it's stupid. i'm being stupid. just go back to your guests. they’re waiting for their fire lord to come back and smile at them."

zuko didn't move. he stood there in the moonlight, his ceremonial gold headpiece catching the pale light, looking every bit the formidable ruler, yet his eyes were clouded with a frantic, awkward sort of worry. he frowned, his brow furrowing in that specific way that meant he was overthinking every word before it left his mouth. he released one of your wrists, only to bring his hand up to cup your cheek. his palm was incredibly warm—the steady, pulsing heat of a powerful firebender—and it felt like a brand against your cool, tear-slicked skin.

"you're crying," he stated. it was so blunt, so painfully obvious, so typically zuko that for a fleeting second, the sob in your throat turned into a jagged, watery laugh.

"wow, your majesty," you snorted, leaning your head away even as you melted into the warmth of his hand. "nothing gets past you, does it? truly a master of observation."

zuko's face instantly flushed a deep, sunset crimson, the color spreading from his neck up to the tips of his ears. he looked indignant, his jaw tightening as he huffed out a small puff of smoke from his nostrils—a nervous habit he’d never quite outgrown. "i'm trying to comfort you! you're the one who ran off into the dark for... for no reason!"

"i had a reason," you whispered, the jealousy flaring up again, though it was tempered now by the sheer ridiculousness of him standing here in his royal finery, arguing with you in a garden.

"then tell me," he demanded, his voice softening. he used his thumb to brush away a fresh tear, his touch so light it was almost a caress. "stop trying to pull away. i'm not letting you go back inside until you're okay."

you looked up at him, at the scar that mapped his past and the gold eyes that promised a future, and you felt your heart do a slow, painful roll in your chest. "you suck at this," you muttered, though you stopped fighting his grip. "you're supposed to be charming and say something poetic, not just point out that i'm leaking from my face."

he scoffed, a short, sharp sound, but his hand stayed glued to your face. "well, i didn't see any of those 'poetic' guys following you out here, did i?" a smug, almost mischievous glint entered his eyes then. he realized he had the upper hand. he leaned in closer, his scent—charcoal, expensive sandalwood, and that underlying spicy musk of his own skin—overwhelming your senses.

"are you jealous?" he teased, his voice dropping to a playful rumble. "was it the magistrate's daughter? or maybe the lady from the eastern isles? she did have a very large hat."

"stop it," you giggled, the sound bubbling up despite your best efforts to remain miserable. you tried to swat at his chest, but he just caught your hand and held it against his heart. you could feel it thumping—fast and entirely yours.

"oh, i think the great fire lord has a crybaby on his hands," zuko continued, his grin widening into something truly wicked. he was enjoying this far too much. "a little, weeping turtle-duck. quack, quack."

"zuko, i hate you!" you cried out, laughing now, the tears finally drying as the absurdity of the situation took over.

he didn't answer with words. instead, he leaned down, his face inches from yours. his golden eyes were blown wide, full of a heat that had nothing to do with bending. then, he started to kiss your face. they were loud, obnoxious, exaggerated mwahs. he kissed your forehead, then your temple, then the tip of your nose, making a ridiculous smacking sound with every contact.

mwah! mwah! mwah!

"stop! people will hear!" you shrieked softly, squirming in his arms as he peppered your cheeks with the wet, noisy kisses. it was so unlike the brooding, serious fire lord the world knew, and that was exactly why it worked. he was being a dork just to see you smile.

finally, he caught your lips with one last, dramatically loud mwah. he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your mouth. his smug smile was still there, but his eyes were soft, molten gold.

"see?" he whispered, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "i think i do a pretty good job at comforting my crybaby."

you sighed, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him back down. the garden was silent, the crickets chirping in the distance, and for the first time all night, the air felt exactly right. "yeah," you murmured against his skin. "you're doing okay, jerk bender."

⧽

you insisted on tagging along with Aang on his diplomacy trip to the Earth Kingdom.

You had just recovered from a nasty cough that was spreading around Republic City. you claimed you were all healed, and it was nothing to worry about, but Aang certainly didn’t fully believe you.

He had a habit of checking your vitals with his sensitive avatar perception, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Mm, you don’t have a fever, but sweetie, why do you wanna go with me? It’s gonna take a lot out of me, and I’m sure it will exhaust you too. You don’t need that.”

He didn’t like to order you around in most situations, but he didn’t play when it came to your wellbeing. His girl’s life was worth more than all the cosmic energy of the universe.

“I’ll be fine,” you brushed him off, and set off to pack your bags. You’d need a swimsuit if you were going to the hot springs after the meeting. The best part of any Earth Kingdom diplomacy trip.

He met you in the room and grabbed a hold of you, kissing your neck softly at first, strong, tatooed hands set firmly around your waist. “You better pack medicines and herbs,” he murmured, then started to make your neck a bruised mess.

“Yes, Avatar,” you grumbled playfully, and melted into his touch.

⧽

Sniffles plagued you all throughout the journey to the Earth palace. You sneezed, and everytime, Appa would bristle slightly at the disturbance, and Aang would stare at you, with a I told you so look. you thought maybe he’d turn around and drop you right back off at home, but he didn’t.

You started to wish that you paid attention when your elders taught you the art of healing.

Momo nuzzled into your shoulder, his tail swishing against your chest and blowing up into the air, and it made you feel better, just slightly, as you stifled both a cough and a laugh.

“Take it easy back there, sweet cheeks!” Aang called, a smirk etched into his face.

“SWEETCHEEKS?”

⧽

“Nice to see you again, Kuei,” Aang said delicately, and you both bowed in front of the Earth King, knees to ornate marble floors.

He beams at you with such love, you think you might explode from the warmth in your chest.

He’s wearing robes fit for the summertime, that emphasize his broad and built chest, shimmering with mild sweat from the humidity in the palace.

You bow as low as you can, palms flat on the floor. You rise back up, staring directly into the Earth King’s eyes. You speak.

“We hope to resolve the issues happening between the Earth Kingdom and Republic City regarding trade.” You said, firmly but a little hoarse.

Aang’s hand lay discreetly on the small of your back for support.

You swear, but maybe you’re just imagining it, that he’s fire bending warmth into your skin.

⧽

You and Aang sat in a room filled with Earth Kingdom royals and staff. The meeting was dying down. Several non related conversations started to pop up. You were proud of yourself for sitting through that draining meeting, even while under the weather. Now if you could just get to your room and take off this tight gown.

You adjusted your headwear, which was slipping slightly after several hours. It was a traditional water tribe piece that your mother had made you and you showed it off anytime you could. It made you feel so regal.

You mildly overheard Aang talking with the some members of the royal court, and even though it sounded friendly at first, the tone seemed to shift.

“Your wife,” a young royal remarked, his long dark hair almost hiding the left half of his face, “is such a looker. Wow, I must say. I wish I had snagged her for myself.” His expression was almost sly, and his gaze darted towards you, in a dark, uncomfortable way.

Your breath hitched.

You sneezed, and your face blanched in embarrassment- but that was soon wiped away.

“Excuse me?” You had never heard Aang’s voice this stern. It scared you a little bit. He stood up from the cushion he was sitting on, and towered over the man who had given the unwanted comment. “That is inappropriate behavior in the counsel. And anywhere. That is my wife, my. wife. And you are not going to make any sort of comment about her. Leave her alone.”

The other man’s expression shrunk into this sheepish look, and he immediately shut up. No one would dare challenge on Avatar on this.

“Thank you,” you breathed, half turned on, half satisfied at the retribution of it all. “If that is alright with you, Kuei, we are going to be leaving as the meeting is over, but we will be sure to meet you for breakfast tomorrow,” you smiled sweetly, but made sure to stare daggers at the man who was harassing you and his companions.

You stood up and meandered over to where Aang was standing. He leaned into you, protectively, careful not to touch you too much in front of all of the guests, although you know that he would like nothing more but to hang all over you. You said your goodbyes quickly, The Earth King apologized half assedly, and hand in hand, you led him to your guest room.

⧽

“Baby, they’re so rude. I hate them.” You whined, nestled in Aang’s arms, the two of you sprawled out on the bed.

“I know.” He kissed the top of your head gently. “I gotta get the Earth King to apologize better than that. That creep is probably a friend of his so he didn’t want to sound mean. What a stupid thing.”

“Like inside thoughts, man!”

“I mean, I know my wife is hot shit. And she’s my hot shit. Last time I checked.”

You looked up at him, all fake innocent. “Are you jealous?” You cooed.

“Nope.” He smirked. “Just wanna protect a lovely, beautiful badass woman that I’m in love with.”

“Uh huh,” you go, half convinced, then you feel an awful cough coming on.

“Oh sweetie! For Gyatso’s sake!”

You spent the last few remaining hours of daylight getting a thorough, free chi massage from your husband, and in the morning you felt a lot better. Your sickness was practically all gone, thanks to the healing powers of Aang.

“You have quite the healing hands, mister,”

“I work very hard to please my lady.”

⧽

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“…You should rest,” he said, voice steady, almost too steady, the kind he used in court, in front of others, when every word was measured and deliberate.

But there was no one here to perform for.

You were sitting at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, watching him with a quiet patience that only seemed to make it worse. The mattress dipped slightly beneath you, silk whispering with the smallest shift of your weight. It drew his attention again-brief, betraying-and this time his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Then his face flushed.

It was subtle at first. A faint warmth at the tips of his ears. A soft color rising along his cheekbones.

He turned away again.

“…It’s late,” he added, as if that solved anything.

You almost smiled.

Because this was the same man who faced down entire courts without hesitation. The same man whose presence alone could silence a room. Whose voice carried authority without ever needing to rise.

And yet now…

Now Zuko looked like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands.

They flexed at his sides, then stilled, then shifted again like he was trying to decide where they belonged. His posture remained straight out of habit, but there was tension in it now, something uncertain threading through all that practiced composure.

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re not coming to bed?”

The question was simple.

It ruined him.

His shoulders stiffened, just for a second, before he forced them to relax. Slowly, he turned back toward you-this time committing to it, even if it clearly cost him something.

Golden eyes met yours.

Held.

And immediately betrayed him.

The flush deepened, spreading down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his robes. His jaw tightened, like he was annoyed with himself for it, but he didn’t look away this time. That might’ve been the only thing he had left to cling to-his stubbornness.

“I…” He stopped. Tried again. “I will.”

A pause.

“I simply-”

He exhaled, slow and controlled, like steadying himself before stepping into battle.

Ridiculous.

There was no battlefield here. Just you. Just a quiet room and too many candles and the weight of something new settling between you both.

Still, he moved.

Each step toward the bed was measured, deliberate, as though he could maintain control that way. As though he could pretend his pulse wasn’t betraying him, wasn’t loud enough to drown out the silence.

When he reached you, he hesitated again.

Closer now, you could see it more clearly-the way his golden eyes softened despite himself, the way his breath caught almost imperceptibly when you looked up at him. The scar over his eye didn’t make him look harsher like it did in the daylight. In this light, it only made him look… real.

Human.

And very, very flustered.

“You’re staring,” he said quietly.

You didn’t deny it.

That only made it worse.

Color bloomed deeper across his face, and for a moment, he looked like he might retreat again- step back, put distance between you and whatever this was.

But he didn’t.

Instead, slowly, almost cautiously, he sat beside you.

The mattress dipped under his weight, bringing him closer, the space between you shrinking to something fragile and noticeable. His arm brushed yours- just barely- and he froze like the contact had sent a shock through him.

It might as well have.

His hand hovered for a second, uncertain, before settling on the bed between you. Fingers curled slightly into the silk, gripping it like an anchor.

“I have faced worse situations than this,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

And yet he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at you again without that soft, helpless flush returning. Calm. Honorable.

Except here.

You take his hand, guiding him to sit between your legs on the down-filled bed. gathering his hair between your fingers, the silky strands slip with ease. you lift a strand, smelling it- jasmine, burnt cedar. 

Zuko goes still the moment your fingers lace with his. Not tense-no, not pulling away-but aware.

Deeply, acutely aware.

And yet he lets you guide him.

There’s no resistance as you gently pull him back, settling him between your legs on the plush, down-filled bed. The softness gives beneath his weight, but he feels anything but grounded. If anything, it only makes him more unsteady, more conscious of every point of contact-your knees at his sides, your hands in his hair, your breath just behind him.

His breath catches.

Your fingers gather his hair like silk, and it is; smooth, well-kept, slipping easily through your touch. He doesn’t tie it back tonight, didn’t even think to. Now he’s painfully aware of that too, of how exposed it makes him feel, how close it lets you get.

When you lift a strand and bring it to your nose, he nearly forgets how to breathe altogether.

Jasmine. Burnt cedar. Him.

“Zuko, my love, why are you so shy all of a sudden?” A teasing lilt graced your lips along with a smile he did not miss. You were messing with him. 

He exhales quietly through his nose, like he’s trying to steady something unraveling in his chest-but it doesn’t quite work. Not when your voice is laced with that soft teasing, not when your lips brush his jaw-

Once.

Twice.

A third time, slower.

His hands tighten slightly where they rest on his thighs, fingers curling into the fabric there. His shoulders draw up just a fraction before he forces them to relax again, but the effect lingers-subtle, but unmistakable.

“You-” he starts, then stops.

His voice isn’t as steady as before.

He swallows, tilting his head just slightly-just enough to give you more space, though he doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it.

“You’re… making it difficult,” he murmurs, quieter now, the words slipping out like a reluctant confession.

Another kiss.

Softer this time.

His composure cracks a little more.

A faint, helpless flush spreads across his cheeks again, deeper than before, and this time it doesn’t fade when he tries to will it away. His golden eyes flicker downward, like he’s searching for something-control, maybe, or the right words-but they don’t stay there long.

They close instead.

Just for a second.

Because it’s easier than trying to hold himself together while you do this to him.

“I'm not shy,” he adds, though there’s no real conviction behind it now. Not when his voice dips like that, not when his breath hitches almost imperceptibly as your lips linger near his jaw.

Not when he leans-just slightly-back into you.

As if drawn there without thinking.

“…I am simply unused to this.”

That, at least, is honest.

Painfully so. You laugh softly. "Still? This is routine now, is it not?"

His hand lifts then, hesitant, uncertain, before settling lightly over yours where it still threads through his hair. He doesn’t stop you- doesn’t even try. He’s quiet for a moment after that-your hand still in his hair, his resting over yours-like he’s weighing something small, something almost… embarrassing.

Then, softer than before-

“Will you do my hair?”

There’s a pause, just long enough to feel fragile.

“Just to sleep in?”

It’s such a simple request. Almost boyish, in a way that doesn’t match the man everyone else sees. No command, no expectation-just a quiet ask, like he’s not entirely sure you’ll say yes.

“Of course.”

The answer comes easily, warmly, and something in him loosens.

Not all at once-but enough.

His shoulders drop a fraction, the tension easing as he exhales slowly. Carefully, he shifts, turning just enough to give you better access, settling more comfortably between your legs. This time, when his back brushes against you, he doesn’t go still.

He leans into it.

Just slightly.

Your fingers move through his hair again, more deliberate now, smoothing through the long, dark strands. They fall easily into place beneath your touch, soft and warm from his skin. He lets his head tilt forward when you guide it, compliant in a way he never is with anyone else.

The room feels quieter now.

Closer.

His eyes drift shut as you begin, your fingers parting sections, weaving them together with gentle care. Each movement is slow, unhurried-something meant to soothe rather than impress.

And it works.

His breathing steadies, evening out as he sinks into the feeling. The faintest furrow in his brow disappears, replaced with something softer, something almost… peaceful.

“…You’ve done this before,” he murmurs, voice low, touched with quiet curiosity.

Not suspicion. Not doubt.

Just… noticing.

Your fingers glide through another section, smoothing it down, and he exhales again-this time heavier, like it’s pulling something deeper out of him.

There’s a long pause.

Then, quieter still-

“My mother used to do my hair.” Zuko says, breaking the silence. He rarely spoke of his mother these days. 

The words are simple, but they settle heavily in the air between you.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

Doesn’t move away.

If anything, he leans back just a little more into your touch, trusting, unguarded in a way that feels rare-like something you’re being allowed to see.

Your hands continue their gentle work, braiding his hair loosely, something comfortable enough to sleep in. A few strands slip free near his face, framing it softly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Not tonight.

His hand, still resting over yours from before, shifts slightly-fingers brushing against your wrist, then settling there.

Not stopping you.

Just… staying.

“…It feels the same…yours I mean.” he admits, barely above a whisper.

Your hands still for just a moment in his hair.

Not stopping-never stopping-but slowing, softening, like the words deserve something gentler in return.

“...she used to brush my hair when I was a child,” he says quietly.

There’s no bitterness in his voice. Not quite. Just something distant. Remembered.

“Father thought it wasn’t a thing boys should do.”

Your fingers resume their slow rhythm, smoothing, parting, weaving. Careful. Intentional. Like you’re holding something fragile without ever letting him feel it might break.

“Your hands feel like hers.”

That makes your chest ache.

He doesn’t move when he says it. Doesn’t look at you. If anything, he sinks further back against you, his weight settling more fully, trusting you to hold it.

The candles flicker.

The room breathes around you.

And he-this man who carries himself like steel and fire in every other room-sits quiet and open in your hands.

You lean forward slightly, your lips brushing the crown of his head this time. Softer than before. Slower.

“Then I’ll do it as often as you want,” you murmur.

No teasing now.

Just warmth.

Your fingers continue the braid, loose and comfortable, something meant for rest rather than formality. A few strands slip free, grazing his cheek, and you smooth them back without thinking.

He exhales.

It’s different this time-deeper, like something long held finally eased.

“…He was wrong,” he says after a moment.

There’s a quiet steadiness to it now. Not defiance. Not anger.

Just certainty.

His hand shifts again, still resting over yours, but this time his fingers curl slightly-just enough to hold. Not to stop you.

Just to feel you there.

“I don’t care what he thought.”

Another pause.

Then, softer, “I would rather have this.”

the overplayed spotify playlist (composed of majorly lucki and carti because what else could you really expect?) blaring off someone’s bose speaker wasn’t enough to tune out the telltale roar of geto suguru’s skyline r34, paired with headlights that nearly made you see the pearly white gates when he pulled up to the lot.

and because one couldn’t be seen without the other, gojo satoru’s aventador svj wasn’t left too far behind. he parked next to geto, the two cars contrasting one another like ying and yang. while geto’s skyline was wrapped in all black matte paint with white detailing and dark purple rims, gojo had opted for all white and cerulean detailing.

conversations continued like normal, the truck skidding tires and doing donuts in the middle of the lot continued, and yet their presence was ever prominent. a couple were discreet; giving them a side eye glance before whispering back to their friends while a couple others were more direct. coming up to them and striking up conversation.

"so, i'm trying to figure out how to get past 180 horsepower, and..." the rest became a warbled mess, suguru nodding along like he hadn't mentally checked out of the conversation from the moment the guy opened his mouth.

suguru looked around the lot before noticing you standing off to the side. the guy somehow managed to get the clue that suguru wasn’t listening to him anymore, following his gaze before letting out a groan. “don’t even bother. she smoked my ass last week.”

that only made him want to bother even more.

“you’re gonna wanna do some ecu tuning if you don’t wanna spend so much money getting a whole new engine,” suguru suggested, bringing the conversation back to what it was before you noticed the two of them staring like creeps. “you can do some cheap mods like a better air filter or a turbo too.”

the guy’s eyes sparkled up like suguru was speaking out of a religious book, pulling his phone to type out his word exactly. “thanks man.” he gave suguru a bow before retreating, leaving off to who knows where. he turned to look back over at you, watching you scroll through your phone.

“you’re not being sleek, suguruu,” gojo spoke up in a sing-song tone next to him, resting his chin on his shoulder. what a fucking pointy chin.

suguru reluctantly looked away from you to look over at satoru, raising a brow and ready to deny, “i have zero idea what you’re referring to.”

satoru let out a loud groan, right next to his ear and attracting a group of people passing by. getting a few questioning stares in response before he so non discreetly gestured over to where you were standing. looking like you wanted to be anywhere but here. “you’ve been staring at her for like, five minutes now, you’re so obsessed.”

suguru swore the man could’ve had six eyes with the way he picked up on nearly everything. he pushed his head off his shoulder, turning around to face gojo. “one,” he raised his finger for effect, “it hasn’t been nearly five minutes. two, i’m not obsessed. merely… intrigued.”

it sounded like bullshit even to his own ears.

gojo pointed him with a single unimpressed look. “yeah, yeah, go talk to the love of your life,” before suguru got a chance to protest any further, he pushed him off the car and in your direction.

suguru stumbled forward, turning to give gojo the dirtiest fucking glare he could muster before noticing the white haired freak had already gone to bother someone else. the worst you could say was no, right? he swallowed dryly, making his way over to where you were parked. at a distance from everyone else.

trying to avoid exactly what he was about to do just now.

“nice car.” suguru motioned over to your bright, shiny purple 2000 mitsubishi gts, leaning against it all too comfortably. as soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to facepalm immediately—he sounded just like every other dick at the meet.

and well, you, on the other hand, you actually found it kind of nice. he didn’t try to automatically assume the car was a boyfriend’s, that you had no idea of where the gas tank even was.

“thanks.” god, the look of sheer awkwardness on your face nearly made him ask you to run him over.

and despite that embarrassment gnawing deep in his mind, suguru continued. “this doesn’t really look like your scene,” he remarked, looking around at the lot. it resembled a high school cafeteria in a sense—everyone finding comfort in their own clique. well, everyone except for you apparently.

“it’s not,” you were quick to answer, nudging him off your car before leaning against it yourself.

“so why bother coming then?”

you gestured over to where your friend was standing next to ryomen sukuna, leaning against his hellcat where they were making up or arguing? you couldn’t really tell anymore with the two. “apparently it’s a waste of money to modify a car if you’re not bringing it out to meets.”

suguru shrugged, folding his arms across his chest. and you had to force yourself to look away, not wanting to ogle just how well his muscles strained against the leather of his jacket. “if you like it, it’s not a waste.”

you gave a small shrug of your own, seemingly happy with letting the conversation die out here and now. suguru, get out of there. is this how the people who came up to him felt?

“what kind of mods have you done?” again, suguru sounded like every dick at the meet. but he was pulling at scraps, trying to see what would get you to open up a bit.

just enough to continue a conversation with. why he needed to talk to you so bad, you weren’t sure.

“you asking to inflate your ego or out of curiosity?” you questioned, looking over at him with thinly veiled annoyance.

now that made suguru crack a barely there smile. at least he was starting to get more than two word answers. “curiosity.”

“you’re asking me that like you haven’t modded the shit out your own car.”

he leaned forward, meeting your gaze. neither of you broke eye contact. “and i don’t want to talk about my car. i’m asking about yours, pretty girl.”

a scoff left your lips, “what kind of self absorbed asshole doesn’t wanna talk about their car at these things?”

“this self absorbed asshole.”

“self aware too, how humble,” you muttered, letting out a quiet sigh before starting to get into what mods you’d worked on. from cosmetic: the paint, the rear wing, and the carbon hood to mechanical: a v8 engine that cost you nearly three months worth of savings (excluding the install) and a supercharger.

suguru’s attention didn’t falter once while you were talking, occasionally nodding along. it was the most animated he’d seen you throughout the night. he figured it wouldn’t hurt his luck to ask one more question, “so how’d you get into doing car mods, anyways?”

“my dad’s a mechanic. he worked on his own cars for a while, fixing them up and stuff to sell. but as corny as it is, i guess, i started getting involved after watching the fast and furious movies,” you explained, looking over at suguru, “how about you?”

now you were asking about him? he had this in the bag, for sure. he answered your question, talking about how he’d gotten inspired by some of the movies as well. it was surprisingly.. not the worst conversation you’d ever had. he was easy to talk to, great at listening and remembering.

and then he remembered what the guy said earlier. “race with me.” a simple suggestion, like he was asking you to go on a walk to the park with him.

“what’s the catch?”

suguru clicked his tongue, pressing a hand over the left side of his chest as if you’d made it your personal mission to wound him, “can’t a guy just ask for a friendly race without having any ulterior motives?”

you raised a brow, giving him an unimpressed look.

he folded in .2 seconds. “okay, okay, fine.”

suguru simply hummed, pretending to think. like he hadn’t been planning this for the last half hour. “if i win, i’d like to have you for the night, pretty girl.”

“what?” an incredulous scoff left your lips, your face doing absolutely nothing to hide your disbelief. you were half expecting to hear you had to drop a semester’s worth of cash in one night.

suguru had become notorious for scamming finessing thousands upon thousands (mostly to pay off his ever growing pile of speeding tickets) from other guys at the meet.

specifically those guys. those guys that yapped on and on about the importance of horsepower and maximum velocity like they weren’t driving a stock car. the ones overcompensating for a lack of personality.

he did have some semblance of morals, you know.

“i said that if i win,” suguru tilted his head down to whisper in your ear like it was a highly coveted secret, a shiver running down your spine from just how close he was, “i’d like for you to spend the night with me.”

you turned your head away, refusing to let him see just how much he affected you, “and what about if i win?”

suguru simply pulled back, an amused smile on his face that had his eyes crinkling at the edges, “name whatever you want in exchange.”

you didn’t feel a sense of mockery when he spoke those words—and yet it almost seemed like he wasn’t threatened by that possibility at all.

“when i win…” maybe you should’ve thought this out a bit further. you looked around, trying to see just what you could get in exchange before zeroing in on—“your jacket. when i win, i get your jacket.”

“it’s a bet.” suguru didn’t even show an ounce of hesitation when he agreed, extending his hand out. despite having your own share of doubts, you extended your hand out a couple seconds to shake his.

you definitely did not pay attention to how that handshake seemed to last a couple more moments than was necessary.

the conditions weren’t that bad you supposed. if you beat him—you got his prized ferrari jacket and to hold it over his head. and well, if you lost, maybe at least you’d get a good orgasm out of it. maybe.

“we’ll take the backroads since cops usually don’t lurk around at this hour. three laps?” you agreed to his suggestion, walking over to where your car was parked.

adrenaline coursed through your body and the race hadn’t even begun—your fingers twitching as you twisted the key into the ignition. deep breath in, deep breath out. not like it was the first race you’d done.

gojo strutted around the two of you like was one of the women announcing a wwe match, dramatically raising a checkered flag over his head, “on your marks! three, two…”

you turned to look over at suguru , barely making him out through the dark. he’d been easygoing and relaxed when he first agreed to this, but he looked more serious than you’d seen him throughout the night. his right hand gripped on the stick, his foot ready to go from break to gas.

“on- ah! not yet,” gojo prolonged it even further, keeping the flag up above his head. groans escaped from the people standing next to him, glaring over at his way.

“start the race already, dumbass!”

“c’mon, we don’t have all day!”

gojo gave them a groan in response, rolling his eyes. (which could very well serve as street lights on their own if these were to go out) “god forbid a man try to create suspense, fine!”

“… one, go!” he brought the flag down, indicating that the race had begun.

both engines roared to life as the two of you pulled off the makeshift starting point, the screech of tires rubbing against asphalt muffling any other noises from the sides. street lights blended together into a kaleidoscope of colors, each passing you through in a blur.

the cheers from the sidelines became background noise, your focus solely on the speedometer that couldn’t seem to go up fast enough. 60… 80…. 100… 150. and then came a sharp turn. forcing you to slow down.

suguru recovered faster than you did, speeding past you. deep breath in, deep breath out. you knew these streets, the familiar scent of rubber burning with each race, the rush of adrenaline—it was nothing foreign. you sped up, going from 45 to 70 in two seconds, catching up to him.

you nudged past suguru just the quarter of an inch, barely noticeable to anybody but you two. he moved past, more than just half an inch. it was a slow dance, speeding past one another before the other took the lead.

the first lap was over in 2:34:09 minutes, the two of you crossing over the line at nearly the same time.

the second lap was over in 2:34:06 minutes, neither of you letting up on your spot. if anything, you pushed your foot harder on the gas like it’d make the car go faster.

and just when you saw the familiar checkerboard flag waving up in the air, suguru pulled up next to you. you could win, you could practically feel the sense of victory reverberating through your veins.

and just as quick as the feeling came, it vanished.

in a final surge of speed, suguru floored the gas, leaving you in the proverbial dust. you tried—you really did try to catch up, keeping a steady foot on the gas and your grip on the steering wheel tight.

a cloud of smoke exuded from the gtr’s muffler covered your windshield for just a couple seconds as he passed you, the couple seconds that he needed to gain a leg up on you.

you drove past the finish mark at 2:34:15 minutes.

“suguru, my man, that might be your best time!”

“oh my god, you were going sooo fast!”

multiple people were talking over one another, just dying to know what recent mods he’d done to his car, and yet suguru could only look at you. watch as you made your way through the crowd before stepping right in front of him (conveniently ignoring the scowl a girl was sending your way.)

“congrats, you did pretty good with the turns,” you spoke up, extending your hand out. suguru wondered how badly that’d wounded your pride. he cleared his throat, shaking your hand.

he cut off the conversation about whether or not he’d be willing to race a cybertruck, unwilling to plague his mind with the image of that monstrosity. it was already bad enough seeing the occasional one around on the narrow roads for ‘display.’

suguru didn’t say anything, simply getting off his car and pushing his hands into his pocket. he heard footsteps behind him before they halted, the person seemingly changing their mind. good.

he stepped in front of you just the same way you’d done just a few seconds back. “i’ll see you later tonight, yeah?”

“if your adoring fans let you take a break to see lil ol’ me, sure,” you responded, driving back to the lot. leaving him to get eaten by the sharks.

✩ ✩ ✩

you wondered just how suspicious it would look if you were to disappear right now. no one would notice. probably. even your friend had left for the night, continuing to make up with sukuna if you had to guess.

a clean leave. you turned to get in your car before you heard, “you goin’ somewhere?”

a great escape worthy of rivaling dantès' prison break (ie. getting in your car and driving off the lot with the hope that nobody notices) fumbled before it even began.

you turned to look back at suguru, letting out a nervous laugh. he was not convinced. “psshhh, what? no, of course not, i was just getting my phone,” you shrugged him off, shutting the car door.

“the same phone that’s in your hand?”

you rubbed the back of your neck, you weren’t even sure why you were still trying to continue. “oh, that’s where it went.”

suguru let out a quiet hum, folding his arms. “you don’t have to spend the night with me if you don’t want to, y’know. you could chicken out of the bet.”

you both knew you weren’t going to do that. which is exactly how you found yourself in the backseat of suguru’s prized gtr. in an abandoned side of the lot, where not a single soul wandered about.

“you just go around asking people if they wanna race in exchange for a night with you?” you questioned, fiddling with the end of your skirt.

“should i have just tried to ask you on a date?” he responded, letting out a dramatic sigh, “and here i thought i was being swoon-worthy.”

you rolled your eyes. “what would a date consist of with you, anyways?”

“the pinnacle of modern romance, of course,” suguru responded, reaching over the center console to grab the aux cord before handing it over to you with a cheeky smile on his face, “boba and a view.”

you took the aux cord, blinking slowly before daring to ask, “you’re serious?” you wondered just how much of a chicken you would look like if you jumped out of his car right now.

suguru looked at you through the corner of his eye, a quiet laugh bubbling from his chest, “nah, i’m not that much of a slut.”

“you say that like you didn’t just make a bet to have me for one night,” you countered, giving him a pointed look.

“i never said what the night would consist of. for all you know, i could’ve invited you to read car manuals of all things.”

“did you?”

absolutely not. suguru’s throat bobbed. you were too close. even if the backseat wasn’t that big, it was still spacious enough. and you’d chosen to sit right next to him, your thigh pressed against his. he could feel every single shift and movement and it was absolutely killing him.

his fingers twitched against his sides, gaze locked onto your lips and the ungodly way they shimmered. like an invitation. how badly he wanted to taste you, have the taste of you lingering on his tongue and engraved into his brain. you leaned in, “you can kiss me.”

suguru pulled back before you got the chance to get too close, leaving you dazed and confused. no way you’d been reading that wrong all along. you blinked slowly before whispering, “did i do something wrong?”

“no! no, nothing like that,” he shook his head quickly, reaching out to take your hands in his own. you could see the gears whirring in his head—see just how much he was struggling to articulate his point. “i know we agreed on you spending a night with me. but i’m not going to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

“i know you convinced yourself i was trying to leave earlier—” suguru only rolled his eyes, “—but i wouldn’t have agreed to the bet if i didn’t want anything to do with you.”

“so why did you try to leave?”

you buried your head in hands, letting out a groan. “because i got embarrassed. there was a crowd listening in when i was acting all cocky before the race.”

suguru reached over, gently prying your hands off your face. “they probably forgot it five minutes later. plus, you’re one of the more talented drivers i’ve seen.”

“you mean that?”

“yeah, of c-mmph, fuck—” you shut him up, pressing your lips against his. the kiss nearly made his brain short circuit. your lips were soft and tentative, testing out the waters, hands cupping his cheeks.

he hoisted you up onto his lap, his hands resting on your ass immediately and cock twitching underneath you. tenting in his pants, straining against the material. “you’re this hard already?” you asked innocently, running the tip of your nail down his shaft. like you weren’t dripping in your panties, the lace material sticking to your folds.

“so if i were to move my hand up—” he mused, relishing in the soft gasp you let out, “—i wouldn’t find you soaked?” his fingers trailed upwards slowly, pushing your skirt out of the way. you spread your legs apart just as he was getting closer to your pussy, but he completely pulled away.

“not yet, wanna enjoy this.” every movement was slow—like he was really taking the time to relish in this win.

suguru buried his head into the crook of your neck, immediately intoxicated with everything that smelt like you. from your body lotion to your perfume, he was practically high off it. a high that he didn’t even know if he wanted to come down from.

he nipped the side of your neck, kissing his way down. “you’re so pretty, taste so good,” he rambled breathlessly, latching his lips onto whatever inch of skin he could reach. he moved down to your exposed collarbone, sucking and biting onto the sensitive skin.

suguru looked too relaxed—leaning back against the leather while he let his gaze travel down your body. slowly, wanting to imprint every inch to memory, from the mole on your breast all the way to how you felt underneath his fingertips. “so beautiful,” he whispered, a quiet admission that almost seemed like it wasn’t meant to be uttered out loud.

he reached out, tracing the tip of his finger from your navel all the way to your pretty lace bra, following the pattern on the hem. tracing the tip of his fingers against your stiff nubs, rubbing and pinching through the material.

dexterous fingers reached behind you, unclasping the multiple hooks of your bra with relative ease. the flimsy material slid down from your shoulders to your elbows slowly before you shrugged it off completely, watching suguru’s eyes follow your bra falling on the car floor before coming back up to your tits.

he slipped the leather jacket off his body, slipping it over his shoulders. the scent of his cologne—a mix of sandalwood and amber immediately hitting your nose. “you’re giving me your jacket?”

“yeah, consider it a pity present. for being the loser and all,” suguru replied with a laugh, letting out a small ‘ow’ when you smacked the side of his arm.

“asshole.”

“so, you don’t want the ferrari jacket, is that right?”

you fought back a smile, “i guess i can take it.”

his lips trailed down from your collarbone down your body, his fingers still gripping onto your ass. peck. peck. peck. “good, it looks better on you than me,” he mumbled, suctioning and biting down into the valley of your tits. leaving behind a little mark that only you two would see.

his tongue swirled around your areola, his other hand cupping your breast while his fingers twisted and toyed with the other one. giving each his undivided attention. “o-oh fuck,” breathless gasps left your lips, your back arching against him. practically engulfing him in your tits. no complaints here.

“lay on your stomach for me,” he spoke up once he managed to find the willpower to let go of your tits.

it was a tight stretch but the two of you managed to maneuver your way around. or more so, he decided to leave you the back seat while he sat outside. his hands spread out of your thighs, and without even looking at him, you could feel his stare boring into your cunt.

suguru was quick in taking off your skirt, before remembering he was supposed to be relishing in this. his fingers hooked around the waistband of your thong, sliding it down inch by inch. moving at the speed of molasses. and when he was finished, you could’ve sworn lace being shoved into his pocket.

“you’re just gonna stare?”

“i’m appreciating my meal, hold on.”

after what seemed to be an eternity (five seconds), suguru finally leaned in. his lips pressed against the back of your thighs, kissing his way up to where you were leaking for him. he rubbed his pointer and middle against your folds, watching your slick glisten off them before deciding to feast.

suguru swiped his tongue up and up your slick folds up until he reached your clit, the warm metal ball of his piercing rolling around the throbbing bud. “o-ohh, fuck!” you let out a moan, digging into the leather seats and pushing your hips back against him.

and suguru, well suguru, couldn’t really give a shit about his leather. he spat onto your cunt, watching how you clenched around nothing, before smearing all over with his tongue. swiping his tongue back and forth, dipping the tip into your hole. “best prize ever, so good,” he groaned just as loudly as you were.

he slurped every single drop that your cunt had to give like it was something divine, moaning and rutting his hips into the air. he swiped his tongue like a credit card, moving his head back and forth, before latching his lips onto your swollen clit. sucking on it before letting the ball of his piercing roll around figure eights.

“d-don’t stop, fuck!” between your pussy and your moans, suguru was in paradise. your nails dug even further, leaving behind crescent shaped imprints on the seats. a small price to pay.

“how about you get these all nice and wet f’me, baby, please,” he leaned forward and pressed two fingers against your mouth. you wrapped your lips around the digits, sucking and swirling your tongue down to the knuckle. slobbering over the expensive rings adorning his fingers.

“ah fuck, just like that.” you looked up to meet his hungry gaze before releasing his fingers with a loud pop.

his fingers pushed inside, moving in a scissoring motion to spread you wider and wider. your walls clenched around his fingers, leaving them covered in a mix of your slick and your spit.

“get ‘er nice and open, just like that,” suguru mumbled, too drunk off the taste of you to try to make too sense. his mouth returned to its rightful place—your clit, where he started to roll his tongue again. suck. spit.

he added in a finger, curling them to hit that spongy spot inside of you. “so close, so close,” you whined like a broken record.

“cum for me, i got you, i got you ma,” he babbled against your clit, each vibration going up your spine like livewire. the tip of his tongue traced figures, letters, shapes onto your clit, treating it like his own whiteboard.

“f-fuck!” you threw your head back, letting out the loudest moan he’d heard so far before your release washed over you. coating over his fingers and his chin, leaving him completely soaked. and suguru still wasn’t satisfied.

“w-wait, ‘m sensiti- mm shit!” a moan ripped out from your throat when he went back for seconds, his tongue prodding into your cunt to taste every drop. to absorb as much of you as could, as much as you had left to give.

suguru pulled back once he’d gotten his fill, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. he shed off his clothes like a second skin, quickly kicking his pants off before getting situated in the car seat.

you got on top of him, wrapping your fingers around his cock before slowly starting to jerk your wrist. up and down, rubbing your thumb across the slit and smearing precum all over his reddened tip. “sooo good.” suguru bucked his hips into your hand, head thrown backwards.

taking that opportunity like a golden ticket, you leaned in to kiss down his neck just the same way he had. you felt him shiver underneath your touch, his hips moving erratically against your hand. “you don’t get to cum yet,” you whispered, pulling your hand away much to his dismay.

but he supposed he couldn’t complain too much.

you took hold of his shaft, aligning it with your slit before slowly starting to move down. “o-oh oh shit,” your lips parted into a ‘o’ shape, forehead pressed against his as you sunk down. his own lips were parted, shaky breaths exchanged between the two of you.

“f-fuck, there you go, that’s it,” suguru sucked in a harsh breath, chest heaving. and yet, that didn’t matter. he was too entranced by the way your pussy dripped over his cock, the way your walls stretched around him to mold to his shape perfectly. “use me, use my cock, it’s all yours, baby.”

you hadn’t even moved and he sworn he could’ve fallen in love with you and your cunt right there and then.

“all mine, huh?” your voice shook, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders where your nails dug into his skin in the most painstakingly pleasurable way imaginable. you started to move—inch by inch, you could feel the stretch as you tried to get accommodated.

“mhm, all yours,” suguru confirmed, leaning in and licking the warm drops rolling down your cheeks. you hadn’t realized when you started tearing up. his mouth was on yours in a span of seconds—no longer taking his time. no, this time, it was all a mixture of teeth and tongue.

like you’d disappear at any given moment.

your hips started gyrating and undulating down his cock, dripping over his thighs and onto the leather seats. “tryna kill me already, shiit, don’t stop,” suguru panted, digging his fingers into the fat of your ass. something to keep him grounded.

and somehow that just opened the watergates for him to keep babbling. completely pussydrunk babbles. “just like that, fuck, keep going,” suguru moaned unabashedly against your mouth, allowing you to taste yourself on him. his hips rutted against you, matching the rhythm you set for yourself.

“s-sugu, you’re so big,” you whined out, practically feeling the man in your throat with each punishing thrust. his thighs clapped against your ass, your cunt squelched like you were a running faucet.

“y’know, maybe if you rode this fast, you would’ve beat me, pretty girl.” maybe he’d gotten a bit too cocky.

SLAP

your eyes widened in disbelief, either from the fact that you’d slapped him in the first place or that he’d moaned. you weren’t sure yet. a breathless laugh left his lips, his hips pummeling into your pussy like she owed him money. like he hadn’t nearly bust his load right then and there. “do it a little harder next time, yeah?”

“who said there’ll be a next time?” you countered in between shaky breaths, moaning out broken babbles of your own with each time his tip brushed against your g-spot.

“you’re right, you’re right,” he conceded, (despite already thinking about next time, maybe somewhere that wasn’t so crowded, maybe a date first), “so for now, you okay? you need me to do anything, baby?”

talking as if the slap had never happened in the first place.

“need your hand, sugu, please!”

“take my hand and put it where you want it, then.” you took hold of his hand, bringing it down your body down to your clit. “right here?”

“uh huh, right there, right there!” you nodded your head fervently, arching your back even further when he started to rub circles around the nub. your thighs ached. you pushed through it, bouncing and grinding down on his cock. feeling the bulbous tip almost touching your cervix the deeper he got.

“sugu, sugu,” it was the only sense of warning you could give him. you leaned forward, biting down on his shoulder to muffle your moans.

“i know, i know, give it to me.”

with that, you came harder than you did the last time. your toes curled as your orgasm washed over you, dripping and covering his shaft in your essence. suguru’s hips stuttered, barely thrusting inside in chase of his own orgasm.

your cunt clenched around his cock, milking him for every drop of cum. suguru groaned loudly, burying his head in the crook of your neck. shiver after shiver ran down his spine, cock twitching inside of you with his impending orgasm. “s-so tight, fuck!” he practically whined before ropes of cum shot inside of you.

suguru slumped back against the car seats, taking hold of your hips and gently guiding you off his cock. “here,” he whispered, taking a hold of a rag in the glovebox. he wiped off the globs of cum dripping down your twitching cunt.

he wasn’t winning aftercare of the year under these conditions, but his movements were still relatively gentle. “you’re okay?”

“i should be asking you that,” you countered, clearing your throat. and because suguru apparently kept himself prepared for every occasion, he passed over a water bottle in your direction. muttering out a quiet thanks, you began to gulp down the water.

he simply shrugged, starting to put his clothes back on. well, as best as he could while he was smushed. “i liked it. we’re good.”

finishing with getting dressed, you were about to hand him back the jacket but suguru quickly shook his head. “i told you, it looks better on you. keep it.”

you shoved your hands deep into the pockets of his jacket back when you got to your car, feeling a small slip of paper at the bottom. his number you realized—scrawled onto the sheet like he was a rush while remaining relatively neat.

You hadn’t even wanted to be there. Only begrudgingly attending the rally, sitting at the front row with your best smile plastered on, pretending to listen to your husband campaigning for reelection - as if he wasn’t loathed by literally half the nation. 

Leg bouncing up-and-down, anxious to leave, to go back to bed, to take a nice bath with Suguru and get some fucking sleep after an exhausting week of press and planning. 

“I am devoted to this country, and to my-” 

Crack. 

You felt the whizz first, then heard the screams. You blinked, and figured out why they were screaming only as everyone behind the podium started to hit the floor. But then another crack rang out, and you saw red. 

Everything was a blur, people grabbing you, secret service agents moving fast, pulling you away as your brain finally caught up to processing the horror of what was happening. 

Someone just shot your husband. 

Tried to fucking assassinate him in the middle of his speech. 

You were pretty sure you screamed then, desperate to look, desperate to see if they succeeded, shouting Satoru’s name, begging the universe to let him reply, to hear his voice back. 

Because despite everything, all the history and the heartbreak, he was still your husband. Still the father of your children. 

The love of your life.

You couldn’t see him anymore. 

Completely covered up by his team as you were being moved. 

To a safe place, someone said.  

As if anywhere could be safe when you were still begging for someone to find out how Satoru was. If he was still alive. 

You were crying by the time they got you in a car, the bulletproof glass doing fucking nothing to make you feel any better as your leg bounced up and down, body curling up as small as possible as your brain stuttered and stalled attempting to piece together the fractured moments you just witnessed.

“He’s being taken to the hospital,” someone said, and the panic already bubbling up inside you just compounded, a desperate sob escaping as you struggled to stop hyperventilating. 

A small voice in your head was shouting that he was fine, that he had to be fine, rationality slipping away the harder you tried to hold onto it.

“The kids-” You started, another strangled sound cutting you off before a firm voice tried to reassure you. 

“We’ll have someone pull them out of school immediately and take them to a safehouse.” 

You nodded, sucking in a ragged inhale, far from polished or presentable but as close as you could get. 

“I need to be there,” you heard yourself say, voice cracking as your bottom lip quivered. “I have to see him.” 

Everyone else might hate him. 

You did sometimes. 

 But he was still yours even when you didn’t want him to be. 

The drive there was torture. 

But when you were led in the private wing, ushered in a back entrance and led up to an empty waiting area where you were informed he was in surgery, that they didn’t think his injuries were life-threatening, you still couldn’t find a single second of relief. Not until they wheeled him out, took both of you to a heavily guarded hospital room. 

White walls and blinking screens. Beeping. Sterile sheets and tiled floors. 

And in the middle of it all, your husband’s unconscious body, streaks of red in his pretty white hair, long lashes fluttering softly as you stared at the bandages on him. 

He was lucky, the doctor informed you. The first bullet only nicked across his shoulder. The second went through his left calf. Clean entry and exit. Missed all the important stuff. They tried talking about the importance of physical therapy, that they were optimistic he’d make a full recovery. But you could barely focus on what they were saying when your eyes were glued to the man you were being reminded was a mortal instead of a god. 

Satoru was still flesh and blood. 

Could still break. 

Your chair was dragged up to his bedside, holding onto his hand, fingers tightly gripping onto his cold ones, desperately willing him to wake up and give you that stupid smile you had been swearing you couldn’t stand for months now. 

All those complicated feelings you’d been stewing over ever since he’d taken a strange clarity at the thought you almost lost him.

When the last doctor left, the secret service detail standing outside the door and leaving you alone with your husband, you were still trying to remind yourself of all the bad times. Make yourself remember who he actually was. 

How it felt when you first found out he was still fucking around when he had promised he stopped. He had just hid it better. Made sure no one was around to witness it – although you still found out when his chief of staff tried to dissuade you from surprising him at his hotel when he was a couple hours away attending some stupid conference.

Satoru hadn't seen you, but you saw him when you showed up. Leading a pretty woman in a red dress into an elevator, his hand on her ass while half his security detail followed in after him. You guessed the rest were waiting on his private floor. Paid to pretend they didn't see half the things they did. 

You went back to the White House to sleep in a bed that had never really been yours. 

Denial wasn't something you could live in anymore. 

The anger came next.  

Nanami had been sitting there on the couch in the Oval office the next morning like he was waiting for you, reading a fucking newspaper and not even bothering to peek over it to spare you a glance. 

“I want a fucking divorce,” you spat out, seething and barely able to catch your breath as you glared at the seat your husband was supposed to be sitting in. So much for a fucking pillar of justice, a man of morality. 

His blond chief of staff just turned the page, unamused as he sighed. 

“I don't believe I'm the man you should be asking,” he dryly replied. 

“Well, you see the cheating bastard more than I do these days,” you snapped back, indignation blooming under your flushed cheeks as you said it out loud. Admitted that what you suspected had been true for weeks. Satoru had started cheating on you again. 

The same guy who begged you to marry him, swore that he'd make you the happiest woman alive, who used to wake you up by kissing your forehead and sleepily murmuring sweet things in your ear. 

Nanami sat the newspaper down.

Huffed as he sat up straighter, adjusting the thin reading glasses on the bridge of his nose before he looked directly at you. 

“Listen,” he started, and you already knew the rest would be bullshit when he was speaking to you like an adult about to let a child down. “We both know he will never let you get a divorce while he's in office.” 

He was right. 

And really, the idea of getting a divorce, of the whole world knowing you weren't enough for Satoru Gojo was terrifying. 

So you made a stupid bargain. 

Knees pressed to your chest, perched on the edge of the bed you were meant to share as the door creaked open. 

Satoru stepped into the room, running his fingers through his hair, and you hated the way his ring caught the light, like his vows still meant a thing to him. 

“You lied,” you murmured, wiping your exhausted eyes. Makeup smeared on your hands. Probably on your cheeks too. A mess he made. 

“I-” He started, as if you wanted to hear it. 

“I just, I thought you-” You stopped yourself, choking on a hard lump in your throat. “Do you not want this? Us?” 

Was your marriage worth so little to him he couldn’t keep his hands off someone else? 

He just had to fuck other women? 

“I do,” he breathed, getting down on his knees in front of you, and all you could think of then was the moment he proposed to you, how you had whispered yes and he slipped the ring on your finger before he picked you up and twirled you around. Wondering where you’d be if you said no, if you hadn’t been blinded by how much you adored him. “I love you.” 

You didn’t feel loved. 

“Then why-” 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he murmured, all emotional, blue eyes all big and wide, as if it could make up for what he’d done. What he kept doing. 

Looking back, the whole thing had become tainted. Your own feelings tangled and twisted and so flipped around you couldn’t make sense of the memory anymore. Maybe that was just the regret though. Wishing you could rewind time and do something differently. 

All you wanted was to save your relationship.

For him to stay. 

“Maybe we should just open up our marriage then,” you suggested, sniffling and swallowing hard. Hoping he’d say no. Hoping he’d swear that he would stop, that all he needed was you. 

But he didn’t. 

Begrudging, his teeth gritted and jaw clenched tight as he said fine, probably only allowing it then because he thought you wouldn’t be able to find people to fuck the same way he could. Making a deal of no feelings being involved, promising that he’d be up front from now on, both of you struggling to stomach the idea that you’d both be sleeping with other people. It was still easier for him than it was for you. 

Suguru had found you crying in some study that was hardly ever used a couple weeks later, curled up on a couch, tissues strewn across the table as he stopped in the doorway, staring at your crumpled form. 

You waited for him to lie. 

To come up with an excuse. Defend his best friend. Pretend to feel sorry for you. 

“I heard what he did,” he spoke softly. 

Another broken sob escaped you – and he shut the door behind him. 

“I wanted to kill him when Nanami told me,” he breathed. 

You almost laughed, blowing your nose in a tissue, your wedding ring taunting you, white gold and diamonds that meant nothing now. 

“Thanks,” you bitterly mumbled, sitting up and meeting his sober stare. 

“You deserve better than him.” 

You weren't sure where the lines got blurred. When wanting his comfort turned into wanting him. 

But you could still recall the first time you kissed him, how your heart pounded against your rib cage, holding your breath as you leaned up to kiss him, lacing your wrists around his neck and shutting your eyes as you gingerly pressed your lips to his. 

The sex was usually soft and slow. His pretty purr in your ears and his warmth covering your body, skin on skin as his mouth left marks all over your breasts, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. Wherever was hidden with clothes was fair game. 

It wasn’t like Satoru would see them when you hardly spoke to him. 

What was Suguru doing now? 

Probably pacing the floor, worrying about you somewhere, being informed of Satoru’s condition. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to fill his shoes and take over the presidency? 

Even if things were tense, terrible between the two of them since you started sleeping with him, he wouldn’t want him dead. 

In some fucked-up way, it sorta felt like your fault, that if you had said something else, made a different decision somewhere along the way, that you wouldn’t be here right now. 

You didn’t mean to doze off, dragged into more dreams, but you guessed the morning’s stress coupled with long nights of little sleep and longer days of being drained from meetings and benefits and responsibilities you never asked for was too much for your exhausted body.

It could’ve been two minutes or two hours. 

Someone was stroking your hair, familiar fingers stirring you awake as you sat up, wiping away the dampness from your face as your eyes hazily focused on the only blue in the room. 

“Sweetheart,” your husband croaked, voice raw and rough as his big hand cupped your cheek. He winced when he went to move closer to you, your breath catching as your mouth fell open. “Don't cry.”

“Satoru, you were just shot,” you hissed at him, already standing up to tuck him back under the thin blankets. Wiping your face with the back of your hand, as if it would erase the evidence of tears you hadn’t meant to let fall for him again. “You shouldn't be-” 

“I survived,” he grinned. 

Your mouth parted, trying to think of an argument he wouldn't immediately ignore. Those were in almost as short of supply as your sensibility. Reason and rationality slipping further out of reach the longer you looked at him. 

His face had pale after the surgery, but pink had started to return to his cheeks, life in his eyes that you were worried you’d never see again. Some piece of you still had a hard time accepting it. Whispering that you might be in a morgue right now if the shooter just had better aim. 

What were you supposed to feel? 

Happy your husband was still alive? Grateful?

So why the hell were you so torn? Ripped between the past and the present, all the different versions of Satoru you’d known and loved and hated floating in front of you so you didn’t have to deal with the one here right now. 

The one who managed to cheat death too. 

You guessed a doctor or a nurse had come in, a fresh glass of water by his bedside and a clipboard with notes left next to it. You started to stand to go look at it, but he made a pained or panicked groan like he wanted you to stay. 

“Don’t get up,” he pleaded, and you paused. 

“I won’t if you won’t,” you reluctantly muttered, sitting back down in the uncomfortable plastic. The last time you’d been in a hospital room with him had been when your youngest son was born. You were the one in the bed – but he climbed in next to you, crammed in and grinning as he cradled your baby boy in his arms between the two of you, thanking you for giving him the greatest gift of his life. 

You hated how much every memory of him had been tainted. 

That one of the best moments of both of your lives had been recolored now, rotted and turned sour with time. 

He relented once you smoothed your skirt down, relaxing back into the bed – but not before stealing your hand, sliding his fingers through yours with an almost content sigh. As if he hadn't just been shot a handful of fucking hours ago. 

“I'm happy you're here,” Satoru softly spoke. You couldn’t remember the last time the two of you had talked like this. Alone. In quiet tones instead of shouting. 

“I'm your wife,” you answered, an uncomfortable ache carved into your heart as you heard the hollowness in it. You were doing your duty. 

That was what your relationship had boiled down to after he'd given up love and loyalty for this dream. 

He squeezed your hand, trying to pull your attention back to him. Unable to survive without someone to stare at him, probably. 

“I saw you,” Satoru spoke softly, and you did turn, head tilting up of its own volition. “Just for a second, right before the bullet went into my leg.” 

You stiffened, almost flinching at the sound of that awful crack still echoing in your ears. 

“And all I could fucking think was I couldn't die yet. Couldn't leave things like this,” he continued, his mouth quivering. 

God, it felt like you were being gutted. Ripped apart when you knew you were the only person who would stitch yourself back together. 

“Satoru, what are you trying to say?” You attempted to sound level-headed. Unaffected. 

You didn’t want him to know you were already falling apart at the seams. 

“I couldn't leave you,” he firmly said. “I can't.”

“You’ve left me plenty of times,” you retorted, sucking in your bottom lip to stop yourself from saying something really stupid. 

Satoru cringed, and you know it hit a sore point. “I know, I-”

“You know,” you repeated, shaking your head as the bile crawled up your throat. 

“I’m sorry, I-” 

You weren’t listening anymore. You heard his apologies before. 

At least he didn’t get to make it much further, two sharp knocks on the door outside interrupting him mid-spiel. Nanami stepped in like he already knew he wouldn’t be walking in on anything intimate. 

“You’re alive,” he dryly started, and you pulled your hand away from Satoru’s to the edge of the bed. 

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Nanamin,” Satoru teased, but his leg twitched, another distinct flash of pain flitting across his face at the small movement. 

“We need to discuss our next steps,” he flat out ignored his president, fixing his tie as his stare shifted towards you. All serious and strained, the crease between his brows deep, years of stress etched into his chiseled face. 

“Which are?” You asked, swallowing hard as you started to regret not asking to be taken to the same safe house as your children were. You were sure they were fine, that someone had told them by now that Satoru was okay, that you would both be back with them as soon as you could. 

“I don't care if you can barely stand to look at each other,” Nanami sternly scoffed, glancing between both of you as he stood stiffly by the door. “But until you make a complete recovery, you are a united front. The last thing this country needs right now is-”

“We get it,” Satoru groaned, waving his hand dismissively and wincing as he propped himself up with some pillow. 

“No, I don't think you do,” Nanami snidely shot back, fixing his glasses to glare at his boss. You wondered how much he had to do in the hours since everything went wrong. How many fires he had to put out, how he was managing to quell the panic that was probably popping up across the nation when the president had been attacked on live TV. 

“What do you want us to do?” You asked, pretending you didn't feel it when Satoru's other hand slid back on top of yours on the bed. 

“Tell everyone you're back together,” Nanami scoffed, as if it was obvious. “Hold hands, say it made you realize the importance of family, I don’t really care as long as it’s believable.” 

Believable. 

You almost laughed. You reflexively turned to your husband, waiting for him to automatically agree, or say that it wouldn’t be a problem. Make the decision for you. 

He had suggested it before, tried to convince you to get back together, but you’d denied him back them, insisted that the media would chew you up and spit you out. But the circumstances were different now, you supposed considering he’d been shot. 

“What do you think?” He asked instead, your face scrunching up in surprise before you forced yourself to look back towards Nanami, masking your feelings with practiced nonchalance. 

“If that’s what the nation needs,” you muttered. 

One of you had to consider the country. 

Do what was right.

It still felt icky when you were sitting with your fingers laced with his later the same night in front of a green screen while Satoru spoke into a microphone about his condition thankfully not being serious. Announcing he sustained relatively mild injuries, like the camera wasn’t being angled from the waist up to disguise how hurt he was. They dressed him up, passed him a speech, fed him lines to say. Probably edited the whole thing to make it look like he was back in the White House already. 

“I am incredibly fortunate that the bullets only grazed me,” he lied like it was second nature, but he was squeezing your hand tight, like he needed your strength. “And that I have this wonderful woman by my side to support me.” 

He brought your hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it softly. A show of adoration. You smiled at him, small and relieved. It wasn’t hard to act like you’d been in hell for the last twelve hours. But it was hard to pretend like you were breathing in fresh air now. 

Feigning that you found the light after a long, dark tunnel. 

You didn’t have lines to deliver. 

Just being there was apparently enough. 

Afterwards was a blur, helping the nurse make sure he was back in his hospital bed, tucked under the blankets as you leaned uncomfortably against the cold wall. The security was tight, searches required for anyone that came in or out, the staff thoroughly being vetted, all the usual measures you took heightened times ten now. 

“Sweetheart,” Satoru called you that stupid pet name again, the knife digging back into your own open wound of a heart. 

“I’m, um, gonna go,” you breathed, voice nearly breaking as you blinked. “Stay with the kids overnight.” 

His smile faltered. New frown lines forming by his mouth. 

But he didn’t pick a fight or protest. 

“Tell them I love them,” he quietly requested, and you nodded, biting down on the inside of your cheek until you could taste the blood on your tongue. Satoru was still staring, the harsh white lights only making his eyes appear broken, only a thin sliver of blue nearly swallowed up by his pupils as his lips slowly parted again. “I love you.” 

You left.

But you always returned.

Back the next morning, kids in tow, ready to bring him back after he had been released. Instructions given on keeping his wounds clean, avoiding strenuous activities, pretty much precisely what you expected to hear. But they suggested getting crutches, or a cane when it came to walking more than just a minute or two at a time. And despite both of them probably being way too old for it, they were both hanging behind you as they saw him as something other than untouchable for the first time in their lives. Too scared to say anything, just staring at their father in a hospital gown, sitting up with his legs swung over the side of the bed, one wrapped in thick bandages. 

Someone had left one of his suits out at the end of the bed, freshly pressed, not a single wrinkle on it as he braced himself to stand on his own for the first time. 

“Dad?” Your daughter murmured, fear in her voice that Satoru tried to laugh off. Ease the tension. “Are you-” 

“I’m just fine, baby,” he grinned at her, your heart thumping a little louder as he held out his arms, more bandages peeking out underneath his gown. “Come give your old man a hug.” 

“You’re not old,” your son huffed, like he was offended at the idea he could have an aging father. 

But they both scurried out to cluster around him. One on each side. He wrapped his arms over their growing frames, tugging them in and squeezing them until they started to scoff and squeal in his grip. 

You thought you knew all the different ways your heart could hurt. 

But this was something new. Seeing your babies in the arms of your husband when a day ago, you thought he might die. Acutely aware that nothing was guaranteed anymore. 

And sure, they weren’t babies anymore. Old enough to not need either of you the way they used to. With friends and phones and lives you disrupted by dragging your relationship under public scrutiny. 

“Mom?” Your son mumbled, looking back from his father’s embrace as he jutted out his bottom lip. He took the separation the hardest. Starting fights in school. Acting out at home and out of it. He had the same eyes as Satoru, bright and bleeding with hurt, struggling to accept what was happening as they peered into the most shattered shards of you. 

“Yeah?” You asked, swallowing nervously. 

“Why aren’t you hugging him too?” His sister asked, too observant for her own good.

“I just wanted you guys to have your moment with him,” you murmured, begrudgingly walking over to where they were. Leaning down to hug Satoru over them, sandwiching both of them as your hand hesitantly patted the shoulder blades you used to rake your nails down and scratch up. 

His own huge palms ran over your back, keeping you there a few seconds longer than you planned, soft and steady in his hold. 

“We should let your dad get dressed,” you cleared your throat, pulling back. Your hands gently on their back, trying to guide them back as if they even listened these days. But you couldn’t stop your treacherous eyes from turning back to watch him stand, his features scrunched up as he strained his muscles. Popping the pain killer the doctors had left in a cup for him by the bed and washing it down with water before he turned to start taking his suit off the hanger. 

Catching a glimpse of his ass through the open flaps of the nightgown, your cheeks heating up as you reflexively glanced up – just to realize he was looking back at you, a small smirk curling up on your lips like he’d known you’d been staring. 

You thought you’d return to the White House. 

But you knew fifteen minutes in that you were being taken somewhere else. 

The kids stuffed between you in the seats, both of them eagerly chattering his ears off like he was their captive audience while he constantly readjusted, stretching his long legs out as much as he could and glancing over at you at every turn.

“Nanami found somewhere for us to stay for now,” Satoru was speaking to you, but both the kids perked up, and he pretended it was for them. “Think of it kind of like a vacation, okay?” 

Just a heavily guarded one. 

“Does it have a pool?” Your daughter beamed, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen her smile so big. 

“Hopefully,” he winked, his eyes finding yours just for you to avoid his stare again. 

A few members of approved press were waiting to snap a handful of photos of you all walking back in as a family, from an angle where it should be impossible to tell where you were staying at. Another thing to show the public that he was okay. That his personal life wasn’t the total wreck most news stations and magazines were making it out to be. Satoru’s not-wounded arm casually slung over your shoulder and squeezing you close even if it dropped the moment you were back inside, a few of his most trusted staff members waiting to bombard him with updates. 

You slipped away, squirreling the kids back to where their nanny was waiting, promising that you’d be back around dinner time to check on them even though they just rolled their eyes and asked when they’d get their phones back. 

It was only then that you realized you didn’t have yours either. 

Had you left it in the car before his speech even started? In the one afterwards? Given it to one of the secret service agents to hold onto since you didn’t have any pockets? 

Fuck. 

You’d have to try to ask around – find out where it ended up. Although you were pretty good about scrubbing messages and calls from it, photos of the aftermath of your affair erased or moved somewhere no one else could reach, you still didn’t like risking someone snooping around and finding something they shouldn't if they figured out your passcode. 

Those were just excuses though. 

You just wanted to call Suguru.

He had to be far past stressed now. How long had it been since you'd gone twenty four hours without speaking? Weeks? A couple months? 

Not since you’d separated from Satoru and started sleeping with him again. 

You wanted his nose nuzzling against your neck. His scent on your skin. His soft mouth to murmur all those nice things you were craving, pretty whispers you would cling to to stop yourself from drowning.  

Was he back at the White House right now? Running the show for Satoru? 

You glanced back for a familiar face, anyone you could actually trust who might let you borrow theirs, frowning until you landed on Nanami watching the scene of Satoru being praised and peppered with question after question unfolding from a door frame nearby. 

“I don't know who has my phone. Can I borrow yours?” You asked, quiet enough to not draw any attention from your husband. 

Nanami didn't even look at you, just shook his head with that same bored expression. 

“No phones here,” he vaguely explained, irritation pricking under his skin too in this situation. “Security says it's too much of a risk.” 

Like having the some fucking press jackasses snap photos wasn't? 

But you knew better than to argue here. Or now, where Satoru was so close by. 

“Do you want me to show you around?”

The house was fairly standard. A little smaller than you expected. Hardly any windows. Crawling with agents that you supposed were there for your protection, even if their presence just felt like you were being smothered. 

Nanami took you to your room. 

Only to casually mention that you and Satoru would hopefully only be staying for a couple weeks while the FBI hunted down his assailant. You were nodding along, about to dismiss him until you noted the strained twitch of his mouth. 

“What room will Satoru be staying in?” You asked, brows scrunched together as you opened the closet just to find your own clothes already hanging inside. Next to a slew of suits you recognized. 

But Nanami’s silence had said it before you even saw them. 

Great. 

Just fucking great. 

So you were still stuck with him. 

You had insisted on at least a cot being set up by the bed, threatening to get a fucking blow-up mattress delivered id they didn't if you were being forced to share a room with him again. 

As if it wasn’t hard enough to sort out how you felt about your husband when he wasn’t around.

The rest of the day dragged on, taking care of your responsibilities, filling out statements for Nanami and debating on seeing if he’d at least deliver a letter to Suguru for you or scoff in your face. Eating dinner with your kids while you tried to ignore the fact two men in black suits were standing in the same room as you and two more were waiting on the other side of the door. Coming up with another excuse for why Satoru didn’t show up, mumbling that he was probably just busy being president. 

You tried to curl up on your side on the cot afterwards, but the sleep wouldn’t come. 

He did. Eventually. 

When the clock on the nightstand had ticked ten past eleven, the door creaking open as his voice broke through the quiet. 

“Baby?” Your body betrayed you. Heart pounding too hard in your chest as you resisted the temptation to reply. “Are you awake?” 

“Just go to sleep,” you muttered back, refusing to turn. 

“Can we talk?” He asked. Funny, when you both had failed to have a productive conversation so many times before. 

“About what?” You yawned, pressing your ear against the pillow harder like it could suffocate the effect he had on you. 

“Us,” he murmured. 

“How’s your leg?” You changed the subject, hoping it would dissuade him. But unfortunately for you, Satoru was the most persistent man you’d ever met. 

“Hurts like a bitch,” he answered, chuckling like he was exaggerating, but you could hear how strained it was. “I’m sorry I missed dinner with the-”

“Yeah,” you cut him off. 

“Are you sleepy?” He hummed, and you wondered what was the specific misstep that started this awful chain of events. What was the moment when it started? When it became too late to stop the snowball from rolling and rolling until it swallowed both of you and you were stuck making awkward conversation like you hadn’t been married for over a goddamn decade? 

“Exhausted,” you shrugged, body tensing as you listened to the shuffle of him undressing. The rustle of clothes hitting the floor, the sound of the dresser opening and shutting, the now-uneven footsteps as he struggled to get dressed. 

And then you heard the sound of a bandage being peeled off, a low grunt that made you flinch, sitting up as he flickered the lamp on. 

You should’ve laid back down. 

But all it took was a single look at his wounds and you were begrudgingly getting up, padding barefoot over to the attached bathroom where medical supplies had been stocked in advance for him. 

“What are you-” 

“Cleaning it,” you interrupted, hating yourself for being such a sucker for him even now. 

“You don’t have to,” he said, as if he didn’t secretly want you to.

“Can you move a little?” You murmured when you returned, hesitating by the bed as you watched him try to get his leg up properly. 

“You know, I think there's a doctor here I could-” 

“Do you not want me to?” You asked, brows pinched together as your fingers hesitated over the bandage you had been told to clean and replace twice a day. 

“I do,” he admitted.

You attempted to tell yourself it wasn’t his leg. Going through all the motions, following the steps clinically, your fingers skimming against his skin as you wiped it clean and rebandaged it carefully. 

But you felt the weight of him watching you until you were finished. Even after you stood up and started walking away, putting back up what you didn’t use and tossing the previous bandages, like some invisible string tied around your wedding band tugging you back to him. 

You didn't say anything. Just walked back to the cot, about to get on it before he spoke up. 

“Sleep on the bed.” Was it a request? A demand? A presidential decree? 

You couldn't tell with him. 

“It’s not like we're actually back together,” you mumbled under your breath, getting back up on it without facing him. You wouldn't look. Couldn't in case you crumbled. 

The past thirty-six hours had felt more like half a year. Wrung dry and hung up hollow. 

“You’re my wife,” he echoed your earlier statement, reminding you of vows he'd broken first. 

“Please don't act like that means something to you now,” you dismissively muttered. You could feel the tension ride, threatening to snap as the blankets behind you crinkled and the sound got closer. 

“You're my first lady,” he said, as if it was something you wanted. Something you would've chosen for yourself if it weren't for him. 

“I could've been anything,” you hissed back, fuming, furious anger ripping and shredding its way up your throat. You'd rather be in a courtroom, or hunched over a desk reviewing case notes – not thinking of how your future consisted of defending the dick you married and planning what stupid Christmas decorations to put up in a home you never wanted while pretending to give a shit. 

Not making sure his gunshot wounds from an assassination attempt weren't getting infected. 

And then he did something he'd never done before. 

De-escalated. 

“I'm sorry,” Satoru softly said, making all that rage abruptly stall just by stunning you. “I’m so fucking sorry that I can’t find the right thing to say to show you how much I hate the husband I’ve been to you.” 

You didn't know what to say. What to do when it sounded like the truth. 

“I feel like I just woke up from a really fucking bad dream, and all I want is my wife back,” he added, his words already starting to loop around in your head. 

“You shouldn't-” Your breath got caught in your throat, voice breaking off as you closed your eyes before you could start to cry. 

“I can't believe what I did to you. To us,” he added, and you loathed how eagerly part of you began to absorb his pretty words. How warm his affection felt when you'd been missing it and him for so fucking long. “I'll regret it for the rest of my life.”

You hoped he did. 

“Good night, Satoru,” you whispered, laying back down and pulling the blanket back on top of you. 

You still dreamed of him. Of the before days that had been given up for this. Where he only ever made you laugh instead of cry. Where he came home from work practically ready to worship you, picking you up and peppering your face with kisses. But just as the dream started to morph, twist into a cruel reminder of your current reality, you woke up. 

Satoru was still there for once. Sleeping on the side of the bed closest to you, messy hair strewn across the pillow, snoring softly. You frowned, hand reaching out, about to nudge his shoulder and wake him up, but you paused. Stopped yourself before your fingers could touch him again. 

He didn't need you for stuff like that. 

Not anymore. 

You thought being here would be like it'd been back at the White House. Paths that only got crossed when they had to, only catching glimpses of him when he was walking somewhere else, standing on the other side of a closed office door. 

But when it was time for lunch, when you were walking in with your daughter and listening to her complain about some idiot boy in her class, he was already there, sitting at the head of the table and taking a long sip from a glass of soda. 

“Well, as long as you don't marry him, you'll be fine,” you muttered, eyes narrowing as your husband choked on his drink, coughing and clearing his throat while your daughter made some disgusted noise. 

“How are my favorite girls doing?” Satoru tried to ask, pretending this was normal. That he hadn't been missing family meals for so long, you couldn't quite recall when it started anymore. 

But he was back for dinner. 

And the next breakfast.

Sometimes he was a few minutes late, or had to shoo away the handful of staff allowed access here away until after he ate, but he kept showing up. 

He'd taken to using a cane to get around, supporting his weight on his left leg on it, usually wincing by the time he walked in, resting the cane on the table while you all ate. But he smiled at the kids, at you, cracked jokes and asked them about their friends, their interests, trying to make up for his absence by being here now. 

His attention was enough for them. 

Honestly, you hadn't seen them this happy since the first year he'd taken office. Your son openly asking if you all would really have to leave here, white brows scrunched together in frustration when he pressed to know if this meant you two were going to finally get back together. 

You opened your mouth, ready to accept being the bad guy to them and reiterate that this was temporary, that you were waiting for the FBI to find who shot their father and that things would go back to your typical normal soon. 

But Satoru cleared his throat first, a surprisingly stern expression on his face as he looked at his youngest. 

“It's my fault your mother and I aren't together anymore,” he addressed him, your fork frozen in your hand as the lump in his throat bobbed. “I broke her trust and-” 

“Can't she just forgive you already?” Your son whined back, still childish despite his latest growth spurt. He would probably be as tall as his dad one day, but right now, he just seemed like a boy. Clueless to what a relationship was supposed to look like outside of the mess of a marriage you were doing a shitty job setting an example of. 

“She doesn't have to forgive me at all,” Satoru shut him down anyway, and your stupid heart stalled. “I messed up, okay? If you want to blame someone, blame me.” 

They would always love him though. 

Incapable of doing anything other than looking up to him.

Your feelings were…more complicated. 

Your nighttime conversations had almost become more casual. He asked about your day, tried to ask if there was anything he could request staff to pick up for you, thanked you when you helped clean his healing wounds. Constantly attempted to convince you to let him take the cot like it was the proverbial dog house. 

His offers were rejected. 

But it would be a lie to say that the hardened shell around your heart hadn’t started to form a few cracks. The glue just wouldn’t hold. 

Nanami showed up two weeks later, folders stacked in his arms as he called you both in for a meeting. Running back over things you were missing, schedules that were behind, boring business stuff. 

Laying out articles and outlining what new laws were trying to slip through to get passed without Satoru there. His reputation had surprisingly managed to improve in spite of the assassination, or maybe because of it. His name leaving people’s mouths without being accompanied by the word impeachment. 

Most of it was boring, nodding along while he and Satoru argued and bickered over little details while you itched for a chance to speak to him privately. Ask him again about how long this was meant to last. Almost sure you wouldn’t get the opportunity until he started packing his stuff up, his pen precariously left on the edge. 

You uncrossed your legs, purposely bumping into the table while Satoru brought up the status of the investigation, neither of them noticing the soft thump of it hitting the floor.

“There should be an update soon,” he vaguely replied. 

Nanami stood up, slinging his laptop bag over his shoulder, holding the folders to his chest as one of the agents opened the door for him to go. 

Your hand tightened around the pen as you bent over to pick it up from underneath the table, guilt blossoming in the pit of your stomach from a seed you'd been watering with every thought of Suguru. 

“I’ll go give it to him,” you muttered, holding it up in your palm as if your husband wouldn't know it was some flimsy excuse. 

Nanami was halfway out the front door, but you jogged to catch up, out-of-breath but not from the exertion by the time you made it to him. He stopped, turning halfway towards you, his hazel eyes raking over you like he already knew what you were doing. What you wanted from him. “When can I speak to Suguru?” You softly asked, swallowing the lump in your throat as his brows subtly arched up. 

“You do understand the security you are under is for your own safety, right?” He wryly asked, as if you hadn't heard the spiel before. 

“He's the vice president,” you said, almost immediately feeling stupid once it was out loud. Cold reality sinking in that your relationship was just asking for another major scandal, something that would strip Satoru of the last of his power if anyone else ever found out. 

“Which is precisely why he cannot be in the same location when the FBI does not have anyone in custody. Right now, the entire world is looking at you and your husband,” Nanami reminded you, your mouth closed tight as the regret coiled in your stomach. “You can speak to your boyfriend once Satoru shows the public he's completely recovered.”

You watched him in silence as he walked back out to where a blacked-out car was waiting for him. 

Only shutting the door and turning away after he got in the backseat, his last sentence lingering in your thoughts as the slam of a car door echoed between the noise of chirping birds and the soft sway of the wind. 

You were still holding his pen. 

“You could’ve asked about him in front of me,” Satoru spoke up from behind you. You looked back, but the rest of the foyer was empty. You supposed he must've ordered all his agents to wait somewhere else. He was standing maybe four feet away, but the distance felt too far for either of you to cross, unable to build a bridge when you were sure one of you would just burn it down anyway. 

“What?” You blinked. 

“Him,” he muttered, his voice dry. Hurt. It made you happier than it should. To shatter him the way he broke you so long ago. 

“What do you want from me, Satoru?” You stiffly asked, not sure if you had anything left to give him.

“I want you to miss me the way you miss him,” Satoru said, and it took all of your restraint not to respond. “I know it’s not fair, and it’s-” 

“Do you miss sleeping with other women?” You tilted your head to the side, unable to contain the tremble in the question. 

Satoru recoiled. 

“I miss when you were mine,” he muttered, shaking his head a little, regret etched into every line of his face as he took the tiniest step towards you. “Miss the man I was before I fucked everything up with us.” 

“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Me too.” 

The next few days dragged on. The hardest part was not staring at your husband. Pretending that this sad puppy version of him had no effect on you. That his long looks and pretty pout weren’t working at all, as if your body wasn’t a total traitor when you had to fall asleep listening to his breathing at night. 

Trusting him again was something only an idiot would do. 

Satoru Gojo would only let you down. 

He couldn’t help it, you supposed. It was who he was now. 

And you ended up sitting alone at the table waiting for him and his mini-mes to show up, familiar disappointment beginning to bubble in your stomach as you counted the seconds in your head. 

But before you could give up and get up, the door swung open, your kids stumbling in first with arms full of plates. Satoru close behind them, cradling a big one himself, the warm scent of food flooding in with them. 

“We made dinner,” your daughter giggled, a bright glimmer in her eyes that you missed seeing. “Your favorite.” 

“I’m a little rusty in the kitchen,” Satoru muttered as they laid out the dishes. There was no air of expectation. Running his fingers through his hair, shrugging his shoulders almost as if he was shy or nervous. Two things he’d never been in his life. “Not sure how good it’ll be.” 

“It’s nice,” you managed. And weirdly enough, you meant it. 

They made you sit there and wait for them to bring everything out, your son leaning over to pile food on your plate, picking up your fork and taking small bites just to be surprised by the taste anyway. The hint of too much salt. The familiar texture. The little details that confirmed Satoru had really been the one to make it. 

Your eyes flitted over to him, a small smile curling up on your lips when you saw he was already staring at you. Intimacy that flickered instead of burned. Like a candle on a birthday cake instead of a wildfire ready to wipe out an entire forest.

For once, you didn’t feel like your head was under water when you went to sleep that night. 

And the next morning brought the news you’d been waiting for. 

Nanami returning back up with nothing but a briefcase, adjusting his tie as his stare flickered between you and Satoru, like he could sense the tension returning – or picked up on how much less toxic it was compared to a month ago. 

“They have a suspect,” he muttered, your brows arching up as a strange feeling floated up. Discomfort? 

Whatever it was, it was strangling, your voice tight as you tried to sound not bothered, “In custody?” 

“No,” he said, but it was careful. Calculated. “Not yet.” 

You swallowed hard, cautiously glancing over to Satoru, who was listening with a distant expression, staring out one of the few windows here. Maybe disappointed that your vacation might be coming to an end sooner than he thought. “So what does that mean?” 

“You’ll be able to return to the White House today.” 

The rest was a blur. 

The few staff here had started packing up your stuff, your kids complaining when you mentioned they’d have to be returning to their classes and studies, begging to stay a few more days while you discreetly listened to Satoru and Nanami making arrangements for some gala against gun violence to make a point that Satoru was still strong enough to lead the country and take a stance when it counted.

Your mouth turned down, wondering how the hell it would work when he was still relying on a cane when he had to walk for more than a few minutes. On pain killers and sheer willpower? 

But you guessed it wasn’t your concern. 

You would just be expected to show up and be his favorite accessory. Cling to his arm and charm the old men whose favor he craved. 

Returning to the White House was practically its own event. Cameras flashing and microphones being shoved out, sure to be highly publicized as you and Satoru both sheltered your children through, throwing out small waves and practiced smiles. 

The sun was starting to slip lower, a million people itching to speak to Satoru, but you were searching through the crowd for a different face. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Someone who would turn all your confusion into something that made sense. 

But Suguru wasn’t there. 

Not waiting for you, or even hanging around the edges ready to offer Satoru an update on what he’d been doing in the weeks since either of you had seen him.

Your jaw clenched, barely able to conceal your reaction as you returned through halls that didn’t feel familiar anymore. You hated it here. 

Loathed every painting on the wall and the carpet on the floors and the paths you used to take. It felt like a prison. 

Did that make Satoru your warden? 

His presidency your sentence? 

At least you wouldn't have to spend so much time with him – not when you were sure things would return to the limbo you'd been living in where you rarely saw him.

Except, when you showed up for dinner, he was already there. The kids teasing him for some silvery strands that has started to pepper through the white of his hair, all of them turning to smile brightly at you as you walked through the door. An empty seat beside him, waiting for you to take it. 

Your throat was closing up as you did, smoothing out your dress as you desperately controlled your face. 

“Is this going to be like, a thing now?” You asked under your breath as you picked at your food with a fork. Wouldn't this just make it so much fucking harder for all of you once you went back to normal? What about after his term? Once he wasn't a president anymore and you filed for divorce? 

“I made a decision I should've made a long time ago,” Satoru quietly replied. “I'm putting my family first.” 

Your mouth opened, but you just took a reluctant bite of your food before you could say it was too late. 

“You're my priority,” he murmured, and a piece of you that probably lacked brain cells wished that he had this revelation years ago. “I promise.”

How much of that was actually real? 

You ended up just sitting on the edge of your old bed asking yourself questions you already knew the answers to. Wearing an old slip you found in the bottom of the drawer, something soft and lacey, but you weren't even sure who you were wearing it for. Was Suguru even staying here? Had they put him up in a safe house of his own? Or maybe let him stay in his own place with just extra security?

Satoru probably wouldn't show up. 

He basically had his own bedroom now, one on the same floor and wing since your separation started. 

Why would he-

“Hey,” his voice cut through the silence, your head snapping over to watch him limp in, cane in hand as he slowly started over. 

“I figured you would sleep in your, um, other room,” you replied. Not harsh or hateful. More of an observation, you guessed. 

“Can I still sleep here?” He asked, and you couldn’t believe the slow bob of your head up and down instead of left and right. 

He walked over to you, footsteps slow, unsure. One leg dragging a little behind the other until he stopped just in front of the bed. Slowly turning to sit next to you, hardly an inch between your thigh and his, sinking into the soft mattress. 

“What happened to us?” You whispered into the air. If the clock could turn back, would you try to save him? If you woke up tomorrow back in college, would you have scoffed and said no to that date? Reset your fate? 

Would he?

“I think about that first night sometimes,” he muttered, a sharp sting stabbing through your heart as you realized which one he was talking about. “How fucking stupid it was.” 

“Satoru,” you breathed his name, the sharp teeth of panic sinking into your heart as you started shaking your head. 

“I just, I still can’t fucking believe I did it. Me and Suguru were just drinking, taking shots at the bar and celebrating, fuck, I mean, we were talking about you, and the next thing I know, I’m waking up next to some stranger in the sheets and-” 

“Stop,” you were begging, tears trying to choke you up. What the hell was he talking about? Suguru had never once mentioned being there, acted like it was as big of a fucking surprise to him as it was to you when you found out about all the cheating. 

“I don’t know what the fuck was wrong with me. Why I kept doing it afterwards, I-I just couldn’t stop feeling so slimy, and wanted so fucking badly to forget, but all I ever seemed to do was keep sabotaging myself,” he was rambling now, inhaling hard as he buried his face in his hands. His left leg was stretched out, twitching as he talked. 

“Why are you-” You stopped yourself, clinging to all of your own jagged edges even when it hurt so much. “Why are you even saying this?” 

“It was never about you,” he murmured. “I was the one who didn’t deserve you. Who was stupid and insecure and jealous-” 

“I already know that,” you half-huffed, forcing yourself to look down at the floor before you fell apart completely. 

“And then I saw the way Suguru started staring at you, like, like he was just fucking waiting to snatch you, and I-” 

“Satoru,” you repeated, wiping away a stray tear that fell, a little broken noise escaping before he finally shut up. 

And then he was brushing away the dampness from your cheeks, flinching when you felt that first gentle graze of his fingertips. But you just sat there, let his hand cup your face, your body betraying you by slowly melting into his touch.  

You should recoil. Retreat. Remove yourself. 

Something. 

All you could do was stay wrapped in his warm cloud of comfort, his cologne clinging to your skin and your eyes on his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. A promise that sounded so pretty coming from his perfect lips. “I’m so sorry. I love you so much.” 

It would be the easiest thing in your life to believe him. 

Second-nature to accept what he said. 

Your mind was already savoring it, turning over every tremor, picking apart his tone. You wanted to hear it for so long. Hear him breaking and bending for you. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” he breathed, his thumb dragging over your cheekbone like he was scared you might not feel the same anymore. That he’d lost your love forever with just himself to blame for it. 

“I-” You started, not totally sure where you were going with it, too much spit pooling in your mouth to continue. You glanced down at your lap, only then realizing your thigh was pressed against his now. Did he move closer? 

Or was that one on you? 

“I miss you,” you finally admitted, but the relief was bittersweet. 

“Can I show you how much I miss you too?” He asked, and you loathed that you let him. 

His finger skimmed over your shoulder, pulling down your slip as his nose subtly brushed against yours as if he was getting ready to kiss you. 

You froze, an awful, icky feeling washing over your entire body, fingers shaking as your breath got stuck in your throat. 

“Sweetheart,” Satoru whispered, and you realized you were shaking your head now, your whole body trembling as you mechanically forced yourself away from him. A cruel thought bouncing around in your brain that you couldn't shut down. 

Did he call the other girls that? 

Whisper it in their ear like a promise? Tell them that he was leaving you soon or spin a pretty tale about your relationship being for show these days? 

“What's wrong?” He pressed, those blue eyes you had adored so much glittering in the light of the moon, but all you could fucking feel was that they didn't shine for you. 

“I thought maybe I could, but I can't,” you swallowed, stepping back from the bed, covering up your body as you bent over to rummage through your dresser for a robe. 

“Why?” Satoru inhaled, sounding almost choked up about it. “Baby, don't-”

“It disgusts me,” you admitted, the word coming out raw and wounded, ripped from some primal part of you. “When I think of you putting your fucking dick inside of someone else-”

“I-” 

“No,” you stopped him. “You don’t get it. Weren’t there to see how many nights I cried because of you.” 

“Don’t you think I would do anything I could to take it back?” He desperately begged, limping after you as you tied the robe tight around your waist. 

“I don’t know what you really think,” you dryly muttered. “What to believe from you.” 

“Believe me when I tell you that I’d do anything for you,” Satoru grabbed your hand, squeezing as half of you wanted to stay and the rest of you was screaming to run. “That I will spend my life showing you how sorry I really am.” 

“You know how hard it is to trust you when-” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, sucking in on your cheek and biting down hard as you scrunched your eyes shut. 

“How do you think it feels every time I think about Suguru?” Satoru rebutted, his voice low. Like a weak wounded animal. “Watching you fall for him, look at him the way you used to look at me.” 

“Don’t act like it’s his fault,” you defended him. “He-” 

“He was there. Always fucking there and just waiting for me to fuck up,” he argued back, and you couldn’t stand that he was starting to change your mind. Or, at least, make you see things were even more crooked than you thought they were if you were considering the chance that Suguru had something to do with Satoru cheating on you. 

“What do you want?” Your voice cracked. 

“You.” 

“No, no, you-” You were about to start crying, a thick sob building up because if you believed that, then what would be next? 

“Just stop seeing him. Please. I’ll do anything,” he was begging, fingers trying to slither into your palm so he could hold your hand. “Whatever it takes to fix us.”  

“You know I had sex with him on our bed,” you admitted, halfway hoping to hurt him, dig the knife in and create a matching wound. He used to say you were soulmates. Wouldn’t it make sense to have matching scars? “Let him bend me over right there and fuck me until I forgot your name.”

Satoru went stiff, hand rigid in yours before you ripped it away. 

And as soon as the anger was out, hanging in the air between you, you just felt like you were the one bleeding too. Sliced by your own blade of hurt and hate. 

“I should sleep in one of the guest bedrooms,” you muttered, gutted and hollow. 

It didn’t take a genius to see he didn’t want you to, mouth open like he might try to work his magic and make you stay, or maybe attempt to stand and follow you out, but you snatched his cane by the bed on your way out. 

“Are you seriously-” 

You slammed the door shut before you could keep arguing. 

The ceiling in the closest spare room wasn't so comforting either. 

Just made you think of Suguru more. Wondering where he was. If he was in his own bed thinking of you right now. 

You hated not being able to go to him right now. Completely clear the air and let him reassure you that he was the innocent one here. That Satoru was still the evil husband that was eventually going to be your ex.

You were half-tempted to sneak around the halls on the off-chance he might still be in his office here. 

God, it felt sort of disgusting for leaving him out like this, for the treacherous feelings Satoru kept stirring up when you were supposed to still be separated. 

Even if the public thought you were back together, you'd be lying to yourself if you tried to say the lines weren't starting to get blurred in private. God, you were going to sleep in the same bed as him. Nearly let him undress you with just that pout and those puppy dog eyes. 

When for all you knew, the second he started walking entirely on his own, he’d start fucking around again. 

Tossing and turning in a cold bed, biting your lip as you wrestled for any kind of rest. 

And then there was a knock. 

Just a short, somehow uncertain one. 

Your heart skipped a beat before you even considered who it could be from. 

“I can’t sleep leaving things like that,” Satoru spoke into the dark, his voice tinged with raw pain. You almost said that you had left things far fucking worse before, but what was the point of bringing up the past? 

“Why not?” You whispered, pulling the blanket around you protectively. 

“Because I want better for us.” 

He walked in, one foot dragging along the floor until the mattress shifted, dimpling under his weight as he leaned on it for support. 

“I want to be a man you can rely on, not run away from,” he breathed.

God, you were so sick of running. 

But stopping sounded even scarier. 

And still, despite the fact it felt like your heart was being torn in half, you stayed silent when you heard him get into bed next to you, just bit your cheek at his low hiss of pain after chasing you here. 

You didn’t tell him to get out or go. 

The most terrifying part was how well you slept with him there. 

Actually waking up rested for once, his strong arm wrapped around your waist that you had to slip out from, unable to stop yourself from rolling him over to stop him from snoring. Leaving the cane by his side of the bed, wrapping the robe around you tighter as you tried to sneak back to the main bedroom to get changed. 

Some invisible, intangible thing lifted off your chest now that you finally felt like you had something over Satoru. That he was, at last, the loser. 

Chasing and crying and desperate for a change. 

You still half-expected that he’d go back on his grand promises. To fall back into old patterns. 

But as the days dragged on, his presence didn’t dwindle. 

In fact, in spite of how slammed he was with far more important stuff, he found a way to show up. No longer missed meals, or made a habit of disappearing or drowning himself in paperwork and problems in the Oval Office. Finding you in whatever room or study you tried to hole up in, trying to bribe his way back into your heart with snacks and sweet gestures. 

And Suguru was nowhere to be seen. 

Heard, sure. His presence was a phantom and passed down by second or thirdhand accounts. Nanami said he was working from his own place, under his own security detail for the time being. 

Until the FBI finished had their suspect officially in custody. 

You were surprised it had taken them this long, especially when the public had shifted enough to start turning their vitriol towards their investigation. Suspicious that no arrest had been made, wild stories being spread as magazines and news stations desperately tried to request interviews with your husband for any details. 

He took a few, but insisted on you being there, his hand on your side keeping you close as you both answered questions and smiled at the cameras, reassuring the nation that he was recovering well, that your relationship was only getting stronger. 

It didn’t feel like a lie. 

And when he walked out holding your hand, you honestly forgot to drop his for longer than you’d care to admit. 

You hadn’t fought since that night. No bitter arguments or big blowouts. But the quiet wasn’t so awkward. Didn’t carry the same angry tension it had before. You hadn’t forgiven him. But you were tired of hating him.

Holding onto the hurt just felt like you were making the wound worse. 

It didn’t help your resolve when he had opened up an entirely new worry, your tedious trust in Suguru starting to fray now that you had a reason to suspect that maybe he lied to you too. 

You didn’t know when you’d be able to see him again. 

Weren’t totally sure what you would say when you did.

Things were different in a way you still couldn’t quite qualify. And you couldn’t shake the feeling you were standing at a crossroads, scared to choose the wrong path. 

You stared at your own reflection. 

Dolled up in some absurdly expensive dress, makeup done and set, hair sprayed into place as you touched the diamond necklace dangling down your collarbone. Ready to be paraded around a party while your husband charmed the crowd and reminded them why anyone voted for him in the first place. A gala against gun violence, a statement to be made. Satoru stepped up behind you, popping a couple painkillers as he tried to disguise his limp. 

He looked down at you, and your stupid heart fluttered at the sight of him.

His red tie was just a little crooked, the same as his soft smile, glancing between you and the mirror as he stood by your side, his gold wedding band gleaming in the overhead light. “You look gorgeous.” 

“You’re not terrible looking,” you begrudgingly hummed, and he grinned like it was the best compliment he ever heard. 

“Are you ready?” He asked, cocking his head to the side and jutting his thumb towards the door. 

“Hold on,” you murmured, and he paused in place. For a moment, it felt like you were five years younger, seeing him in his dark suit, hair hanging a little longer, a light in his eyes you'd almost forgotten. You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen it. 

You had to bite down on the inside of your cheek, stop yourself from telling him he really did look handsome and feeding his ego as your hands reached up to adjust his tie. 

How you used to back when things weren't so…hard.

The ride to the gala was torture. 

Trying to hold yourself together and act like you didn’t notice a thousand little details about him. The subtle bounce of his healthy leg, the way his hand kept drifting closer and closer towards yours in the backseat, how he kept trying to discreetly steal glances at you. Making small talk about the kids and the economy and what new reforms he was pushing to pass.

A far cry from the guy who’d been taking bribes a year ago and lazily slapping his signature across bills a year ago. 

He sounded like he had before he had taken the office. Almost optimistic. 

Hoping for a better world, you guessed – one he thought he could create.

But it was the bad kind of nostalgia when you made it there, the twinkling lights and the big bright room filled with people you hated. Usually, you would try to slip away, excuse yourself for a drink or the bathroom just for the chane to breathe. 

Tonight, though, Satoru’s hand refused to leave your back, his gaze constantly returning to your face no matter who he was speaking to. Your stomach was cramping though, nerves bouncing around when he had to stand up in front of all of them and give some grand speech about strength at the start of the night, fear you hadn’t expected coiling tight with the worry that someone might show up to finish what they started and you’d end up a widow instead of a divorcee.

Everything here was centered around him. Senators and congressmen, anyone with pockets they hoped he’d be filling, all came up to congratulate him, wishing him well, asking how the two of you were holding up together.

“Are you okay?” Satoru murmured as you watched one of them walk away, leaning down so his breath was warm on your skin. Reaching over to fix where your necklace had gotten crooked, moving it into the proper place as you hesitated over the answer. “You seem-”

“It’s a little claustrophobic in here,” you hummed, your dress clinging tighter than it had an hour ago, the tag scratching at your skin as you scanned the crowd, wondering if you would finally get your chance to see a certain someone. 

Was Suguru around here somewhere? Schmoozing with the dickheads and downing a champagne glass? 

“You want some fresh air?” He offered, concern flecked in the pretty colors of his eyes. 

“I think I’ll just get a drink,” you shrugged, looking back around at the number of security agents stationed at different points around the room. A lot fucking more than there had been at the last one of these dumb parties he dragged you to. But you guessed that was sorta to be expected when the president had taken two bullets at a public event. 

Someone else started walking up, another old man you could never remember the name of.

Satoru kissed the top of your forehead, lips gently pressing just above your brows as his hand slipped off of your back. “Grab me one too?” 

“I don’t think you’re supposed to mix your pain killers with alcohol," you dryly admonished him, arching a brow up with a small sigh. He had ditched the cane tonight in favor of standing in one place and sitting when he could, trying to portray an image that not even an assassination attempt would break him. 

“Fine,” he automatically gave in, leaning in to sneak another kiss on your cheek. “Whatever my wife says.” 

The title didn’t harbor as much hurt as it used to. 

And despite how much you wanted you to pretend it didn’t affect you, that he didn’t anymore, your chest felt all fuzzy and warm as you pulled away from him to start towards the open bar. 

The alcohol didn’t help. 

Sipping on a pretty glass of something strong, letting all those mixed feelings swirl around your stomach as you studied the people milling around. Your husband was already swarmed, people trying to shake his hand and clap his back while he wore a practiced smile, nose scrunching up when he laughed. It didn’t take long for him to be blocked from your sight entirely, only wisps of white and flashes of blue breaking through as you finished your drink and debated on asking for a second one. 

Cologne you hadn’t caught a whiff of in forever wrapped around you as you felt his presence before you saw him there. 

“I was worried you wouldn’t-” 

“I need to ask you something,” you preemptively cut him off, dropping your voice down to a soft whisper as you glanced back over your shoulder to make sure no one was paying attention to the Vice President sliding up to the First Lady. 

“Can it-” Suguru started, and you had to force yourself to interrupt him, to get the question out while you still had the courage. Sneaking a glance to your right to find his familiar frame standing tall, dark hair hanging loose over his broad shoulders. His features were tight as he searched your face, dark circles etched underneath his eyes as his fingers anxiously tapped the bartop. It was obvious he was stressed. Bending under the weight of the world he’d been carrying for Satoru. 

“Were you there? The night Satoru first cheated on me?” You heard yourself ask, not totally sure what you would even do with the truth. If he was there, if he knew, then what would happen next?

Suguru looked back at you, confusion and something closer to hurt scrunching up on his face before his stare swept back to the rest of the gala still going on. 

“Is that seriously what you want to know? What the hell did he say to you?” He hissed back, not looking directly at you, trying to pretend that you weren’t having anything other than a casual conversation. But that wasn’t a denial, was it? 

Wouldn’t he just scoff and say no if he wasn’t there? Insist his innocence? 

Your lips parted, but then he spotted something. 

His face fell in a single second. His jaw went slack, something dark shining in his eyes. 

You craned your neck to catch a peek, but the only thing that stood out was one of Satoru’s secret service agents cutting through the cluster of partygoers to speak to him. 

“Shit,” Suguru muttered. “I thought we had more time.” 

He grabbed your arm, fingers sinking into the soft skin as he dragged you away from the bar and through the closest hallway, digging in deeper when you tried to step back. More time? That was probably the one thing neither of you ever had enough of. 

“Suguru, please-” 

“We can’t talk here,” he hissed back, and you almost recoiled, surprised at how rough his voice suddenly sounded. His hold was possessive, pulling you further away from the party. Prying into muscles now, tight enough that you thought he might leave fingerprints. 

“You’re hurting me,” you murmured, stifling a sound as you resisted his tug. Honestly, he was scaring the shit out of you, but you were trying to trust that he had a reason. 

His grip loosened, but not enough for you to break free. 

“I’m sorry, beautiful,” he half-whispered, and you realized what it was in his growl. Panic. “But we have to go.”  

“Go where?” You asked, glancing back over your shoulder at the dimming lights of the gala. The opening to the hall shrinking with every step you took. 

Satoru would-

“There’s a car waiting to take us to a private plane, and-” 

You dug your heels in the ground, stopping in place as you took a stunned breath. 

“What are you talking about?” You gaped, unable to wrap your brain around what he was suggesting. Still thinking back to the question he hadn’t really answered, Satoru’s words echoing in your head, about Suguru waiting to snatch you, an uneasy feeling sitting heavy inside you, too deep to scoop out. “A plane?” 

“I don’t have time to explain here, baby, but we need to leave now,” he insisted, but you couldn’t just accept that. Take the jump when you were terrified to fall. 

“What about my kids?” 

“He would never let us take them,” Suguru shook his head, and you could only scoff, taken aback as you tried again to move back. But he was stronger than you. 

And the rock you were counting on him being, the net you thought was waiting for you, had abruptly moved. 

“You want me to leave them?” You asked, breath hitching as you shook your head. Fuck, they were yours, you carried them and birthed them and held their chubby fingers when they were babies and baked their birthday cakes every year. Maybe they were whiny and impulsive and stuck with the same DNA that made Satoru who he was, but you loved them. And maybe him still too. 

“If you don’t-” 

The red dot of a scope being lined up was suddenly on his chest. 

“Down on the ground,” some deep voice shouted, three more dots popping up before you had blinked. 

“Let go of the First Lady,” someone else grunted, but Suguru tried to pull you back towards a blinking EXIT sign. But you could hear the noise out there too, the loud footsteps and muffled voices screaming that he was already surrounded. 

That it was already too late. 

“What’s happening?” Your question was drowned out by the spectacle, heart straining inside your chest and threatening to break through your ribcage as you realized it was a fucking SWAT team. 

It took you a few painful seconds to figure out what this was. What you’d been caught in the middle of. They were arresting Suguru. Threatening to fucking shoot him if he didn’t release you, blow his brains out in the middle of a gala against gun violence. 

“I didn't-” Suguru started behind you, your attention flicking around too fast to focus on anyone, starting to hyperventilate as Suguru held you like he was scared of what would happen once the connection broke. As if it was the last time he'd get to touch your skin. 

“You’re being arrested in connection to the attempted murder of-” 

“Don’t trust them,” Suguru insisted in a panic, trying to pull your attention back to him, your head swiveling around to catch one more glimpse of his beautiful face. His eyes bleeding into you, the pretty slope of his nose turned up as his starry stare begged you to believe him. “I promise, I didn’t-” 

Someone else was grabbing you, pulling you back before he could finish.

“Get your hands off my fucking wife,” Satoru growled, your back pressed against his chest, an arm around your waist, each second somehow adding more distance between you and Suguru until you realized he was leading you away. Picking up pieces from the mess unfolding in front of you, snippets of the shouts, shattered still images your brain was struggling to process as Satoru let his best friend get put in cuffs for trying to murder him. 

“No, no, he couldn’t-” Your voice broke. You were pretty sure you did too. 

Watching a man you thought you might love get forced down on his knees, hands behind his head as he argued as he got arrested. 

“An agent just filled me in,” Satoru murmured in your ear, stroking your hair softly, trying to cushion the blow as he held you back. “He was seen on surveillance footage meeting with their suspect and handing him cash. They got the guy in custody yesterday. I guess he confessed to everything.” 

“Suguru's your best friend,” you gaped, grasping at straws, refusing to believe he could be capable of something like this. “He wouldn't-”

“What?” Satoru snapped. “Fuck my wife?”

Your lips clamped shut, but not before a tiny broken breath escaped. Tearing your stare away from the sight of Suguru being dragged out that back entrance he was about to take you through to look back at your husband, not sure what you were supposed to think or feel anymore.

Did you really not know Suguru either? Cursed to have terrible taste in men? 

“Why wouldn't he want me dead?” Your husband continued, cocking his head to the side, cold blue eyes burning with barely concealed hurt. He threw a pained look back in the direction of the guy who once grew up with, the one who’d been there before you, a tight grimace on his pretty lips before he spoke again.“He'd get what he always wanted. My presidency. My wife. My whole life.”

He turned you around so you had to face him, face this, softly rubbing over the sore spot on your arm where Suguru had grabbed you, the gesture surprisingly soothing enough that the last of your resolve dissolved. 

Satoru pulled you into his broad chest, his chin resting on top of your head as he supported you through the broken sobs racking through your body. 

“Did he do it because of me?” You asked out loud through your tears, body trembling in his arms as he held you tight. 

“No, sweetheart,” he attempted to comfort you, but in between the betrayal and the disbelief and the jagged edges of your grief, guilt was blossoming. 

The next few minutes were a blur, secret service agents surrounding both of you as they helped you cut through the confused crowd and return to where the bulletproof car was waiting outside, someone passing Satoru a thick folder on the way out – one he appeared to be expecting. 

You weren’t numb. But the whole thing felt like a dream sequence, dazed as you played your supporting role of the lady being escorted away from the scene. 

“What is that?” You asked, even though you had your suspicions. Could guess what you would find if you peeked inside. Proof.

“I skimmed over some of it right before they, well,” he cleared his throat, handing it over before leaning over to buckle your seatbelt for you. “You should see for yourself.” 

It was ironic, wasn’t it? 

Desperately craving the truth only to flinch when you found it? 

Reading through the files they compiled, the surveillance photos, the fucking lovelorn letters they found when they got a search warrant for his apartment a few hours away – the one he used to take you to, where he’d whisper into your skin and wish for a future you had told him was foolish. Where you could be his without anyone else intervening. How many times had you told yourself it was just the sex talking? That he didn’t really mean it. Lied that all you were both doing was venting frustrations and helping the other one heal. 

All you’d done was make him worse. 

Feed into some grand delusion that Satoru had stolen the life that should’ve been his – made him feel like his hand had been forced. 

Every dirty detail laid out in their plan from the confession they obtained from some creep named Mahito, your eyes dragging over the transcript while Satoru’s hand rested reassuringly on your thigh. 

Suguru had forked over a ridiculous sum for him to shoot Satoru. Got him an unregistered firearm. A security pass to blend in. All the information he needed in order to execute your husband in front of the entire country. In front of you. 

He just hadn’t picked a skilled enough shooter, you supposed. 

All in the name of your affair. 

Although, he hadn’t admitted it to his accomplice. Hadn’t told him why he wanted him to commit treason. 

No, you supposed that was a secret that was only shared between you, your husband, and the man you no longer knew if you loved or hated. 

You didn’t even realize it when you got back. 

Clutching onto the folder, Satoru supporting you even when he was struggling to keep up his own weight without his cane, surrounded by agents who led you safely back inside. For once, it was oddly quiet. Maybe it was the side entrance they ushered you through, but the halls were practically vacant, like it had been arranged for them to go work in different parts so you wouldn’t be disturbed making it back to your room. 

And for the first time in a long time, you were thankful Satoru was there as you stepped in a space that suddenly felt too small, too suffocating. 

How were you supposed to breathe when everything had fallen apart? 

“It’s my fault,” you murmured, dropping the folder down on the dresser. The picture it painted had been clear enough. 

Your assumption he wanted a more serious relationship hadn’t been all that off. But you hadn’t seen him spiralling into obsession. Never considered that maybe, he’d been looking at you far longer than you were looking at him. That maybe everything had been in motion before you were even married. 

Reevaluating every single moment of your friendship with him, from the day you met him through Satoru and he gave you that sly smirk of his while you shook his hand to how he held your fucking newborns in the hospital while Satoru went to grab you food. 

Was it real? Fake? 

Maybe Satoru was right. Maybe Suguru had been waiting to set him up from the start.

“I should’ve seen it,” Satoru murmured, leaning down to press the faintest of kisses to the tip of your shoulder. You stood still, bottom lip quivering as one of his huge hands settled on your hip. “I shouldn’t have let him-” 

“I had sex with him, and he tried to kill you,” you scoffed, a fresh tear rolling down and threatening to mess up your probably already smeared makeup. “I told him things. About us. About you.”

The sort of stuff that would sink his presidency if it came out in a confession. 

Things that probably pushed him closer and closer to the edge of a cliff until he felt like he had to make a choice for you. 

It was him or your husband. 

“I know,” Satoru murmured. “But it’s not your fault.”

You shook your head harder, his fingers dipping deeper into your hip to hold you steady. “I-” 

“If I’d taken better care of you, if I had just been there the way I should’ve been, then none of this would have happened,” he added, remorse bleeding into every wound-tight word. 

You couldn’t come up with a reasonable response.

Nothing fit right. All your feelings were too big, unraveling into one tangled ball where you couldn’t discern where the regret ended and the shame started. Unsure if the line still existed between love and loathing. 

You had sex with Suguru because you wanted to hurt Satoru. 

And now you were hurting so much you’d do anything to get it to just stop. 

“What did he say to you?” He asked, and your stomach did another somersault.

“I think he wanted me to run away with him,” you admitted. A plane to who knows where, fake passports probably made, the last step of a plan he knew was failing. His last chance to actually steal you if he couldn’t become president. 

“Oh,” Satoru exhaled. You could hear it in just a single syllable that he thought you would have accepted. Taken his offer. 

“I wasn’t going to go,” you whispered. Even if the SWAT team hadn’t showed up, you would’ve chosen him and your children. 

Satoru turned you around, readjusting his grip on your hip, his stare slicing through every shield you spent so long building. 

And then he kissed you. 

Not one of those shallow, barely-there ones saved for public appearances. But hard, hungry. Making up for lost time. His teeth bumping into yours, his tongue desperately trying to slip inside your mouth and claim it again. Wash away the fact Suguru had been the last one to do it. 

He only broke it when you needed air. 

“Satoru,” you sucked in a small breath, a hard lump forming in your throat you knew would be too tough to swallow as your nose brushed against his. “Do you seriously think there’s still a chance for us? After everything-”

“Aboslutely,” he murmured, apparently still capable of being annoyingly confident. “There’s nothing in our way now.” 

He dragged a thumb underneath your eyes, wiping away your mascara as you blinked up at him. And maybe you couldn’t say it out loud, but your hands trembled and reached up to do something you used to cherish. Slowly loosening his tie for him, tugging it out and tossing it over his head. 

Satoru smiled, and you remembered how easy it was to let your life revolve around it again.

He pulled you closer, your chest against his, his hands slowly tracing long patterns up-and-down your back, across your waist, far softer than you were used to. In the past, he’d been more like a starving dog, pawing and squeezing and ready to rut into you like an animal. 

“Everything will be perfect once my presidency is over,” he promised, craning down to allow his soft lips to skim across your throat. 

You once put your entire life in his hands. Stood in front of all your friends and family and said ‘I do’ because you were so sure that he was the one. Could you do it again? 

“I’ll buy you a new house.Wherever you want,” he hummed, punctuating every few words with more gentle pecks. “By the beach. Another country. Get a pool. The kids won’t care if we fly out their friends a few times a year.” 

“I don’t want a new house,” you murmured, rolling your eyes as he kissed. You missed your old one. Technically, you still had it, but you only really went back to it for holidays, or occasionally on birthdays. Where you had painted the rooms together and picked out furniture from catalogues and stores. Where you had taught your kids to walk and talk, their heights measured on doorframes. The place that still held all your favorite memories. 

“I’m sorry,” he placated, another affectionate brush of his mouth over your damp cheeks. “Tell me what you want.” 

“I don’t know anymore,” you whispered. 

“Do you want this?” He asked, delicately tracing over your side in your tight dress. “Me?” 

A handful of months ago you would’ve huffed at him. Said never. 

And yet, you were slowly nodding. Biting your lip as you broke, gave into the inevitable. 

It really was till death do you part, you supposed. 

“I do.” 

Satoru stripped you down until you were just wearing your jewelry. A diamond ring. The glittering necklace around your throat. The ones dangling from your ears. All signs of who you belonged to. 

Standing bare in front of him, slowly taking off his suit jacket before slowly unbuttoning his crisp white shirt, your fingers slightly shaking as you pulled off his belt and fiddled with his zipper. He had to sit down to get them off, the muscles in his legs twitching as he got them off. The puckered scar on his calf making you wince, another reminder of how fucked this all was. 

Another faint one on his arm, healed better, a different shade of white on his pale skin. 

“I-” 

His mouth was on yours before you could apologize again. 

It only took him thirty seconds to have you on the bed. 

Body pressed into the sheets, his hands spreading you open before he buried himself between your legs. 

He kissed the inside of your thighs, savoring the plush flesh, before planting himself right above your sensitive clit, aching to be touched as much as the rest of you. 

“My pretty wife,” he hummed, his breath hot as it drifted over the neglected bud. “Been missing you. This.”  

White lashes fluttering as you hesitantly took the plunge, but rather than freezing water, cold disappointment, Satoru was warm. 

The clouds were clearing so your sun could shine again. 

Sure, the sky was still stormy, scattered with dark spots, but you no longer felt like you were standing under the downpour. 

Satoru was shelter. Safety. 

You shut your eyes, letting your hands feel the scruff of his hair, the strands sifting through your fingers as his own started to slip inside you. Testing the waters himself, seeing how wet you were for him. 

And embarrassingly enough, you were already soaked. 

Thighs tense as he sank inside your heat, trembling as he tenderly began to stretch you out. He still remembered every sweet spot. Where to push, how to pull you apart, what the right amount of pressure was to have you falling apart – and for him again. 

“Just let go, baby,” he purred, tugging at some loose thread attached to your heart simply by thrusting his fingers in deeper. Asking you to let go of Suguru. Sweeping against your walls as you weakly sucked him in, scraping what was left of you back together to form something new. “Let me take care of you.” 

“S-S-” You couldn't even manage a syllable. 

Squirming as he offered comfort in the form of sex. Stopping you from sobbing or splintering by turning all your sounds into breathless moans, broken whines you couldn't hold in. Had no space left inside you anymore, nowhere for any of your feelings to go except the air when your husband had two fingers stuffed deep.

He slotted a third finger inside you, your hips wiggling as you tried to move back, but he didn't let you budge, keeping you still with his free hand pressed against your stomach just below your belly button. 

“I just want you to be all mine,” he dreamily murmured, dragging his fingers out and back in, his nose grazing against your clit before he moved his mouth just over it. Lips lingering there like he wanted you to ask for more. Resisting the urge to tease and taunt, to sink his teeth in and tear. Doing his best to be delicate. 

“W-what happens if I say I am?” You managed to ask, back arching up off the bed as his taste buds dragged over that tight bundle of nerves, sparks raking down your spine. 

“I'm never letting you go,” he whispered, wrapping his lips around your clit like he could prove it if he just made you cum. Showed you that he could fuck you better than Suguru did.

His jealousy wasn't discreet. 

It was in the way his fingers dug into your skin a little deeper, how deliberate every swirl of his thick digits inside you felt, making sure you wouldn't miss a single touch, the constant desperate glances he'd take, peering from between your thighs to watch your reactions.

In the things he didn't ask. 

Was he wondering how you had done it with his best friend? If he made you cum harder? Faster? What positions you preferred with him? 

Some sick piece of you still hoped he was thinking that. 

You didn't give him a real answer.

But you were losing the ability to think of one once he started painting practiced circles over your clit, hyper aware of how close you were to cumming as your toes curled tight. 

“Toru, it's too-” You cried out a protest, but you didn't really mean it. Didn't make it through the sentence without cumming hard on his hand, squeezing down as he coaxed you through your climax. 

“Too much, pretty?” He teased, falling back into old rhythms like it was second nature. Taking back his place in your bed, in your pussy, like both had always belonged to him. “Too little?” 

You made some strangled sound, gasping as you started coming back down only for it to turn into a desperate whine the moment he pulled his fingers back out.

“You’re too much,” you complained, but there was no more venom in your voice.

“You married me,” he wryly said, his greedy gaze soaking in the sight of your slick pussy after he played with it.

“I did,” you muttered back, swallowing your disappointment although you were sure a sliver reached the surface. 

“I really am sorry,” he apologized quietly, his stare shifting up to hold you captive. “For everything. I'll spend the rest of my life saying it if I have to.” 

It didn't make it all okay. 

Or even equal. 

But you guessed you each had your own burdens to bear. Consequences and decisions you had to live with. 

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, unable to catch your breath as he climbed completely on top of you. One arm planted next to your head, keeping you caged in, his other hand cupping your cheek as he wiped away another tear you hadn't realized fallen. 

“Stop thinking about him,” he murmured. “It’s just us now.” 

Forever. 

For better or worse. 

And when he angled his cock at your entrance, you just wrapped your wrists behind his neck, cradling him close as he buried himself in the crook of your collarbone, you told yourself you needed him. That he could save you. Solve this. Nose nuzzling against your neck, inhaling your perfume while you toyed with his hair, glancing down to watch the first few inches slip in, the pretty pink head of his cock disappearing into your warmth.  

Reminding you of every ridge, molding you again to his size, shaping you around him once more. 

“Fuck, fuck,” your husband hissed, sucking a rough mark on the inside of your throat like he was trying to stop himself from snapping. You could feel the clench of his jaw against your skin, his nose scrunching up, the muscles in his back getting all tense as his hips kept sinking down. “Feels like heaven, angel.”

He fucked you like he was the devil. 

Dragging you under, down down down into the flames, burning desire searing through every nerve ending and rewiring your synapses until you couldn't remember how you got here. 

Okay, perhaps that wasn't totally true. 

But you could ignore it.

“Forget about everything else,” he whispered into your ear, breathing hot and heavy as he split you open, snugly grinding against your womb as your hips shifted under his weight. “Jus’ focus on me.” 

Did your focus ever really shift anywhere else? 

Had your world revolved around anything but him since the first date? The first time he kissed you and called you his? When you had sex in the back of his car and he called you the most beautiful girl he'd ever met? 

You believed every line back then. 

And here you were, about to believe him again.

Your heart throbbed. His cock did too.

Satoru lifted up your hips, readjusting to dig his knees into the mattress, to get more leverage to start pounding into you faster. It wasn't mean, or even rough. Just, calculated. Controlling the angle, the pressure, measuring what face you made when he hit those sensitive spots he previously memorized. 

“Nothing fuckin’ compares to you,” he groaned, the lump in his throat bobbing hard as he paused with his tip practically smushed against your cervix, staring down at the sight of you sweating and panting under his muscled frame. 

And not that you wanted to make your own comparisons, but you had to admit that sex with Satoru was nothing like it was with Suguru. Familiar guilt gnawing at your bones as you remembered how hard you tried to feed the awful emptiness inside yourself by letting Suguru fill you up himself. 

But it was something only Satoru could touch. 

He was leaner than before, you guessed from stress, or how ragged he’d been running himself. 

Maybe you’d need to put in a request for him to be served more food at your family meals.

You let one of your hands drift down his chest, feeling the outlines of thick muscles, the defined ridges and divots. “You’re not eating enough.” 

He grinned, abruptly dropping your hips back onto the plush mattress as he reached up to move a sweaty strand of hair out of your face. “Is my beautiful wife worrying about me?” 

“N-no,” you lied, sucking on your lower lip as you felt his cock twitch, so stuffed you didn’t think you had any more room for him.

He laughed, light, airy, one of those sounds that made the room feel brighter. 

And then he was rutting into you faster, desperation etched into every breath, every creak of the bed, felt in his fingers and his touch. 

Craving you guessed he couldn’t deny any more either. 

“Tell me you love me,” he groaned, a hand wrapped around your throat, not hard enough to hurt, applying the precise amount of pressure to make it difficult to breathe. Sucking in shallow inhales, your nails dragging down his shoulder blades as his cock throbbed inside of you. “Please, I'm begging, say you still love me.”

You wished it was just the sex that made you say it. 

But you were clutching onto him, taking every thrust as the headboard banged into the wall, nodding as much as you could with his palm pressed against your throat. 

“I do,” you whispered. “I love you.” 

It didn't matter what you wanted. How hard you fought it. 

Some things were just facts. 

“I love you so fucking much,” Satoru promised back, kissing you as his other hand drifted down to grip the underside of your thigh, pushing it up higher to get a deeper angle. 

Filthy squelches echoing in time with the bed creaking, the mattress dipping under your combined weight, in-and-out, in-and-out, your body on the brink of unravelling all over again. 

There was admittedly something filthy in the fact your husband was about to drag another orgasm out of you just from how hard he was fucking you, your thighs preemptively tensing in anticipation as he threw his head back and dug his thumb in deeper on your throat.

Dragging his cock along your walls, so full you were pretty sure he managed to lodge your heart in your lungs, unable to suck any air in when your pussy was preoccupied sucking him in. 

You didn’t know which one of you finished first. Falling apart into each other, his cock throbbing, thick, warm ropes of cum filling you up as white stars splotched your vision. And when you opened your eyes, there was just more white, his hair dangling down in your face as he let go of your throat to reach down and rub your clit instead, to help get you through your second, intense climax of the night, shuddering hard in the sheets as you clawed at his back for purchase. 

He didn’t pull out. Let you scratch his back, like he’d take any mark you left on him. 

Satoru just kissed you again, sucking softly on your bottom lip, soothing you as his hands found new positions. Caressing your cheek. Holding your waist. Your arms awkwardly settling over his shoulders, his hair tickling your face as you made some distant mental note to tell him to go get a haircut soon.

Damp cum leaking down your thighs as a sudden thought struck you about twenty minutes too late.

“Satoru,” you breathed your husband’s name, unable to sit up or squirm with his heavy weight keeping you pinned to the bed. “I’m not on birth control right now.” 

You were before, but with the assassination attempt and the safehouse, and then moving back, you’d forgotten to ask someone to pick up your prescription for you. Just slipped your mind when you were too stressed to think about having sex. 

And now here you were, stuffed with your husband’s cum, sticky and damp as his cock throbbed and leaked out the last drops, your throat threatening to close up while he shrugged his broad shoulders and snuggled up closer. 

“I’ll have someone pick up the morning after pill for you,” he murmured. “But you know, maybe, a baby wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“You’re not funny,” you mumbled, wiggling just for him to let out a low moan. You’d done the whole pregnancy and chasing after children thing in your twenties. Knew that it would be harder now, that everything was. Especially now that you had no clue how long he’d be limping for, or if he’d always need a cane now. It wasn’t that you totally hated it, no repulsion or disgust simmering under the surface, just some of your rationality finally returning. You could get like, a cat or a fish, if he wanted something new. “You could’ve died. Do you think now’s the time-” 

“Maybe not now,” he hummed. “But I’m not going to be president forever.” 

You blinked, your fingers reflexively reaching up to brush his hair back from his face. Looking into his eyes and trying to decide if this was really what he wanted. If you were. And then he was craning his neck down, capturing your mouth in a gentle kiss before breaking away. 

“I’m always going to be your husband.”

“Good morning, gorgeous.” 

Satoru didn't really want to wake you. If it was up to him, he'd spend the entire day like this. Your cheek squished on his chest, your bare body tangled in the sheets with him. Watching you start to stir, sleepily blinking up at him as your palm tried to press off his shoulder to sit up. 

But he held you down, kept you close as the morning sun streamed through the window. “We can stay in bed a little longer.” 

You were worth the risk of being late to a meeting or two. 

“Satoru,” you said his name, a hint of caution still bleeding through your tired voice. “Last night, we-” 

“We can take this slow, okay? Work on us,” he murmured, stroking your hair softly as he didn't say the last part he was thinking out loud. Without Suguru to interfere. 

He finally had his fucking life back. 

His wife. 

“Did you mean everything you said?” You yawned, letting him draw faint shapes on your skin, your eyes fluttering shut as you started to drift back into your dreams. 

“Every word,” he softly said.

His back was sore, leg already throbbing before he even moved. Throat dry from the sounds you ripped from it. But his chest felt warm, completely content for the first time in fucking years now that you were next to him again. 

You made a small sound, a little mmph, but you rolled over, off of him to squint at the time on the alarm clock, reaching out to turn it off before it could even ring. 

“I’m never letting you go,” he added quietly. Soberly. 

Not now. Not ever. 

“You should go to your morning meeting,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. Turning over on your side to stare at his side profile. Your finger slowly reaching out to trace over the slope of his nose, over the edges of his mouth, across his jaw. “If you promise to be back for lunch.” 

He leaned in to kiss the tip of your own nose, almost groaning at how good you smelled. How much he missed this. 

But there wouldn’t be another morning that he’d go without it. 

“Pinky promise.”

You helped him get in the shower, scrubbing the sex and sweat from his body before he awkwardly yanked his pants up and popped a pain killer. Listened to you talk about maybe taking the kids somewhere for an actual vacation after his term was up, suggesting foreign beaches and going sightseeing as he smiled and nodded along. You even let him kiss you goodbye, a silky robe tied around your waist as you leaned out the door to watch him walk down the hall.

But still, he didn’t mind doing his job.

He had a duty after all. 

Sitting in the Oval Office, reclaiming his chair as people surrounded him with problems only he could solve. 

Everyone was ignoring the elephant in the room, the absence that could be felt, or rather seen, in the newspaper on the table. The photograph of the man who was no longer vice president. 

His former best friend.

While another old one was sitting on the couch, his chief of staff just blankly waited without making any notes for once, only watching as other members flitted in-and-out. 

Nanami glared at him after everyone else left, the door thudding shut as the two of them were left alone. 

Satoru was used to it, but it still caught him off-guard when the blond spoke up, “I’m resigning.” 

“Why?” He blanched, almost laughing at the absurdity of it. 

Things had never been better. Approval ratings were through the roof. News stations were already covering the story, Suguru’s face splashed across every headline as people speculated about his plot to become president. 

“I know what you did.” 

He chuckled, leaning forward in his seat as he cocked his head to the side. “And what, exactly, did I do?” 

“You framed Suguru,” Nanami scoffed, hazel eyes squinting accusingly. “Set him up.” 

Guilty as charged. 

But then again, he’d never be charged. 

“How would I-” 

“Who do you think he came to when he started to suspect something was off about his security detail?” Nanami interrupted his poor attempt at feigning innocence, standing up and smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants. 

“Well, it's not your problem or mine, anymore,” Satoru dismissed it, waving his hand as he resisted scoffing. There was no plea deal or bargain left for Suguru to make. 

His guilt was predetermined. 

And Satoru had no plans to pardon him. 

Nanami took a few steps towards the door, and Satoru pressed his palm on his desk to brace himself to stand. His left leg was uncomfortably stiff, a dull ache radiating across the injured limb that he doubted would go away any time soon. The scar was ugly, something that admittedly pricked at him more than it should, but he supposed it was a small price to pay to have you back. 

Besides, he always liked listening to you scold him, to give you a reason to pay him a little extra attention. Peace of mind to know that while Suguru was staring at concrete walls, he got to watch you fawn over how much he ate and how he was healing. 

“What are you going to do about it?” He asked before Nanami could reach the door. 

“Nothing,” Nanami muttered, pausing to let out an exhausted exhale. “That’s why I’m quitting.” 

“You’re not even curious why?” Satoru asked, nose scrunching up. 

“I assume it was because he had sex with your wife,” Nanami dryly replied. “Although, I admit I don’t fully understand how you did it.” 

“The hardest part was finding someone who looked enough like Suguru,” Satoru snickered, running his fingers through his grown-out hair, missing the soft buzz of his undercut. But he wanted to be what you liked. Who you liked. For now, at least, until you remembered all the reasons why Satoru was superior. 

Nanami huffed, like he couldn’t believe him. 

“It’s funny how easy it is to get people to do what you want when you pay them enough,” he vaguely added, limping around to lean against his desk.

Kenjaku was a bit of an asshole, but he looked enough like Suguru that anyone watching the surveillance footage of their meeting would assume it was him especially when it was coupled with Mahito’s confession, there wasn’t much the real one could do when he didn’t have an actual alibi. No, he’d been too busy sneaking around with you, bringing you to his place that didn’t have security cameras to record your affair with his phone shut off to save himself from being framed.

He doubted that you’d remember the exact date of the last time you slept with his best friend. Wouldn’t be able to recall that you were the only person who might be capable of clearing him. 

Suguru had sealed his own fate. 

Nanami opened the door a crack, jaw clenched tight as Satoru contemplated what his price would be. 

“I'll need a new VP in the next election,” Satoru hummed, watching Nanami’s brows scrunch together before he sighed. “Position's yours if you want it.” 

“No thanks,” Nanami grimaced, but Satoru simply shrugged. He couldn't exactly blame him given what fate had befallen his former VP. Rotting in a high security prison cell for the crime of fucking his wife. “I think I'm going to move to Malaysia.” 

“Yeah?” He arched up a brow.

“You should think of moving on too,” Nanami coolly suggested, standing up and straightening his tie. “Don't run for reelection.”

“The nation needs me,” Satoru scoffed. And he'd be damned if he let his mark on history just be rumors of getting impeached and an attempted assassination attempt. 

“What about your wife?” Nanami challenged, as if he knew anything about the two of you. 

Nanami wasn't married. Didn't have a partner. 

He didn't understand. 

Marriage meant sacrifice sometimes. Support. Satoru wasn't about to make the same mistakes again. You wouldn't slip away from him this time. He would do everything right.

Suguru would be stuck with a life sentence. 

And Satoru would get everything he ever wanted. 

“She loves me.”

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated even when it's cringe <3

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ would try his luck. you and him were in a thursday and friday class, and he'd use his every waking opportunity to grab your attention. flirts, charms, everything infuriating in between. he caught you in town once, rushing to get to campus and of course, offered you a ride.

“c'mon babydoll. is being late to class really better than takin' a ride with me?” he'd grin.

you'd flip him off. hiss another rejection. you knew about guys like him. you saw him in the hallways. loud, boisterous, flirting with any pair of pretty eyes that looked his way.

it confused you though. why'd he only flirt with you on thursdays and fridays? also where were his glasses?

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ would go on to be your enemy of the semester. ever since your altercation in class, he's made it his personal life goal to hate you with his entire being. unfortunately for him, you were also smart. but a bit too confident for your own good, it seemed. did you really think you could compete with him? and so began the most fiery academic rivalry in history.

you'd be neck in neck. fighting for first place as professor's pet and battling it out on the grade scoreboards.

he'd get an assignment back with a stellar 99%, only to look over at your measly 94%. he'd grin, like an asshole. “must be hard being such a loser, huh?”

only to crumple his next assignment into tight fists when you managed to get just one percentage higher than him.

he'd exchange banter with you. debate you in class. call you a brat when you tried to prove him wrong and challenge him.

you were brilliant and unfortunately, beautiful. satoru didn't know what was happening to him. it slowly became something that wasn't just academics. and that terrified him.

as for you? you were in the same boat. the last thing you wanted was to fall in love with this asshole. but you had to admit, he looked cuter when he decided to wear his glasses and tone down the fuckboy act every monday and tuesday.

why'd he switch so drastically through the week? what a weirdo.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ listened to his brother rant about the irritating girl that was his astrophysics desk partner. about how she was so unnecessarily rude and even more audacious. satoshi couldn't help but grin. was satoru, his loser of a brother, actually finding love? and when he found out that the girl in question was you? he couldn't blame him. he's been trying for months to get your number, let alone get up your skirt. he dubbed it as competitiveness. he's never had a girl reject him and thus— it's made him a little obsessed. he couldn't stop thinking about you. in bed, in the shower, hell, seeing you walk around campus and not even look at him was torture.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ hated himself for the way he turned out. he's not sure how it happened. just one day after a heated debate with you, he'd stormed off back to his dorm. collapsed in his desk. shoved his glasses into his hair. and soon, angry scribbling in his notes became desperate jerks of his hand as he fucked his fist. to the thought of you. that grating voice, that beautifully sharp mind. everything. he hated himself. hated that he was thinking about this. he wasn't satoshi. he didn't want girls like this— he sure as hell didn't fuck his fist this needy to one either. and yet when he spurted all over his hand, panting hard and whispering your name, it felt oddly right. it scared him.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ dragged satoru out at the end of semester to a party. told himself he was being a good brother. might as well try to get along, right? but satoru was so boring. he didn't drink, didn't chat, just sat in some corner with his headset on and scrolled through his phone. and satoshi? he was all over the place. bouncing and bubbling, bumping and grinding. a red solo cup in his hand. keeping as far as fucking away from his twin as possible. fuck. why'd he even bring him here?

his irritation washed away the second he saw you, however. dolled up, dangerous, looking like both sin and sugar. he left behind his friends, ignored whatever girl tried to come his way.

he found you at the drinks table. propped his forearm on it and grinned at your little glare.

“this isn't really your scene, babydoll. tagged along with someone?”

“a few friends.”

“wow. so she can be polite.”

you rolled your eyes and noticed he wasn't wearing his glasses. seemed that the fuckboy persona was on for the night. you bit back your questions and swirled your drink in your cup.

“you never give up, do you?” you mulled.

his head took a charming curve as he sipped his drink.

“not when I want something, no.” those blue eyes raked down your frame. tracing every curve. familiarising every inch.

he dared to lean closer. white lashes batting as his grin sets into a stunning smile.

“especially when that something is as a pretty as you.”

your heart fluttered. you shouldn't have talked to him. shouldn't have kept talking to him.

you're not sure how it happened. maybe finally accepting his flirts. maybe after months of touching yourself to the academic rivalry. this heated push and pull between the both of you.

you should have known better, but— you did it. you let satoshi take you to his dorm.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ has been around the block. his touch dripped with experience. he unclasped your bra with ease. barely missed a beat in kisses. large hands roaming your sweet body he's been dreaming about since the start of semester. not an inch of hesitance in his fingertips as he slipped under your dress and dragged your damp panties down. “such a pretty girl,” he crooned to your ear. how many girls had he said that to? how many did he mean it?

he's been after you for months. chasing, wanting— yearning. satoshi never yearned. he got everything he ever wanted in life.

maybe that's why he loved having to work for you. for your smooth body on his bed, opened up and so soaked for him. maybe that's why he actually took his time. mouthing on your skin. burying his face in your cunt.

he only ever ate women out as a way to get them ready. courtesy, if anything. but now? fuck, he's never actually feasted on a girl. with his hands, calloused from endless hours on his bike, dragging your thighs over. trapping you. mouth messily moving on your slit. slurping, sucking, shaking his head and nudging his nose into your clit.

he fucked you on his tongue. made you cum on it more than any girl ever has. and as you gripped his hair and whined for him? not some prissy comment or attitude? he almost came in his pants.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't even care less if you didn't suck him off. he didn't even want you to. he needed to be inside of you. needed to hold you down and fuck you into his sheets. make the girl who was so unattainable finally his.

the second he was buried to the hilt inside your welcoming pussy— he couldn't breathe. you were hot, tight, suffocating him with your dripping slick and clenching cunt. he's had many girls in this position before. but no one looked up at him with those eyes. no one sounded this sweet. made him lose his fucking mind.

satoshi wasn't gentle. he couldn't be. the second his tip smooched your cervix, his hands clamped on your waist as his hips started snapping. hard, controlled. an experienced rhythm that stuffed all his inches deep into your gooey heat and meshed your clit with his pelvis.

“fuuckk, babydoll,” he groaned from the back of his throat. hunching over you. one hand gripped your hip while the other slipped around to cup the back of your head.

he was losing himself. losing his fucking mind. the bed creaked. headboard tapped. but your pretty moans were all he was focused on. your sweet whimpers and little whines as he alternated rhythms. rolled his hips. went from grinding to humping to thrusting, until your toes curled and your back lurched off of the bed.

pretty nails down his back. teary doll eyes on him as your slick dripped down his balls and splattered all over his thighs with each firm thrust.

your lips parted. eyes glossed. he saw it. cradled your head close and slipped a thumb to your clit. he knew what it meant. saw his name on your tongue.

a groan built on his. thrusts surging into wet, rushed slaps pounding against your ass.

“say it for me baby. c'mon, say my name.”

“s-sat— sato—. . .” your eyes fluttered. head thrown back. loud and needy, your moan broke into the air.

“satoru!”

and broke satoshi's mind.

you didn't know any better. they're both reffered to as “gojo” in class and you've only heard one other person refer to one of them as “satoru”. you thought that was his name. thought they were one person.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ frozen. stiffened mid thrust as the last syllables stung his ear. satoru. satoru. his twin brother? did you really just fucking call for his twin while he's balls deep inside of you. making your cunt cream and cry for him. making you— wait.

didn't satoru say you were rude to him for no reason at all?

satoshi's mind worked fast. piecing the puzzle and timeline together. you confused satoru for him back then. he didn't know whether to be amused or angry.

amused because, how in the hell did you think they were the same person?

angry because, he's the one who's been working his ass off for you attention— and it's his brother's name that you call instead?

either way, he grinned. halfway a threat and a taunt. “oh?” he crooned, bucking his hips hard into yours so that his fully seathed cock dragged on all of your sweet spots.

he leaned over you. white hair dusting over icy blues. your jaw trapped in his strong hand.

“you want toru baby? want me to go get him for you?”

your confused look almost had him cackling. before he slammed! into you again. hands bundling your thighs. grin turned sharp. he yanked you down to choke your cunt on his cock and jerked forward. pounding you into the mattress and snapping the headboard into the wall as your moans pitched into cries.

“sato—!”

he gripped your jaw tight. shoved two fingers on your tongue before you said his name again and made satoshi fuck you until you were a limp cumdump.

“satoshi.” he corrected with a pointed sneer. his rabid pace not once letting up. frustration pulsed into every vein of his ramming cock.

“satoshi. satoshi.” he grit, punctuating each repeat of his name with a rough thrust.

“satoshi's the one fucking you. not satoru. satoru's my fuckin' twin. I'm the one fucking this pretty cunt stupid. I'm the one you should be calling for.”

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ didn't give you time to process the fact that you'd thought he and his brother were one person. egged on from the frustration of wanting someone more than he's ever wanted anyone— only to have them moan out his twin's name— spurred his mind feral.

he pounded you into his sheets. pummeling your poor pussy until you squirted all over him. again, and again, and again— until you were saying his name. whining his name. sobbing his name.

he's not sure how many rounds he fucked you through. three? four? he pushed and pulled you into whatever position he could think of. threw your legs over his shoulders and fucked you until your eyes crossed. shoved you onto your stomach and pounded against your ass until your drool stained his pillow.

he couldn't care about finally having you anymore. if you wanted to act dumb— he'd fuck you stupid. fuck his silly girl who couldn't tell the obvious difference between him and his brother who actively despises him.

he made sure it was his name you knew. made sure you knew it was him inside of you. his cock making you cum. his hands holding you through it. and for extra measure? he sucked his name in hickeys on your collarbone.

TOSHI in blushing bruises.

he made sure to cum inside. creampie you nice and full until it was dripping. then snatched your panties and wiped the mess clean with them. he stashed them away for later.

˖ ࣪꒰ BIKERJO ꒱ ˙˖ stirred the next morning to you shuffling out of his arms. he tried to pull you in, kiss your head, but you were up and frantic. he cracked an eye open, watching as you shuffled out of bed and searched for your clothes. you looked almost panicked. he couldn't help but grin at the sight of your nude body prancing around his room, littered in all the marks he'd given you.

he propped his head onto one of his hands, brow arched and grin audacious. “something wrong, babydoll?”

oh, there's that glare he loved. only now you looked utterly embarrassed. flushed face and glossy eyes as you clumsily pulled on your clothes.

“shut up.” you mumbled, but made the mistake of looking in the mirror. you saw it. hickies spelling out his name. the night crashed back into you.

right. you thought the twins were one fucking person.

satoshi could only grin. tilting his head and pouting. as if he felt sorry for you.

“awww baby, embarrassed? 's okay. it was cute.” he sat up, raking his eyes that grew progressively darker down your wrecked frame.

“just a reminder. that it wasn't toru fucking that sweet cunt. toshi bruised those pretty thighs up, kay?”

he snickered as you tossed a pillow at him. still called you babydoll as you called him creep.

˖ ࣪꒰ NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ texted his brother the same day.

“the fuck did you dip to? could have told me.”

he nearly broke his phone at the reply.

“sorry. your little rival was all over me. had to take care of her.”

satoru stared at his phone. telling himself it was fine. that he shouldn't be mad. he didn't feel a fucking thing for you— why should he care?

maybe because satoshi always got the girls.

maybe because he hated him.

he shoved his phone into his pocket. got up and went to class. you weren't looking at him. guilt riddled in your stare that remained forward.

fucking. great. of course you were just like every other girl on this campus.

he was in a mood all day. avoided his brother like he always did and kept to himself. all he wanted was to get to his dorm, kick off his shoes, study, maybe read some manga, play on his switch.

so imagine his surprise when he found a crumpled pair of cum-filled panties strewn over his bed and heard the familiar engine rev from outside his window?

it didn't take a genius to know whose those were.

his hands trembled. glasses fogged and slipped down his nose. red swarmed his vision.

satoru didn't quite know how to throw a punch, but he's never wanted to break his brother's jaw more.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/cursed-carmine. art cred: @/_teaforgods (ig).

ᝰ.☆ enjoyed this piece? consider supporting or commissioning me <3 part two coming soon!

You’d been working at your family’s bookshop most of your life. Managing the finances, stocking the shelves, working the cash register. Whatever was needed whenever it was needed. No questions asked. But your mind drifted, dreamed of doing something different – where you weren’t sleeping in a tiny studio apartment you could barely afford and got to express yourself outside of the stupid chalk signs you drew on to advertise on the sidewalk. 

“Are you still all prissy because I said-”

“No,” you interrupted him, even though you knew he hated that. You sipped the awful beer, nose scrunching as you pressed your lips together and forced yourself to swallow. 

“Good,” he grunted. “Don’t need that shit today.” 

You didn’t reply to that. Stared ahead at the bottles of liquor lined up on the wall, the distorted mirrors behind them as you listened to the heavy music thumping behind you. 

“First client was fuckin’ awful, didn’t even tip after I spent-” Sukuna was still talking, grumbling under his breath between swigs of his own beer. You weren’t paying that much attention though. Picking apart what you could make of yourself in those stretched-out mirrors, wondering if you’d really only be Jin’s friend to him. Someone annoying he could boss around, that he barely tolerated. 

How much time were you wasting waiting for him to wake up and notice you were a girl? That you liked him? 

“God, I need to get laid,” he continued, and your head swiveled over to him, brows knitting together as it hit you what he said.

He noticed, chuckling at whatever expression you were making before slamming his now-empty beer down.

“What? Are you, like, a prude?” Sukuna asked, and you flinched, flustered as your mouth fell open.

“N-no, I’m not,” you defensively said, heat crawling inside your skin, uselessly shaking your head just for him to laugh at you. 

“C’mon,” Sukuna snickered, rolling your eyes. “I’ve known you, what? Like a decade? And you’ve never had a boyfriend?”

“I’ve had boyfriends,” you muttered, wishing you could drown yourself in your beer when you forced yourself to take another drawn-out sip. 

Several of them. Some longer than others. 

But they all came to the same conclusion you had a long time ago. 

They weren’t the guy you wanted. And the one you did couldn’t care less about you.

“Sure,” he shrugged, all gruff and gravelly, waving over the bartender to get another beer. “Whatever you say.”  

“You don’t believe me,” you pointed out before you could stop yourself, and all you got was another bob of his shoulders. 

“It’s not my business.” Which really just meant he didn’t give a shit. 

You could probably pick a random guy from the dancefloor and drag him back home with you and he wouldn’t blink. 

Instead of a beer, the bartender pushed a stein of something strong to him, nodding down the bar to a pretty girl who was already looking at him, glossy lips curling up when his head turned in her direction. “On her.” 

Sukuna smirked, and you wondered if he’d be leaving with her tonight.

“Someone’s got you beat,” he commented, glancing back over to her with a glint of interest in his eyes. It was a joke, you guessed. But you didn’t laugh. 

Just felt it sit in the bottom of your stomach like a goddamn boulder. 

She had his attention, and she barely had to try. 

You pulled out your purse, scrounging together enough crumpled cash to cover the bill before tossing it on the bartop, swinging your legs off to stand. 

“You’re mad at me,” he huffed, and you wanted him to stop you. Some sad little shriveled part of your brain desperate for him to do something to show you were more than just – well, whatever it was he saw you as. 

“I’m not,” you insisted, even though a hot lump had formed in your throat, lungs constricting as you became acutely aware of how little air you could suck in. 

He frowned for a second, but he didn’t say anything. 

Didn’t reach out. 

“Gotta get up early tomorrow,” you excused, even though he didn't ask. 

For the first time in forever, you didn't look back when you left. And when you got home, you blocked his number after deleting the message chain that was mostly you sending him stupid shit he probably only ever skimmed over.  

Removed the temptation entirely to text him now, tried to call and clip the image of him from the corners of your heart when you curled back up in your bed. 

It wasn't like it was easy. But the humiliation of wanting someone like him had sliced too deep this time, embarrassment etching into your fingers every time you attempted to draw and thought back to his reaction. His rejection. 

So you did the only thing you could do. 

Move on. 

Focus on your job, your meager social life, although you made Jin come over to your apartment when he wanted to hang out purely out of fear you'd bump into Sukuna’s at his place. 

Two weeks passed, then three, killing time while you scrubbed the ghost of him from your mind. 

Today hadn't been much different. 

Stuck with another hour left at an exhausting shift, feet aching as you shifted behind the counter, a pen in hand as you attempted to sketch something on the back of a sticky note. A few animals, a couple of fish, thin lines and unsure strokes as you questioned what was even the point any more. 

“Whatcha doodlin’?” A cheeky voice distracted you, snatching the crumpled paper from underneath your palm before you could stop him. You knew who it belonged to before you saw him.

The white-haired menace who only showed up for the sweets in the adjoining bakery, chocolate usually smeared in the corner of his mouth when he pretended to browse books. Although he'd always find some excuse to come chat with you, sometimes bringing around his friends who would buy stuff. 

“It's nothing-” You started, straining over the counter to yank it back, but he was too fast. 

Gojo held it over your head, squinting at the lines you etched into it and tilting his head to the side with faint surprise. 

“These are cute,” he smiled, pointing at the little koi fish at the bottom. 

“You don't have to lie to me,” you frowned back at him, getting just close enough to grab it. You rolled it into a ball, throwing it away in the trash can under the counter. “It's nothing.” 

“I meant it,” he grinned, propping himself up on his elbows and getting on your eye level. “Don't believe me?”

Gojo was full of shit. 

You hadn't known him as long as Sukuna or Jin – but you still knew him well enough to know he liked to flirt and fawn, none of it worth anything when he was like that with everyone. He was more of a mutual friend than just a friend, but boundaries were more like suggestions he preferred to ignore, physical, emotional, every flavor of rule he rejected. 

“Not really,” you muttered, glancing down at both his rather huge hands. All pale and veiny, long fingers that weren't holding anything. “No treat today?” 

“Want something a little sweeter tonight,” he hummed, and you stared blankly at him.

“Like what?” You deadpanned. 

“A date with you.” 

You blinked. But he didn't budge, waiting for an answer. 

“Like, a date date?” It made you feel like a moron to ask, halfway thinking he'd laugh at you even when he brought it up. 

“Duh,” he chuckled. “What time do you get off?” 

“Um, an hour, but-” You started, and since it wasn't a no, he was already smiling like it was a yes. 

“Or we could do dinner tomorrow if it's better, y’know, whatever's good with you is great with-’

“Tomorrow,” you answered, surprising yourself a little bit at how quickly you said it. Gojo was cute, even if he wasn't exactly the type you usually went for – i.e. tattooed men with commitment issues. He probably had a big dick if it was even half the size of his attitude. 

It might not go anywhere, but didn’t you deserve a single night without him on your mind? 

Sukuna could sleep around. 

So why couldn't you? 

Something was fucking wrong with him. 

Sukuna’s life had been oddly quiet lately.

Something was different, missing, maybe– but he hadn't quite figured out what. Just that the world had been duller. The days dragged on longer, nights bleeding into morning in broken fits of sleep. 

He'd never exactly been a man of emotions. Most of them he rejected entirely. But there was a pervading feeling that he could only describe as bad. One that refused to go away no matter how much he tried to drown it in alcohol or nicotine. 

He hated half of his clients. Couldn't stand the bright city lights or boring chatter people constantly tried dragging him into. His old favorite songs sounded more like static and background noise, grating on his nerves when he turned it on to focus on new designs. 

But despising the universe wasn't anything new to Sukuna. 

Loathing his life was typical. 

But this slimy pit in his stomach, balled up too tight to dislodge, stuck there and festering, that was something he wasn't used to. 

It wasn't until he went to Jin’s to talk shit about his latest awful day that he figured out what it was.

Guilt. 

Jin was alone, watching some boring movie on his couch, feet propped up on his coffee table without even sparing him a glance as he went straight to his fridge to find a cold drink. He glared at the healthy foods, fruits and meats neatly organized inside – only a couple sparkling waters in the back. He begrudgingly grabbed one, cracking it open and looking back to the living room just to freeze. 

He stared at the empty spot next to Jin for a few seconds, struggling to conceive why he was looking at the couch like an idiot until it hit him why. 

You weren't there. 

“Where's your friend?” He gruffly asked, bringing the drink to his lips to sip. 

“On a date,” Jin casually said, and he choked. 

Drink dripped down his mouth and onto his shirt, wiping it away with the back of his hand as he cleared his throat. 

“Her?” You? 

It was inconceivable. 

The girl who could barely even look him in the eye half the time? Who stuttered and stammered and could hardly get through a single sentence without getting flustered? 

Honestly, Sukuna figured you were probably a virgin and too shy to admit it. It wasn’t like you weren’t attractive, but you’d always been off-limits. 

Besides, there were always tons of other women out there – why would he stoop so low as to sleep with one of Jin’s friends? 

“With Gojo,” his brother added, tossing a piece of popcorn in his mouth, completely oblivious to the way he froze behind him. 

Did Jin just not give a fucking shit about you? Was he seriously letting you go out with that prick? 

Gojo’s reputation was almost worse than his. 

But just because he took girls on dates before he fucked and fled, he was somehow better. 

At least he didn’t pretend he wanted a relationship just to get someone in the sheets. At least he didn’t lead them on and let them think they were something more. 

“And you just fuckin’-” He clamped his lips shut right as Jin threw a confused look over his shoulder at him. 

“What?” He asked, all confused, like he couldn’t fucking perceive the very apparant problem. 

“That guy’s an asshole,” he protested.

Jin didn’t say it, but the look on his face made it obvious that he thought Sukuna was one too.

“Where’s the date at?” He grumbled, arms folding tight across his chest as he tapped on Jin’s fake wood flooring. 

You weren’t his friend.

So why the fuck was he walking into some upscale restaurant on the nice side of town, fixing the collar of his jacket, ignoring the stares sticking to him. 

“Sir?” A hostess tried talking to him, but he waved her off, already scowling.

“I need a drink,” he dryly said. 

Preferably a strong one. 

He beelined over to the bar, reluctantly ordering a ridiculously expensive whiskey in his best attempt to blend in before scanning the dining room for any sign of you. 

He spotted you almost immediately. Sitting in one of those back booths, probably one Gojo told you would be more private – even though you were really just on display for the rest of the restaurant. 

You dressed up. For him. 

Sukuna didn’t know why it surprised him so much, dumbly staring at the sight of you in a short dress, the kind that clung to your thighs and your chest, too much cleavage showing. Too much skin showing period. Elbows on the table as you leaned in to listen to Gojo ramble on, who was surely too focused on the sound of his own voice to pay attention to how good you looked tonight. 

He shook the thought from his head. Strangled it, actually, tried to twist it into nothing. Glad he didn't have any utensils to gouge his eyes out so he couldn't consider the cute tilt of your head or how glossy your lips looked when you chewed on your bottom one nervously. 

Why the fuck were you here? 

You weren't a moron. You knew better than to buy a guy like Gojo’s bullshit. 

His last conversation with you came back up, floating from the depths of his brain in bits and pieces, his own words echoing. Was it because he commented on your lack of a love life? Asked if you were a prude? 

Did you just go to the biggest manwhore (other than him) that you could find? 

If you wanted to get laid, you could've just asked- 

No, no. That was wrong, Sukuna reminded himself, blinking hard like it would change what he was seeing. You smiled at Gojo, mouth moving as you said something that made him chuckle and lean forward, reaching over the table to grab your hand like you were a couple. His thumb tracing down your knuckles, drawing little shapes on your skin that obviously made you giddy. 

Sukuna wasn't jealous. 

He'd never been jealous before. Over anyone. 

He was, uh, just doing what Jin should've been doing. As your friend. Even if every giggle and grin of yours made him feel physically fucking ill as he watched and waited for the moment to intervene.

It wasn't like he could just let this happen. 

Leg bouncing anxiously until Gojo got up, counting to thirty in his head before he followed him to the bathroom, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure you hadn’t noticed him. But you were glancing down at the table, tracing over the scratches on it, your face soft, almost serene. Pretty. 

He kept walking, picking up the pace to catch up to Gojo, wondering how hard he’d have to deck him to make sure he’d stay down long enough for him to block off the bathroom door to prevent him from leaving. The staff would probably notice after a couple minutes – sooner if someone else tried to use it. 

He didn’t have a real plan, his brain jumping from idea to idea too fast to let him land on one.

If he was less impulsive, more in control of the monster twisting around inside of him, maybe he would have considered having a conversation with Gojo. Threatening, sure, but mature enough to make it clear that you were not a girl he could screw and scram from. 

Instead?

He was scanning the stalls in front of him to make sure no one else would overhear, noting that they opened out instead of in. Only spotting Gojo’s ridiculously shiny loafers, listening to him yap on the phone with one of the other pricks he chose to surround himself with.

“I know, I’ve gotta go, she’s waiting for me,” he was chuckling, his casual confidence already grating down his resolve not to dunk his head in the toilet. He laughed again at whoever was on the other line. “Shut up, you know I’ve been trying to get in her panties for months.”

Anger didn’t suffice. 

Couldn’t cover the heat warping his judgment, boiling into something he couldn’t control at the idea of that white-haired fucker slinking around and searching for a way inside of you. 

His body was moving on autopilot, banging hard on the stall door, fingers clenching into a fist right just in time for Gojo to hang up the phone and yank it open, his annoyingly bright blue eyes narrowing in an appalled squint at him. 

“What the-” 

His punch connected. Busting open his bottom lip, bruising Sukuna’s knuckles too as Gojo’s head snapped to the side. He groaned, stumbling and losing his footing, probably slipping in his own piss from his surely shoddy aim. 

“The hell is your problem, dickhead?” Gojo grunted, pushing off the toilet seat, palm pressing on the stall as he struggled to stand up straight. 

It was easy to push him back down, just another rough punch that he hoped fucking hurt.

But recognition was now glittering across the bloody face beneath him, amusement dancing in his dark stare as Gojo let out a low laugh.

“You’re here for her?” He said it like it was some joke Sukuna wasn’t in on. Or maybe he was just the butt of it. 

“You’re not getting in her panties,” Sukuna repeated in a hateful hiss, more repulsed by the word when it was on his own tongue. “So stay the fuck away from her.” 

“Or what?” Gojo challenged, a plucked brow arched up. “You’ll drown me?” 

His eyes flickered from the white-haired fraud in front of him to the toilet, considering it. 

“Maybe.” 

He saw the second it registered for him that it wasn’t just a threat. Then Sukuna leaned down, grabbing his phone from where it had hit the ground during his first hit. 

“Wait-” 

He tossed his phone in the water instead. 

Sukuna kicked him while he was down, hard enough he heard a rib crack before he stepped back, slamming the stall door shut and looking around at what he had at his disposal. Dragging over a ridiculously heavy trash can from the corner, one of the obnoxiously designed ones that was supposed to be art as if people weren’t just tossing trash in it. He shoved it against the stall while Gojo groaned again inside. 

He’d be able to get out, if he crawled under or climbed over the stall, or summoned the strength to shove it out of the way. But it’d delay him for a while. Enough that Sukuna was able to look back out of the bathroom, getting lucky enough to see one of the staff heading into a supply closet down the hall, marked employees only. 

“You asshole,” Gojo snarled, voice muffled, strained from the pain of a probably broken rib. 

But it was too late. 

He was sneaking out and into the closet once it was empty, snagging an ‘out of order’ sign from a shelf before he put it back up on the bathroom door when no one was looking. 

Sukuna wasn’t really one for fate, didn’t hold any believe in some higher power pulling his strings, but he could admit that it seemed like the universe was colluding with him when he caught the attention of some overworked waitress and casually commenting that they should probably block off the men’s bathroom if there was something wrong with it, pointing to the sign. 

It had taken ten minutes, maybe fifteen, walking back to your table with a smirk twitching up in his lips at the thought of how long it would take Gojo to pull himself off of the floor and figure out how to leave. Especially now that he managed to get someone to move a bunch of those huge ceramic fake-potted plants in front of it to stop it from opening – and no one would hear him requesting help through the thick walls and the bland dining music still loudly thumping through the speakers.

He had won. 

A little voice in the back of his brain said, for now, added addendums to his meager victory. Marked it down with the reminder that you might not be thrilled to see him after you left the last time you were together. 

You were still staring at the table when you came back into view, but your nose was scrunched up, lips pressed together tightly. Aware that it was taking too long for your date to come back, fear starting to seep in that you’d been ditched. 

And then you saw him. 

For half a second, just a brief moment he almost missed, you smiled, relaxing reflectively before you suddenly went stiff again. Forcing a frown and tucking some hair behind your ear self-consciously, defensively.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, all wide-eyed, fiddling with your hands in your lap. Pulling the hem of your dress down like he hadn’t seen how high it’d been earlier. 

“Saw you on a date with that loser,” he muttered, begrudgingly glancing around like he didn’t know where he was. “Did he leave?” 

You swallowed, squirming as you shrugged.

“He said he was going to the bathroom,” you muttered, fishing your phone from your purse to check the time, or maybe send Gojo a message. Sukuna could see the way disappointment snuck up in your face, how it crept into the corners no matter how hard, how desperately you were trying to hide it. 

There was an awkward pause, tense and heavy as he tried to figure out how to say what he wanted to. 

“You wanna get out of here?” He gruffly suggested, pulling his wallet from his pocket and tossing down some cash on the table. Enough to cover your half – even though there was only an appetizer out. 

You hesitated, your eyes finally flickering up to him. 

Your stare was as soft as it had always been, but it was like he was seeing your face for the first time, the air in his lungs sucked out like he’d been knocked flat on his back. 

Reassessing every little line, realizing that you weren’t just pretty, or cute, but beautiful. Lashes fluttering, canines chewing on your bottom lip as you looked back in the direction of the bathroom one last time. 

You’d been there for so long. Lingering in the background and by his side. And he’d been completely goddamn blind.

“I’ll buy you some real food,” he added, nodding towards the barely-touched plate of pretentious-plattered blobs of food with herbs thrown on top. 

“Fine.”

You weren’t that happy in the passenger seat of his car, riding shotgun, knees pointed away from him while you leaned against the cool window. He turned up the heat, the lump in the back of his throat bobbing watching you shiver and curl up inside yourself. 

He couldn’t remember if you’d ever been in his car like this before. A couple years ago, he’d been stuck in the backseat with you in Jin’s sedan, crammed against the window while you were stuck in the middle, but back then, he’d been too distracted arguing with Kaori in the front seat to notice the weight of your thigh against his. 

Now he couldn’t stop himself from wishing he paid more fucking attention. 

Eyes flitting over to your form, throat going dry at the sight of your still-plush thighs so out of his reach. 

“Why him?” He grunted when he pulled up to a stop light, fingers tapping his steering wheel, molars grinding as he stole another glimpse at you. 

You shrugged, just a little raise of your shoulders while you sighed. 

“He said he wanted to go on a date with me,” you murmured, refusing to look back at him. “Guess he changed his mind.” 

“He’s a moron,” Sukuna half-snarled, cringing when he realized how it came out.

A flash of hurt crossed your face, as he felt the fear of fumbling this chance with you rear back up. 

“For changing his mind,” he clarified, omitting the tiny detail that you’d be back on your date discussing Gojo’s salary or how big his cock was if he hadn’t intervened. “Not for-” 

“Don’t,” you mumbled. Stopping him before he could say what he meant.

“Look, I’ve been a dick,” he started, discomfort churning in his stomach having to apologize for anything in his life. 

“When aren’t you?” You muttered under your breath, swallowing hard as you continued to avoid looking straight at him. Just scanning over the road, glancing out the window or down at the floorboards, anywhere that wasn’t him.

He let out a disappointed huff, brow twitching. 

“The last time we talked, I was a fucking asshole,” he added, gravelly and gruff, even when he was trying to sound sincere. “You didn’t deserve that shit.” 

You turned to face him fully, but the light turned green, and he couldn’t see what face you were making as his foot shifted back to the gas pedal. He could make out your mouth starting to open in the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to continue. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You made a small noise that sounded like a squeak – and he was pretty sure his heart stopped. Something small but fierce sprouting in the deepest crevices of his chest, all his organs constricting as he struggled not to react with a noise of his own. 

“You’re sorry?” You repeated, as if an apology was totally absurd. 

“Yeah,” he soberly said, knuckles tightening across the steering wheel, barely able to keep his eyes on the road instead of studying your reaction. 

“For what?” You asked, and it felt like a test. 

One he was embarrassingly desperate to ace. 

All of it? 

Dismissing you and distancing himself the same way he always did? Convincing himself that all you would ever be was Jin’s friend? 

“For not seeing you,” he said under his breath, the answer landing in the air. 

You hesitated, pausing before you nodded. 

He didn't know if he got it right. 

But you relaxed over his version of dinner. Trading in your fancy appetizer for fast food, intently watching you dip your fries in sauce as you listened to him grumble about how shitty everything had been lately, begrudgingly admitting that he missed you coming around to his shop. 

You casually shrugged, as if you didn't miss him back. 

“Been busy,” you hummed, and he hated how the little curl of your lips after you said it made his stupid heart stall. 

Somehow though, you were still free tonight.

Enough that by your fourth or fifth yawn, he talked you back into watching a movie at his place. 

Jin would probably kill him if he knew. But then again, he hadn't stopped you from seeing Gojo. So how much could he actually care?

It wasn't like he was fucking you. 

Even if he was beginning to consider just how much he'd like to. 

But it felt almost more intimate for you to be this close, your thigh not quite touching his, knees curled up against your chest while you shared a blanket with him. Grabbing popcorn from the bowl on his lap and cracking jokes he might've called lame a few months ago before rolling your eyes at whatever was happening on screen. 

“This movie kinda sucks,” you whispered to him, as if you were in a theater instead of his apartment.

Speaking to him like a friend, giggling a little as one of your buttered fingers reached up to poke the crease between his brows. 

Were you always this fun? 

This pretty when your the shadows from the tv flickered across your face? Did your eyes usually glimmer like that, looking up at him like he was some kind of knight instead of just another dickhead? 

“Want me to change it?” He grumbled, already about to grab the remote before you shook your head. 

“I still want to see how it ends,” you half-whispered, and the softness to your voice did something treacherous to the pit of his stomach. Ripped open a gash, pried him apart until all he could think of was how hollow he felt. Hyper aware of a missing piece he was pretty sure was right in front of him. 

He wanted to see how this would end too. 

If you were another girl, he would've made a move. Slipped a hand underneath the blanket and ran it over your thigh, leaned in to trail hungry kisses down your throat. A means to an end – all to get his dick wet. 

But he wrapped his arm around your shoulders instead, pretended he didn't see the suspicious little glance you tossed his way. Satisfied himself just with the fact you didn't shove him away. 

You didn't get to see the end of the movie after all. Lulled to sleep with the pressure of his arm or the quiet comfort of the dim lights and low volume. Head tilted to the side at an uncomfortable angle as you dozed off and dreamed about – well, he didn't know what, but he hoped it was about him.

He waited until the credits were rolling to creep off the couch, readjusting you until you were resting on one of his pillows instead, pulling up the blanket so you were covered. 

Sukuna paused, just staring for a moment before he picked you up, cradling you against his chest and carrying you back to his bedroom where you'd be more comfortable. 

You didn't wake up. Not even when he walked over to where you left your stuff by his kitchen counter. Or when Sukuna slipped your phone out from your purse, coming back to unlock it with your thumb while you were still passed out. Scrolling through your recent slew of texts to find where Gojo was basically throwing himself at you and clicking on his contact. There was a message from an unknown number too, a huge paragraph that Sukuna didn't need to read to know was from him too, pointing fingers and directing the blame for tonight right his way. 

Blocking Gojo was easy.

Getting him to stay away from you? 

Well, it wasn’t that much harder. 

You softened up around him the next morning when you woke up and realized he'd taken the couch, nudging him awake to thank him before ditching like a one-night-stand would. But you were smiling again when you saw him, saying yes when he offered to pick you up and drop you off at work. Beaming when he admitted your drawings were never actually bad and asked to see them again. Letting him occupy your free time by slyly suggesting you come to his shop or his place for extra lessons and tips, a new weekly occurrence he caught himself thinking of as dates as one month bled into the next. 

It wasn't like Gojo could slip back in your life if you were too busy. 

And he couldn't visit you at work when Sukuna had made sure your family was aware of your, ah, stalker, and suggested they get a guard – claiming it would deter shoplifters too. 

If you were suspicious, you didn’t say anything. 

“So what, are you like, in love with her or-” Jin stopped himself mid-scoff, staring at Sukuna from across the counter, propping himself up on his elbows as he blankly stared at his brother. “You are.” 

“No, I’m not,” he grumbled, counting the cash left in his register as the sun set behind the trees outside. You had said so yourself. Called him a good friend for showing you proper shading on your last piece, before tucking a sketchbook underneath your arm and disappearing through his door to go back to your place. 

Despite his best efforts, you were still keeping him at arm’s length. 

And through all his attempts at shutting down his own feelings, they only seemed to burn brighter, the flames fanned by the realization you were more than he had ever given you credit for. Far more than he fucking deserved. 

Your awkwardness had become endearing. You were attentive and attractive and it was awful how many other things had only now started to register and rob him of his breath when you were around. 

“Don’t even think about making a move on-” 

The bell on the door chimed, and you were stepping through before Jin could say your name. 

Your eyes landed on Sukuna, soft and sparkling, a lit match thrown inside his chest as your mouth curled up in a pretty smile. His brother knew him better than he knew himself. 

Sukuna was falling for you fast. And he wasn’t sure he could catch himself anymore. 

“If you guys have plans, I can-”

He didn’t let you finish.

“Jin was just leaving,” Sukuna grunted, glaring at his brother like he’d toss him out if he didn’t go soon.  

You didn’t really get it. Couldn’t fully comprehend his sudden shift into being a semi-decent guy. You kept waiting for him to go back to normal, to push you back into the sidelines where you always belonged.

But he didn’t.

Week after week, he just seemed to worm his way deeper into your life, trying to occupy as much of it as he could. What? Did he have some weird change-of-heart and decide he didn’t want to be a dick?

Or were all those lingering touches and drawn-out stares just a figment of your imagination?

You glanced up at him again, mouth twitching into a smile you couldn’t help when you caught him already zeroed in on your face. 

Jin let out a low exhale, but you didn't even turn. 

“Don't make me an uncle,” he muttered, quiet enough you almost didn't hear him on his way out. Once it registered though, your nose scrunched up, now fully twisting towards him, ears perked like you were expecting Sukuna to scoff and say how ridiculous that was. 

“Get out,” he grumbled. 

You watched both of them, unsure eyes flickering back and forth until Jin left through the frosted glass doors. 

Sukuna sighed, shutting the cash register a little too hard, his cheeks almost tinted pink under the warm lights, aware you were studying him and still not offering some snarky retort back. 

“Surprised you didn't throw something at him,” you commented. This was it. 

The moment he'd make it clear how he saw you and remind you of where you were meant to be in this weird relationship.

Except – he shrugged. 

As if Jin wasn't in the wrong for suggesting there was something going on between the two of you. 

“Are you really surprised?” He muttered, and you could only blink. 

Holding your breath so he didn't catch how instinctively it hitched, frozen in place as your fingers fidgeted around your sketchbook. 

And then Sukuna stepped closer, cocking his head to the side as he assessed your stunned expression. 

“I like you,” he abruptly admitted, like he had to drag it from the depths of his stomach. Begrudgingly chewing over his next works as he walked right up to you, stopping just shy of touching before he plucked the book from your hands. “A lot.”

You waited for him to rip the rug out from under your feet and reveal that he didn’t actually mean any of it. 

“Sukuna,” you started, swallowing hard like it would make it any easier to choke down. 

How long had you been dying for him to say something like that? Dreaming of this moment right here? 

And the best you could offer was his name? 

“You don't believe me,” he accused, and all you could think of was being back at the bar, when those words came from your own lips. 

He had said it wasn't his business then. 

But what had made him decide you were now? 

Was it just the idea of you slipping away? Becoming someone else’s? Faced with the fact you weren't who he thought you were when he saw you on that dumb date? 

“Should I?” You asked. 

“What can I do to prove it to you?” He frowned, thick brows scrunched together. 

“I don't know,” you honestly answered. 

And you didn't really expect him to try to find an answer for you. 

It started small. Sort of. Awkward compliments he grumbled under his breath. Soda cans and snacks waiting for you when you came over. His fingers skimming over your skin, always standing a little too close. 

But after a couple weeks of you squinting at him, convinced he was still just trying to have sex with you, something changed. 

You just weren't sure which one of you cracked first. 

Perched prettily on the stool behind his counter, drawing on spare paper as he cleaned up from his last client of the day, pretending you couldn't feel him staring. 

“Hey,” he grunted, grabbing your attention easily as you glanced back at him. 

“Hm?” You tilted your head, fingers pausing on the pen. 

“You want a tattoo?” 

He was a bad influence. You'd always known that. But his dark eyes dragged you right down to his level. 

You couldn't believe you said yes. 

Or that you agreed to a goddamn tramp stamp. 

You readjusted, turning your head to the side, cheek squished against the cool leather as he tugged your shorts down. 

Shivering as you tried to keep yourself from reacting, painfully aware of everything that he was doing.

Every step felt excruciatingly slow, each drag of his gloved fingers over the small of your spine as he cleaned and prepped it. 

“Scared?” He grumbled, and you barely nodded. 

“Kinda,” you breathlessly admitted. 

“You change your mind?” He asked, and if you were smarter, maybe you would've told him to stop. 

Instead, you shook your head no. 

“Keep going.”

What was a better work of art? 

You, face-down and shivering on his chair? Or the fresh ink on the base of your spine, permanently marking you as his? 

The design was his, one you picked and approved, his initials worked into the fine lines. 

R.S. 

Maybe he should've pointed it out, but then again – you spent ten minutes reviewing the mock up and said you loved it.

And besides, he could always get your name on him too. Ask you to draw something just for him, sign it all pretty.

Make it even. 

“You wanna take a look?” He softly asked, jaw locked as he tried to permanently imprint the image of you like this in his head. 

“You can take a picture and show me,” you hummed, a cute little whine to your voice that made him unfortunately hard. 

Sukuna was still working on his listening skills, pulling his phone from his pocket and obediently snapping a few, ah, artistic photos. Ones that included your pretty ass and how your panties were pulled low on them so he had the space to work on your tattoo. 

It would be easier to walk around and show you, but instead he leaned forward, let his chest touch the top of your back as he held his phone in front of your face. 

“Pretty,” you softly said, pleased. 

“You're prettier,” he automatically replied, cringing when he remembered he was putting down his own work by accident. 

But you just giggled, trying to crane your neck back to look at him. 

“You did so good for me, gorgeous,” he murmured before you could mock him, purposely letting his mouth graze against your neck as you shivered. Shoulders scrunching up as you reflexively glanced up at you. 

God, he wanted to fuck you right here.  

And the way you were looking at him right now? 

He'd wager you would let him. 

“Do I have to pay for it?” You whispered, and he grunted. 

“I don't want your money,” he scoffed. 

He wanted something else. 

And after so fucking long, he was finally about to have it.

Sukuna hooked two fingers in the band of your panties, tugging them down hard and letting them get caught around your knees. Pausing, waiting for you to tell him to stop just to be met with silence as he readjusted, moved to where he'd have better access. 

Dragging his gloved hands up your thighs, spreading them apart and looking at how prettily you glistened for him. Soaked just from being in his seat.

He slowly took his gloves off, needing to feel you for real, skin on skin, truly touching instead of just skirting around it. Tracing over your ass, tender this time, taking his time to slip inside. 

Your warmth was a fucking wonderland. 

How many nights lately had he spent stroking it to the idea of this?

Hearing you moan was the closest he'd get to heaven, the sound reverberating inside of him as he added another digit, slowly shoving them in deeper, scissoring you open as your slick dripped down into the leather. 

“Gotta stretch you out,” he hissed, throat constricting when you clenched down around him. “Make sure it'll fit.” 

“Y-you're so cocky,” you whined, your lip forming a cute little ‘o’ as your cheek smushed against the seat. Moving in time with the thrusts of his fingers, wiggling down to meet his knuckles. 

“Gonna show you why,” Sukuna promised, just to feel the way you shifted and squirmed underneath him. 

It was addicting. You were. 

All your reactions, all those pretty faces you would make, everything about you left him craving more, more, more. 

His cock was leaking, aching pathetically where it was constrained in his boxers. Pre-cum dribbling out and making him aware of the dampness as he reluctantly pulled out to tug the zipper of his jeans down next, his dick springing up the second it was freed. 

Your eyes went wide, glancing back at him with an expression that made his cock twitch. Veins pulsing Z he tried to contain his impulse just to shove it all the way in. 

“I'll be careful,” he grunted, and you just nodded. 

You trusted him. 

And the thought of that made that little invisible string inside him snap. 

Careful. 

He repeated the word in his head, leaned against it like a crutch he could actually rely on. Shoving your shirt up higher, knowing he should probably fish a condom from his wallet for this, but unable to do anything except stare. 

“I thought you liked me,” you murmured, hips shifting like you were trying to snare him even more. 

“I do,” he breathed. 

“Then show me.” 

He was seeing fucking stars the second his cock was inside you. Eyes rolling back as inch by inch of his girth sunk into your heat, how you fit even better than his gloves did, snug and tight as he drove in deeper. Groaning your name, grabbing your hair, trying to tether himself to your body. 

His sanity tied to the sounds you were making, those cute whimpers as he rammed his hips down into your ass, careful not to press down on your new tattoo. 

“My pretty girl,” he claimed, gritty possession in his voice he no longer cared if you picked up on. So what if you did? You were his now. Not a fling or a fuck. Forever. “You're so goddamn perfect.”

“S-shut up,” you hissed back, nails digging into the chair as your grip on your own rationality slipped. 

You didn't need reason anymore. 

You had him. 

“You like me,” he accused, cock throbbing inside you when you whined at his tip kissing your cervix. 

“I-I-” You stuttered, so painfully pretty here. Sweat collecting on your brow, broken breathing loud in the quiet space, only the background music of his playlist joining it. 

“You do,” Sukuna huffed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade. 

Maybe he'd leave another tattoo there some day. His teeth marks? Some other subtle sign to mark you as his? 

 “M-maybe,” you half-whispered. 

And that was enough for him. 

Fucking into you harder, the chair beneath both of you creaking and protesting at the combined weight, his muscles straining as his thick cock continued to stretch you thin around him. His free hand slipped around your front, your body squirming at his touch, shuddering so sweetly. Rubbing drawn-out circles over your clit, massaging it with dedicated pressure, paying attention to how you liked it and adjusting properly. 

Sukuna wanted to drag his tongue over your throat, taste your sweat and tears as you whimpered his name. 

But he'd settle for feeling you twitch when you came, how your thighs trembled and shook, his hips rutting down as warm ropes of his cum spilled out into you. 

You'd be dripping by the time he pulled out, but he kept you plugged full of his cum even when you were both finished, relief still some far-fetched dream when his body was burning so hot for you. 

“Did you-” You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering as you looked back at him.

“I can buy you plan B,” he exhaled, still not pulling out – halfway hoping his seed would take anyway. 

“Okay,” you sighed too, shutting your eyes as your face relaxed. Just accepting it. Letting him hold you like this the same way you let him leave his mark on your skin. 

“We can shower at my place,” he muttered. “Still have to cover up your new tattoo.” 

“Oh,” you yawned, like the sex had made you sleepy. Content. “Okay.”

You blinked though, eyes slowly opening back up as you looked back at him one more time. 

“You're acting like you're my boyfriend,” you commented. 

“Because I am now,” he huffed. 

One of your brows arched up, lips pressing together. But you didn't say no. Didn't turn him down. 

Your hips shifted, and he saw the pearly-white cum starting to seep out from where his cock was slotted between your folds, connecting him to you. 

It was probably wrong to hope you'd get pregnant. 

But really, all he wanted was to take care of you now. And that couldn't be wrong. 

Could it? 

The mission itself had been simple enough – get in, retrieve the protocore, get out and exterminate a few wanderers while you were at it. Although in hindsight, perhaps it had been too simple. 

The protocore had been stashed away in a heavily sealed safe, and yet you’d managed to crack the code without too much effort. Entirely too convenient, you think, muttering a curse under your breath as you glance at the protocore held tightly in your hand.

It was real, there was no doubt about that, and valuable. Your brows furrow when you turn the protocore in your fingers, the magnitude of energy contained inside making your skin tingle. When your Evol flares, the protocore glows, a sharp sound of pain escaping you when its energy prickles across your skin – this time far more intensely.

No wonder the Hunters Association ordered an immediate retrieval. The stupid thing was powerful. 

There’s not enough time to direct further insults towards the protocore, your focus instead directed back to the task of sucking in lungfuls of air to try and dampen the churning in your stomach. It hardly helps, your tongue feeling heavy as you retch unceremoniously, staggering again.

But this was hardly the time to be complacent. It had been an ambush, bullets whizzing past the moment you had touched the protocore, one embedding itself deep into the side of your stomach, another grazing your leg, each one drawing blood. 

Your phone and watch had become unresponsive, blinking glaringly red with signal errors, and your guns had gotten jammed along the way, leaving you injured and effectively, defenseless. 

And now, as pathetic as it was, you were running. 

The sprawling expanse of the base wasn’t exactly helping, the main building you’d infiltrated surrounded by several smaller ones, forming a perimeter, closed off by a thicket of shrubbery and overgrown trees.

Getting out the way you came in wouldn’t work, not when they had so obviously anticipated your arrival. The south end of the base seemed safer, and you’d chosen to go that way without much deliberation. 

The voices searching for you grow louder, jolting you out of your attempt to recuperate, feet beginning to drag pitifully once more as you teeter towards a hopeful escape. It’s exhausting, every little movement sending sparks of sharp pain through your body, teeth sinking into your fist to muffle a scream when you move too quickly.

Your vision swims.

“Fuck,” you murmur under your breath, fingers trembling as you try and press your watch in one last ditch effort.

It’s unresponsive. 

Not a big deal, you think as your knees buckle, giving out under you. Not a big deal, you repeat to yourself, crawling forward on all fours like some sort of desperate animal on the brink of death, foliage and dirt clinging to your hands and knees, dirtying your clothes.

As if you were going to die out here. The fence was right there, visible to you now, lining the perimeter of the base. You crawl towards what you hope is a blind-spot, hidden behind a stack of crates, curling up against the wall. 

It’s a momentary reprieve. When something sparks across the fence, you frown. Feeling around you, your fingers enclose around a rock, flinging it at the fence. Electricity snaps across the length of the fence, sparking brightly for a brief moment. You blink down at the rock, half of it gone, instead reduced to ash. A disbelieving laugh leaves you. 

You were going to die out here. 

A sharp, sudden pain rips up the side of your body, a ragged gasp interrupting your laugh, body curling into itself. When you press your hand against your side, it comes back wet with fresh blood, crimson and sticky, the blurry sight of your own blood enough to make you feel even weaker than you already were. 

You were going to miss Linkon, you think belatedly, too tired to try and staunch the heavy bleeding. You don’t bother listening for footsteps anymore either. It would be a small mercy to not be shot to death. How morbid.

Still, you can’t be bothered to fret over the intricacies of death. Sleep, your mind coaxes, and you find yourself giving in without further thought. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders, previously taut muscles beginning to loosen. Head tipping back against the wall, you let your eyes slip shut. 

But the soothing silence doesn’t seem to last for long, an ill-timed caw sounding in the distance. 

Your head turns sluggishly, a wince escaping you as pain shoots up your side, tears prickling at your eyes. Through your bleary vision, you manage to spot a crow perched on the fence, its feathers slightly ruffled. 

Forget being shot, you were going to be pecked to death by a crow. Great.

You flinch when it swoops down towards you, eyes squeezing shut, ready to feel the piercing peck that would tear apart your flesh. Only the crow does nothing of the sort. You wait a few more minutes, eyes peeling open slowly, to find the crow’s startlingly crimson eyes trained on you.

“Oh,” you breathe out in realization, “it’s you. Hello, Mephie.”

Mephisto lets out a soft clicking sound, his little head tilting to watch you. You give the crow what you hope is a convincing enough smile, although you’re almost sure it looks more like a grimace. 

“Is he watching?” you ask him, managing to lift your hand just enough to stroke a bloody finger over his velvety feathers. A sigh escapes you when Mephisto nuzzles into your hand, his dark feathers now glistening with a tinge of red. “I suppose he is, if you found me.”

You smile hazily when Mephisto flutters up to perch on your shoulder, head tilting away when his beak taps against your cheek as though he were trying to keep you awake. 

“You’re being quite persistent,” you sigh, brows furrowing when he pecks your cheek a little harder, then nuzzles his feathery little head against you. “Ouch. That hurt, Mephie.”

Mephisto caws indignantly, his feathers ruffling as his wings flutter for a moment before he settles down, beak pressing into your cheek again.

“I’m bleeding out to death,” you say, a frown pulling at your lips. “Mephie, you ought to let me go peacefully.” When Mephisto tilts his head, you think he might be rolling his eyes if he could. “I am not being dramatic!” you protest, watching as he flutters to perch on your thigh, his bright eyes blinking at you boredly. 

“You are.”

You flinch when someone emerges through a swirl of red mist, their tall stature casting a shadow upon you. Mephisto trills, and your eyes meet the crimson stare of a man that you’ve become all too familiar with.

“Sylus,” you greet, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity, despite sagging like a deflated balloon. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

He hums, his sharp gaze assessing your injured form, crouching down before long to stop you from craning your neck. 

“You’re not going to die,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers prying your hand away from your side, lifting your shirt to see your wound. His jaw clenches when he sees the blood smeared across your skin, his fingers tracing across the edges of the wound. 

Your face twists in anguish when he presses his fingers against you a little more firmly, his cool touch doing little to dissipate the heat festering inside of you, a feverish sensation crawling its way across your skin.

“Fine,” you breathe out unconvincingly, peering up into his eyes. “I’m fine, Sylus.”

“Learn your limits, sweetie,” he replies curtly, wiping his blood-stained fingers against his trousers. “This was a foolish endeavour, even for you.”

“Is the leader of Onychinus really lecturing me?” you ask drily, a wave of exhaustion rushing over you, shoulders slumping further. 

You sigh heavily when Sylus doesn’t respond, eyes slipping shut when he reaches out again, his fingers drifting across your face with such tenderness that it leaves an odd feeling in your chest – warm and mellow – and for the first time today, you feel… safe.

His voice softens when he speaks again.

“Who did this to you?”

Sylus clicks his tongue when you slur out an unintelligible response, his fingers sliding over your skin to cup your jaw more firmly.

“Quickly now,” he murmurs, voice laced with soft urgency, his thumb stroking away a stray droplet of blood on your cheek. “Who did this to you?”

You can’t help but think he sounds worried. There’s a furrow in his brow, lips down-turned, crimson eyes holding a depth of emotion that you’re unused to. Even like this, Sylus looks impossibly handsome, the light softening his snowy hair, casting shadows across his face that seem to make his eyes appear brighter. 

“Pretty,” you mumble, leaning into his hand tiredly, enraptured by his eyes.

Sylus’ expression hardens. “Answer my question,” he says roughly, tipping your head up when your eyes begin to droop shut again. “And stay awake.”

You pout, head tilting into the soothing stroke of his thumb against your cheek. “I didn’t see,” you breathe out airily, “I only came here to retrieve a protocore.”

“By yourself?” Sylus murmurs, his eyes narrowing, “I thought the Hunters Association was meant to care for its Hunters, not leave them out to die.” 

“I insisted,” you grumble, trying to lean into his hand further, nuzzling against its warmth like a cat demanding attention. “Besides…” you trail off, letting out another heavy, exhausted sigh, eyes fluttering shut completely, “I was handling it.”

“Handling it,” Sylus echoes, sounding entirely unconvinced. “I suppose if you consider bleeding out to death as handling it, you’ve done a fine job.” 

The thinly concealed jab in his response has you grumbling disgruntledly, a frown settling on your face. There’s a finger tapping against your cheek, much more firmly now, and you peel your eyes open with great effort, blinking to try and clear your vision. It doesn’t help much, little spots appearing and refusing to dissipate when you try and focus, swirls of darkness beginning to cloud your vision.

A harsh noise leaves Sylus, akin to a frustrated sigh, his fingers brushing away the hair that stubbornly clings to your sweat-slicked skin. 

“Get her out of here.”

The hand on your cheek is pulling away and you whine, lurching forward in the absence of the soothing touch. There’s a pair of hands sliding underneath you, taking care not to jostle you too much when you wince softly, face scrunching at the flare of pain. 

“Sylus?” you murmur. 

“Nope! Sorry to disappoint. The boss-man’s gone to uh– take care of things.”

The voice that answers you is slightly deeper. Kieran, you realize, in your injured haze. Someone else speaks – Luke, probably – but the voice sounds so far away that you don’t bother concentrating, head lolling against Kieran’s chest. 

A sudden rush of wind ruffles your hair, a familiar mist of red beginning to curl around you. You ignore the sharp sting of pain and Kieran’s protest as you squirm in his arms, hands landing on his shoulders as you shift to look over his shoulder.

Through your blurry vision you can see Mephisto swooping down, settling down on Sylus’ shoulder. You’re opening your mouth to call out towards him – to warn him, to say something to deter him – but Sylus’ head is already turning, his gaze meeting yours briefly. Even the darkness clouding your vision can’t dim his probing stare, the red in his irises growing in intensity – enough to have you feeling unnerved. 

He stares at you for a moment longer, his expression dark, before he turns away. The air around you shifts when he flicks his fingers back, Kieran’s arms adjusting to keep you secured in place against him. The sensation is strange, as though you’re gently being split apart between two places, time and space bending to the unshakeable will of Sylus’ Evol. 

Kieran’s voice is muffled when he speaks again, and you glance back over his shoulder once more, the base now engulfed by an ominous fog of black and red. Sylus disappears into the thick of it. 

You don’t hear the screams that follow.

-

“You’re awake!”

You groan when you hear Luke’s voice piercing through the fading haze of sleep, sitting up groggily. Nothing hurts, you think sleepily, as you take in your surroundings, finding yourself in Sylus’ room, although the leader of Onychinus is nowhere to be seen.

“Glad you’re awake,” Kieran adds, “we were starting to worry you wouldn’t wake up.”

Your brows furrow as you digest his words, staring at him confusedly.

“What do you mean?” you ask, rubbing at your eyes, “it’s only been a day, hasn’t it?”

“Uh– no,” Luke says slowly, staring at you, concerned flitting over his expression. He shows you his phone. “You were out for nearly a week.”

You stare at him blankly, mouth opening and shutting like a gaping fish until you manage to find the words to articulate yourself properly. “What?” you sputter, kicking the blankets heaped over you in a flurry, stumbling to your feet. “A week? I’ve been in the N109 Zone for a week?”

“Hey, hey–” Kieran is blocking your path before you can dart out of Sylus’ bedroom, shooting you an apologetic look. “Sorry, boss’ orders.”

“I have work!” you protest, gaze darting between the twins frantically, “and not to mention, people are probably wondering where I am!”

“Boss took care of it,” Luke offers, before he gestures towards you, “and… all of your injuries.”

Your movements pause at his words, Kieran letting out a sigh of relief when you stop trying to shove past him. “What do you mean?” you begin, staring down at yourself until it becomes disturbingly clear that nothing hurts and that you’d just practically jumped out of bed with such renewed vigour that only a person bereft of injury could match.

Not your shirt, your mind supplies belatedly, the fabric hanging over your body loosely. The thought of wearing Sylus’ clothes alarms you slightly, although your fingers are working agitatedly before you can dwell on it any longer, yanking up the hem to find that the wound marring the side of your stomach has all but completely healed. A scar lingers, its edges jagged.

You lift your leg, twisting it to find that the wound from earlier no longer exists, rather replaced by another scar, streaking across the side of your leg.

“Well, shit,” you breathe out, rubbing your fingers across your skin.

“He wasn’t happy, you know,” Luke announces, sprawling out on the lounge, his head tipping back over the armrest. 

“I don’t know why anyone would be happy about someone else bleeding out to death, Luke,” you reply pointedly, moving to sit on the edge of Sylus’ bed.

“Boss enjoys it,” Luke muses, waving his hand about, “especially when it’s someone that steps out of line. But with you…” he trails off, his gaze drifting towards Kieran.

“You’re not just anyone,” Kieran finishes, shrugging. “He killed everyone there.”

You stiffen at Kieran’s words, stomach churning uncomfortably. It’s a startling reminder that Sylus is exactly as dangerous as he’s described in the countless reports you’d read before stepping foot into the N109 Zone. You don’t know why you’re so taken aback by the news though, fingers beginning to play with each other as you think of the sinister mist that had surrounded the base on that day.

If the twins see the pensive and conflicted expression on your face, they don’t say anything. Instead, Kieran quietly pushes a tray of food towards you, the silence in the room broken by Mephisto’s arrival. You feed him a small piece of sausage, smiling when he pecks at your fingers gently.

“Where is Sylus?” you ask once you’ve taken a sip of juice, brows furrowing. “If he was so worried, shouldn’t he be here at least?”

“He was,” Luke replies, “while you were asleep. Even Mephisto got in trouble for getting too close to you.”

Mephisto lets out an irritated caw, his feathers puffing up indignantly until Kieran manages to coax the offended crow towards him.

“After that base was destroyed, now everyone in the N109 Zone wants to meet him,” Kieran explains, “they have their own motives obviously, but losing Sylus’ favor would affect business for most of them.”

You hum absentmindedly, picking at a piece of fruit. “So in other words,” you begin, “this whole thing is technically my fault?”

“Yeah!” Luke supplies energetically, no doubt grinning under his mask.

“Boss hasn’t eaten either,” Kieran murmurs under his breath, his fingers petting across Mephisto’s head idly, while Luke twirls a knife between his fingers absentmindedly. “I’ve never seen him so… out of sorts.”

“Not to mention his punching bag,” Luke pipes up, his head tilting animatedly. “It’s in tatters. He nearly wiped out an entire faction the other day.”

“Another one?” you ask exasperatedly, pushing the tray aside and rubbing your aching temples. “Don’t you think he’s going too far? Sylus is far too calculated to just lash out!”

“Not when it comes to you,” the twins say in unison.

You stare at them blankly, shaking your head. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

“Why not, sweetie?”

Your head snaps over to the now opened doors, heart jolting in your chest when you see Sylus standing there, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze dipping over you lazily. Luke scrambles off of the lounge hastily, nearly tripping over his own feet if not for Kieran catching ahold of his shoulder and pulling him up.

“Get out,” Sylus says, his head jerking, “and that includes you, Mephisto.”

Mephisto’s feathers begin to puff up again, and a sense of panic takes a hold of you. “They– they can stay!” you sputter, “Right? Luke, Kieran, stay please.”

The twins stare at you, unsure, their heads turning to meet Sylus’ unwavering gaze. For a moment, you think he might let them, but there’s mist swirling around them and the twins along with Mephisto disappear in a blink.

You swallow nervously when the doors shut, squirming back on the bed when Sylus steps towards you.

“Are you afraid of me?” he drawls, his eyes glinting darkly.

“What?” you retort, “no– no, I’m not scared. I’m simply… exercising caution.”

That draws a laugh out of Sylus, low and deep, and for some strange reason it makes you feel warm, the sound wrapping around you like a long-lost embrace. You clear your throat, curling up under the blankets when he draws closer, peeking out at him as he sits on the edge of his bed.

“I heard you were worried about me,” you murmur, cheek squishing against the pillows. “Really, really worried.”

“Is that what they told you?” Sylus muses, pulling the blankets away from you, “the twins share information far too easily.”

Your eyes widen when he’s reaching for you, a soft gasp escaping you when he grabs a hold of your leg – the one that had been injured – his fingers running over the scar. His fingers are warm, the soft, stroking motions doing little to dampen the heat beginning to fester inside of you. It only gets worse when he draws closer, his fingers pushing at the shirt, rucking it up.

“You– you ought to ask,” you protest, trying to wiggle away but Sylus’ hand is curling over the curve of your waist, examining the scar there too.

“You are in my debt, sweetie,” Sylus replies breezily, his brows furrowing as he checks the now healed wound. “Or did you forget the fact that I saved your life?”

“Debt?” you echo, swatting his hand away and pulling your shirt down, “I didn’t ask for you to save my life, Sylus. You made that choice, all on your own.”

Sylus’ eyes narrow, his hands landing on either side of your head as he stares down at you. “Are you implying that I should have let you die?”

“I didn’t say that!” you say exasperatedly, throwing an arm over your face to cover the heat that was flooding your cheeks with how close he was. He smelled so nice, so inviting, and part of you wanted nothing more than to curl up beside him and bury your face into the crook of his neck.

You peer up at him, concern flooding through you when you finally see just how exhausted Sylus is. His eyes seem duller, missing the brightness that you had gotten accustomed to, his expression looking slightly sunken.

“Kieran told me you weren’t eating,” you announce, voice accusatory, “and I’m awake now, so,” you sit up, pushing at his chest before reaching for your half-eaten tray of breakfast, “eat, Sylus.”

He lets out a heavy sigh, but does as you say, finishing the rest of your breakfast. You stare at him quietly, lips pursing, fingers itching to reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes.

“Thank you,” you say finally, voice soft. “For– for taking care of me.”

Sylus smiles lazily, flicking your forehead. “I’m not so cruel to have left you there,” he says, smiling wider when you glare at him. “Not to mention, you said my eyes were pretty.” He leans in closer, voice lowering, “I’m flattered, sweetie.”

You huff out a breath, rolling your eyes. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late,” he replies drily, bed dipping when he leans back to rest on his hands.

It doesn’t help that the motion pulls his shirt tighter around his chest, your throat drying when the fabric practically melds to his body. You bite back an indecent noise when you see the outline of his muscled abdomen. What was wrong with you? Here you were sitting with the most dangerous man within the N109 Zone, feeling like some stupid fool with a crush.

Crush? 

You wince as the term pops into your mind, pinching your wrist to vanquish the thought from your mind. You needed to get out of here.

“O– okay,” you breathe out, hands clasping together once you manage to tear your gaze away. “I’m going to go now, you know, back to Linkon. Everyone’s probably missing me and– and I have work so–” you wave your hands nonsensically, tongue feeling embarrassingly loose. 

“So soon?” Sylus murmurs, his fingers curling around your wrist when you begin to stand up. “You didn’t happen to forget that you were in my debt, did you?”

Of course, the asshole was going to hold it over your head – and here you thought Sylus was showing genuine concern.

“What do you want?” you ask stiffly, a frown pulling at your lips.

“Don’t look so sullen,” he muses, thumb soothing over the spot where you had pinched yourself. “The twins had no qualms telling you that you weren’t just anyone to me. Surely you’ve understood that by now, sweetie?”

Your breath hitches at his words, fingers twitching. You’re unsure of what he’s playing at and what he could possibly want from you, apart from the Aether Core embedded in your heart. 

“Because of the Aether Core,” you say finally, “that’s why I’m so important to you, isn’t it? You need it, and by extension, me.”

Sylus’ expression hardens, his jaw clenching. For a moment, you think he might snap at you, spying the undercurrent of irritation festering in his eyes, but all he does is let go of your wrist.

“Do you truly think so little of me, sweetie?” Sylus asks, voice sharp, “I thought I had shown you what you meant to me.”

“And what is that?” you retort, feeling off-kilter. “What exactly do I mean to you?”

“You know the answer to that,” he says, his eyes narrowing, “even if you do seem content with making me the villain.”

A sharp scoff leaves you, annoyance growing at his blatant deflection of the question. “Villain? We aren’t in some fairytale, Sylus. You were going to force me into resonating with you.”

“For good reason,” Sylus snaps, his voice harsh, “if only you knew–”

“Knew what?” you interrupt, chest rising and falling rapidly. “If only I knew what?”

“Nothing,” he grits out, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s nothing. And as for what I want,” Sylus fixes you with a stern glare, “Your company, every week. No excuses.”

So he was hiding something from you. Part of you is scared to find out, anxiety beginning to sink its claws into you, stomach feeling queasy. Either way, his request leaves you vexed, fingers tapping against your arm agitatedly.

But in the end, you agree.

You don’t bother telling Sylus that it’s because being with him is the safest you’ve felt in a long time. 

–

Your weekly escapades to the N109 Zone soon turn into routine. 

Sylus sets aside a room for you, and you’ve grown so accustomed to staying there that half of your belongings in Linkon have somehow migrated across the border into your room in Sylus’ home.

The frustrated tension between you and Sylus seems to dissipate over time, and it’s almost startling as to how quickly you both slip back into old habits. Still, his words linger in your mind, and despite your best efforts to conduct your own investigations into whatever it may be that Sylus is hiding, nothing of importance surfaces.

Luke and Kieran are delighted with your practically constant presence, and you find yourself enjoying it too, training and sparring with the twins before lounging in Sylus’ library with Mephisto nestled in your lap.

But Sylus is late tonight.

Usually he’d have come in by now and given Mephisto a treat or two before shooing the crow away to lapse into conversation with you.

“Where is he?” you murmur, fingers stroking across Mephisto’s head. “Hm, Mephie? Where’s your insufferable boss disappeared off to?”

Mephisto trills, his red eyes blinking lazily before his wings flutter. You stand up as he flies away, padding after him through the hallways to find him perched on a stand outside Sylus’ office.

“Thank you, Mephie,” you say, giving the crow a smile and a playful tap to his beak.

He pecks your finger before fluttering away again. You push at the already ajar door to Sylus’ office, poking your head in to find him sitting at his desk, a pile of papers set in front of him.

“You didn’t come to see me,” you say, closing the door behind you, stepping towards him.

“And so you’ve found your way to me,” Sylus says, setting his pen down. “Suddenly everyone wants to fall in line after I… well, took care of things for you.”

“I think our definitions of taking care of things are very, very different,” you reply drily, leaning against his desk. “You didn’t have to kill them.”

He leans back as you take a few papers, watching as you rifle through them. Letters, weapons and protocore trade offers – it seemed as though Kieran was right – they were all vying for Sylus’ favor.

“Sometimes I forget how dangerous you are,” you sigh, setting the papers down.

“The N109 Zone is a cesspool,” Sylus murmurs, “only the strongest survive here, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, considering his words. “The strongest don’t need to survive if they can’t be killed.”

“Perhaps,” he offers, crossing his arms over his chest, “but we choose to devour those who cannot keep up.”

You raise your brows, rocking on your feet, hands landing on the edge of his desk. “So I’m keeping up with you? You haven’t devoured me.”

“No,” Sylus whispers, “not yet.”

Not yet. 

It almost feels like a threat, but the way Sylus says it leaves the words ridden with some sort of palpable hunger that leaves your chest tight. You stare at him blankly, unsure of what to say. Surprise flutters through you when his Evol wraps around you, placing you between Sylus and his desk.

“Stay the night.”

“What?” you ask, drawn out of your haze, “I wouldn’t be able to make it to Linkon in time then.”

“So take the day off work,” Sylus replies, propping his elbow on the armrest of his chair, his thighs spreading slightly. “I’m sure the Hunters Association is more than willing to give their best Hunter a day off.”

Against better judgement, your gaze dips for a moment, tongue feeling heavy at the sight of his spread thighs, his black trousers making it harder for you to look away.

“I– I can’t just call out of work whenever I feel like it, Sylus,” you breathe out, crossing your arms over your chest, dragging your gaze back up, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

You glare at him when you see his usual smirk, rolling your eyes when he shifts again, his hips lifting for a moment. Asshole.

“But you don’t want to leave,” he replies smoothly, “do you?”

“Maybe I just like staying in your enormous home,” you shoot back. “Or maybe… I enjoy your company, as insufferable as you are.”

Sylus laughs, his head tilting. “I’ve already made it clear you’re welcome to stay. Why go back to Linkon? The N109 Zone has everything you could possibly want, sweetie.”

“And how would you know what I want?” you ask, hands landing behind you, on his desk as you lean back, raising your brows.

“Because I know you,” Sylus muses, his hand waving as red mist wraps around you, bringing you closer to him, until you’re standing between his spread legs. 

You swallow nervously, a shaky breath leaving you when his hand curls over your hip, sliding upwards over your shirt to rest on your waist. The warmth of his skin bleeds into you, even through the fabric, his crimson eyes burning brighter as he leans towards you.

“What–” you flush when you choke on your own words, embarrassment making you feel hot. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of you,” he murmurs, lifting the hem of your shirt to reveal the scar that sits on the side of your stomach.

You stiffen, unsure of what to do with your hands, fingers trembling before you curl your hands into fists tightly, a shiver racking through you when his fingers stroke across the scar.

“You should’ve called for me that day,” Sylus says, voice low. “I would have come for you.”

“My phone–” you sound embarrassingly breathless, “the signal was jammed.”

When he leans closer, you foolishly hope he might kiss the scar that lays against your skin. Instead, he offers you a smile, one so sickeningly soft that you think your knees may buckle under the weight of his gaze – tender and knowing. 

“Did you want something from me, Miss Hunter?”

“N– no.” Yes.

Sylus hums, pulling your shirt back down, his hand moving to rest on your hip once more.

“Are you sure, sweetie?” he asks, raising his brows.

“Yes,” you grit out the lie, feeling faint. “I’m perfectly sure, Sylus.”

“Always so headstrong,” Sylus tuts, and you feel like a scolded child for a moment, until he speaks again, his voice quieter. “Just as you were back then.”

“You keep doing that,” you announce accusingly, “you keep saying things that don’t make sense.”

“Because you refuse to remember,” he says coolly, his hand catching yours, fingers lacing tightly together. “Resonate.”

“What?” you sputter, trying to pull your hand free but to no avail. Sylus’ grip is tight, his other arm curling around your waist to keep you in place. 

“Please,” he breathes out, desperation bleeding into his voice. 

You stare at the man before you, taken aback. Sylus was never like this, never so… vulnerable. It feels almost wrong to see him like this, desperate and pleading, nothing like the ruthless leader of Onychinus who had forced you into that chair in the Odd Workshop.

“I– I can’t,” you say meekly, “it’s not that I don’t want to, there’s– there’s something stopping me. Philip said–”

“I thought we had spent enough time together for you to fix whatever you had against me,” Sylus says, his hand squeezing yours.

Your brows furrow, expression souring at his words. “So that’s why you wanted me here?” You scoff sharply, pulling your hand free from his roughly. “And here I thought you might actually enjoy my company. I thought you– fuck, I thought you cared about me.”

A yelp escapes you when Sylus stands suddenly, crowding in against you until the edge of his desk digs into your lower back, his hands landing on either side of you, on his desk.

“I do care about you,” he hisses, crimson eyes boring into yours, “I care more than you could possibly know.”

Sylus’ words only serve to make you angrier, cheeks flushing hot, an embarrassing lump beginning to swell in your throat. 

“You care about the Aether Core,” you snap, shoving at his chest, causing him to stumble back. “That’s all this has been about.” You wave your hands about wildly, chest rising and falling rapidly as you speak in an exaggerated imitation. “Oh, Miss Hunter, come stay in my ridiculously large home so I can trick you into resonating with me and seduce you along the way!”

“Enough!”

You flinch when Sylus snaps back at you, the sharpness of his voice making you want to squirm away and curl up in the library you had been in moments earlier – warm, cozy and calm.

“You asked me what you meant to me– look at me,” Sylus rasps, his hand shooting out to grab your chin, holding you in place when you avert your gaze. “You mean everything to me.”

The sheer bluntness with which he says it scares you the most. The detached facade that you’ve kept on for so long begins to crack under the weight of his words, body trembling as you process his answer.

“Ask me,” he murmurs roughly, stepping closer, his hand sliding to cup your cheek, “ask me why. Ask me and I shall tell you, sweetie.”

The pet name feels more like an insult this time, stubborn irritation beginning to fester inside you yet again.

“Fine,” you retort, back stiffening. “Why?”

“I am bound to you,” he whispers, the tip of his nose brushing against yours, “when I was on the brink of death, you– you bound my soul to yours. In every lifetime–” Sylus lets out a harsh breath, looking away. “In every lifetime, I am yours.”

There’s hardly any breath left in your lungs, fingers splaying across your throat in an attempt to soothe the still lingering lump there. Sylus isn’t lying, you know that much, as much as you would like to refute, to tell him that he had clearly lost his mind, you can see the unwavering truth in his eyes.

“Oh,” you manage out, letting a heavy, shuddering breath escape, “and– and you remember?”

“Certain memories,” Sylus murmurs, his hand falling from your face, “but you’re there. Always.”

He shifts away from you, shoulders sagging tiredly. You peer up at him, finding exhaustion etched across his face once more. There’s a strange sense of anxiety seizing you, fingers fidgeting absentmindedly as you watch him move away towards the window. There’s snow falling outside, just like when you had released the newly-healed dove and watched the fireworks together. You’d thought he’d kiss you that night.

“Do you love me?” you ask quietly.

“No,” his voice is just as quiet. “But I did, back then at least.”

His answer relieves you. You bite your lip nervously, stepping towards him until you stand beside him. Sylus turns to face you. The dim lighting makes his eyes appear brighter, and your eyes flutter shut when his fingers graze your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“You want me to resonate with you so I’ll remember,” you surmise, leaning into the warmth of his palm.

“There’s a chance you won’t remember,” Sylus sighs, stepping closer, his other hand coming to cup your other cheek. 

“And there’s a chance that you’re lying to me,” you counter, peering up at him as he forces you to step back until your back hits the wall.

“You don’t trust me,” he muses, his head dipping low, nose nudging against yours.

“Trusting a man like you would be foolish,” you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut when his hand slips to the small of your back, causing you to press flush against him. “You’re dangerous,” you continue, head tilting when he squeezes your waist, “unpredictable, at times. Insane, even – who destroys an entire faction?”

“I do,” Sylus says, “yes, the Aether Core is valuable to me, but you–” his teeth graze over your jaw making you gasp, “you are far more valuable to me.”

“Isn’t– ah– isn’t that convenient?” you manage out, heat swirling in your stomach as his lips brush over your ear. “We happen to come together.”

He clicks his tongue. “Really, sweetie?” Sylus murmurs, his fingers moving to tilt your chin upwards. “How much longer are we going to play this game? I want to love you,” he rasps, nose dragging along your cheek, “I want to possess you, I want to devour you until you know nothing but me.”

“Which is exactly what the Aether Core wants–” you begin to protest, shrieking when Sylus is suddenly gathering you into his arms, carrying you out of his office. “Put– put me down, you brute!” 

An undignified yelp escapes you when he ignores you, instead moving through his home lazily, dumping you face first onto his bed. You glare, muttering a slew of curses under your breath as you slip awkwardly across the silk sheets when you try and sit up.

“I’ll have you know,” you spit, “I could have your little crime ring swarmed–”

Your breath catches in your throat when you see him removing his shirt, watching dazedly as he sits down in a chair, his thighs spreading invitingly. The air prickles across your skin when he props his elbow on the armrest, his head tilting languidly, the motion causing his bicep to flex.

Somehow, Sylus seemed bigger than before, your throat drying at the thought of him settling between your thighs, his weight dropping down onto you while he pounded– 

“If you want something, you need only ask, sweetie,” Sylus says, adjusting once more, thighs spreading a little wider. “Or perhaps… you ought to come here and simply take it.”

“No,” you grouse, crossing your arms over your chest, looking away. 

Your gaze snaps towards the doors when they click, his Evol having locked them. Unable to help yourself, you sneak a glance at him, heart fluttering when you see him smiling.

“Come here, sweetie.”

“No.”

“Let me take care of you, hm?” Sylus coaxes, his voice soft.

“You’re so– so desperate,” you shoot back, trying not to lose yourself in the fog of desire that was beginning to settle over your mind.

“Even the most stubborn kittens crave affection,” he counters, “hissing and spitting until they finally wear themselves out.”

You scoff sharply, eyes flitting around his room for some way to escape. At this rate, you wouldn’t make it back to Linkon in time – although part of you was more than happy to accept that.

“What exactly are you offering?” you ask, peering over at him, thighs squeezing together involuntarily at the sight of him.

“Myself,” Sylus says, his head tilting, “for however long you wish to have me. This is on your terms, sweetie.”

To prove himself trust-worthy, you realize, that’s what he was actually offering. You pretend to consider his words – as though you wouldn’t have said yes weeks ago – pursing your lips.

“And you won’t be hurt when I leave?” you prod further, raising your brows.

Sylus smirks knowingly, his voice a languid purr. “You won’t leave. After all, you’ve kept coming back every week.”

“Because you said I was in your debt–”

“I never held you to it, did I?” Sylus murmurs, leaning forward. “You come here at your own volition, sweetie.”

Shit. 

He had you there. Maybe the whole soulmate thing was starting to hold up, that would explain the itching feeling inside of you to be close to him. Either way, there was no denying you wanted this as much as he did.

“Fine,” you say quietly, “I’ll bite.”

You stand up, padding towards him slowly. His Evol sweeps around you, lifting you gently and placing you in his lap. Cheeks flushing, you squirm, hand landing on his warm, firm chest to steady yourself, swallowing at the sight of his pecs. 

Sylus stares down at you, his arms moving to wrap around your waist tightly. You blink up at him, heart lurching when he lowers his head once more, his nose nudging against yours affectionately.

“Are you scared?” he whispers, lips brushing across your cheek in a fleeting kiss.

“No,” you whisper, swallowing harshly, “yes. I– I don’t know.”

His fingers slide under your chin, thumb stroking across your jaw. When he kisses your cheek again, your eyes flutter shut, hands sliding over his warm skin to wrap your arms around his neck.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Sylus asks softly, his lips lingering against your cheek.

You decide not to answer, leaning forward instead, heart thudding in your chest violently. It’s quick, your lips meeting his in a shy, chaste kiss before you pull back, peering up into his eyes.

“Another one,” he breathes out, “give me another one, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

Hot desire rushes through you when he says that, a desperate eagerness to please flooding your senses, arms tightening around his neck.

You surge forward, inhibitions forgotten, lips pressing against Sylus’ purposefully. The groan that escapes from him has you whining, fingers slipping into his hair when he returns your kiss, lips working against yours hungrily.

It’s unlike anything you’ve felt before – all consuming and so violently right – the chair creaking as you shift on his lap, rising up onto your knees to kiss him deeper. Sylus squeezes at your waist, his hands slipping lower to caress the backs of your bare thighs, his mouth opening at the behest of your tongue.

You lick into his mouth, the motion a little clumsy, but Sylus doesn’t seem to mind, his head tipping back to let you take what you want. A hand settles on your back, pulling you back down, his kisses growing hungrier, taking and taking, until spit is leaking from the sides of your mouth.

Heavy pants leave you when you pull away, lips slick with spit and slightly swollen, eyes hazy. Sylus’ thumb is rubbing at the corner of your mouth, gently cleaning, brushing over your lower lip until he presses his thumb into your mouth. You whine, sucking and mewling, hands curling around his wrist to try and press his thumb in deeper.

“Is this what you wanted?” Sylus murmurs hoarsely, his eyes fluttering shut when you bite the tip of his thumb in a playful tease. “Is this what you were too afraid to ask for?”

“Y– yes,” you gasp out, hips beginning to rock across his lap needily.

A moan leaves you when he grinds his hips up into you, the friction of his trousers creating a pleasurable sensation between your thighs, through the fabric of your panties and sleep shorts. There’s a hand cradling the back of your head to guide you towards him, Sylus stealing your breath with another kiss.

“Yeah?” he rasps, smiling against your lips. “Needy fuckin’ baby, hm? Look at you, grinding all over my lap.”

“Shut– shut up!” you mewl, mouth opening against his as you breath heavily, dragging your hips across his lap before grinding down, biting down on his lower lip in retaliation. “You said this– ah– was on my terms,” you whimper, head tipping back when you feel his hips rising to match your movements, his hands holding you in place.

“Am I not giving you what you want, sweetness?” Sylus asks, hissing lowly when you scratch your nails down his chest.

“My terms means,” you lean forward, cupping his jaw to pull him closer, tongue flicking against his lips, “you shut up and do whatever I say.”

He stares down at you, crimson eyes bright with lust and admiration. “Then use me, sweetheart,” he offers, his own hand cupping your jaw, squishing your cheeks together until your lips pucker out, “make me yours.”

You hardly need any more encouragement. Shifting back, you take the time to stare at his chest and abdomen properly, biting your lip at the sight. Thick pecs, even thicker biceps, and muscled abdomen that was becoming increasingly difficult to tear your eyes away from.

“‘s not fair,” you mutter, staring at him, “I mean, seriously? You’re so big.”

Sylus smiles smugly, shifting back, jostling you in his lap. You reach out, unable to help yourself, squeezing his pec. A soft noise slips out of Sylus, your ears perking up at the sound, leaning closer.

“Did you like that?” you whisper, peering up into his half-lidded eyes.

“I can’t say I’ve ever had a woman grope me before, sweetie,” he breathes out in response, head tipping back when you squeeze his pec again.

“Grope?” you pout, dipping your head to press a kiss to his pec instead, teeth scraping against his skin. “You said I could use you.”

Sylus’ hips buck, a shaky gasp escaping him. You smile against his skin, mouth latching onto his pec stubbornly, sucking and laving your tongue over him until you lean back to find a mark blossoming onto his skin prettily.

“Satisfied?” he rasps, chest rising and falling, unable to keep his hips from rocking up against the friction of your clothed pussy rubbing against him.

“Not quite,” you murmur, leaning forward again, mouth latching on with renewed fervour.

It’s addictive, the way Sylus groans and whines when you bite into him gently, his hands clamping over your hips to keep you against him as he ruts his hips up into you. You moan when he squeezes your ass, arching your back to press more of yourself into his wandering hands, gasping against his throat when his fingers slide down, rubbing you through your sleep shorts.

“My needy baby,” he coos, voice just condescending enough to have you mewling against him, teeth nipping at his throat in retaliation. “I can feel how wet you are, sweetness. Panties must be ruined.”

When he tsks, you bite down harder, relishing in the whimper that leaves Sylus, only for a similar noise to leave you when his fingers press down hard against your swollen, aching clit.

“You’re– oh fuck– you’re so mean,” you whine, hips rocking back against his hand, panting when his hand moves to cup your wet pussy through the fabric, grinding the heel of his hand against you instead.

“How am I being mean if I’m giving you exactly what you need, baby?” Sylus murmurs, his head tilting down to kiss your cheek, trailing a line of kisses across the line of your jaw before he captures your lips once more in a searing kiss.

“Stop talking,” you grouse, eyes squeezing shut, forehead pressing against his shoulder as you grind back against his hand.

You yelp when his free hand comes down on your ass, jolting at the sensation before an embarrassingly loud moan slips out of you when he spanks you again. Sylus laughs, and you flush hot, hand squirming down between your bodies to press against his hardened cock that was currently straining against his trousers.

Big – like the rest of him.

Your fingers are working faster than your mind, managing to tug his trousers and boxers down just enough with the help of Sylus lifting his hips. Your hands curl around his cock greedily, a shaky breath leaving you when you feel how heavy and thick his cock is.

“‘s that big enough for you?” he whispers against your lips, teeth nipping at your swollen lower lip. “Thick enough?”

“You should really stop asking stupid questions, Sylus,” you pant into his mouth, thumb swiping over the head of his cock, feeling his pre-cum wet your skin.

“Fuck–” he swears under his breath, eyes fluttering shut when you begin to stroke his cock slowly, his fingers still working against your clothed pussy, rubbing at your clit.

“But your cock is really fat,” you whisper into his ear, biting down on his earlobe, smiling when his hips jerk up involuntarily. Your voice lowers, turning airy with the way he rubs at your dripping cunt, your hand working against his cock, fastening your pace. “Bet it’ll be all snug inside me.”

Sylus’ eyes snap open, his hand shooting out to grab your face when you try to hide in the crook of his neck, his eyes darkening.

“You’re filthy,” he hisses, “so fucking filthy, sweetheart, speaking about my cock like that.”

“You’re– nghhh– you’re the one that asked,” you protest, head tilting when he shifts to lean over you, his fingers prying your mouth open.

It’s embarrassing how quickly your tongue lolls out, lapping at his fingers, trying to suck them into your mouth. He doesn’t give them to you, no matter how much you whine and squirm and stroke his cock, instead letting his nose brush against yours, lips pursing together before he spits into your mouth.

You swallow almost immediately, eyes widening when you realize what he’d– no, what you’d done, mouth opening and closing as words fail you.

“You need this– need me,” he growls, lips pressing along the column of your neck in a barrage of heated kisses. “How long have I been neglecting you? I should’ve given you my cock, my fingers, my mouth to you months ago.”

“‘m not some sort of sex addict,” you whine pitifully, although your hand tightens around his cock, squeezing to watch thick globs of pre-cum bead at the tip, rolling over the sides of the head of his cock slowly, wetting your fingers. “You– you just make me feel this way.”

“Because we– shit– belong together,” Sylus whispers, his head falling forward to rest on your shoulder when you squeeze at the head of his cock again, his hips rolling to meet your strokes as your thumb swipes over the sensitive tip of his cock. “You will be mine, as I will be yours. Always.”

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at the soft strands, hips circling down to press against his hand firmly. He lets you, breathing heavily against your shoulder as you twist your wrist, working your hand along the length of his cock purposefully. His head tips back for a moment and your mouth slots over his, eager and desperate, tongue pushing into his mouth.

Sylus groans and you work your other hand between you, cupping his heavy balls in your hand, massaging gently.

“Do you mean that?” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his cock until his hand curls over yours, beginning to guide your pace. “Always?”

“Yes,” Sylus murmurs hoarsely, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s– ah– it’s always been you.”

Violent affection unfurls in your chest, your body surging forward to kiss him again, movements feverish as you stroke him, faster and faster until Sylus’ hips are bucking uncontrollably, his hands curling into fists.

“Then I trust you,” you murmur, tongue lapping at his lips.

That’s all it takes. You squeak in surprise when his cock jerks in your hand, a loud, uneven groan leaving Sylus as he cums, thick, hot cum spilling over your fingers, smearing across his abdomen. You blink, eyes wide, watching as he trembles, his chest heaving with ragged pants.

Sylus’ eyes open a few moments later, his fingers tracing over your cheek shakily, lips pressing against yours gently. 

When he peers down at you – flushed and utterly gone – you can’t help but tease him. A devilish smile spreads across your face as you take your time to make a show of licking your fingers clean. The heady taste of his cum has you feeling emboldened. 

“Who’s the needy fuckin’ baby now?”

All you see is a blur of your surroundings, a shriek escaping you when he picks you up suddenly, tossing you onto his bed. You squirm, squeaking when he’s moving you onto your stomach, tugging your hips up, sleep shorts and panties pulled down roughly.

“Sylus–” you begin, “I didn’t mean to– ah!”

His face is buried between your thighs before you can finish. A loud squeal leaves you, face pressing into his pillows when he presses his face into your dripping pussy, tongue swirling through your puffy folds.

“You’ve had your fun,” Sylus murmurs, his thumbs pulling apart your folds, a broken groan leaving him when he sees the webs of slick clinging to your thighs and folds. “Pretty– pretty fuckin’ pussy, baby.”

You mewl, hips rocking back to meet his tongue, fisting the silk sheets in your hands, mouth opening wantonly against his pillows. You can hardly think straight, eyes drooping shut when he kisses your puffy folds, his fingers beginning to rub against your clit again.

“Does it ache?” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your clit, gently lapping at the swollen bud before kissing it again. “Hm? Does it ache, sweetness? Shall I kiss it better?”

“Y– yes!” you whimper out, trying to press your pussy back into his face, squirming and wiggling your hips desperately. “P– please, Sylus– want– want your mouth!”

“So soft,” he murmurs absentmindedly, fingers stroking over your wet pussy, rubbing your slick into you, a finger pressing inside of you for a moment before he withdraws it. 

“For the love of– oh fuck!”

You squeal again when he buries his face back into you, clawing at the sheets with broken, wanton noises, body jerking back when Sylus pulls you towards him, his nose pressing into you in the most delicious way. You’re seeing stars – maybe the entire universe – with the way his tongue is moving, swirling and flicking, his fingers joining the fray soon after.

A dazed gasp escapes you, drool seeping from your mouth, wetting his pillows. His fingers are thick, already beginning to stretch you out as he works one after the other, the two digits enough to have you feeling full.

“Good girl. My good girl,” Sylus whispers, his teeth scraping across your inner thighs in faux gentleness before he bites down hard enough to have you moaning again. “Take what I give you.”

You’re too busy drooling into the pillows to response, mind feeling like mush as he sinks his fingers into you repeatedly, his mouth placing measured, affectionate kisses to your clit every now and then. You can feel his smile against your dripping pussy, the curve of his lips making you smile hazily to yourself.

“Wanna– ngh– c–cum,” you mumble, pouting, “please? You said you’d– oh– take care of me, Sylus.”

He hums into your cunt, the vibration enough to have your toes curling. The loss of his fingers has you whining softly, until they press against your aching clit, rubbing against it in fast circles, whilst his tongue laps at your fluttering pussy.

It feels so awfully obscene, but this entire thing has left you strung so tight that you feel like you might combust if you don’t cum.

“I could keep you like this for days,” Sylus says, pressing a kiss to the fat of your ass, “on my fingers and tongue.” He sighs, drawing back until you feel him spit onto your cunt, the lewd sensation making your knees tremble. “You liked it,” he whispers, tongue sliding through your puffy folds, drinking down your slick, “in my memories… always begging for more of my cock.”

“Probably ‘cause it’s so big,” you slur, “like you.” You bite the pillow, face shoving deeper, voice muffled. “I like you.” 

“I know,” he soothes, a hand sliding over your thigh to squeeze gently, his lips drifting across your ass as you arch your back a little more, wanting to feel his mouth on you again. “I lo– like you too.”

A drunken giggle slips out of you, teeth sinking into your lower lip when Sylus’ tongue presses into your aching cunt. He fucks it in and out you, the fingers on your clit only adding to the mounting pleasure in your lower stomach, pussy clenching around his tongue.

“Oh fuck,” you begin to chant when his tongue laves over your pussy again, fingers replacing his tongue once more as he presses them in, curling them up against you. “Fuck– ah– nghh– fuck, fuck, fuck–”

“That’s it,” he breathes out, sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking against the swollen bud, “that’s it, sweetness. Be a good girl and cum for me.”

Sylus sucks harshly at your clit at the same time his fingers sink into you, hard and fast, the combined motions making you cry out, thighs shaking violently. Your knees give out under you, pussy fluttering and clenching around his fingers as you cum, hand shoving down between your thighs when his fingers don’t stop moving.

“Sylus,” you mewl, “‘s too much!”

“You can handle it, baby,” Sylus says, mouth latching onto your clit again, “doing so good for me.”

The praise curls around you, slow and syrupy, cheek squishing against the pillow as you twitch against his sheets, hips rolling back to meet his fingers and the kisses he peppers to your clit. 

Sylus gently turns you onto your back when he’s had his fill, your hazy eyes meeting his, gaze drifting to find the lower half of his face and lips shining with your slick. It makes your heart flutter, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down for a kiss, uncaring of the way you tasted yourself on his tongue.

He pulls away and you pout, letting him tug your shirt up over your head, along with your bra. His hair is soft as you slide your fingers into it, playing with the soft strands as he trails kisses down your chest, over your breasts.

Your back arches to meet his kisses, thighs squeezing together when Sylus lets his tongue swirl over an aerola, sucking your breast into his mouth before he switches to the other, teeth tugging at a nipple. A whimper leaves you when he bites down measuredly, the sensation sending a thrill down through your stomach, a dull ache beginning to flare again in your cunt.

A pout pulls at your lips when he pulls away, watching as he wipes the corner of his mouth with his thumb.

“Oh,” you whisper, thighs beginning to shut when you see his heavy, fat cock, hard once again and somehow more intimidating than earlier when you had stroked it in your hand. “That’s–” you shake your head, biting back a moan when his hand curls around his cock, beginning to stroke it lazily, “that’s not going to fit, Sylus.”

“No?” he murmurs, his hand grasping your ankle, sliding over your calf to gently pry your thighs apart again. “It happened to fit in my dreams, sweetness.”

You flush, trembling when his head dips, brushing a kiss to the scar streaking across the side of your leg. “You’ve had dreams about me?”

“I thought it was obvious,” he sighs, staring at your puffy pussy once more as though entranced.

His hand works along the length of his cock for a few more moments, your cunt clenching when he shifts over you, letting the thick globs of pre-cum drip onto your pussy and clit. You bite your lip, hazy eyes meeting his as you let your hand drift lower, rubbing his cum into your clit lazily.

Sylus’ throat bobs at the sight, his cock twitching in his hand. You tilt your head, hoping the motion is sultry enough, spreading your thighs a little wider. 

“I’ve had dreams about you too,” you whisper airily, fingers splaying against your pussy, spreading yourself open for him before you rub his pre-cum into you, letting your fingers press inside of your needy cunt briefly. You pout a little, lips puckering out as you play with your pussy, your other hand squeezing at your breast. “‘m so empty, Sylus.”

And Sylus unravels.

You yelp when he pulls your hand away, his mouth slotting over yours hungrily, stealing your breath. He pants into your mouth, ragged and uneven, and your hips buck when you feel the head of his cock press against your clit.

“Should I fill this little cunt up?” he murmurs, teeth scraping at your lower lip, letting his cock slip between your folds before he slaps it against your pussy. “Flood it with my cum? Claim you?”

“Nghh– yes,” you whine, dragging the word out, nails already beginning to scrape down his broad back.

Sylus slaps his cock against your pussy and you jerk, moaning as you feel the weight of it against you, heavy and hot. 

“Take it then, baby,” Sylus growls, his lips pressing against your cheek as he rocks his hips forward, notching the head of his cock against you. “Take my fat fuckin’ cock.”

Something between a gasp and a squeal leaves you, your back arching when he begins to sink his cock into you, already splitting you open. He hushes you, open-mouthed kisses pressed along your neck as he buries his face into the crook of it, body curling over yours while his cock sinks into you, inch by inch.

“Just a– fuck– just a little more,” he breathes out, rolling his hips, hands squeezing at your hips with desperation. “So fucking tight around me, sweetheart.”

You whimper, throwing your arm over your face, cunt fluttering around his cock uncontrollably in an attempt to accommodate his size. You feel so terribly full, the aching emptiness from earlier dissipating with every inch he gives you.

“Look,” he rasps, pulling back to stare at where he’s inside you, balls flush against your ass. “Look at how we fit.”

You crane your neck, blinking blearily, mewling when you see the slight bulge in your stomach moving when he draws his hips back, thrusting them forward lazily. 

“Oh,” you whisper, feeling utterly gone.

Sylus laughs, the sound hoarse and scratchy, his nose nudging against yours. “What was it you said, sweetness?” he kisses you, slow and deep. “Nice and… snug.”

“I really– oh– really hate you,” you whine out, although your legs are wrapping around his waist tightly, heels digging into his ass when he laughs again, the deep velvety sound only adding to the heat between your thighs, causing your cunt to clench.

“Yeah?” he hums, his hand sliding over your eyes, breath fanning across your lips. “You seem cockdrunk to me, baby. Squirming all over my cock like a little brat.”

You let out a noise of protest only for him to silence you, muffling your noises with a gentle kiss. It’s difficult to understand what’s happening for a moment, body seizing up in the darkness surrounding you until something in the air shifts.

A soft moan escapes you when you feel something light caress you – Sylus’ Evol – the streaks of mist somehow manifesting into something more tangible. It strokes across you fleetingly, over the curves of your sides, against your thighs, over your breasts.

“What– what are you doing?” you whimper, legs tightening around him as he drives his cock into you, the measured thrusts enough to have you seeing stars.

“Giving you everything,” he whispers, mouth drifting over your chest, teeth tugging at a nipple. “Feel this– feel me, sweetheart.”

And you do feel. It’s strange, the sensations that pour through you – pleasure, affection, and something much deeper that curls itself around your heart, as though trying to lodge itself into the beating muscle much like the protocore. 

“Sylus–” you gasp, clawing at his back, breath hitching when he drops his weight onto you, the heat of his body melting, swirling into yours.

“Feel me,” Sylus rasps, his hand finding yours, squeezing it tightly whilst his Evol washes over you. 

It does something to you, the combined motions of his cock thrusting into you, his hand in yours, body pressed tightly over yours. For a moment, something in your mind cracks open –  a flash of red, a field of crimson flowers in bloom, Sylus – before it disappears as quickly as it came. When his hand slips away, you peer up into his eyes searchingly. You know him, you realize, fingers slipping over his jaw and cheeks. You know him.

“Good girl,” Sylus whispers, seeing the look in your eyes, his hips beginning to pick up the pace as you cry out. “Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

Your head tips back and Sylus follows, his lips finding yours, the kiss messy and sloppy. His balls slap against your ass, the sounds so lewd that you’d be ridden with embarrassment if not for the fact that his hand was still in yours.

You reach out blindly, hand cupping his jaw to kiss him better, whining and mewling into his mouth, hips trying to roll back to meet his thrusts. There’s a muscled arm sliding under you, his hand curling over your hip as he hauls you against him, fucking his cock into you. It hits the very place you need, his fat cock burying itself so deep inside that Sylus is moaning into your mouth as he feels the bulge his cock forms in your stomach pressing against his.

“‘m gonna–” you whimper, back arching, “‘m gonna cum, Sylus!”

“Then– fuck– then cum for me,” Sylus snarls, the muscles in his back flexing as he shifts, hips snapping forward as he pounds his cock into you, thumb slipping to find your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles against it.

An embarrassingly loud moan leaves you, body seizing up as the coil in your lower stomach winds tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. Every part of you trembles, cunt fluttering and clenching uncontrollably around Sylus’ cock, your hands clawing and squeezing at whatever you can grab – the sheets, Sylus’ biceps – teeth sinking into his shoulder, body thrashing as the force of your orgasm slams into you.

“Shit,” he whispers raggedly, “baby– sweetheart–”

“Inside,” you slur, heels digging into him when he tries to pull out, “p– please, want you inside, Sylus.”

He groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck, hips jerking unevenly as he holds you flush against him. Sylus curses under his breath, and you can feel his cock throb, mewling when you feel hot, thick cum spill into you.

Sylus’s hips stutter, despite his body still moving lazily, stuffing his cock inside of you in the wake of his own orgasm, the coarse hair laying past his navel rubbing against you in a way that makes your pussy flutter tiredly. 

He slumps over you, hand stroking over your hair and you smile, trying to nuzzle against him. It has him letting out a soft laugh, his lips brushing over your cheek gently before he rolls off of you.

“I suppose I won’t be going back to Linkon after all,” you sigh, playing with his hair as he turns into you, laying soft kisses over your face, neck, shoulders.

“No, I suppose not,” he agrees.

His lips trail lower, your heart lurching when his fingers brush over the scar on the side of your stomach.

“You should know… I was scared that day,” Sylus confesses lowly, tracing the edges of the scar with his fingers. “I thought–” a shuddering breath escapes him, his brows furrowing as he shakes his head. “I didn’t– don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper, gently brushing his hair out of his eyes, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Emotion swells up inside of you when his lips press against the scar firmly, his lips lingering in a silent promise. Your lower lip trembles for a moment, eyes slipping shut when he kisses it again tenderly.

“I adore you,” he whispers across your skin, calloused fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

“Stop saying things like that. You make this sound real.” The lump in your throat makes you sound choked. 

There’s a smile pulling at his lips, his arms curling around you to pull you into his chest, his lips brushing across your forehead.

“This is real,” Sylus murmurs, his fingers finding yours, lacing together tightly. 

You squeeze his hand tightly, face pressing into his chest to hide the glassy look in your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He stays quiet, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand.

“Do you promise?” you ask quietly, pressing closer, your head tilting to kiss his cheek.

“Yes,” Sylus says, his lips brushing over yours, tentatively at first and then deeper and deeper until you can feel the weight of his answer behind every motion of his lips.

Your arms wrap around his neck when he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His voice is much quieter when he speaks again, his arms tightening around you.

Some people say childhood friendships never last—that they're as fragile as the paper airplanes you used to launch from the second-story window of Iwaizumi's bedroom, soaring briefly before crashing into the unforgiving earth below. But they're wrong. At least they were wrong about the three of you. You, Hajime, and Tooru had been constants in each other's lives since before conscious memory formed, your existences so thoroughly intertwined that sometimes you couldn't remember where your personality ended and theirs began. Your mothers still liked to tell the story of how three-year-old Hajime had stubbornly planted himself between you and a neighborhood dog that had wandered too close, his small fists clenched and ready to defend you despite his own obvious fear. Or how Tooru had wailed inconsolably when your family considered moving to Tokyo for your father's job when you were seven, staging a one-child protest on your front lawn until his mother dragged him home, embarrassed but secretly understanding. The move never happened, and sometimes in your darkest moments, you wondered how different life would have been if it had—if you'd never grown up witnessing Hajime's quiet evolution from the soft-spoken boy with perpetually dirt-stained knees to the powerhouse ace who could silence a gymnasium with a single spike.

People always assumed Tooru was the glue that held your trio together—charismatic, beautiful Tooru with his perfect smile and carefully crafted persona. But you knew better. It was Hajime who anchored you both, his unwavering reliability providing the foundation upon which your friendship was built. When Tooru pushed himself too far during practice, it was Hajime who forcibly dragged him home, his hand rough on the back of Tooru's neck but his eyes betraying genuine concern. When you struggled through advanced mathematics in your third year, staying up until your vision blurred and your fingers cramped around your pencil, it was Hajime who appeared at your window at midnight with energy drinks and his meticulously organized notes, refusing to leave until the equations made sense. "I'm not doing this for you," he'd grumble, but the lie was transparent. He had always been a terrible liar.

The three of you had created your own language over the years—a complex system of inside jokes, half-finished sentences, and meaningful glances that outsiders could never hope to decipher. You could communicate volumes with just the quirk of an eyebrow or the set of your shoulders. You knew exactly which smile of Tooru's was genuine and which was manufactured for his fangirls. Hajime could tell when your laughter was forced, calling you out with a simple, "Cut the crap," that somehow never felt harsh coming from him. And both you and Hajime had become experts at reading the subtle signs of Tooru's insecurity—the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers would twist just a little too hard in the hem of his shirt. In those moments, you'd exchange a glance with Hajime, an entire conversation happening in seconds: Your turn or mine? He needs us. Again.

High school slipped away like sand through fingers, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly you clenched your fist around the memories. The inevitability of separation loomed like a thundercloud on the horizon, impossible to ignore but easy to pretend wasn't there—until graduation day arrived with its brutal finality. Tooru was Argentina-bound, his talent too immense for Japan to contain. Hajime had chosen Tokyo for sports medicine, his practical nature guiding him toward a future that would keep him connected to the sport even after his body could no longer withstand the punishing demands of competitive play. And you—well, you'd applied to universities in Tokyo almost as an afterthought, your real motivation transparent to anyone who knew you well enough. Where Hajime went, you followed. It had always been that way, even when Tooru was there to complete your triangle.

The night before Tooru's departure had been uncharacteristically subdued. No dramatic declarations, no forced cheerfulness. Just the three of you sprawled across the floor of his half-packed bedroom, surrounded by the artifacts of a childhood about to be left behind. Tooru's eyes had been red-rimmed, though he'd deny crying if confronted. Hajime had been quieter than usual, his normally expressive face carefully blank as he absently tossed a volleyball from hand to hand. You'd lain between them, your head on Hajime's thigh, your feet in Tooru's lap, feeling the physical connection between the three of you like a living thing, already grieving its imminent loss.

Tokyo welcomed you and Hajime with indifferent arms, the city too vast and impersonal to care about two more people from the countryside. Your apartment was cramped and overpriced, a fifth-floor walk-up with temperamental plumbing and walls thin enough to hear your neighbors' most intimate moments. But it was yours—yours and Hajime's—and there was something thrilling about that possession, about building something that belonged just to the two of you. No parents, no Tooru, no history except what you carried with you.

The first few weeks had been a chaotic blur of unpacking, getting lost on subway lines, discovering which convenience store had the best onigiri, and learning to navigate the strange new terrain of living with Hajime without the buffer of Tooru between you. You'd seen glimpses of this Hajime before—the one who existed when Tooru wasn't around to command attention—but never for extended periods. Never with this raw, unfiltered intimacy that came from sharing a bathroom sink and seeing each other first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and defenseless.

Hajime in private was both exactly who you'd always known and someone entirely new. The gruffness remained, but without Tooru to focus it on, it softened around the edges. He still exercised with religious dedication, but now you witnessed the full extent of his routine—the way sweat gleamed on his skin as he did push-ups in the living room, his t-shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, the controlled rhythm of his breathing as he counted reps under his breath. You found yourself watching him more often than you'd care to admit, cataloging the details you'd somehow missed despite years of friendship: the small scar at the corner of his jaw from a childhood biking accident, the way one eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the other when he was skeptical, how his hands—always so capable and strong—could be surprisingly gentle when he absentmindedly massaged your shoulders after you'd been hunched over textbooks for too long.

Tooru's absence was strange and disorienting, like losing a limb. The phantom pain of missing his dramatic entrances, his ridiculous poses, his ability to fill a room with his presence alone. Video calls helped, but they were a pale imitation of having him physically present, his voice tinny through speakers, his image frozen by bad connections at the most inopportune moments. Still, there was comfort in seeing his face, in watching him gesticulate wildly as he described his new teammates, his new apartment, his new life that was happening without you. Sometimes you'd catch a shadow crossing his features when you mentioned something you and Hajime had done together, a flicker of something like loneliness before his practiced smile slid back into place. Those moments cut deep, made you question whether you'd made the right choice following Hajime instead of Tooru.

But then Hajime would do something—drop a cup of tea beside you while you studied, press his shoulder against yours during a crowded subway ride, fall asleep on the couch with his head tilted toward your bedroom as if even unconscious he was attuned to your presence—and the doubt would dissolve. There was an easiness between you now, a comfortable silence that had never been possible with Tooru around to fill every quiet moment with chatter. You learned that Hajime hummed tunelessly while cooking, that he folded his laundry with military precision, that he secretly read historical fiction before bed. He discovered your habit of talking to yourself when concentrating, your collection of ridiculous socks, your inability to remember to buy toilet paper despite multiple reminders.

The physical awareness of him grew by imperceptible degrees, like water slowly rising in a basin. You noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before—the breadth of his shoulders under thin cotton t-shirts, the tanned column of his throat when he tilted his head back to drink, the way his hair fell across his forehead when freshly washed. His presence in a room changed the very air, charged it with something you couldn't name but could feel in the pit of your stomach, in the suddenly rapid beat of your heart.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you with an expression you didn't recognize, his eyes dark and unreadable. It would last only a second before he'd turn away, jaw tight, shoulders tense. In those moments, uncertainty would creep in, cold fingers of doubt trailing along your spine. Had you done something wrong? Was he regretting the decision to live together? Did he wish he'd chosen a different roommate, one who didn't leave hair in the shower drain and forget to buy groceries when it was their turn?

Then came the night that changed everything—though perhaps change isn't the right word. Perhaps it was more of an awakening, a sudden violent clarity washing over you like ice water, forcing you to see what had been right in front of you all along.

It was a Thursday evening in late October, the kind where autumn's chill had finally committed to its descent, no longer teasing with occasional warm afternoons but settling into the city with grim determination. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, not the dramatic downpour that would give you an excuse to call off plans, but the persistent, monotonous kind that soaked through layers regardless of umbrellas or hoods. You'd arrived home with damp socks and a foul mood, having stepped in a puddle that went halfway up your calf on the final stretch to your apartment building.

Hajime had beaten you home, evident from his muddy running shoes haphazardly kicked off in the entryway (a habit that normally irked you, but today seemed strangely endearing in its familiarity) and the smell of something savory simmering on the stove. The apartment was warm after the damp chill outside, steam fogging the kitchen window as Hajime stood with his back to you, shoulders broad beneath a worn gray t-shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolled up his sleeves to wash something in the sink.

"I'm home," you called unnecessarily, dropping your sodden bag on the floor with a wet thud.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in your bedraggled state with a quick sweep that somehow missed nothing. "You look like shit."

"Charming as always, Hajime," you muttered, but there was no heat in it. This was your rhythm, comfortable and worn like an old sweater.

"Take a hot shower before you catch something. Food'll be ready in twenty." He turned back to whatever he was doing, dismissing you with the easy confidence of someone who knew his suggestions would be heeded.

And they would be, because he was right—you were freezing, your clothes uncomfortably damp and clinging to your skin. But something stubborn in you resisted the immediate compliance, a childish urge to assert some kind of control in a day that had seemed determined to strip it from you at every turn.

"What are you making?" You moved closer instead, peering around his solid frame to see what was in the pot he was stirring. The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to move comfortably, and your shoulder brushed against his back as you leaned in.

"Curry. My mom's recipe." A pause, then almost grudgingly: "The one you like."

Something warm unfurled in your chest at that, at the knowledge that he'd chosen to make your favorite comfort food on this miserable day. It was so typically Hajime—gruff words masking thoughtful actions, caring for you in ways so subtle and consistent they were easy to overlook. He'd always been like that, from the time you were children and he'd wordlessly handed you his jacket when you shivered at the summer festival, to now, cooking you dinner after what he'd somehow intuited had been a terrible day.

"Let me help," you said, already reaching for the cabinet where plates were kept.

He made a noncommittal grunt that you interpreted as assent, and for several minutes you worked in companionable silence, moving around each other in the cramped kitchen with the unconscious choreography of people who had shared space for years. You set the table while he finished the curry, occasionally brushing against each other in the confined space—his hand on the small of your back as he reached past you for the rice cooker, your arm grazing his as you grabbed utensils from the drawer. Each point of contact sent a small jolt through your system, like static electricity, there and gone so quickly you barely registered it on a conscious level.

"Can you get the good glasses?" Hajime nodded toward the upper cabinet. "The ones your mom sent."

You moved to comply, stretching up on tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the stove where the nice glassware was kept—a housewarming gift from your mother, who had insisted that proper adults needed proper glasses, not the mismatched collection of promotional cups and chipped mugs you'd accumulated through high school. Your fingertips just grazed the shelf, not quite able to reach.

"Move," Hajime said from behind you, the single word a command rather than a request. Before you could respond, his chest pressed briefly against your back as he reached over you, his body heat seeping through your damp clothes and making you acutely aware of just how cold you'd been. He grabbed two glasses with ease, his height advantage making the task effortless where you had struggled.

As he set them on the counter, one slipped from his grasp—perhaps because of residual soap from washing his hands, or just one of those inexplicable moments of clumsiness that happen to even the most coordinated people. It shattered on the tile floor with a crash that seemed disproportionately loud in the small kitchen, glass fragments exploding outward in a glittering radius that included where you stood in your socked feet.

What happened next occurred so quickly that your brain struggled to process the sequence of events. One moment you were standing there, staring dumbly at the broken glass surrounding your feet; the next, Hajime's hands were on your waist, large and warm and uncompromising as they lifted you bodily off the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. There was a suspended second of weightlessness, of complete surrender to his strength, before he deposited you firmly on the countertop, your legs dangling a safe distance above the hazardous floor.

"Don't move," he ordered, voice dropping to a lower register than you were accustomed to hearing from him, authoritative and unyielding in a way that sent an unexpected shiver racing down your spine. "You'll cut yourself."

And then he was crouching down, carefully gathering the larger shards of glass, his movements precise and methodical. You sat frozen on the countertop, but it wasn't the broken glass that had immobilized you—it was the sudden, visceral awareness of Hajime as a man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The realization crashed over you with such force that it momentarily robbed you of breath, of thought, of any coherent response beyond the thundering of your heart against your ribs.

His hands. God, his hands. How had you never truly seen them before? Large enough to span your waist with ease, strong enough to lift your entire body without apparent effort. The same hands that had patched up your scraped knees as children, that had spiked volleyballs with devastating power in high school, that now moved with careful precision as they collected broken glass. The dichotomy was dizzying—such strength capable of such gentleness, such careful control harnessing such raw power.

And the way he'd lifted you—so effortlessly, so decisively, without hesitation or strain. As if the most natural response to potential danger was to simply remove you from its path, to take control of the situation and your body in one fluid motion. There had been nothing sexual in the gesture, nothing overtly intimate, and yet heat bloomed low in your abdomen, spreading outward until even your fingertips tingled with it.

This was Hajime—your Hajime—who had seen you with chicken pox and braces, who had held your hair back when you vomited after your first ill-advised experiment with alcohol at sixteen, who knew all your embarrassing secrets and childhood fears. And yet suddenly he was also this stranger with broad shoulders and capable hands and a voice that commanded obedience without question. How had you never noticed the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached up, or how the tendons in his forearms flexed as he worked, or the sheer masculine solidity of him occupying space in your shared kitchen?

"You okay?" His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, and you realized he was looking up at you from his crouched position, brow furrowed in concern. "You look flushed. Are you getting sick?"

Sick? Yes, perhaps that explained the sudden heat in your cheeks, the difficulty drawing a full breath, the way your entire body seemed to vibrate with a new awareness you couldn't name. Easier to blame it on illness than to confront the truth—that something fundamental had shifted in your perception of the man before you, something that couldn't be undone or ignored.

"I'm fine," you managed, your voice sounding strange to your own ears, higher than usual and slightly breathless. "Just... startled."

He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and went back to cleaning up the glass. You watched him in silence, cataloging details with newfound intensity—the way his hair fell across his forehead as he bent forward, the strong column of his neck disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt, the flex and release of muscles in his shoulders as he moved. How many times had you seen him exactly like this, performing some mundane task in your shared space? And yet now, it was as if you were seeing him through a completely different lens, one that stripped away the comfortable familiarity of your history together and left only this visceral, primal awareness in its place.

Your mother's voice suddenly echoed in your memory, her raised eyebrow and knowing smile when you'd announced your plan to share an apartment with Hajime. "Just the two of you?" she'd asked, a teasing lilt to her voice that had made you roll your eyes at the time. "You know, sweetheart, people change when you live with them. You might see sides of Hajime you've never noticed before."

You'd dismissed her concern with the confident ignorance of someone who believed they knew everything there was to know about their oldest friend. "Mom, it's Hajime. We've been joined at the hip since we were in diapers. There's nothing about him I don't already know."

How spectacularly, catastrophically wrong you had been. Because the Hajime you'd known all your life didn't make your pulse quicken with a single touch. He didn't make you hyperaware of your own body, of the thin fabric of your shirt against suddenly sensitive skin, of the exposure of your bare legs where they dangled from the countertop. He didn't make you wonder, with a kind of reckless curiosity that bordered on desperation, what those hands would feel like on other parts of your body, what that voice would sound like murmuring against your ear, what that strength would be like if it was focused entirely on you in an entirely different context.

Hajime finished gathering the larger pieces of glass and stood, moving to the trash can to dispose of them. "Don't get down yet," he instructed, grabbing the broom from the corner. "I need to sweep to make sure I got all the small pieces."

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. There was something almost unbearably intimate about sitting on the counter watching him clean up the mess, something domestic and quotidian that now seemed charged with new significance. This was your life together—broken glasses and curry for dinner and rain pattering against the windows—and yet suddenly it felt like the setting for something much more complex, much more dangerous than mere friendship or sharing an apartment.

He swept methodically, his movements economical and thorough, occasionally glancing up at you with that same concerned furrow between his brows. "You sure you're okay? You've been quiet."

"Just tired," you lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your face. "Long day."

He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could see through the flimsy excuse, but ultimately he let it go. That was Hajime too—knowing when to push and when to give you space, respecting your boundaries even when he suspected you weren't being entirely truthful. The thought sent another wave of heat through you, the realization that his consideration, his attentiveness, had always been there but now carried new weight, new implications.

"Done," he announced finally, setting the broom aside. He moved back to stand in front of you, positioned between your dangling legs, and for one wild, heart-stopping moment you thought—hoped? feared?—he might put his hands on your waist again, might lift you down as easily as he'd lifted you up. Instead, he stepped back slightly, giving you space to slide off the counter on your own.

"Thanks," you murmured, suddenly shy in a way you'd never been with him before. Your feet touched the floor, and you were abruptly aware of the height difference between you, of how you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes, of how easily he could—

Could what? Your mind raced ahead, filling in blanks with possibilities that had never occurred to you before this moment. Could back you against the counter. Could tilt your chin up with those strong fingers. Could bend down and—

"Food's getting cold," Hajime said, breaking the spell. He turned away to grab the pot of curry, seemingly oblivious to the chaotic spiral of your thoughts, to the seismic shift that had just occurred in your perception of him, of your relationship, of everything.

You moved to the table on unsteady legs, sinking into your chair with the distinct feeling that you were no longer the same person who had walked through the door twenty minutes ago. That version of you had seen Hajime as a constant, a known quantity, a childhood friend turned roommate with no complex layers to navigate. This new version saw him as... something else entirely. Something that made your skin too tight, your breath too shallow, your thoughts too scattered to form coherent patterns.

As he served the curry, his forearm brushed against your shoulder, and you flinched at the contact, a small involuntary movement that didn't escape his notice.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you tonight?" he asked, genuine concern mixing with exasperation in his voice. "You're acting weird."

You looked up at him—at the familiar features you'd known all your life, at the strong jaw and direct gaze and perpetual slight furrow between his brows—and felt as if you were seeing a stranger superimposed over your oldest friend. How could you explain that the problem wasn't him but your own sudden, visceral recognition of him as a man, as someone who could make your heart race with just the casual display of strength, who could command a room—command you—with nothing more than the tone of his voice?

"Nothing's wrong," you lied again, knowing he wouldn't believe you but unable to offer anything closer to the truth. "Just... thinking about something."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for elaboration, but when none came, he simply shook his head and sat down across from you. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But eat something before you pass out."

You picked up your spoon obediently, going through the motions of eating while your mind continued its treacherous exploration of this new territory. Every movement Hajime made now seemed laden with significance—the flex of his jaw as he chewed, the way his fingers curled around his water glass, how his throat worked when he swallowed. Had he always taken up so much space at the table, his presence so solid and undeniable? Had his eyes always held that intensity when they rested on you, as if he could see beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath?

"Is it not good?" he asked, nodding toward your barely-touched food.

"No, it's delicious," you assured him quickly, forcing yourself to take another bite to prove it. "I'm just... distracted."

"By what?" he pressed, setting down his spoon and giving you his full attention. It was overwhelming, being the sole focus of that gaze, being pinned in place by nothing more than his interest, his concern.

"Work stuff," you said vaguely, knowing it was a weak excuse but unable to formulate anything more convincing when your brain was so thoroughly occupied with cataloging the exact shade of his eyes in the warm kitchen light, the precise curve of his mouth as it turned down slightly in skepticism.

He didn't believe you—that much was clear from his expression—but instead of calling you on the obvious lie, he simply reached across the table and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, checking for fever with the casual intimacy of someone who had done so countless times before. His skin was cool against yours, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calluses, and you fought the urge to lean into the contact like a cat seeking affection.

"You don't feel warm," he murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. "But you look flushed."

Because you're touching me, you wanted to say. Because I can feel your pulse in your wrist where it rests against my cheek. Because I suddenly can't remember how to breathe normally when you're this close. Instead, you pulled back slightly, breaking the contact before you could do something mortifying like turn your face into his palm.

"I'm fine, Hajime. Really. Just tired and wet and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at your still-damp clothes.

Understanding dawned on his face. "You never took that shower. Go. Now. Before you actually do get sick." He stood, gathering your mostly-full plate. "I'll keep this warm for you."

The note of command was back in his voice, that tone that brooked no argument and expected immediate compliance. And just like that, the heat returned, spreading through your body like wildfire, making it difficult to stand without revealing the sudden weakness in your knees.

"Yeah, okay," you managed, pushing back from the table. "Thanks."

As you turned to go, his hand caught your wrist, the contact sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You froze, heart hammering against your ribs, afraid to look back at him lest your face betray the chaos of your thoughts.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. "You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?"

The question hung in the air between you, loaded with years of trust and friendship, with the certainty that had always existed between you—that no matter what, you could tell each other anything. Except this. How could you possibly tell him that everything had changed in the span of a few minutes, that you suddenly saw him not as Hajime-your-friend but as Hajime-the-man, that your body responded to his proximity in ways that were entirely new and terrifying and exhilarating?

"Of course," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "Always."

He released your wrist, apparently satisfied, and you fled to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with perhaps more force than necessary. You leaned against it, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps as if you'd run a marathon instead of simply walking down a hallway.

The face that greeted you in the mirror was both familiar and strange—your features the same as they had always been, but your eyes wider, darker, your cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with fever or cold. You looked like someone on the edge of something monumental, someone teetering between before and after, between safety and risk.

As you stripped off your damp clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, you couldn't escape the realization that had ambushed you in the kitchen. Hajime was no longer just your childhood friend, your roommate, your constant. He was a man who made your pulse race and your skin tingle, whose casual display of strength had awakened something primal and hungry within you, whose voice could command your obedience with a single word.

And nothing—not the scalding water beating down on your shoulders, not the steam filling the small bathroom, not the rational part of your brain screaming warnings about ruining friendships and crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed—nothing could wash away the sudden, visceral certainty that you wanted him. Not as a friend, not as a roommate, but as a man wants a woman, with all the messy, complicated, thrilling implications that entailed.

The question that remained, as you pressed your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and tried to regain your equilibrium, was what the hell you were supposed to do about it now.

The days following what you'd come to think of as the Kitchen Incident unfolded like a fever dream, your perception of Hajime permanently, irrevocably altered. It was as if someone had adjusted the focus on a camera you'd been looking through your entire life—suddenly everything was sharper, more defined, details you'd never noticed before now impossible to ignore.

There was the morning after, when you'd emerged from your bedroom to find him doing push-ups in the living room, body moving with controlled power, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his thin t-shirt with each precise movement. You'd frozen in the hallway, coffee mug clutched in white-knuckled fingers as you counted along silently—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—until he finally rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. A strange flutter rippled through your stomach at the sight, but you pushed it down immediately. This was Hajime, for god's sake. The same Hajime who'd eaten dirt on a dare when you were eight, who'd thrown up in your mom's hydrangea bushes after your first attempt at making cookies resulted in severe food poisoning. There was absolutely no reason for your heart to suddenly kick against your ribs just because he could do a lot of push-ups.

"Morning," he'd grunted, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, momentarily exposing a stretch of tanned abdomen. You forced your eyes away, confused by the urge to keep staring. "You sleep okay?"

You'd mumbled something noncommittal, retreating to the kitchen before your brain could continue its bizarre malfunction. Probably just tired. Or hungry. Or both.

Then there was the incident with the jar three days later—a stubborn pickle jar with a lid that refused to budge despite your increasingly frustrated efforts. You'd been about to resort to running it under hot water when Hajime wandered in, drawn by your muttered curses. Without a word, he'd taken it from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a contact that sent an unexpected jolt through your system. He'd twisted the lid off with one easy motion, not even the slightest strain showing on his face as the vacuum seal gave way with a soft pop.

"Thanks," you'd managed, trying not to stare at his hands. Had they always been that large? That capable-looking? You'd seen those hands nearly every day for the past twenty years, and yet suddenly they seemed like they belonged to a stranger. A man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The thought made you strangely light-headed.

"You okay?" he'd asked, interrupting your confused spiral.

"Fine," you'd said quickly, snatching the jar back and turning away. Just a weird mood. That's all it was. You'd get over it.

But you didn't get over it. If anything, this strange new awareness of Hajime—of his physical presence, his strength, the sheer masculine energy he exuded without seeming to realize it—only intensified as the days passed. You found yourself noticing things you'd never paid attention to before: the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the rough calluses on his palms when his hand accidentally brushed yours, the way his t-shirts stretched across his shoulders, evidence of years of rigorous athletic training.

The breaking point came a week after the Kitchen Incident, when you'd returned home from a study session to find Hajime in the bathroom, crouched down in front of the sink, wrench in hand as he worked on a leaky faucet. He hadn't heard you come in, too focused on the task at hand, giving you an uninterrupted view of him from the doorway. He wore a simple white tank top that had seen better days, thin with washing and clinging to the muscles of his back where sweat had made it transparent. His jeans rode low on his hips as he leaned forward, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His arm flexed as he turned the wrench, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with controlled power that made your mouth suddenly dry.

You'd stood there, frozen in the hallway, watching as he worked, completely unaware of your presence or the effect he was having on you. Water dripped from the pipe onto his forearm, trailing down to his wrist in a meandering path that your eyes followed with inexplicable intensity. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, intrusive urge to trace its path with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin, to—

The thought had jolted you out of your trance, shocking in its suddenness and clarity. What the fuck was wrong with you? This was Hajime. Your best friend. The boy who'd pushed you on the swings and shared his lunch when you forgot yours and sat with you in the nurse's office when you had your first period at school and were too embarrassed to call your mom. You didn't think about licking his skin or touching him or—God—anything else your suddenly deranged brain was suggesting.

You'd backed away silently, retreating to your room before he could notice you, closing the door and leaning against it as you tried to understand what was happening to you. It was just stress, you'd decided. The pressure of university, of being away from home for the first time, of adjusting to this new life in Tokyo. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why you'd suddenly started noticing your childhood friend in ways that made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat too fast.

Denial, it turned out, was a surprisingly effective coping mechanism—at least for a while. You managed to convince yourself that your heightened awareness of Hajime was just a phase, a temporary blip that would resolve itself if you just ignored it hard enough. You avoided being alone with him when possible, kept physical contact to a minimum, and desperately tried not to notice things like the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned over his textbooks or how his voice dropped to a lower register when he was tired.

But then came the heatwave—a brutally hot Saturday in early November, one of those freakish late-autumn days where summer seemed to have returned with a vengeance, the temperature soaring into the high eighties despite the changing leaves. You'd spent the morning at the library, studying for upcoming exams in the blessed air conditioning, but eventually hunger had driven you home despite the heat that hit you like a physical wall when you stepped outside.

The apartment was quiet when you entered, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street below and the soft whirring of the standing fan in the corner of the living room. You called out a greeting that went unanswered as you kicked off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door with a heavy thud.

"Hajime?" The apartment wasn't large—if he was home, he should have heard you. Perhaps he'd gone out, though his running shoes remained in their usual haphazard position by the door.

Movement caught your eye through the glass door leading to the small balcony—a flash of bare skin in the sunlight. You moved closer, curiosity drawing you forward, and then stopped dead, your breath catching in your throat at the sight that greeted you.

Hajime lay stretched out on a towel on the balcony floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that rode high on his powerful thighs. His chest was bare, absolutely drenched in sweat that made his skin gleam in the harsh afternoon sun, the defined muscles of his abdomen rising and falling with each slow breath. The dusting of dark hair across his chest was visible now, damp with sweat and trailing down to his navel before thickening into a more defined path that disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts. His small brown nipples were hard, either from the heat or the light breeze that occasionally stirred the heavy air, the contrast against his tanned skin making your mouth water in a way that shocked even you. A smaller towel was draped across his face, presumably to block the sunlight, leaving him unaware of your presence as you stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.

He was magnificent—raw masculinity on display, unfiltered and unself-conscious in a way that made your knees weak and your core throb with sudden, undeniable want. Those shorts left absolutely nothing to the imagination, plastered to his body by sweat and revealing the substantial outline of what could only be his cock, thick and heavy even in its relaxed state. You couldn't tear your eyes away from it, from the clear shape visible through the thin, sweat-soaked fabric, your brain immediately supplying vivid imagery of what it might look like freed from those shorts, how it would feel in your hand, your mouth, between your thighs.

'Fuck,' your inner voice whispered, no longer interested in denial or pretense. 'Look at that bulge. He's fucking huge. I knew it, I fucking knew he'd be hung like that. I bet he could split me in half with that thing and I'd thank him for it.'

You should move. You should turn around, go back inside, pretend you'd never seen this—Hajime splayed out like an offering, all that strength rendered momentarily vulnerable in unconscious repose. But your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes greedily devouring details you'd never allow yourself to linger on if he were awake: the sharp cut of his hipbones above the waistband of his shorts, the way his throat worked as he swallowed unconsciously, the trail of hair that you suddenly, desperately wanted to follow with your tongue, from his chest all the way down to where it disappeared beneath his shorts, to take his cock in your mouth and—

'Jesus Christ, I need therapy,' your brain supplied, even as your body throbbed with want so intense it was almost painful. 'Or I need to get laid. By him. Right now. On this balcony. I don't even care if the neighbors see. They should see. Everyone should see what a fucking god he is.'

The towel shifted, and your heart stopped as Hajime's hand moved to push it up slightly, revealing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You were caught, deer in headlights, unable to move or speak or do anything but stare with undisguised hunger at the feast laid out before you.

"That you?" His voice was rough, whether from sleep or the heat impossible to tell. "Thought you'd be gone longer."

"Just got back," you managed, impressed at how normal your voice sounded when your internal monologue had devolved into a stream of 'fuck me fuck me please just fuck me until I can't walk straight, bend me over right here, I don't care, I'll take that monster cock any way you want to give it to me.'

He pushed the towel off entirely now, squinting up at you against the brightness of the sun. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, along the ridges of his abdomen. A drop rolled slowly down his chest, following the line of dark hair downward, and you tracked its progress with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

'Fuck, I don't care how sweaty he is, I'd lick every drop off him like it's the best thing I've ever tasted,' you thought wildly. 'I'd clean him better than any shower could, get on my knees and worship every inch of that body with my tongue until he couldn't take it anymore and had to fuck my throat just to shut me up.'

"You okay?" Hajime propped himself up on his elbows, brow furrowing in concern, the movement causing his abdominal muscles to flex and contract in a way that made your mouth water. "You look weird again. Is it the heat?"

Oh, it was heat alright—the heat of your cunt practically dripping at the sight of him, the heat of imagining those big hands spreading your thighs wide, those fingers pushing inside you, that mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs, that cock stretching you open so good you'd see stars.

"I'm fine," you said, the lie coming easily after weeks of practice. "Just a little warm."

He grunted, unconvinced as always by your increasingly transparent falsehoods. "Grab some water. You look like you're about to pass out."

'I'm about to cream my fucking pants is what I'm about to do,' you thought hysterically. 'One good look at that dick print and I'm ready to let you ruin my life, destroy my pussy, leave me a whimpering mess begging for more. I'd let you cum on my face and use it as a fucking face mask, I swear to god.'

"Good idea," you said, impressed by your own self-control when your entire body felt like it was on fire, your underwear embarrassingly damp just from looking at him. "You want some too?"

He nodded, still watching you with that slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to solve a particularly challenging problem. You were the problem now, your strange behavior these past weeks, the way you flinched when he touched you, the flush that seemed permanently etched on your cheeks whenever he was near.

You retreated to the kitchen on unsteady legs, pressing your thighs together as you walked in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache between them. This couldn't continue. You couldn't keep living like this, constantly on edge, constantly fighting this new awareness of him, this hunger that threatened to consume you from the inside out. Something had to give.

But as you filled two glasses with cold water, hands trembling slightly, you knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't be today. Today you would bring him water, you would make normal conversation, you would retreat to your room and shove your face into your pillow to muffle the sounds as you fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining it was his cock inside you, his voice in your ear telling you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he was going to fill you up with his cum until it dripped down your thighs.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow you would do it all again, trapped in this exquisite torture of wanting what had once been the most familiar, comfortable relationship in your life—now transformed into something dangerous, thrilling, and entirely out of your control.

Days passed in a haze of unrelenting sexual frustration following the balcony incident. You'd managed to hand Hajime his water that day, maintaining a facade of normalcy while your internal monologue screamed obscenities that would make a sailor blush. The pattern had continued—you going about your daily life pretending everything was fine while your mind supplied increasingly explicit scenarios involving your childhood friend, his massive cock, and various surfaces of your shared apartment.

Tonight was no different, the clock on your laptop reading 7:48 PM as you attempted to focus on an assignment due the following week. The apartment had been quiet for hours, Hajime still at practice, giving you a brief reprieve from the constant torment of his presence. You'd almost managed to trick yourself into believing you could be productive, that you could think about something other than what Hajime would look like naked and sweaty above you, when the sound of the front door opening shattered your concentration.

His footsteps in the hallway were immediately different—slower, heavier, with a slight drag that wasn't typical of his usual confident stride. You looked up from your laptop as he appeared in the doorway to your room, his face drawn in a grimace that set alarm bells ringing in your head.

"What's wrong?" you asked, immediately closing your laptop and giving him your full attention. Despite the constant state of arousal he unknowingly kept you in, he was still your best friend, and the obvious discomfort on his face pushed all lustful thoughts temporarily aside.

"Pulled something during practice," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe with one hand pressed to his upper thigh. Even in pain, he managed to look devastatingly attractive, his hair damp with sweat and his practice clothes clinging to his body in a way that highlighted every defined muscle. "Coach says it's just a strain, but it hurts like a bitch."

Your eyes were drawn to where his hand pressed against his thigh, just below where his athletic shorts ended. The muscle there was tensed visibly, and without thinking, you blurted out, "I could massage it for you."

The words hung in the air between you, and for a split second, panic seized your chest. What the fuck were you thinking? Offering to put your hands on his thigh when you could barely look at him without imagining riding his face? But before you could retract the offer, Hajime's expression shifted from surprise to relief.

"Would you? Coach showed us how to do it, but it's awkward to reach properly myself." He straightened from the doorframe, wincing slightly as he put weight on the affected leg. "It's my hamstring, upper inner thigh. Guess I pushed too hard during sprints."

Your mouth went dry at his casual description. Upper inner thigh. Which meant your hands would be inches from his—No. Focus. He was in pain, and he needed your help. This was what friends did for each other. It didn't matter that your heart was suddenly racing, that heat was pooling between your legs at the mere thought of touching him so intimately. You were an adult. You could handle this.

"Sure," you managed, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Come sit down." You patted the edge of your bed after you put your laptop away, the only suitable surface in the room besides your desk chair, which was too small and awkward for what you'd need to do.

Hajime crossed to the bed with that same slight limp, the discomfort evident in the tightness around his eyes. He sat heavily on the edge of your mattress, the familiar weight of him causing the bed to dip, sending a cascade of memories through your mind—how many times had he sat exactly like this over the years? How many times had you shared this same casual intimacy without a second thought? And now, your heart was pounding like you were about to jump out of an airplane rather than help your injured friend.

"I, uh, need to..." He gestured vaguely at his shorts, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "To get proper access to the muscle."

"Right," you said, your voice embarrassingly high. "Of course."

With a grunt of discomfort, Hajime stood long enough to push his athletic shorts down his legs, revealing black boxer briefs that clung to his muscular thighs and, more distressingly, did absolutely nothing to hide the substantial bulge at his groin. You forced your eyes away from it, focusing instead on the clearly tensed muscle of his upper thigh, where a slight redness indicated the strained area.

He sat back down, now wearing nothing but his t-shirt and those obscenely tight boxer briefs, his legs slightly spread to accommodate the injury. "Coach said firm pressure in circular motions, working from the knee up. But not too hard right on the strain itself."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and moved to kneel on the floor between his spread legs. This was fine. This was normal. This was just you helping your injured friend, not you positioning yourself at eye-level with his crotch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean sweat and masculine scent that was uniquely Hajime.

"Tell me if I press too hard," you said, placing your hands tentatively on his knee, feeling the coarse hair that covered his legs against your palms. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, though whether from the injury or just his naturally high body temperature, you couldn't tell.

You began the massage gently, working your thumbs in small circles just above his knee, feeling the dense muscle beneath your fingers. Hajime was solid everywhere, the result of years of rigorous training, not an ounce of softness to be found. You worked methodically upward, applying gradually increasing pressure as you moved toward the strained area, focusing intently on the task at hand rather than on how close your hands were getting to the edge of his boxer briefs, to the place where his thigh met his—

"That's good," Hajime murmured, his voice lower than usual, slightly rough at the edges. "A little higher."

You swallowed hard and obeyed, moving your hands further up his thigh, your thumbs now pressing into the sensitive inner portion where the strain was located. This close, you could see where the hem of his boxer briefs had ridden up slightly, exposing more of his tanned skin. You could also see, no matter how hard you tried not to look, the unmistakable outline of his cock through the thin fabric, seemingly thicker than it had been a few minutes ago.

'He's getting hard from this,' your brain helpfully pointed out, sending a jolt of heat straight between your legs. 'Your hands on his thigh are making his cock hard. Imagine what would happen if you moved your hands just a little higher, slipped them under the fabric, wrapped your fingers around—'

"Harder," Hajime said, breaking into your increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "The muscle's really tight."

You bit your lip and increased the pressure, working your thumbs more firmly into the tense muscle. A small sound escaped him—something between a grunt and a groan—and the noise shot straight to your core, your cunt clenching around nothing as your brain immediately categorized it as one of the hottest things you'd ever heard.

"That hurts?" you asked, easing the pressure slightly, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of normal friendly concern.

"No," he said quickly, "It's good. It hurts in a good way. Don't stop."

Don't stop. The words echoed in your head, your imagination immediately supplying a very different context for them—Hajime above you, inside you, his voice rough as he told you not to stop, to keep going, to take all of him—

You realized your thumbs had stilled and resumed the massage, working the tense muscle with more confidence now. Hajime leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, his head dropping back as another low groan escaped him. The position stretched his t-shirt across his chest, highlighting the defined muscles beneath, and caused his abs to contract visibly. The sight made your mouth water, your body responding with a rush of heat and dampness between your thighs.

"That's... really helping," he murmured, eyes closed now, completely unaware of the effect he was having on you. "A little higher, right where it connects... yeah, there."

Your hands were now mere centimeters from the edge of his boxer briefs, your thumbs pressing into the incredibly sensitive juncture where thigh met groin. You could feel the heat of him, the strength in the muscle even as it remained tense under your ministrations. And you could see, no matter how much you tried to be professional about this, that his cock was definitely hardening, the outline becoming more pronounced against the black fabric.

Suddenly, Hajime shifted, dropping from his seated position to lie flat on your bed, one arm coming up to drape across his eyes as he stretched his legs out more fully. "Sorry," he mumbled, "sitting was making it worse. Is this okay?"

It was more than okay. It was the stuff of your recent fantasies—Hajime sprawled across your bed, his powerful body on display, his legs spread to accommodate you between them. The new position pulled his boxer briefs even tighter across his groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was definitely hard now, his cock creating an impressive tent in the fabric, the head of it visible as a distinct ridge beneath the tight material.

"This is fine," you managed, your voice strangled as you adjusted your position, still kneeling but now between his spread legs as he lay on your bed. You resumed the massage, working your thumbs in firm circles against the strained muscle, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was now at eye level, so close you could lean forward and mouth at it through his boxer briefs if you lost all sense of self-preservation.

Hajime made another one of those devastatingly hot sounds—a deep groan that rumbled up from his chest—as your thumbs hit a particularly tight spot. "Fuck, that's it," he murmured, the curse word falling from his lips with an ease that sent another rush of heat to your core. "Right there."

Your cunt throbbed in response to his words, to his tone, to the sight of him laid out before you like some pagan offering to the god of your sexual frustration. Without conscious thought, you shifted position, raising yourself up higher on your knees to get better leverage, one leg moving to straddle his uninjured thigh as you continued to work the knotted muscle.

In this new position, your core was pressed directly against the solid muscle of his thigh, the pressure providing a tantalizing hint of relief for the ache that had built between your legs. You hadn't intended it—or at least, you could tell yourself you hadn't—but now that you were here, the temptation was overwhelming. You continued the massage, your thumbs working deep into the muscle, but your focus had shifted almost entirely to the delicious pressure against your cunt, separated from his skin by only the thin fabric of your shorts and underwear.

Hajime's groans grew more frequent, deeper, as you worked the strained muscle with increasing confidence. His arm remained thrown across his eyes, blocking his vision, leaving him unaware of how you'd positioned yourself, of how your hips had begun to move in tiny, almost imperceptible circles against his thigh. The motion was so slight that you could almost pretend it wasn't happening, that you weren't essentially grinding yourself against your best friend while he lay vulnerable and in pain beneath you.

But it was happening. With each press of your thumbs into his muscle, your hips rocked slightly, dragging your clit against the firm ridge of his thigh through your clothes. The dual sensation—his skin hot beneath your hands, his thigh solid against your core—was intoxicating, addictive. You found yourself pressing harder with your thumbs just to justify the increased pressure of your cunt against his leg, the massage becoming secondary to the slow, torturous pleasure building between your thighs.

You weren't even truly massaging anymore, your hands simply holding his thigh as your hips worked in increasingly blatant movements against him. Your breathing had grown heavier, your focus narrowed to the point of contact between your body and his, the rest of the world falling away as pleasure built in slow, inexorable waves. You were wet—embarrassingly so—your arousal likely soaking through your underwear and shorts to dampen his skin, but you couldn't bring yourself to care, couldn't bring yourself to stop this illicit pleasure even knowing how wrong it was, how much it risked.

"What are you doing?"

Hajime's voice cut through the haze of arousal like a bucket of ice water. His arm was no longer covering his eyes; instead, he had raised his head, propped up on his elbows, watching you with an expression you couldn't immediately decipher—shock, certainly, but something else too, something darker and more intense that made your stomach flip.

Reality crashed back with brutal force. You were straddling his thigh, grinding yourself against him like a bitch in heat while he lay injured on your bed. Your hands had stopped any pretense of massage, instead gripping his thigh as you essentially used him to get yourself off. Mortification flooded through you, hot and overwhelming, as you realized how completely you'd lost control.

"I—" you started, but what could you possibly say? How could you explain this away? Your mind raced for an explanation, an excuse, anything to salvage the situation, but came up empty. There was no innocent interpretation of what you'd been doing, no way to pretend this was normal behavior between friends.

Before you could formulate a response, before you could even move off his leg, a familiar electronic chime sounded from your laptop on the desk—the distinctive ring of an incoming video call. Tooru's custom ringtone, the one he'd set up himself the last time he'd visited, claiming it was "more dramatic" than the default.

Relief surged through you at the interruption, giving you an excuse to escape this excruciating moment. You practically leapt from Hajime's leg, scrambling toward your desk with undignified haste. "That's Tooru," you said unnecessarily, as if Hajime hadn't heard the same ringtone countless times before. "I should—I should get that."

"Don't," Hajime said, his voice carrying a note of command that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine despite the circumstances.

But you were already reaching for your laptop, flipping it open with trembling fingers. "He'll just keep calling if I don't answer," you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears. "You know how he is."

Before Hajime could protest further, you accepted the call, Tooru's face filling the screen with his usual dramatic timing. His hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour in Argentina, his smile wide and practiced until he got a good look at your face.

"Well, don't you look flustered," he said immediately, his keen eyes missing nothing even through the screen. "What have you been up to, hmm? Your face is all red."

"Nothing," you said too quickly. "Just, um, exercising."

Tooru's eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting to one of delighted suspicion. "Exercising? In your bedroom? At eight o'clock at night?" His eyes narrowed, peering past you as if trying to see more of the room. "Where's Iwa-chan? Is he home?"

"I'm here," Hajime's voice came from behind you, still rough at the edges but controlled now, giving nothing away. He hadn't moved from your bed, still sprawled there in his underwear with a visible erection, but thankfully out of the camera's field of vision. "Just got back from practice."

Tooru's eyes lit up at the sound of Hajime's voice, his expression turning sly. "Oh? And why aren't you on camera, Iwa-chan? Hiding something?"

"None of your business, Shittykawa," Hajime growled, the familiar insult falling from his lips with practiced ease despite the charged atmosphere in the room.

Tooru gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest in feigned offense. "So mean, Iwa-chan! And here I am, calling from across the world just to check on my two favorite people." His gaze shifted back to you, shrewd and calculating despite his playful tone. "You're being suspiciously quiet. Both of you are. What were you doing before I called?"

"Nothing," you repeated, knowing you sounded guilty but unable to come up with anything more convincing. "Hajime pulled a muscle at practice. I was just helping him with it."

"Helping him with it," Tooru repeated slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "I see. And how exactly were you 'helping' him with his... muscle?"

Before you could stammer out another unconvincing denial, you heard the bed shift behind you, and then Hajime was there, his presence solid and unmistakable at your back, still out of the camera's view but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Hang up," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Tooru couldn't hear, his breath warm against your ear, raising goosebumps along your neck. "Now."

You ignored him, focusing on Tooru instead, desperation making you cling to this lifeline of normalcy, this barrier between you and the conversation you were definitely not ready to have with Hajime. "How's Argentina?" you asked brightly, your voice unnaturally high. "Tell us everything. How's your team? Your apartment? Have you tried that restaurant you mentioned last time?"

Tooru opened his mouth to answer, still looking suspicious but seemingly willing to play along, when you felt Hajime's hand on your thigh. Not your knee, not your calf, but high on your thigh, his fingers splayed wide, nearly spanning the width of it with his palm. The touch was deliberate, possessive in a way that made your breath catch, your words dying in your throat as his hand began to move slowly upward, pushing beneath the loose fabric of your shorts.

"Hang up," Hajime repeated, his voice firmer now, an unmistakable command that made your stomach flip and your core throb with renewed arousal. "Or I'll hang up for you."

His fingers continued their upward path, now brushing against the edge of your underwear, so close to where you were embarrassingly wet, where you had been grinding yourself against his thigh just minutes ago. The touch was a clear escalation, a deliberate crossing of the line you'd already blurred with your actions.

"Are you even listening to me?" Tooru's voice cut through your distraction, his head tilted in confusion at your obvious lack of attention. "What's going on over there? You're acting weird. Both of you."

Hajime's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear without warning, sliding easily through the slick evidence of your arousal to find your clit with unerring accuracy. The contact was electric, pulling a small gasp from your lips before you could stop it, your body jerking slightly in response.

"Are you okay?" Tooru asked, leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in concern that quickly shifted to suspicion as his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Where exactly is Iwa-chan right now? And why did you make that noise?"

Hajime's fingers didn't still at Tooru's questions, instead beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles against your clit, spreading your wetness, building a pleasure so intense it took everything in you not to moan out loud. His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, keeping you in place as he continued his torturous ministrations, his body a solid wall of heat at your back.

"I—" you started, but whatever excuse you might have formed died as Hajime slid a thick finger inside you, the intrusion so sudden and so perfect that your eyes threatened to roll back in your head. "Tooru, I should—I need to go."

Understanding dawned on Tooru's face, his eyes widening comically before a shit-eating grin spread across his features. "Oh my god," he said, voice rising with glee. "Oh my GOD. He's touching you right now, isn't he? That's why you're making those faces. That's why he's not on camera." He clapped his hands together in delight. "I knew it! I KNEW IT! You two are fucking!"

"We're not—" you began automatically, but Hajime chose that moment to curl his finger inside you, hitting a spot that made your words dissolve into a choked sound that could not possibly be mistaken for anything other than pleasure.

"Goodbye, Oikawa," Hajime said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against your back. Without waiting for a response, he reached around you with his free hand—the one not currently buried between your legs—and ended the call with a decisive click, closing the laptop with perhaps more force than necessary.

The sudden silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your rapid breathing and the obscene wetness of Hajime's finger still moving inside you, joined now by a second that stretched you further, making you bite your lip to hold back a moan.

"Now," he said, his mouth right against your ear, voice deeper than you'd ever heard it, "we're going to talk about what you were doing on my leg. About how fucking wet you are right now. About how long you've been wanting this." His fingers thrust deeper, emphasizing his words, making your back arch involuntarily. "But first, I'm going to make you come. Because I don't think you can focus on anything else right now, can you?"

The question hung in the air between you, not truly requiring an answer when your body was already providing one—in the way your inner walls clenched around his fingers, in the flood of wetness coating his knuckles, in the small, helpless sounds escaping your throat with each precise movement of his hand. You couldn't focus on anything beyond the overwhelming sensations he was creating, your world narrowed to the points of contact between his body and yours—his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck, his fingers buried deep inside your cunt, stretching you in a way that your own never could.

"Hajime," you gasped, the syllables of his name fractured by the pleasure building inside you. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles with devastating accuracy, as if he'd been studying your body for years rather than touching you intimately for the first time. Perhaps he had been studying you, noticing things about your responses that even you weren't aware of, the same way you'd recently begun cataloging every detail of his physicality with obsessive precision.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against you. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you want this." His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made fireworks explode behind your eyelids, pressure building at the base of your spine with each deliberate stroke. "You've been driving me fucking crazy for weeks, you know that? Walking around in those little shorts, watching me when you think I'm not looking, those sounds you make in your room at night when you think I can't hear you through the wall."

Your eyes flew open at that, mortification flooding through you at the realization that he'd heard you—heard the muffled moans you couldn't quite contain as you touched yourself in the darkness, imagining it was his hands, his mouth, his cock bringing you to release. But the embarrassment was quickly overwhelmed by a fresh wave of arousal at the knowledge that he'd been listening, that he'd known all along what you were doing, who you were thinking about.

"You think I couldn't tell it was my name you were saying?" he continued, his fingers never slowing their relentless rhythm inside you. "Think I couldn't hear you begging for my cock through that thin fucking wall?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, the slight pain a counterpoint to the pleasure building between your thighs. "I've been hard for you for so long I thought I was going to lose my mind. And then today, feeling you grinding on my leg like you couldn't help yourself, seeing how desperate you were for me—fuck, I almost came in my underwear like a fucking teenager."

The image his words conjured—Hajime so turned on by your mindless rutting against his thigh that he nearly lost control—sent a fresh surge of wetness around his fingers, your clit throbbing almost painfully against his thumb as tension coiled tighter in your core.

"Hajime, I'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence, your words dissolving into a high, keening sound as he added a third finger, the stretch bordering on too much yet somehow exactly what you needed. Your thighs began to tremble, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.

"I know," he growled, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint. "I can feel it. You're getting tighter, wetter. Your little cunt is squeezing my fingers so hard, I can only imagine how good it's going to feel around my cock." His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling with precise, relentless pressure. "Come for me. Now."

Your body obeyed as if it had been waiting for his command, release crashing over you with an intensity that bordered on violence. Your back arched sharply, a cry tearing from your throat as your inner walls clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around his hand in a way that would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for shame left. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from your core, leaving you limp and trembling in its wake.

As the intensity began to ebb, Hajime carefully withdrew his fingers, the loss making you whimper despite your oversensitivity. He turned you slowly to face him, and for the first time since he'd touched you, you could see his expression clearly—pupils blown wide with desire, jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, a flush high on his cheekbones that spoke of how affected he was by what had just happened.

He brought his hand to his mouth—the hand that had just been inside you—and deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time, sucked his fingers clean, tasting your arousal with a low groan that sent aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your still-sensitive body.

"Fuck, you taste good," he said, the crudeness of the words at odds with the almost reverent tone in which he delivered them. "Been wondering about that for longer than I should admit."

You stared at him, brain struggling to process the radical shift in your relationship, the fact that Hajime—your Hajime, your childhood friend, your roommate—had just made you come harder than you ever had in your life and was now telling you he'd been fantasizing about how you tasted. It seemed impossible, like a particularly vivid dream your sex-starved brain had conjured after weeks of unfulfilled longing.

"How long?" you finally managed, your voice hoarse, as if you'd been screaming though you were fairly certain you hadn't been that loud.

"How long what?" he asked, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, the touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flip pleasantly. "How long have I wanted to taste you? Touch you? Fuck you until you can't remember your own name?" His thumb traced small circles on your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were still sensitive and wet from your orgasm. "All of the above, probably longer than you've been wanting the same things from me."

"I thought—" you began, then stopped, unsure how to articulate the weeks of confused desire, the certainty that your sudden awareness of him as a sexual being was one-sided, that acting on it would destroy your friendship.

"You thought what?" he prompted, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle given the intensity of what had just transpired between you. "That I didn't notice how you looked at me? That I didn't want you just as badly? That this—" he gestured between you, encompassing the electric tension that had been building for weeks, "—was all in your head?"

You nodded mutely, leaning into his touch like a cat seeking affection, your body still humming with residual pleasure and the building anticipation of what might come next.

"I've wanted you for years," he said quietly, the confession falling between you like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. "Not just like this—though fuck knows I've thought about it enough to fill several lifetimes—but all of you. Every part. The good, the bad, the fucking infuriating parts that make me want to shake you sometimes." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "I just never thought you saw me that way. Not until recently, when something changed. When you started looking at me like you wanted to devour me whole."

"The kitchen," you murmured, understanding dawning. "That night with the broken glass. That's when it started for me. When I saw you differently."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something softer, more private. "I wondered what had happened. One day we were fine, normal, and the next you were jumping every time I touched you, staring at me when you thought I wouldn't notice, taking suspiciously long showers after I'd been working out in the living room."

Heat flooded your cheeks at how transparent you'd apparently been, how obvious your sudden desire had been to the very object of that desire. "You lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing," you explained, the memory still vivid, still capable of sending heat pooling between your legs despite the powerful orgasm you'd just experienced. "You just... took control. And suddenly all I could think about was your hands on me, your strength, how easily you could—" You broke off, embarrassment finally catching up with you.

"How easily I could what?" he pressed, his voice dropping lower, rougher, his hand on your thigh inching higher, sending sparks of renewed arousal through your oversensitive body. "Tell me. I want to hear exactly what you've been thinking about."

The command in his voice was impossible to resist, breaking down the last of your inhibitions. "How easily you could hold me down," you admitted, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in their rush to be spoken. "Pin me against the wall, the bed, the floor—anywhere. How strong you are, how big your hands are, how they'd feel on my skin, inside me, how your cock would feel stretching me open, filling me up until I couldn't take anymore—"

Your words cut off as Hajime surged forward, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative first kisses you'd imagined during your more romantic fantasies. This was raw, hungry, desperate—teeth clashing, his tongue immediately seeking entrance which you granted without hesitation, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he devoured your mouth with single-minded intensity.

You responded with equal fervor, weeks of pent-up desire finally finding an outlet as your hands clutched at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach, greedy for the contact you'd been denying yourself. He tasted faintly of you—a reminder of what he'd done moments ago—mixed with something uniquely him, a flavor you immediately knew you'd never get enough of.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair, grip just tight enough to send little sparks of pleasure-pain across your scalp.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, the crude statement delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that a fresh wave of arousal flooded between your thighs. "Unless you tell me to stop. Unless this isn't what you want."

"I want it," you assured him immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. "I want you. Please, Hajime."

The plea in your voice seemed to snap something in him, the last thread of his restraint giving way. He stood, pulling you up with him in one fluid motion, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you bodily—just as he had that night in the kitchen, but with far different intentions now. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, your core pressing against the hard length of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and your shorts, the contact making you both groan.

He carried you to the bed with the same effortless strength that had started this whole chain of events, laying you down with surprising gentleness given the obvious urgency of his desire. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex, a tenderness that belied the crude words and actions that had preceded this moment.

"Take off your clothes," he said, the command softened by the slight tremor in his voice, the way his eyes roamed your body as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "I want to see all of you."

You complied without hesitation, sitting up to pull your t-shirt over your head, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath—nothing fancy or seductive, not something you'd worn with the expectation of anyone seeing it. But the way Hajime's eyes darkened at the sight, his throat working as he swallowed hard, made you feel as desirable as if you'd been wearing the most expensive lingerie.

Your shorts and underwear followed, already damp from your earlier activities, leaving you in just your bra. Before you could reach behind to unclasp it, Hajime was there, his weight dipping the mattress as he knelt beside you, his hands replacing yours.

"Let me," he murmured, deftly unhooking the clasp and sliding the straps down your arms, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire on your skin wherever they touched. When the last piece of clothing was removed, he sat back slightly, eyes roaming your naked body with undisguised appreciation, taking in every curve, every imperfection you'd normally be self-conscious about but couldn't find it in yourself to worry over when he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Your turn," you said, finding your voice despite the vulnerability of being completely exposed while he remained partially clothed. "Fair's fair."

A small smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he pulled his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the torso you'd been obsessing over for weeks—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, abs that flexed unconsciously as he moved, the trail of hair leading down from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. The sight was familiar from your recent observations yet somehow more overwhelming now, knowing you were allowed to look, to touch, to taste.

He stood to remove his boxer briefs, pushing them down his powerful thighs and stepping out of them with an athlete's grace. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and intimidating in its size—larger than you'd imagined even in your most optimistic fantasies, the head flushed dark and already leaking pre-cum, a bead of it glistening at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight, your body clenching around emptiness in anticipation of being filled by him.

"See something you like?" he asked, the cockiness of the question belied by the slight uncertainty in his eyes, a reminder that for all his confidence, this was new territory for him too—this crossing of boundaries, this transformation of friendship into something else entirely.

"Everything," you admitted, no room for artifice or games between you after what you'd already shared. "I like everything I see."

The simple honesty seemed to touch something in him, his expression softening for a brief moment before hunger took over once more. He moved onto the bed fully now, nudging your legs apart to kneel between them, his hands running up your thighs in a touch that was both possessive and reverent.

"I've thought about this so many times," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the creases where your thighs met your hips, dangerously close to where you were wet and aching for him. "Having you spread out under me like this. Seeing all of you. Touching you wherever I want." His hands moved higher, skimming over your stomach, your ribs, finally cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."

The compliment sent warmth flooding through you that had nothing to do with sexual arousal and everything to do with the man delivering it—Hajime, who had never been free with praise, who showed his affection through actions rather than words, now looking at you like you were something precious and telling you you were beautiful.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks, the sensation shooting straight to your core. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he leaned down to replace one thumb with his mouth, hot and wet as he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. His tongue circled your nipple with deliberate pressure, teeth grazing lightly in a way that walked the perfect line between pleasure and pain.

"Hajime," you gasped, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him against your breast as he continued his ministrations, switching to the other side to ensure both received equal attention. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" he asked, raising his head to meet your gaze, his hair mussed where your fingers had clutched it, his lips slightly swollen from his attentions to your body. "Tell me. I want to hear you say it."

"I need you inside me," you said, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate desire to feel him filling you, stretching you, completing the connection that had been building between you for weeks—perhaps years, if his earlier confession was to be believed. "Please, Hajime. I need your cock. Now."

A low growl rumbled from his chest at your words, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger. "Fuck, the mouth on you," he muttered, shifting his position to align himself with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. "Been dreaming of hearing you say filthy things like that."

He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your wetness, the friction against your sensitive clit making you writhe beneath him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. When he finally began to push inside, the stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, his girth forcing your body to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch.

"Fuck," he hissed, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought the urge to thrust forward all at once. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect." He paused when only the head was inside, giving you time to adjust. "You okay? Not hurting you?"

The concern in his voice, the fact that he was checking on you even while clearly struggling with his own control, made something warm bloom in your chest. "I'm good," you assured him, hands running up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself above you. "Just... go slow. It's been a while."

He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation, and resumed his careful entry, pushing forward with exquisite slowness, retreating slightly before pressing deeper each time, working himself into you with a patience that must have cost him dearly given the tightness of his expression, the trembling in his arms as he braced himself above you.

When he was finally seated fully inside you, both of you were breathing hard, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being so intimately connected. He was deep, deeper than you'd thought possible, filling you so completely that you felt stretched to your limits, hovering on that exquisite edge between pleasure and discomfort.

"You feel—" he began, then broke off, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe the sensation. Instead, he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that was surprisingly tender given the circumstances, his tongue tangling with yours as he remained motionless inside you, giving you time to adjust to his size.

The kiss deepened, grew hungrier as your body gradually relaxed around him, the initial discomfort fading into a growing need for movement, for friction. You shifted beneath him, tilting your hips in a silent plea that he immediately understood, breaking the kiss to meet your gaze as he slowly withdrew almost completely before pushing back in with a controlled thrust that hit places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

"More," you gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there. "Hajime, please, more."

He complied, setting a pace that was measured at first—long, deep strokes that allowed you to feel every inch of him as he withdrew and pushed back in, his eyes never leaving your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But as your body opened for him more fully, as your moans grew louder and more desperate, his control began to slip, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding.

The change in tempo drove you higher, pleasure building with each precise stroke of his cock inside you. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids, your back arching off the bed as a particularly loud moan tore from your throat.

"There?" he asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical given your reaction. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he deliberately aimed for the same spot again, watching with obvious satisfaction as you writhed beneath him. "Gonna remember that. Gonna learn every inch of you, figure out exactly how to make you scream my name."

The promise in his words, the implication that this wasn't a one-time thing, that he planned to do this again—to learn your body, to perfect his knowledge of what brought you pleasure—sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your inner walls clenching around him in a way that made him groan, his rhythm faltering momentarily.

"Fuck, do that again," he muttered, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Squeeze my cock like that again."

You did, deliberately tightening around him, watching with fascination as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, a string of curses falling from his lips as his hips jerked forward with increased urgency. The sight of him losing control because of you, because of how your body felt around his, was intoxicating, a power you hadn't expected to have in this situation.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly toward a second orgasm that promised to be even more intense than the first.

"Hajime, I'm close," you warned, your voice breaking on his name as tension coiled tighter in your core, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.

"Me too," he admitted, his movements growing more erratic, less controlled, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the room. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when you let go."

His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers on your clit and the perfect angle of his thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with stunning intensity, your back arching sharply off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat that might have been his name or just an incoherent sound of pleasure. Your inner walls clamped down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of ecstasy radiating outward from your core.

The sensation of you coming around him was apparently too much for Hajime's already strained control. With a low, guttural groan, he thrust deep one final time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, hot spurts of his release filling you in a way that should have concerned you but in the moment felt only right—primal and perfect and exactly what you both needed.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure rather than a burden, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you both struggled to regain your breath. Your hands moved lazily up and down his sweat-slicked back, feeling the strong muscles there gradually relax as the intensity of your shared release ebbed, leaving behind a pleasant lassitude that made your limbs feel heavy, your mind blissfully quiet for the first time in weeks.

After what could have been minutes or hours—time seemed to have lost all meaning in the aftermath of what you'd just shared—Hajime raised his head, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch. The hunger was still there, banked but not extinguished, but it was tempered now by something softer, something that looked dangerously like tenderness, like affection deeper than mere friendship or physical desire.

"That was..." he began, then shook his head, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what had just transpired between you.

"Yeah," you agreed, understanding perfectly despite his lack of articulation. "It really was."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something more private, more intimate. He shifted his weight, carefully withdrawing from your body, both of you wincing slightly at the loss of connection. He rolled to the side but kept one arm draped across your waist, as if unwilling to lose contact entirely, his hand splayed possessively across your hip.

"We should probably talk about this," you said after a moment, gesturing vaguely between your naked bodies, the implications of what you'd done, of the lines you'd crossed.

"Probably," he agreed, though he didn't sound particularly eager to engage in a deep discussion of feelings and boundaries in the afterglow of what had been, frankly, the most intense sexual experience of your life. "But not right now."

"No?" you asked, turning your head to meet his gaze, searching for any sign of regret, of uncertainty, finding only a satiated contentment that mirrored your own.

"No," he said firmly, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other, skin to skin from shoulder to ankle. "Right now, I'm going to hold you for a while. And then, when I've recovered enough, I'm going to fuck you again. Maybe against the wall this time, since you mentioned that particular fantasy earlier."

Heat flooded your cheeks at the reminder of your earlier confession, at the matter-of-fact way he stated his intentions, as if there was no question that this would happen, that you would continue whatever this was between you.

"And after that?" you couldn't help asking, needing some reassurance that this wasn't just a one-night release of weeks of pent-up sexual tension, that there was something more substantial underpinning the physical connection you'd just shared.

Hajime's expression softened, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "After that, we'll figure it out. Together. The way we always have." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was achingly tender compared to the raw hunger of earlier. "I meant what I said before. I've wanted you—all of you, not just this—for years. That's not going to change just because we finally acted on it."

The simple honesty of his words, the quiet certainty in his voice, settled something in your chest that had been fluttering with anxiety despite the physical satisfaction still humming through your body. This was Hajime, after all—solid, reliable Hajime who had been your constant since childhood, who showed his feelings through actions more than words, whose promise of "together" carried more weight than flowery declarations ever could.

"Okay," you said, snuggling closer to his warmth, your head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder that seemed made for you to rest against. "Together."